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Irakles Mikaelidasian did not know who, but someone was late. Surely that was the only explanation for why his coffee was cold - and did he not ask for it with milk that was skimmed? This tasted like full cream to him, and he simply could not have full cream. His lactose intolerant gut would cause his skin to flare, and one simply could not have that. The stark contrast it would cause to the Hermes scarf he had around his neck would he horrible - and how could he be considered the editor-in-chief of Ramp, if he did not look the part? Preposterous.
"If we're moving at the pace you are, our next issue will be out by the year 3000 everyone, move it!"
His voice boomed over the office the moment the elevator dinged, and he stepped out, dropping the rejected cup of coffee on someone else's shoe as he did so. Like a whirlwind, the entire office moved, yet as he walked towards his office, the sea of people parted to form a pathway for him - because rue the day someone accidentally touches his Yves Saint Laurent burgundy leather pants. They were skin fitting, almost as if he was wearing stockings instead of a 100% leather pair of pants, and gleamed under the flourescent lights of the Ramp office. The sunglasses that were perched on his nose - Cartier, he'll have you know, aviator's made in Italy that were double bridged and green tinted to give it a yellow-tone iridescent effect - were slid off and then hung on his simple black shirt (Burberry, 100% cotton).
"I don't know, bring it to my office - how do you expect me to make a decision in such horrible lighting! Bore someone else with details - and fix the lights." Cutting to the chase as usual, Irakles made an irritated noise as he entered his large, well-lit office, shrugging off the velvet gray jacket he wore, squinting at his table before turning on the three or four people who had followed him in. "Has my coffee died? Do we need to hold a funeral? Where is it?" he snarled, tossing his jacket and not even seeing to see if anyone caught it (but they better have, because otherwise the laundry bill of the seven hundred dollar Moncler, lamb skin jacket will be coming out of their pockets), he spun on the heels of his Christian Louboutin's, and then settled in his seat.
Despite the graying head and forming wrinkles, no one could say the editor-in-chief of Ramp, the most famous runway fashion magazine in a large part of the United States, was ever looking anything less then perfect. From his perfectly manicured hands, to the way he sat in his large seat, back facing the skyline of the city, Irakles Mikaelidasian was the image of a runway editor. Legs crossed one over the other, left hand holding the folder that contained details for his meeting today, whilst the other rested daintily on the armrest, he peered at the three waiting editors, a look of disdain clear in his eyes. "I said I wanted details on our next issue. This looks like what I would wrap my morning breakfast sandwich in. Do I look like I want a sandwich right now? No, because I do not eat carbs." Pulling a sheaf of paper out that had details on the front page of the next issue, he tossed it at the three waiting editors, who scrambled to catch them, and not even bothering to wait for them as they finished, the man turned his chairs to wave at his assistant. "Get me fifteen tank tops from Calvin Klein."
"What sort of -"
"I don't care. Go and bore someone else with your questions. Make sure we have booked out The Docks by the Bay for 8AM tomorrow - clear out the weddings."
With another wave of his hand, it was clear that everyone else was dismissed, and as Irakles turned to the waiting laptop that had the rest of his schedule, his voice rang clear and sharp. "Selene, did I not get myself a new assistant today?"
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Someone was late.
Irakles Mikaelidasian did not know who, but someone was late. Surely that was the only explanation for why his coffee was cold - and did he not ask for it with milk that was skimmed? This tasted like full cream to him, and he simply could not have full cream. His lactose intolerant gut would cause his skin to flare, and one simply could not have that. The stark contrast it would cause to the Hermes scarf he had around his neck would he horrible - and how could he be considered the editor-in-chief of Ramp, if he did not look the part? Preposterous.
"If we're moving at the pace you are, our next issue will be out by the year 3000 everyone, move it!"
His voice boomed over the office the moment the elevator dinged, and he stepped out, dropping the rejected cup of coffee on someone else's shoe as he did so. Like a whirlwind, the entire office moved, yet as he walked towards his office, the sea of people parted to form a pathway for him - because rue the day someone accidentally touches his Yves Saint Laurent burgundy leather pants. They were skin fitting, almost as if he was wearing stockings instead of a 100% leather pair of pants, and gleamed under the flourescent lights of the Ramp office. The sunglasses that were perched on his nose - Cartier, he'll have you know, aviator's made in Italy that were double bridged and green tinted to give it a yellow-tone iridescent effect - were slid off and then hung on his simple black shirt (Burberry, 100% cotton).
"I don't know, bring it to my office - how do you expect me to make a decision in such horrible lighting! Bore someone else with details - and fix the lights." Cutting to the chase as usual, Irakles made an irritated noise as he entered his large, well-lit office, shrugging off the velvet gray jacket he wore, squinting at his table before turning on the three or four people who had followed him in. "Has my coffee died? Do we need to hold a funeral? Where is it?" he snarled, tossing his jacket and not even seeing to see if anyone caught it (but they better have, because otherwise the laundry bill of the seven hundred dollar Moncler, lamb skin jacket will be coming out of their pockets), he spun on the heels of his Christian Louboutin's, and then settled in his seat.
