When Foca said work was lined up for all the artists, he meant every single word of it.
Each of them was swiftly led to their first scheduled assignment.
For August and Jordan, their day began with an editorial campaign for a well-known teen magazine—Distro Teen.
The concept was simple, fun, and bursting with life.
Youth.
Both young men were dressed in bright pastel outfits, colors soft yet vibrant, perfectly matching the energy they naturally exuded.
They shone—effortlessly.
So much so that even the crew and staff couldn't help but pause to admire them. Their presence radiated positivity, the kind that made people smile without realizing it. They brought so much brightness into the room that anyone watching might've needed sunglasses just to keep from being blinded.
"Be natural. Be youthful," the photographer instructed.
And damn—did they deliver.
They played rock, paper, scissors between shots.
Jordan hoisted August onto his back, laughing as they nearly toppled over.
They teased, joked, moved without stiffness or pretense—just two young men being themselves.
The camera loved them.
By the end of the shoot, the photographer pulled them aside, genuinely impressed.
"You two are the easiest models I've ever worked with," he said warmly. "I'm really glad I got to work with you."
He told them how much he enjoyed capturing their energy—pure, unadulterated, almost childlike in its innocence. Something rare. Something real.
The crew echoed the sentiment.
They praised August and Jordan not just for their professionalism, but for being humble, kind, and completely down-to-earth.
No egos. No airs.
Just light.
****
In another studio across the city, Eli was scheduled for a high-fashion editorial shoot.
From the moment he arrived with his manager, Elikai, it was clear something was off.
What greeted them was a surprise—one that had most definitely not been relayed or approved in advance.
Eli was expected to model fully nude.
The concept, according to the photographer, was meant to be an artistic celebration of the male form. A tribute to beauty, vulnerability, and strength.
But the proposed poses?
They edged dangerously close to erotic art.
Elikai didn't hesitate.
Bless his terrifyingly efficient heart, he practically dragged Eli out of the studio. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as his icy rage filled the space—so sharp and suffocating that a few crew members genuinely looked like they might pass out.
The man was oozing bloodlust, and he wasn't bothering to hide it.
"Absolutely not," Elikai said, his voice calm but lethal as he leaned dangerously close to the photographer. "My artist will not be subjected to something that could degrade his credibility because of your failure to communicate."
The photographer felt his spine go cold.
And honestly? The reaction was justified.
Eli was a newly debuted artist. What would people think if he suddenly appeared naked on the front page of a major magazine?
Sure—Eli's hoes would absolutely combust and probably buy every copy in existence.
But everyone else?
They'd question his artistry.
They'd question his talent.
They'd ask whether he was relying on his body instead of his work to survive in the industry.
Intentions didn't matter.
Public opinion never cared.
"If you don't want us walking out of here," Elikai continued coolly, "with your employer losing money and your own credibility permanently damaged, I suggest you come up with a better concept—one that doesn't involve my artist being naked."
It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
And the reason Elikai could act this way so unapologetically?
Foca.
The magazine—Alpha—had practically begged for Eli to front their campaign. Not for art, but for favor. The owner of Alpha was among the few in high society who personally knew Foca's family, having crossed paths with them at countless elite gatherings.
Foca had already warned the owner.
It didn't matter whether he supported the campaign or not—he had no control over his family's decisions. He could pass along a positive word, sure, but that was exactly the kind of power play he despised.
The owner hadn't cared.
They wanted Eli anyway.
As it turned out, the owner's daughter was one of Eli's hoes.
So… yeah.
That explained a lot.
As the photographer hurried off to make frantic phone calls, Elikai returned to Eli—who had been waiting quietly, looking far more amused than bothered.
"Look at what you did to that poor man, Eli (Pronounced as Eh-lee)," Eli said with a smirk. "You scared the living shit out of him. I would've been fine modeling in my birthday suit."
"Absolutely not, Eli (Pronounced as E-lai)," Elikai snapped, not missing a beat. "My job is to protect your image. Yes, you're famously allergic to shirts—that I can work with. But there are lines. And posing nude crosses one."
"At least not this early in your career."
Eli blinked.
Then his eyes lit up.
"Holy shit," he said, genuinely intrigued. "Does that mean in the future, I can model nude?"
Elikai sighed, already regretting everything.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."
Eli nodded slowly, satisfied.
"Good shit," he said. "I'll hold you to that."
Modeling nude?
