#nude modeling

[corralinesage]

Portrait of a wounded heart (8/8)

CHAPTER 8 Epilogue: First snow 

You sprinted down the stairs in a hurry, dodging a couple of students on your way to the lobby, a silly smile lingering on your lips no matter how you tried to swallow it down to avoid looking idiotic. You simply had too much to smile about, your chest fluttering from excitement as you burst through the front door of the department of English, swerving more people as you entered Greene Street, your boots leaving behind dark prints into the fresh snow that had collected on the concrete during your lecture. You ran, yes, you ran across the street to the corner of the opposite building where a redheaded woman stood with a paper bag in her hand. Your eyes met, your smile wearing off on her immediately, your running pace only increasing.

“Oh, you won’t believe- Ah! It went so well.” You fell into Natasha’s arms, her perfume engulfing you with its sweet scent as you buried your face into her snow-dusted scarf, a gentle chuckle sounding from her, her arms squeezing you tightly. “She was impressed with my comments and analysis! She said so herself.” You pulled back to see Natasha’s face, a wild grin on your lips, her expression matching yours. “She’s proud of me.”

“And she has every reason to be”, Natasha whispered, cupping your cheek, itching to hold the ball of excitement that you were, but the paper bag in her hand only allowed it partly.

“I didn’t think I could do it, and I almost dropped the course at one point cause I was so busy. So, then today she asked me how I felt about the workload and said she was wondering about it because my comments were so good!” You could have cried from joy. You didn’t understand why it mattered so much to you, what made your English professor different from the others –or you did know. It was because she was old enough to be your mother, but you still failed to fully understand everything that you were feeling.

“I’m so proud of you.” Natasha pulled you back into her embrace, kissing the side of your head.

“I feel like this is it. This is where I wanna be, what I wanna do”, you said quietly, your smile fading away. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this about school.” She looked at you intently, keeping your body flush against her own as you gave her a small frown. “I did well. I’m actually good at something.” Her smile only widened, her eyes flitting down to your lips before she kissed you softly. You welcomed the gesture, kissing her back, the act loaded with uncontrollable excitement.

“You’re good at a lot of things”, Natasha countered in a gentle berate for your habit of belittling yourself.

“Yeah, but you know… She likes me. She thinks I have good opinions.” Natasha’s brow arched.

“Alright, now”, she said in a mild warning, her tone slightly teasing. “Don’t make me jealous.” You chuckled quietly, staring up at her with doting reverence.

“I would never. I only have eyes for you”, you assured her, rising up onto your tiptoes to plant another kiss on her plump lips. “Although I’ll keep my peripheral on Mrs. Salinas”, you added jokingly, earning an eye roll from her.

“I don’t know what kind of an impression I’ve given you, but…” She pulled you closer, her lips finding your ear. “I’m not sharing.” Your other knee actually gave in, your body pressing into hers, a warm tickle caressing your lower abdomen. You let out a small giggle, a burst of happiness exploding in your chest. You felt so light, so grounded, despite your weak knees, your arms wrapping tightly around Natasha’s neck.

“Don’t worry, I’m not meant to be shared. I’m snack-sized.” She chuckled at your words, adjusting her grip around your waist, your feet nearly lifting off the ground as she straightened herself upright.

“Snack-sized indeed. What are you, a feather?” She lifted you completely off the ground as if to prove her point.

“You’re just freakishly strong. You could join the Avengers or something.” You pulled back to look at her when she set you down, grinning like a fool, Natasha casting her eyes to the snowflake-filled sky.

“Find me an application form and I’m sold.”

“No, I’m keeping you all to myself. Fuck the Avengers and saving the world. You’re all mine.” Natasha bit the inside of her lip, reigning in her reaction to your words.

“That better apply to only one of the Avengers”, she muttered playfully, pleased out of her mind to hear you laugh at her stupid joke.

“That depends. Did you bring me a dirty chai latte, and a banana-walnut muffin all the way from Hudson Yards?” You gave her a small look of suspicion as if there would have been any question whether she had followed your request or not. She rolled her eyes, lifting up the paper bag in her hand, offering you a peek at the two coffee cups that were from a nearby cafe and two muffins from the place you had had your first date in, but additionally there was a medium-sized cardboard packaging that you didn’t recognize. “What’s this?” You asked in confusion, pulling out the small box, immediately noting the high-quality brand.

“Something small”, she hummed mysteriously, watching you turn around the perfume box in your hands.

