#u are one brave man | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soleilnomoon · 2 years

Note

i'm back. well, technically, I never left. I hereby submit a formal request for an art college type AU with Usopp needing to draw someone (reader or a strawhat of your choice) for an assignment. idc if it's sfw or nsfw cause ya know i trust your judgement. thankies!

babey, babey, babey art college au?? usopp??? i loved writing every word; this took me a month & a half, but yk how it is, i always want perfection for u — and this is far from it, but hear me out...૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა ok...i got nothin', chief. ily, siempre tho (u already know) 💓💓💓

1.5k words, gn reader (no pronouns), sfw (shock, gasp, awe), slightly suggestive, fluff???, tiny bit of angst (maybe a little more idk), 18+, mdni; art college au!, usopp is a shy coward and reader is full of sass & can't read the room; nothing major, death mention and that's about it. a very tame kaia production, i think

to be an artist is to willingly carry the burdens of the world, to mold their creations with clumsy, earnest fingers, to sculpt an absurd idea of the truth with precision, to paint the fleeting feelings of the masses without restraint, and to scrape any unnecessary remains onto a stained, concrete floor.

it's messy; an ordeal that requires dedication, innate talent, and an overwhelming desire to survive.

once upon a time, when everything in his life was still bright and full of promise, his mother often boasted to her friends — and almost anyone who would listen, really — about his artistic prowess. on days where she had energy, she’d say, take a look, he’s done it again; and when she was weary, but still proud, oh, goodness, you’re truly a wonder; but, the most poignant moment, the one phrase — question, rather — that stuck with him years later, even after her death, was: do you know the color of a person’s soul, usopp? the true color? i wish i could see you paint it. i know it will be spectacular.

it's not grief that drives him to pour his heart into his work, and it’s not out of any residual feelings of sadness, but because of his mother’s last words — he still remembers how he strained to hear her speak, how he begged her to repeat herself, how he cried himself to sleep for days and days. he’s a night owl out of spite — to chase his inner demons away, to not let her haunt his heart more than she already does — and he’s committed himself to mastering a style that’s uniquely his, so that he can tell his story the proper way.

after weeks of looking for a model for his latest assignment, he finds you by chance — with charcoal-stained fingertips that you constantly wipe on your jeans, a smudge on your cheek from when you rubbed it minutes ago, hair haphazardly thrown into a messy bun, curls poking out everywhere, the pinnacle of concentration and rebellion.

you, who frequently defies your professors’ suggestions, who reminds them time and time again that no you can’t simply change your piece because it doesn’t follow their guidelines, and no you can’t commit to turning in assignments on time because “art is freedom, why are you so persistent?”

and you refuse to be confined into their neatly labeled boxes.

he wishes he could have a tiny piece of your boldness, of your dedication to remaining true to yourself, of your outlandish outlook on life where you defy expectations without a care.

or he thinks so, anyway.

after the other students have filtered out of the classroom, you remain behind, tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek, lips pursed as you consider a new angle for your piece. he watches the quick, messy dark marks that adorn your canvas — you’ve been working on it for hours without rest. your dedication to your craft (to your truth) is admirable, if not a little intense, so much that it’s hard for him to approach you.

cowardice seeps through his bloodstream, pumping directly into his heart, making it more difficult for him to speak — let alone to ask you for help.

but you glance at him out of the corner of your eyes, lashes partially obscuring your eyes when you blink slowly.

he’s always believed that art is always imperfectly perfect, but you? he doubts he really knows the true meaning of art now.

“h-hey,” he says after a while, throat dry, palms moist and unsure. you pivot and stare, a curious smile prancing onto your lips, the edges curling impishly before you respond cheekily.

“after staring at me for so long, that’s all you have to say?”

you click your tongue in jest, and his face burns painfully — embarrassment eating him alive, making him fidget with the strap of his bag, where he nearly falls over the stool behind him. you attempt to quiet your laughter, but you can’t help yourself. he’s always like that — fidgety, lost, boisterous at times, but also a little serious. you wonder if he spends his life seeped in his passiveness, and he wonders if you’ve always been this vibrant and honest — reminding him of a few of his closest friends who never shy away from the truth no matter what it may be.