Despite the graying head and forming wrinkles, no one could say the editor-in-chief of Ramp, the most famous runway fashion magazine in a large part of the United States, was ever looking anything less then perfect. From his perfectly manicured hands, to the way he sat in his large seat, back facing the skyline of the city, Irakles Mikaelidasian was the image of a runway editor. Legs crossed one over the other, left hand holding the folder that contained details for his meeting today, whilst the other rested daintily on the armrest, he peered at the three waiting editors, a look of disdain clear in his eyes. "I said I wanted details on our next issue. This looks like what I would wrap my morning breakfast sandwich in. Do I look like I want a sandwich right now? No, because I do not eat carbs." Pulling a sheaf of paper out that had details on the front page of the next issue, he tossed it at the three waiting editors, who scrambled to catch them, and not even bothering to wait for them as they finished, the man turned his chairs to wave at his assistant. "Get me fifteen tank tops from Calvin Klein."
"What sort of -"
"I don't care. Go and bore someone else with your questions. Make sure we have booked out The Docks by the Bay for 8AM tomorrow - clear out the weddings."
With another wave of his hand, it was clear that everyone else was dismissed, and as Irakles turned to the waiting laptop that had the rest of his schedule, his voice rang clear and sharp. "Selene, did I not get myself a new assistant today?"
Someone was late.
Irakles Mikaelidasian did not know who, but someone was late. Surely that was the only explanation for why his coffee was cold - and did he not ask for it with milk that was skimmed? This tasted like full cream to him, and he simply could not have full cream. His lactose intolerant gut would cause his skin to flare, and one simply could not have that. The stark contrast it would cause to the Hermes scarf he had around his neck would he horrible - and how could he be considered the editor-in-chief of Ramp, if he did not look the part? Preposterous.
"If we're moving at the pace you are, our next issue will be out by the year 3000 everyone, move it!"
His voice boomed over the office the moment the elevator dinged, and he stepped out, dropping the rejected cup of coffee on someone else's shoe as he did so. Like a whirlwind, the entire office moved, yet as he walked towards his office, the sea of people parted to form a pathway for him - because rue the day someone accidentally touches his Yves Saint Laurent burgundy leather pants. They were skin fitting, almost as if he was wearing stockings instead of a 100% leather pair of pants, and gleamed under the flourescent lights of the Ramp office. The sunglasses that were perched on his nose - Cartier, he'll have you know, aviator's made in Italy that were double bridged and green tinted to give it a yellow-tone iridescent effect - were slid off and then hung on his simple black shirt (Burberry, 100% cotton).
"I don't know, bring it to my office - how do you expect me to make a decision in such horrible lighting! Bore someone else with details - and fix the lights." Cutting to the chase as usual, Irakles made an irritated noise as he entered his large, well-lit office, shrugging off the velvet gray jacket he wore, squinting at his table before turning on the three or four people who had followed him in. "Has my coffee died? Do we need to hold a funeral? Where is it?" he snarled, tossing his jacket and not even seeing to see if anyone caught it (but they better have, because otherwise the laundry bill of the seven hundred dollar Moncler, lamb skin jacket will be coming out of their pockets), he spun on the heels of his Christian Louboutin's, and then settled in his seat.
Despite the graying head and forming wrinkles, no one could say the editor-in-chief of Ramp, the most famous runway fashion magazine in a large part of the United States, was ever looking anything less then perfect. From his perfectly manicured hands, to the way he sat in his large seat, back facing the skyline of the city, Irakles Mikaelidasian was the image of a runway editor. Legs crossed one over the other, left hand holding the folder that contained details for his meeting today, whilst the other rested daintily on the armrest, he peered at the three waiting editors, a look of disdain clear in his eyes. "I said I wanted details on our next issue. This looks like what I would wrap my morning breakfast sandwich in. Do I look like I want a sandwich right now? No, because I do not eat carbs." Pulling a sheaf of paper out that had details on the front page of the next issue, he tossed it at the three waiting editors, who scrambled to catch them, and not even bothering to wait for them as they finished, the man turned his chairs to wave at his assistant. "Get me fifteen tank tops from Calvin Klein."
"What sort of -"
"I don't care. Go and bore someone else with your questions. Make sure we have booked out The Docks by the Bay for 8AM tomorrow - clear out the weddings."
With another wave of his hand, it was clear that everyone else was dismissed, and as Irakles turned to the waiting laptop that had the rest of his schedule, his voice rang clear and sharp. "Selene, did I not get myself a new assistant today?"
Her job was her life.
Fashion was her life.
Her boss… well, he was a pain in the ass. But you didn’t find yourself as the editor in chief of the most famous fashion magazine because you were easy to work with. No, Irakles was demanding, difficult and hard headed. But his eye for fashion and his blunt lack of shits to give made him an icon. He didn’t care who’s feelings he hurt, who he was insulting when he put together his issues or who’s career he was ending. He was fierce and she hoped to be like him one day.
Even as one of his assistants (newly promoted head assistant, thank you very much), she knew this was the job to have. Paris, Milan-- she got to go to them all, inundated with free fashion, sitting in the front of the most prominent runways. Sure, she had to wake up at an ungodly hour and most nights, had to stay up late. But sacrifices had to be made, and damn it, she was willing to make them. After all, being at Ramp meant that she had access to not only the best fashion, but the finest cosmetics. She was able to hide the lack of sleep with amazing facial products and foundations.