“Small? Baby, this is half my rent”, you gasped, opening up the box despite the stiffness of your cold fingers, carefully prying the thin plastic wrap off to open the package to get the glass bottle out. “And you got the bigger size too”, you whined as if she had done something wrong, your mouth turning downward. “You didn’t have to.” She merely smiled, fresh snowflakes piling up in her hair, the ones that touched her face melting away in an instant.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it”, she admitted softly. “It suits you far too well, and if it makes you feel any better, I bought it for my own pleasure”, she said teasingly, watching you spray the mouth-watering scent on your neck and scarf, Natasha’s smile only widening. She barely had the patience to wait for it to set before she pulled you closer, inhaling your natural scent mixed with the intoxicating fragrance of the perfume. You chuckled at her enthusiasm, leaning into her as you put the bottle away, so she could get another lungful of your apple pie and caramel -scented neck. “Fuck, that really just makes me want to take a bite out of you.”

“What are you waiting for?” You chuckled, giving her a daring look. Natasha set the paper bag onto the ground to avoid making a mess, her hands yanking you as close as you could possibly get, her mouth finding your neck. You let out a loud squeal that turned into uncontrollable laughter, her teeth sinking gently into your flesh. “Natasha!”

“Save that for the bedroom, krasotka”, she whispered teasingly, your stomach suddenly swarming with butterflies. You giggled again, leaning into her embrace for one final time before you would go enjoy your coffee break between lectures to Washington Park where the first snow was covering up the frozen, umber-colored leaves that remained on the ground, ready to welcome the change of season with open arms. Natasha pulled back to look at you, her lips finding yours on their own. She kissed you repeatedly, her lightly tinted lip balm staining your mouth a soft pink. She pushed you away enough to see your face, her eyes roaming all over your joy-filled features, the corners of her mouth turning upward in a genuine smile. “I’m so proud of you, so proud.”

“Well, you did help me...” Natasha wasn’t going to accept your attempts at redirecting where credit was due, her brows furrowing in disapproval.

“I’m the one who made it hard for you to focus in the first place.” You looked at her with a small squint.

“It’s not your fault you’re so all-consumingly beautiful, and sexy, and-”

“Take the compliment”, Natasha whispered sternly, yet her lips were curved into a small smirk, her smile only widening when you averted your eyes. She was beyond pleased to see the telltale sign of you blushing, her chest fluttering softly at the sight.

“Fine”, you muttered, feigning your reluctance, although some of it was surely real.

“Say it for me.” Your eyes rose up to meet Natasha’s, widening in disbelief. She merely gave you a smug smirk. “I’m proud of myself.” You looked at her blankly.

“No.”

“Say it, detka. I’m proud of myself.” Her left hand pulled you closer by your waist, your hips pressing into hers. “Come on, I know you know how.” Her tone was low, playful, but no longer teasing. You could barely look her in the eye from how flustered you were, your lips parting, but nothing came out. You felt her warmth against the front of your body, the pressure of her hand prominent through the layers of clothing you wore. You were proud of yourself, but it was more than hard to accept the feeling when it was something that you rarely experienced. Natasha cocked her head gently, finding your eyes.

“I’m… proud of myself”, you sighed in defeat, Natasha’s smile turning into a huge grin.

“That’s a good girl.” You couldn’t even look at her, your wide smile directed at the snow-covered ground. “No girl of mine is gonna have poor self-esteem if I can help it.” Fuck, she was really going to send you back to class after saying all that. You glanced at her, giggling quietly when you realized that she could very clearly see your reaction to her words from your face. You let your lower lip loose from the tight clamp your teeth had on it, trying to cover up your obvious arousal, but it was too late. She returned your laughter, welcoming you to rest your head against her shoulder, the height difference her heeled boots added offering you the luxury of hiding your face against her chest.

“Why would you say that? Now I have to make it through art history with dirty thoughts in my head”, you grumbled halfheartedly, Natasha’s soft laughter sounding above you.

“Well, if you just led the way to the nearest bathroom, I could sort that out for you.”

“Natasha, I’m not doing that!” You whined, only adding to her amusement. She had suggested it more than once during your four weeks of dating, mostly on days when she had to pine after you during your hours on campus. You refused to do anything on the university premises for a very good reason, but Natasha seemingly failed to see your logic behind it.

“Why not? I bet it would be so fun”, she crooned in that low, sensual voice of hers, your eyes sliding shut on their own.

“Natasha”, you said in a mild warning, merely receiving a light chuckle from her. You tried to pull away from the hug to give her a very impressive frown, but she simply tugged you back into her embrace, nuzzling her face into your hair as she inhaled your new scent. She held you for a moment, hugging you as best as your winter coats would allow, her chin resting over the crown of your head.

