#when im tired of drawing i sketch her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tinycozycomfort · 1 year ago

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rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

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saphhhiree · 1 year ago

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hello!!!!!! i was wondering if u could write an abed nadir x reader mayhaps.. fluff or smut, i don’t mind !!!! i am so starved for abed content pleek.

HOLY SHIT HELLO MY FIRST FUCKING REQ????? HOLY SHIT YES OF COURSE ABED CONTENT IS LACKING!!! I WILL PROVIDE!!

introduction to art

abed nadir x reader

warnings: i’m very high so not proofread, nsfw, jeff’s ego, makeout, oral m!receiving, fingering, (in pt2) no pierce (i’m sorry but i won’t write anything pierce would do or say)

enjoy!! reader is afab if u didn’t want that i can change it if needed 🙏🏻🙏🏻 but gn prns!!! also! reader sits next to jeff in the open chair

“y/n? wake up!” opening your eyes while groaning softly “you can’t keep falling asleep, we need to keep studying” annie said rolling her eyes. “but this is borrrrriinnng” you yawn stretching your arms. “then leave, no one’s keeping you here yknow” annie crossed her arms while puffing her bottom lip. “gladly” you stood up but before you could pick your bag up, “you can’t.” you looked back up to the source of the voice, locking eyes with abed, his brows furrowed, “we have our art project due tomorrow.” he cocks his head slightly to the side awaiting your response. “so? you guys are studying for a class i don’t have with the rest of you, this is basically pointless for me. plus it’s almost 10, we all should be home right now.” you cross your arms, bag on your back ready to walk out. abeds mouth snaps shut as he looked to jeff as if he could stop you, jeff rolled his eyes saying “how about you and abed go to the other study room for your project and we can give him the notes tomorrow.” you practically wanted to murder jeff. 5 mins away from peaceful slumber yet now morally aware how unfair it was to leave abed to fend for himself. turning on your heels you walked to the opposite of the room “cmom im tired, let’s get this over with” tapping abed on his shoulder “aw, that’s nice.” shirley commented as abed packed up to follow you out in the direction of the other study room.

“what’s the assignment anyway?” you both put your bags down and sat next to eachother “expressing the human form and fabric texture” he pulls his notebook out, looking for the description of the assignment. “ah, okay…” you copy his actions, knowing you don’t have the notes because you fell asleep in the class. “since we’re partners on this one, you can be the model and i will draw it” abed says as he turns to you. “what? that’s not fair cmon.” you pout slightly, the thought of basically modeling for someone who you had feelings for was not something you wanted to do. “but you don’t have the notes” he points to your empty notebook then glancing at his notes. “fine.” you sigh and put your head in your hands awaiting further instructions. “it says arrange for a live model, examine the flow of fabric on the body while drawing it.” you get up, trying to hide the fact you were practically sweating, “draw me like one of your french girls, abed” you joke as he turns his chair around to look at you, “you have to be naked for that reference to work” he says looking down to start the sketch “what?? it was perfect timing, i think i hit the mark either way.” you groan back, “no, it doesn’t count, you can’t quote something that doesn’t apply to what’s happening. plus your not laying down” annoyed, you respond “yes i can! i can quote whatever i want! it doesn’t matter if i’m laying down naked or not.” you cross your arms. “yes it does.” he keeps sketching, “no, it doesn’t” “yes, it does.” “fine!” you yell, you’re tired and just wanted to make a joke, but now your irritated, you pull your sweater off, and next your pants. abed stares back at you, “you’re still not naked” he shakes his head almost burrowing it into his notebook, he’s seen half naked people before yea, but not you. you intrigued him, you never got mad at his ramblings, you watched kickpuncher with him when troy couldn’t, you’ve shown him movies you like, and he actually enjoys them. though you make crappy jokes about them, or *cough cough* quote them wrong *cough cough* something about you drew him in. he could read people so well, and he could read you too, but he still couldn’t figure out why he liked you so much. bringing him out of his thoughts you joke “why do you want me naked so bad?” “i don’t.” he lied. “so you think i’m ugly?” you push him further, “no” your laughter dies down, “oh?” you question, “wait. what’s happening? are you flirting?” he looks up at you, noticing that you’re a little too close than he remembers you being. “do you want me to be?” you ask looking down at your feet. he stands up, cocking his head to the side, looking down at you, “yes” he says.

