#vogue edit

[beforethepoison]

Mia Goth L'Uomo Vogue by Rushka Bergman

[dekariosclan]

Bard casts vicious mockery: “Hag-shouldered scum-vestige!”

Graphic designer casts vicious mockery:

[Another 100% fake cover to go along with the first one. Note, no burn intended on Withers here! He’s currently the most sought-after party planner in Faerun.]

[honeyyymmoon]

Sabrina Carpenter for Vogue US Magazine (March 2025 issue).

[sersh]

FLORENCE PUGH Photographed by Venetia Scott for British Vogue's October 2024 Issue

[billieeilishgifs]

Billie Eilish photographed for VOGUE, November 2024.

[sabrinasource]

SABRINA CARPENTER photographed by Steven Meisel for Vogue (March 2025)

[thekenobee]

Why, I’ve been clearing out the drafts!

[gaveyouigaveyoui]

OLIVIA RODRIGO VOGUE and LANCÔME

[bobbyhasstardust]

Buster Keaton SERVING while serving

The Cook (1918)

[btsjk-biased]

Jung Kook for Vogue Korea: ‘British Rock in the 60s’

[venompinks]

MINA ☆ VOGUE JAPAN

[voidsuites]

can you play ken?

IT’S an act of sorts— a performance, if you will— being a notable figure. plaster on a smile in front of the camera, dress to the nines whenever you go out in public, and always thank the fans for getting you to where you are. none of this is new to art at this point in his career, but it’s never been so apparent and in his face until now.

it shouldn’t be. it’s just a few test covers for the next vogue issue— he’s done plenty of magazine photo shoots this far into his career— but it’s never been both him and you modeling together. it’s brand-new territory.

your smile, all pearly and sweet, plastered on your lips from the moment the first shutter was removed. your hand perched atop your favorite spot on his body as of late, lithe fingers curled around his shoulder in a way that feels more staged than affectionate. he’s smizing, his expression cool while his hand curves around your hip. if he squints hard enough, art can tell just how firmly his fingers are digging into the fabric of your outfit. he’s stiff, rigid— just like the ken doll that lily tucked into his suitcase because it “looked like daddy.”

and he does look like art in the photos, down to the cropped haircut, fixed posture, and subtle upturn of his lips. huh. does he look this plastic in real life?

… he can’t ever relax, can he? this kind of thing was always your element— the front-facing side of your shared fame— since he was more than content to stick to the sidelines. smile for the camera. sell the story. prove to the world that your knee blowing out in college isn’t a sore spot between you two— that it should be art prepping for a promising run at the u.s. open and not you.

but besides his fingers digging into your hip like you’re going to slip out of his grasp in the preferred option, the covers are good… really good. it’s the perfect way to generate buzz as you two head into the open, with art taking point and you right behind him leading his coaching team.

“they came out good,” you say from behind him, fresh from the shower if the lingering scent of your body wash gives anything away. your hand drops to that same spot on his shoulder like clockwork, and art’s minuscule flinch doesn’t go unnoticed. “… what’s wrong?”

nothing, he wants to say, nothing, don’t worry about it. however, it’s futile to even try and get away with a lie that even he’s not confident in telling.

“do you ever feel like all of this is just… fake?” art asks, ignoring the way his stomach turns when he looks up at you. just like he expected your eyes are narrowed, your brow raised slightly like you’re waiting for him to continue. so he does.

“the photo shoots, the commercials, the brand deals… it all just feels fake,” he sighs, and art turns back to the spread of potential covers laid out on the coffee table. “i-it’s all staged, and why is anyone supposed to care that i’m trying to win the open again when the article’s focused on what cologne i wear—”

“it’s a personality piece,” you supply easily, running the towel in your hands over your hair to dry off while your robe hangs loose around your frame. “letting the people in on who you are, who we are. that we’re not just out-of-touch celebrities who haven’t been human since 2006.”

he scoffs. “it’s ridiculous.”

“you’re ridiculous.” you shake your head before stepping towards the hotel suite’s closet to find pajamas to change into. “i don’t know why you’re so upset about this.”

art stands from the desk, following you towards the closet while his stomach continues to ache. “because i shouldn’t have to prove that i’m a real person to the world by telling them my cheat meal between dieting and training— i’m a real person because i fucking exist.”

(it’s a happy meal: cheeseburger. fries. substitute apple slices for extra fries. extra-small coke if he’s feeling especially risky, milk if not. no toy unless it’s something lily would like. but that’s besides the point.)

“you can’t tell me that you like this,” he sighs, clearly exasperated as you drop the robe and move to pull one one of his shirts. if his eyes flit elsewhere instead of the bare stretch of your back, he doesn’t say. “it just feels like we’re pretending to be people we’re not, all for the sake of money. attention. bullshit.”

you fix his shirt over your shoulders while you spare him a glance. “it’s a part of the job, art.”

shaking his head, art moves around the edge of the california king and goes to unbuckle his watch from his wrist. “yeah— well i didn’t sign up for this.”

“art.”

“i’m going to bed,” he replies, somewhat thankful that he’d showered and changed earlier when you both got back to the room. it’d be more awkward for him to be all pissy like this, then have to walk past you to go into the en-suite.

“art.” the mattress sinks behind him, and this time he doesn’t flinch when your hand falls on his shoulder.

and this time, he doesn’t snap as he turns around to face you. “what?”

your lips purse when his eyes meet yours, and the pit in his stomach is back. “… we need to let them know what cover we want them to use.” a pause. “did you have a preference?”

his pinched expression mirrors yours. art knows you don’t really mean it— the magazine execs really did a response sooner rather than later— but the synergy’s off and he’s just ready to leave today in the past. no more pretending.

“… i don’t care,” he sighs, hand meeting your thigh as his fingers dig slightly into your skin, “just pick your favorite, babe.”

he doesn’t let you respond as his lips meet yours, but the kiss is more fleeting than they normally are. less hungry, less needy… less art. and even though he’s reluctant to let go of you and turn onto his side, he does.

he wish he didn’t. mottled blue eyes meet the ultramarine, painted-on irises of ken on his nightstand and his stomach starts to ache again.

“goodnight.”

silence. then the mattress shift again as you go to look over the tests covers. art wonders if you recognize just how plastic he looks in the photos (and whether or not you still see it as his eyes shut).

“… goodnight, art.”

[gatabella]

Gene Tierney by Horst P. Horst for US Vogue, June, 1940

Miss Gene Tierney with portrait masques, made by Lillian Bettinger. She, herself, wears Primrose House's "Red Rogue" make-up.

[hoosbandewan]

Ewan Mitchell behind the scenes with British Vogue

[sersh]

SOPHIE THATCHER Photographed by Skyli Alvarez for Teen Vogue on January 26th 2025

[petiteclover]

Helen Hogberg by Guy Bourdin for French Vogue, 1972.