“Tonight then, when you come over”, she said quietly. “I’ll make sure you leave the tower the most confident girl there is.”

“Not helping”, you groaned, finally forcing yourself to pull away from her so you wouldn’t spend your entire break in her arms. The shit-eating grin on her face only seemed to linger there. “Let’s go. The coffees are cooling down.” You reached down for the paper bag, handing Natasha her chai latte before you took a bite out of your muffin. She took the bag from you like a true gentlewoman, so you could focus on your latte, but when you realized that the arrangement wouldn’t allow you to hold her hand, you hooked your arm with hers, refusing to let her get too far away from you on the street that was busy with students, workers, and tourists.

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story!! I truly appreciate the support<3 There's a second part to this story (an art themed smut collection) that I'll most likely also post on tumblr! It can be found on my ao3

[danpowers370]

[dirtytanuki]

[modelnova]

Photo by bobbydotnet

[the-pansexual-sasquatch]

I have been doing a body positivity photo project over on Instagram for the past few years or so:

I will continue to update there, and I love the interaction and visibility, but I want to have a space where I can write a bit more, show a bit more, maybe be a lil spicier at times, as well as a be a bit more uncensored and raw. So I figured why not return to a classic now that they have rolled back their censorship rules.

What to expect:

Photos and videos of myself and other collaborators, celebrations of fat bodies, queer bodies, disabled bodies, nonbinary bodies and all the wonderful things they do and how these things interact. Heads up for nudity, but not exclusively. Wrighting about gender, sexuality, ADHD, disability, polyamory and art. Also honestly just whatever big feelings are on my mind. Sometimes it will be light and whimsical, sometimes dark as life is rather heavy at the moment.

Also lots of butts

As you follow, lemme know of any accessibility needs for my content! I will try to be consistent in providing image descriptions as well as content warnings.

[Image description: Matt, a tall fat non-binary person with a big belly and strong arms is curled up warmly with on the forest floor on a bed of moss and foliage. above them looms tall green trees and a splattering of orange leaves and a grey sky peeking between the branches. The image has a feeling of warmth, but also isolation.]

[nudeposers]

Every guy should pose completely nude sitting on a wooden stool at least once. That should be a rule. Just relaxing and being themselves. Naked.

[corralinesage]

Portrait of a wounded heart MASTER LIST

Here’s a little autumn love story for those who love putting on candles and cuddling up in bed to read when it’s cold and stormy outside. I wrote this on a whim in an attempt to romanticize my art block. I couldn’t resist posting this cause fall is my favorite season and this fic is quite literally an embodiment of everything I love. This fic is so close to my heart I just had to share it<3 The full story has already been posted on my ao3 account, if you're feeling impatient!

Summary: You attend a live figure drawing class with the intention of falling in love with your favorite hobby again, instead you set your sights on something entirely different.

Lesbian fall romance for those in need ;)

Note: 18+ content in some chapters, so please read at your own risk!!

CHAPTERS:

Obsession, digression

I'm a fool to want you

All night long

Weeping soul

Fallen for a lie

Meant to be mine

Reification

Epilogue: First snow

Completed

Word count: 47,7K

[danpowers370]

[zillatron95]

Three of my latest drawings, two of which are for my upcoming story Antlers and Fins

[jbsdrawings]

[corralinesage]

Portrait of a wounded heart (1/8)

Summary:

You attend a live figure drawing class with the intention of falling in love with your favorite hobby again, instead you set your sights on something entirely different.

Lesbian fall romance for those in need ;)

‼️This work has been posted to ao3 as well and you can find the complete book there if you don’t wanna wait for the updates here!

18+ toward the end, read at your own risk⚠️

CHAPTER 1 Obsession, digression

You had been putting off signing up for a live figure drawing course for the entirety of your summer break when you had had all the time in the world to really get into studying anatomy with various different mediums, but inspiration and motivation had been very sparse for longer than just a few weeks or months. You didn’t really care anymore. You had lost what was perhaps the most important part of creating, you’d lost your passion toward art, the very same passion that you had kept alive since childhood. You knew you should’ve kept practicing, should’ve put more effort, more love, into the part of your life that kept you mentally nourished, but you just couldn’t seem to get over the artistic block that held you back. So, as a result you had made the decision to take part in a quick art course at your university to really push yourself out of your comfort zone. It might have either been the best or the worst idea you had had in a while, but there was no telling until you would enter the classroom and get to work.

