A/N:

Ladies and gentlemen! In the spirit of Valentine's Day, I present for your enjoyment what will likely end up being romantic erotica of the kinky variety. Chapter two will be forthcoming shortly. From there, I will update as often and quickly as I can. As always, reviews and comments are welcome. Please keep those gloves up and enjoy the show.

Doctor Alonzo Mousekewitz had retired from the art world and his career as a minor artist for three reasons. The first was he'd never been a notable success as an artist. His painting career hadn't been terrible, but no one would ever write a biography about him. Instead, he chose to leave the art to the artists and engage in the second reason; a teaching post at Zootopia University that was offered contingent upon completing his doctorate in Art History at the same institution. It was hardly a chore to put down the pallet and become an academic. He did still have his experience in art to call upon and it lent him some small fringe benefits. For instance, indulging in an occasional bit of recreational painting on the University's bankroll and mentoring young, promising artists.

That coincided with the third reason; passion. He had once witnessed true artistic passion once and only once. The event occurred when he had gone to a workshop which boasted a demonstration by Nicolas Wilde. The workshop had been packed with mammals eager to see the famous sculptor work. Known for his sharp wit and oft times acerbic commentary, the renowned artist hadn't said a word. He'd simply addressed the assembled spectators with a small bow and turned his attention to the blob of clay on the work surface. What followed was, in Alonzo's opinion, not a demonstration of artistic skill, so much as an assault. The focus and emotion the fox exhibited while he worked was the polar opposite to his famed placid demeanor. He attacked the clay as though he were a hateful lover, or a tender sadist.

The result, thirty minutes later, was the tipping point in his decision to give up art as a professional endeavor. After seeing such a display of prowess and expression, he knew he would be better off teaching. His art would never compare.

In the four years since then, Alonzo had been privileged to oversee the development of several score of young artists, but none had displayed the same passion, or drive as he had seen in thirty minutes of a fox beating a blob of earth into something exquisitely beautiful. That was, of course, until this morning when he had walked into his studio space to find his most irritating student at her easel, attacking the canvas as though she intended to murder it, a look of comingled fury, delight and hunger plastered across her little grey muzzle.

Rather than speak, lest he break the spell of her maniacal fervor, he elected to sit and watch.

It was an irony, he thought, that only a handful of months ago he had all but written her off as another drone-artist. She had the talent to create and skills which were blooming, but no drive, or ambition. No aspiration. No inspiration. Just a deep love for the crafting. So many like her had been destined for mediocrity, or the ignominious ending of the hobby artist, like himself. However, now he was tentatively hopeful. There was a feeling of immanence to the moment he found himself in. Doctor Mousekewitz dared to think for a breath that he was witnessing something that history would cherish... the start of a masterful artist's career; a second Nicolas Wilde. He smiled, rather dopily he imagined, at the fact that he had not long ago banned her from the studio.

"Please, sir!"

"No."

"Please! I promise, I'll replace the materials I've used."

"The paints and supplies you've expended are of little account to me. The University provides them in exchange for your tuition."

"Then, why are you kicking me out? I haven't done anything wrong!"

The flat look her department-assigned mentor gave her told the young rabbit that there was no way he was falling for the dumb-bunny routine. She sighed and collected her jacket and satchel on her way to the door.

It was midway through her fourth semester at ZU that Judy was forced to admit she was burning out. Art had been her passion since she was a kit. Color and composition, use of light and shadows, texture and expression. Her mediums had been paint and collage all her life. She had talent. That wasn't to say there wasn't work involved in her art. There was. A lot. Too much, according to her academic advisor and art mentor.

Art was her life. Creation. Expression. Passion!

Narcolepsy.

Classes and projects consumed her time, often leaving her too exhausted to make it back to the overcrowded apartment she shared with some of her siblings and friends. After the fifth week of finding her asleep on the couch in his studio, her mentor kicked her out until she relearned what it meant to have "a work-life balance", as he put it. Her advisor echoed the sentiment, citing the less than normal grades she'd gotten on her previous set of submissions.

They weren't wrong. She was loathe to admit it, but her work was slipping because she was too worn out. Her mentor demanded a week without seeing so much as a whisker and all her supplies were at his studio. She couldn't work on anything. A week's holiday sounded lovely, but she knew she'd be antsy before the second day ended and she'd need to at least draw, or do something; all of which were forbidden at present.

She trudged away from the studio unhappily, pausing only when she found herself by the university bulletin board. It was cluttered to the point of absurdity, as usual.

Judy rarely paid it any mind, but she had nothing else to do and she was already feeling the absence of a creative outlet.