PART TWO IS UP! NSFW! READ HERE, 18+ ONLY!

#abed nadir #abed community #abed nadir x reader #abed x reader #abed smut #community x reader #community smut

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pluralthey · 1 year ago

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is there a good place to start if we want to learn about idletry? im very interested in the story and all the bits and pieces revealed so far but i dont know if youve like, stated the basics both about the characters-in-story and how you’re releasing the comic

hi there. unfortunately, idletry became a passion project very abruptly and many details were added very quickly without regard for how long the project would take. once i did realize how large the project was, i decided that i would not even kid myself on the idea of holding in spoilers for the next 5 years, and those two factors combined make the information available very chaotic and slapdash -- somewhat intentionally.

i don't even have the comics tagged separately for easier access among the idletry content -- although, i could go back and give them a separate tag.

i can summarize the story and say that it's about a funny little talking honey badger/tasmanian devil named jessie gaylord who has for the last 10 years of her life been on heavy psychiatric medication in an attempt to mitigate a pervasive delusion that the world is a fictional story. she also has a notorious aggressive streak. these medications work primarily by leaving her so tired that she sleeps most of the time.

the story begins when her medical team has run out of typical medications to try, and they must order an older, more aggressive type of drug which is not commonly used anymore, and has a lengthier process to manufacturing and approving the drug. during this time, she is not on any medication, and she becomes more urgently fixated on convincing people that the delusion is true.

she ends up attempting to contact the writer, who is referred to as God, and she receives a response. she immediately attempts to write the story herself, and she's granted the ability to do anything within the story so long as she can write it out. (the intricacies and limitations of this power have been elaborated upon in a bunch of fragmentary posts, so i won't try to condense it here)

at the end of the first act, she kills the first writer and becomes the new God of her world. the rest of the story is about what she does after acquiring omnipotence, and it heavily features a character named fate -- or shiloh, as jessie calls her -- with whom she enters an intimate relationship.

she has a happy loving family composed of a father named adam, a mother named evelyn, and an older sister named emily. there is a later minor subplot about a cult following who worships her after she becomes God, and this cult is initially organized by an ant called samanthuel -- or samwich, as jessie calls them. these are usually the other characters i mention and i am too lazy to link them right now

the comic itself is currently being written. the script stands at around 51,000 words at the time of writing this as i work on the second act. after it's written, i will let it simmer for a few months and then write a second draft to start to relieve the story of its bloat. depending on its length at that point, i will either need to write a third draft, or i will start drawing the comic.

chances are, during the second draft, i will start to thumbnail or sketch scenes which receive little to no editing, as i know they will likely remain relatively unchanged even through multiple drafts.

the sketch strips are to tide me and an eager audience over in the meantime, but they've sort of dried up as i focus all of my attention on finishing the first draft and taking care of a puppy that was kind of just forced onto me.

i've made a couple of full-length comics before and they have taken years. it is, unfortunately, just the nature of the process. for idletry, i plan to self-publish the comic. i've never published something in print before, so that is the most daunting part for me.

the plan at the moment is to crowdfund this, but, to be frank with you, i no longer pay rent, and i care very much about having this comic as a printed book. i have no issue with paying the cost of printing out of my own pocket by the time it's done and am even anticipating that outcome ahead of time, despite having a pretty reliable audience by now.

i'm on the fence about releasing a digital book version, as i very much want to retain digital color versions of the pages that are more vibrant, but due to the explicit adult content of the story, i don't want it to be free-access.

tl;dr: it's about a lesbian incel with anger issues who's given omnipotence.

i'm still working on the story because i want it to be good.

i'm planning on printing it as a physical comic book once it's done.

