#If I had more patience I would want to be a portrait artist I think. Human faces and character are so cool

[please-picturemeintheweeds]

Taylor and Travis look so Grown Up in those pics, which idk what that even means, and maybe I’m just bi, but Travis will wear his 40s, 50s, 60s Very Well. (So will Taylor, as most people do!) idk I’m just watching a lot of people age in my life; neighbor kids, cousins graduating, my parents getting towards their 70s, my self starting to Look Different as I approach 28. Idk! Humans are so cool

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I think we should throw the two twst French men into a room and observe how they interact 😳 👉👈

I FULLY AGREE WITH THIS… Let them congregate 😤 for French-on-French violence science!!

P.S. I think Rollo should speak full-on French just let me have this 😳 (Shoutout to @pointedly-foolish, who generously translated my English dialogue to French for this post~)

Like Fire, Hellfire.

Another school day was drawing to a close.

Rollo had settled into a comfortable routine by now. Keep his head low, avoid eye contact, speak little, stick to his textbooks and hug the quiet corners. In this manner, he avoided incidents with the NRC students.

His peers had filed out of the classroom long ago, racing off for extracurriculars, their friends, their dorms. They had places to be, people to be with. He didn’t.

… Good riddance. Rollo released a sigh as he retrieved his staff. Already, his mind was making a pass through a checklist. He had to hurry back to his temporary housing, prepare his usual dinner, cleanse himself of grime—

Click.

The classroom door suddenly swung closed right in front of him. A gloved hand on it, keeping the exit sealed off.

Rollo froze when he sensed a warm body behind him—from where the gloved hand had extended. A terrible realization sunk in: he had been caged, trapped between the door and some stranger.

Just his luck.

He glared over his shoulder, glimpsing his captor. It was a man in a golden bob, his vest a deep violet and his armband bearing the sword-strikeb apple emblem of Pomefiore. A hat with a generous brim shadowed piercing green eyes and a smile sharper than knives.

“Roi du Mouchoir,” the blonde man greeted with the tip of his feathered headwear, “bonjour.”

“You are Rook Hunt, if I’m not mistaken. I remember you from the... masquerade.” Rollo’s voice was tight. “Do you care to explain why it is that you’ve cornered me like this?“

“Désolé!! Pardon the intrusion.” Rook’s cheery tone seemed to indicate that he was, in fact, not sorry at all. “I consider myself a huntsman—and as it just so happens, I’ve found quite the fascinating quarry. Can you guess who it is?”

“... I have no quarrel with you, but I am not a wild beast to be hunted down. You wicked NRC mages seem to rely on the basest forms of amusement." Rollo folded his arms. "Kindly remove yourself—you're impeding my schedule."

“It will only take but a moment of your time!”

“I haven’t a moment to spare. Find another subject to amuse yourself with.”

« Non, non! » Rook wagged a finger and winked, sending a chill down Rollo’s spine. « Mon vœu n'est que de mieux vous connaître. »

I want to get to know you better.

Rook's words were sweet and low and intimate, like a lover's croon. The familiarity with which he spoke made everything in Rollo shrivel up and die. Disgust rose up like bile.

« Et j'aimerai être loins, loin de cet endroit damné, » Rollo snapped, his tongue laced with venom, « mais lamentablement, on ne peut pas tout avoir, n'est-ce pas? »

And I want to be far, far away from this wretched place—but I suppose we can’t all have what we wish for, now can we?

Rook didn’t miss a single beat. He held up an index finger.

« Auriez-vous l'obligeance de me donner un sourire? C'est tout ce que je demande! »

Would you be so kind as to give me a smile? That’s all I ask!

« ... Pourquoi? »

... Why?

« Je ne vous ai pas encore vu dans toute votre sincerite. Ta beauté. »

I have yet to see your most genuine self. Your beauty.

The phrasing of it rubbed Rollo the wrong way. His patience at last caved, and his tongue switched back, unleashing irritation unfettered upon the huntsman.

"Enough of this charade. You know perfectly well what sort of man I am. There is no need for you to play ignorant. To you villains, I am nothing more than a monster. That is the end of the story.”

"Ah, you speak of the portrait of a city dyed in crimson." Rook's eyes held a playful twinkle. "And you, its artist, driven by despair to bring about the end of the world as we know it."

"If you are going to waste my time, at least be more succinct with your blabber."

"Bien sûr." Rook chuckled and held out both hands, palms facing up. "That is only but one side of you: your lowest point. What I seek is a full spectrum of oneself, its mirror. A Roi du Mouchoir at his most jubilant and most radiant, emotions unclouded. Smiling."

Rollo scowled.

"It is physically impossible for me to force even a fake one when I am surrounded by blithering oafs," he shot back. Like yourself, he silently added. "Not to mention these grounds are infested with sin. How is anyone meant to be smiling in this scenario?"

Rollo, of course, discounted the stupid grin currently on Rook's face. Idiots didn't deserve the consideration.

Frustration curled at his temples all the same.

He could not understand it. Pain, suffering, loss—were those not shared experiences of the human condition? Yet here was a fool who seemed to take it all in stride, laughing as he winded down the path of life and smelled the roses that peppered it.

Saw the fairness of the world when Rollo could not.

Embers sparked under his skin, as if summoned up by a struck match. Rollo clenched his jaw. He didn't like it—didn't like that this buffoon and his flowery prattle were getting to him.

Rollo took a sharp breath in, then released it.

"... Move. You've held me up for long enough."

With the butt of his staff, he prodded Rook back, releasing his hold on the door. Rollo yanked it open, not even bothering to toss one last withering look back at the huntsman before passing through.

"Roi du Mouchoir!!"

Rook was likely at the doorframe now, calling after him.

"Do NOT follow me under any circumstances," Rollo said without looking, "or I will report you to the proper authorities for violating my personal boundaries."

It’s a wonder why he hasn’t been already.

“Fufufu. A strong rebuttal… however, I won’t admit defeat!” Rook continued, undeterred by the vitriol. Rollo could hear the smile in him. “I promise you, I will capture your smile someday. Le Chasseur d’Amour down not give up on the hunt quite so easily!”

Tch. What a meddlesome man.

Rollo grimaced into his handkerchief as he hurried down the hallway. With each step, Rook’s voice grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared entirely.

Clearing the courtyard, a sense of filthiness set in, clinging to Rollo’s robes like patches of a broken web. Cleaning off the day would have to come second to expunging the memory of the huntsman. The proximity of him.

Rollo wanted to retch all over again.

Rook was of sight, perhaps, but not out of mind.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Hello Ixi, first of all THANK YOU for your blog, it is amazing, useful, lovely, „blablablablabla“ (in Crowley‘s voice)!!!

My question is: I have seen such great fan art recently. In one case it’s a few years old and hasn’t been seen on tumblr since then (I googlefound it somewhere else), so people like me who have joined more recently haven’t had a chance to see it. The other is recent but the artist has not many followers yet, so again, hardly anyone sees it. I have reposted both of course but also, not much range, me. So how can I promote those two exceptional artists? You have range, if you like them too, would you pass it on? Below are the links.

Or is there another possibility, for example, have there been, should there be, contests where people can vote for best piece of fanart e.g. once per month etc.? I’m new to social media and suffering from the arbitrary methods of getting at information, as I infer you do too, in generell, hence your very well structured site. Would a contest help to centralise and log (over time) the source information, what do you think? Or any other ideas to reach the same goal, or something I’m just not yet aware of? I wouldn’t want to miss such amazing art.

Thank you, with angelic love, Ox

https://tabbystardust.tumblr.com/

https://www.tumblr.com/tabbystardust/618935983657877504

https://www.tumblr.com/tabbystardust/630902384525295616

https://www.tumblr.com/tabbystardust/647120754437193728

https://www.tumblr.com/tabbystardust/188796194426

https://aumael.tumblr.com/

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/734352990432002048/david-tennant-as-crowley-probably-my-favorite

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/733537639716831232/another-portrait-another-mood

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/732900775400964096/i-think-we-didnt-get-enough-of-1960s-crowley

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/732262342148112384/new-little-portrait-of-crowley

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/731628359020429312/daily-grumpy-crowley

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/729726390893674496/angry-crowley-aka-the-thin-dark-duke

https://www.tumblr.com/aumael/729001745384079360/michael-sheen-as-aziraphale-from-good-omens-or

Hiya! :) My blog is not fan art oriented and don't know if there's on tumblr one doing just that (similar as aziraphale-library is for fics), if you want to do one, most certainly go for it! Just bear in mind that getting followers takes some time - with consistency, patience and time being the key :) ❤.

[lambhouse]

art block & burnout (and how i deal with it)

so i've been kind of Going Thru It lately, but then again who hasn't? life's kind of been an ongoing shitslide these past few years. and i can't say it's only now starting to catch up to me, because that would be a bald faced lie, but i think i've finally reached the point where i realize that for real, no cap, or whatever the kids say these days, change starts with me.

what does that mean, you ask? and what does it have to do with burnout and drawing?

well, i've been at my lowest for two years and counting now. i've had bouts of creativity and whole entire weeks of being productive and drawing like a machine and just generally being high on life, but those were just spikes of activity on an otherwise flat line. and i've been flatlining for months now. i know i'm due for a high at some point (it's how these things go), but this time i decided to get ahead of it and start building up some good habits so that when the next low hits, it won't be as hard.

this, at its core, isn't anything new or revolutionary and i can't say the tips/advice i have are universally applicable, but they will hopefully give you an idea of where to start, or at least give you a different perspective on how to go about applying any of the general art advice you see out there.

so without further ado, here is how i did this:

i started a new sketchbook last month. that, in and of itself, isn't a big deal; the big deal is that i kept up with it for a month straight. tomorrow is the actual 1-month anniversary (lol) of my daily drawing habit.

that's not particularly impressive either, not even for me. i've had periods where i drew regularly -- not 7 days a week regularly, but 3-4 days in a row every week and i kept that going for weeks. but i wasn't going through burnout at the time, and that's what makes this such an important milestone for me.

how i started:

it was rough, lol. looking back at this now i can see it's not a terrible first drawing but i remember how fucking stressed i was the entire time. my hands were shaking, i kept erasing and redrawing, i added color thinking it would make it look better, i even tried drawing from reference (the DRDs and the very faint flower in the corner) but i didn't have enough patience to really look at my references. overall it was a miserable experience.

but something good did come out of it, because i realized two things:

i was too mentally drained to draw from imagination, and

drawing in pencil hindered me more than it helped

now, drawing from imagination was what i always wanted to do and i could do it well enough and consistently enough when i was feeling good. but the whole reason i decided to build a habit like this was so i wouldn't have to depend on the whims of my brain chemistry anymore.

so drawing from reference it was. good thing i already had a pinterest board full of portrait references. i added about a hundred more to it that first night, just to have more variety, and that was enough to get me excited for the next drawing session.

now, the pencil thing. that's a bit tricky to explain and i can't promise it'll work for you as well as it did for me, but i think it's worth a shot.

the way it works for me is, the pencil is too easy a tool to use. even if you make a mistake, you've got an eraser and a million do-overs (or as many as your paper holds up to). so if i draw and erase and redraw the same line over and over again, at some point that starts to mean that there's something wrong with me, that i'm a shit artist, and what's the fucking point of doing it if i've basically got all the training wheels i need and i still can't draw this fucking eye right, or the mouth still looks weird, or the face is wonky. if the paper's good and the pencil lead is good quality and the eraser does its job well and still the drawing looks like shit, well, who's to blame for that? me.

i knew from the start that this was where i was headed if i decided to draw in pencil. even the very first sketches i did were in colored pencil, which is a step up in difficulty from regular graphite (they can be erased, but not completely). but obviously that didn't work as i had hoped, so more drastic measures were required.

so i decided to just rawdog it. i ditched the pencils entirely and took my tombow pens out of retirement. i only had five and two of them were different shades of pink, so not a lot of room to play with colors-as-values, but i made do. the three figures that look like they were drawn in pencil were actually drawn with the grey pen.

now this may seem counterintuitive. if erasing and redrawing stresses me out so much, how does drawing directly in pen make it better? isn't that just more stress?

yes and no, but mostly no. the way i rationalized it is, i can't make a perfect pen drawing even at my absolute best. there's just no way. but i can eventually arrive at a perfect pencil drawing, through a lot of trial and error and frustration, so why not take all of that out of the equation? frustration never helped me get better, it was just a creative sinkhole. so why not get rid of it? turn the possibility of failure into a certainty and work with or around that new certainty.

cut out the middleman, so to speak.

and it fucking worked.

-- for full disclosure, i've drawn in pen before. i started on a whim a few years ago and found it pretty liberating, so i kept doing it.

these are some of the first sketches i did in pen. they're pretty good, but as you can see from the date at the bottom, these were from before the Great Calamity of 2020 happened and everything went to shit. --

back to the thing.

so drawing in pen worked wonders to loosen me up and keep me going with the challenge -- or the building of a new habit. it certainly helped that i was also drawing portraits from reference and didn't have to think about poses, or features, or expressions -- they were all already there for me to draw.

not having to think about any of that also meant i had more energy to put into other things, like shading and coloring and how to simplify and stylize complex forms.

(i also got some poscas and four new watercolor makers. they weren't necessary for the process, but they were a nice treat.)

so i kept drawing. two days turned into three, into five, until i had a full week of daily drawings under my belt.

i hit a snag on day 8. (no pictures because (1) its fucking embarrassing, and (2) it's an oc design for a thing i'm still cooking and it's in the earliest of stages where the characters don't even have names.) i have a pretty good idea why day 8 was such a miss: i got overconfident. day 7 was a draw from your imagination day and it went well enough i thought i could do it again the next day. lol nope.

so i went back to my reference board for the next couple of days, but i had gotten a taste of true freedom (drawing from imagination -- and in pencil!) and i wasn't feeling the portraits anymore.

the next couple of days after that were rough (again -- no pictures bc uncooked oc's) but all the drawing from reference i did the week before had done me good. i had the willpower to keep going despite being unhappy with my drawings. they weren't bad drawings per se, but i was using my newly-found oc-drawing muscles and there were bound to be some growing pains. i was also drawing in pencil but by that point i had gotten used to making mistakes so i wasn't stressed about having to erase over and over.

(i don't think i actually erased all that much, tbh. i was instead using a blending stump to mask the wobbly lines.)

day 15. i didn't set out to draw one page a day but that's what ended up happening so i just went with it. i also only had an hour or two to draw and that's how much i was able to get done in that amount of time. slow and steady wins the race, i guess?

day 19 was i think the first time i drew in pen from imagination in a long time. i was also watching some vtuber drama nonsense on youtube and it got me thinking about making my own vtuber model. idek what a vtuber is or does but the process of making a model from scratch sounds interesting. (its also very time-consuming, i hear.)

anyway.

actual cooked oc's this time + a page of raziel drawn from memory to celebrate the news of the soul reaver prequel graphic novel that's in the making. (apparently dave rapoza is gonna do the cover art for it??)

and this is now turning into an art diary, but you get the gist. i kept going.

and going.

and going.

even when it wasn't fun. even when i didnt' feel like it. and maybe i havent built the habit all the way through yet, but the more i kept going the more i noticed how the "i don't feel like it" feeling became less and less intense.

it hasn't gone away completely. its 10pm now as i'm writing this and i know i have to open up my sketchbook and draw and tbh i don't really feel like it, but it's less that i'm drained and more like "but what if i fuck up a perfectly good page?"

and i know how to deal with that. i pick up a pen and fuck it up on purpose, and then i look at what i have and start problem-solving.

because that's what gets me through it.

not having a clear, concrete problem to tackle is what kept me stuck in limbo for so long, it's what's at the core of my burnout. you'd think creating more problems on purpose would make the burnout worse, but it got me out of the black hole of indecision and anxiety. because if it's something that i made, it's something i can unmake. it's something i can fix.

so i'm fucking fixing it, one step at a time.

[calidore]

i have no patience for a happy ending

artist!dazai x artist!chuuya academic rivals to lovers (? but not really) bsd meets mesterul manole some parts are inspired by chuuya nakahara's poetry and some quotes are also taken from there. i really recommend reading something by him ao3 link : i have no patience for a happy ending - bonefire - 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs [Archive of Our Own]

summary

chuuya and dazai are looking for inspiration for their art project. looking for inspiration doesn't go as planned and i am insane.

i don't know who is narrating this

The difference between a happy and a sad ending lies in the heart of the reader.

“Please!” the artist begged the Moon, not taking his eyes away from it. He could have shed a tear, if only there were any left.

The reason for his desperation was the painting for his master, which for the untrained mind might seem exaggerated, but for the young artist seemed like the only chance he got to impress his master; and his rival too, but that part will never leave the darkest part of his heart. For the ordinary man, the theme for the painting would not present any impediments : beauty; but for the artist, who has a peculiar hunger for beauty and grotesqueness, it seemed impossible. He has thought about every beautiful thing he has ever seen: the woods before a storm, the mountain reflected in a dead deer’s shiny eyes, the full Moon hidden behind clouds, his reflection in a pond of tears, but once he started painting them the beauty vanished. And after three sleepless nights, he had decided to ask the Moon, which should not be even the last option.

“I will do anything.”

That is something only someone who is willing to destroy themselves would say and the Moon is not merciful.

“Is there something more beautiful than the heart of a lover?”

The artist’s eyes darkened. He knew the perfect answer to this question.

The moon awaits her executioner. It was time for him to leave.

~~~

Three weeks had passed since the master gave the assignment and all Chuuya had done was ask his fellow artists about their piece. One of them was painting a watercolour self portrait using their own tears, one was carving a crown onto their head and another was writing a prayer about himself. There was only one person he had not dared to ask, even though the curiosity was eating him alive.

Chuuya stared long at the canvas in front of him and started to leave careless strokes of colour on it, hoping some sort of inspiration would come. He gave up soon and with a sight he laid on his back, looking at the stars.

Dazai was admiring the state in which he found his rival. People are most vulnerable when they are alone and looking at the stars was his favourite activity. He could spend hours recognizing each constellation, creating a different story for it each time, and counting stars until he fell asleep. If you asked him why the stars were so important to him, he would laugh and tell you that the stars became him when he stared at them.

Dazai stepped closer to Chuuya, not making any sound, which was not on purpose, but wandering around without making a noise was pretty useful, so he got used to doing it unconsciously.

“What are you doing?” Chuuya yelled at him once he realised how close Dazai was.

“I came to you with a proposal.” Dazai’s speech was composed of short and vague sentences. You always had to ask questions and continue the conversation if you wanted to get to the point of the interaction.

“I am not…” Chuuya started, but got interrupted.

“We should work together.”

“Why should we do that?”

“I believe that we would be a great inspiration to each other.”

Chuuya almost let himself believe him.

“I hardly doubt it. You see, our views on beauty are very different.” Chuuya said.

“Is that so?” Dazai was curious why his rival thought that. It seemed like they had a very different perception of their relationship.

Chuuya looked at Dazai thinking that the statement was obvious. He believed that they were different in each aspect of their lives, because they could never reach an agreement. But maybe that was because they were too similar.

“The main difference between us is that I would die for beauty. You would kill for it.” Chuuya said, and without breaking the eye contact, Dazai answered:

“I would kill it.”

Dazai gave him a smile, a smile he did not recognize. A smile that didn’t look like someone living.

Chuuya did not understand what he was trying to say, but he never understood anything Dazai was trying to tell him. Dazai’s ambiguity was far superior to his and was the only thing that kept him with an unbroken heart. Everything he does has a hidden meaning and purpose, and it seems like sometimes not even Dazai knows what they are; that’s where his power and mis(t)ery lies.

“But that is even better. Rivals bring more interesting things out of each other than lovers do. Tomorrow is gonna be a full moon. I’ll meet you under the willow tree.”

And without getting a chance to answer back, Chuuya looked at Dazai’s figure disappearing into the dark.