The abused cork board was covered in the usual hodgepodge of fliers. Psychology students needing volunteers for a study. A rally for the team on Friday night. Parties advertised at various locales. Nothing appealing. She didn't fancy herself as a test subject. Sports weren't her thing. Drunken hijinks and the subsequent hangovers had lost their appeal after maybe the first two weeks of her first year. There was nothing that would help her relax. In a fit of offhanded curiosity, she glanced at the small section reserved for non-academic related postings.

Normally, the space was covered, overshadowed by dozens of other sheets, but someone had cleaned up the overhangs, leaving the small selection of index cards somewhat visible.

Two requests for help with moving apartments, which were already out of date; a few rooms-to-let postings; a lost bag notification; and a small blue card. The card caught her eye. Not only as it the only tastefully colored piece of cardstock on the board, but it was a collection of strange, subtly interesting clues. A tiny blotch of oil or paint in a corner. Some scorching along the edge. A film of pigment, no, clay! Something screamed "artist" to her. It was only then that she read the actual text and felt a little silly.

Model wanted
Regular/semi-regular work
Hours, pay & scope of work negotiable
Call: xx-xxx-xxxx-xxxx

Judy had no desire to be a model. She thought she was rather dowdy by most standards. Not at all what an artist would want as a subject for their work. However, she needed something artistic to tide her over. It would also be nice to get a little extra cash. She was running lower than she liked on some of her pigments and working at the student center was barely enough.

Figuring it never hurt to try, Judy pulled out her phone and called the number. It picked up on the fifth ring.

The voice was soft and velvety with an undercurrent of irritation. "Sanchez, I told you the new piece will be ready Thursday."

"Um, Hello?"

"Oh! Apologies. I thought you were someone unpleasant."

"No problem. My name is Judy Hopps. I'm calling about the modeling job posted at the university?"

"Excellent! The board down the street from the co-op and student union, correct?"

"Um, yeah."

Judy heard someone else's comment floating in the background, "I told you that was a good spot," followed by a mumbled, "Go back to your welding, Jack," before the voice returned to her. "Are you available to meet to discuss the position?"

"Yes, but I'd prefer sooner rather than later."

"Music to my ears. Are you still by the bulletin board, by any chance?"

"Yes. I just found your card a moment ago."

"Perfect. Head past the food trucks behind the board to Fleece Street and turn right. Three blocks down is Safflower Lane. Take a left there. It'll be the old stone house on the left side with the long driveway and hydrangeas out front. Think you can find it?"

"We'll know in ten minutes."

A sharp bark of laughter surprised her as it popped out of her phone's speaker, followed by, "Sounds good." Then the line went dead. Judy wasn't unused to the eccentricities of her fellow artists, so the abrupt end to the call wasn't a shock to her. She'd obviously interrupted whoever it was while they were working.

She'd been partly sarcastic when she'd responded to the voice asking if she could find the place. Safflower Lane was a byword among local artists and art students. Several famous talents lived or had studio spaces on that street. The chance she'd taken on the call was now looking like a much better investment of her time. A well-known or influential artist would be invaluable as a contact down the road. She just had to make a good impression and hope for the best.

On the other end of the call, a paw lingered for a moment on the receiver of the old-style rotary phone.

It was a red-furred paw; strong and calloused, used to hard work, and mottled with clay in various stages of drying. A good soak and scrub would remove most of the earthy substances, but the smell would never leaver, not after so many years. Of course, the scent of earth and water would never leave his paws so long as he had breath in him and the strength to create, much like the paws that draped across his chest from behind moments after he hung up would never lose their scent of scorched metal and ozone.

Nick leaned back into his well-worn couch as he enjoyed the casual affection of his housemate. He and Jack had lived together for years, now. Their relationship was more than friends, but not quite definable as lovers. They were each other's support, of sorts; close in that particular way that only kindred spirits could be. He had never 'dated' his lapidae cohabitator in the traditional sense, but that wasn't to say they didn't have a certain degree of familiarity with each other. He was not one to shy away from affection, regardless of its form, with a mammal he trusted. The ease of long-familiarity had certain advantages after all, among them, trust. Otherwise, Nick would never willingly share his space, let alone the secret of his inspiration.

As Nick gazed at his latest work, he sighed contentedly.

"I see you're pleased with this piece. Who was on the phone?"

"A potential model," replied the fox.

"How intriguing," Jack murmured as he nuzzled into the fox's shoulder.

"Not now, honey bunny."

"Yes, yes. I know how you are when you work."

"I'm more worried about your suit." Nick was not surprised in the least when the other mammal pulled away. "I assume your class went well?"