You heard a loud honk through your earbuds, something that seemed to be more than frequent during rush hour, the sound blending in with the music that you were blasting into your mind to keep it quiet as you hurried across the street in case the honk was directed at you specifically. You tossed your empty takeout cup of coffee into the nearest bin you could find, tugging your coat tighter around you to shield yourself from the aggressive wind that made you shiver violently as you walked down the dark and busy street to find the university building that offered night classes to anyone who paid an excessive amount of money. You couldn’t really tell why you had decided to spend so much on a month-long course, but you could no longer withdraw your payment which left you no other choice but to go.

The door to the building you were heading for opened, a tall woman stepping outside, scrunching her nose at the humidity in the air, her hair dancing in the wind as she walked down the steps and disappeared out of your sight. You pulled on the handle of that same door, finding yourself inside an ancient building that had a rather striking, old-fashioned interior, the academic decor of bookshelves and plaster statues gaining your attention immediately. You had never been inside it before because your studies were mostly located on the opposite side of campus, but you managed to locate your classroom with only mild difficulty, feeling nervous butterflies in your abdomen, the odd sensation fluttering through you in waves of discomfort. You kind of wanted to leave, backtracking in your plans of reawakening the creative part of your mind. You could bring it back to life in the comfort of your own bedroom, the easels and assortments of charcoal pieces suddenly feeling more than intimidating by the minute as other artists slowly filled the room with their presence. None of them had even touched a single pencil or a piece of paper, yet you felt intimidated, like you had already failed before even getting the chance to prove your skills. You bit the inside of your lip, fiddling with a raw piece of coal, unintentionally staining your fingers black with the unrefined drawing tool. You felt like you couldn’t draw at all, like you had been shoved into a room filled with Michelangelos and Van Gohs who would all notice your incompetence before you had even been assigned a task.

Your anxiety flattened your mood rather effectively, the teacher’s words going right past you as she introduced herself, telling the class about her history with the university. You briefly wondered if you should have paid more attention to her because you were paying to be there after all, but you failed to keep your ears open and eyes on her, so you began to shade in the corner of the paper with no further purpose than to kill time, patiently waiting for the teacher to give you something to do. She rambled on for quite a while before asking the class to draw a quick five-minute sketch from memory of a person golfing, reminding everyone to focus on the line of action that often defined movement in drawings. You hated the prompt. You had never drawn a person golfing because nobody wanted to see that. Golf? Golf was for old people, but you began to draw random strokes on the paper anyway without even knowing what pose you were going for. You tried to see a golfing person through your mind’s eye, but apparently that part of your brain was out of use. You just couldn’t figure it out, the time limit only adding on to the pressure you felt.

You came into the conclusion that the exercise sucked. You stared at your sketch of a lanky golfer holding up a golf club, deciding that the figure was unintelligible and looked stiff in its unnatural position. You wanted to rip the paper into shreds but allowed the teacher to give you a second prompt without you making a scene in the corner of the large classroom. You hated that you had no way of finding references for what you were drawing, but you guessed it to be some sort of teaching method that would allow you to see your faulty way of thinking, as well as encourage you to actually learn anatomy that would eventually grant you the skill of drawing from memory. The subsequent prompt the teacher gave you went in from one ear and came right out the other, leaving you to ponder what it had been for the next five minutes while others sketched said figure. You pretended to do something with your easel and piece of lead to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the enthusiastic students as they worked on their sketches. With no prompt to follow, you zoned out completely, your eyes falling out of focus, freezing you into place as you sat still on your small stool. You barely even registered the teacher’s timer going off somewhere in the background, your body remaining in the same position for the next fifteen minutes as the teacher explained the meaning behind the first exercise and moved on to introducing a second one. Your mind was empty and full at the same time. You were stuck, stuck both physically and mentally, a sense of despair clawing at your chest for the wasted opportunity. You should have been happy, excited, eager to learn more, eager to give yourself what you needed, but you just couldn’t. You were too overwhelmed, too nervous to even give your creative side a chance, so you just sat, staring ahead. What finally drew you out of your troubled mind was the plain door to your left that opened suddenly, the gentle sound alerting you of an entering presence that caught you completely off guard in the state of comfort that you had found in the lonely corner of the classroom. You watched as a red-headed woman wearing a white robe slipped through the door. She gave you a polite smile as she shut the door behind her, walking over to the teacher who had a bright smile on her face.