It was worth it.
She was in the middle of setting his desk, plum Jimmy Choo boots clicking against the tile as she laid out both a fresh coffee and the latest versions of their competitor’s issues. The black leather Alexander Wang skirt was short, her legs never ending even with the boots. And the hunter green Chanel top had been snagged of the rack last night, completing a look that was expected of her. If she was the right hand woman to one of the most important men in fashion, she had to look the part.
As she finished setting up the office, her phone buzzed at her desk. The alert from the guard at the door (paid in fancy products for his wife) signaled the arrival of said boss. ”He’s on his way!” She said as she stepped out into the hall, setting the office into a flurry of motion as people prepared themselves for their boss. Shoes were switched for heels, lipstick reapplied and clips pulled out of hair-- no one wanted to be the one who got called out for looking less than Ramp ready. For Selene, there was no other way to look.
She was a beat behind the opening elevator, which saved her own precious shoes from the dropped coffee (the office has been switched from carpet to tile for just this reason). Walking with him, she was able to catch the coat the second before it hit the desk, whipping her blonde curls around as she hung it up with a practiced hand into the hidden coat closet behind the now vacant desk. She was back in his office, sliding the fresh, hot espresso in front of his hand before he could finish his sentence about it being dead. She moved back out to the ringing phone, her eyes rolling a bit. The man required three assistants-- didn’t HR know that? Why couldn’t they keep anyone employed for more than a few weeks, she didn’t know.
After a quick call (and a frazzled assistant blowing past her, obviously off to pick up the tank tops in question), she was back in his office, phone in hand with a duplicate copy of his schedule. ”Booked and cleared out, models will be there at 7. Your dinner is reserved for 7 at Dom’s for your table. HR said she’s on her way up.” She was quick and efficient in her job, which was probably the only reason she had lasted this long. ”They sent up a copy of her resume-- it’s in your email.”
It was then that said new assistant pushed through the doors of the reception area.
”Dear God.” She whispered under breath, breezing through to intercept her before she stepped into his office.
What the hell was she wearing?
Was that… a knit top?
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Her job was her life.
Fashion was her life.
Her boss… well, he was a pain in the ass. But you didn’t find yourself as the editor in chief of the most famous fashion magazine because you were easy to work with. No, Irakles was demanding, difficult and hard headed. But his eye for fashion and his blunt lack of shits to give made him an icon. He didn’t care who’s feelings he hurt, who he was insulting when he put together his issues or who’s career he was ending. He was fierce and she hoped to be like him one day.
Even as one of his assistants (newly promoted head assistant, thank you very much), she knew this was the job to have. Paris, Milan-- she got to go to them all, inundated with free fashion, sitting in the front of the most prominent runways. Sure, she had to wake up at an ungodly hour and most nights, had to stay up late. But sacrifices had to be made, and damn it, she was willing to make them. After all, being at Ramp meant that she had access to not only the best fashion, but the finest cosmetics. She was able to hide the lack of sleep with amazing facial products and foundations.
It was worth it.
She was in the middle of setting his desk, plum Jimmy Choo boots clicking against the tile as she laid out both a fresh coffee and the latest versions of their competitor’s issues. The black leather Alexander Wang skirt was short, her legs never ending even with the boots. And the hunter green Chanel top had been snagged of the rack last night, completing a look that was expected of her. If she was the right hand woman to one of the most important men in fashion, she had to look the part.
As she finished setting up the office, her phone buzzed at her desk. The alert from the guard at the door (paid in fancy products for his wife) signaled the arrival of said boss. ”He’s on his way!” She said as she stepped out into the hall, setting the office into a flurry of motion as people prepared themselves for their boss. Shoes were switched for heels, lipstick reapplied and clips pulled out of hair-- no one wanted to be the one who got called out for looking less than Ramp ready. For Selene, there was no other way to look.
She was a beat behind the opening elevator, which saved her own precious shoes from the dropped coffee (the office has been switched from carpet to tile for just this reason). Walking with him, she was able to catch the coat the second before it hit the desk, whipping her blonde curls around as she hung it up with a practiced hand into the hidden coat closet behind the now vacant desk. She was back in his office, sliding the fresh, hot espresso in front of his hand before he could finish his sentence about it being dead. She moved back out to the ringing phone, her eyes rolling a bit. The man required three assistants-- didn’t HR know that? Why couldn’t they keep anyone employed for more than a few weeks, she didn’t know.
After a quick call (and a frazzled assistant blowing past her, obviously off to pick up the tank tops in question), she was back in his office, phone in hand with a duplicate copy of his schedule. ”Booked and cleared out, models will be there at 7. Your dinner is reserved for 7 at Dom’s for your table. HR said she’s on her way up.” She was quick and efficient in her job, which was probably the only reason she had lasted this long. ”They sent up a copy of her resume-- it’s in your email.”
It was then that said new assistant pushed through the doors of the reception area.
”Dear God.” She whispered under breath, breezing through to intercept her before she stepped into his office.