Jack nodded as he began disrobing.

"I just finished with Celeste. I'm almost done for the day," Nick commented as he gazed with familiar-fascination at the impromptu strip-tease.

"You always say that." A tiny, almost delicate, snort escaped from Jack as he met the eyes of his companion.

"I mean it," Nick insisted, placing a paw over his heart. "Celeste is cleaning up. She'll leave once she's finished her shower. All I have left is this interview. I'll wrap up and I'll take you out to dinner."

"I'd rather stay in, tonight."

"Your lecture was that taxing?"

"Just a molly who wanted a little time after class," Jack grumbled lightly.

"The same one?" Nick enquired, though he suspect he already knew the answer.

"Of course."

"Persistent, isn't she?"

"Much like your current muse," Jack chortled eyeing the washroom currently in use.

"Her interest is in you, not I." Nick smirked slightly at the expression Jack made in return.

"You're a terrible liar," Jack retorted, ignoring the knowing look he was on the receiving end of and countering it with one of his own. "Perhaps we should have her join us for dinner."

"Didn't you want to stay in?"

"I do," Jack answered with a puckish grin.

Nick chuckled as the rabbit edged closer. "No leading mammals on, Jack. We agreed."

Jack feigned innocence as he leaned his partially nude form into the fox. "Who said we were going to be leading anyone on?"

Nick arched a brow at that. "Finally developed a taste for females, have we?"

"I have a taste for females. I simply have high standards. I just want to... enjoy the view." Jack nuzzled into the fox's jaw before peeking up at him from beneath the dark fringe of his lashes. "You know how I love watching you work."

Offering up a toothy grin in reply, Nick subtly adjusted his posture. "You and your strange voyeuristic streak... I'll ask. Maybe for the weekend? I need some inspiration for the next piece."

"Good boy," praised Jack, not bothering to hide the satisfied curve of his muzzle. "The piece for the corporate drone?"

"Architect," Nick corrected.

"Ah. The drone was for his boss' wife, wasn't it?"

"I don't do busts. I sent him packing."

Jack once again began nuzzling, burrowing with his nose until he found the skin beneath the fox's ruff. "Very good boy!"

"Very," Nick reached out to gather a pawful of fluffy tail only to have Jack slip away from him with a wink.

Grinning, Jack left the room to finish getting changed. Nick chuckled and tossed a sheet over his current project before heading to the kitchen to make coffee as he waited for his appointment to show up. The French press was ready to plunge when his sharp hearing alerted him to someone at the door. It was nothing that could be named. More a collection of small tells; an overture to the grand symphony. The sound of scuffing on the stone stairs, a paw's pressure making the bannister groan lightly and the windchimes that everyone taller than a stoat ran into were enough to give it away.

Nick loved meeting new people. They always presented a new perspective and a new puzzle; things that broadened his world and added to his art. He quickly depressed the plunger for the coffee and set it on the table with his mug and a smaller cup. Upon reflection, he went with a much smaller one. He suspected his visitor to be of petite stature. Once that was done, all he had to do was wait.

Judy was a touch anxious. Disregarding the fact that she was at the home of a mammal she'd never met before, this was Safflower Lane. She hadn't thought about it past the practicality of it at the time, but this was Safflower Lane! This one shaded street that stretched between the university and the market district housed some of the most famed and respected artists in the city. Many had international renown. She was standing at the door to one of their homes.

Potentially.

Not every mammal who resided on the Lane was an artist and of those that were, not all were famous. It was entirely possible that she was about to meet a garden variety dabbler who wanted to stare at a college girl in the nude while pretending to sketch. There were plenty of cautionary tales floating about, after all.

The more she thought about it, the more Judy was inclined to question the sense of setting up this little interview. She was only banned from the studio for three weeks. She could do some pickup work at the greenhouses for the agricultural school, or go back to the library for a bit. They'd be happy to have an extra pair of paws to help with the shelving; and shooing amorous freshmen out of the stacks. She was sorely tempted, now that she had arrived, to just blow it off. However, the chance it was a genuine name in the artworld had her hesitating. Even a decent conversation with a major artist could be helpful to her in the long run, motivationally, if nothing else.

Mentally shaking herself, Judy shelved her mental ping-pong. It was getting her nowhere. She'd know in seconds if the guy was a creep and she'd be on her way. Worst case scenario, she had a good kick and he had testicles. If he didn't a knee would suffice.

Reaching up, Judy rapped smartly on the wooden door and was immediately surprised to hear chuckling from the other side. The door swung open and time seemed to lose its significance on her reality. Standing in front of her was a red fox. He was bare chested and a bit disheveled, covered in spatters of clay.

