A Little Lesson in Vulnerability
WHO: Marley Rose and Hunter Clarington
WHEN: February 8th, 2017; late evening
WHERE: Justitia, the ‘Den of Dark’
WHAT: Mr. Clarington cashes in on Miss Rose’s photoshoot offer, along with giving her a lesson in making ‘fine art’.
WARNING(S): bulging veined... flowers
Marley swallowed as she glanced around the room, setting up her borrowed equipment from the photography department. She'd never been inside Justitia before - the outside screamed a certain prestige she was still as of yet unfamiliar with, and its hallowed halls lined with enough crime and justice paraphernalia to chase out any skittish L. Naturae such as herself - but Mr. Clarington had requested that their photoshoot take place here, specifically in a room deemed 'The Den of Dark'. The name had made more sense once she'd entered inside, finding a vast room filled with deep colored wooden shelves set into the walls (black walnut, she suspected), leather padded chairs arranged around similarly colored wooden tables and matching leather couches, and other appropriately somber pieces of decor. Books of all shapes, sizes, bindings, and varying degrees of wear and tear filled the shelves. The lights that extended from the high ceiling overhead were dimly lit, and given the tail end of winter being upon them, the lack of light spilling in from the windows seemed to only play on the room's apt name of 'Den of Dark'. She only hoped the softbox light she'd brought along wouldn't wash him out once they started. She didn't even know yet where in the room exactly he wanted to be taking pictures, but she affixed her camera to its tripod for the time being, trying to size up locations in the room while she waited for him to arrive.
Hunter Clarington sat, satisfied against a tall-backed deep leather chair facing the fireplace as he heard the heavy door of the Den of Dark creep open and snap shut moments later. She must have arrived. Clad in a crimson, mid-thigh silk robe, Hunter turned his chair around to face the fae achingly slow, and, once there, rose ceremoniously from it to greet her. "Miss Rose," He said, smirking audibly, "Welcome to Justitia." He lifted his hands and made a sweeping gesture to the room around him, as if every particle of its ornate glory had been his own doing and design. He then sauntered toward her, eyeing up her photography equipment with purses lips, "This will do fine, did you have any poses in mind or do I have creative license with regard to blocking as well?"
Marley let out a rather embarrassing noise at the sudden announcement of her name - was it a yelp? a shriek? something else?? - and almost knocked her tripod over as she clutched her chest, where her heart now beat frenetically. Not much unlike that of a frightened rabbit. Aetherdamn it all. "Geezus, Mr. Clarington," she huffed in annoyance, throwing him a glare as she willed her blood pressure to lower. Leave it to Hunter Clarington to execute some dramatic entrance and spook her. The last thing she needed was to have a heart attack in such a random place. Who on earth would be able to find her if she did? The building was practically an endless museum. "I didn't come prepared with anything in mind. Typically when I photograph people, they're candids... I guess if you want to do your own - what was it? blocking? - then you're welcome to pose as you please. Just tell me where exactly in the room you want these taken and we'll get started." She gestured to the rest of the room before actually taking a look at him. Oh Aether, please don't be wearing the King George costume under that thing, she mentally pleaded, booting up her camera.
Hunter Clarington nodded approvingly at the fae's plan - or lack thereof, and made a beeline for a low hanging chandelier as the girl set up. He pondered it's durability with narrowed eyes. "I'm afraid I cannot offer my condolences this time, Ms. Rose. You see, I actually just gave you the greatest gift an artist could receive..." He said, and stared at her expectantly, although at heart he didn't expect her to have caught on. "Fear," He elaborated, "There is an art to all fear and a fear in all art. Without fear, this... all of this, it doesn't mean anything - you're just taking pictures. But when there's vulnerability, and terror, and suspense, /then/ will you have something worth capturing." He nodded in conclusion, and clicked his cheek with a wink and a finger gun at her before clapping his hands together, "So! Let's get started. You believe this chandelier could hold me up, yes?"
Marley raised a brow at Hunter. What was with this guy and long-winded lectures? If she wanted a lesson on art and how to create it, she would've gone to her photography class. Not a Bloodline witch with an obviously overblown ego. She rolled her eyes when his back was turned, her eyes darting over to the light fixture in question. "Uh... I've never climbed into one to test its ability to withstand the general weight of a human body, so I couldn't tell you. But I guess...?" Briefly, bemusement took over her as her imagination concocted a scenario involving Mr. Clarington and a comical (if short) fall from said low-handing chandelier. It probably wouldn't make too much of a mess to clean up if it did happen to loosen from its affixed spot on the ceiling. "Maybe you should test it out before I begin."