~~~

The willow tree was Chuuya’s favourite, and secret, spot. It was perfect to watch the moon on sleepless nights and he didn’t like the idea of sharing such a spot with anyone, let alone with Dazai. But he did not have a choice. He had to meet with him if he wanted to finish his work.

The moon had taken its place as a viewer when Chuuya arrived. And with the moon so high, looking after every soul, he felt safe; as safe as a character would feel in the hands of an author. Dazai was nowhere to be found.

“You actually came.” The voice came unexpectedly from behind. Chuuya turned around to see a grinning Dazai.

“Surprised? You know, most people are actually truthful.”

Dazai chuckled at his statement. It was true, he preferred to lie than to tell the truth. Lies were easier, safer, more interesting. He held the belief that language was invented by the need of humans to lie to each other.

“Now can you tell me why you brought me here?” Chuuya asked.

“To help you with your art piece.”

“What about yours?”

Dazai stepped closer to him. He was now only inches away from him and Chuuya could clearly see his eyes; they looked like the starless sky.

“I’m actually almost done.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I titled it `Dying Youth Under the Willow Tree`.”

They were staring at each other with a look that said “I would set the world on fire”; one to keep the other warm and the other just to watch everything burn. That right there was their little world. A world neither of them dared to touch, let alone destroy. Their little world, perfect in its inexistence.

They stayed like this for a while because neither could touch the fragility of this silent agreement between them. But when entrusting to someone, you have to take into consideration any possibility of betrayal, because the likelihood of treason gets higher when the heart is distracted. And if it wasn’t for the warm blood dripping on his chest he probably wouldn’t have realised that his ache was caused by hand, not by heart.

The deeper Chuuya’s knife went, the more painful Dazai’s heartache became.

Tears fell down his cheeks, tears which could as well be tears of love, but who am I to say how tears of love should look like.