“Here’s your model”, she announced in that overly sweet tone of hers, clearly ecstatic about the exercise. There was something about the way she spoke that made you not want to listen to a single word she said, but the remarkably beautiful woman who she was introducing to everyone seemed to be enough to hold your attention. “I want to go over the appropriate etiquette one more time so that there is no confusion”, the teacher said a bit more sternly. “There will be no photographing the model. There’ll be no touching, no talking, no commenting on appearances. Her safety and comfort come first which means you’re not allowed to make any kind of contact with her unless she initiates it”, the teacher reiterated, your eyes lingering on the model’s soft features, her striking red hair styled into loose curls that reached past her shoulders. “If I see so much as a glimpse of a phone or some other photographing device you’ll be thrown out of class and charged a fine. And finally –you would think this goes without saying, but apparently not– you’re not allowed to ask her out on a date or ask for her phone number. She is here to model and that is it”, the teacher asserted, brushing her hand down the model’s back, discreetly guiding her toward the center of the room where a tall stool stood. “Now… shall we get started?”

The model exuded confidence, she knew what she was doing, how to act, her captivating exterior letting you know that she had posed more than a couple of times before. She dropped her gown to the floor, your eyes suddenly nailed to your fresh sheet of paper. You couldn’t look at her, it felt too disrespectful. You couldn’t understand why because you’d seen naked women before, you had seen multiple naked people in your lifetime, yet suddenly it made your cheeks heat from embarrassment, your stomach swarming with butterflies. She was too pretty to be looked at, too enchanting, but deep down you knew you were beyond curious. You wanted to see more of her beauty, suddenly reminded of why you always gravitated toward figure studies specifically, and why you had chosen the course in the first place. You loved anatomy, and more explicitly female anatomy. You treated the female physique with a certain reverence, appreciative of both its capabilities as well as aesthetics. You felt a spark of excitement within you, allowing yourself to be intrigued by what was to come, but you also knew that it wasn’t just the artist in you that wanted to see her, wanted to witness the extent of her charming looks. You felt like everyone was looking at you, judging you for exhibiting homosexual tendencies. You shut your eyes, wincing at your reeling mind before gathering yourself, preparing to take a look at your subject as the teacher gave some more insight on the exercise.

“I want you to draw her in ten seconds, and ten seconds exactly, no more, no less. You’re going to produce me a loose sketch. Make it as loose and wild as possible, but make sure it still lets the viewer know that the subject is human. Utilize light strokes, curves and circles. Remember, the human body has no straight lines. There’s always a slight curve”, the teacher instructed, walking back and forth in the classroom, observing everyone to make sure no one was falling behind. You picked up an HB-lead pencil, whittling the tip with a utility knife to get your desired lead sharpness for drawing. “Ready?” You heard the teacher’s voice, preparing yourself to take a look at your model. So what, she was pretty? You drew pretty people all the time. “Three, two, one, go!” The teacher cheered with so much enthusiasm it sounded like she was commentating a sports event.

You peeked your head from behind the board propped up on the easel, your eyes landing on your model only to find her staring right back at you. Holy fuck. Your face flushed. Out of all the directions she could have been looking at she had chosen yours. She sat on the stool, her right foot supported by the beam that connected the legs of the chair at the bottom, left foot up on the edge of the seat. Her arms hugged her bent leg loosely, the position hiding her bare breasts from most angles. Her head was slightly tilted to the side to give her pose a sense of casualness, her natural color-palette and dominating presence begging for you to find any kind of assortment of pigments that you could utilize to replicate the soft hues of her complexion. There was no other way to capture her beauty, her poise, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her lips. You just stared at her, unable to move as the sound of charcoal on paper filled the room, the rest of the students putting admirable effort into their sketches, whereas you just stared. You could not pull your eyes away, you simply could not, the woman holding your gaze with impressive consistency. Her eyes were so intense, so green and warm even though the shade of green was on the cooler side. She had a mole on her cheek and a slight pout to her lips, the very last seconds of your time spent on observing the gorgeous shape of her round nose.

“Time!”

The corner of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a small smirk as your eyes widened. There was not a single line on your paper, not one, not even an accidental smudge of lead, and she knew it. She had seen you stare at her for every single second of the assigned time. You pulled back, forcing yourself to take a glance at the teacher who was looking over everyone’s work. Shit. You gripped your pencil, quickly drawing an oval shape to represent the model’s bent up leg, drawing a messy circle for her head, and a couple loose lines for the rest of her limbs. It was poor, but it wasn’t supposed to be good anyway, your hand leaving the paper when your teacher walked to your side, eyeing your plain sketch.