Hunter Clarington hummed in concentration, wrapping his hands around two of the thicker metal rods and pulling up so his feet were inches off the ground. For show, he spun around a number of times, crystals live and dancing around his head, catching to the very limited sources of light in the Den of Dark. When he found that he was satisfied with his research, he opened his palms and allowed himself to fumble back to earth, grinning winningly to the girl who was waiting for him there, "I think we've got it." He told her, somewhat out of breath and tugging strategically against the end of the silk tie that had fastened his robe to his body, "You're ready for me?'
Marley had to admit she was minutely disappointed that the chandelier didn't deem it necessary to loosen its screws and fall to the floor in a dramatic crash. Or at least descend enough down from the ceiling so as to give Hunter a scare. That would've made for a brilliant first photograph of the evening. She sighed inwardly, wistfully even, though she outwardly shook her head. "Wonders upon wonders," she mused half-heartedly, then moved behind the tripod so she could focus the camera on him. "I'm ready whenever you are, Mr. Clarington." Well, as ready as she could be without knowing what inappropriate costume she was about to be faced with. Maybe she'd luck out and these photographs would merely serve as potential bargaining chips later down the road. She could think of a few ways that Mr. Clarington's owed (see: forced) favor could come in handy.
Hunter Clarington clapped his hands together enthusiastically over Miss Marley Rose's confirmation of the beginning of their session. He removed his robe with a delicate hand before tossing it to the side nonchalantly, to reveal... a whole lot of Hunter, oiled up and ready to go. As a young adult, he was the favorite of quite a few local artists for whom he'd modeled in his birthday suit, and never felt any tremor of anxiety or self-consciousness when it came to this part of the process. So, with his pickled pepper splayed out for the world to see, he moved to jump back onto the chandelier. "Make sure you get my back muscles. I just think if you angle it right this could really make a statement about the first man's struggle with the industrial world."
Marley had expected a spectacle going in to this. After all, this was Hunter Clarington. She did not know, nor care to know, his middle name, but she wouldn't be surprised if 'Spectacle' were it. So any number of crazy outfits had been a possibility in her mind. But a full-frontal nude version of Mr. Clarington flashing her camera? That she had not prepared for. And the moment it dawned on her was the same moment her eyes flew wide open, and she nearly launched herself away from her camera in shock. "WOAH. WOAH! HOLD ON HERE!" she exclaimed in alarm, mouth opening and closing as she struggled to formulate something other than the expletives that crossed her mind at the moment. The image of him was imprinted on her memory - geezus, who on earth put that much oil on themselves - and no amount of furious aversion of her gaze seemed to be helping matters as her cheeks inevitably burned with her embarrassment. "Mr. Clarington - why on - why are you not wearing clothing underneath your dressing gown??" she sputtered, not even sure at that point where to look - at the walls, at her poor defiled camera, or at his likely smirky face.
Hunter Clarington clapped his hands together enthusiastically over Miss Marley Rose's confirmation of the beginning of their session. He removed his robe with a delicate hand before tossing it to the side nonchalantly, to reveal... a whole lot of Hunter, oiled up and ready to go. As a young adult, he was the favorite of quite a few local artists for whom he'd modeled in his birthday suit, and never felt any tremor of anxiety or self-consciousness when it came to this part of the process. So, with his pickled pepper splayed out for the world to see, he moved to jump back onto the chandelier. "Make sure you get my back muscles. I just think if you angle it right this could really make a statement about the first man's struggle with the industrial world."
Marley had expected a spectacle going in to this. After all, this was Hunter Clarington. She did not know, nor care to know, his middle name, but she wouldn't be surprised if 'Spectacle' were it. So any number of crazy outfits had been a possibility in her mind. But a full-frontal nude version of Mr. Clarington flashing her camera? That she had not prepared for. And the moment it dawned on her was the same moment her eyes flew wide open, and she nearly launched herself away from her camera in shock. "WOAH. WOAH! HOLD ON HERE!" she exclaimed in alarm, mouth opening and closing as she struggled to formulate something other than the expletives that crossed her mind at the moment. The image of him was imprinted on her memory - geezus, who on earth put that much oil on themselves - and no amount of furious aversion of her gaze seemed to be helping matters as her cheeks inevitably burned with her embarrassment. "Mr. Clarington - why on - why are you not wearing clothing underneath your dressing gown??" she sputtered, not even sure at that point where to look - at the walls, at her poor defiled camera, or at his likely smirky face.
Hunter Clarington startled right off of the chandelier when the Fae girl shrieked suddenly. Before he had time to react, his bare ass had slammed down hard against the Victorian Mahogany floor - his immaculate little grecian ass. "DEAR /GOD/ WOMAN," He shouted, wincing and nursing his poor abused tailbone against a nearby carbet. He then groaned gutturally as he leaned over to grab his robe and drape it robe over his lap once more, lest the Fae begin to shriek anew. "I have mind to warn the entire nation of France never to let you /anywhere/ near the Louvre if this is how you react to a perfectly good phallus." He scolded, and blew a lock of hair out of his face (his quaff had flopped over with the force of his fall, unexpectedly), "I told you, vulnerability is the essence of all art, Rosie, I don't know why you would've expected anything different!'
