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azsazz · 5 months

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Midnight Muse (Part 3)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: Mentions of how Azriel got his scars, burning.

Word Count: 3,528

[Part 1] [Part 2]

Notes: This one is a hum-dinger.

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The party is in full swing. Music beats loudly through the apartment, and the rumbling of voices trying to shout over it crams the room, bouncing off of the walls and down the hall. There are people everywhere, crowding the space. The furniture has been shoved aside to make room for dancing and there’s a beer pong table set up between the fridge and the counter that’s plastered in bottles of beer and liquor and red cups. Someone’s standing on the countertop pouring a beer into a luge with a frat bro on the other end, chugging. Azriel doesn’t know how the fuck he got in.

The air is thick with over-sprayed perfumes, body odor, weed, and alcohol. Azriel watches from his spot by the window as he preps his latest victim. He’s working his hands into a second pair of black latex gloves, fresh for the girl sitting in his chair. It’s one of the rickety ones they had at their dining table, but they don’t eat there anyway, so it’s mostly used for this. She’s excited, wearing a skimpy dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. There’s a group of guys standing nearby, watching her with glossy eyes and beers in their hands, half hard at the prospect of watching the girl get a tramp stamp.

“A little purple unicorn,” is what she’d requested, and Azriel didn’t ask why. He pulled out his sketchbook and took his pencil to it silently, sketching a few options for her to choose from.

Azriel isn’t proud of the set up he has currently; tattooing drunken college kids whenever Cassian throws a party. Usually a weekly occurrence. He is completely out of his element, but he needs the practice, should he want to open his own shop someday. The only reason he doesn’t have his headphones on, blasting music a little more to his own taste, is so that he can hear what’s going on, and tend to his client’s needs should anything happen. He’s perceptive, and will keep an eye on the hiccuping girl with her dress pulled over her ass, only because he cares more about the tattooing than whatever else is going on.

He preps her skin, taking a clean razor to remove the area of any hair. The girl scoffs when she sees it, but it’s protocol for him, and she is happily distracted when someone shoves a drink in her direction. The liquid spills over the rim a little, and Azriel grits his teeth, but continues to focus on his preparations.

She keeps squirming, shouting in the direction to the dancefloor where her group of friends can hear her. Her long, red hair that she persistently sweeps over her shoulder when Azriel tucks it back keeps brushing the area he’s just taken an antiseptic to. He sighs when she does it for the third time and sits back in his seat in frustration.

“Get out of my chair.”

His voice is a low rumble, and she doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s too busy trying to call her friends over, to brag about what she’s doing. It’s incredibly annoying, and Azriel’s already had a hellish day.

He hates knowing that the girl he’d met in the lobby lives next door. You’re infuriating, aggressive with your words and actions, pounding at both the elevator and their front door, demanding he move his motorcycle.

You may have been arguably as drained as he was, with your unruly hair and tired eyes. He’d come straight home after hearing the news that he hadn’t gotten the apprenticeship he’d wanted at Mystic Mark Tattoos. He thought he’d shown an incredible portfolio of work, both drawings and tattoos done in this very living room, without the distractions of beer, girls, and weed. They thought he was too young, that he needed to work on straightening his lines and that maybe a different style would suit him better.

And then there were no parking spots when he’d gotten home. Normally, Azriel parks in front of Cassian’s enormous rust bucket of a Bronco, his sleek motorcycle teetering on the white painted line just before the tow zone. But there had been a moving van jammed there instead, which meant more noisy neighbors moving into the already packed building. He doesn’t need to meet more people at the mailboxes, fight them for the one slow-ass elevator that might crumple if more than three people get on it. He doesn’t want to fight for a spot in the parking lot, either.

In his haze of annoyance, he’d parked in the small space between the front of the van in the no-no zone and the car bookending it. He hadn’t given much thought to the blinking hazards on the van, hoping he’d be in and out of his apartment to drop off his art supplies and portfolio, then be right back outside for a long ride to clear his head of his failures.

You had changed his mind on that, with your stupidly good-looking face and snippy attitude. He knew he’d caught you off guard, waltzing into the building like that. He’d even stopped to get his mail, something he should’ve walked right past to avoid more contact with you, but even he couldn’t keep his eyes from your backside as you stalked past him through the door.

Your question had been his aggravating final straw.

No, his final straw was finding out you were his neighbor, most likely the one next door. You’d shown up with fire in your eyes and pink cheeks, and he was hardly able to keep his surprise locked away at the sight of you and your roommate, angrier than all hell. That same surprise you weren’t able to conceal nearly made him smirk, but your taunt of towing his beloved motorcycle sparked something almost deadly in him. He wanted to grab you, force you down the stairs with him to see if it were still there, maybe press you up against it and—

“What?” the girl asks incredulously, craning her neck over her shoulder.

“Get the fuck out of my chair or I’ll put a dick on you,” he grunts, already packing up his things. He ignores her spluttering confusion, the red to her cheeks that looks nowhere near as pretty as it had on you.

“Fuck you,” the girl screeches, stumbling to her feet. The group of lingering men watch on, one even stepping closer to help steady the poor girl. Tears prick her eyes but Azriel doesn’t feel bad in the slightest. If she really wanted a tattoo, she would’ve acted properly, not fucking wasted his time. He’s done. He’s so done.

She whirls, wrenching her arm from the other boy's grasp, and tosses her drink right into his face. Azriel winces, the juiced-down alcohol stinging his eyes. He licks his lips and cringes. It’s as fruity as it smells. Vodka, it tastes like.

He swipes his wet hair out of his face so he can use his best glare that makes anyone cower from him, but she’s already dragging the boy into the throng of people on the dance floor. Azriel takes the loss, peeling the black gloves from his hands and shoving his things under his arms.

“Woah, dude,” Cassian says when he stumbles into Azriel on the way to his room. His locked room, because he doesn’t need anyone touching his things. Being in his apartment is already enough. They can fuck in the stairwell for all he cares.

Cassian’s pants are slung low off his hips, button and zipper both undone. His shirt has been shucked off, either because he’s spilled beer on himself or because he’s about to get lucky, Azriel doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. The music is too fucking loud and too fucking poppy, and the air is thick and hot. His skin is sticky and he just can’t take this day anymore. “What the hell happened?”

“You invited a bunch of assholes to your party, Cass. What the hell do you think happened?” Azriel bites, pulling his key from the keychain in his pocket. He doesn’t even have the temperament to deal with his roommates right now. He wants to be left alone.

“So she denied you Azzie,” Cassian teases, slurring a bit. The hazel of his eyes is bright, and normally it’d help Azriel’s mood, to joke around with his best friend like this, but he’s itching to get clean and get out of here.

He really should’ve started drinking.

“Don’t start with me,” Azriel sighs, twisting the key in his lock and shoving his way into his room. His shoulders loosen a bit when he steps inside. His own space, decorated how he likes. It’s dark, moonlight streaming through the open curtains, and he likes that.

“Hey,” Cassian pouts, following him. The door shuts softly behind his friend and the noise of the party dims a little, but not enough for him to want to stay. Azriel drops his tattooing supplies on his desk, eager to take a shower and clean this day off of himself. He’ll organize it all later, rip out the page with the unicorn drawings on them out of spite. “You’re acting as grumpy as our new neighbor,” he continues, and Azriel really doesn’t like being compared to you. He’d rather call that drunk girl back to finish her tattoo. “What’s going on with you?”

Azriel sighs, tearing off the shirt that’s plastered to his body with alcohol. He swipes at the remnants before tossing it into the laundry basket in the corner. “Just a rough day, man. Nothing to worry about.”

Cassian frowns and tries to catch Azriel’s eye, but his friend refuses to meet his gaze, rooting through his dresser to find a clean shirt. He’s come to the realization that he isn’t going to be able to take a shower in the only bathroom they have without people trying to knock the door down, trying to pee.

“It’s not like…” Cassian trails off like he doesn’t even want to ask this. “It’s not like last year though, right?”

Azriel’s body stills, spine going tight. His muscles constrict and he squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to breathe, fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt. Last year, when he’d been forced to go to his father’s home for the winter break. He had wanted to make sure that his son was doing something with his life, going to school for accounting instead of art like he’d wanted since he was a child.

So, Azriel pretended. He’s a smart man, and with a little help from Google and his memory, he played off the business student his father could only dream of. It hadn’t stopped his step brothers from finding out the truth, though, pinning him to the ground when their father was out for a business dinner later that evening. They’d taunted him, spat at him, and poured gasoline over his hands, setting them alight. They’d laughed while he screamed, struggled. They thought they were doing proud by his father, he couldn’t really become an artist with fucked-up hands.

And he’d fled as soon as he was released from the hospital. He didn’t go back to his fathers for his things. He’d had someone help press Rhysand’s contact on his phone since his hands were in too much pain to do so himself. Rhys had called Cassian, and both of his friends had flown down within hours.

“No,” Azriel answers shakily. He can still hear their ugly words sometimes, how they made his hands as brutalized as their insults. He can still smell the burning of flesh. Beach bonfires are a no go anymore. Azriel can hardly sleep most nights, terrified of closing his eyes and reliving the night over and over again, even a year later. “No, it’s not like last year.”

It’s both better and worse, somehow. Better, because no one is assaulting him, and his father is no longer reaching out, but worse because maybe his father had been right. Maybe his artistic abilities are not good enough to be where he is right now. Maybe the tattoo shop denying his apprenticeship only confirmed that.

“We can ditch this party right now,” Cassian says, and he sounds closer. A little more sober. “Let Rhys deal with it. We can go on a ride and talk if you want to, Az. I’ll even let you drive Cherry.”

Azriel shakes his head. Cassian doesn’t let anyone drive his beloved Bronco, painted cherry red, faded from years worth of sun damage. He doesn’t want to talk at all, really.

“That’s alright, man,” Azriel answers, turning to face his friend. Cassian’s eyebrows are furrowed deeply, and now Azriel feels bad that he’s ruining his friend's night. “Grab those condoms you came in here for and go bag your girl.”

That seems to distract Cassian enough, the boy cursing and eyes going wide. “Oh fuck! Sage! Or is it Paige? Shit, man, I don’t even remember her name.” He’s frantic, catches the box of condoms perfectly when Azriel tosses it his way.

“Just call her baby or something,” Azriel claps Cassian on the shoulder, guiding him towards the door. “They love that.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

The wind in Azriel’s ears drowns out all of the bad thoughts.

This, this is what he loves, thrives off of. Roads untraveled, the night and wind his only caress. Shadows chase his route, and the silence rights his presence. The darkness takes care of him, feeds his weary soul. The thrum of the bike between his thighs is exhilarating, especially when he climbs to speed that makes his heart race so fast in his chest he’s afraid it might burst.

He’s alone in the world right now, just him, his bike, and the moon. No one can catch him, taunt him, insult him, hurt him. The night would never treat him as others do.

Gliding around a curve, he comes to a slow stop. He’s arrived at a hilltop, one he’s found while biking through the town on another night similar to this. It overlooks part of the town, and he likes being able to see the lights of the city. It’s also far enough to get a good view of the sky, and he counts what constellations he can. He cuts the engine, shoves the kickstand down, and pulls his helmet off, breathing in the scent of night.