What the hell was she wearing?
Was that… a knit top?
Her job was her life.
Fashion was her life.
Her boss… well, he was a pain in the ass. But you didn’t find yourself as the editor in chief of the most famous fashion magazine because you were easy to work with. No, Irakles was demanding, difficult and hard headed. But his eye for fashion and his blunt lack of shits to give made him an icon. He didn’t care who’s feelings he hurt, who he was insulting when he put together his issues or who’s career he was ending. He was fierce and she hoped to be like him one day.
Even as one of his assistants (newly promoted head assistant, thank you very much), she knew this was the job to have. Paris, Milan-- she got to go to them all, inundated with free fashion, sitting in the front of the most prominent runways. Sure, she had to wake up at an ungodly hour and most nights, had to stay up late. But sacrifices had to be made, and damn it, she was willing to make them. After all, being at Ramp meant that she had access to not only the best fashion, but the finest cosmetics. She was able to hide the lack of sleep with amazing facial products and foundations.
It was worth it.
She was in the middle of setting his desk, plum Jimmy Choo boots clicking against the tile as she laid out both a fresh coffee and the latest versions of their competitor’s issues. The black leather Alexander Wang skirt was short, her legs never ending even with the boots. And the hunter green Chanel top had been snagged of the rack last night, completing a look that was expected of her. If she was the right hand woman to one of the most important men in fashion, she had to look the part.
As she finished setting up the office, her phone buzzed at her desk. The alert from the guard at the door (paid in fancy products for his wife) signaled the arrival of said boss. ”He’s on his way!” She said as she stepped out into the hall, setting the office into a flurry of motion as people prepared themselves for their boss. Shoes were switched for heels, lipstick reapplied and clips pulled out of hair-- no one wanted to be the one who got called out for looking less than Ramp ready. For Selene, there was no other way to look.
She was a beat behind the opening elevator, which saved her own precious shoes from the dropped coffee (the office has been switched from carpet to tile for just this reason). Walking with him, she was able to catch the coat the second before it hit the desk, whipping her blonde curls around as she hung it up with a practiced hand into the hidden coat closet behind the now vacant desk. She was back in his office, sliding the fresh, hot espresso in front of his hand before he could finish his sentence about it being dead. She moved back out to the ringing phone, her eyes rolling a bit. The man required three assistants-- didn’t HR know that? Why couldn’t they keep anyone employed for more than a few weeks, she didn’t know.
After a quick call (and a frazzled assistant blowing past her, obviously off to pick up the tank tops in question), she was back in his office, phone in hand with a duplicate copy of his schedule. ”Booked and cleared out, models will be there at 7. Your dinner is reserved for 7 at Dom’s for your table. HR said she’s on her way up.” She was quick and efficient in her job, which was probably the only reason she had lasted this long. ”They sent up a copy of her resume-- it’s in your email.”
It was then that said new assistant pushed through the doors of the reception area.
”Dear God.” She whispered under breath, breezing through to intercept her before she stepped into his office.
What the hell was she wearing?
Was that… a knit top?
"Noooooooo..." Iris groaned, curling firmly against the bed. The young woman even attempted to pull the pillow over her head, protesting even when her boyfriend tried to pluck it away from her. Whining, Iris blindly reached for the blankets that he had so unceremoniously ripped from her moments before. "'mias..." she grumbled, rolling onto her back and slamming her fists down on the bed.
The warm chuckle from his lips was enough to have her sitting up, "You're going to be late," Aimias noted, pointing at the clock.
Eyes widening suddenly, Iris shot out of bed, staring with squinted eyes at the clock. "Fuck," she hissed, starting to fly about the room, getting undressed and strewing her clothes everywhere. Aimias only leaned against the doorframe, sipping from his cup of coffee as he watched her, amusement in her eyes. "Why didn't you get me up earlier?" she asked, rifling through her clothing as fast as she could.
"Have you met yourself?" was his quip as he took another sip of coffee, "You don't wake a sleeping bear."
Iris threw a shirt at his face before she grabbed a white blouse and a light blue knit vest top. She pulled on a wool Pendleton skirt, the only thing she could really be bothered to spend more than $100 on, and then a pair of tights. Slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes, she rushed to the bathroom.
Putting on minimal makeup, Iris spent as little time as possible on her hair, pulling it back into a tight braid. And then the woman was rushing back through the apartment, grabbing her cheap purse and shoving her phone into it. Aimias was already there handing her a wrapped bagel and shooing her toward the door. Iris strode up to him, kissed his cheek, and then bolted out the door with her dad's old briefcase in hand.
So why was she even going to work at a fashion magazine anyway? Truthfully? She lived to write and this would be the stepping stone she needed to her next job... where she would hopefully do some actual writing. Waiting on someone like they were royalty wasn't her ideal choice of job, but she needed the money and she needed the experience. Was she knowledgable about fashion?
Anyone could take one look at her and figure out the answer was no.
Hurrying through the city, taking two trains, and walking a couple of blocks, Iris ate her everything bagel as she traveled, throwing the wrapper in one of the trash cans outside of the Ramp building. It took only a few minutes to negotiate with the front desk, citing that HR was prepared for her today. They gave her a badge and motioned her to the nearest elevator, noting that her destination was the top floor.