Chuuya laid down his body so he could see the stars and soon enough he will become one of them.

~~~

The next morning a new painting was exhibited. It was a painting of a heart. The red used was so rich and bloody that any artist would question its origin.

At the bottom of the painting was written “a place to hide secrets”.

[bitteraristocrat]

Masterpiece of a Paramour

Just reposting this little oneshot I wrote awhile back, with some new edits. ♡ Ciel is sitting for a portrait painting to commemorate his birthday, and Sebastian begins to contemplate on the meaning of human beauty.

The velvet stool's plushness lacked greatly in comparison to the flesh which plumped atop it. Surrounded by a wall of windows, the milk of the sitter’s legs shone from the hem of his trousers and bled into the pink knobs of his knees. From beyond the collar of frills erected his neck, filigreed with tiny, throbbing veins, and stiff contours. Its heat intensified the ghost of a Mille Fleurs witch hazel fragrance, still glistening at his nape. His jaw never wavered in its structure, sharpened to a delicate point and kissed by the longest tresses of his silken fringe; silver locks framed the flushed complexion of a boyish luxe, contrary to the mature and sunken mauve about his eyes. And, as if some prize bloom arranged exquisitely in a bouquet of rouched, indigo velour, the boy was made up in robes and glittering gold embroidery, suitable for the highest patrician, and nearly suitable for such a feast of a human that he was.

The young Lord of Phantomhive sat upon a makeshift throne in the stuffy parlour where he was scheduled to sit for a court portrait; an overzealous gift from her Majesty the Queen, on behalf of her watchdog’s birthday, much to his chagrin. His distant whines regarding the suffocation of the room from hours prior echoed in the crackling of embers from the hearth, as a faint blush swelled on the apples of his cheeks. The December ice protested from beyond the window glass with twapping and twinkling, assuring the boy there was no chance of an open window. Perfectly illuminated by the alabaster frost, Ciel sat in preparation for his painter, who dismissed himself after a brief preliminary sketching, to recollect his muse with a cigarette on the terrace.

Slouching, the boy's preened positioning was undone by a most sour expression, as he contemplated which was more tedious: the painting or the waiting. His eyes traced the branches of frost that veined the panes of the window beside him, half in boredom, half in aimless curiosity. The ghost of his reflection stared back in pastel hues of blue, and bled into the ashen sky. With a languid roll of his shoulders, he straightened his posture to an immodest pose, neck craned to one side as he admired his picture. Reverently, his hand reached for his lips - they pillowed around the pad of his finger as he blotted them with the tip of his glove. And as if his vain attentions were a lascivious summon, the click of heels materialised from the shadows beyond the parlour door, and his occupied hand darted to his lap.

The demon strode into view, with a glint of predatory intrigue, though he willed himself to keep that intimate image to himself, lest his master spoil the moment with a tantrum. Sebastian pardoned his entrance, and proceeded with a pitcher of water in one hand, and a goblet in the other.

“Tell me this won’t take much longer, Sebastian,” the young Master made sure to whine before his servant had a chance to comment on Ciel’s private display of self-admiration (of which he knew Sebastian caught a glimpse of). “I cannot bear it.”

The demon proceeded gently, one brow quirked, and served the water. “Monsieur Beauchêne was just complimenting your patience and remarked what a capital sitter you are, I should think you would not want to disparage such a commendation with your impatience, my Lord.” Ciel squirmed at this, and gave a thorny scowl. His expression darkened further with a scrunched nose as the butler’s aroma wafted his way. The typical notes of wool and musk were polluted by a pungent trace of cigarette smoke.

“I do hope you weren’t chittering with the artist for an unreasonable amount of time, I wouldn’t want his unruly convictions rubbing off on my servant,” the young Lord huffed, swatting at Sebastian to ward him off. “I want this session over with as soon as possible.” Sebastian gave a downcast glance to his uniform, taking note of the intruding ghost of smoke that braided with the fibres of his tailcoat. A gloved hand brushed down his attire, and the odour seemingly vanished.

“There is something to be admired in human artistry, I must admit,” said the butler, a hair's breadth away from informality. His master was far too keen not to notice; a blue eye flashed upwards to size up Sebastian’s remark. “Our painter had a few words to say regarding the subject, and as any attentive servant would, I offered my ear.” He discarded the pitcher and approached his employer from behind, hands hovering above tiny shoulders. “May I?” It was times like these that his demon was wont to entertain the limits of propriety with the unspoken rules that the pair shared which blurred those limitations. The boy’s glance altered to a knowing look, as if to give some formality to the situation, before silently nodding to the offer.

The demon’s talons coiled around the velvet-adorned shoulders beneath him and gave a firm squeeze, rolling into a massage. The boy settled into the pressure as Sebastian nursed his aching form, careful not to seem too pleased. What would his valet think of the little Lord indulging in such freely-given satisfaction? Surely, only a fool would take the bait, and his master was not a fool.

Sebastian’s lips parted at the new aroma his counterpart gave off, as it rose up like pearls of smoke and were smothered by the butler’s breath; lax, languid, yet alert and apprehensive at the prospect of being brought pleasure without the prelude of pain. How predictable this human was. “The monsieur was careful to remind me that an artist does not only capture the inner beauty, but the inner desire, all the same. It embodies the subject’s truest representation of himself in his most vulnerable. It, too, reflects the way he wishes to be seen.”

“It sounds like artistic rubbish, and I care not,” Ciel mumbled behind a sip of water.

“Perhaps,” Sebastian scoffed at his young master’s ignorance. “I have witnessed a great number of artistic endeavours in my time-”

“Your very long time.”

“...Quite.” The devil cocked his head and bit his inner cheek in an attempt not to reduce the brat’s bones to splinters. It was evident Ciel’s boredom had coaxed out the child within his faux-adult demeanour. “And, in my time, artists have remained ambivalent to the concept of modesty and their incessant will to assign arbitrary ‘meaning’ to their work.”

“You almost sound offended,” the boy chuckled. “Do be careful, your ego is showing, my servant.” Sebastian frowned at this.

“Please forgive my imprudence.”

“No, continue, I’m intrigued.” The young Master gave a smirk.

“The human concept of beauty is a fickle and ever-changing thing, and, if I may speak freely, I find it most amusing to observe.” Ciel shuddered, knowing the butler was referring to his recent display of vanity in the reflection of the icy window. “The translation of this in the medium of portraiture is something of an enigma. The objective is not to perfectly capture the subject, very unlike the novel invention of the photograph, but to manipulate its essence through the eye of the artist. As butler to the watchdog of Her Majesty, I am inclined to have faith in the ability of our dear Monsieur Beauchêne, but he fails to understand your essence as I do.”

The boy gawked, frozen as the kneading of his shoulders continued. “How very forward of you to say,” he stuttered, tone edging on the threat of a scold. He would not be flattered by the demon’s words, no. Not in the light of day, where their midnight profligacy was unwelcome. Nevertheless, Sebastian’s gloved fingers snaked to the front of his lord’s neck and cupped the tip of his chin.

“Oh, how would I paint you...?”

Their eyes locked in the reflection of the window.

Ciel snapped and swatted at Sebastian with a vexed glare. “That’s quite enough, Sebastian,” he clipped, eyes meeting the smoulder of a glowing, port gaze head on. “I thought my butler had more self-control than this. Clearly, all this prattle of artistic interpretation has made you impressionable to the same queer convictions as some lowly artist.”

“My Lord,” the butler gave a toothy grin. “Is it not the retainer’s sole duty to praise his liege to the utmost degree? Had I the privilege of hiring a court painter for you, I would have selected one more aligned with what is deserving of my Master.”

“Oh, don’t give me your insufferable excuses,” the boy shouted, his voice then doused by an air of caution and dropped to a hissing whisper, “you know such talk is entirely inappropriate whilst hosting a guest, let alone during the hours of the day which prying ears may overhear, you idiot!”

“Who, might I ask, will overhear such a conversation, sir?”

“Do you mean to quarrel with me, Sebastian?!”

“Not at all, my Lord.” The two exchanged a moment of gripping silence before Sebastian rounded the boy on his pedestal. The raven drank the image of his fuming little lord and thumbed his own chin. How he loved watching his feast squirm under the scrutiny of admiration, as if he were a fruit about to be plucked.

Sebastian collected the empty water goblet from Ciel and greedily took another inhale of the boy’s scent. He sought beyond the pollution of witch hazel which clouded his contractor's true fragrance: subtle notes of brandy and honey, and a powdery finish of his youth. This was merely the smell of his flesh, the devil mused, his human mouth dripping inside; the perfume of his soul was enough to make Sebastian mad beyond comprehension. “The technology of photography could never truly capture your opulence, either. I would not dare threaten your perfection by replicating it with some still image of time.”

“I said that’s enough,” Ciel barked. It was moments like these, he reckoned, that commanding his servant to cease would sour this game that Sebastian was proposing; the little lord’s protests did nothing but envenom the devil’s intentions, and he knew this. It was enough resistance to credit his obedience to propriety, but not enough for him to deny he enjoyed being looked at. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yes, I would paint you,” the butler ignored. “I seek to seize your essence in each stroke of my brush and let it linger, encouraging its festering into the canvas. And revel in how your beauty bleeds between colours of the entire spectrum. I want to imprison your delicacy in a painting.”

Sebastian observed in his master’s eyes the way he vacillated between rage and allure. But, as any mortified Englishman, and young boy, Ciel was paralysed with the construct of propriety digging into his gut.

“And how I would dress you,” the incubus cooed, tone oozing with a guttural moan. A flash of fangs as he grinned. "Surely not as modest as befitting a court painting."

Sebastian bent at the hip, his eyes level with his charge's glower. "Did you know, sir, it is a common practice in France to paint one's subject in the nude?" He whispered throatily.

“Shut up,” the boy shuddered, no longer able to bear the weight of Sebastian's gaze for fear of losing his composure. The lids of his eyes came crashing down in an attempt to hide from that poisonous stare. The heat of mortification mixed with the chill of disgust churned in his stomach and made Ciel ill with conflict. No matter how he wavered, how his knees trembled like two pink marbles knocking together, a glare peaked from beneath eyes hooded with a dangerous menace. Sebastian met it with a leer that begged to be tested. “You deplorable beast,” the young Lord damned him.

“Come,” as if the wintry wind from beyond the window swept away the tension, Sebastian’s eyes dimmed to a wine hue almost indistinguishable from ebony and knelt in reverence before the child. “Let us not forget it was you who encouraged my musings, sir. Our esteemed painter is approaching the enfilade as we speak. What would he think of his capital sitter if he saw you in such an unsightly state? Ah… here we are.” Gloved hands ghosted over the young lord’s calf and drew it into a gentle caress. Naturally, the boy recoiled at being touched, leering down at his demon with a venomous disdain for making his master so flustered. Steadily, Sebastian positioned the leg just as Monsieur Beauchêne had done so earlier. The artist had made a subtle remark regarding Ciel’s porcelain figure, although Sebastian could feel the man’s swarming thoughts of debauchery as unwelcome eyes marred his master’s inner thigh; the mere, perverse thought was enough to threaten rot on his perfect meal.

“Honestly, what’s gotten into you?” Ciel’s voice was husked by a heady breath. Sebastian blinked, having momentarily lost composure, pupils slit with envy. They frowned at each other, and Sebastian bent closer, black locks of hair tickling the young Lord’s knee.

“May I take an artistic liberty?”

“Oh, have you remembered how to ask for permission?” Ciel scoffed, his eyes following Sebastian’s to the hem of his shorts.

“I only mean to present my Lord in a state most true to his nature.”

“...If it is in my best interest, then I suppose it can be permitted.”

Gloved fingers buried beneath gathering fabric guided the hem farther up the earl’s leg until the fat of his inner thigh was illuminated by the sterling winter sun. The demon’s lips, wet with ardour, pressed therein. As if biting into the succulent fruits of Eden, his master’s ichor pooled in the devil’s mouth. Ciel squirmed, eager to pull away yet greedily holding still. His chest heaved, ensnared by the grip on his ankle as Sebastian sucked at his skin. Lips reluctantly withdrew, a web of slaver connecting them to a fresh bruise.

The doorknob rattled, and the demon seemingly evaporated between Ciel's legs. Flustered in a fit of gasps, albeit (somehow) sufficiently positioned so their sin was hidden from view, the young Master's eyes groped the room before him to locate the butler. "Sebas--!"

A hand ghosted over the nape of his neck and settled on his shoulder as the door flung open. "Ah, Monsieur. We were beginning to worry. My Master is growing quite restless. It would be wise to resume your study posthaste."

[acaseforpencils]

Jane Mattimoe (aka A Case for Pencils).

I've been interviewing mainly New Yorker cartoonists on here for close to nine (!) years, which is wild to think about! A lot has changed since I started this blog in 2014— back then, I had a broken wrist from a fall I had while working in a restaurant, and I didn't have the money for a laptop for months, so I would go to the New York Public Library to use their public use computers to work on Case during the daily half hour increments that were allowed at the time. I currently have a mostly working laptop and a fairly healthy wrist, which is a great improvement!

Here I am at my desk, repping the NYPL on my mug. I know it looks messy under my desk, but I promise all of those art supplies are neatly stacked!

I started this blog as a young baby artist who wanted to open up a world to people who might not otherwise have a chance to learn from some of the greatest living artists of all time. I never went to art school (I found it unaffordable), and knew there were plenty of folks out there like me who might not be able to go to classes, but who certainly deserved to hear from some of the top professionals in their field. Since I had known many New Yorker cartoonists for a couple of years at that point, I figured why not see if they will help me out? And, well... they did!

Doing this blog is a LOT of work, but it has been thrilling to hear many many young people (several of which that I have interviewed on here!) say that they learned a lot from reading it.

I don't put myself on here very often, so I thought I might take the time to talk about some of my more recent art projects. Above are some of my watercolor portraits. I have been working hard on trying to achieve more luminosity in skin and watercolors are a beautiful tool for achieving that. The key is lots of layers and lots of patience!

To the left is a recent painting I did of some ruins. Again, my goal is create light. The painting to the right is a pet portrait that I did a couple months back.

I've been learning lots of new crafts. To the left is a bird house that I painted using the cheapest acrylics possible. Usually with art supplies, cheaping out is disastrous, but for some reason, 80 cent acrylics seem to be working out for me? If you are an acrylics artist, please feel free to tell me why I'm wrong to use them. I also have been having fun with decoupage (photo on the right), which is basically using special tools to glue fancy tissue paper etc. onto various objects (I've slowed down on this a bit because I've run out of things to cover in decorative paper).

I've been having a lot of fun making decorative objects—I feel that it is important to make beautiful things for yourself when you're an artist. Having pretty things doesn't have to be expensive if you make them yourself, and they become keepsake items. I made this little gingerbread garland pictured above by cutting out felt and frosting it with fabric paint.

I've also been having lots of fun with sewing. This is a two piece set that I made recently. It's really fun to be able to think of something I would like to wear, and make it! Sewing is a different kind of art for me—with painting, I am in a strange incoherent state. But with sewing, I am following all sorts of instructions, and thinking about it in a far less abstract way. It's definitely a different usage of my brain, which has made it a fun challenge.

I hope you all are doing well, and learning new ways to make art! I appreciate all of the support over the years, and hope to continue this blog for quite a while longer. Thanks for reading!

You can find my Instagram here, my website here, and Twitter here!

------

If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute to labor and maintenance costs, there is a Patreon, and if you’d like to buy me a cup of coffee, there is a Ko-Fi  account as well! I do this blog for free because accessible arts education is important to me, and your support helps a lot! You can also find more posts about art supplies on Case’s Instagram and Twitter! Thank you!

[kharti]

[ Tears of Pearls #5 ]

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After an entire life spent around people who loved to drink, Izzy was a master at faking it.

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After an entire life spent around people who loved to drink, Izzy was a master at faking it.

He knew how to lift a bottle or glass to his lips and tip it convincingly without taking a sip. He could take the smallest amount into his mouth and swallow it so his throat would convincingly bob when attention was on him. He kept an eye out for every opportunity to pour some of it onto the floor while his drinking companions were distracted.

He hated feeling drunk almost as much as he hated hangovers, and both of them paled in comparison to how much he loathed the vulnerable state he fell into with too much alcohol in his blood.

Evelyn had been an exception, and now he regretted giving her that honor.

This Doug twat was freely drinking, no hesitation as he lulled himself into a pliable state of mind for Izzy to interrogate.

“It’s good wine, yeah?” Doug said with a laugh. “Evie always has the best.”

Izzy let his glass rest against his lips as he asked, quietly, “And how long have you known her?”

“Personally, or in general?” Doug laughed again. “Everyone knows her. She wouldn’t have it any other way, I think. After all, she’s the woman who lost her eye to the jaguar her husband—one of them, ah, her second, perhaps? The jaguar one of her husbands bought. And then he was eaten by the very same jaguar.”

Izzy’s whole body went tense. “A jaguar?”

Doug smiled. “Yes! Ned. Delightful little guy. Absolutely harmless, in my experience.” His lips twitched into a grin he tried to smother. “Must have particularly disliked the man.”

“Must have.” Izzy snorted in spite of himself. He waited for his own mood to settle before he continued, “And you, personally?”

“Hmm?” Doug glanced up at him, then smiled. “I didn’t know him very well myself.”

Izzy rolled his eyes. “No, you twat, how long have you known her personally.”

A bubble of a laugh escaped Doug before he took a quick sip and relaxed into his seat, smacking his lips in thought. “Just shy of ten years now, I think? She commissioned me for a nude portrait, but it was a ruse, sort of.”

Izzy’s grip tightened on his glass. “A ruse?”

“More of a test,” Doug quickly amended. “To see if I could separate nudity from nakedness.”

The grip loosened. “There’s a difference?”

“Yes! Especially as an artist who takes commissions to paint clients in the nude.” Doug idly tapped his fingers, rhythmless or a tune Izzy didn’t know. “It’s extremely unprofessional to mix the two up while trying to work.”

Izzy leaned in with his elbows resting on his knees, trying to get a closer look at Doug’s face as he spoke.

“So she hired me, and when I came to start the initial sketch, she answered the door completely naked.” Doug laughed, his eyes flicking up toward the ceiling as he reminisced. “Throughout each session, she would tease herself while I worked.”

“Why?” Izzy frowned.

“To test my resolve, I think?” Doug’s gaze returned to Izzy’s, and it was warm and open and almost frighteningly sincere. “Sometimes, I’m asked to help vulnerable people who need patience in opening up. She very well can’t rely on someone who’s going to pop wood and make them feel unsafe.”

Izzy hated the fact that he was actually relaxing the more Doug spoke. He’d wanted to pry out the truth, and if that was really what he was getting, it seemed—too good.

“So! That is, well, the gist.” Doug spread his fingers in a playful gesture. “Nothing nefarious or seedy.”

Izzy went quiet as he let the words simmer in his skull, let them be turned over and over until he thought he found the flaw.

“What do you get out of it?” he asked, his tone low and implying every accusation he could fit into those few words.

Doug’s eyes fell, and Izzy started to brace himself to launch the attack.

“I wish I could say my motivation is as selfless as Evelyn’s.”

Finally. The fucking truth. Izzy allowed himself a small sip of wine in victory, to warm his insides before fire took its place.

“But the truth is—” Doug paused, and his lips twitched into a small, almost meek smile. “I’m rather ordinary. I’ve been told I’m so-so at best, and I consider that a very nice way to put boring.”

That halted every thought Izzy had, and instead, he just stared in mild confusion.

“Helping the people Evelyn takes in, I…” Doug laughed quietly, a huff under his breath. “I get to feel desirable for a little bit. Whether I’m taken or taking or just holding someone who needs a good cry safe in my arms, I feel wanted, and there’s few things more satisfying than that.”

“Fuck,” Izzy spat out, almost literally if his mouth hadn’t gone dry. “Oh, fuck you.”

Doug jolted upright. “I’m sorry?”

Then Izzy snorted. He brought a hand to his mouth to smother his laugh before it escaped, eyes clenching shut to drown out the vision of the man who he suddenly understood on a deeper level than he believed possible.

He was the last person in this fucking miserable world who’d judge another for wanting to be wanted.

Gods above and below, he understood that feeling too well for words.

Then he pulled his hand away so he could down his neglected glass of wine and tipped the empty glass toward Doug for a refill, looking at the startled man with a weak grin of his own.

“Do you know what I want?” Izzy asked, and his voice sounded like rough sand ground under a boot even to himself. “Did she tell you?”

Doug didn’t break eye contact with him while he shook his head and poured wine into Izzy’s glass.

“To be fucking wanted.” Izzy’s voice cracked.

That softened Doug’s face, and he said quietly, “I can tell you from personal experience that nothing here will compare to the real thing when it finally happens.” A ghost of a smile moved across his lips before it vanished. “But it helps for a little while, so I would like to make you feel as wanted as you’ll let me.”

Izzy gulped his wine down and chased it with a hard swallow that kept the unexpected tears just barely at bay.

“Okay,” he said in a voice too weak for him to recognize. “Please.”

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📚 view a list of all my current stories!

[helloalycia]

The Wrong Lifetime – Six // Wanda Maximoff

chapter five | story masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad | chapter seven

author’s note: i’m glad you all seemed to like the last chapter! i’m all for slow burn but i didn’t want to leave you hanging too long aha. Now onto dating territory!

Since going to Blackpool with Wanda, we hadn't actually gotten another moment to ourselves. Wedding plans were picking up which kept her busy, and if not that, then I'd only see her in passing in which we'd exchange smiles before moving on.

So, I though it would be good to take her out on a date. A proper one, even if it was to be disguised as a simple outing between soon-to-be sister-in-laws. The plan was to 'bump' into her in town, which we did, then I asked her if she wanted to go to the art gallery. She'd been before, but they'd put in a new exhibition which I thought she might like.

We couldn't exactly hold hands when there, but I made the most of her presence and stood a little too close to her than a friend might. Since she'd kissed me at the beach, I wasn't able to think about anything else. And when shot me a knowing smile, I knew she felt the same.

"I like this one," I told her, pointing to a piece hung on the wall, before squinting to read the plaque. "Jedburgh Abbey from the River by Thomas Girtin."

"And why's that?" she asked, watching me with humoured eyes.

I pursed my lips, glancing between her and the painting sheepishly. "I'm not gonna lie, I just like the way the guy painted the clouds in the sky."

She stifled laughter, not wanting to draw attention from passers-by, and nudged me in the shoulder. "You're unbelievable, milaya (darling). We didn't have to come here if you don't like art."

I gave her a knowing look. "Hey, I love art. Especially when it's by a certain Sokovian artist named Wanda Maximoff."

Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. I grinned at her bashfulness, wanting to tease her but also very true with my words. Her work was my favourite, biased or not, and I still had that amazing portrait she'd done of me in my room back home. It was tucked into one of my drawers where nobody would find it. I didn't want anyone else to look at it since she'd done it for me and it was private... it was a beautiful reminder of the amazing day we'd had.

"You're poking fun, but in all seriousness, I'd actually love for my work to be up here someday," she said softly, looking at the painting before us with hopeful eyes. 

"They wish they were that lucky to score someone as talented as you," I said without skipping a beat.

She cracked a smile, tilting her head in my direction. It was obvious she was losing her patience with me, but I enjoyed watching her lose it. She didn't know what to say, especially when being complimented, and it was endearing to witness.

We remained civil for the remainder of the 'date', refraining from holding hands or gazing at each other longer than friends would, and I was pretty proud of myself for not thinking about kissing her once when we were done.

As we got into the carriage to go back home, the door closed and I was going to ask her how she found it when she moved towards me in an instant, kissing me without question. I raised my hand, caressing her jaw and closing my eyes as she leaned forward, practically on my lap, not that I cared. She sucked on my bottom lip sensually before she opened her mouth, pushing her tongue into mine. I almost forgot how to breathe as she did, unprepared for such an intense kiss.

"I've been wanting to do that all day," she revealed when she pulled away.

I flushed at the contact, a dazed smile on my lips. "Huh."

She chuckled as she sat back beside me more 'appropriately'. "Thanks for taking me. I loved it."

I nodded lamely, still trying to recover from our kiss. "I'm– I'm glad."

She smirked playfully, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to my lips before sitting back. "You're so cute."

My words still hadn't returned, so all I could do was nod before looking the other way. Her laughter filled the carriage and I wondered how I'd gotten so lucky to be in the presence of someone so perfect.

After exchanging some more kisses and actually being able to hold hands without prying eyes, we reached Wanda's home and she invited me in for some tea. Sadly, that meant we had to let go of one another, but I think she'd given me enough to remember her by as we parted, and she must have thought the same, judging from the smirk she sent my way.

We sat on the patio outside to have some tea and biscuits, enjoying the sunshine and blue skies, a rare occurrence for England. We were chatting mindlessly when her brother decided to make an appearance, helping himself to a seat between Wanda and I.

"How lovely of you to grace us with your presence, Miss Y/L/N," he said playfully, shooting me a charming smile, before reaching to grab a biscuit. Wanda slapped his hand but he stole one anyway, making her roll her eyes.

"Nice to see you, Pietro," I greeted with amusement, always enjoying his presence.

"And you," he returned, before chowing down his biscuit.

Wanda gave me a fed up look over his shoulder which he was oblivious to, and I tried not to laugh as she clearly wasn't a fan of him interrupting our time.

"So, I caught a glimpse of the wedding invitations," Pietro said, making conversation. He glanced between us with a nod of approval. "They're coming along well."

I hummed in agreement, smile becoming less real when he mentioned the wedding. Wanda didn't acknowledge his words as she fiddled with the handle of her teacup.

"Is your brother behaving, Y/N?" Pietro continued jokingly, looking to me. "I know how many admirers he has, but my sister should be his first priority."

"Oh, Piet...," Wanda breathed out with embarrassment, facepalming.

"Of course he is," I assured her brother with a small smile. "He wouldn't dare try hurting Wanda or he'd have a lot of explaining to do."

There was some playfulness in my voice, but an underlying truth to my words.

"It's sweet how close you've gotten," Pietro noticed, looking between us, before settling his gaze on me. "It's about time Wanda made friends with people who aren't me."

Cue another slap. I chuckled at her sheepish expression, amused by Pietro's antics.

"Anyway," he changed the subject for his sister's sake, "mother has been getting on my very nerve about finding a bride because you decided to get married."

Wanda rolled her eyes. "We both know I didn't decide, Piet."

He sighed over-dramatically. "Well, it's because of your engagement that she's now on my back about it."

"Join the club," I joked, knowing exactly what he meant. "My mum was already on my back about finding a husband, but since this engagement, it's ten times more annoying."

Pietro laughed. "Oh, no. Has she lined up suitors? My parents like to point out every pretty woman they see to me in hopes I'll make a move. It's hardly productive."

"I haven't asked her for fear she'll pull out a folder with all of the eligible bachelors in town," I said, half joking and half serious.

Pietro snickered as Wanda rolled her eyes in the background. She should have been happy I was getting along with her brother. He was actually quite entertaining to be around.

"It's funny you say that because you're one of the women my parents pointed out," he admitted.

"Oh, God, so they're saying the same thing to you?" I asked with a groan, and he nodded regretfully. "Isn't it just the worst?"

"You're a lovely girl, Y/N, don't get me wrong," he began gently, "but I don't like you like that."

I raised my hand for a high five. "Me and you both."

Laughing once again, he returned my high five and I was glad we were on the same page. The amount of people that had been hinting at getting to know Wanda Maximoff's very single brother was getting pretty annoying. It was nice to know he was just as irritated at the insinuation as I was.

"Okay, I should leave you both to it," Pietro concluded, slapping his knees and standing up. Looking to me, he said, "Miss Y/L/N, it was as lovely as ever to make your acquaintance."

I smiled as he winked playfully before looking to his disgruntled sister.

"Dear sister, the pleasure is always mine," he continued to tease, and she slapped him once more, making him dodge her and begin to leave. "Love you, too!" he called before heading back inside.

I laughed at his silliness and relaxed in my seat, looking back to Wanda. She didn't seem half as amused as I was as she drummed her fingers on the table and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"I may be mistaken, love, but it looks like you're jealous," I poked fun at her.

She rolled her eyes and her jaw tensed before she finally looked to me, expression softening. "Can you blame me?" she asked quietly. "You're both single. You're both similar age. Everybody talks."

I shrugged nonchalantly, having a sip of my tea. "True... but I've got my eye on another Maximoff anyway."

She sighed, small smile creeping on her lips. Subtly moving my chair closer to hers, I grabbed her hand under the table and squeezed. My thumb stroked her hand softly as I leaned on the palm of my hand on the table.