He hangs the helmet on the handlebar and unzips his coat, peels his gloves from his hands to stare at them under the moonlight. They’re fucked beyond belief, red and puckered with marred flesh that will never truly heal. They shake sometimes, when he’s sketching or trying to tattoo. Cassian has three or four jagged tattoos because he’d offered his body for Azriel to practice on after they’d healed enough to where he could hold a tattoo gun again. He’s lucky to have such a friend, even if the tattoos he requested were dumb. He hasn’t convinced Rhys to get one yet, though. Soon.

They’re unlike the ones scattered around his own body. Mythological stories inked into his tan skin, each with their own story. Icarus on his torso because when he’d truly begun to reach out for what he wanted in life, he was burned. Psyche and Eros intertwined on his forearm because he too should only be loved in the dark, where no one can see his flaws. Large bat-like wings that cover the expanse of his back because he’d always wished that he could just up and fly away from here, all of his problems in life. Many others line his skin, each one curated to perfection, no matter what anyone else has to say. He adores each and every one of them.

The breeze blows some of his flopping hair in his eyes and he brushes it away. He should get it cut soon, he thinks.

Azriel slides from the bike, digging into the inside pocket of his jacket for a small notepad and the pencil he’s brought. He keeps the headlight to his motorcycle on, and goes to sit in front of it, letting the light wash over his sketches.

Turning to a fresh page, he puts the tip of the pencil to the pristine paper, and begins drawing, ignoring the slight shake of his hand. He has to get used to it, relearn how to make crisp, straight lines if he wants to go into tattooing, but right now, in the middle of the night, none of that matters.

He draws until his wrist hurts and he can hardly hold the pencil, and then he sits back, looking at his work. He swears he loses himself in it, not really thinking about what he’s drawing, but allowing the pencil to guide his movements. There’s a scratchy sketch of legs, the tops of the thighs covered by the fitted hem of a large sweatshirt. He’s drawn another unicorn, this one a skeleton, the black of it’s eye sockets reads “fuck you.” There’s a cerberus showing a full row of sharp teeth as it growls, two of the canine heads gnashing at each other. Azriel thinks this might be his next tattoo, actually.

It isn’t until the early hours when he’s sure his apartment has cleared out that he returns home. He takes his time, enjoying the little time to himself he has left. He doesn’t need to go back home, because he knows he’s not going to sleep, but he wants to be in his room with easy access to the rest of his supplies and the comfort of his belongings.

He’s not expecting to run into his new neighbor, but it's inevitable, the Mother playing tricks on him. You’re walking back from the parking lot as he’s getting off his bike, removing his helmet as you walk, head buried in your phone.

“Finally got that truck moved, huh princess?” Azriel comments, and watches you startle. You spin on your heel and he can’t help but take in your appearance. Your clean hair is brushes, no longer curling and knotty from your day spent moving in. Your eyes are wide, but he can see the tiredness lacing the color. You’re wearing a large hoodie despite the balmy summer night, but he can’t judge because he’s strapped up in his leather coat. He can barely catch the hemline of your shorts, peeking out from your top, and his eyes drag down your legs before climbing slowly back up.

“No thanks to you, asshole,” you mutter, trying to avoid crossing into his space. He’s massive, and you have to lift your chin to talk to him. You’re trying not to admire his stature in his leather jacket and dark jeans. Warmth spreads across your cheeks.

Azriel tuts. “So rude.”

“Why would I be a peach when you’ve been nothing but a jerk?” you cross your arms over your chest and he kind of likes this look on you. You're easy to rile. “I’ve had a hellish day, and you didn’t help. Then you go and slam doors in people faces and play your horrendous music as loud as fucking possible. Some people want to sleep, you know.”

Azriel wishes he could sleep, too.

“Still salty you weren’t invited, princess?”

You scoff, stepping around him, ready for this conversation to be over. “As if.”

You stalk for the building, trying to get away from him, but his strides are long and he can easily keep up. “Think I might catch the elevator with you,” he says. His rough voice sends shivers up your spine. “Since we’re going to the same floor, and all.”

He doesn’t know why he’s egging you on. He’s had a nice ride, gotten his head clear, but he finds himself enjoying your sharp tongue and dark glares. He enjoys your attention, the way you stubbornly have to have the last word.

“No, thanks,” you respond, all but ripping the front door off its hinges. Maybe it will hit him on the backswing.

Azriel’s large, gloved hand catches it in time, much to your dismay.

“More of a stairs kind of girl, I presume?” He asks, referencing your little trip to the fourth floor by stairwell after he’d taken the only elevator up. You grit your teeth, trying not to take the bait as you jam your finger into the button. It’s still on the ground floor from the few minutes you’d left to move the truck, finally noticing the stupid dickhead’s bike no longer blocking you in. You couldn’t sleep due to the party waging next door, but Feyre had been able to, snoring softly on the couch.

“More of a ‘don’t talk to me’ kind of girl,” you retort, nearly growling when he shoves himself inside the elevator with you. His presence takes up almost the entirety of the metal box, and you keep your eyes to yourself, staring at the bright green numbers as the rickety thing ascends.

You can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks. “Feisty, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you scowl.

“Sure thing, princess.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Midnight Muse Taglist: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog

#azriel au #azriel x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel/reader #art school az #art school au #midnight muse #modern!azriel #tattoo artist!azriel

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oobbbear · 2 months

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My old art teach who taught me so much and helped me prepare my college portfolio now full on supportive of AI art and videos they even opened classes dedicated to it, they post oh so proudly of how fast the students in their ai class ‘improve’ and how ‘efficient’ they draw. They’re a great artist I looked up to them since middle school but now they don’t even draw anymore all they post is AI stuff because it’s “where the future is headed traditional art is not worth it anymore” I don’t know how to feel maybe disappointment but mostly just hollow

#bearz rambling tag #cw ai #cw ai art #tagging this bc ik people don’t like this topic #I dont either #vent #man the feeling of having someone you look up to turning against what you fight for you whole life #I know it’s probably truly where the future is heading #it just #hurts a little bit #ya know #sorry for #talking a lot lately #I am drawing #will post later in the future m

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callmelola111 · 11 months

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guilty conscience ☆ part one

⭑ part 2 , part 3 , part 4 , part 5 →

synopsis: it’s your first year at college and you’re 1,500 miles away from home. you’d feel completely alone if it wasn't for your attractive roommate ellie. will this attraction complicate the already uncharted territory? or will she be the answer to all your problems?

|✯| pairing & wc: college!ellie williams x roommate!reader. wc: 1.4k

|✯| cw (by part): 18+ themes (MDNI), fem reader, modern au!ellie, feelings of angst, sexual themes on like the verge of smut, some swearing

a/n: hey lovelies!!!! this my first time posting a fic so plz enjoy. feedback is appreciated as long as it is constructive. im new to all of this, and still learning. i plan on making this into a series so expect more coming soon. sorry if this chapter is very reader-centric. once reader gets to know ellie better, i’ll write more about her perspective. this will be a slow burn despite part 1 already having sexual themes (lol sorry, couldn't help it), but do expect eventual real smut <3 <3 (p.s: lets b mutuals, message me!!)

As you packed the last of your belongings into your parents' 2008 Toyota, excitement was the last thing you were feeling. When speaking about college, most people explained this coming of age experience with phrases like “change”, “hard work”, and “no sleep”. These pessimistic descriptions made the big move that much harder. Unlike your friends from high school, you were crossing multiple states to attend your dream school. You would’ve been stuck in your home state too if it wasn’t for your impressive art portfolio which earned you a full-ride. Art school is where you know you’re meant to be, but the anxiety of doing it alone lingered.

Of course you were happy to be escaping the grapples of your small Republican town, but you couldn’t help but wonder if 1,500+ miles would really be the solution to all your problems.

★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★

“God where is she??” you grunt to yourself. The brown swivel chair provided as dorm furniture was your only source of entertainment. You spun around in circles, checking your phone every few minutes. You were anticipating a text from Ellie Williams. Through the cracked screen your phone read 11:03pm and the notification wall was empty.

Ellie is supposed to be your roommate. The two of you had met through the university's online roommate matching system. Your interactions were limited to the few texts sent back and forth about move-in times and who’s bringing what. Ellie was supposed to show up 5 hours ago to move in her stuff but she never arrived. You consider messaging her to check-in but Ellie’s previous texts wreaked of un-interest so you thought it best to leave her alone. You knew nothing about the girl, or even what she looked like, but with her stand-offish demeanor and your overthinking, a friendship didn’t seem in the cards.

Another half-hour passes before the sound of keys rattling pulls you out of your trance. Realizing you’re about to be face-to-face with your new college roommate, you snap up from your slouched position and push your hair behind your ears in preparation.

The slender door lazily swings open and your gaze quickly shifts to the faux wood floors. There was a sense of hesitancy, like you weren’t ready to see your fate just yet. A pair of dirty, black converse covered in writing sulk into your line of sight, triggering you to look up. As you did, your eyes were met with the most jaw-droppingly beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. Peeking through her messy auburn locks were piercing jade green eyes and an angular nose scattered with freckles.

It was Ellie Williams, and she was the epitome of “cool girl". Your head spun with all kinds of thoughts as your physical body went idle. You sat before Ellie gawking until she broke the awkward silence that had gone unnoticed by you.

“Uh, hi… I’m sorry for coming in so late… some stuff came up. But uh, I’m Ellie Williams.” She held her right hand out towards you to shake it. It took you a second, but you snapped out of her spell and quickly shook her hand in return.

“Shit- Ellie, hey, it’s uh, nice to finally meet you.” You stumbled through your words as nerves overpowered your usual confidence. There was an obvious awkward tension between the two of you. A typical feeling when moving in with a complete stranger.

Silence loomed in the air as Ellie took a stationary tour around the small, 12 x 20 ft. dorm. She surveyed your side of the room, taking note of any items that could hint towards who you are as a person. Her eyes stopped on a band poster you had hung up just hours ago.

“You listen to Sleater-Kinney?” she inquired.

“Hell yeah, they’re one of my favorite bands. Honestly anything in the riot grrrl music scene is right up my alley. Do you listen?” you replied with more enthusiasm and less nerves than before.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Ellie answered nonchalantly. You took note of her answer realizing what it could mean. Sleater-Kinney was like the gayest band ever, and Ellie definitely knew that. Maybe she just likes them for their music, but it's possible she also found the lyrics laced with sapphic pining to be relatable. Selfishly, you were dying to know her sexual orientation. Ellie seemed like too much of a stranger to ask her outright and so the game of reading between the lines began. Little did you know, Ellie was wondering the exact same thing about you.

It was getting late and Ellie decided to save unpacking for the morning when she wasn’t so tired. You climbed onto your stiff dorm mattress and fluffed your pillows for sleep. Ellie did the same in her bed.

“Is it cool if I turn out the lights now?” you asked, still navigating the new social dynamic as roommates. Ellie replied with a gentle hum and you hit the switch turning the room pitch black. As you lay in bed all you can think of is Ellie and the future. You didn’t know what it was, but you knew she was special, and you yearned to understand her. With these thoughts in mind, your eyes slowly begin to droop and you slip into a deep slumber.