"I was wondering if you were going to knock, or lose your nerve."

"You're…"

He extended a paw. "Nick Wilde. Please, excuse the mess."

Judy reflexively took his paw and shook. "Sorry?"

"My paw. The clay?"

"Oh!" Judy flushed in embarrassment at being so slow on the uptake. "It's no trouble. I'm the same way with paint."

"A fellow artist!" Nick's smile deepened, as did Judy's nervousness. "Come in."

Her host directed her to the kitchen table where she sat. The table was low for him, but just about perfect for her. Judy seated herself and watched as the fox made a pot of coffee. She could hardly believe it.

Nicolas P. Wilde's sculptures were prized, often the crowning jewels of whatever collection or gallery they were a part of. His "falling" pieces were especially famous. Somehow, he managed to create in clay the distinct sense of falling, or floating. Angels, characters from myth and legend, famous historical moments and classic romances were the subjects of his usual work. He was well known for cloth-draped forms, odd-yet-graceful body positioning and depictions of distress and release or escape. His 'Divine Mysteries' series presented a view of ecstatic suffering from obscure myths that had set the artworld ablaze.

Then, a few years ago, The Museum of Modern Art, in the old part of the city, received a donation from the enigmatic artist that changed everything. It was a spectacular piece depicting the escape of a minor earth goddess from her imprisonment in the underworld, which marked the coming of spring; a glorious confection of feathers, flower petals, and flowing cloth, the sculpture's crowning achievement was the expression of bliss on the goddess' face. It was also the first Wilde that required suspension for display. The museum had panicked initially, but eventually got the gallery upgraded to handle the new addition. It had been the crowning glory of the museum wing since, hanging proudly in the spotlight.

Here he was, standing half-naked in front of her, humming to himself as he worked. Her situation could only have been more surreal if there were a melting clock on the wall. When, she glanced over, she saw a novelty melting clock on the wall. Her chuckling got his attention.

"Something funny?"

"Your clock. I was just thinking this was as surreal as it gets, then I saw it."

"You find this surreal?"

"A little?" Judy replied bashfully. Then, when he didn't respond, she blurted, "Oh, come on! I think it's surreal that a world-famous artist like you opens the door half naked after I answer a tiny advert on a college announcement board and then I see a melting clock."

Nick smirked, then gestured for her to fix a cup of coffee for herself. "You need a sharp mind to catch subtle irony in one's own life and appreciate it."

"Pity you can't depict a mind in clay," Judy commented as she reached out to bring the pot and mug closer.

At that, Nick sat back. "You can't?"

"I can't," Judy clarified.

"Oh? You think your art is so limited?" The fox arched a brow at his guest, hardly bothering to hide his amusement at her flustered state.

"Not limited. It's just… Expressing the whole of a person is a monumental task," she sputtered.

"Positively herculean." Nick's comment was sardonic, but was completely missed by his interviewee, as was the fact that he'd reached for a sketch pad and charcoal while she was distracted.

"I wish I could get as close as you to accomplishing it."

"You can't?" Nick asked as his paw brought charcoal to paper.

"I haven't yet. That's one of the reasons I'm looking for short-term work," she replied. While the coffee cup was the right size, the pot was slightly too large and took concentration to pour. It didn't help that she was still fighting a case of butterflies and desperately hoping not to spill the hot liquid everywhere. Just thinking about the possibility made her nose want to twitch.

"I don't follow." As Nick prompted her, the soft scrape on the paper was a surrus of background noise and nothing more.

Judy's nose wrinkled as she added sugar and cream to her mug. "My mentor on campus kicked me out of the studio until I learn to take breaks."

"You're overworking yourself?"

"He thinks so. I only fell asleep at the easel twice this week," she grumbled. "I don't know what he's complaining about."

"That's improvement?" Nick asked, mildly surprised.

"At finals last term I didn't leave the studio for eight days." Nick noted a touch of pride in her voice and wondered at it.

"I see. Are you struggling in your classes?"

"Not the academic stuff. It feels like I'm missing something in my art." Judy took a sip of her coffee and added another touch of cream.

"What's your medium? I don't mean tarot cards."

"Har har." Despite rolling her eyes, Judy couldn't help but grin. "Oil paint and collage."

"Hrm…"

At that, Judy resurfaced from her fugue. She'd been babbling her problems to a near-total stranger when she should have been paying attention and presenting herself well. It dawned on her that her chances of getting the job were effectively shot to hell. Kicking herself mentally, she drank from her now perfect coffee and slipped out of her chair.

Nick looked up, noting his guest's drooping ears. "Going somewhere?"