With her nose in her phone, she checked a few final messages before her elevator opened to the glass doors before the waiting area of the Ramp office. Smoothing her skirt nervously, Iris took a few steps into the main area, spotting a blonde that was already looking in her direction. Steeling herself, she straightened her shoulders back.
'Easy does it. Don't scare off the pretty lady with your country bumpkin attitude,' Iris berated herself mentally. Outwardly, she held her hand out to the blonde girl. "Hi, I'm Iris Argyris... the new secretary?" her green eyes showed all of her nervousness. The woman didn't even dare to let herself look further into the office, trying to keep her focus entirely on the woman who was clearly looking at her shirt like she had a stain or something. Iris glanced down, grimacing at a few fallen poppy seeds, reaching up to absently brush them away.
'Smooth, Iris. So, so smooth.'
@selene @irakles
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
"Noooooooo..." Iris groaned, curling firmly against the bed. The young woman even attempted to pull the pillow over her head, protesting even when her boyfriend tried to pluck it away from her. Whining, Iris blindly reached for the blankets that he had so unceremoniously ripped from her moments before. "'mias..." she grumbled, rolling onto her back and slamming her fists down on the bed.
The warm chuckle from his lips was enough to have her sitting up, "You're going to be late," Aimias noted, pointing at the clock.
Eyes widening suddenly, Iris shot out of bed, staring with squinted eyes at the clock. "Fuck," she hissed, starting to fly about the room, getting undressed and strewing her clothes everywhere. Aimias only leaned against the doorframe, sipping from his cup of coffee as he watched her, amusement in her eyes. "Why didn't you get me up earlier?" she asked, rifling through her clothing as fast as she could.
"Have you met yourself?" was his quip as he took another sip of coffee, "You don't wake a sleeping bear."
Iris threw a shirt at his face before she grabbed a white blouse and a light blue knit vest top. She pulled on a wool Pendleton skirt, the only thing she could really be bothered to spend more than $100 on, and then a pair of tights. Slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes, she rushed to the bathroom.
Putting on minimal makeup, Iris spent as little time as possible on her hair, pulling it back into a tight braid. And then the woman was rushing back through the apartment, grabbing her cheap purse and shoving her phone into it. Aimias was already there handing her a wrapped bagel and shooing her toward the door. Iris strode up to him, kissed his cheek, and then bolted out the door with her dad's old briefcase in hand.
So why was she even going to work at a fashion magazine anyway? Truthfully? She lived to write and this would be the stepping stone she needed to her next job... where she would hopefully do some actual writing. Waiting on someone like they were royalty wasn't her ideal choice of job, but she needed the money and she needed the experience. Was she knowledgable about fashion?
Anyone could take one look at her and figure out the answer was no.
Hurrying through the city, taking two trains, and walking a couple of blocks, Iris ate her everything bagel as she traveled, throwing the wrapper in one of the trash cans outside of the Ramp building. It took only a few minutes to negotiate with the front desk, citing that HR was prepared for her today. They gave her a badge and motioned her to the nearest elevator, noting that her destination was the top floor.
With her nose in her phone, she checked a few final messages before her elevator opened to the glass doors before the waiting area of the Ramp office. Smoothing her skirt nervously, Iris took a few steps into the main area, spotting a blonde that was already looking in her direction. Steeling herself, she straightened her shoulders back.
'Easy does it. Don't scare off the pretty lady with your country bumpkin attitude,' Iris berated herself mentally. Outwardly, she held her hand out to the blonde girl. "Hi, I'm Iris Argyris... the new secretary?" her green eyes showed all of her nervousness. The woman didn't even dare to let herself look further into the office, trying to keep her focus entirely on the woman who was clearly looking at her shirt like she had a stain or something. Iris glanced down, grimacing at a few fallen poppy seeds, reaching up to absently brush them away.
'Smooth, Iris. So, so smooth.'
@selene @irakles
"Noooooooo..." Iris groaned, curling firmly against the bed. The young woman even attempted to pull the pillow over her head, protesting even when her boyfriend tried to pluck it away from her. Whining, Iris blindly reached for the blankets that he had so unceremoniously ripped from her moments before. "'mias..." she grumbled, rolling onto her back and slamming her fists down on the bed.
The warm chuckle from his lips was enough to have her sitting up, "You're going to be late," Aimias noted, pointing at the clock.
Eyes widening suddenly, Iris shot out of bed, staring with squinted eyes at the clock. "Fuck," she hissed, starting to fly about the room, getting undressed and strewing her clothes everywhere. Aimias only leaned against the doorframe, sipping from his cup of coffee as he watched her, amusement in her eyes. "Why didn't you get me up earlier?" she asked, rifling through her clothing as fast as she could.
"Have you met yourself?" was his quip as he took another sip of coffee, "You don't wake a sleeping bear."
Iris threw a shirt at his face before she grabbed a white blouse and a light blue knit vest top. She pulled on a wool Pendleton skirt, the only thing she could really be bothered to spend more than $100 on, and then a pair of tights. Slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes, she rushed to the bathroom.