The next thing you know Ellie is sitting at the foot of your bed staring straight into your soul. Her beautiful green eyes felt especially intense as the rest of her face was shadowed from the dark room.

“Ellie- I-” you could barely get out 2 words as you sat up from bed flustered. You felt like prey and she was the hunter… and you liked it. Ellie slowly inched her way toward you, crawling on hands and knees. She didn’t have to say anything, you knew what she wanted.

Your plush thighs sat between her knees and her crotch hovered over yours, heat being exchanged. You wanted her so bad. You needed her. Ellie took your chin in her hand and pulled you in close. You exchanged breaths as her lips brushed up against yours. She couldn’t wait any longer and pressed her face into yours, capturing your lips which she so longingly desired for. You fell back onto your pillows and she followed intently.

Her body lay pressed against yours and she desperately shoved her wet tongue into your supple mouth. It was ravenous and you wanted more. You knew she did too as you began to feel the rotation of her hips digging into your pelvis. The heavy breaths coming from her swollen lips were in sync with the fervent grinding. You bucked your hips towards her in a frenzy. Ellie took her veiny hand and ran it along your waistband. As she began to slip it into your pants... you woke up to discover your own hands cupping the heat below and Ellie nowhere to be found.

“What the fuck.” is all you could say. You pulled your hand from your pants and stared at the slick spider-webbing between your fingers. God this was humiliating. You climbed out of bed to wash your hands and glanced at the clock. It was 7:15am and Ellie was already gone. That seemed kinda odd for a 19 year old college student. You wondered where she had disappeared to so early in the morning.

Soon, the over-thinker took over and you began to grapple with the possibility that you said something out loud during your naughty wet dream. What if Ellie heard you? God what if you moaned her name?? What would you even say if she brought it up? Before you could formulate a hypothetical response, Ellie walked right through the door.

“AHh-” you yelped, startled by her presence. Ellie backed into the doorway holding a coffee in each hand.

“God, sorry, you scared me.” you explained. Ellie shuffled back inside, twiddling her thumbs trying to decide what to say.

“Sorry, I just left to grab some coffee early this morning. I couldn’t sleep.” She continued, “I brought you one too. As an apology, for any trouble I might have caused by showing up at almost midnight to move in…”. Your cheeks flushed with color and you hoped she didn’t notice.

“Oh, thanks Ellie, that's nice. I promise there was no harm done.” you answered, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Seemingly enough, this news meant she was awake while you were, ya know... dreaming. Ellie definitely wouldn’t bring a pervert coffee though. Right? Either way, you knew one thing for sure, you've got to have her.

← masterlist ⭑ part 2 →

#ellie williams #wlw #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie x fem reader #tlou 2 #the last of us #ellie smut #sapphic #ellie williams series #ellie williams smut #ellie tlou #tlou 2 smut #the last of us 2 #ellie x you #ellie williams fan fiction

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hyacinthoideshispanica · 11 days

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A modern Feysand au where Rhys just took over his father's company and is trying to make it his own. So, he's creating new job titles, firing people who only work there because of nepotism, and in his free time, he likes buying paintings from CursebreakerArt.com to decorate and liven the building up.

Feyre is a struggling artist who is only able to afford rent because some random guy keeps ordering from her shop and she's not complaining, but he's bought so many, and who needs that many paintings?

One day, after mailing the latest orders out, Feyre decides to walk around the city and eventually notices the help wanted flyers for Velaris Co. everywhere she looks. She's curious. She's heard of this company before, and apparently, the ceo is an absolute prick, but the pay and benefits are supposed to be fantastic. So, she takes a flyer, and after a few days of no new orders, schedules an interview.

Rhys goes through the list of the days scheduled interviews. Normally, a ceo would be too busy to conduct interviews on their own, but he wants to show he's different from his father, and he wants to know every employee as a friend, not just someone who works for him. He scans through the list, and one name suddenly catches his attention. Feyre Archeron. He knows that name. He's seen that name elegantly signed on almost every painting on this floor and has seen it scribbled on a little thank you note that comes with each order. Feyre Archeron, creator of CursebreakerArt.com, is interviewing at his company that afternoon.

Feyre walks into the interview room slowly, suddenly self-conscious about her paint stained sweater and leggings. This place was really nice and really professional. She was way in over her head to even think of trying this! She should have washed the paint out from under her nails! She should have worn a pencil skirt and blouse!

Feyre's thoughts are cut short when Rhys enters the room and then suddenly stops. Then, their just staring at each other in silence. Feyre thinks Rhys is not only the handsomest man she's ever seen but that he must also be appalled by her appearance and it was definitely a mistake to come here.

Rhys, on the other hand, was 100% prepared to gush about how much he loves her work, that is, until the moment he actually saw her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had not been ready for that at all.

Feyre gets up, starting to apologize for wasting his time, saying she'll see herself out, but Rhys stops her with only two words. "You're perfect."

Feyre blushes fiercely, then Rhys clears his throat and begins talking to cover up what he just said.

"For the job. You're perfect for the job. You see, a lot of my employees have young children who spend the day in our care center or go there after school. I was hoping to hire some new employees, people who are passionate about something like art, cooking, or music to come in to spend time with the children during the day and teach them."

"I see... and you think I'm perfect for that job from just one look at me? Without even looking at my portfolio?"

"Ms. Archeron, off all the interviews I've conducted today, you have been the only one to dress appropriately for children and not an office. You're covered in paint, so you're clearly passionate, and I already have most of your portfolio hanging in my office or in the hallways."

#acotar #feysand au prompt #modern feysand au #rhys and feyre #rhysand #feyre archeron #feysand

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dulcesiabits · 7 months

Text

an artist's swan song.

summary: an injured wrist is the last thing you need before art school applications. no one understands your frustrations-- no one but the boy at the physical therapy office.

notes: 6.3k words, fic, author's notes, discussion of acl tears and carpal tunnel syndrome, they/them pronouns for reader but chigiri calls reader miss artist, takes place before blue lock

The doctor tells you that you’re lucky.

Lucky that you caught the injury so fast, lucky that you were diligent enough to go to the ER as soon as the numbness in your fingers started, lucky that the damage would be minimal, as long as you were careful.

You stare at your black splint the whole time he talks, tight and itchy against your wrist, an alien weight. So this is what luck looks like?

“You’ll need to do these stretches everyday for five minutes at home,” the doctor says, handing you a sheet of paper with exercises for wrist stretches. It trembles in the air in front of you, before your dad swoops in to take it.

“Thank you,” your dad says, clasping a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure they stick to the regime.”

The doctor nods, smiles, and wishes you luck, before ushering the two of you out. His white coat blurs like a streak of paint as the door closes and he takes off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. Your hand twitches for your oil paints to capture the scene, but they’re still lying at home, half-rolled tubs scattered in your room.

“Are you okay?” your dad asks quietly, once you’re out in the hallway.

You nod, rubbing at your splint.

“Don’t do that,” your dad says. “The doctor told you that you shouldn’t strain your wrist unnecessarily.”

“I’m not straining my wrist,” you murmur, and he rubs your back affectionately.

“Still, try not to poke at it, okay?” You round the sterile white hall, and your dad brightens. “Look, a vending machine. Why don’t you go buy something to drink?” He pulls out his wallet, shoving a few yen coins in your hand– your good hand– before you can protest. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Your hand hovers in front of the buttons as you amble over to the machine, eyes blurring over the rows of canned drinks and bright colors and happy mascots, before you decide on a single iced black tea. The machine whirs as you slip in your coin, the can slides out– and then it stills, stuck right against the front of the glass. Of course.

You smash your sneaker against the glass pane of the vending machine, your trapped can of iced black tea rattling. One kick. Then another, and the stupid can still won’t drop. You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes. You can’t even get a vending machine to work. Because here you are, in this stupid physical therapy office, when you should be at the art prep academy preparing your portfolio and practicing for your art college exam, but you can’t strain your stupid wrist to pick up your brush.

Something thunks against the vending machine. You slowly open your eyes, just in time to see a boy raise his crutches and slam them against the glass, and, miraculously, your drink drops into the open space below with a pleasant clink.

“I hate this machine. It always gets stuck,” he says.

Half-braided red hair, slender nose, soft mouth. If not for the crutches and the black brace running down the length of his right leg, you’d wonder if he was an angel, not another patient.

“I want you to model for me,” you murmur, entranced by the way his silky hair shifts on his shoulders.

“... What?”

You slap your hands over your mouth. “Sorry! I– You’re pretty, so I– I! I’m an artist. Was an artist? Am?” you ramble, cheeks heating as your words trip all over themselves and the furrow between the boy’s eyebrows grows deeper.

Unexpectedly, he laughs, then points at the vending machine. “Don’t forget your drink, Miss Artist.”

You scramble for the can, pulling it out and offering it to the boy. “You should have it.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s yours.”

You turn, slipping another yen coin into the machine, and in a few seconds, you have another can of black tea. “This way we both have one. So it’s okay, right?”

He tilts his head. “I guess it is.” You consider him again; he really is pretty, pretty enough that your hands itch to sketch him, to capture the outline of his profile. You’re floating at the discovery of a once-in-a-lifetime beauty, a muse– but the brace on your hand slams you back down to earth.

“I think that guy is trying to get your attention,” the boy says, pointing behind you. It’s your dad: he’s watching the two of you with curiosity, but waves his hand once your eyes are on him.

“It’s time for us to go,” your dad says. “Ah, but do you need a minute? New friend?”

The boy gathers himself, forcibly crams the can of black tea you gave him into his pocket, where it bulges out, threatening to fall. “I have an appointment in a bit. So I should get going.”

Your feet won’t cooperate with you. “It was nice to meet you, um…”

“Chigiri Hyoma,” he says.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” you say, then wince. To see him at the physical therapy wing again would mean his injury hadn’t healed. Were you trying to curse him with a slow recovery?

But Chigiri only smiles, a simple act that makes your heart do funny somersaults in your chest. He really is an angel. “Sure. See you around, Miss Artist. Thanks for the tea.”

“Who is that?” your dad whispers, once the two of you are farther down the hall.

“An angel,” you mumble, before flushing under your dad’s quizzical gaze. “I meant a friend! A friend. I think.”

“He seems like a nice boy. It’d be nice for the two of you to get along,” your dad says earnestly.

You glance at Chigiri one more time, the edge of his face lit in a soft glow from the sunshine, his back turned towards you. What is he thinking?

At home that night, his profile still lingers in your mind as you crouch amongst your haphazard piles of sketchbooks and discarded art supplies. It’ll be months before you can use them again, so you might as well take the time to clean, something you’ve neglected in the rush for the upcoming entrance exams for art college.

Oil paints. Pastels. Sticks of charcoal. You’ve dabbled in a lot of different mediums over the years, saving up all your change just to buy supplies from the art store a few subway rides away from your house. Cheap materials work just as well as expensive ones, and it doesn’t matter what you use as long as you have paper in front of you. Your first memories involve you crouching in the living room, a crayon fisted in your chubby hand as you scribble nonsensical shapes all over the white kitchen wall, something that caused your dad endless suffering when he found you.