"You look really beautiful today," I admitted in a hushed voice. "I should have told you earlier."

She, too, leaned into the palm of her hand as she watched me with an enchanting gaze. "So do you, milaya (darling)."

Unable to resist, I glanced around quickly before kissing her cheek and pulling away. Letting go of her hand, I busied myself with the tea and biscuits again.

"Biscuit?" I offered her, and she began to laugh at my attempt at acting casual.

Playing along, she accepted the biscuit from my hand. But a knowing smile was on her lips as she nodded. "Thank you."

—

Being with Wanda was a luxury in itself, even if we had to keep it private.

To everybody else, we were merely two women about to become family who happened to create a bond that was close. But we both knew what it really was and weren't eager to say it. Because saying it made it true and that meant that what we were doing became realer than it was in our daydreams and hidden moments.

I did find myself wracked with guilt sometimes – particularly the times when Y/B/N would gush about how excited he was to marry her. Wanda was technically cheating on him with me, his sister, but that fact was something that was still blurry to me.

We had no choice but to lie and be secretive. In a world like this, where we would never be able to be together like we wanted to, all we had was secrecy and deception. Did that still make us bad people?

I tried not to think about what would happen when she actually married my brother. The future was something I was adamant on pushing to the back of my mind because I knew what it would hold and I just wanted to enjoy the time I had with her. Convincing myself that what we had wasn't serious, just a heat of the moment relationship maybe, made things easier to accept. But really, I knew that whenever she looked my way with her signature smile and dazzling eyes, it was way more than I envisioned. She was way more.

So, trying not to be dragged down with the weight of reality, I vowed to myself to only focus on the now. Focus on the moments I shared with her whilst we could. Anything beyond that and I'd surely snap.

"Medovyy (honey), the Y/L/Ns are here!" Iryna called behind her, before looking to my family and I as we stood at her front door. "Please, all of you, come in!"

She ushered us into the main hall before closing the door after us. Perfectly timed, the rest of her family left the living room and came to greet us.

Automatically, my eyes found Wanda's and she was already looking my way, her dimple making a show as she attempted to reign in an excited smile. I did the same, trying to ignore the way my heart stirred upon seeing her.

Oleg and Iryna welcomed my parents and then me, kind expressions accompanying genuine greetings. In the corner of my eye, I saw Pietro shaking Y/B/N's hand before Wanda took his place, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Y/B/N. It wasn't jealousy that I felt whenever they were together, at least not entirely – they were to be married, what more could I expect? – but it wasn't anything pleasant either.

"Ah, my favourite Y/L/N," Pietro beamed upon shaking my hand, making my lips twitch upwards. "You excited for dinner? We're having salmon."

"Ecstatic, Pietro," I answered with a playful eye roll. "All I've been thinking all day."

He chuckled at my sarcasm before letting go of my hand and moving over to greet my parents. Wanda was next, her shoulders relaxing when she stepped before me with a soft smile present on her lips.

"It's good to see you," she said, but her eyes said much more than that. "How have you been?"

Exchanging a friendly-looking hug, my body was warm where she pressed against me. Touching her always sent a rush of emotion through me and I looked forward to it every time.

"I've been good," I answered aloud, before whispering into her ear, "Better now."

She squeezed my waist inconspicuously in response before letting go. "That's good. You know, we've got time before dinner and I wanted to show you the painting I've been working on lately. Wanna see?"

I glanced at my parents and hers for permission, knowing they'd heard her question.

"Just try not to take too long since dinner will be on the table soon," Iryna said with a nod. "It's so good to see you girls getting along."

Breathing out slightly, I smiled gratefully before letting Wanda intertwine our fingers and drag me up the staircase. She led me past several doors before we finally reached hers and she tugged me inside.

As soon as the door closed, she was quick to connect our lips in a heated, desperate kiss. I relaxed against her instantly, my hands falling to her side and pulling her closer. Her fingernails gently scratched the sensitive skin behind my neck, giving me goosebumps, and I let out an involuntary gasp at the feeling.

When we pulled away for a breath, her nose brushed against mine and she pressed a final kiss to my lips, slower and more tasteful compared to the first, before smiling at me.

"I missed you," she said, as if reading my mind.

A breathy laugh escaped my lips. "It's only been a week since we last saw each other, love."

She shrugged, arms laced around my neck. "A week too long."

Raising a brow judgementally, I gave her a knowing look. She wasn't embarrassed in the slightest as her half-lidded eyes met mine with a confident smirk.

"Did you just pull me up here to have a quick snog?" I teased her.

"Well, yes," she said, making me laugh again, before adding, "And I wanted to ask you if you'll go to the park with me tomorrow. A picnic. If you want."

She bit her lip anxiously, eyes darting elsewhere as she waited for an answer. I always found it amusing how she could be so confident one second and then so innocently adorable the next.

"Wanda, I'd love to." My thumb rubbed circles on her waist as I kept ahold of her. "I hear it's supposed to be nice weather tomorrow, too."

She pursed her lips. "Even if it rained, I'd still drag you to the park with me."

"Somehow, I feel like that's true," I countered with a ghost of a smile on my lips. She tried to hide her own smile and I continued, "Was there an actual painting you wanted to show me or...?"

Breathing out with amusement, she intertwined our fingers and pulled me to the back of her room where her 'studio' was. Since the last time I'd visited, there were plenty of new additions to her work, all as wonderful as the next.

"This one is from the beach at Blackpool," she said, stopping before a medium-sized canvas depicting the horizon. "When we sat on the bench. Just before I kissed you."

My heart fluttered at the memory and I studied the canvas, recalling it looked similar to her watercolour painting of the same view. She'd done a spectacular replica in oil paints, reminiscent of the trip we took.

"You should already know what I'm going to say," I said, looking to her knowingly. "But just so you can hear it again, I absolutely love this. You're so talented."

She rolled her eyes to distract from the pink spreading across her cheeks. "Thank you... and again, thank you for taking me. Seeing an actual water source upfront really helped me refine my paintings. It feels so much more real now."

I looked back to the painting, noticing what she meant. Either way, I loved both versions of her work, before and after going to the beach.

"You did good, love."

She squeezed my hand gently before sighing quietly with realisation. "We should probably go back down."

"We should," I agreed, glancing at her. "Thanks for showing me these."

She cracked a smile, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip. "Always."

Reluctantly, the two of us returned downstairs and joined the others as they were settling at the dining table. Wanda and I sat side by side, and this time when her fingers brushed mine, I made no move to pull away.

The meal was good, but as usual, I found myself zoning out. The conversation made its rounds, falling to me as the Maximoffs wanted to know how I was doing, then moved on, giving me chance to focus on eating my dinner and getting through the evening. I knew that at one point, everybody was talking about some play that was showing in the theatres.

Bits of the conversation were going in one ear and out the other and I was minding my own business until Wanda's bare foot rubbed against my leg under the table. The sensation of her skin against mine made my knee bounce up and hit the table with surprise, earning everyone's attention.

"Are you okay, dear?" Oleg asked, noticing my discomfort.

I cleared my throat, straightening up and ignoring the stifled smile Wanda had in my peripheral vision.

"I'm good, sorry about that," I apologised awkwardly, shivering when she dragged her foot back down my leg. "You were talking about the play, right?"

That seemed to distract them, as they leapt right back into conversation, giving me a chance to breathe out with relief. I looked to Wanda, watching her lean on her palm and hide a smirk as she stared at me with mischievous eyes.

Glaring and nudging her in the arm subtly, I looked back to my food, but she didn't move her foot, nor her hand. Both brushed my against me, starting a fire on my skin and making me swallow hard. She kept like that for the whole evening, making my head dizzy and leaving me at a loss for words.

And when I looked her way, she was already staring, definitely knowing the effect she had on me.

—

"I just need to find my shoes and we can go," I told Wanda the next morning, before our date at the park.

She'd come to pick me up at my house and was hanging around my room as I finished getting ready. From her place at my desk, she hummed in acknowledgment before distracting herself with my notebooks.

"I see you're making great use of the notebook I picked out for you," she commented, and I glanced towards her mid-search for my shoes, seeing she was flicking through the already-filled book.

"I have a lot of ideas, what can I say?" I joked, before looking under the pile of clothes near my wardrobe.

She chuckled, before falling quiet again. I wasn't really paying attention to what she was doing until she spoke up after a few minutes.

"Y/N, your writing is beautiful," she said, making me look her way to see an amazed smile on her lips. "I didn't know you could write like this. I mean– I should have because you helped write that letter Y/B/N gave to me, but this..."

I shrugged awkwardly, distracting myself with my search again. "It's okay, I guess."

She exhaled mockingly. "Okay? Y/N, this is miles better than okay. Why didn't you show me this sooner?"

I smiled satisfactorily as I finally located my shoes. Grabbing them, I approached Wanda and took a seat on the edge of my bed, opposite her seat at my desk.

"Because it'll never be anything more than what you're looking at?" I said rhetorically. "It'll only ever be words confined to pages that nobody will see?"

She gave me a knowing look. "I think you forget that my brother is a publisher, dorogoy (dear)."

"And I think you forget that he is the publisher to my brother, dear," I retorted playfully.

She sighed, shaking her head and putting the notebook back on my desk. "You know Pietro would love this, right? He'd sign you in a heartbeat."

I snickered at the ludicrous thought. "Wanda, you're a little biased, love."

She rolled her eyes. "Writers write for audiences. I am an audience. I consume literature. And I'm telling you that it's not just me who would read what you have to write."

I tried not to laugh as I pulled my shoes onto my feet.

"Are you really telling me that you'd never want to get published?" she asked with a raised brow.

My heart ached at the thought of such a fantasy. "Of course I would, Wanda." I met her eyes, which were already peering across from me patiently. "I've dreamed of that. But it's just not what's to happen. My family have told me that many times. In another lifetime, maybe."

She pursed her lips, studying me thoughtfully. I offered her a smile and stood up, holding out my hand.

"Forget that," I told her. "I believe you promised me a picnic."

Thankfully, she dropped the subject and accepted my hand, letting me pull her up. The topic wasn't brought up again and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

We went to the park like she wanted and she brought a picnic basket with her, having packed a lovely variety of finger foods and snacks.

As she was unpacking the food onto the blanket, I narrowed my eyes at her. "You know, now that we're finally alone, I can say how unfair it was of you to do what you did last night."

She played dumb, shrugging, focusing on neatening up the sandwiches on a plate. "I don't know what you mean, milaya (darling)."

"Huh. Sure you don't."

Giggles flew from her lips as she glanced at me through her eyelashes. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. I just love seeing you squirm. You get all tense and it's so cute."

I pursed my lips. "I figured. You've been watching me squirm since we met."

She grinned knowingly before straightening up. "Okay, I made sandwiches and there's also some coleslaw, fruit, cheese... I made some Sokovian dishes, too, if you want to try them. Okroshka – it's like a cold soup. Then there's this olivye salad. It's... well, salad."

I smiled at the thought she put into it all and grabbed her hand between us. We'd set the picnic out behind a tree so we wouldn't have curious eyes watching us. It didn't look like we were overtly hiding, but we still got our privacy, too.

"It all looks great, Wanda," I said with appreciation. "I can't wait to try it."

She squeezed my hand in response before letting go to grab some paper plates. After popping a strawberry in her mouth, she asked, "Do you just want a bit of everything?"

I leaned on the back of my hands as I hummed a 'yes'. She began to put me some food in and I watched her, admiring the sight.

Her hair was half-pulled back today, falling in waves down her back and exposing her perfectly sculpted jawline. Everything about her was perfect – the way she moved was elegant and graceful, even when her hair fell over her shoulder and in her way; she simply moved it back with a flick of her hand and resumed what she was doing. The sun caught her immaculately, her hair glowing bright under the light and her eyes magnificently green as they focused.

As always, she took my breath away.

"Here," she said, holding out the plate towards me and pulling me from my reverie.

I accepted the plate and fork, returning her smile, before she watching as she began to make another plate for herself.

"You sure this is fancy enough for you?" I asked jokingly, stabbing my fork into a carrot. "I heard you and my brother went to a very luxurious restaurant the other night."

She met my eyes, holding amusement in her own. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you, milaya (darling)."

I kissed my teeth and rolled my eyes. "I'm not jealous, I just– it's so annoying listening to him talk about how beautiful you are or how funny you are or how kind you are."

"Oh, so you don't think I'm any of those things?" she teased, trying to get a rise out of me.

I titled my head towards her. "Of course I know you're all those things. But it doesn't mean I like hearing him talk about it constantly..."

Clearly amused, she erupted into laughter and I felt my face heating up with embarrassment. I know it sounded like I was whining, but it was true. Sometimes, I wasn't envious of my brother but rather at the fact that he could actually take Wanda out properly. He could be seen with her in public and hold her hand without fear of getting looks or disowned. He had the privilege of being with her and it wasn't fair.

"You may hear him talk about it, but there's one thing I can assure you that you get that he doesn't," she said when recovering from her laughter.

I stared at her with an exasperated sigh. "And what's that?"

She smiled confidently, glancing around quickly, before leaning forward and kissing me softly. As quickly as it came, it disappeared, leaving me desiring more.

Licking my lips, I couldn't tear my eyes from hers. "You know, you're a really good kisser."

She chuckled at my reaction and I found myself leaning in again, entranced by the way she tasted. Putting my plate to the side, I raised a hand to pull her closer, getting better access to her mouth.

She tasted sweet like the strawberry she'd just eaten and I swiped my tongue across her lip, indicating I wanted her to part her them. She did, allowing me to slip my tongue in and wrestle with hers, revelling in the way she tasted. My heart was thumping loudly in my chest as she let out a moan, it reverberating in my mouth and giving me goosebumps.

When lack of oxygen became an issue, she pulled away breathlessly, flushed cheeks adorned with a smile.

"As lovely as that was, I actually want to eat what I made," she ridiculed playfully.

"Yes, we will," I assured her, my hand moving from her neck up to her jaw. My thumb touched her lips, outlining them tenderly, subconsciously committing them to memory. "We'll get back to it."

She wanted to laugh, but I moved forward and caught her bottom lip between mine, unable to stay away. It was wrong, the rush I felt in my gut and the warmth that spread all over my body and the tingles that travelled down my spine. Because I knew what it all meant, but admitting it was a different story. So, I didn't.

I just continued to kiss the girl before me, knowing I could have kissed her forever and not regretted a single thing.

[gothhisoka]

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 (𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔 𝖝 𝕱𝖊𝖒𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗)

Title: Worship

Pairing: Chrollo x Femreader

Warnings: Smut, minors DNI, 18+, explicit content

Word Count: 3116 (I promise it is worth it. Oh god is it worth it)

Note: This is from my cross-published fanfic called Hunter University! It is available if you click here on Wattpad and AO3. My fanfic is x OC, but I upload x Reader versions of some chapters here on Tumblr. In short, it is a dark academia college AU with Chrollo as the main love interest.

Background: You are an artist in college and Chrollo is your fellow classmate. You just returned from a night out at a ball, drunk. Chrollo appeared at the door to your dorm room as he promised he would after you danced with one another at the ball.

Chrollo was surprised you looked so intact. He was sure you would come waddling to the door in pajamas as you did the last time he visited your room. Although it had been an hour since the ball ended, your makeup hadn't smudged a bit. Sure, it was faded, and your hair was significantly messier, but overall you looked as remarkable as you did at the start of the ball.

Your tired eyes widened with surprise at the sight of him. He was just as unimpaired as you were. Though now he was missing his suit jacket. His hair had become slightly disheveled, losing its styled waves. He still had on those signature silver rings and little cross earrings.

You attempt to soak in his sight with your intoxicated brain. He looked even more captivating in this particular state.

“Hi…” was all you could utter.

“Can I come in?”

You realized he was waiting for your permission. He didn’t need it.

You stepped aside to let him in and shut the door. Your room was the same as the last time he saw it, with your drawings hung on the walls and lights strung above the desk. Their small bulbs reflected against the night-stained window.

Upon shutting the door, the tension noticeably rose. It was dark in the small space and you were alone. Chrollo took his black dress shoes off near the door, placing them neatly side by side.

So he plans on staying. You tried to hide a smile. The hour of his visit was surely suspicious. There could be only one thing on his mind.

"So what're you doing here?" you spoke nonchalantly, acting like you didn't just fantasize about what could happen in the next few minutes.

Chrollo opened and shut his mouth, his response escaping him. He turned back to you and used his eyes to convey a craving far deeper than any words could admit.

"I said I would come to find you, didn't I?" He said lowly.

He had begun to walk around the room, absentmindedly stopping at a piece of art from time to time. You were too tired to care. The collection included nature scenes, portraits of people he didn't recognize, anatomy studies, and...

He paused, noticing a drawing on the wall behind the place where the door would otherwise be covering.

It was a full-body anatomy study of yourself. To be specific, it would fit further in the category of a glorified nude. It was on a miniature piece of parchment sketched in charcoal. It was obviously you: the woman had your (hair color) hair and distinct mouth and nose. The paper was hardly noticeable amongst the scatter of papers. You wouldn't see it unless you had a careful eye such as that of Chrollo.

You hardly noticed when he reached the particular spot on your wall. Your tiredness had waned significantly with Chrollo's entrance, but it still fogged your mind.

Additionally, you had long forgotten about your secret behind-the-door location for your drawings that were not meant to be seen by a single soul.

Chrollo attempted to hide a mysterious smile. He turned to you, “You draw wonderfully.”

“Thanks?” you reply, with more question in your tone than you hoped to show.

The heat in the room shot through the roof. You were sure if you checked the temperature it would be well above its normal chilly state. Perhaps it was the heat in your cheeks that was causing such a change.

“So…” he began.

“So,” you replied, trying to avoid eye contact. Please, just let it happen already.

You thought you had a good idea of why he had come to your room at one o'clock in the morning after a night of drinking and questionably close dancing. You couldn't be certain, though, because that was just how he was: unpredictable and exceedingly complicated.

You didn’t think him so complicated as to not be able to admit why he was at your room, though.

You waited as he thought about what to say next. This is taking too damn long.

Luckily, you prepared an excuse. You never failed to come ready for something you could expect. And this, the direction in which your encounter is headed, is inevitable. You had been rehearsing the line in your head for the duration of their conversation like reviewing terms for a test.

This was the only way to test if your assumptions are correct.

Blame it on the champagne if I am wrong. But I really hope I'm right.

You look directly at him. Time to be daring.

You took a breath and did your best to look directly at him, "Well, I actually do need some help. You see, this dress is quite difficult to take off by myself..."

Walking towards him, you place a hand at the hem of your dress. Your delicate fingers wrap around its lacy fabric.

Chrollo looked amused. He sizes you up, looking from your hand holding the hem of your dress to your unfazed expression. Unfazed, yet your cheeks were slowly turning a shade of scarlet. Nice try, Chrollo thought.

He gestured, "Turn around."

You obeyed. You desired something far more than the unzipping of your dress, but you were not presumptuous enough to say it. The expression on Chrollo's face told you that he was hoping for the same thing. He hid many emotions well, but being turned on wasn't one of them.

Chrollo brushed your hair away from the zipper, delicately placing it over your shoulder. His fingers purposefully grazed your back as he did this, causing your breath to hitch slightly.

His hands moved to the zipper, carefully pulling it down. It went past the clasp of your bra to your lower back. There was complete silence. Both of you were still. Are we still hesitating?

Chrollo was the first to move. He pulled you close to him so that your back was touching him. His left arm wrapped across your chest possessively, holding you in a tight embrace. With his other hand, he brushed your hair back from your ear. He smelt of sweet alcohol. Clearly, he was slightly drunk as well, for the next words he said couldn't be uttered by a sober man.

His whispered breath tickled your neck, husky with the threat of sleep, "I want you so bad right now."

You tensed with a sudden surge of desire. Your impression had been right. He let his strong arm remain around you, patiently waiting for a response.

You choked out your reply, "The feelings' mutual."

Under his touch, your streak of audacity from earlier dissolved into compliance. You suddenly wanted nothing more than to submit to his words.

With complete control, Chrollo took your shoulder and turned you around. Your dress was now loose on your shoulders. He placed his hands around your hips firmly. He looked at you under his thick eyelashes and slowly leaned in. The pressure was growing to an unbearable level, but he still wouldn't go all the way.

Then his lips crashed against yours with the force of weeks of pent-up desire. This kiss didn't speak of courtesy, of patience. This was raw passion. It was furious and messy. you preferred this to sensitive steps around the intensity they both craved.

"You must still be drunk," you said playfully as you both pulled away to catch your breath. You held your hand to Chrollo's chest. His heart was beating surprisingly fast.

"If I'm drunk, then what are you?" Chrollo said with a lazy smirk.

"I'm drunk as well."

Chrollo threaded his hands through your hair, pulling the long strands through his fingers. He pulled you in close again with his hand at the back of your head.

You opened your mouth to allow for Chrollo's tongue to slip in. He lessened the intensity and slowly moved his tongue against your own tongue and lips. You couldn't help but let out soft moans that made Chrollo weak at the knees.

He pushed you against the wall to deepen your kiss. Drawings fluttered down, becoming detached with the sudden movement. Including that drawing.

Chrollo pulled away, much to your shock. You were left panting with reddened cheeks. Please don't let this end now.

He displayed a shit-eating grin. Even with his ego, in the current moment, his expression made you melt. His face was inches from yours, looking down into your (eye color) eyes.

He shifted his gaze down to the floor and said, "Nice drawing you have there."

You finally noticed what he had been so smug about. Shit. Your face flushed ten different shades of scarlet.

Chrollo leaned in as he did before and murmured in your ear, "I wish I could see the real thing."

You failed to not show your excitement. The way your eyes lit up exposed you. "I can arrange that."

At that, Chrollo leaned in again, this time moving to your neck. His lips fluttered down your throat to your collarbone. You leaned your head back and tried to control your uneven breath.

His lips reached the edge of the neckline on your dress. He raised his eyes to meet yours, asking for permission to go further.

You let out a breathy, "Yes. Please."

What you wanted to say was, Please, take me now.

It could be too soon for him. But based on how this was going, you expected it was leading to something more. Whatever that was, you wished you could know right now. The growing tension between your thighs began to ache.

Chrollo slipped his hand across your skin to the hemline of your dress, moving it completely off of your shoulder and down your arms. Your black see-through bra was now in full view. Your nipples grew hard at the sudden exposure.

At least I went with my fancy bra. You suddenly grew very shy. The last time you went even this far was years ago.

He evidently liked the lingerie for his hands immediately traveled to your breast to caress it as he continued to kiss you.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against your neck. Your heart fluttered at his words.

Chrollo then moved his lips progressively further down as he slipped your dress off of your body. Soon your underwear came into view, then your feet. He helped your step out of the dress.

"Your turn," you said, unbuttoning his shirt. All the while he continued to distractingly leave lazy kisses upon your face, one on your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

After an agonizingly long time, you pulled off his shirt. Fuck.

You knew he would be defined. But him, this boy standing in front of you, resembled more of a greek statue than an actual human. It looked like his body had been sculpted by the finest stone on earth. He had a six-pack, defined pectoral muscles, and prominent collarbones. His biceps flexed as he leaned his hand against the wall, bracing himself. It was you who needed to brace yourself. Your breath hitched again at the sight of him.

You ran a hand up his firm body as you planted your lips upon his once again. This time Chrollo put his hands beneath your thighs, his fingers pressing into your soft skin. He picked you up easily.

You wrapped your legs around him as he brought you to the bed, kissing him all the while.

He dropped you down gently, releasing his grip off of your thighs. You took this time to look up at him and admire the beauty of his aroused state. He had a dangerous and wild look, with tousled hair and a constant smile playing at his lips. His heavy-lidded eyes were lazily focused upon you.

You continued to make out on the bed, its white silk sheets creating an angelic halo around you. Chrollo couldn't stand looking at you like this, underneath him. It was far too much power for one man to hold.

You reached to your back to undo the clasp of your bra. You threw it to the ground. Chrollo immediately began to touch your naked tits in a way that made you want to dissolve. He moved in circles around your nipples first, watching as they grew harder under his expert touch. Then he moved his mouth to the sensitive area, playing with you and biting slightly. You audibly moaned at the gesture. Damn the neighbors.

Chrollo sensed your desire to take it further. He looked up, grey eyes filled with lust, "Y/n...let me pleasure you."

It wasn't the suggestion you were expecting, but you were satisfied nonetheless. You didn't care about anything in the world besides what he could do to you at this moment, whatever it may be.

"If you say my name like that you can do anything you want to me," you said breathily. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Chrollo smirked and moved to take off your soaking underwear. Under his pants, his dick grew visibly harder. He threw the underwear onto the floor.

Gently placing his finger at your throbbing core, he began to stroke. Upon receiving his touch your back arched involuntarily. You were beyond eager.

"Fuck... Chrollo..."

This served as encouragement for him to insert his finger deeper into you, curling it slightly. It hit your g-spot repeatedly, eliciting ungodly sounds from you.

As he was doing this, he slowly positioned himself on top of you, grabbing onto the bed frame with his spare hand. He just wanted to look at your face as you opened your mouth in delight.

He inserted one more finger which caused your arousal to heighten. God, he really knows how to do this.

Just as you felt the heat in your core escalating, he slid his finger out. You whimpered in protest.

Chrollo looked down at you with a wicked smile. "Beg for it."

Oh fuck.

You gladly would. It was more your instincts speaking than any coherent thought.

"Please... Chrollo..." you said between breaths.

You wanted to not only plead for him, you wanted to worship him.

"More."

This is what you had been missing out on all those weeks. And oh god, did you eat it up.

"FUCK please do that again," you exclaimed.

It was enough to convince him. Chrollo moved his face towards your slickened pussy.

Is he about to...

He pushed his hair back out of his face with his clean hand, his forehead tattoo revealed. For only a second, he raised his eyes to gaze into yours. You fell for him all over again at that simple glance.

Then he entered you. His tongue made you want to weep. He devoured your insides, soaking up the salty juices. You couldn't help but hold his head, pulling it closer to your body. You ran your hand through his soft black hair. There was so much heat between them that you were both perspiring.

You began to shudder." I'm going to... oh... fuck," you gasped.

You felt the sweet release of cum spread below you onto the sheets and Chrollo himself. You felt self-conscious for a moment. That is until Chrollo began to lick up your juices. He ran his tongue up your soft thighs.

"You taste so fucking good, darling."

Chrollo looked at you like he had fallen all over again as well. You grinned back at him. Your cheeks grew even redder, if possible. Your heart screamed to continue but you were too physically exhausted to move. Still, wouldn't Chrollo want his turn?

You laid there, naked and panting on the silk sheets. Chrollo flopped next to you, unaffected beside his flushed cheeks and a wide grin.

The lights were still low in the little room. Looking out the window, you saw that the sun had yet to rise. This was a positive fact because the only thing you needed to do now was to sleep. And preferably, cuddling with the boy next to you. You hoped he would stay. It was more than hope, really. Your body couldn't spend any more time away from him after that.

Damn. He was good. He was really, really fucking good.

He knew his way with words, to begin with. He said exactly what needed to be said to escalate your arousal. You wanted to worship those fingers, the way he so expertly felt around you like he had memorized a map. And his tongue was even more worthy of revere.

You flipped over to your elbows. Your breasts brushed against the bedding, noticeably making Chrollo gulp. You boldly reached to touch the front of his pants.

"You don't want a turn?" you smirked.

"This was more than enough for me."

He stared into your eyes as if he was calculating a complex math problem rather than looking at the person who just received the best head of their life.

You yawned, despite yourself. Your body ached with all the action of the night.

"Go to bed, sweetheart. I'll be here."