Marley "Perfectly good- Mr. Clarington, I offered my services to take pictures of you, not your phallus!" she protested, her cheeks now a lively shade of green as she glared at him. Anger? Embarrassment? Both? Oh, she could throttle him right then if he were appropriately clothed. "And no, don't even start calling me 'Rosie', there will be no pleasantries here when you've just sprung this on me. Since when does vulnerability in art involve you lounging nude inside a chandelier??" She gestured wildly to the light fixture in question, eyes flickering briefly to his face again before she averted them. Definitely embarrassment. "Aether, Mr. Clarington, give a girl some warning!"
Hunter Clarington: "I /am/ my phallus!" Hunter returned, before he could recognize its nonsensical nature, skin darkening to a frustrated shade of red - he would appreciate its harmony with the room's color scheme if he wasn't so flustered. He had spent long hours preparing for this, and now there was oil all over the floor and his quaff was absolutely /ruined/. He drew himself up off the floor with a huff, still holding his robe in front of him and making wild angry gestures with his free hand, back and forth between the chandelier and Marley and the camera like it was some twisted schoolyard pastime, "Please explain to me what's more vulnerable then being nude on top of a chandelier! There's glass and I have /all/ my bits out next to the glass, and I could /fall/, obviously, I could /fall/ on one of my /bits/!" He babbled, glaring eyes trained intensely on the Fae's. "You want some warning?" He asked, and then threw his robe aside again, smacking the edges of his hands down against the 'V' of his hips, "There's your warning! Now, look alive!"
Marley didn't scream - had she screamed? it felt like more of a shout of alarm, but WHATEVER - this time as he threw away his robe once more, though she did make a mixed sound of protest and frustration, scoffing as she threw her hands up in disgust. Her eyes averted again, lips pursed in a progressively thinning line as she braced her hands on her hips instead and shook her head. "Was that really necessary?!" she asked, the question coming out more similarly to that of a growl. "You're being so- you know what, just get in the aetherdamn chandelier, Mr. Clarington, and kindly stop pointing at it with your hands. I don't want to see it." She shoo'd him away with both hands toward the light fixture, her cheeks still flaming as she moved back to her camera to refocus, all the while muttering to herself under her breath. "If I'd known this was what I had signed up for, I would've given everyone an flipping floral arrangement instead, Aether and Earth Mother..."
Hunter Clarington rolled his eyes, ignoring the Fae's protestant whining as he climbed back onto the traitor Chandelier, pulling himself up with a certain effortlessness. He would be lying if he said he wasn't a little offended that Marley didn't want to see it - she didn't? Not at all? He frankly thought that had been impossible, if he was being perfectly honest. "There's nothing crude about a phallus, Ms. Rose. It's... kind of like a flower! You like flowers. Oh, it's, uh, kind of like those flowers I got you for Yule. Just think, you know, giant, bulging, veiny flower." He suggested in his most helpful tone of voice, flattering himself indefinitely, "You know what, next year you can try your hand at writing a book, but this year you are going to make some Aetherdamned art and you are going to /like it/."
Marley made a face at the mention of bulging, veiny flowers. "For your information, Mr. Clarington, the only body part I've ever seen a flower remotely resemble naturally in the wild is not one that belongs to the male race," she quipped. "As for that pillow, I'll have you know that it traumatized my cat. Regardless of whether the art was inventive or even beautifully done, it would still count as a defilement of a perfectly good bloom and had you given that gift to any other Fae on campus, you would've found yourself with a thousand splinters in your hand as a 'thank you' gift." She huffed in frustration, busying herself with adjusting the tripod and the angle of the camera. At his thinly veiled order though, she looked away from the camera to narrow her eyes at him again. "I'm the one with the camera, Mr. Clarington. You may choose your poses however you like, but I won't have you ordering me to like anything just because you say so."
Hunter Clarington was too busy draping himself, elegant and refined, against the chandelier to bother with any of the Rose girl's raging nonsense or blatant lack of appreciation. That pillow was an excellent gift! It demonstrated his knowledge of her interests as a Fae who was... straight? Presumably? Or was at least dating A Boy at A Time. The point was, it had been an excellent gift. At the emergence of her stern-voiced regulations, Hunter huffed, wiggling a little to try and relax into his pose - it was a tall order. "Alright, alright, I'll keep my beautiful mouth shut, just /please/ take some pictures."
Marley would've corrected him again, but he had had the decency to say 'please'. Even if it had come with an attitude. She rolled her eyes again, but moved her focus back to the camera and angling it just right. The lighting from the chandelier rendered her softbox light unnecessary, so once she had a good angle and a clear shot, she snapped a few. He looked utterly ridiculous. Her professor would probably be pleased with herself though. "Do you always insist on such outlandish choice of props while posing for the camera, Mr. Clarington?" she asked as she moved the tripod to take a few more shots from a different point in the room.