Your dad did save up to buy you a nice set of watercolors for the art prep academy you’ve been attending, and though he only smiles and encourages you to keep painting, it’s a strain on your finances. Art isn’t cheap, and your only hope is to get into a public art school by passing the entrance exams. But now… it looks like you can’t even do that, thanks to your wrist.

Carpal tunnel syndrome.

That’s the diagnosis the doctor gave you, an illness more common in people three times your age, brought on by repetitive trauma on your wrist that led to a pinched nerve.

Unusual for someone as young as you, the doctor had said. But you’re lucky, because of the fact that you’re young and the injury is light, so you’ll heal in a few months with rest.

But time isn’t a luxury you can afford. You were supposed to pass the exam. Get into an art school. Practice, graduate, become an artist. Your dream, once so solid, has burst like a bubble just as soon as you begin to reach towards its hazy outline. Every second you’re resting is a second wasted, a second that could have been spent practicing and improving.

“How did you get this injury?” the doctor had asked.

Because of art. Because you couldn’t stop drawing, because then it would feel like you were drowning in the water. Freelance commissions. Constant practice. Art club and art academy lessons. You’d forgotten to breathe these past few months, forgotten to eat or rest.

But all of that came back to bite you, in the end. No more art, the doctor had said. At least until you’re healed. And even after that, you wouldn’t be able to keep up the excruciating pace you once had.

You flop down on your futon. Your classmates must be in the middle of class by now, honing their skills. And what are you doing?

You’re floating in a small boat in the middle of the ocean, unmoored. No oars, no maps. Just the rocking of the waves, unsure of where you’re going to end up, your dream like a distant land. The shape of it, once rendered real with each stroke of your paintbrush, is undiscoverable now.

—

It’s only a month later that you visit the physical therapy office again for a follow-up appointment. The weather has turned chilly by then, a brisk bite of cold that heralds the coming winter. This time, you go alone, taking the subway until it screeches to a stop at your destination. In the hospital, it’s the same white walls and sterile air, a place unmoored from time.

“Keeping up with your stretches?” the doctor asks.

“Everyday.”

“Good! And how’s the sensation in your fingers?”

“Not as bad anymore. They don’t shake, and the numbness is mostly gone.”

The doctor nods. “Perfect! You’re on the path to recovery. Let’s keep the brace on for several more months. Keep up with the stretches, and don’t forget to lay off of drawing until you’ve recovered.”

Your appointment is over, but you’re not in the mood to go home yet. Instead, you wander down the halls aimlessly, nurses and patients bustling by with a purpose. You don’t even realize you’re looking for Chigiri until you spot him in the hospital cafeteria, crutches leaning against the table and poking at a plastic bear full of lychee jelly.

“Chigiri Hyoma,” you say on instinct, his name rolling smoothly on your tongue.

“Hm…?” He looks up. “Oh. It’s you, Miss Artist. Back again?” He unscrews the bear’s head, and hands you a small capsule of jelly. “Want one? My friends brought me this, but I can’t eat all of it.”

You rip the plastic lid off and squeeze the jelly into your mouth, the sweetness sliding down your throat. “It’s good.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Glad you liked it.” The rest of the jelly, you notice, is untouched.

“Appointment go well?” you say instead.

“Yeah. It’s not like I can make my knee any worse. I’m doing stretches and exercises to strengthen it, but…”

The expression on his face makes you ache, if only because you’ve seen it so many times when you look in the mirror: your body, a sudden traitor, and the world you thought you knew crumbling beneath your feet.

The words are out of your mouth before you can process them. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

There’s no hesitation as Chigiri looks you right in the eyes and says: “Yes.”

Shuffling out of the hospital into the cold air, jackets and scarves wrapped tight, you and Chigiri make your way aimlessly down the street. He had dumped his lychee jelly with the receptionist with a pretty smile and a “I can’t finish all of this. I hope you can enjoy it with your colleagues,” and then you were off down a block of glass storefronts in bright colors. Few other people were out on the street, so the two of you might have been the only people left in Japan.

You keep glancing at him now and again, his pensive face, the stillness of his expression like a pond glazed with frost.

“You said you wanted me to model for you last time. Is that why you can’t stop staring?” Chigiri says, without turning to face you.

You start. You thought you had been careful, but he’d caught you nonetheless. “Um! A little! You’re very… pretty.”

“I get that a lot. My teammates used to call me princess,” he says, snorting. “That, and Red Panther. Local newspaper made it catch on, and everyone gave me crap about how cheesy it was.”

“Teammates?”

“Football teammates. I was the fastest on my team. Not that I can play with my knee like this.” His crutch taps a sharp staccato beat on the ground. “ACL tear.”

You rub at your own splint. “It’s carpal tunnel syndrome for me. I would have wanted you to model for me if it was still… if I could… ah, well, I can’t draw for the next few months.”

Chigiri nods. “A football player who can’t run, and an artist who can’t draw. That’s kinda funny, isn’t it?” There’s a note of bitterness in his voice.

“It won’t be the same once we’re healed,” you say matter of factly, words blowing small clouds into the sky. “Everyone tells me it’s not the end, that I can do something else, but… I don’t know. I won’t be able to draw like I used to. I can heal, but… I’ll still remember what this felt like.”

His face twists into a small smile. “Yeah. You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to comfort me, or told me it’ll be okay. Because it won’t be. It won’t be the damn same.”

Because your body will remember. Even having this injury once opens the door for your wrist to tear again. And next time, it could be even worse. Unrecoverable, even, to the point where any hope of an art career will be shattered beyond repair. That must have been what it felt like for Chigiri, too, and football.

“Every second spent healing feels like I’m losing time,” you murmur.

He nods. “What were you going to do before the injury?”

You cup your hands around your mouth, blowing on them to keep warm. “Art college.”

“I was going to go to nationals,” he says. “You’re a third year?”

“Yeah. You, too?”

“Nah, second year. This was my chance to win.” Chigiri looks up at the sky, gray clouds reflecting in his eyes. “I was a genius. Everyone told me I was going to do something special. That I could go pro, and lead Japan to the World Cup.”

“But is genius even real?” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… any skill can be honed with enough hard work,” you say simply. “That’s what I believe, anyways. Calling someone a ‘genius’ or ‘talented’ ignores all of the work someone put in to reach that point. People tell me I’m talented, but… I just really love art. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“I never thought of it like that.” Chigiri spares a glance at you. “You’re stronger than I am.”

“I don’t know if I’m any stronger than you. I still got hurt. Geniuses, hard workers… we’re all the same in the end,” you reply. He doesn’t respond to that.

The stretch of storefronts gives way to a grassy clearing, a small park consisting of a dirt path and a stretch of trees. “You want to stop by?” you say, pointing.

“Looks like it could be a football field,” Chigiri murmurs. There it is again. That sad, distant look in his eyes, like he doesn't know where he’s going. Lost, adrift.

“Teach me how to play,” you say impulsively.

“Football?”

“Tell me how to score a goal,” you say. “I want to know.”

Chigiri’s laugh is a short, sweet melody. “All right. Let’s go pick up a football ball, and I’ll teach you how to score. Looking for a career change already, Miss Artist?”

“I just thought… I wanted to learn more about it, that’s all,” you say softly. You want to learn more about him, but you bite the thought back.

“Then… teach me how to draw,” he says. “How about that?”

“Deal!”

After a quick stop to a nearby sports store, you’re on the grassy field, a football poised beneath your foot, while Chigiri calls instructions from a nearby bench. He can’t venture into the field, not with his crutches, but you’re close enough for him to watch.

“Use the top of your foot to kick! Not your toe!” he says, cupping one hand around his mouth.

“Like this?” You try to adjust your posture, but Chigiri shakes his head. You shift your foot under the ball again, but it wobbles away from you. You dash after it, trying to stop the movement with your foot, only to kick the ball farther away instead.

You turn to Chigiri with wide eyes, but he’s smiling at you, his eyes crinkling at the corner. “I don’t know if the football life is for you, Miss Artist,” he says.

“I’ve never played before,” you say defensively, retrieving the runaway ball. Once you’re back in position in front of Chigiri, you adjust your posture again.

“Don’t look afraid of it,” he calls. “You’re supposed to control the ball. It listens to you, not the other way around.”

You sigh, then give the ball a tentative kick, watching it sail across the air, curving to the left. “I don’t know how you shoot it straight,” you murmur.

“It depends on the angle of your kick,” Chigiri explains.

Once the ball is safely tucked under your arm, you make your way back to him, flopping down on the bench. The cold seeps through your clothes, and you shiver. Without a word, Chigiri scooches closer to you, until your shoulders are touching.

“Football is hard,” you groan. “The fact you were able to do it… I’m impressed, Chigiri.”

“They did call me a genius, you know? But… I did practice hard,” he acknowledges. “Sometimes, I wake up in the morning, thinking I need to hurry to practice because I’m late, before I remember… my knee. And it’s winter, so there’s no practice going on, anyways. But…”

“It’s important to you.”

“Yeah.” He nudges you with his elbow. “Hey, your turn. Teach me how to draw, Miss Artist.”

You pull out a mini notebook and a pen from your pocket. You always carry some form of paper and writing utensil with you, just in case, and it’s hard to shake off the habit, even with your hand the way it is.

You set the supplies on Chigiri’s lap, and he twirls the pen in his hand as he picks it up. “So,” you begin, “Um… Usually, you have to observe what you want to draw. With sketches, I usually try to measure the dimensions of the object with my pencil, but… you can just try to freeform it! Notice shapes. Everything is made up of shapes. You could try… drawing that streetlight–” you point– “or that tree. You should try watching how light falls on it, too. From what angle? Where do the shadows land?”

“Observation… Shapes… Light…” Chigiri mutters seriously, and, for some reason, he quickly looks at you before looking away.

He begins to draw, his pen whirring furiously across the page. Content, you stare into the gray sky, before turning to observe his progress. The drawing… well… you can’t make anything out, except for a few lines extending outwards of what appears to be… a circle?

“Chigiri…”

“Yeah?”

“Um… you should try turning the paper as you draw,” you offer. “Don’t just use the pen.”

He flicks his wrist and the notebook slides sideways, but his pen slips and the line curves away. He throws it down in exhaustion. “How do you do this all the time? This is hard.”

“Don’t say that! I think it looks good!” you offer. “It’s a nice… um… tree!”

“It’s not a tree.”

“... Horse?” You say, squinting at the page again.

Chigiri flips the notebook closed. “You don’t deserve to see my art. I’m not telling you what it is.”

“No, it’s okay! You tried your best. What did you draw?”

“I’m not sharing.”

“I played football for you,” you say plaintively.

“...Ugh. Don’t laugh,” he warns.

“I won’t,” you promise, and Chigiri sighs, flipping open to the page he had been doodling on.

“It’s you,” he says, with a long-suffering sigh, the tips of his ears reddening.

“It’s me? It’s cute! It’s really cute!” you say earnestly, taking the notebook from him. On closer inspection, you can make out what’s supposed to be a… neck? And your eyes. And this must be… your nose and mouth.

“You thought it was a horse,” he grumbles, but he brightens at your praise, regardless of his moody tone.