#idletry #not art #ask #asks #as a frame of reference your average actual words-on-paper novel is 60k words

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megalony · 1 year ago

Text

Hypnotic

This is another Dalton Lambert imagine that I hope you will all like. Any requests for him would be great.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem@butlegendsneverdie@langdonzvoid@jennyggggrrr@rogmeddows@radiob-l-a-hblah@rogertaylorsbitontheside@chlobo6@rogertaylors-lipgloss@sj-thefan@omgitsearly@luckytrashgooprebel@scarsout@deaky-with-a-c@killer-queen-ofrhye@bluutac@vousmemanqueez-blog@jonesyaddiction@milanosaurus@httpfandxms@saint-hardy@7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls@mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @hellsdragon@im-an-adult-ish@crazylittlethingg@allauraleigh@onceuponadetectivedemigod@ceres27@avyannadawn@noonenuts@sleepylunarwolf@coverupps @justagirlthatlovedtoread

Masterlist

Summary: Dalton and (Y/n)'s friendship merges into something more and he finds that she can astral project as well, making their art class a bit tricky.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tiredness burned in the corners of Dalton's eyes and swam around in his mind like a thick fog he couldn't lift. It made his head feel heavy and every now and then, his chin would drop forward when he wasn't concentrating enough. His body was desperate for sleep, crying out for him to relax and lay down even just for an hour.

But his mind was too terrified to succumb to fatigue.

He didn't know what time it was, some time past midnight, he was fairly certain of that because he knew when midnight struck, (Y/n) had started to waver. She didn't want to go to sleep and leave Dalton awake but she looked as tired as he felt and he told her it was okay, he would sleep eventually. And he would; soon.

He had stopped painting his art project a few hours ago, he knew if he pushed himself to continue when he was overly tired, his work would be poor. So Dalton switched the canvas for a sketch pad and started to doodle from memory.

As a headache began to form behind his eyes, Dalton set the sketchbook down next to him on the bed and leaned back against the wall. Sat at this angle with his legs hanging over the side of the bed and his head tipped back into the art wall, he had a perfect view of (Y/n). His temporary roommate for tonight.

She wasn't strictly supposed to be here, this wasn't her room. Her room was in fact up on the next floor, but no one needed to know that tonight.

The pair of them had crashed in Dalton's room to keep each other company while they added to their coursework. They shared the same art class and she was the one person in class that Dalton had become close to. And while Dalton had the room to himself, he said (Y/n) could stay whenever she wanted which so happened to be tonight.

Dalton liked how calm and still (Y/n) was right now, even if she was laid at an odd angle. The few times he had shared a room with his brother Foster, he noticed his brother fidgeted a lot in his sleep and their mother was the same. Dalton on the other hand seemed to switch between tossing and turning and then going deathly still, mostly when he started to wander and project during the night.

Right now, (Y/n) was laid on her front with one leg hanging off the edge of the bed, the other leg slightly elevated up against the wall and her arms tucked under her pillow. He knew it hadn't taken her too long to fall asleep, she fidgeted for about twenty minutes then all of a sudden, she became motionless and he knew she was out for the count.

If Dalton had any energy or fire inside of him, he would have started a new sketch, totally focused on (Y/n)'s soft, relaxed features. The slight curve of her nose, her long lashes, her plump lips, there were so many features he would love to draw over and over again until he got them just right. Soon, maybe he would but tonight he didn't have the energy.

Watching her like this made him wonder what exactly they were to one another.

Were they together? Were they just close friends who seemed to share an invisible bond? Did (Y/n) think of him like he thought of her? Did her body go haywire with adrenaline whenever he was around?

Dalton had never really been close to anyone before. The coma had changed him, it scattered his mind and dislocated him from the rest of the world, even from his family. Connections were never made with other people and he only felt like himself, the purest form of himself, when he was engrossed in art.

(Y/n) made him feel different.

When she talked to him, she made the world vanish and nothing else was important except the words falling from her lips. When her arm brushed against his, Dalton felt electricity like never before. And more recently, (Y/n) had started to hold his hand. It seemed innocent enough, but to Dalton it was different. She would grab his hand seemingly out of nowhere and that was it, he was lost completely, his legs turned to mush, his stomach did summersaults and his brain malfunctioned. When she held his hand, they connected into one.