“Good job everyone!” She congratulated rather vaguely, moving back to the middle of the class where the students could see her. “I want you to draw the same pose again, but this time I’m giving you thirty seconds. Make it more detailed, take it a step further. You’ll be surprised by how much the extra twenty seconds will affect your work”, she said encouragingly, glancing down at the timer in her hand. “Is everyone ready?” After receiving affirmative nods and a couple verbal responses she pressed the button to start the timer again. “Go!”

Your gaze returned to the model, her eyes still on you. It was ridiculous. Why did she have to look at you? You were going to get nothing done in a class you paid a fortune to be in. You sighed in defeat, allowing your eyes to drop down to her body, trying your best to keep your cool as you studied her toned legs for a moment before going back to your sheet of paper. You reproduced the ten-second sketch, defining the shapes a little more, pulling back a bit to place your pencil in front of you, measuring the length of her limbs by looking at her through your dominant eye only to get accurate proportions. Once you got the sketch going and found a way to direct your attention to the sheet of paper, drawing became significantly easier, allowing you to get over your initial feeling of being flustered, but when the chair and limbs were done and you moved on to her torso and head, you felt your mind blank again. There she was, looking at you, staring at you with those steadfast eyes, unmoving like a carefully chiseled marble statue. Something made her unique, made her different from the other people you had drawn in your lifetime. She was so incredibly captivating that you felt like it couldn’t possibly be replicated through any art medium. You were positive that not even the highest quality camera could capture her energy, her entity, quite right.

You spent more time looking than drawing, but you didn’t mind it in the slightest, and neither did your teacher as long as you were drawing something and putting at least a bit of effort into it. You continued the exercise, the teacher increasing the time limit with each round, the model’s pose remaining the same for the rest of the two-hour class. You were sure you could have drawn her in your dreams from how many sketches you had made of her, but you didn’t feel satisfied. You wanted to be able to capture her perfectly, you wanted a fresh sheet of paper and thirty hours to create a piece of art that would match her regal composure. She deserved more than messy lines and quick sketches. She deserved better materials. She deserved a canvas, the richest paints you could find, an atelier with the most perfect natural lighting. She deserved a real artist, someone who could do justice to her beauty.

You felt like you couldn’t get a single sketch right. Objectively they were good, and there was nothing wrong with them, but to you they didn’t feel right. Time and time again you failed to bring out that same sense of awe and admiration that she awoke in you when you looked at her. Your sketches were flat, void of the thrill you felt whenever your eyes locked with hers. You weren’t sure if you were even skilled enough to capture such a feeling, but you were willing to try, vehemently sketching away every single time your teacher set a new timer for the next round. It bothered you that you felt rushed by the time limit. You wanted to draw in peace, constantly getting fixated on different details on her body or face. You couldn’t focus on her as a whole because every small curve and arch of her body demanded your undivided attention. You couldn’t just look over the small freckle on her calf, or the ivory of her thighs, or her auburn curls, or the purple shade of her nail beds as she slowly grew colder over time, her lack of clothing making her hairs stand on end. You felt the urge to walk over to her and drape the robe back over her body, despite how unbothered she seemed by the low temperature.

“Time! What have you guys noticed so far?” The teacher inquired in genuine curiosity as she started walking again, eager to observe everyone’s work. You couldn’t think of an answer, no, your eyes straying back to the model, once more allowed to watch her without having to draw. You had moved your small stool to the side a bit, the model noting that she could see you fully in your new set up. Her gaze flicked down your body for just a split second to see all of you before her eyes were back on yours, the model maintaining her pose meticulously. You felt your body burn up when her lips pursed the slightest bit, threatening to curve into a smile, her eyes turning almost playful.

“You… um, Y/L/N, right? What have you learned?” The teacher asked suddenly, walking beside you to see your sketches. She clearly had impeccable name memory. Your eyes widened, the model scrunching her nose discreetly as if apologetic for the situation you had found yourself in.

“Yeah, uhh…” You simply could not think, struggling to form a single word in your brain that had been caught off guard by your teacher’s inquiry, anxiety creeping up your neck to squeeze your throat. “Lots”, you mumbled, glancing at the model, which turned out to be a mistake because she was biting down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing at your poor answer. “You can go a long way with just… shapes”, you elaborated, the teacher seeming to accept your answer, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, precisely! I want you to look at your subject and draw shapes”, she began, her words clearly aimed at the entire class, her attention no longer on you or your work. “We often overcomplicate things by focusing on what they are instead of the shapes that build up the whole picture”, she explained, your attention going back to the model, your teacher’s voice fading into oblivion.