“It’s a very cute horse. I make a very cute horse? Ah, I didn’t mean to offend you— I really do think it’s—”

Chigiri bursts out laughing. “It’s fine. It can’t be helped if it looks like a horse.”

“Well.. now that I’m looking at it like this… it doesn’t look like a horse. Not at all.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better,” Chigiri says.

“I’m not! I really do like it!”

Something wet touches your cheek, and you look up. It’s snowing, soft flakes dancing through the sky.

Chigiri holds out a hand, catching snowflakes on his palm. “We should head back, just in case it gets worse.”

“Ah, okay.” You stand, and he grabs his crutches.

“Thanks, Miss Artist,” he says. “This was fun.”

“Let’s meet up again soon,” you say. “If you want.”

“I’d be mad at you if you just abandoned me now,” Chigiri teases. “Give me your phone number.”

After exchanging numbers with numb fingers, the warm glow of your time with Chigiri doesn’t fade, even on the ride home. It balloons in your chest, until you’re filled with light. In your room, you carefully rip out Chigiri’s sketch from your notebook and pin it over your desk wall. It’s not skilled at all, but it really is cute.

How long has it been since you enjoyed yourself like that? No, how long has it been since you enjoyed art?

You press two fingers against the mouth of the drawing, remembering Chigiri’s face scrunched up in concentration that afternoon, trying to capture your likeness.

—

A few weeks later, as you’re slipping on your boots, your dad stops you at the doorway. He tries to smile at you, buttoning his suit jacket for his office job, but it comes off as more of a grimace. You’ve been spending all your time with Chigiri lately, and you wonder if your dad is going to press you about him.

Instead, he asks, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next year?”

“For what?” You tie the laces, pat down your coat, but something in your dad’s expression makes you pause with one hand on the door knob.

“For college,” he says. “Do you have any back-ups lined up? I know you’re still recovering, and you really wanted to go to art school, but I don’t want you to neglect all your options! Your grades are still good enough to land you somewhere in Tokyo.”

You bite your lip so hard you almost taste blood. “I was going to take a gap year.”

“Gap year…? That’s okay, as long as you’ve talked to your counselor, but…” His voice trails off in concern.

But art isn’t a viable career option. Don’t pin your hopes on one dream. You need to grow up, to be reasonable, to learn when to quit. Art can be a hobby. That’s what all the adults in your life have always told you, saying it was for your own good, but until now, your own dad hadn’t been one of them.

You scuff at the ground. “I am thinking seriously about my future, you know.”

Your dad sighs, a quiet, gentle sound. “I know. I know you love art, but I want you to have more than one option in your life. I want what’s best for you, because I can’t always be here to take care of you. Having a dream is nice, but you’re almost an adult. Do you understand?”

“I get it. But I’m going out with a friend today,” you say abruptly. “I’ll be home in the afternoon.”

You run out before your dad can respond, but your hands are shaking as you swipe your card and descend the subway steps, the warm underground hair heating up your face as the train rumbles by. Why is it that all the adults in your life only know how to tell you the same thing? Why is giving up on your dreams the only way to grow up? Because, deep down, you know they’re not wrong. The art world is unforgiving. There’s no guarantee of a good future or even a job. But… you thought your dad, at least, would understand you.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” It’s the first thing Chigiri asks you when you find him leaning against a bench, crutches by his side, waiting for you by the subway exit.

“Yeah, I did. I’m just a little cold,” you lie. Chigiri doesn’t push the issue any farther, but his eyes feel like they’re burning into you the longer you try to keep your expression neutral.

“Do you want to sit inside somewhere?” he asks finally. “If you’re cold, we don’t have to go too far.”

A swarm of people floods past the two of you, and you press closer to Chigiri, afraid of being pushed away in the rush. You can feel the ache of winter deep in your bones, seeping through the thread of your gloves and coat. The sky is a faded blue, the sun’s light watery.

“As long as I’m with you, I don’t mind going anywhere,” you tell him, and Chigiri tucks his face into the fold of his scarf, but not before you catch the bright rose of his cheeks.

“Let’s just walk around, then,” he says.

Most people don’t brave the winter cold unless they have a destination in mind, but you and Chigiri wander aimlessly. Just the two of you, chatting about this and that, pointing out funny displays in stores or commenting on the foods you’d like to try when you pass by restaurants with their menus pasted on the glass.

It’s comfortable with him. Warm. If you had to name the feeling in your chest, you could only compare it to the spring sun. You could go anywhere, do anything, under the light of his smile. There’s a genuine understanding with Chigiri, like a language without words.

When you lean closer to Chigiri, he doesn’t move away. He raises a hand from the top of his crutch, hovering in the space between the two of you, and when you catch his eyes, he pauses, before dropping his hand and tightening his grip on his crutches.

“Are you okay, Chigiri?”

“I’m fine,” he says moodily, but there’s no heat behind his words. “I just can’t wait until I get this brace off,” he adds, so quietly you almost don’t catch it.

You pass a trio of students flying down the street, canvas tucked under their arms and bookbags slung across their chests. One of them pauses when she sees you, stumbling to a halt, her mouth parted.

“No way! It’s— whoa, I haven’t seen you in weeks!” she says, and recognition jolts through you. It’s Mika from your art prep academy, and the fact she’s here— ah. Of course. Just because you stopped drawing, didn’t mean everyone else would have, too.

“Hi, Mika,” you say weakly.

“I thought you dropped out!” she says, and her friends crowd curiously around you and Chigiri.

“Things came up.”

“Skipping class to go hang out with your boyfriend? I get it, he’s a cutie,” she says teasingly, winking at Chigiri. “And here I thought art was the most important thing to you.”

“I didn’t— he’s not—” you begin, your thoughts tangling themselves into knots. You hadn’t explained anything to your classmates, or your teacher. You had quit when your hand started going numb and you couldn’t keep up with the pace, despite your teacher begging you to stay on. What could you say now?

Chigiri takes a step in front of you. “They didn’t drop out for something like that,” he says politely, but there’s an edge to his voice. He also didn’t refute their assumption that he was your boyfriend, you realize. “Don’t assume things about them.”

“Ah, of course! I didn’t mean to…” Mika’s voice trails off, embarrassed. Her eyes glaze over Chigiri’s crutches and leg brace, and you discreetly shift your sleeve further over your wrist splint. “Sorry. Are you going to go to classes again?”

“I don’t know yet,” you say haltingly. “I might… take a gap year.”

“Eh? But you were the best artist in our class! That doesn’t…” Mika shakes her head. “Sorry. There I go again, assuming things. Good luck with your gap year, okay?”

You wave her off, and she and her friends run down the street again, scarves flying behind them. Still, the wind carries their voices to you.

“That’s good for you, right, Mika? Less competition for college! I can’t believe that someone who quit so easily was the best person in your class,” one of her friends murmur.

“Cut it out, Aki! Don’t put it like that. But… I guess even talented people can only go so far,” Mika replies softly, their banter fading as they get farther away, specks of blurred paint in the distance.

You can’t be mad. You really can’t. You didn’t give anyone a reason for why you dropped out, and didn't want to explain the truth: that your body broke down. That you can’t keep up. Your classmates, with shining eyes, chase after the dreams that were once yours. Their judgment would have been embarrassing enough. Their pity— and calculated relief— would have been worse.

Chigiri grabs your shoulders, his face more serious than you’ve ever seen him.

“Are you okay?” Chigiri says urgently, and it’s only then you realize you’re crying.

“I want to draw,” you whisper, tears choking your voice.

Chigiri wipes away each beading tear with his thumb. He pauses at the weak sound of your voice, rubbing tenderly at the wet trails on your face, as he could wipe away your sadness, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

“I want to draw, Chigiri. I don’t know… what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Do you like art?” he says.

“I do. But…” The shape of your dream is so fragile. You’ve only realized this now, how many people strive for the same thing you want. How easily you could be buried under the crush of artists, lost before you have a chance to make a name for yourself. One mistake. One stroke of bad luck. And it can all crumble apart in your hands. “But I’m so scared.”

“It’s your dream,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. Don’t–” his voice breaks. “Don’t give up now. Don’t give up. You can heal. Who gives a damn if you don’t get into art college this year? You have the next, and every year after that. It’s important to you, right? So don’t give up,” he says furiously, but you can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. “It doesn’t matter what anyone says. It only matters what you want.”

And what do you want? Fame? Recognition? Talent? No. No, none of those really matter in the end. What really matters to you…

“I… I want to draw,” you sob. “I want to be an artist. I want to make my dream come true. I don’t… I don’t want to forget what it’s like to love art.”

“Then don’t.” Chigiri crushes you to his chest, and you sob quietly into his coat as he clings to you. Are you holding him, or is he holding you? You can’t tell. You wrap your arms around him, and the two of you hold each other like it’s the end of the world. And maybe it is, an end to the world the two of you thought you knew, to the people you once were.

“You really are like an angel, Chigiri,” you say, voice muffled as you speak into his chest.

His laugh vibrates pleasantly through his chest and into your heart. “I’m not. I’m not that nice. I just don’t want you to be sad. You remind me of… myself, sometimes.”

You fist your hands in the fabric of his coat. “So what? You’re still nice to me.”

“Maybe I’m only nice to you,” he says.

“That’s okay.”

On that quiet afternoon, Chigiri holds you until your tears dry and you can face him again. You can’t be a good adult. You’ll cling to your dreams like a stubborn child and never let go, even if you have to rebuild yourself from the ground up, again and again. When you tell Chigiri this, he smiles at you, and it feels a bit like salvation.

—

A few weeks later, your wrist brace comes off, though you’re diligent to keep up with your stretches, anyways. Chigiri celebrates with you, taking your wrist in his hand like he’s holding a bird’s wing, the pads of his thumb brushing along your pounding pulse.

“Let me be the first person you draw now that you’ve recovered,” he teases. “Don’t I make for a good muse?” You can’t look him in the eyes, because your expression will betray you.

The weather warms before Chigiri can walk again without crutches and a leg brace. When he can, he shows up at the entrance of your school after class one day. Your classmates giggling and murmuring as they pass by him. He waves when he sees you, ignoring all the eyes on him. Maybe he’s used to it. You aren’t surprised, considering how pretty he is.

“Hyoma,” you greet him, clutching the straps of your bag. You’ve started to use your first names with each other, a simple intimacy that makes you tingle all over. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says. “I got invited to a special football training project.”

“That’s amazing!” You clap your hands together. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says haltingly, unconsciously tapping his hand on his right leg. “But when I got the letter, I just… wanted you to be the first to know.”

“If that’s the case, then…” You fumble in your bag and out a square of paper, offering it to Chigiri. “This is for you.”

Chigiri unfolds it slowly, revealing a pencil sketch of him, mid run, his form blurring as his legs stretch across the ground. You’d sketched it the day after he’d taken off his crutch, and he had invited you out. The two of you had spent all day together at a nearby park, and when you asked him to show you the football forms you hadn’t been able to grasp the past winter, he obliged.

But Chigiri stares at the paper for so long, you wonder if you had hurt him somehow.