Putting on minimal makeup, Iris spent as little time as possible on her hair, pulling it back into a tight braid. And then the woman was rushing back through the apartment, grabbing her cheap purse and shoving her phone into it. Aimias was already there handing her a wrapped bagel and shooing her toward the door. Iris strode up to him, kissed his cheek, and then bolted out the door with her dad's old briefcase in hand.
So why was she even going to work at a fashion magazine anyway? Truthfully? She lived to write and this would be the stepping stone she needed to her next job... where she would hopefully do some actual writing. Waiting on someone like they were royalty wasn't her ideal choice of job, but she needed the money and she needed the experience. Was she knowledgable about fashion?
Anyone could take one look at her and figure out the answer was no.
Hurrying through the city, taking two trains, and walking a couple of blocks, Iris ate her everything bagel as she traveled, throwing the wrapper in one of the trash cans outside of the Ramp building. It took only a few minutes to negotiate with the front desk, citing that HR was prepared for her today. They gave her a badge and motioned her to the nearest elevator, noting that her destination was the top floor.
With her nose in her phone, she checked a few final messages before her elevator opened to the glass doors before the waiting area of the Ramp office. Smoothing her skirt nervously, Iris took a few steps into the main area, spotting a blonde that was already looking in her direction. Steeling herself, she straightened her shoulders back.
'Easy does it. Don't scare off the pretty lady with your country bumpkin attitude,' Iris berated herself mentally. Outwardly, she held her hand out to the blonde girl. "Hi, I'm Iris Argyris... the new secretary?" her green eyes showed all of her nervousness. The woman didn't even dare to let herself look further into the office, trying to keep her focus entirely on the woman who was clearly looking at her shirt like she had a stain or something. Iris glanced down, grimacing at a few fallen poppy seeds, reaching up to absently brush them away.
'Smooth, Iris. So, so smooth.'
@selene @irakles
Irakles did not surround himself with idiots.
At least, he hoped he didn't. In the fast paced world of the fashion industry, he simply couldn't afford to hire idiots. It was Ramp's name on the line, and it was one name he would not mess with. The man had worked long and hard, many years to get to the chair he sat in, and the office he worked from, to have it all crumbling in his hands. He had foregone wife, son's and lovers to have his reputation as top dog in the industry, and Irakles would hand that over for nothing.
And similarly, he expected nothing but the best from everyone who worked with, or under him.
Listening with blatant disinterest as his regular assistant rattled out his daily schedule, his look melted into one of disdain as he lowered his glasses to look at her with his hazel irises. "Dom's? On a Friday evening? For heaven's sake, Serena," he rolled his eyes, turning back to the screen on his laptop with an obvious dismissal. With a click of his mouse, he closed the screen, holding his hand up as if he had touched a dead rat. Dom's was, while one the most high class couture restaurant's in the city, filled with young, fresh people hoping to impress their date on a Friday, and not a crowd Irakles wanted to associate himself with.
Instead, he preferred Le Bernardin, a French upscale restaurant whose head chef had previously trained under Gordon Ramsey himself. Also known as a notoriously hard restaurant to get into, with a waiting list up to three months long.
But of course, since when did he care about tough decisions?
Before he could voice out his thoughts however, Irakles was halfway through opening his mouth, when a new figure walked in. While he usually did not pay anyone a second glance, it was her outfit that had him blinking in surprise. If he blinked more, he would've missed the absolutely absymal amount of makeup she had on her face, and the skirt... was that tights underneath? Those shoes could only be worn by the janitor of their building. But the worst part of it all was... "Do I smell the subway?" he wrinkled his nose, his stomach almost rolling. The new girl would've taken the public transport.
Of course.
Pushing his chair back, his eyes held a look of disdain as he scanned Iris from head to toe, and then back to the head, before turning to Selene. "Get me a table for two at Le Bernardin, Selena. I have a meeting with Monsieur Thompson tonight. He likes the duck. Send in the models for this afternoon's shoot. And... handle her." With a wave of his hands, it was obvious the two were dismissed, especially with the way Irakles scrunched his nose in major disapproval at the new assistant. He did not appreciate anyone unprepared, and Iris Argyris was most definitely not his choice.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
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Irakles did not surround himself with idiots.
At least, he hoped he didn't. In the fast paced world of the fashion industry, he simply couldn't afford to hire idiots. It was Ramp's name on the line, and it was one name he would not mess with. The man had worked long and hard, many years to get to the chair he sat in, and the office he worked from, to have it all crumbling in his hands. He had foregone wife, son's and lovers to have his reputation as top dog in the industry, and Irakles would hand that over for nothing.
And similarly, he expected nothing but the best from everyone who worked with, or under him.
Listening with blatant disinterest as his regular assistant rattled out his daily schedule, his look melted into one of disdain as he lowered his glasses to look at her with his hazel irises. "Dom's? On a Friday evening? For heaven's sake, Serena," he rolled his eyes, turning back to the screen on his laptop with an obvious dismissal. With a click of his mouse, he closed the screen, holding his hand up as if he had touched a dead rat. Dom's was, while one the most high class couture restaurant's in the city, filled with young, fresh people hoping to impress their date on a Friday, and not a crowd Irakles wanted to associate himself with.