You weren’t sure whether it was all in your head or not, but you felt like there was tension between you and the woman in front of you, a connection. It almost made you feel like it was just the two of you in the classroom. Maybe it was because she was looking at you and you only, or because you were being delusional and a hopeless romantic who caved at the very thought of being the object of someone’s observation. You wished you could have spoken to her, could have somehow confirmed whether you were crazy or not, but it wasn’t allowed. You weren’t allowed to contact her in any way which caused a sudden wave of sorrow to go through you. Something about her made you want to get to know her, your predicament striking you as rather unfortunate because you didn’t feel that way about a lot of people. You couldn’t remember the last time you had even cared to waste a single thought on someone who you didn’t know. You glanced at the model again, trying to give her a small smile, wanting to give her some kind of signal of communication, but your smile was shy, so shy in fact that it probably didn’t look like a smile at all. You almost didn’t dare to look if she reacted to it, but to your utter surprise she returned your smile, the look in her eyes shifting the slightest bit. It was like she could smile through her eyes.

“Thank you for today. I’m looking forward to seeing you all next week!” The teacher’s voice drew you back into reality. You blinked your eyes, nearly flinching when the model moved suddenly, the effect very similar to that of a moving statue, the woman getting off the stool to pick up her robe, sliding it on to fight the cold of the classroom as the other students cleaned up after themselves, loud rustling of paper sounding in the air. You couldn’t move, still far too occupied by her energy, your eyes lingering on her, and then all of a sudden, she was closer. She was walking closer to you. She came to a stop in front of you, taking a good look at your sheet of paper filled with sketches of various levels of effort. She glanced down at you on your seat, pursing her lips to hide her smile.

“You’re very talented”, she said quietly, her voice low and smooth, not something you had expected, but it suited her perfectly. You didn’t know what to say or do, looking up at her with your lips parted, searching for words, but you didn’t have to figure out anything to say because she turned around and walked away, disappearing through the door that was on your left.

You exited the class in a haze, so deep inside your mind that you didn’t even realize it was dark and raining outside. The wind blew in your face, wetting your hair and skin as thoroughly as possible, your fingers doing their best to untangle your earbuds as you walked down the street, dodging a couple pedestrians who you nearly ran into on the narrow sidewalk. A man hit you with his shoulder, not far from pushing you into a pole in his hurry to avoid the rain. You would’ve thought that New Yorkers would have been used to the rain, but apparently you were wrong. Yet the normally irritating encounter didn’t manage to ruin your mood, not when you had someone who tended to steal your attention time and time again with her red hair, and sweet voice. You kept replaying her words in your mind, trying to remember the tone of her voice as accurately as possible, but you could already feel it slipping away from you despite your efforts. It frustrated you. You needed to know more about her, hear more of her voice, anything at all really. You wanted more, unable to shake her from your mind as you hurried down a staircase to catch the subway that had just come to a stop and was opening its doors to new passengers. You picked up your pace, running along the platform and slipping inside the train.

The memory of the model would not leave you alone, your mind returning to the way she had smiled at you, the way those impossibly green eyes had looked at you for minutes on end. She was there when you went to bed, when you woke up the next morning, when you rode the subway to the university, when you sat in class. You wished to draw her again, noticing your notebooks slowly fill up with quick sketches of that same pose that was forever going to be ingrained into your muscle memory. However, you struggled to remember the smaller details, none of your sketches resembling her enough, a growing frustration alerting you of its presence. You had to get it right, you had to see her again.

You were sitting in a lecture hall, shading in the muscles of her thighs absentmindedly as your professor spoke about the significance of Victorian literature. You liked your professor, finding her voice soothing, which often ended up being deceitful because it made you zone out without you even trying, her calm way of speaking allowing you to focus all your attention on the sketch in front of you. The model was beautiful, she was so beautiful even in your inaccurate sketch. You sighed quietly, tilting your head as you tapped your pencil against the sketchbook. You wondered what her name was, how old she was, what she did for a living. She looked like someone with an elegant name like Eleanor, or Francesca, or Antoinette, well, maybe not that fancy, but something along those lines. Maybe Anastasia or Madeleine. She looked older than you for sure, but certainly not too old for you. You liked older. Maybe she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, and possibly a full-time model. Although it didn’t seem to quite fit her. In your head she was not exactly a model by occupation which made you ponder how she had ended up in your classroom. She was athletic and worked out, that was for sure, her defined forearms and calves flashing through your mind. There was so much you didn’t know, so much room for possibility, room for you to make assumptions, the ambiguity allowing you to see whatever you desired. She was a blank canvas, a mystery for you to uncover.