“I’m sorry if it’s presumptuous of me to give you that,” you say shyly. “I just… wanted to give you something for good luck. Because I know you can do it, Hyoma. You can keep playing football. I think you look beautiful, sprinting across the field.”

“Then I want to give you a good luck charm, too,” he says slowly, tearing his eyes from the page, a strange note to his voice. “Is that okay?”

You nod. Chigiri cups his hands around your cheeks and kisses you on the forehead. His lips are softer than you expected, and it takes your breath away.

You pull away, flustered, and only now do you see how intense Chigiri looks, the way his eyes are concentrated solely on you. “Hyoma–!”

“If you say my name like that, I’ll kiss you again,” he says bluntly.

“Hyoma, that’s not–!” This time, he kisses you on the cheek.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I wanted to do that.”

“That’s… not fair,” you mumble.

“But I thought you knew I wasn’t fair,” he says. “You’ve spent this much time with me, after all. You should have realized by now that when I like something, I don’t hold back.”

“I never said… I didn’t like it,” you protest, and he grins.

“Then I can do it again?” he asks.

“Not in front of my school!” you squeak.

“Okay, then I’m going to kiss you as much as I want when we’re somewhere else,” he says, unrepentantly.

“Fine!” you say, and, in a surge of courage, lace your fingers with his. Chigiri jolts in surprise, and you smile at catching him unaware. “What was that good luck charm for, anyways?”

“For your dreams,” he says simply. “Because you’re not going to give up, are you, Miss Artist?”

You’re still afraid. Of your body giving away again. Of not being able to make it. Of being nothing without art. But you’re even more afraid of giving up, of becoming an adult who doesn’t believe in their dreams, of losing your passion forever. Carefully, this time. You’ll do daily stretches so you don’t strain your body. You’ll go back to the art academy. You’ll keep trying, and you’ll keep drawing, because that’s what you do as an artist.

“I won’t. So don’t give up either, Hyoma,” you say quietly. He squeezes your hand in response.

“You’re braver than me,” Chigiri says ruthfully.

“I’m only brave because you believe in me. So, let me believe in you,” you reply. This time, you’re the first to lean in to kiss Chigiri, to give him his own good luck. Because no matter what happens, the two of you will keep running.

#liya writes #blue lock #chigiri hyoma #chigiri hyoma x reader #chigiri x reader #hyoma chigiri #hyoma chigiri x reader #x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock chigiri #chigiri hyouma x reader #ANYTHING FOR MY PRETTY BOY!!!

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cacoetheswriting · 1 year

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Hello! I hope all is well. I had a fluffy request if that’s ok? Eddie x fem!reader where reader is an art nerd that likes to draw for their campaigns. One day, they’re hanging out preparing for the campaign and maybe Eddie had a run in with Jason earlier and was feeling a little down that day so then reader just starts aggressivley complimenting him out if nowhere. I really love your work! ❤️

thank youuu for this request & for your sweet words, makes my heart happy that you like my little fics ❤️ hope i did your vision justice!

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader word count: 2.6k content warnings: adult language, use of pet names, a little mutual pining, insecurities / self-doubt, mentions of bullying, mainly just fluff - very much unedited - pls let me know if i missed anything!

Your friendship with Eddie was an odd one — if you could even call it that. More colleagues than friends, to be honest. Or better yet, acquaintances by association.

Freaks. Geeks. Social outcasts.

There was however, one big difference.

Your status at Hawkins High was by design. A strategic decision you put into play long before you even stepped through the building doors. Growing up in a busy house with a younger brother too loud for his own good, solitude was your best friend. Art was your escape. Often you only found time for both at school. So no, you didn’t wanna socialise or try out for the cheerleading team. You were quite content being left alone.

Being neighbours with Nancy Wheeler, and your younger brothers being practically attached at the hip, helped with staying invisible ‘cause who’s gonna bully the girl that sometimes hung out with Nancy and King Steve.

Eddie unfortunately was not as lucky. His label wasn’t his choice — not at first anyway. It followed him through the years from an age arguably too young. No kid deserved to be treated the way he was simply ‘cause of how/where he was brought up. The curly-haired boy couldn’t escape the names, the teasing, the dirty looks. He couldn’t change his fate. So eventually he stopped trying. The Freak.

And perhaps that’s why he’s never fully warmed up to you. You were a fraud, not actually understanding what it’s like to be an outcast.

But it’s not like you cared what Eddie Munson thought of you or if the metalhead liked you in any way. Hanging around him was simply a means to an end. He needed someone to immortalise his D&D campaigns and you needed continuous inspiration as well as material for your portfolio.

Most of your meet-ups were surrounded by quiet.

Thinking back, that was the first mistake since it was in that congenial silence, you noticed how he sucked his lip between his teeth whenever he was deep in thought, and how he’d scrunch his brows together if what he came up with didn’t quite make sense. He was undoubtedly pretty. The faded freckles on his face are reminiscent of a million stars. The dips in his cheeks, appearing whenever he smiled, comparable to picturesque valleys. Those big brown of his eyes were like chocolate buttons and the more time you spent together, the more you thought you caught him glancing in your direction with that cocoa gaze, but that would be insane. Right?

It was also in those moments, as you drew the monsters he described in grave detail, you got to see the Eddie he so desperately tried to hide away from the rest of the world. The real Eddie. He was ridiculously smart. Not many people in Hawkins, if any at all aside from your silly little brother with his band of friends, could come up with such intricate ideas. Funny too, making you snort a laugh one too many times with practically zero effort. And he was kind. Asking you how your day was, seeming genuinely interested in your answer.

The small talk was kept to a minimum in the hours you two spent working on the campaigns, but whenever you did have a short conversation, Eddie always made sure his attention was focused solely on you. The second mistake was letting him, because being his priority, if only in the moment, made your stomach flutter.

But today Eddie hasn't uttered a single word aside from a measly hello when you opened your front door earlier that afternoon to let him in.

Normally the silence doesn’t bother you. If anything, you welcome it as it helps you concentrate on the details of any piece you’re currently working on. There was just something about the way Eddie was sitting that made you feel uneasy. He didn’t seem present. Leaning against your dresser, legs sprawled out in front of him, gaze focused on something out the window as he fidgeted with the pencil in his hand.

At first you thought maybe he was planning the next move in his new campaign and just needed a minute, but then fifteen minutes passed and the metalhead still hadn’t moved. If you didn’t know any better, you’d doubt he was even breathing. As still as a rock.

A sudden wave of concern rushes through you and without taking a second to consider what you were doing, you grab one of the pillows from your bed and throw it in his direction.

“Shit, what the—”

“Are you okay?”

Eddie’s not sure how to answer that question, especially when he looks at you. Eyes wider than normal, accompanied by delicate worry lines that he's never really been on the receiving end of — aside from Wayne's constant frown. Eddie first thinks you're clearly faking the concern 'cause why would you actually care? But the longer his gaze remains connected with yours, the more he wants to believe your sincerity is genuine. And that's fucking scary.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Just a lot on my mind. Nothin' you need to worry about.”

But you don't give up as easily as he hoped you would.

“Wanna talk about it?”

His lips twitch though he never actually smiles and you are certain then something definitely happened because it's as if he really wants to offer you a glimpse of happiness, but his body is refusing.

Dropping his gaze to the pencil in his hands, Eddie sighs. “You don't have to do that.”

“Do what?” You ask, stringing your brows together.

“Pretend like you actually give a shit,” he replies with a little more disdain than intended while once again catching your eyes with his own.

You don't mean to scoff, but you do. “Look, Eddie, I know we're not like best of friends or anything,” you begin, hopping off the bed with an elegant bounce. “But considering lately I spend more time with you than Nancy or Steve, I feel like we can at least talk about shit, no? Like when something is bothering us, we can talk about that.”

He's slightly surprised at your words. The admission that you hang out with him more than your actual friends didn't seem right to him. In his mind, you and Wheeler are inseparable. He sees you two together all the time, sharing a ride to school, having lunch at the same table. And in the evenings or at the weekends, you're always around Harrington and that other girl, Buckley. Not like Eddie seeks you wherever he goes... He's just... observant.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Eddie rolls his eyes, tone full of disbelief. “You don't gotta lie to make me feel better.”

“I'm not,” you defend and sit cross-legged at his feet, knees brushing against the soles of his dirty Converse in the process. You know you don't owe him an explanation or reasoning, but it seems Eddie won't let up about what's on his mind without one.

“Nancy and I have drifted apart since I kinda took Steve's side in their breakup. Sure we carpool and sit at the same table in the cafeteria, and our idiotic brothers are good friends, but that's pretty much it.”

Eddie starts to feel like a jerk for assuming shit when he clearly had no clue, but you don't give him a chance to interject.

“And yeah, I see Steve often, but it's not like we're all buddy-buddy. He likes it when I stop by the video store to literally sit on the counter and draw his stupid head of hair just so he can make other girls jealous.”

“Jesus, that's shitty.”

You shrug, a small smile circling your lips. “I don't mind. Free film rental and peaceful sketching time.”

The lighthearted tone of your voice makes the corners of Eddie's mouth curl upwards, matching the expression currently present on your face. There's a semi-second of quiet. He's no longer feeling bad 'cause you've taken those worries away with one simple look. And when you knock your knee against his shoe again, Eddie's completely relaxed.

Lost in the way the sun reflects in your eyes, the metalhead doesn't really think when he asks, “So how come you've never invited me over for movie night, huh?”

You smirk. “Horrors aren't really my thing. I actually like to enjoy what I'm watching,” you tease, “Even if the shit is free. Don't wanna see any decapitations, thank you very much.”

Eddie huffs a laugh. He pulls his legs up before sliding along the carpeted floor of your bedroom until he's about a reach away from you. Closer than he's ever been. His arms make way around his legs, ring-clad fingers hanging low, poking at your calf.

Surprisingly, you don't flinch at Eddie's sudden proximity or the delicate touch.

“Quite presumptuous of you, sweetheart.” He affirms, gaze focused on where his skin brushes against the denim of your jeans.

“So you don't only watch gruesome things?” You challenge, your own fingers hesitantly reaching towards him, stopping before you can actually graze him in any way.

Eddie's smirking. “Not the point.”

“Sounds like I'm right,” you muse, your smile growing wider. “But I'll make you a deal.”

He looks up to meet your eyes then, hiking a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

You nod. “If you tell me what you were thinking about earlier, I'll let you pick a movie we can watch together. Even something horrific.”

This was uncharted territory — (and also your third mistake). The two of you have never hung out outside of working on D&D campaigns, but since Eddie asked a mere minute ago, even if he was just teasing, you figured why the fuck not. What's the worst that could happen? Plus this seemed the only way to get him to open up.

Eddie tugs his bottom lip between his teeth as he mewls over your proposal. On the one hand, talking about feelings or problems isn't something he's necessarily into. And when it comes to spending time with you, part of the allure is congenial silence, unless he's the one fishing for information. On the other hand, his heart rate has increased tenfold at the thought of you hiding in his embrace during a particularly gross scene or before any jump scare.

In the end, the physical urge to be close to you, an unmistakable desire he's been experiencing for far longer than Eddie would care to admit out loud, wins.

“Carver just got in my head.”