Instead, he preferred Le Bernardin, a French upscale restaurant whose head chef had previously trained under Gordon Ramsey himself. Also known as a notoriously hard restaurant to get into, with a waiting list up to three months long.
But of course, since when did he care about tough decisions?
Before he could voice out his thoughts however, Irakles was halfway through opening his mouth, when a new figure walked in. While he usually did not pay anyone a second glance, it was her outfit that had him blinking in surprise. If he blinked more, he would've missed the absolutely absymal amount of makeup she had on her face, and the skirt... was that tights underneath? Those shoes could only be worn by the janitor of their building. But the worst part of it all was... "Do I smell the subway?" he wrinkled his nose, his stomach almost rolling. The new girl would've taken the public transport.
Of course.
Pushing his chair back, his eyes held a look of disdain as he scanned Iris from head to toe, and then back to the head, before turning to Selene. "Get me a table for two at Le Bernardin, Selena. I have a meeting with Monsieur Thompson tonight. He likes the duck. Send in the models for this afternoon's shoot. And... handle her." With a wave of his hands, it was obvious the two were dismissed, especially with the way Irakles scrunched his nose in major disapproval at the new assistant. He did not appreciate anyone unprepared, and Iris Argyris was most definitely not his choice.
Irakles did not surround himself with idiots.
At least, he hoped he didn't. In the fast paced world of the fashion industry, he simply couldn't afford to hire idiots. It was Ramp's name on the line, and it was one name he would not mess with. The man had worked long and hard, many years to get to the chair he sat in, and the office he worked from, to have it all crumbling in his hands. He had foregone wife, son's and lovers to have his reputation as top dog in the industry, and Irakles would hand that over for nothing.
And similarly, he expected nothing but the best from everyone who worked with, or under him.
Listening with blatant disinterest as his regular assistant rattled out his daily schedule, his look melted into one of disdain as he lowered his glasses to look at her with his hazel irises. "Dom's? On a Friday evening? For heaven's sake, Serena," he rolled his eyes, turning back to the screen on his laptop with an obvious dismissal. With a click of his mouse, he closed the screen, holding his hand up as if he had touched a dead rat. Dom's was, while one the most high class couture restaurant's in the city, filled with young, fresh people hoping to impress their date on a Friday, and not a crowd Irakles wanted to associate himself with.
Instead, he preferred Le Bernardin, a French upscale restaurant whose head chef had previously trained under Gordon Ramsey himself. Also known as a notoriously hard restaurant to get into, with a waiting list up to three months long.
But of course, since when did he care about tough decisions?
Before he could voice out his thoughts however, Irakles was halfway through opening his mouth, when a new figure walked in. While he usually did not pay anyone a second glance, it was her outfit that had him blinking in surprise. If he blinked more, he would've missed the absolutely absymal amount of makeup she had on her face, and the skirt... was that tights underneath? Those shoes could only be worn by the janitor of their building. But the worst part of it all was... "Do I smell the subway?" he wrinkled his nose, his stomach almost rolling. The new girl would've taken the public transport.
Of course.
Pushing his chair back, his eyes held a look of disdain as he scanned Iris from head to toe, and then back to the head, before turning to Selene. "Get me a table for two at Le Bernardin, Selena. I have a meeting with Monsieur Thompson tonight. He likes the duck. Send in the models for this afternoon's shoot. And... handle her." With a wave of his hands, it was obvious the two were dismissed, especially with the way Irakles scrunched his nose in major disapproval at the new assistant. He did not appreciate anyone unprepared, and Iris Argyris was most definitely not his choice.
It was a hard fought battle to the top in the fashion industry, but by the gods, if Basilides hadn't earned every stripe along the way silently and without forming so much as a single wrinkle on his face. By the time he was 15, he was a master of finding high-fashion gems in secondhand stores adjacent to the gated communities in the towns within biking distance of his family's trailer. The halls of the high school for any other would have seemed a prison, but for him, it was a display case for every look he created.
He was the perfect punching bag for the boys at the school and the most clamored after best friend for the girls, especially in the weeks leading up to homecoming and prom. By the time he graduated, no one knew whether or not to love or hate him, but they recognized one thing - he was someone.
Moving to the city was a given, and for the move, he made more than enough money by selling seasons old Gucci and Louis Vuitton back to the same men and women in the gated communities who likely donated it in the first place. Money cannot buy intelligence. Upon arrival, there was a short stint as a model, a makeup artist, and then as a personal shopper. Amazing how that one job seven years ago started him along the path to serving as the Lead Stylist for Ramp for the past three years - practically a millennium for anyone who worked under Irakles.
With Bas decked out in the latest heir two racks in tow for the 11am Spring-Summer photoshoot selections, he paused a moment and raised a brow as he entered the reception area just as the Editor-in-Chief's door came to a close. Raising a brow at the door, his eyes shot over to Selene with a smug, half-smirk forming on his lips, his words almost a deep laugh themselves as he asked, "Let me guess. They forgot the tanks, didn't they...."