An entire week’s worth of lectures went to waste as you daydreamed about your next art class in the hopes of seeing her again. You had far too much time on your hands to let your imagination run wild during lectures, every minute spent sketching as you thought about her. You thought about drawing her, painting her, holding her hand, your fantasies advancing to scenarios outside of art class to silly things like her waiting for you at campus, the autumn wind fluffing up her curls, a cup of coffee in her hand. You imagined the way she would smile at you, those pillowy lips sipping on her drink as she watched you do your homework at the library. You had decided that she liked pumpkin spice lattes with extra syrup and whipped cream on top. You thought that she looked like someone with an office of some sorts and maybe a nice flat in Brooklyn. You imagined that she wore classy clothes with an occasional odd piece that didn’t always fit her style. Of course you didn’t know because you had only ever seen her naked. The thought made you blush, an urge to hide away taking over you as your gaze met your professor’s. Hopefully she couldn’t read your mind. Her eyes flitted down to the sketchbook on your table, but she didn’t say a word despite seeing you do anything but focus on what she was talking about. You felt mortified, but only for a split second because then you were already dreaming of the way she would cup your face and pull you in by your waist to plant her lips on yours, and then before you could control your mind her fingers were buried deep inside you, her tongue licking into your mouth. Your entire body was lit on fire in mere seconds, your tight jeans only amplifying the arousal you felt pool between your legs. Oh, crap. You had a crush.

You weren’t one to flirt with women, you weren’t one to spend time around people, but for her you could’ve made an exception. You didn’t have crushes, you didn’t daydream, you weren’t a lover girl, yet slowly, you were becoming one, your mind consumed by a woman you knew nothing about. You couldn’t understand it. It was so unlike you to have silly crushes like that, but you couldn’t deny it. She was on your mind day and night, visiting you in your dreams. You loved and hated the feeling, finding joy in the thrill of liking someone, yet at the same time it was agonizing to know that it would never actualize into anything real. You were struck by an intense wave of affection, the subject of your admiration having no clue about any of it, which was both a relief and a disappointment to you.

A week rolled by on its own, bringing a sense of anticipation with it. You had patiently waited for your second art class in the hopes of seeing your newfound muse again, beyond thrilled that the agonizing wait was over. You said goodbye to one of your only friends at the university, heading to the beautiful, old building you had entered for the first time a week ago. You located your classroom with ease that time around, pumped full of excitement as you set everything up according to your teacher’s instructions, trying to remain patient as you waited for the class to begin. You were thrilled to create, to draw, to lose yourself in your work –in her– much like what you had been doing the previous week of school. You just needed to see her again, you needed to refresh your memory, even if you wouldn’t be allowed to talk to her. It didn’t even matter because you had gained your spark back, found passion, found something artistic to direct your energy toward. You had finally found a reason to create again, your heart longing for that consistent flow of inspiration, that high of creation, success, that state of mediation. You waited with the utmost patience for your teacher to bring out your model, but to your utter disappointment, she never showed up. She wasn’t there. Instead, you got a male model and an exercise for practicing color theory, which normally would have been greatly appreciated, but you just couldn’t get past the heaviness in your chest. Every time the teacher came to check on your work and tell you that your colors were looking sad you felt like crying. You wanted to ask her if she could bring your model back, but you knew you couldn’t even mention the woman without coming off as weird and unprofessional, so you bit back your sorrow, your wounded heart bleeding onto the canvas in dull, muddy colors that made the lively, young man sad and hollow.

When you finally escaped the classroom at the end of the night you burst into tears. You felt so desolate, like you had been abandoned, left alone, which was of course more than ridiculous because she didn’t even know your name. She wasn’t in your life, she was merely a person who you had crossed paths with, yet for some reason it hurt so much. It hurt unbelievably much considering you had never been anything at all, not even acquaintances, but the lost possibility of something more seemed to linger in your mind as you rounded the corner and entered a coffee shop to escape the frigid wind of September, in search of something that could provide comfort to your depressed mind. You got yourself a warm drink and a fat muffin, finding a seat in the corner of the cafe where you could cry in peace, looking out the window at the wet streets that glistened under the streetlamps as the rough wind whipped the leaves off the defenseless trees.

More chapters to come!

[danpowers370]

[jbsdrawings]