The instant frown on your face, and how your fingers are suddenly reaching for his, looping together, make Eddie want to elaborate.

“Called me talentless. Usually the shit that douche and his gang of imbeciles spewer doesn't bother me 'cause I've been called many things throughout my life and whatever they come up with is more idiotic than hurtful, but I dunno, that comment just rubbed me the wrong way.”

He drops his gaze, focusing instead on your hands now perfectly intertwined. He began to rub gentle circles into your soft flesh and although this was completely odd behaviour for the two of you, it felt more than right.

“Because it's not true, Eddie.”

The metalhead's heart flips at your words and the encouraging tone behind them. Although he didn’t let it show, focusing instead on the dips between your knuckles and every single crease in your skin as he squeezed your hand just a little tighter.

“You're not talentless,” you affirm, dipping your head lower in hopes of catching his brown eyes. “If anything, you're one of the most talented people I've ever met.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters, still refusing to look up.

“Eddie, you can't let those idiots make you feel worthless. You've got more talent in your left pinky than Carver and his band of bullies have put together.” You declare, rather passionately at that. “These campaigns you come up with, do you know the imagination that takes? I-I also know you play the guitar a-and sing too. Plus those extra curricular activities of yours require a mathematical brain. That's already also more talent than I have.”

He glances up at you then. “Shut up. As if you actually think I'm more talented than you?” he disputes and jerks his head towards some of the drawings covering the walls. “No one I know could do that and I know I never told you, but my campaigns would be nothin' without your art, sweetheart.”

Although heat rushes to your face at the unexpected compliment, you don't let Eddie's kind words steer you off course. This wasn't about what he thought of you, this was about what you thought of him and, as it turns out, how badly you wanted him to know.

“My stupid brother won't shut up about how fucking cool you are,” you reveal, chewing briefly on the inside of your cheek. “He's never said anything remotely as nice about me.”

Eddie lets out an airy chuckle. He drops his hold on you, but he doesn't give you a moment to even register how you instantly miss his touch, how your hands are burning with invisible imprints of where his skin brushed yours. No, because he's pushing your legs apart with little to no effort and sliding in-between them.

“Well, I happen to think you're cooler than me.”

It's your turn to laugh while again choosing not to comment on his closeness and ignoring how it made you feel. Ignoring how your stomach fluttered as he pressed his legs to your sides, hands hovering near your face as if he debated whether he was crossing some sort of line.

“Right. Don't fuck with me, Munson.”

“Cross my heart,” the metalhead promises. “Why do you think I asked you to help me out in the first place? Why do you think I willingly spend most of my afternoons with you? Like, there's no need for us to do this together. I can come up with the campaigns on my own then share the concepts so you can draw them out.”

You swallow 'cause the thought has never crossed your mind.

Before Eddie approached you with the offer, your knowledge of Dungeons and Dragons was definitely limited, only privy to whatever your brother and his friends shared. When Eddie asked you to draw something that very first time, and every time after that, you didn't stop and think if it was really necessary for you two to sit together for hours on end, crafting and creating on opposite ends of the room. Now that he's mentioned it, you really didn't need to.

“I-I don't—”

“There's no cooler chick than you, sweetheart.” Eddie interrupts, hands now cupping your face, no longer hesitant, and you're left wondering when the topic shifted from a conversation about his talents to whatever this was shaping up to be.

“Eddie...”

“How Harrington can use you to make other girls jealous instead of realising he should just ask you out, I-I don't understand.” The sentence fades with each word until his voice is a low muffle and you're not entirely sure you heard him correctly.

But every fibre of your being is screaming, so you know he definitely said it. And the way his doe-eyes are glimmering, your own reflection prominent in the pretty brown, only cinches that feeling.

Your final mistake is not asking then and there what Eddie meant.

He stands shortly after and extends a hand to also help you up.

“Speaking of, is the King of Hawkins working right now?” Eddie asks and when you nod slowly, still recovering from the small bomb he's after dropping, he claps his hands together. “Let's go then. I'm thinking we can start with My Bloody Valentine and because you're providing the entertainment, I'll get us some snacks.”

thank you for reading!

eddie munson masterlist | main masterlist

#gosh this is a lot longer than i intended it to be #twas only supposed to be a drabble eek #but I hope you enjoy <3 #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x female!reader

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rizzraa · 1 month

Text

ᯓ★ Jams and Jellies

Chapter 1: Once More to See You

Hello everyone! My name is rizzraa and it's my first time ever posting fanfiction. It's been a while since I wrote an actual story, and even then I still don't think I'm the greatest writer. If you could be patient with me, I'd appreciate that. I don't mind constructive criticism, in fact I welcome it lol. I'm not sure how long this series will last, I just wrote one day because my brain couldn't handle all this yearning and daydreaming of Joel Miller. I didn't even watch the show, it's the tlou community that got ahold of me 😭

So please bear with me and have fun with me :33

Tags: mainly fluff, friends to lovers, post outbreak, yearning and burning, slight age gap (reader is in 30s, Joel is in early 50s), reader insert, mentions of y/n, cute nicknames, overall just an imaginary scenario in my head, shy n awkward Joel, Joel x f!reader, I can't think of anything else for this chapter

Summary:

You are an eccentric and lovely art teacher, trying to foster creativity in youth and elders alike in Jackson. One student seems to have that same artistic flair as you, and it naturally draws you closer to her. Her father notices this and wants you to get closer to him as well.

chap 2

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

You stare at the ceiling as the sun's rays stubbornly peers through the slits of your curtains. You can tell that the sun is starting to rise by how bright the light gets each second. I wonder what I should do today. How can I get them to be more...just more?? It's hard trying to get teenagers to engage with school, but it's straight up embarrassing trying to beg for their attention. You have a lot of energy, you are passionate for the arts, but it seems like that's the last thing the kids are thinking about. Well, they are teenagers. But even then, I still was fond of the arts. It's not THAT boring??? It's fun....? You sighed, getting up from your bed and preparing for the day. You decided that today is the day they will start to appreciate the artistry of the world, because today you will get through to them. With this newfound optimism, you scurry off to the bathroom after realizing your bladder is about to burst.

==========

"Okay kids, today is the start of a new day! Today..we will start a new project!" You announced brightly. Since the start of the school year, you allowed the kids to slack off as a way to destress, but you realize you should be doing more to help them cope with the realities of the outbreak. And they weren't exacrly respecting your quaint classroom.

"Aw come on Miss, why are you springing this on us all of a sudden?"

"Yeah, we already got projects from other classes.."

You inhaled sharply, trying to keep your composure. "Alright listen kids, this class is supposed to allow you wind down and relax, but the way you're supposed to do that in here is through art. It's not just some hangout, it's still a classroom." You paused, looking around at the indifferent kids. "Please guys, trust me when I say this-- art is such a unique and magnificent way to express yourself. It doesn't have to be beautiful, it just has to be you."

You looked around, trying to see if you got through to the kids. Your pleading eyes landed on one girl. Ellie Miller, you thought. She gave you a small, reassuring smile. I understand you, her eyes said. You smiled back, thankful you got through one kid.

You clapped your hands, "All right, here's the project: Each of you will create a portfolio of 5 different pieces of art that represents you. You are allowed to use different media. I expect each piece to have a small paragraph explaining what it is and what your art process was." Your eyes examined the room; some kids looked interested, while others looked annoyed. You continued, "This project is due on June 1st. You will present your project. And..." You paused, waiting for dramatic effect, "I will personally select the most unique and interesting pieces to be displayed at the End-of-the-School-Year Party!" Murmurs and exciting chatter spread across like wildfire, and you mentally patted yourself on the back. "Yes, that's right, children, so you better impress me. Allow yourselves to think boldly, go above and beyond!" You giggled.

"...What if we don't have that much creativity?" One kid shyly asked. Dina, you remembered.

"Well you can come on by anytime, I'm always in this classroom until 5pm! And feel free to bother me at any point outside of class!" You replied.

She gave a quick smile, and you clocked the way Ellie peeked at her from the corner of her eyes. You were always observant of others.

"Alright everyone, get to brainstorming!" The muffled chatter and shuffling grew louder, "Feel free to ask any questions!" Hearing yourself being drowned out by the noise, you decide to stop talking.

Heh, they're finally getting it, you thought smugly. You strolled back to your desk with a noticeable pep in each step.

===========

You looked at the clock, 6:30pm it read. God, has it really been that long? You scan through today's events after you announced the project. Kids moving and talking wildly-- you practically had to kick them out of your door to get to their next class. You sighed, packing up your things and leaving the classroom. I should pick up some groceries, I don't think I have much left in the fridge. You scurried to the nearest market, tugging and pulling at your way-too-heavy bag. You roam through each aisle, getting some fruits, staring at the mouth-watering jams, before hearing a familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

"---Aw, cmon Joel. Just for a quick minute."

"No. We can't risk it."

"But---!"

"Tut-tut--- it's only been getting more dangerous out there kiddo. I'm sorry, but I won't risk it"

You shuffled the jars around and made eye contact with Ellie.

"Uh...hi again" You said nervously. Your eyes flitting from Ellie to the man she was talking to.

Your breath stutters as you finally lay eyes on the dark, brooding man standing besides Ellie. His flannel didn't mask his obnoxiously broad shoulders, in fact it framed him even better. It also didn't help that it was painfully obvious that Joel was bending down to meet your eyes through the aisle shelves, his collarbone peeking through and his eyes getting narrower. But what really drawn you to him was his gorgeous face. His smoldering, deep brown eyes staring back at you, trying to figure you out. But that didn't scare you in the slightest. His perfect wrinkles showing slightly due to his frustration only made you more attracted to this finely drawn man. His pursued lips were sitting on his face and that drew attention to the graying streaks in his mustache and beard. In fact, you started noticing the beautiful strikes of silver across each hair on his head and face. The longer you stared, the more flustered the man got. Eventually he turned away from your gaze, locking eyes with Ellie, who you completely forgot was standing there.

"Oh- I, uh- I'm sorry, it's just- I don't see you around.. um anyways.. I'm [y/n].." You embarrassingly stuttered. God, could you get any more awkward than this??? Pull yourself together, he's just a man!

"Oh well, s'nice to meet ya, Miss. I'm Joel." He nodded. You gave a quick smile and turned your attention back to Ellie, ignoring the feeling that Joel might also be staring at you a little too long. "Everything okay, Ellie? Are there any issues with the project?" You cooly asked.

"Actually, yes-- Joel won't let me venture past the gates, even if he was my chaperone."

"Well, I mean, there IS an ongoing epidemic of infectious monsters.."

"Yeah, well it's nothing I can't handle." She rolled her eyes

"What was that?" You asked quizzically

Her and Joel exchange quick glances, "Nevermind" she said, turning back to face you.

"I.. okay well, I have a garden in my backyard if you want some nature-like inspiration!" You said with enthusiasm and made jazz hands, earning a chuckle from Ellie and a slight smile from Joel. You feel odd pride and a little swell in your heart, and decide to ignore it for now.

"Yeah okay, think I can stop by this weekend?" Ellie asked

"Yeah of course honey, like I said; bother me anytime."