“chill, i’m just kidding,” you say when you realize he might’ve taken you seriously. “it’s no big deal, really.” you’ve learned that there’s no harm in people looking at you, no matter what their reasoning is. “did you need something?” because he rarely speaks to you, and he certainly doesn’t talk to you like that.

usopp shifts on his feet, tongue suddenly too big for his mouth, his words clumsily knocking against the back of his teeth; but after inhaling deeply, a bit of his anxiety rolls off of his skin, drips down to the floor — out of sight, out of mind.

“i, um,” he rubs the back of his neck, warm, russet brown skin still struggling with the overwhelming heat that’s permanently settled on his face. “well, see… i haven’t found anyone to p-pose for my assignment, so—”

“sure.” your voice is clear, decisive; you barely leave wiggle room for any argument, and that — the sheer oppressive power behind your assertiveness is what terrifies him. your intensity might literally kill him if he’s not careful.

“oh, okay, yeah.” feeling a little more confident, he puts his bag down and grabs his large sketch pad. he sits on the stool and motions for you continue as you were.

with raised brows, you shoot him an unreadable look, but don’t offer any clarification. you face your canvas again and attack it with vigor, dropping the charcoal and opting to use oil pastels instead. you don’t think as you move your arm, instead allowing the flow to come naturally as you begin dotting colors all around; you’ve been in an impressionist sort of mood, wanting to encapsulate the unhurried movements of field of flowers surrounded in flames. you’re not quite sure what possesses you, but it came to you in a dream and you couldn’t stop until you brought it to life.

during your freshman year, someone callously remarked that you were demented, a lost cause — someone to watch out for. but usopp begs to differ; as he sits and observes, twirling his conté stick around his fingers before settling down in front of the easel and sketching lightly. he notices that you tend to move around a lot, bouncing on your feet, as if the floor is too hot for you to tolerate at times; you also talk to yourself, which he doesn’t find unusual because he also talks to himself.

maybe you both have more in common than he originally thought. for some reason, the corners of his lips twitch, he finds himself smiling, albeit bashfully, at the idea.

you peek over at him as you work, admiring his steadfast dedication, the precise movements of his wrist, the delicate way he holds the conté stick. you’ve never cared about the work of others, but you’d be lying to yourself if you say you’re not even remotely curious about how he sees you.

usopp works in silence for about thirty minutes before you decide to stop for the night.

he’s done several gesture drawings of you, one more animated than the last, wanting to capture the fluidity and beauty of your movements without interruption. you might just be the perfect subject to study, if he’s honest. and while he definitely has more than enough to work with, he doesn’t really want to stop sketching you.

he knows he can’t say that, so he keeps it to himself, allowing the words to die down on the back of his tongue as he pushes the easel back to its proper place.

after leaving your signature messy scrawl on the bottom corner of your picture, you walk over to glance at his work, but he’s already grabbed the sketch pad and shoved it into his portfolio case. he clears his throat several times, almost comically, but you refrain from laughing — this time.

“thank you for your assistance,” usopp says with a grin; he wears his false bravado with ease, but he’s tragically unconvincing. you smile encouragingly at him and wink.

“anytime, cutie.”

while you contemplate whether or not you’ll showcase this particular piece of yours, he stammers over his words, mumbles something in haste and, quite literally, scurries away. you’re not sure if you’ve permanently scared him off, but you have a feeling he’ll come back and ask for that favor again. as he makes his way out of the building, nearly tripping down the stares with all of his hurried movements, he tries to remind himself that he has to be more careful. he’s sure you almost saw through his act; all of that courage deflates and he slows his steps, glancing over at the building again, wondering if maybe — just maybe — he’ll find a chance to show you his finished work.

it’s not the answer to the question that he’s been struggling with for the entirety of his adolescence and adult life, but it’s certainly a good start.

#sora ty for being so patient w my slow writing ily forevs #fic request #one piece imagine #one piece fluff #one piece angst #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #usopp x reader #usopp x y/n #usopp fluff #usopp angst #one day usopp will be a brave man; today is not that day #me? writing fluff? in this economy? it's more likely than u think.

74 notes · View notes