She had even started leaning into him, a lot. When they stood in the dining hall and queued with Chris for lunch, (Y/n) would tilt backwards until she was leaning up on Dalton and he could feel each breath she took vibrating through into his chest. When they walked from class to the campus dorms, (Y/n) would scuttle under his arm and tuck into his side and if Dalton wrapped his arm around her waist, she always smiled up at him.

Surely what they had was something more than friendship, this connection wasn't like anything he'd ever had with anyone before and (Y/n) only did these things with him. If that wasn't proof he didn't know what was.

Dalton didn't know how long he had lost himself in his tired, overworked thoughts. The room was illuminated with a pastel green light that always made him think of The Great Gatsby but it was still dark enough for Dalton to stare at (Y/n) and find his mind thinking and wandering off into fantasies and imagination.

Just when he thought he might be able to settle into a slumber, his attention got caught on (Y/n) again.

She moved.

Dalton wasn't exactly sure which part of (Y/n) moved, maybe it was her head, perhaps it was just a twitch in her shoulder. The movement was so subtle that he didn't really see it, he just knew it.

Something about that little twitch made his eyes narrow and he found himself moving from the bed to cross the small distance over to (Y/n)'s bed.

He didn't reach the bed before she moved again, and this time, he saw it. Her whole body jolted down into the mattress like she had been falling and crash landed back down on the bed. Her face smothered into the pillow before snapping back up, gasping for air and he was sure one arm hit into the wall as her leg that was hanging off the bed bashed down into the floor.

With a startled cry, (Y/n) pushed up onto her knees and knelt up on the bed as quick as a bullet. Her hair was a little askew but the way her lips parted and her chest heaved made Dalton falter.

Surely not? No, (Y/n) couldn't have been wandering in The Further; could she?

Dalton had never met anyone else, other than his dad, who astral project like him. But he recognised that feeling of falling, of jumping back into your own body right at the last second and coming back to a world of colour and life, away from the grasp and stench of death. Maybe their connection was deeper than he originally thought.

"Bad dream?"

Dalton gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands outstretched in front of him but he didn't dare reach out for her. He didn't know if she wanted his touch. If (Y/n) had been projecting in her sleep, Dalton didn't know what she had seen and if it would make her too shocked or uncomfortable for human touch.

His worries seemed to be for nothing when (Y/n)'s hands latched around his bicep and she pressed her cheek into his shoulder.

"Yeah, something like that," (Y/n) tried to control the shaking in her body but it came out in her voice instead.

Her nose brushed against Dalton's thin grey shirt and she inhaled his scent, hoping it would do some good in calming her down but her heart catapulted into her ribs when she felt a kiss being pressed into the top of her head. The small touch sent her heart reeling and (Y/n) couldn't help but burrow further into Dalton's side.

Something about him just felt like home. It felt safe to be next to him and when she wrapped herself around him, everything else faded away.

The world changed at night and (Y/n) didn't like it. She didn't like the way it turned from colour to grey or the creatures that came out of the shadows or the sounds they made when they realised a living soul was in their world of death. (Y/n) couldn't help when or where she wandered, she didn't want to leave her body behind and drift into the unknown but it was happening more and more and it was frightening.

Dalton made her feel safe. Sometimes when (Y/n) was in her room in the early hours of the morning and she was afraid she would wander, she thought of Dalton. His image in her mind grounded her and stopped her from going where she dreaded to be.

"You should try and sleep, we have class in the morning." He didn't want to ask. Asking something personal like this meant that if he was wrong, he would open up a can of torment that he didn't want to burden (Y/n) with. Dalton would have to keep an eye on her and try and assess whether she was astral projecting or not.

"You need to sleep too." (Y/n) could last with a few more sleepless hours but she knew from one look that Dalton was draining his last reserves. He needed sleep more than she did. A selfish part of (Y/n) thought that if she stayed in his room tonight, he might sleep better knowing she was there with him. She would protect him from the nightmares if he grounded her from her wandering.

She felt Dalton kissing her head again and it made a fuzzy warmth spread right down to her toes. But when he was about to stand up, (Y/n) tightened her hands on his arms.