Yeah.
That just got added to the bucket list.
****
And when the photographer finally returned, a solution had been reached.
Not a huge one—but a solution nonetheless.
"Uh…" the photographer began, voice noticeably trembling, "would it be alright if Eli stayed shirtless and barefoot—but wore different kinds of pants?"
Elikai exhaled slowly, like a man choosing mercy.
"Yes," he said at last, "but with conditions."
His brow lifted just enough to warn everyone in the room that this was not a negotiation.
"If you fail to agree to even one of these," Elikai continued evenly, "my artist and I will walk out. No questions. Clear?"
"Of course!" the photographer blurted out, nodding so hard his neck almost snapped.
"Good."
Elikai finally allowed himself to move forward.
"First," he said firmly, "no poses that border on erotica. Non-negotiable."
The photographer nodded immediately.
"Second, I will personally approve and monitor what my artist wears."
Another nod.
"Lastly, this shoot will not exceed one hour. We have another important engagement to attend. Understood?"
"Absolutely," the photographer said without hesitation.
Truth be told, he'd already been instructed to agree to whatever terms were laid out. His original vision might have been… adjusted—but the shoot was still viable. And considering the very hefty paycheck attached to it?
Yeah. No complaints.
And so, the shoot proceeded.
To everyone's surprise, despite the earlier delay, everything ran smoothly—and finished right on time.
Eli, it turned out, was an absolute natural.
Like… stupidly natural.
The first look featured unbuttoned jeans, the fly casually open just enough to show his underwear. Eli posed like he was simply hanging out, hands tucked lazily into the back pockets, expression relaxed and effortless.
Nothing forced. Nothing try-hard.
The second look was silk pajama pants.
Without waiting for direction, Eli deliberately messed up his hair, leaning fully into a sleepy, just-rolled-out-of-bed vibe.
It worked phenomenally.
At one point, Eli decided to test the limits.
Feigning a lazy yawn, he stretched his arms overhead, then—oh so casually—let his hand drift down, tugging the hem of his silk pajama pants just enough on the right side to expose the sharp line of his hip bone… and then some.
The effect was immediate.
A collective gasp rippled through the set. Crew members blushed. Someone dropped a reflector. Another person very clearly forgot how to breathe.
But before the photographer could even lift his camera—
THWACK.
A slipper came flying at Eli at near-light speed, striking him square in the chest.
"Ooof—what the hell?!" Eli wheezed, the air completely knocked out of his lungs.
Elikai lowered his arm calmly.
"I got your mother's blessing," he said coolly, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips, "to use her very special slippers—which she very kindly lent me—specifically for moments like this. When you start acting out of hand."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, leave me alone," Eli whined, pouting like an offended child.
Unfortunately for everyone's sanity, it only made him look more adorable. And somehow… sexier.
The energy on set shifted.
Baby-girl-coded. Dangerous. Lethal.
Somewhere deep within the studio, several fujo hearts beat faster.
What would it be like if Eli got dominated—
A loud, unholy squeal suddenly pierced the air.
Eli blinked. Elikai frowned.
"…Holy shit," Eli muttered, looking around. "Is someone dying of something?"
"Oh! No, no, everything's fine," the photographer said a little too quickly, waving his hands. "No need to worry at all."
Meanwhile, the overly enthusiastic fujoshi members of the camera crew were quietly—but very efficiently—"escorted" out of the studio.
Silence returned.
Elikai adjusted his sleeve.
"Now," he said calmly, "shall we continue?"
The final look?
A full-body rash guard—but only the bottom half worn, the top hanging loose. His skin was misted with water to give the illusion of just finishing a surf session. A surfboard rested at his side.
This one was home.
As a known surfer, Eli didn't need to act. His movements were fluid, his posture instinctive, every pose grounded in muscle memory and comfort.
When the shoot wrapped, both Eli and Elikai were genuinely satisfied.
The photographer couldn't stop praising Eli, admitting it would be painfully difficult to choose the final shots—because every single frame was usable.
And honestly?
Eli exuded sex appeal even when doing absolutely nothing.
That was just who he was.
Thankfully, every image stayed well within the boundaries Elikai had drawn. Sexy? Fine. Confident? Encouraged.
Borderline pornographic?
Absolutely the fuck not.
And so, with the shoot successfully behind them, Eli and Elikai left the studio in high spirits—already en route to their next assignment.