Hunter Clarington shook his head calmly, finding it easier to settle once he knew he was being properly documented. "No, not always," He answered, hopping down from the chandelier and silently willing Marley to get some photos of him in action as he did. He ambled his way over to a nearby leather couch and propped himself up on that next. "More often than not, there aren't any props at all. Just me against a colored background, in all my glory. You almost have to go minimalist with such a complex-bodied subject, but I believe in your potential to make me look glorious here, too." Well, mostly he believed in him, but he thought he should say something nice.
Marley was once again disappointed by the lack of another spill - surely he'd left some oil behind on the floor the first time - but the nicer part of her conscience was nagging her about being, well, nice to her subject. So she let it go. For now. Instead she focused on trying to 'capture the moment', as one of the people in photography club had once put it, grabbing a few shots of Hunter as he moved from away from the chandelier and to a nearby couch. She half expected him to slip off of that as well. "Complex-bodied?" she asked, raising a skeptical brow as she looked at him from over top her camera. "Your body is a body, Mr. Clarington. How complex can you make something so simple?" On second thought, she didn't want an answer. She had a feeling he had one waiting in his back pocket. "Nevermind. I didn't bring a tarp background for this shoot, and I prefer to take pictures within an actual natural environment, but since Saltus is still closed off to the public without a guide, this 'dark den' will have to do..." One photo. Two. Three. She paused to turn on the softbox and readjust her camera. "Aether, I hope that oil comes off the couch. Are you sure the college doesn't mind us using this room?" she asked mid-shot.
Hunter Clarington "You know, innumerable rippling muscles, flawlessly sculpted hair, pricks of shadowy stubble... I could go on," He offered, although already perfectly away that that was not what the fae wanted in the least. When she brought up the notion of shooting in the forest, he didn't despise it at all... in fact, he would've approved whole-heartedly, if he wasn't worried for the potential effect of tree's bark on his baby-smooth skin. He stretched flexed arms over his head for the next shot. The oil was a distant concern. "I'm sure the college doesn't mind /me/ using this room," He told her, with a self-assured chuckle, "You know why?'
Marley rolled her eyes again, this time without caring whether he noticed or not. "Let me guess-" She paused to take a few more shots. "-because of your father?" Her tone was one of disinterest. She had no desire to hear about the parents of the various Bloodline witches she'd had the pleasure of making acquaintance with. But she also did not want to be stuck with the silence and whatever assumptions were running through his head about her and her talents as a photographer.
Hunter Clarington laughed and nodded, "Because of my father," He confirmed. He waited amongst several more fleeting bursts of light before he drawled back to the center of the floor to retrieve his robe, which he tied around his waist. "Allow me to relieve you of your duties, Ms. Rose. I was wrong; you do know a thing or two about capturing beauty." He pulled at the handles of the bow at the center of his stomach to tighten in, and clapped her on the shoulder, "Send me the prints before they get published anywhere; if they're a disaster I will refuse to acknowledge that I already utilized your coupon until you've met my incredibly high standards as an artist."
Marley eyed the hand on her shoulder, then his face, raising a warning brow. She wasn't above an accidental thorn slip, if necessary. "I'll be sure to make you a proof sheet and some actual prints, delivered discreetly to your mailbox," she agreed, hoping against hope that would be enough to keep him from requesting another session of nudes in the 'dark den'. Or that he would at least give her fair enough warning. Maybe she ought to get a supervisor on lockdown before that happened. "Thank you for a titillating evening. I'll certainly never forget it." She tried not to sound sarcastic. It was debatable about how that translated when added to her sweet smile as she packed up her camera and broke down the tripod.
Hunter Clarington went to a desk in the corner to get his shoes and coat back on for the journey home to Notos Towers. "No," He agreed, "You won't. Especially if the prints are a success." Breathing in the artistic atmosphere for moments more, he swung his arms at his sides and made up a list in his head of who amongst his famous artistic associates would care to see what they'd done - likely the majority of them, since they could appreciate a rousing session of glorifying the human form. "There's an Achilles waiting outside to accompany you home," Hunter nodded, "Just to ensure your safety at this hour of night. And I will talk to you when proofs are made. Yes?"
Marley inwardly sighed. Even if Mr. Clarington was at times utterly insufferable and his methods of, well everything, unorthodox, even she had to admit that he was still a gentleman. He was sending her home with an escort, after all. It was almost thoughtful. Almost. Aether help her if the prints didn't turn out well. "Thank you, Mr. Clarington," she nodded, even going so far as to give him a somewhat more genuine smile as she picked her remaining equipment up to lug back outside. "Talk to you soon."