"She'll take you up on that offer, for sure." Joel chuckled. You looked at him adoringly, then said "If it's Ellie, it's no bother." You shot him a terrific smile that caused him to glance slightly away, and you were suddenly aware of how red he became.

"Alright--" Ellie cut in, "we're not gonna keep you any longer, teach. See ya soon!"

"Bye Ellie, bye Joel." You waved at them

You stare at the jams you pushed aside, smiling like the giddy teenage girl you once were. How far away that seemed now, after everything that happened. You snapped out of it, feeling that pain in your chest creep back up. You looked gingerly at the jams you pushed away, remembering the artistic strokes and lines of Joel's face. Oh how strong and sharp he looked. You giggled as you remembered his red face, his curled lips, his exposed collarbone, his broad shoulders. This time you didn't snap out of your sudden trance, your face getting redder at each thought you had of Joel.

Oh God, is all you can say.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Thanks for reading! Please feel free to share your thoughts or ideas, I welcome it all! Have a wonderful day :DD

#joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #yearning #just writing my fantasies #being a girl #the last of us fanfiction #Spotify

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ashcan-studio · 8 months

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How to make Surrealist Art for your Art Portfolio

Adding a Surrealist drawing, painting, sculpture, or mixed media piece to your Art Portfolio is a great way to show Admissions Counselors your unique imagination. If you’ve never tried to make Surrealist Art you may be surprised by how much you’ll like it

Adding a Surrealist drawing, painting, sculpture, or mixed media piece to your Art Portfolio is a great way to show Admissions Counselors your unique imagination, which also says a lot about who you are. ASHCAN ART PORTFOLIO PREP CLASSES If you’ve never tried to make Surrealist Art you may be surprised by how much you’ll like it! One of the reasons you may love making a Surrealist piece so…

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#art portfolio #art school #art school admissions #art school new york #art school portfolio #art school portfolio preparation #BFA #portfolio preparation #portfolio preparation course

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escherbug · 1 year

Photo

Hi everybody, I stayed mostly on twitter but stuff is really going down there. I’m working on getting a portfolio site set back up, but I’m pretty busy preparing to move and also getting ready to start grad school.

I’ve drawn a LOT of TWRP fanart in the last couple years. These are some of my favorites! I’ll do some additional posts as well, since there’s definitely more that I like of my fanart, as well as more to come.

I actually got the amazing opportunity to do some actual official art for the band, as well! I’ll post it when I know it’s okay to show freely, as well as a link to where you can get physical versions of it!

#TWRP #TWRPBand #escherbug art #maybe in a couple months i wont be too busy to draw fanart again ;0;

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annwhiskers · 3 days

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Art school Portfolio project 1

Please, Go Home

Art school didn't end up happening for me (I'm going to do something completely different and more secure, and keep art and writing for myself for fun), so I thought I’d share my portfolio projects here.

Buckle up, this'll be long as fuck.

This is a story I’d been working on for years, since 2018. I’d rewritten it several times, until in 2023, I got the chance to come up with my own project at design school. Immediately, I knew this was what I wanted. I wanted to make this story into a real book. And I wanted to make it all by hand, cause bookbinding seemed cool to try.

I had to come up with 2 ideas to do.

Translation:

Subject 1

Book. Specifically a novel (written by me). I want to make illustrations of the characters, design the inside (text and design thingies and everything), design the cover. Print and bind it myself. Illustrations of the characters are in it, I’ll try to finish as many as possible, but I probably won’t be able to finish all of them. Then I’ll leave blank pages in and stick the remaining illustration in later. (I did finish them all, so I didn’t need to do this.)

Why? I love books. I read them a lot and I’ve been writing for years. Now I want to make a professional looking book myself. And of course I love to draw, I want to incorporate that too. I’d like to have completely handmade versions of the books I’ve written. I’d like to learn bookbinding.

Subject 2

Graphic novel. I want to learn to tell a story visually. And I want to experiment with color more.

Why? I like to read graphic novels. I want to tell and draw stories, and get better with color.

A mood board of what I wanted, I chose the book.

Translation:

Inside book

Physical book

Character illustrations

Little drawings

Dust jacket

Translation:

Little drawings

Inspiration

Finished product

Why? The main character writes and doodles in a journal. When he’s anxious or his head is full, he doodles a certain type of pattern to calm down. More of the design of the book is based on this. He also sometimes draws little things that he likes.

Translation:

Inside

Fonts

Novels always have a serif font as the standard. Standard book font: Adobe Garamond Pro.

Other than that, I want to use quite a lot of different fonts that resemble handwriting for the chapter titles. The titles are quotes from a character in the chapter, each has their own font as their voice or handwriting. Sometimes, the characters write too, that’s also in their own font.

[A list of fonts.]

Preparations

I made parent-pages for each type of spread that I needed. One with only text, one with an illustration and the start of a chapter, and 2 with only the start of a chapter on either side of the spread. And I made a bunch of paragraph-styles for all the types of text that I needed. I have 2 sections, 1 for the front matter, 1 for the rest.

Translation:

Final product

Here are a few spreads, I won’t show all of them, because that’s 308 of them.

Here I have a spread with an illustration, a basic page with a little drawing in it, and a regular chapter opening where I use one of the other fonts for the title. The titles are quotes, and the font shows who said it.

Translation:

Cover

Research

Adult Fantasy Romance. What’s already out there? (Put a bunch of YA there, but whatever)

I want illustrated, probably with characters. Detailed or silhouette.

Sketches

Colour

Translation:

Final product

Color choice. In the end, this is the illustration I went for. I showed the two bigger color choices from the last page to a friend, she said with the purple one, that the characters nicely sprung out of the image because of the orange. But the green one was more relaxed. I thought the green one fit better with the vibes of the book, but I really like the purple one too. I ended up switching the colours of the text and the characters, so the characters sprung out like the purple one.

Subject. The twigs are around it, because one of the main characters (the right one) often draws them in his journal. They’re also there in the rest of the book, in his journal entries. He’s writing in it on the cover. Left, he’s reading a book, because he does that often, and others in his family do so too. The two shadows are their grandfathers, who also knew each other, which the main two don’t know. Those two have quite a bit of history.

Title. The story is about them meeting each other, and they’ve both been away from home for various reasons. They push each other to go back to their families, that’s why it’s called ‘Please, go home’.

Font. It’s one of the characters fonts, orange left. I wanted to use one of the main characters’ fonts, and I liked this one better.

Translation:

Dust jacket

I put a description on the back, quotes on the front flap, and normally there’s an ‘about the author’ on the back flap, but I didn’t feel like doing that, so I put a short text there to give more context to the book itself.

Sorry about the shitty quality of the next few.

Translation:

Character illustrations

Inspiration

Sketches

I sketched some poses I could use. Other than that, I’m not planning to sketch a lot, I’ve drawn all these characters before and I already have a good idea of what I want them to look like.

Style experiment

I tried something painty first, didn’t like it. After that, I experimented with the background. I didn’t want the colour to go all the way to the edge, because I didn’t want to have to deal with bleed and trimming. In the end, I didn’t give the background any colour, except black and white lines, as you can see in the final result. I liked the effect of only the character having colour.

Translation:

Rune

Earlier drawings

Sketches

Final product

In the book, it’ll be greyscale.

(All the next few have the same text except the characters names, so I won’t translate again. Except if I did add some text somewhere.)

Translation:

And with this, all the illustrations are done. I'm not super happy with all of them, but I did my best to make them all unique and recognizable. And within 4 weeks. I'm happy with it.

Translation:

Physical book

Research

Binding. At first, I thought about doing a standard case-binding, a standard hardcover book. But after watching some tutorials, I realised that's quite complicated and requires supplies that I couldn't easily get. I continued searching and found crisscross-binding or secret Belgian binding. It resembles a standard hardcover book, but you barely have to glue, you need less supplies, and it's easier for beginners. It looks cool, it's sturdy, but also flexible.

Paper and size. A5 size, then I don't have to trim and printing is easy. A4 folded. A4 cream novel paper, I want it to look as professional as I can. It's not the best paper for illustrations, but it does work, I've seen it in other books.

Material. I bought everything I need at an art store in the city, except the paper. I ordered that online.

Practice. As a try-out, I made a small book of printer paper and used watercolour paper. It went well, except that i didn't sew the pages to the spine properly.

Translation:

Final product

Printing

I put my printer at home in my room. First, I tried on standard printer paper if the printer did what I wanted it to do. Which it didn't. It couldn't print double-sided. But with Acrobat, I printed booklets. First only the front, then the back. So I managed to do it.

After successfully printing one booklet on the standard paper(left), I started printing the whole book on the cream paper. Within 1,5 hours, I printed the whole book, 19 booklets. Together with the testing, it took me about 2 hours.

I pressed the pages underneath my cutting mat with two bricks. I left it there for about a day.

Translation:

Cover

I cut the front and back cover out of cardboard, then covered it with linen paper. I drew a twig on it with ink and a brush. Then I poked holes in it for the sewing.

Here, I made the spine 2cm wide, which I thought would be enough. It was not. I'll get back to that. I covered the spine in linen paper, too.

I sewed the cover together, I followed a tutorial on YouTube. Then i glued the end papers on.

Translation:

Binding & Dust jacket

I poked holes (in the booklets) for the sewing, then I started sewing the paper to the cover.

When I'd sewn 6 out of the 19 booklets onto the cover, I was already halfway along the spine and I realised this wasn't going to fit. I undid all the sewing and remade the spine. This time 3cm.

The new spine was still a bit too small, even though I thought I'd exaggerated it a bit. The book doesn't close properly. But I refused to redo everything again, so I just accepted it. It was better after pressing it for a day. I didn't trim the edges, that was very difficult with the pages already bound into the book. I quite like the untrimmed edges.

I folded the dust jacket around it and pressed it, so it'd keep it's shape. And now the book is done. The paper of it smudges very easily. A little bit of dust on it and it won't come off. That's a bit disappointing. (Now a year later, it also isn't lightfast whatsoever. It stood in a dark corner of my bookshelf nowhere near the sun and the spine turned yellow. I guess I now know why covers have protective coatings on them. Which I didn't have the option for.)

Translation:

FINAL final product

Reflection

This project was the most fun thing I did at this school. I've always wanted to do this and it's awesome I can now hold my own book in my hands. The binding was fun to learn, but also a challenge. Not everything went perfectly, like i said earlier. But now I've can learn from those mistakes. I'm quite impressed with myself that I managed to do this in this time. I wasn't sure I could do it. But i did dedicate every moment of free time I had to this.

(I did all of this in 5 weeks. All the teachers doubted me, that it was too much work, and just told me good luck. And I said "Watch me." Autistic hyperfocus activated.)

(The second paragraph isn't important, just a short description of the last discussion I'd had with my teacher about this.)

Awful picture, sorry.

This is the final presentation I had at school for this, and this is where it stops for the school projects side of this. But it continues.

After this, I didn't touch it for a few months. Then I let a friend read it (digitally) and processed her feedback into the book afterwards. Then I published it on Amazon.

This won't be the last time I do this. The whole process is really fun and fulfilling. And owning a real, published book that I wrote, illustrated and designed is awesome.

In case you're interested, click here to buy it.

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