Bas let his words dwindle as the racks rolled past him, revealing what he could only imagine was a singing telegram....or...perhaps given Irakles scandal on page four of last weeks National Enquirer...they were now involved in Make-a-Wish foundation?
Regardless, Basilides reached down into his Louis Vuitton crossbody to pull out his iPhone. As he glanced between his phone and the newcomer, he both typed and spoke to one of the stylists managing the racks, the sound of a 'sent message' notification punctuating his words, "Bring these up here in twenty minutes. If he's as irritated as I imagine, we will to step it up or we may all end up on unemployment. Go."
As the flurry of footsteps left the room, he slid s small smile across his face, "Basilides. And you are?"
In that same slew of text message notifications, Selene's phone sounded off quietly as well.
iMessage: before/after shoot? 🤔
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
It was a hard fought battle to the top in the fashion industry, but by the gods, if Basilides hadn't earned every stripe along the way silently and without forming so much as a single wrinkle on his face. By the time he was 15, he was a master of finding high-fashion gems in secondhand stores adjacent to the gated communities in the towns within biking distance of his family's trailer. The halls of the high school for any other would have seemed a prison, but for him, it was a display case for every look he created.
He was the perfect punching bag for the boys at the school and the most clamored after best friend for the girls, especially in the weeks leading up to homecoming and prom. By the time he graduated, no one knew whether or not to love or hate him, but they recognized one thing - he was someone.
Moving to the city was a given, and for the move, he made more than enough money by selling seasons old Gucci and Louis Vuitton back to the same men and women in the gated communities who likely donated it in the first place. Money cannot buy intelligence. Upon arrival, there was a short stint as a model, a makeup artist, and then as a personal shopper. Amazing how that one job seven years ago started him along the path to serving as the Lead Stylist for Ramp for the past three years - practically a millennium for anyone who worked under Irakles.
With Bas decked out in the latest heir two racks in tow for the 11am Spring-Summer photoshoot selections, he paused a moment and raised a brow as he entered the reception area just as the Editor-in-Chief's door came to a close. Raising a brow at the door, his eyes shot over to Selene with a smug, half-smirk forming on his lips, his words almost a deep laugh themselves as he asked, "Let me guess. They forgot the tanks, didn't they...."
Bas let his words dwindle as the racks rolled past him, revealing what he could only imagine was a singing telegram....or...perhaps given Irakles scandal on page four of last weeks National Enquirer...they were now involved in Make-a-Wish foundation?
Regardless, Basilides reached down into his Louis Vuitton crossbody to pull out his iPhone. As he glanced between his phone and the newcomer, he both typed and spoke to one of the stylists managing the racks, the sound of a 'sent message' notification punctuating his words, "Bring these up here in twenty minutes. If he's as irritated as I imagine, we will to step it up or we may all end up on unemployment. Go."
As the flurry of footsteps left the room, he slid s small smile across his face, "Basilides. And you are?"
In that same slew of text message notifications, Selene's phone sounded off quietly as well.
iMessage: before/after shoot? 🤔
It was a hard fought battle to the top in the fashion industry, but by the gods, if Basilides hadn't earned every stripe along the way silently and without forming so much as a single wrinkle on his face. By the time he was 15, he was a master of finding high-fashion gems in secondhand stores adjacent to the gated communities in the towns within biking distance of his family's trailer. The halls of the high school for any other would have seemed a prison, but for him, it was a display case for every look he created.
He was the perfect punching bag for the boys at the school and the most clamored after best friend for the girls, especially in the weeks leading up to homecoming and prom. By the time he graduated, no one knew whether or not to love or hate him, but they recognized one thing - he was someone.
Moving to the city was a given, and for the move, he made more than enough money by selling seasons old Gucci and Louis Vuitton back to the same men and women in the gated communities who likely donated it in the first place. Money cannot buy intelligence. Upon arrival, there was a short stint as a model, a makeup artist, and then as a personal shopper. Amazing how that one job seven years ago started him along the path to serving as the Lead Stylist for Ramp for the past three years - practically a millennium for anyone who worked under Irakles.
With Bas decked out in the latest heir two racks in tow for the 11am Spring-Summer photoshoot selections, he paused a moment and raised a brow as he entered the reception area just as the Editor-in-Chief's door came to a close. Raising a brow at the door, his eyes shot over to Selene with a smug, half-smirk forming on his lips, his words almost a deep laugh themselves as he asked, "Let me guess. They forgot the tanks, didn't they...."
Bas let his words dwindle as the racks rolled past him, revealing what he could only imagine was a singing telegram....or...perhaps given Irakles scandal on page four of last weeks National Enquirer...they were now involved in Make-a-Wish foundation?
Regardless, Basilides reached down into his Louis Vuitton crossbody to pull out his iPhone. As he glanced between his phone and the newcomer, he both typed and spoke to one of the stylists managing the racks, the sound of a 'sent message' notification punctuating his words, "Bring these up here in twenty minutes. If he's as irritated as I imagine, we will to step it up or we may all end up on unemployment. Go."
As the flurry of footsteps left the room, he slid s small smile across his face, "Basilides. And you are?"
In that same slew of text message notifications, Selene's phone sounded off quietly as well.