#send asks!

“Why don’t we give our model a break for a little while, yeah?” The art teacher clapped her hands a few times to gather everyones attention and it was like a deep breath went through the room.

You were grateful most of all as you sat up from your reclined position, stretching the knots in your upper back and releasing the tension from your legs.

You really needed to stop convincing yourself laying down was more comfortable than any other position. 20+ minutes stuck in any of them was gonna make your muscles scream.

The art teacher handed you the robe to give yourself some modesty (as if everyone in the room hadn’t been painting you naked) and you tied it around your waist snugly.

A lot of the artists left their stations, either to fill up their water, pee, or get a snack, and you liked to use that time to meander and see what they’d been working on. It was always a little jarring to see yourself painted or drawn from so many different angels. Most people thought it’d be the whole “seeing yourself painted in the nude” that freaked you out, but you got over that really fast.

It was intersting to see yourself from the lens of so many others. What parts of your face or body they chose to capture in detail, the creative liberties they took with form and color, or even if they bothered to draw you at all. There were always a few people who’d work more on the blankets on the stage or wooden floors.

You started your usual rounds, but you were really doing so as a courtesy so you could see his art.

Steve Rogers.

You’d talked to him maybe all of once even though he’d been present at most of your sessions. He was a reserved man and strikingly beautiful. Brilliant blue eyes, blond hair with streaks of warm gold when the sun (or the studio lights) hit it just right, and the tallness and muscles were a definite added bonus. Though he, much like you, wanted to be present but not seen. But only one of you could get away with that at these lessons.

Steve seemed marginally startled as you fully skipped past the person next to him to view his canvas. He snapped shut a small blue notebook and let it drop to the floor by his bag.

“Hi.” You offered a small smile, meeting his gaze.

“Hey,” he replied by also saying your name just as softly before looking at his painting. He sat a little straighter, and you watched his adams apple bob as he swallowed. You followed his move and looked at what he’d made.

“Oh, wow!” It was hard to control your impressed reaction. Time and time again people had drawn and painted you as objectively as possible, but this was the first time you felt that he’d manage to capture something more.

“Is that your main medium?” You asked curiously, gripping your robe tighter around you as you leaned in closer to the painting. It still smelled heavily of oil and turpentine but you’d grown mostly accustomed to the scent.

From Steve’s point of view, you were perfectly horizontal, but he’d decided to focus on your body from the ribs up. Your head was turned away from him, towards the window that was letting in soft light, and your arm was acting as a pillow for your head.

“No, not at all,” Steve dryly laughed, “I’m a whole lot better with pencil.”

He must’ve not liked his own reply because he quickly turned his head and cleared his throat. You weren’t overly skilled with painting yourself, but he was clumsy enough with the tools that it was obvious he was hiding something.

“You must be a Michelangelo with pencils then, holy shit…” You whispered. It mightve been a little egotistical, but you wanted to take his painting home with you. It was like those photos you’d take of yourself during goldenhour, or the mirror selfies youd take after getting a new shirt. The photos that were just for you and no one else.

You wanted to pry further, ask him how he painted you with such clarity and reverence. You wanted to know more about this man who was so different from eccentric older men, middle aged moms, and young college students doing this for extra credit. But you didn’t get the chance to as the art teacher beckoned you back to the center of the room.

And so there you posed off an on for another thirty minutes, this time sitting in a more comfortable chair leaning your upper body against a painted crate.

And Steve was -- for maybe the first time ever -- very glad you weren’t faced towards him. It gave him the ability to slip his sketchbook into his bag without feeling caught.

Sure, it wasn’t weird to draw the model in his art classes… but a better first impression was one where you didn’t see the multiple pages he’d spent trying to perfect the smile lines on your face and the scrunch of your nose when you laughed.

He was almost the opposite of Michalangelo, really.