Those were the last words you heard before your eyes drifted shut. Exhaustion stilled your naked body. Chrollo reached over you to turn off the bedside lamp.

He wasn't nearly as tired. He could've gone for a couple more rounds, perhaps take it a step further if you so desired. But he knew you needed the sleep. Most of your makeup had rubbed off, displaying the dark circles under your eyes.

He slipped off his pants and threw them onto the floor with the rest of the clothes. He found the soft sheets and pulled them across you and himself. The bed was small but cozy. His strong chest was flush against your back.

Your (hair color) hair smelt of a summer day, like sunlight and wildflowers. He took this opportunity to feel up the rest of your glorious body. He ran his hand lightly from your shoulder to your hips, to your thighs. All of it was angelic to him.

He moved you closer with his arm, protectively wrapping it across your front. Somehow holding you like this felt far more intimate than any sexual activity. The way the moonlight graced your skin was majestic.

How had he fallen so hard, so fast? It was unlike him to act with such recklessness.

Through it all, he still had his mind. you had no way to tell the extent of his feelings. He made sure of this. His libido could act one way, that was clear from tonight. But he was an expert at controlling his outward emotions. You would never know. If you did, it would be over for him. All the planning will be for naught.

He closed his eyes before he could fall upon any more worries. He had already pondered the issue for many sleepless nights.

He fell into a dreamless slumber with you safe in his arms. You both slept soundly until the sun peeked through the window.

[brightwaterforarainyday]

TBRTI and poem pieces please?? 🤩🤲

Hiiii!!! Thank you!! The Bodys' Return to Itself is another Deadfire Pillars fic, set on The Godhammer after one of the many times Berath yanks Elehal's soul out of his body to have a Little Chat. It's kind of about bodies and the shapes of them and a kind of about Aloth being a good but very concerned boyfriend and kind of about Elehal being very tired. Some day I'll figure out how I want to end it. I will.

Poem Pieces is what it sounds like! Its where I throw all the bits and, well, pieces that might be poems or parts of poems someday or that I just think sound neat.

((this is gonna be a longer one heads up lmao))

......

“...Hey.” Aloth sighed in relief, briefly lowering his head to rest on the arm held around his knees before looking back at him. “Are you alright? What happened?” Something between worry and frustration furrowed his brow. “I found you on the floor when I came in…”

That explained how he’d gotten into bed at least. Somewhat. Elehal rolled onto his side, facing Aloth. He would have a kink in his neck later today, maybe tomorrow. It couldn’t be helped. “I’m fine.” Close enough to the truth. He’d get used to this, someday. “Really. Did you...?” He gestured loosely at the bed they were currently in.

A familiar half-smile crossed Aloth’s face. “Edér helped, a bit. You’re... heavy. What happened?” “The gods wanted a chat. Or an audience for their bickering.” He tried to shrug, managed about half of one with the shoulder he wasn’t laying on. You will mind upon whose ground you tread. My patience is not infinite, and your soul is but one breath in a hurricane that I control. He was going to have a real problem, at some point, if he kept pushing the gods this hard. Something he could deal with later. Aloth didn’t need yet another reason to worry about him.

“And... this is their idea of a polite invitation?”

“They have the decency to do it in private, at least. I really can’t be fainting in public any more than I do already.”

Aloth’s expression suggested he remained unconvinced that this was a courtesy. Little light came through the cabin’s windows. It was evening, or overcast. Elehal tried to remember if there had been clouds in the sky, earlier. There were lanterns though, two of them - no need to be frugal with lamp oil now. Their twin flames cast warm, golden light across Aloth’s face, left subtle, shimmering reflections in his hair. Elehal thought of portraits he had seen once, on a brief shore leave in the Vallian Republics. Perfectly, painstakingly rendered figures that seemed to glow from within, more beautiful even than they must have been in life.

Aloth sighed again, a tired sound, this time, a sound of resignation. He unwrapped his arm from around his knees and moved to lay down between Elehal and the cabin wall, also on his side, their faces turned towards each other, Elehal could stare into his eyes, see the glowing embers of his own reflected there. The bed hadn’t been built to accommodate two people, but Aloth was an elf, and slight of build. (And beautiful, like a man in a painting, shaped more perfectly by the artist's brush than flesh and bone should ever have been able to aspire to...)

-----------------------------------------------------

Everything turns and everything grows to be alive is to be in a state of flux any story can tell you that. We are not stationary objects a human being is not a noun it is a verb

The smoke clears and something within me Is stirring Something is waking up something in my soul stretches and remembers What it means to be awake and alive Staring through sun-silvered leaves at the wide, wild sky

[current-interest-writings]

Batboys and Batmoms Birthday

Requested: no, this is self indulgent

Started writing this on my birthday

Your birthday in the Wayne house hold was the most important next to Mother’s Day, well at least to the boys.

You wanted to simply sleep in on your birthday, have your husband home earlier.

And sleeping in was more manageable when only two kids were trying to climb into your bed and share it.

Even though most of your children are adults, you do wake up to a dog pile on your birthday. With Bruce taking some weight to his upper body because dick and Jason are on top of his shoulder.

Damien at first wouldn’t participate, now he’s glued to your side on most days. Especially on your birthday, Damien has wrapped himself around your arm and cuddled into you. He always places himself in between you and Bruce. ALWAYS

While Tim was just cuddled into your side, it comforts him and gets him to sleep so you can’t complain too much. The boy needs to sleep.

Cass was near the end of the bed, wanting to participate but also wanting her own space.

Duke was on the other side, kinda out of the pile but he had a leg in.

And this was just the start, you being the first one awake to see all of your children in your bed. Laughing a little to yourself knowing Bruce was right, you did need a custom sized bed to fit everyone. But they still piled on each other, Bruce and you.

One side of your large bed had almost no limbs on it. While the rest of it was covered.

The next part of your birthday was breakfast in bed, which did mean your children would have to wake up sadly.

In your thoughts about breakfast Alfred walked right into the room, and sighed.

“ are your children aware the other half of the bed is bare? Or that master Bruce is not a mattress topper?”

Bruce opened one eye

“Alfred it’s been over 10 years, I think they know. They just don’t care anymore”

*mumbles from kids*

“Shh we know, and we don’t care. Just let us sleep”

Alfred set the tray down. And gave you a look.

“ I’m going to starve on my birthday!!! 😱”

Cue kids shuffling closer to Bruce so you can eat. Damien shifted his legs closer to his father, Tim just moved down to lay his head on your leg.

But the food smell woke the rest pretty fast. And everyone knew after food, they got to get their party started.

——————————————————————

The “party” consisted of JLA members, your sons, husband, Alfred and you.

It was always small, just how you preferred it. Jon and Damien running around in the gardens, Clark and Bruce getting along for the moment. Diana relaxing and seeming human, Jason and Tim talking. Seeing the flash family run around was always funny.

The food was delicious and there was a ton of it. Your birthday was practically catered by every restaurant in the city, after all you needed enough food to feed everyone.

But the day flew by having fun with all of your friends, and eventually they had to leave. But you get to have more family time.

——————————————————————

Few minutes after guest cleared out, your children ran to grab something. While Bruce came up behind you.

“Your gift from me is coming later today, but I assure you’ll like it”

“Bruce you’ve given me everything by just being home all day, and by being social and friendly.”

Your husband just chuckled, you both could here pounding foot steps coming down the stairs. With two sets walking calmly behind them.

“Boys so we don’t have a fight in the stair well let’s go into the family room”

They all followed behind like little ducklings (or robins)

Your kids had you sit in the large arm chair, and they took the couch while your husband stood behind you.

“Well Ma how are we doing the gift order this year?”

“Jay we are doing as we’ve always done, in order”

You’ve always made them follow the adoption order. It made sense, and made it hard to argue about it whose turn it was.

Dick smiled and handed you a small box and a card. “I hope you like it”

“I love anything you kids give me”

You opened it to see a small photo book. You turned the pages to see they were blank.

You eyed your son.

“Open the card”

The card he handed you was kinda thick. But once opened was full of pictures of the kids. In their uniforms, out of them, around the manor, and school ones.

“ oh Dick... it’s wonderful!”

You have your son a tight hug. Trying not to tear up.

“Alright Ma don’t cry.. yet”

Jason handed you a card, and motioned for you to open it. What was written almost made you cry.

‘To my Ma, you’ve loved me and hugged me. You’ve taken my anger in stride, and have forgiven me for my mistakes. I didn’t get you anything huge, but I’m giving you this promise.

I’ll be coming to the manor once a week. And we can spend time together. Like we used to.

Love your favorite zombie son’

You looked at Jason and stood up, you were crying. You just hugged him tight. You whispered “love you too my little bat”

Tim was next in line and new it was small but it would be meaning full.

He handed you another card, all he wrote was

‘I love you, this family and the memories we’ve made’

It was a small flash drive, you raised you brow.

“It’s got a lot of pictures and videos of us on there, so you can always take us with you”.

Your sweet babies loved to make you cry, you swore it. You gave him a tight hug. “I love it, thank you my little robin”

Damien went next and it was kinda large, he needed some assistance from his brothers to bring it in.

“ ummi I know I am tough to deal with, but I know you hold us close because you love us. And I know you like pictures of us as well. So I made you this. “

He pulled the sheet off and it was a portrait of you, and all of your children. You just grabbed your baby and hugged him tight.

“Oh it’s beautiful my little artist!!”

You knew just where you wanted it hung.

Next went cass

She signed, still not fully comfortable talking.

“I love you mom, and I hope it keeps you warm.”

You opened the wrap to see a hand knitted scarf, beanie and cardigan. It was beautiful, she had mixed purple and black into the pattern with a dash of yellow.

You lunged a hug at your baby “I love you too sweetheart, and these definitely will”

Duke went last he also got you a card.

He just nodded with a shy smile

As you opened the card to read it, you had a feeling the tears would keep coming.

‘To my mom, you’ve taught me it’s okay to have more than one mother’s love. That by loving you I haven’t forgotten about or replaced my mother.

You’ve also shown me patience and kindness when I may have frustrated you.

Thank you,

Duke’

You opened your arms to duke while crying “hug?”

He just gave you the hug.

As he pulled away and sat down. You stared at your kids and then your husband.

“Why are all my babies so sweet!!! 😭”

And they jumped to hug you in a group hug.

——————————————————————

Later that night batwoman showed up to cover Batman and you’ve never been so thankful.

All she said was “happy birthday have fun”

And it was just you and Bruce.

[synchronousemma]

7 December: Emma paints a whole-length in water-colours

Read and comment on WordPress

Read: Vol. 1, ch. 6; pp. 26–29 (“She was not less pleased another day” through to “Mr. Elton’s very promising attachment was likely to add”).

Context

Emma, Mr. Elton, and Harriet are in company when Harriet leaves the room briefly (to use the commode?). Emma and Mr. Elton agree that Emma ought to take Harriet’s likeness. The three look over Emma’s portfolio, and she begins sketching.

We know from Mr. Woodhouse that “the next day” (vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 29) is a day in “December” (ibid., p. 30).

Note that this write-up consists largely of spoilers.

Readings and Interpretations

Understanding and Misunderstanding

The pattern from the last section repeats itself in this one. We are again given Emma’s interpretation of an event (Mr. Elton “seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet’s picture,” in a “manner” which evidenced his love for Harriet; vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 26), followed by a more direct account of what occurred. In fact, as we may gather, it is Emma who emphasizes the prospective portrait’s subject (“What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be!”); Mr. Elton instead focuses on the prospective artist’s skill and other work (“Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are”; ibid., emphasis mine). Emma notices this and yet ignores ignores its implications (“Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to do with taking likenesses?”; ibid., p. 27. See also Sabiston p. 33).

Mr. Elton, for his part, misses Emma’s insistent talking up of Harriet. He at one point misinterprets Emma’s compliment to Harriet’s modesty (“She thinks so little of her own beauty”; vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 27) as a concern that she (Emma) will not be able to exercise her talents. Indeed, Emma’s real pleasure in drawing comes through in ways that, to my mind, make Mr. Elton’s mistake understandable.1 When she says, for example, that “Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch” (ibid.), we can see how her principle concern could either be Harriet’s appearance, or the skill which she will have to employ in creating a likeness of it. And the ostensible reason for the trio’s perusal of Emma’s portfolio of portraits (“that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet”; ibid.) seems to me insufficient to account for the amount of time that Emma spends explicating them.

As in the last section, repetition of an interlocutor’s speech here represents a failure of communication; Mr. Elton’s repetitions of Emma’s words are modified by additions which reveal the real source of his interest: “Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession” (ibid., emphasis mine).

And again: “Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was repeating, ‘No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives’” (ibid., p. 28; emphasis original); he has entirely missed the fact that, in Emma’s construction, the spouse in question was the subject of the portrait, not its artist.2

A Thorough Knowledge of Drawing and Music

In the assessment of Emma’s skill at drawing and painting in this section we hear an echo of Knightley’s statement that Emma “will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience” (vol. 1, ch. 5; p. 22). We are informed that Emma “played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of” (vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 27). By this logic, a gentlewoman’s ‘accomplishments’ are valued not only (or even primarily) for themselves, but to the extent that they evidence desirable traits in a marriageable woman (“steadiness”).

Commenters tend to assume that this is a narratorial decrying of a serious fault in Emma, but this passage may just as well be relaying Emma’s perspective. Per Hilary Schor:

We are reasonably certain that we are listening to an authoritative voice in the first few sentences of this passage: the assurance of the diagnostic authority of the “degree” of excellence which she would have been “glad to command, and ought not to have failed of” suggest a superior intelligence, ready to measure in turn reality, degrees of excellence, and moral duty—a voice we will come, in the novel, to associate with Mr. Knightley, certain what Emma ought to “submit to.” However, when we reconsider the passage, much less of it appears to be located in some external, objective perspective, and much more in Emma’s own: this paragraph knows nothing Emma herself does not know. […] Once we trace the path of knowledge in the elegant sentences, we might be considerably less certain that authorial knowledge rests in them, and more aware that what we are hearing is not an objective narrator, but a slightly filtered account of Emma’s own judgment of herself.

Thus, the novel encourages us, subtly, to distrust our distrust of Emma; it teaches us, perversely, as Mrs. Weston announces early, that there are limits to her foolishness (p. 148).

Frances Ferguson’s assessment of the moral strategy of the novel at large comes to mind:

While [A. Walton Litz and Wayne C. Booth] insist that there is a clearly available narrative position from which to judge Emma, I would argue, by contrast, that the novel is hard on Emma to exactly the same extent that it is committed to her. Moreover, it is hard on her because of this attachment. In reporting Emma’s words and actions but especially in using her memory as the central locus for remorse, the novelist makes Emma’s blameworthiness inseparable from her privileged position (p. 171).

A Fault on the Right Side

Emma opines that a too-flattering portrait is “a fault on the right ride” (vol. 1, ch. 6; p. 28) in a time when the popular and scholarly opinion of portraiture tasked the artist with the job of smoothing over the idiosyncrasies created by nature in order to create a more ‘artistic’ image of universal perfection (Jones, p. 322; Campbell, p. 210).

For Annette LeClair, Isabella Knightley’s reaction to her husband’s portrait is used to comment on the relationship between an artist and their audience:

Isabella, ever her father’s daughter, sees this portrait only in relation to her own preoccupations—in this case, her exaggerated views of her husband’s virtues. She is thus unable to see Emma’s work for what it is. Emma’s frustration at this situation drives the portrait painter in her to despair. For a while, at least, she gives up drawing “‘in disgust’”. From her point of view it must seem that no matter what she attempts, no matter what kind of accommodation she tries to make to her audience, that audience eventually takes over her work for purposes of its own (p. 120).

Ashley Tauchert writes that

The tension between these different receptions of a common representation [Mrs. Weston’s and Mrs. Isabella Knightley’s] marks the incommensurability of perspective as determined by the particularity of relationship between subject and object. Isabella, as the one who has married John Knightley, and borne several children by him, while remaining a ‘devoted wife’, would be expected to perceive him differently to the artist and another party, who find the representation ‘flattering' (p. 120).

Thus John Knightley’s portrait is one in a series of signs that display the contingent nature of perception in Emma.

Footnotes

1. On Emma as genuinely interested in the creation of visual art see LeClair, p. 117.

2. Many interpretations of Emma center around the motif of misunderstanding. For an instructive reading see Tauchert p. 117ff.

Discussion Questions

1. Do either Emma or Mr. Elton strike you as “more” at fault for the pair’s mutual misunderstandings in this section? Are there any places where the signs misinterpreted by each party seem more or less ambiguous than others?

2. What is the significance of the passage in which the trio go through Emma’s portfolio? What is revealed of Emma’s character, or the relationship between the three young people?

3. Who is accusing Emma of a lack of steadiness, and is this a serious fault or (as Claudia Johnson writes) a “minute” one (p. 128)?

Bibliography

Austen, Jane. Emma (Norton Critical Edition). 3rd ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, [1815] 2000.

Booth, Wayne C. “Point of View and the Control of Distance in Emma.” Nineteenth-Century Fiction 16.2 (September 1961), pp. 95–116. Repr. in The Rhetoric of Fiction. 2nd Ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press (1983), pp. 243–66. DOI: 10.2307/2932473.

Campbell, Teri. “‘Not Handsome Enough’: Faces, Pictures, and Language in Pride and Prejudice.” Persuasions 34 (2012), 207–21.

Ferguson, Frances. “Jane Austen, Emma, and the Impact of Form.” Modern Language Quarterly 61.1 (March 2000), pp. 157–80. DOI: 10.1215/00267929-61-1-157.

Johnson, Claudia L. “Emma: Woman, Lovely Woman, Reigns Alone.” In Women, Politics and the Novel. Chicago: University of Chicago Press (1988), pp. 121–43. Excerpted in Austen [1815], pp. 400–13.

Jones, Wendy S. “Emma, Gender, and the Mind-Brain.” ELH 75. 2 (Summer 2008), pp. 315–43.

LeClair, Annette M. “Owning Her Work: Austen, the Artist, and the Audience in Emma.” Persuasions 21 (1999).

Litz, Walton. A. “The Limits of Freedom: Emma.” In Jane Austen: A Study of Her Artistic Development. London: Chatto & Windus (1965), pp. 132–49. Excerpted in Austen [1815], pp. 373–80.

Sabiston, Elizabeth Jean. The Prison of Womanhood: Four Provincial Heroines in Nineteenth-Century Fiction. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1987.

Schor, Hilary. “Emma, Interrupted: Speaking Jane Austen in Fiction and Film.” In Jane Austen on Screen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (2003), pp. 144–74. DOI: 10.1017/CBO9781139164702.009.

Tauchert, Ashley. “Emma: ‘The Operation of the Same System in Another Way’.” In Romancing Jane Austen Narrative, Realism, and the Possibility of a Happy Ending. New York: Palgrave Macmillan (2005), pp. 111–36. DOI: 10.1057/9780230599697_6.

Wiesenfarth, Joseph. “Emma: Point Counter Point.” In Jane Austen: Bicentenary Essays, ed. John Halperin. Cambridge University Press (1975), pp. 207–22.

[gracie-rosee]

Steal my Heart

Ummmm so I accidentally deleted the entire fic LMAO. Soooo here it is again. We will just pretend this never happened. And if you didn't read it before, I hope you enjoy this little au ;) Part two is in the works!

Also, if you previously asked to be tagged in this fic, please send me an ask or a comment so I can make sure you get added.

Word Count: 2,036 | Warnings: Language

Aelin Galathynius likes to consider herself an artist. Her masterpieces often require an immense amount of precision, patience and skill. Even the slightest mistakes can topple her whole plan, shattering it into pieces like glass.

It's a good thing she's the best in the business.

She's always had a fascination with pretty things, and she absolutely loves the thrill of adventure. It's for this particular reason that Aelin loves her job so much.

Being the most wanted art thief in the world does come with some downsides, however. It means there are constantly people wanting to bring her in. Aelin has to admit she gets a lot of satisfaction at seeing her alias at the top of every newspaper after a big job.

Being the best also means that she's wanted by a lot of other people as well. People with money, to be exact. In fact, some of her favorite jobs have been for the filthy rich wanting a piece of decor for their living room.

But for her, it was never about the money, though it does help make things a lot easier.

For her, she does these jobs because they're fun. Countless teams of FBI agents tracking her every move until she slips off their radar, having them curse the day they almost caught Celaena Sardothien. It excites her.

Though many have tried and failed over the years, there has only ever been one person to even come remotely close to bringing her down.

Rowan Whitethorn is a bit of a weakness for her, if she was being honest. She couldn't help but lead him on whenever he gets close, letting him think she's within his grasp. Something about how he operates just fascinates her.

Their last interaction was at the Royal Gallery of Orynth. She had swiped one of the priceless portraits for a fake weeks prior, and wanted to see her finished product.

Walking into the art museum for the second time was a breeze, the authorities not even sparing her a second glance. It was almost too easy. One would think that after someone stole millions of dollars worth of art, they would have at least upped their security.

That is, if they were even aware they had been stolen from in the first place. Sometimes it took weeks or even months for anyone to notice her fakes. And when they did, she made sure she was long gone.

Agent Whitethorn had always noticed, though.

Walking up to one of the many benches facing the wall, Aelin delicately sits down, smoothing out the miniscule wrinkles in her dress.

She knows he's there, watching her every move. She doesn't acknowledge him, though. Let him think she doesn't notice him, that he has the upper hand. Aelin has to fight the smile blooming on her face at the thought.

His confidence has always been something she admired in him. He follows leads that are nothing more than a hunch, determined to bring her to justice. And determined, he is. Whitethorn is known for breaking many big cases, putting a lot of the most wanted criminals behind bars himself. It's part of why she loves toying with him so much. She knows that he won't rest until he catches her.

She loves the attention she gets from the feds and the press. Or maybe it's just his attention she enjoys having.

Someone sits down in the seat beside her.

"Beautiful, don't you think?" She asks, tilting her head to the side, studying the frame mounted on the wall.

Rowan Whitethorn hums to himself before he speaks. "Yes," he says. "Though it just doesn't compare to the original. It's a shame this cheap replica is all people will see."

Cheap replica? As if. Aelin spends hours making sure every last detail is perfect in all of her replicas. Down to the very last paint stroke. Rowan probably wouldn't know fine art if it hit him in his annoyingly handsome face.

She knows Rowan is just taunting her, and she chides herself for getting worked up about his stupid commentary. She doesn't care what he thinks about her. Not even a little bit... And yet…

He can say whatever the hell he wants about her and her craft. Even still, Aelin thrives on validation. And seeing the look on his face every time she slips away from him yet again is enough validation for a lifetime. She lives off of it.

"I can hear you plotting from here, Whitethorn." Aelin says, her gaze still trained on the painting.

"Just thinking about how I'm going to arrest you is all," he replies.

They both know he has no power here. None of Celaena Sardothien's heists are tied to Aelin Galathynius. To the rest of the world, Aelin Galathynius was an art history student at the University of Orynth, working part time at the cafe across campus. The authorities think they are looking for a woman with short red hair, not a platinum blonde, blue eyed woman.

The only person to ever get close enough to be able to recognize her face was sitting next to her. Normally she would be concerned with someone knowing her true identity, but if he really wanted to turn her in, he would have figured out a way to do so by now.

Maybe he's just waiting for the right time, or for enough evidence. Or maybe he just enjoys chasing her as much as she does slipping away.

Aelin sighs dramatically and rises from the seat gracefully. She glances over her shoulder as she starts making her way towards the exit, her heels clicking on the marble floors.

"Until next time then," she says as she saunters past Rowan. His eyes track her the entire time, and she feels his gaze burning into her as she walks away from him yet again.

As she leaves, she swears she hears him whisper a curse under her breath. Aelin smiles then, wondering when next time will be.

------

Aelin just can't resist events like this. The sparkling lights, the dresses, champagne, the art. Something about being so close to it all just thrills her.

The Royal Adarlan Gallery was hosting some kind of high end charity event tonight. She couldn't really remember what the event was for or whatever these rich people's money was going to. She only came here for one thing, really.

There was no need to go out if her way to blend in tonight. The authorities know Celaena Sardothien wouldn't dare coming out to such a public gala. But Aelin Galathynius, however…

The dress she picked out is a floor length, shimmering gold piece. The neckline is barely modest, but it's nothing compared to the back of the dress. It's almost completely nonexistent, leaving her back mostly bare, save for the bits of fabric keeping the dress together. It's slightly over the top for an event like this, but Aelin couldn't care less. Not when he was here. In fact, she picked this specific dress because she knew that he would be in attendance tonight.

As if the thought alone had summoned him, Aelin feels his presence at her back. It was almost like a sixth sense. She could always tell when he was around, or if he was watching her. He doesn't speak yet, and she knows he's taking his time checking her out.

She wants to see his expression, so she turns and faces him.

His face is carefully neutral, but she knows how to read him by now. His eyes give away everything he's feeling, and she knows she was right about the dress choice.

He clears his throat as his eyes finally make their way back up to his. "Care for a dance?" He asks, extending his hand towards her.

Aelin smiles sweetly, placing her hand in his. "I thought you'd never ask."

They make their way to the open space where a few other couples were dancing to the live orchestra nearby.

Rowan's hand remains holding hers, while his other finds its way to her back, his fingers on her bare skin setting her aflame.

They move along with the music together, and Aelin is pleased to discover that Rowan is a beautiful dancer. He spins her around gracefully, while still keeping her close to him.

They don't talk for the entirety of the first song, instead choosing to take the time to study each other. They barely break eye contact, only doing so when Rowan spins her in time with the dance.

It isn't exactly the first time they've been this close to one another. Aelin could easily recall a time when they were perhaps even closer. The memory of that night, so similar to this one, brings a smile to her face.

Rowan seems to notice where her train of thought has headed as she grins at him. He frowns, trying to hide his amusement.

"That won't happen again," he tells her, though his mind obviously betrays him as his hand flexes on her back and he pulls her closer to his chest.

"Oh I'm sure it won't, Whitethorn," Aelin says sweetly, looking up at him through her eyelashes in a way she knows drives him crazy. Judging from the way his jaw clenches, she knows she's successful.

"A bold move coming out here tonight, Celaena," he deflects.

Aelin smiles at him again, choosing to play the innocence card. "And why is that"

Rowan finally breaks eye contact to glance around the crowded room. Though he's no longer looking at her, he pulls her impossibly closer, leaving mere centimeters between them. This close, she can practically smell the soap he uses.

His eyes make their way back to hers and she sees his answer in his irises, in the way he holds her. Because I've got you now.

Aelin cocks an eyebrow. Is that so?

Rowan oozes confidence in everything he does. She admires that about him, but she enjoys toying with him too much to let this opportunity pass.

Aelin plasters on a sickeningly sweet smile. "We both know how this night is going to end, Whitethorn."

"With you in handcuffs," Rowan says simply. He realizes his mistake a second too late. She can tell he regrets the words immediately after saying them aloud.

Aelin grins at the shift in the conversation. "Oh don't tempt me with a good time, agent Rowan Whitethorn," she says.

Rowan scoffs, but his usual bravado has fallen and she can see right through him. "You know what I meant."

The song starts to come to an end and Rowan spins her around one last time. As they come back together again, faces mere inches apart, Aelin leans in to whisper, "promises, promises, Whitethorn."

Rowan's eyes track her the whole way as she removes her hand from his and saunters off to one of the secluded corners of the room. She only looks over her shoulder once, sending him that look of hers that always has him tripping over his own feet.

Aelin smiles, knowing she has him right where she wants him. Just like always. She doesn't turn around again–doesn't need to to know that he's close behind her.

Aelin Galathynius has stolen a lot of things in her life. Priceless jewels, art, money. But she's never really wanted anything as much as she's wanted this man. Maybe it's just an obsession of hers–wanting the one thing she cannot have. Or maybe it's the way he looks at her, talks to her, holds her. The way he sees Aelin and not Celaena.

She makes her way down the dimly lit hallway and around the corner towards one of the closed doors. Rowan trails quietly behind her as the voices of the crowd soften into silence, only interrupted by their echoing footsteps. Every single time they encounter each other, Aelin slips away from him. And every single time, Rowan follows.

Aelin is positive now. If there is one thing that she's absolutely sure of in her life, it's that she wants Rowan Whitethorn.