Her big doe eyes stared up at him and just one look made Dalton quiver and stay seated next to her.

"Can… can you stay, here, with me?" Her eyes went wide and round and looked between Dalton and the bed to show she meant for him to stay in her bed. "I don't want to w- dream, not tonight."

Embarrassment flushed her cheeks and made her break eye contact until she felt his fingers spreading across her thigh and giving her a gentle squeeze.

"Sure," His voice was soft and understanding and sent (Y/n) into another fuzzy frenzy that tingled throughout her blood.

(Y/n) unravelled her hands from Dalton's arm long enough for him to shed his shirt like a second skin and she looked down at her hands while he stood and shimmied from his jeans. Leaving him clad in his boxers.

Shuffling back, (Y/n) laid on her side and scooted her back up against the wall to make enough room for Dalton to lay next to her on the small, single bed.

They had never laid this close before.

He laid down on his side so their chests were touching and (Y/n) was sure her heartbeat was pounding through his skin from the closeness. She had never laid this close to anyone significant before, it was unnerving, thrilling and bewildering all at once.

Closing her eyes as tightly as she could, (Y/n) held her breath deep in her lungs to try and steady her heartbeat when she shuffled closer until there was no gap between them. Her head nuzzled into the small curve between his neck and shoulder and when Dalton didn't object, (Y/n) looped her arm over his waist to glue herself to him.

When he felt her leg trying to press between his, Dalton curved his arm beneath (Y/n)'s side so his hand was splayed out on her back and he slowly rolled over onto his back. It seemed a perfect fit because (Y/n) curled up on top of his chest like a baby bird burrowing down into its nest.

He was sure he could feel her kissing his neck, it was so slow that she could have been breathing steadily into his skin, but it felt more like a sensual, peppered kiss. He hoped it was a kiss.

"Goodnight," If she did go wandering in the night, Dalton would follow. He would keep her safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "I wish we didn't have such an early class," Even as she spoke, (Y/n) could feel her eyelids drooping and the urgent, desperate desire to go back to bed was clawing at the back of her mind and overtaking her body.

She had slept better last night than she had in weeks, probably since she first came here if she was being honest.

Waking up wrapped around Dalton was a tiny bit embarrassing and would have felt a lot worse if he hadn't of been asleep too when his alarm went off. (Y/n) would hate to have woken up with him wide awake beneath her, feeling like he couldn't move because all night she had pinned him down to the bed and slept practically on top of him.

Last night had definitely changed things.

(Y/n) had never felt so safe and calm both when she was sleeping and when she woke up, and that was all down to Dalton. She felt so elated when she woke that she kissed him before she could control herself or think better of it. She had been yearning to kiss him from the first time he spoke to her after class and this morning gave her the best opportunity to do so.

Now, as they approached their class, Dalton's arm was glued around her hips, his fingers hovering just beneath the waistband of her jeans and her arm was around his back, her hand beneath his shirt.

It felt right, it felt natural.

"At least we both only have two classes today," Dalton tipped his head down and pressed his lips to the back of (Y/n)'s head, breathing in her signature shampoo before he slowly unravelled his arm from her waist.

Their easels in class were close, there was one person stood between them so Dalton was close enough to be able to keep an eye on (Y/n).

All he had to do was look to the left and he could make sure she was alright because he was certain she had astral projected last night.

He could see the similarities between them now. He could picture the tiredness hiding on her face and the unease pooling in her eyes. He could see her concentration wavering and the way she searched for things she thought she saw out the corner of her eye.

They parted and sat at their respective easels, watching Ms Armagan begin the class.

Dalton felt relieved to start a new project today, as much as he liked going back to the same picture to add more detail and perfect his work, it felt good to begin something new. Start from scratch and see what he could conjure up this time.

Something within him was already imagining a design with colours when his usual work was black and white with the occasional spludge of red. He wanted blue today. Blue and a very light shade of lilac, maybe he even wanted to work with some pastels and blend the colours together until it looked like a petal in a puddle.

Darkness wasn't clawing at the back of his mind today and he didn't want to express his work in the shadows.