"I'm sorry. I came here to interview for a modeling job and just rambled for fifteen minutes about my own issues. I think it's safe to say I didn't get the job," Judy sighed.

"You think so?"

"I don't think my behavior made for a good impression," was her self-deprecating reply.

Nick gave her a long, considering look. "Hopps, was it? Do you have a problem with nudity?"

"I beg your pardon?" Her ears perked at the unexpected and sudden change in subject.

"Posing nude, fluff. Do you have a problem with it?"

"Not really, no," she answered hesitantly.

"So, you don't think so, but you've never done it." Judy wanted to protest, but Nick kept going. "You're banned for how long?"

"Three weeks," came Judy's flustered reply. She didn't understand where he was headed.

"You're free tomorrow, then?" he asked, though it seemed more like a statement.

"Yes?" she answered warily.

"All day?" the fox prompted.

"Yes! Why?" Judy snapped as confusion and nerves got the best of her.

"Good. Be here at nine o'clock sharp. Wear comfortable clothes and expect to be busy until late evening."

"I don't understand." Judy's nose twitched and her ears couldn't seem to decide what to do. Nick grinned broadly, flashing fang.

Judy watched as the fox stood and languidly pulled the sheet he had been drawing on from the pad. Handing it to her, he said, "You got the job, silly rabbit." She knew a huge, dopey grin had started to form on her face when he smiled back at her. Guiding her to the door, he opened it and ushered her out. "Nine o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late. Now, shoo."

The door closed behind her before the shock wore off and she shouted, "Thank you!" to the wood. She heard muffled laughter in reply and smiled wider.

She'd made a good impression! Despite her blundering through the meeting, she'd gotten the job! With him! She was so excited she could feel her fur standing on end. She found herself skipping her way back to her little shared room in the apartment, delighted as only a carefree co-ed could be on a beautiful day. When she arrived, her roomie was out, which was just as well. She was in too good a mood to share it just yet.

She sat at her cookie-cutter college room desk and finally looked at the sketch she'd been handed. A feeling she couldn't name took root in her gut. She wanted to name it, but all her brain power was aimed at the task of absorbing what she was seeing.

It was her. Just her sitting in her chair, staring out into whatever headspace she'd been in during their conversation, so oblivious that she hadn't even caught on that he'd been drawing. She felt a twinge of embarrassment as she realized how self-absorbed she'd been, but that was set aside in favor of bathing in the awe welling up from where ever it is that artistic appreciation dwells. Her essence in that moment was captured so clearly, it was painful. Her irritation with her mentor, anxiety and fear over her work, vexation at her stagnation, giddiness at being in his presence; all of it. All the jumbled emotions were laid out plain as day to her. She sat there, drinking it in until her roommate returned from class and dragged her off to the dining hall.

Nick closed the door and dropped his sketchbook back onto the table he'd pulled it from. He was feeling a particular hunger; a need he had to fulfill. His heart was pounding as it only did when genuine inspiration struck. An electric current rippled just under his skin. Jack found him as he was opening his little sea chest at the end of the ratty sofa.

"I see your interview went well," Jack commented with an amused cant to his voice.

"Very," Nick replied. "Is Celeste still here?"

"Yes. She and I were chatting, waiting for you to finish up."

Nick pulled the first cloth bundle out and set it lovingly on the coffee table. "Ask her if she's free for dinner tonight."

Jack blinked then grinned. "Are you planning to work all night, again?"

"Maybe."

"So, yes," Jack giggled. He was in for a treat.

"Ask Celeste to call her little sister, as well."

That stopped Jack cold. "Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Okay…"

"Come on, Jack. She's the only female in the city that you can't handle." Nick settled another, smaller bundle next to the first and winked at Jack before adding, "I'll need a little entertainment, too."

"You and your kinks."

"You have no room to talk."

"Oh, fine…" Jack grumped half-heartedly. "I'll ask. Don't be disappointed if she says no."

"If she says no, Celeste will have to take the whole night's work alone. I think Skye will ride to the rescue," Nick stated. "Besides, you'll be here to entertain her while she's not tied up with modeling."

"Your puns need work."

"So do your rebuttals. Ask."

Jack grumbled and tried to hide his grin as he left the room. Nick heard the hare's lyrical tenor mix with the vixen's soprano in the next room and he smiled to himself. If anyone else were in the room, they would call it anticipatory, or predatory, but Nick didn't care. The scent as he opened the first bundle wafted around his muzzle and he felt the calm wash over him. He lifted a hank of his favorite hemp rope and savored the feeling of it in his paws again.

"Such a bright soul she wears on her sleeve…"

This would be a good night.