~~~

Tags:

@swankii-art-teacher @perseusannabeth @laraexia @sleeping-and-books @mu-si-ca-l @superspiritfestival @booksofthemoon @danibutterr @tswaney17 @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @charlizeed @courtofjurdan @rowansfirebringer @infernoqueen19 @slytheringalathynius @story-scribbler @themoonthestarsthesuriel @hellasblessed @tomtenadia @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @jorjy-jo @backtobl4ck @rowanaelinn @cretaceous-therapod

[cloud-9ine]

Through a Golden Lens (pt 1)

⤷ pairing - hawks x (fem) reader

⤷ fandom - bnha 

⤷ warnings - some language, hawks flirting, reader’s cynicism 

⤷ summary - reader is a bitter, overworked photographer at a hero press agency with little patience for her newly assigned muse- hawks

⤷ word count - 4.5k+

⤷ notes - i have lots of ideas so this is probably going to be a multi-part series. also new to tumblr so this might not be the best

⤷ pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

“Mr. Hawks! Please look this way!” his heavy lidded eyes rolled to the side as another blinding flash burned through his vision. 

“You look perfect, thank you!” it was hard to smile for their benefit, but he managed. Hawks had attended countless of these events for the press. It had been exhilarating at first, with the rush of adrenaline from the cameras and the lights and the endless stream of compliments solidifying his place in the public eye.

Nowadays, it was less thrilling. After a while, they all seemed the same- each one blurring into a senseless flare of cameras and hollow accolades.

He was bored, to say the least.

“Mr Hawks, would you like to come and see? I’d love to hear your opinion on this set!” with a practiced, easy smirk he nodded. It was easier to pander to the artist than to criticise their work. 

He looked good, but when did he not? The shoots were easy to glide through. All he had to do was pull a boyish grin, ‘make love to the camera’ as the photographers always liked to spout. It didn’t really matter what he did: the public would eat up anything with his face slapped on to the front. They all looked the same to him, anyway.

“Looks good,” he wondered why people were so easily satiated by shallow praises, but as he stared at the younger lady’s blush, he couldn’t help but realise that maybe it was him who had something to do with it.

Hawks couldn’t help his gaze from drifting to the door. His skin prickled in the humidity of all the moving bodies in one enclosed space and he longed to take a step outside and stretch his wings in a way that wasn’t to pose for a magazine. 

For a moment, he felt like his prayers had been answered when the door opened, letting in a stream of natural light to breach the artificiality of the modelling room. 

”(L/N)! You were supposed to be here over three hours ago!” the woman in front of him exclaimed, ripping the camera away from his view and marching to the figure that appeared in the light. He blinked in surprise: this entire shoot he hadn’t heard her raise her voice above anything but a low mumble when conversing with him, and now she was positively fuming.

You stared down at your co-worker through honey-tinted shades, expression unamused.

“Yeah, and I was also supposed to be out of this job three years ago. We don’t all do what we’re supposed to, cupcake.”

For a moment, Hawks thought you were a model. Tasteful cream turtleneck tucked into heavily creased mocha skirt, caramel beret perched on your head. There were a few metal, classy looking rings wrapped around your fingers, but as far as he could see, no wedding ring. It was pretty standard style for those who worked in the arts, but somehow you wore it so well. 

Your hair was a little dishevelled, and the dark circles under your eyes combined with the coffee cup in your hand were obvious signs of a rough night. His eyes locked on to the loopy black handwriting on the brown band around the cup.

(L/N) (Y/N)

You were no model, but Hawks couldn’t see the difference.

His wings beat lightly behind his back as he glided over, weaving through the other photographers and models scattered around the area. 

“Hey there, I’m Hawks,” he said smoothly, voice saccharine as he spoke to you. Your attention turned to him as you glanced at him from above the frames of your sunglasses, seemingly unimpressed.

“This the new boytoy, Mizuki?” you asked, eyes raking up and down his figure. Hawks was never one to shy away from the gaze of others, but the way you were inspecting him made him feel so exposed.

“Show some respect,” Mizuki muttered, voice lowered at Hawks’ presence but glare still piercing. You sighed, sparing one last glance at Hawks before snatching the camera out of Mizuki’s hands, leaving her scrambling for the device as you walked away.

“Lemme see what you’ve got already,” Mizuki’s face grew red, half from anger towards you, and half because of the embarrassment of being diminished in front of Hawks.

“(L/N) y-you can’t just come in three hours late and take over! I’ve already done the shoot and Hawks has already expressed that he is pleased with the outcome,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes and shooting the shorter woman a glare over your shoulder.

“There’s no way you’re gonna force me to come into work and make me sit here doing nothing,” you sneered, waving the camera around almost teasingly, “you wanted someone actually skilled to do this shoot, and here I am. Let me do my thing,” without waiting for a response, you left, thumb fumbling with the dial that allowed you to scroll through the photos.

Hawks was impressed. You hadn’t bat an eye when you saw him, and while you were very clearly very late, you were confident in your skills and obviously took your job seriously.

“Who was that?” he questioned, wings spreading slightly as his eyes chased after you. Mizuki bowed her head, remorse filling her expression.

“I apologise for her impertinence. That’s (L/N), she was who your original photographer was supposed to be today, but when she didn’t show up I had to take over,” she huffed, “she’s been like this for about a year now, and the boss is prepared to fire her if she keeps it up. So you’d think she’d be able to pull her at together for you, Mr. Hawks...”

After a while, Hawks tuned out her whining, eyes curiously trained on you, surveying your furrowed brows and expression pinched with annoyance as you studied the photos. Although they looked good enough to him, it appeared that you didn’t share the same sentiment. 

Hawks didn’t have time to avert his eyes when you turned your head, gaze locking on to his. You raised a slightly suspicious brow, but otherwise didn’t entertain his actions. 

“Mizuki, why would you use cool lighting?” you called over your shoulder, not even sparing the decency to turn around and face the person you were addressing. Mizuki frowned, moving to your side. Like a magnet, Hawks did the same, peering over your other shoulder. You eyed him from the corner of your vision for a second before tapping the screen. 

“What do you mean?” you sighed at your co-workers words, evidently frustrated.

“Considering you have bird boy over here in dark academia, accented in warmer yellows, using cool lights will bring out too much of a contrast. We need to match the accent colours with warmer lighting, or use a overlay,” you muttered, seemingly addressing yourself more than the two of them. Mizuki just shook her head.

“That would just oversaturate the image,” you snorted, giving her the same patronising look an adult would give a child if they tried to outsmart them.

“Not necessarily. I could spot-reduce saturation in highlight areas during editing. Or, if you really want your contrast, I could neutralise the warmer shades by using a blue, or compliment them using a red,” Hawks didn’t miss the way you said ‘I’ instead of ‘we’. Mizuki looked agitated, her frown growing deeper.

“Even so, we only have white backdrops. That would be a jarring contrast. You’d need something darker or more clustered to make it work. If you wanted a backdrop change you probably should’ve come earlier,” she spoke with a formality that obviously stemmed from Hawks next to her, but you paid no mind. You were silent for a moment, and Hawks could see your eyes narrowing as you were thinking.

“I need a natural background, huh?” you mumbled, thumbing the buttons on the camera. With a shrug, “alright, bird boy, come on, we’re leaving,” Hawks blinked in surprise as you spun on your heel, a grin breaking onto his face. Finally, he got to leave.

“Whatever you say, boss,” you shot him an irritated look.

“Don’t call me that. I’m 22, not 40,” his feathers ruffled up. “Hey, I’m also 22! What a coincidence, right?” he grinned, winking at you. You just responded by rolling your eyes.

Mizuki spluttered, trying in vain to get either one of you to stop as Hawks trailed after you.

“L-Look, you can’t just leave-” you turned, shoving the camera back into her hands, a mirthless smile on your face.

“Watch me,” your voice was cold, goading her to try and stop you, “bird boy, out, now.” Hawks didn’t have to be told twice. Some of the others whispered and muttered as they realised what was going on, but they all fell quiet when you shot them a sharp glare.

He breathed in the fresh air with a content sigh, his chest feeling lighter now he was out the cramped room. The amber glow from the late afternoon sun kissed his tanned skin as he stretched his arms above his head, his forearms flexing slightly under his dark blazer. His eyes shut in bliss and head tilted back, exposing his sharp jawline.

You eyed him slightly, eyes trailing across his features. Now that you had actually left, you were a little lost on what your plan was. You didn’t regret storming out of there, though, nor did you even consider turning back to apologise.

You took your own camera out of the dark camera bag slung across your body, careful not to scratch it on the tripod, and focused the lens on Hawks. It was smaller, a little more compact than the ones Mizuki and the others were using, but you found that it was much better suited for portrait work. 

The click of the camera shutter brought Hawks out of his stupor, eyes snapping open and immediately landing on you. Your attention had already been diverted to the screen, studying your work. 

“The modelling room is stuffy, I’ll give you that,” you mumbled, zooming in on his face, “but you can stretch while we walk,” Hawks leaned over you, eyes sparkling at the shot.

“Aw, you make me look so good, I’m flattered!” you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t be,” you took a large sip of your coffee, moving down the pathway as you thought. Hawks scrambled after you, his wings puffing out when he reached your side. You couldn’t help but gaze at the bright red feathers as he unfurled his wings, a small, happy chirping noise rumbling at the back of his throat once they were fully spread behind your back. They were warm, you noticed, feeling the heat through your turtleneck. 

Your vision was filled with a cheeky smirk painted on full lips, Hawks’ face appearing in front of your eyes. Your eyes narrowed as you sized him up.

“See something you like?” you rolled your eyes as he purred. 

“Not in the slightest, bird brain,” his wings beat behind his back, hand clutching the fabric on his chest.

“Oh, how you wound me!” Hawks cried, and you couldn’t help but smile slightly, which you quickly covered with your coffee cup. 

“I’m sure you’ll face a villain that will do greater damage than I could,” he hummed, angling his face towards the sun. 

“So, where are we headed?” you chewed on your bottom lip, slinging your camera over your shoulder. 

“It can’t be anywhere with lots of traffic, you attract a lot of attention, you know?” it was a rhetorical question, but Hawks’ chest still puffed out in pride at your words.

“Thanks, it’s because of my raging-”

“Shut up,” you cut him off, “either way, I have a pounding headache and I do not have enough shits to give to put up with your fan girls today,” with a sigh, you rubbed your temples. Hawks stared at your clenched teeth.

“Hey, why do you-” “I think I know where we can go,” he frowned.

“You know it’s not polite to interrupt people like that-”

“Sunflowers.” your tone dripped finality as you faced Hawks, a brazen determination in your eyes he hadn’t seen until now. It made his breath hitch in his throat.

Breathy chuckle escaping his lips, and eyebrows furrowed when you sped your pace, gulping down more of your coffee.

“Uh, what?” you waved a hand dismissively.

“There’s a sunflower field in Fukuroi City, I think it’s west from here,” the tiniest of grins etched onto your features, “it’s gonna be a lot more interesting than the rest of those blank background. Plus, the yellow will compliment your clothes, and with the sun low in the sky I’ll get my perfect warm lighting,” you explained. Hawks wasn’t sure exactly how much of a difference it would make, but the idea seemed charming, and it was more exciting than being perpetually flanked by a white screen.

“Sounds good,” he chirped, “although, to be honest, you could take me out anywhere and I wouldn’t mind,” you rolled your eyes. 

“That’s a shame, because I don’t intend to hang around any more than I have to,” Hawks pouted, crossing his arms.

“Come on, I wanna know more about you!” you bristled.

“Good for you.” the two of you fell into a beat of silence before Hawks smiled, undaunted.

“I’m sure I can win you over somehow,” shaking your head in disbelief, you lifted the cup to your lips, before looking down disappointedly when you realised it was empty.

“I don’t have enough coffee for this,” you muttered. Hawks’ expression brightened. 

“That’s an easy fix: your agency is around here so you must know there area pretty well,” he spoke nonchalantly, as if he was on a casual lunch date and not in the most expensive outfit you’d seen in your entire life, “what’s the best place to grab a coffee?” for a moment, you looked taken aback, before shaking your head.

“Best café in these parts is the Sunset Hour,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck, “but as much as I have no inhibitions regarding bunking off work, that’s a little too far away. I need to take this pictures before the end of the day or Mizuki’ll submit those crappy ones she took in the studio,” Hawks nodded in understanding, smile never faltering for a second.

“Well I gotta get you your caffeine fix somewhere, so what’s the second best?” your expression scrunched in thought for a moment, before you jutted a thumb over your shoulder.

“There’s a Starbucks across the road,” he snickered seeing your blank expression.

“Not exactly where I would want our first date, but I suppose it’ll do,” rolling your eyes, you shoved the empty cup to his chest, which he gripped almost instinctively. 

“Good thing this isn’t a date, then,” Hawks grinned, sending your empty cup on a feather to the nearest bin before chasing after you as you crossed the road. You didn’t spare him a single glance when he appeared at your shoulder, nor when he reached over above your head to open the Starbucks door from behind you.

“So you’re saying we can have our first date somewhere else?” with a shallow sigh, you shook your head.

“What I’m saying is that there’s not gonna be a first date. Not between us,” his chest tightened. God, you were so mean. He’d be into that.

The inside of the Starbucks was a mix between modern, western architecture and traditional Japanese woodwork. The equipment was all cutting edge, and the tables and chairs were made with a sleek mahogany, but the windows were framed with bamboo shutters, and the backroom was separated with shoji sliding doors. It was an curious blend, one that you studied with an interest. The deep, earthy scent of roasted coffee beans heavily imbued the air, filling your nose with the aroma of something far more familiar. 

Given it was the late afternoon, and most people tended not to drink caffeine after 2pm, the patrons were few and far in between. Good for you, at least. It meant you wouldn’t get- “Hawks? Sorry to bother you but can we get a picture?” your head turned at the voice that rung out.

Two high school girls stood to your left, hands clutched together in front of their chests and a dark pink coating their cheeks. With a small sigh, you took a step forward in the small queue. Hawks smiled with all the faux charm in the world, an obvious change in his demeanour as his pride spiked.

“Of course! And just as it happens, I have my personal photographer here who can make sure your photos look amazing as you two do!” it took you a moment to register what he had said through the excited squeals of the girls before he clutched your shoulders and pulled you forward, causing you to stumble slightly. 

“Your what?” he sent you an audacious smirk, willing you to play along as one of the girls handed you her phone. Your first instinct was to decline, but as you met the eyes of the girls, so eager and bright, you couldn’t find it in you to disappoint them. 

Taking a couple steps back, you lifted the phone, slightly angling it so the picture looked more natural, and not that of a celebrity and their fans (even if it was). You squinted angrily at the poor lighting, but tried to rectify it the best you could. The girls looked a little tense, but Hawks was a natural. A liberal smirk played on his lips and shoulders rolled back, relaxed. Even with the low lighting, the highlights on his cheekbone and jawline were indescribably perfect, and you weren’t sure if the credit should go to you or his god-like genes.

“Wow, that’s perfect!” one of the girls cried, her body appearing by your side. You hadn’t even noticed her moving, “thank you so much!” you just nodded, handing her back her phone and crossing your arms, eyes narrowing at Hawks.

“If that’s all, ladies, we best be ordering,” they nodded frantically at Hawks’ words, sharply bowing and spouting their thanks to the two of you countless times. They left the Starbucks, but even outside you could still hear them fawning over the picture. He faced you with a grin, but you couldn’t muster up a smile.

“Don’t go around telling people I’m your personal photographer,” you sneered. He pouted, looking genuinely disappointed for a second. “What, you don’t wanna be mine?” “Not in the slightest.” 

“What will be your order, Miss?” the barista had directed the question at you, but it was clear his attention was elsewhere. You weren’t surprised, but a small swell of annoyance grew in your mind.

“Can I have a mocha with a double shot of expresso?” Hawks chuckled.

“Might as well have an expresso, you know. You’re basically just taking a shot of caffeine,” you shrugged.

“It’s my favourite drink. I like the chocolate taste,” he looked at you with round eyes, a small squeeze in his chest.

“And you, sir?”

“Oh, I’ll have the same, then,” he didn’t miss the way your eyes darted to him. The barista nodded, tapping for a couple seconds before turning back.

“That’ll be 660 yen,” “I’m paying,” Hawks blurted, even before you could offer. You were silent, a small nod in the affirmative rocking your head. As he handed over the bills, he chuckled. “You know, not that I mind, but usually couples would argue over who’s paying,” you rolled your eyes.

“We’re not a couple,” you watched the barista prepare your drinks, more of a way to occupy yourself rather than a genuine interest, “besides, you’re a lot richer than I am. I don’t mean to be impolite, but I’m sure you can lose 600 yen and still be good,” he hummed happily.

“No disagreements there.” “Are you two eating in or taking out?” the barista asked, in the midst of securing the plastic lids to the top of the cups. Hawks’ eyes sparkled as he turned to you with an excitement you assumed only appeared in children.

“Hey, we can-” “Take out,” you responded, giving a now deflated Hawks a challenging look, “I will leave you here if I have to.” the blonde grinned. “You wouldn’t. You need me for the pictures,” he sang, voice jovial.

“I don’t care about you that much. The sunflowers are probably less annoying subjects anyway,” oh. With no warning, his heart beat sped up, his wings puffing out slightly. Sure, he wouldn’t mind if you were a little nicer to him, but your insults were like a breath of fresh air. There was no doubt that Hawks loved the limelight, loved the popularity he got, but the relentless ass-kissing got old after a while. You kept him on his toes. Even if he was just constantly chasing after you every time you brushed him off, he didn’t care. 

“Put those away, bird brain,” it was then he realised his wings had spread further than he intended, stretched out on either side of him. One was curled right around his face, and he almost felt himself blushing as he pulled them in. It was just animal instincts, he assured himself. 

The rest of the journey was filled with a one-sided conversation of him talking and commenting on what was around you, with no response from you except the occasional witty retort or light-hearted jab at his expense, each one making his heart flutter. It wasn’t too long before you had arrived, the chain link fence around the plot stretching high above your head and corroded with orange rust. 

Rows and rows of bright yellow sunflowers stretched to the horizon, an immense display of summer vitality. The fragrance was potent, a sort of cloying sweetness that you didn’t hate. And just as you were about to enter, you knew you had made a mistake. 

“Oh.” Hawks stared at you incredulously, attention switching from your taken aback expression to the sign posted on the gate.

“You didn’t check to see it was open?” you looked up at him, allowing him to survey a tinge of remorse he hadn’t recognised until this point. 

“Look, how was I supposed to know? This place has always been open at this time since I was a little kid,” you rubbed your arm, brows furrowed. Hawks sighed, rolling his shoulders back.

“Well, the sun’s too low to go anywhere else outside,” he shrugged, “it’s no biggie, I guess. Those other photos weren’t too bad. Hey, now that we’re free, do you want to- what are you doing?” your foot was halfway in the gaps in the gate, the wedges on your heels making it hard to climb.

“I’m not wasting my day for nothing,” you growled, fingers curling around the metal, “get climbing, bird boy,” with a soft sigh, smile gracing his lips and a warm feeling in his chest, Hawks spread his wings.

“I think you’re forgetting something that’ll make this a lot easier,” you felt a cool draft on your back as Hawks flapped his wings, the feeling being quickly replaced by the warmth of his chest as he pulled you in. A foreign emotion coiled in your stomach, but you convinced yourself that it was just the flight.

One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other supporting your knees, and all Hawks was thinking that such a gentle flight never felt so calming. 

Your feet tapped against the soft soil, sinking in to it slightly when the hero placed you down. You nodded your thanks.

“Let’s go over there, I want the sun coming in from the right,” Hawks nodded, content to just follow your orders. You pulled the tripod from your bag and set it up, adjusting it to your liking as Hawks looked around, trying to think of a pose. 

Once everything was ready, you turned your attention to Hawks.

“I want to humanise you,” he grinned curiously as you walked over.

“What do you mean by that?” he nearly gasped when you grabbed his chin, angling his face to the side and slightly up, towards the sun. You took a step closer, reaching up and running a hand through his hair. He bit his lip, hands trembling as you tugged slightly, trying to mess it up a little.

“All the photos I’ve seen on you always put a huge emphasis on either your wings or your hero status, and I don’t really see why,” you mumbled, placing one hand on his jawline while the other fixed his hair to your liking, letting a few strands fall in front of his eyes, “I think that just creates a divide. If they wanted you to seem angelic they should play that up, not just have it the norm,” you huffed, “anyway, I wanna put the emphasis on you and not your wings. So ideally if you could tuck them behind your back that would be wonderful,” 

Hawks nodded, disappointment filling him as you stepped away. He made sure not to move as he awkwardly folded his wings over each other and pulled them in, glancing at you with a look of apprehension. You just nodded in approval, leaning down to your camera. 

You took plenty of shots, allowing him plenty more opportunities to feel your hands on him (and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it). 

“Hey, why were you so late today?” Hawks dared to question while you were analysing your photos. You were perched on a bench, appreciating your work. The late sun cast a golden sheen on his skin, the spattering of glimmering rays highlighting his face in all the right places. 

“I was sleeping,” you responded, deleting an out of focus shot. His eyes narrowed.

“What?” “Just as it sounds. Figured if they were gonna make me work so I could only have three hours of sleep a night it was gonna be on their time, not mine,” he frowned, taking a seat next to you.

“They shouldn’t work you that hard,” you shrugged with a hollow laugh, blank gaze in your eyes. 

“What am I gonna do? Have them fire me? As much as I hate this job it’s the only thing that pays for my coffee in the morning,” he was silent as you stood up, stretching your arms behind your bag before tucking everything back in your bag. 

“Did you want to be a photographer?” he questioned, only to be met with a forlorn smile.

“Maybe at one point.” the two of you lapsed into silence before you sighed.

“Well, I’ve gotta submit these to Mizuki, and I’m sure you need-” Hawks caught your wrist, spinning you back around.

In the glow of the sunset, you looked almost ethereal. Your eyes gleamed, and cheeks warmed in the orange flare. Sunflowers framed your form, and the words caught in his throat, nearly stopping him from saying anything at all.

“Come work for me.” he blurted. You snorted.

“No.” all he could do was smile as you hopped back over the fence, not waiting up for him.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought you’d say.”

[kingstylesdaily]

Playtime With Harry Styles

via vogue.com

THE MEN’S BATHING POND in London’s Hampstead Heath at daybreak on a gloomy September morning seemed such an unlikely locale for my first meeting with Harry Styles, music’s legendarily charm-heavy style czar, that I wondered perhaps if something had been lost in translation.

But then there is Styles, cheerily gung ho, hidden behind a festive yellow bandana mask and a sweatshirt of his own design, surprisingly printed with three portraits of his intellectual pinup, the author Alain de Botton. “I love his writing,” says Styles. “I just think he’s brilliant. I saw him give a talk about the keys to happiness, and how one of the keys is living among friends, and how real friendship stems from being vulnerable with someone.”

In turn, de Botton’s 2016 novel The Course of Love taught Styles that “when it comes to relationships, you just expect yourself to be good at it…[but] being in a real relationship with someone is a skill,” one that Styles himself has often had to hone in the unforgiving klieg light of public attention, and in the company of such high-profile paramours as Taylor Swift and—well, Styles is too much of a gentleman to name names.

That sweatshirt and the Columbia Records tracksuit bottoms are removed in the quaint wooden open-air changing room, with its Swallows and Amazons vibe. A handful of intrepid fellow patrons in various states of undress are blissfully unaware of the 26-year-old supernova in their midst, although I must admit I’m finding it rather difficult to take my eyes off him, try as I might. Styles has been on a six-day juice cleanse in readiness for Vogue’s photographer Tyler Mitchell. He practices Pilates (“I’ve got very tight hamstrings—trying to get those open”) and meditates twice a day. “It has changed my life,” he avers, “but it’s so subtle. It’s helped me just be more present. I feel like I’m able to enjoy the things that are happening right in front of me, even if it’s food or it’s coffee or it’s being with a friend—or a swim in a really cold pond!” Styles also feels that his meditation practices have helped him through the tumult of 2020: “Meditation just brings a stillness that has been really beneficial, I think, for my mental health.”

Styles has been a pescatarian for three years, inspired by the vegan food that several members of his current band prepared on tour. “My body definitely feels better for it,” he says. His shapely torso is prettily inscribed with the tattoos of a Victorian sailor—a rose, a galleon, a mermaid, an anchor, and a palm tree among them, and, straddling his clavicle, the dates 1967 and 1957 (the respective birth years of his mother and father). Frankly, I rather wish I’d packed a beach muumuu.

We take the piratical gangplank that juts into the water and dive in. Let me tell you, this is not the Aegean. The glacial water is a cloudy phlegm green beneath the surface, and clammy reeds slap one’s ankles. Styles, who admits he will try any fad, has recently had a couple of cryotherapy sessions and is evidently less susceptible to the cold. By the time we have swum a full circuit, however, body temperatures have adjusted, and the ice, you might say, has been broken. Duly invigorated, we are ready to face the day. Styles has thoughtfully brought a canister of coffee and some bottles of water in his backpack, and we sit at either end of a park bench for a socially distanced chat.

It seems that he has had a productive year. At the onset of lockdown, Styles found himself in his second home, in the canyons of Los Angeles. After a few days on his own, however, he moved in with a pod of three friends (and subsequently with two band members, Mitch Rowland and Sarah Jones). They “would put names in a hat and plan the week out,” Styles explains. “If you were Monday, you would choose the movie, dinner, and the activity for that day. I like to make soups, and there was a big array of movies; we went all over the board,” from Goodfellas to Clueless. The experience, says Styles, “has been a really good lesson in what makes me happy now. It’s such a good example of living in the moment. I honestly just like being around my friends,” he adds. “That’s been my biggest takeaway. Just being on my own the whole time, I would have been miserable.”

Styles is big on friendship groups and considers his former and legendarily hysteria-inducing boy band, One Direction, to have been one of them. “I think the typical thing is to come out of a band like that and almost feel like you have to apologize for being in it,” says Styles. “But I loved my time in it. It was all new to me, and I was trying to learn as much as I could. I wanted to soak it in…. I think that’s probably why I like traveling now—soaking stuff up.” In a post-COVID future, he is contemplating a temporary move to Tokyo, explaining that “there’s a respect and a stillness, a quietness that I really loved every time I’ve been there.”

In 1D, Styles was making music whenever he could. “After a show you’d go in a hotel room and put down some vocals,” he recalls. As a result, his first solo album, 2017’s Harry Styles, “was when I really fell in love with being in the studio,” he says. “I loved it as much as touring.” Today he favors isolating with his core group of collaborators, “our little bubble”—Rowland, Kid Harpoon (né Tom Hull), and Tyler Johnson. “A safe space,” as he describes it.

In the music he has been working on in 2020, Styles wants to capture the experimental spirit that informed his second album, last year’s Fine Line. With his debut album, “I was very much finding out what my sound was as a solo artist,” he says. “I can see all the places where it almost felt like I was bowling with the bumpers up. I think with the second album I let go of the fear of getting it wrong and…it was really joyous and really free. I think with music it’s so important to evolve—and that extends to clothes and videos and all that stuff. That’s why you look back at David Bowie with Ziggy Stardust or the Beatles and their different eras—that fearlessness is super inspiring.”

The seismic changes of 2020—including the Black Lives Matter uprising around racial justice—has also provided Styles with an opportunity for personal growth. “I think it’s a time for opening up and learning and listening,” he says. “I’ve been trying to read and educate myself so that in 20 years I’m still doing the right things and taking the right steps. I believe in karma, and I think it’s just a time right now where we could use a little more kindness and empathy and patience with people, be a little more prepared to listen and grow.”

Meanwhile, Styles’s euphoric single “Watermelon Sugar” became something of an escapist anthem for this dystopian summer of 2020. The video, featuring Styles (dressed in ’70s-­flavored Gucci and Bode) cavorting with a pack of beach-babe girls and boys, was shot in January, before lockdown rules came into play. By the time it was ready to be released in May, a poignant epigraph had been added: “This video is dedicated to touching.”

Styles is looking forward to touring again, when “it’s safe for everyone,” because, as he notes, “being up against people is part of the whole thing. You can’t really re-create it in any way.” But it hasn’t always been so. Early in his career, Styles was so stricken with stage fright that he regularly threw up preperformance. “I just always thought I was going to mess up or something,” he remembers. “But I’ve felt really lucky to have a group of incredibly generous fans. They’re generous emotionally—and when they come to the show, they give so much that it creates this atmosphere that I’ve always found so loving and accepting.”

THIS SUMMER, when it was safe enough to travel, Styles returned to his London home, which is where he suggests we head now, setting off in his modish Primrose Yellow ’73 Jaguar that smells of gasoline and leatherette. “Me and my dad have always bonded over cars,” Styles explains. “I never thought I’d be someone who just went out for a leisurely drive, purely for enjoyment.” On sleepless jet-lagged nights he’ll drive through London’s quiet streets, seeing neighborhoods in a new way. “I find it quite relaxing,” he says.

Over the summer Styles took a road trip with his artist friend Tomo Campbell through France and Italy, setting off at four in the morning and spending the night in Geneva, where they jumped in the lake “to wake ourselves up.” (I see a pattern emerging.) At the end of the trip Styles drove home alone, accompanied by an upbeat playlist that included “Aretha Franklin, Parliament, and a lot of Stevie Wonder. It was really fun for me,” he says. “I don’t travel like that a lot. I’m usually in such a rush, but there was a stillness to it. I love the feeling of nobody knowing where I am, that kind of escape...and freedom.”

GROWING UP in a village in the North of England, Styles thought of London as a world apart: “It truly felt like a different country.” At a wide-eyed 16, he came down to the teeming metropolis after his mother entered him on the U.K. talent-search show The X Factor. “I went to the audition to find out if I could sing,” Styles recalls, “or if my mum was just being nice to me.” Styles was eliminated but subsequently brought back with other contestants—Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, and Zayn Malik—to form a boy band that was named (on Styles’s suggestion) One Direction. The wily X Factor creator and judge, Simon Cowell, soon signed them to his label Syco Records, and the rest is history: 1D’s first four albums, supported by four world tours from 2011 to 2015, debuted at number one on the U.S. Billboard charts, and the band has sold 70 million records to date. At 18, Styles bought the London house he now calls home. “I was going to do two weeks’ work to it,” he remembers, “but when I came back there was no second floor,” so he moved in with adult friends who lived nearby till the renovation was complete. “Eighteen months,” he deadpans. “I’ve always seen that period as pretty pivotal for me, as there’s that moment at the party where it’s getting late, and half of the people would go upstairs to do drugs, and the other people go home. I was like, ‘I don’t really know this friend’s wife, so I’m not going to get all messy and then go home.’ I had to behave a bit, at a time where everything else about my life felt I didn’t have to behave really. I’ve been lucky to always feel I have this family unit somewhere.”

When Styles’s London renovation was finally done, “I went in for the first time and I cried,” he recalls. “Because I just felt like I had somewhere. L.A. feels like holiday, but this feels like home.”

Behind its pink door, Styles’s house has all the trappings of rock stardom—there’s a man cave filled with guitars, a Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks poster (a moving-in gift from his decorator), a Stevie Nicks album cover. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” was one of the first songs he knew the words to—“My parents were big fans”—and he and Nicks have formed something of a mutual-admiration society. At the beginning of lockdown, Nicks tweeted to her fans that she was taking inspiration from Fine Line: “Way to go, H,” she wrote. “It is your Rumours.” “She’s always there for you,” said Styles when he inducted Nicks into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2019. “She knows what you need—advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl; she’s got you covered.”

Styles makes us some tea in the light-filled kitchen and then wanders into the convivial living room, where he strikes an insouciant pose on the chesterfield sofa, upholstered in a turquoise velvet that perhaps not entirely coincidentally sets off his eyes. Styles admits that his lockdown lewk was “sweatpants, constantly,” and he is relishing the opportunity to dress up again. He doesn’t have to wait long: The following day, under the eaves of a Victorian mansion in Notting Hill, I arrive in the middle of fittings for Vogue’s shoot and discover Styles in his Y-fronts, patiently waiting to try on looks for fashion editor Camilla Nickerson and photographer Tyler Mitchell. Styles’s personal stylist, Harry Lambert, wearing a pearl necklace and his nails colored in various shades of green varnish, à la Sally Bowles, is providing helpful backup (Britain’s Rule of Six hasn’t yet been imposed).

Styles, who has thoughtfully brought me a copy of de Botton’s 2006 book The Architecture of Happiness, is instinctively and almost quaintly polite, in an old-fashioned, holding-open-doors and not-mentioning-lovers-by-name sort of way. He is astounded to discover that the Atlanta-born Mitchell has yet to experience a traditional British Sunday roast dinner. Assuring him that “it’s basically like Thanksgiving every Sunday,” Styles gives Mitchell the details of his favorite London restaurants in which to enjoy one. “It’s a good thing to be nice,” Mitchell tells me after a morning in Styles’s company.

MITCHELL has Lionel Wendt’s languorously homoerotic 1930s portraits of young Sri Lankan men on his mood board. Nickerson is thinking of Irving Penn’s legendary fall 1950 Paris haute couture collections sitting, where he photographed midcentury supermodels, including his wife, Lisa Fonssagrives, in high-style Dior and Balenciaga creations. Styles is up for all of it, and so, it would seem, is the menswear landscape of 2020: Jonathan Anderson has produced a trapeze coat anchored with a chunky gold martingale; John Galliano at Maison Margiela has fashioned a khaki trench with a portrait neckline in layers of colored tulle; and Harris Reed—a Saint Martins fashion student sleuthed by Lambert who ended up making some looks for Styles’s last tour—has spent a week making a broad-shouldered Smoking jacket with high-waisted, wide-leg pants that have become a Styles signature since he posed for Tim Walker for the cover of Fine Line wearing a Gucci pair—a silhouette that was repeated in the tour wardrobe. (“I liked the idea of having that uniform,” says Styles.) Reed’s version is worn with a hoopskirt draped in festoons of hot-pink satin that somehow suggests Deborah Kerr asking Yul Brynner’s King of Siam, “Shall we dance?”

Styles introduces me to the writer and eyewear designer Gemma Styles, “my sister from the same womb,” he says. She is also here for the fitting: The siblings plan to surprise their mother with the double portrait on these pages.

I ask her whether her brother had always been interested in clothes.

“My mum loved to dress us up,” she remembers. “I always hated it, and Harry was always quite into it. She did some really elaborate papier-mâché outfits: She made a giant mug and then painted an atlas on it, and that was Harry being ‘The World Cup.’ Harry also had a little dalmatian-dog outfit,” she adds, “a hand-me-down from our closest family friends. He would just spend an inordinate amount of time wearing that outfit. But then Mum dressed me up as Cruella de Vil. She was always looking for any opportunity!”

“As a kid I definitely liked fancy dress,” Styles says. There were school plays, the first of which cast him as Barney, a church mouse. “I was really young, and I wore tights for that,” he recalls. “I remember it was crazy to me that I was wearing a pair of tights. And that was maybe where it all kicked off!”

Acting has also remained a fundamental form of expression for Styles. His sister recalls that even on the eve of his life-changing X Factor audition, Styles could sing in public only in an assumed voice. “He used to do quite a good sort of Elvis warble,” she remembers. During the rehearsals in the family home, “he would sing in the bathroom because if it was him singing as himself, he just couldn’t have anyone looking at him! I love his voice now,” she adds. “I’m so glad that he makes music that I actually enjoy listening to.”

Styles’s role-playing continued soon after 1D went on permanent hiatus in 2016, and he was cast in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk, beating out dozens of professional actors for the role. “The good part was my character was a young soldier who didn’t really know what he was doing,” says Styles modestly. “The scale of the movie was so big that I was a tiny piece of the puzzle. It was definitely humbling. I just loved being outside of my comfort zone.”

His performance caught the eye of Olivia Wilde, who remembers that it “blew me away—the openness and commitment.” In turn, Styles loved Wilde’s directorial debut, Booksmart, and is “very honored” that she cast him in a leading role for her second feature, a thriller titled Don’t Worry Darling, which went into production this fall. Styles will play the husband to Florence Pugh in what Styles describes as “a 1950s utopia in the California desert.”

Wilde’s movie is costumed by Academy Award nominee Arianne Phillips. “She and I did a little victory dance when we heard that we officially had Harry in the film,” notes Wilde, “because we knew that he has a real appreciation for fashion and style. And this movie is incredibly stylistic. It’s very heightened and opulent, and I’m really grateful that he is so enthusiastic about that element of the process—some actors just don’t care.”

“I like playing dress-up in general,” Styles concurs, in a masterpiece of understatement: This is the man, after all, who cohosted the Met’s 2019 “Notes on Camp” gala attired in a nipple-freeing black organza blouse with a lace jabot, and pants so high-waisted that they cupped his pectorals. The ensemble, accessorized with the pearl-drop earring of a dandified Elizabethan courtier, was created for Styles by Gucci’s Alessandro Michele, whom he befriended in 2014. Styles, who has subsequently personified the brand as the face of the Gucci fragrance, finds Michele “fearless with his work and his imagination. It’s really inspiring to be around someone who works like that.”

The two first met in London over a cappuccino. “It was just a kind of PR appointment,” says Michele, “but something magical happened, and Harry is now a friend. He has the aura of an English rock-and-roll star—like a young Greek god with the attitude of James Dean and a little bit of Mick Jagger—but no one is sweeter. He is the image of a new era, of the way that a man can look.”

Styles credits his style trans­formation—from Jack Wills tracksuit-clad boy-band heartthrob to nonpareil fashionisto—to his meeting the droll young stylist Harry Lambert seven years ago. They hit it off at once and have conspired ever since, enjoying a playfully campy rapport and calling each other Sue and Susan as they parse the niceties of the scarlet lace Gucci man-bra that Michele has made for Vogue’s shoot, for instance, or a pair of Bode pants hand-painted with biographical images (Styles sent Emily Adams Bode images of his family, and a photograph he had found of David Hockney and Joni Mitchell. “The idea of those two being friends, to me, was really beautiful,” Styles explains).

“He just has fun with clothing, and that’s kind of where I’ve got it from,” says Styles of Lambert. “He doesn’t take it too seriously, which means I don’t take it too seriously.” The process has been evolutionary. At his first meeting with Lambert, the stylist proposed “a pair of flares, and I was like, ‘Flares? That’s fucking crazy,’  ” Styles remembers. Now he declares that “you can never be overdressed. There’s no such thing. The people that I looked up to in music—Prince and David Bowie and Elvis and Freddie Mercury and Elton John—they’re such showmen. As a kid it was completely mind-blowing. Now I’ll put on something that feels really flamboyant, and I don’t feel crazy wearing it. I think if you get something that you feel amazing in, it’s like a superhero outfit. Clothes are there to have fun with and experiment with and play with. What’s really exciting is that all of these lines are just kind of crumbling away. When you take away ‘There’s clothes for men and there’s clothes for women,’ once you remove any barriers, obviously you open up the arena in which you can play. I’ll go in shops sometimes, and I just find myself looking at the women’s clothes thinking they’re amazing. It’s like anything—anytime you’re putting barriers up in your own life, you’re just limiting yourself. There’s so much joy to be had in playing with clothes. I’ve never really thought too much about what it means—it just becomes this extended part of creating something.”

“He’s up for it,” confirms Lambert, who earlier this year, for instance, found a JW Anderson cardigan with the look of a Rubik’s Cube (“on sale at matches.com!”). Styles wore it, accessorized with his own pearl necklace, for a Today rehearsal in February and it went viral: His fans were soon knitting their own versions and posting the results on TikTok. Jonathan Anderson declared himself “so impressed and incredibly humbled by this trend” that he nimbly made the pattern available (complete with a YouTube tutorial) so that Styles’s fans could copy it for free. Meanwhile, London’s storied Victoria & Albert Museum has requested Styles’s original: an emblematic document of how people got creative during the COVID era. “It’s going to be in their permanent collection,” says Lambert exultantly. “Is that not sick? Is that not the most epic thing?”

“To me, he’s very modern,” says Wilde of Styles, “and I hope that this brand of confidence as a male that Harry has—truly devoid of any traces of toxic masculinity—is indicative of his generation and therefore the future of the world. I think he is in many ways championing that, spearheading that. It’s pretty powerful and kind of extraordinary to see someone in his position redefining what it can mean to be a man with confidence.”

“He’s really in touch with his feminine side because it’s something natural,” notes Michele. “And he’s a big inspiration to a younger generation—about how you can be in a totally free playground when you feel comfortable. I think that he’s a revolutionary.”

STYLES’S confidence is on full display the day after the fitting, which finds us all on the beautiful Sussex dales. Over the summit of the hill, with its trees blown horizontal by the fierce winds, lies the English Channel. Even though it’s a two-hour drive from London, the fresh-faced Styles, who went to bed at 9 p.m., has arrived on set early: He is famously early for everything. The team is installed in a traditional flint-stone barn. The giant doors have been replaced by glass and frame a bucolic view of distant grazing sheep. “Look at that field!” says Styles. “How lucky are we? This is our office! Smell the roses!” Lambert starts to sing “Kumbaya, my Lord.”

Hairdresser Malcolm Edwards is setting Styles’s hair in a Victory roll with silver clips, and until it is combed out he resembles Kathryn Grayson with stubble. His fingers are freighted with rings, and “he has a new army of mini purses,” says Lambert, gesturing to an accessory table heaving with examples including a mini sky-blue Gucci Diana bag discreetly monogrammed HS. Michele has also made Styles a dress for the shoot that Tissot might have liked to paint—acres of ice-blue ruffles, black Valenciennes lace, and suivez-moi, jeune homme ribbons. Erelong, Styles is gamely racing up a hill in it, dodging sheep scat, thistles, and shards of chalk, and striking a pose for Mitchell that manages to make ruffles a compelling new masculine proposition, just as Mr. Fish’s frothy white cotton dress—equal parts Romantic poet and Greek presidential guard—did for Mick Jagger when he wore it for The Rolling Stones’ free performance in Hyde Park in 1969, or as the suburban-mom floral housedress did for Kurt Cobain as he defined the iconoclastic grunge aesthetic. Styles is mischievously singing ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” to himself when Mitchell calls him outside to jump up and down on a trampoline in a Comme des Garçons buttoned wool kilt. “How did it look?” asks his sister when he comes in from the cold. “Divine,” says her brother in playful Lambert-speak.

As the wide sky is washed in pink, orange, and gray, like a Turner sunset, and Mitchell calls it a successful day, Styles is playing “Cherry” from Fine Line on his Fender acoustic on the hilltop. “He does his own stunts,” says his sister, laughing. The impromptu set is greeted with applause. “Thank you, Antwerp!” says Styles playfully, bowing to the crowd. “Thank you, fashion!”