He almost smiled when Ms Armagan fluttered her hands at them, shooing them off to go and retrieve whatever supplies they wanted. Dalton headed straight for the second drawer and got out some chalk of varying colours and a small razor, he could blend some shavings with water for added detail later.

He also noticed (Y/n) going for oil paint which wasn't her preferred method, she had a thing for watercolour.

About three quarters of the way through class, most of Armagan's words went in one ear and out the other for Dalton. He heard a few words, creativity, signature style and whatnot but he was too immersed in circles overlapping and blending together.

His attention did falter for a moment though, when she set up a metronome on a setting of two seconds between beats. It was slow today, recently it had been fast to get their adrenaline going and fuel them to spurr on.

Dalton didn't like slow ticking, it was a recipe for projecting and he couldn't slip in class, not again.

Shaking her head, (Y/n) tried to fight the headache away that was coming from lack of sleep, it was the kind of headache she was used to recently. Her concentration had to be on her work, this project Ms Armagan wanted them to complete today and they didn't have long left before class finished.

It had taken (Y/n) a while to realise what she was painting was in fact, an iris. A more close up, detailed image of the eye and the paint was adding a lot of layers and flakes and signature lines.

But the ticking in the background was becoming hypnotic to the point all (Y/n) could think about was going to sleep.

Why did she and Dalton agree to get up this morning? Why weren't they still in bed like half the other students in the dorms? What if she went to sleep right now-

Blood was all (Y/n) could see. It was dripping from her fingers in time with the ticking metronome. It was slathered up her arms and smearing beneath her eyes. Her canvas was nothing but a square sheet of blood, bubbling and spluttering like an open wound in front of her.

Then the hand reached out; long, slender and quite possibly broken fingers curled and stretched out towards her. Trying to scratch her, hurt her, pull her into the redness. The arm that stretched out from the canvas was long, but it wasn't covered in blood, it was a mix between grey and black just like the world around her. Everything had been stripped of every shade of colour, except for crimson.

It grabbed her wrist, she could feel the broken, splintered nails digging into her wrist and cutting through her previously untainted skin.

She didn't want to go disappear. (Y/n) didn't want to be dragged wherever it was trying to take her. She didn't want to be here, she wanted to be back in class. With Dalton.

Dalton heard the shriek; even in his trance-like state, that familiar voice cut through his mental barrier and brought him back into reality. His hand hovered shaking over his canvas and his eyes did a frantic scan around the room before they landed on the source of the scream; (Y/n).

Her whole body was shaking but she had one arm stretched out towards the canvas. If she hadn't of screamed, Dalton would have thought she was simply pondering on where to add a splash of paint to her creation.

Something changed, he didn't know what it was but he could feel the tension from where he was and the atmosphere shifted around him. A cold breeze rattled through his bones before a wave of warmth hit him like he had just come back from the Further, back to reality. He wasn't sure what (Y/n) did, whether she let go of her paintbrush, threw it or tried to hit her canvas.

Whatever she did, she knocked the canvas from the easel and lost her footing at the same time.

Her body crashed into the wooden easel and they both fell to the floor with a loud bang that echoed throughout the room. Dalton watched her head collide into the wood, rebound off and then flop down on the floor.

In a split second, Dalton dropped everything in his hands and stumbled around his easel into the middle of the circle formed by their work stations.

He went down on his knees along with Ms Armagan and shuffled closer to (Y/n). As gently and carefully as he could, Dalton slipped his hands beneath (Y/n)'s chest the other around her back and inched her closer to him so she wasn't laying on the easel anymore. Relief shot through him when she whimpered, it showed she was awake at least.

"It's me, it's only me. You're alright."

When Dalton's voice registered in (Y/n)'s ears she could have cried and a frail noise murmured past her lips. Her hands trembled when she patted them against the floor until she finally felt Dalton's knees next to her and dug her nails into his jeans to ground herself. Using his knees as leverage, (Y/n) pulled herself closer until she could curl her knees up to her stomach beneath her and bury her head in Dalton's legs.

Immediately, (Y/n) felt Dalton curve around her like a protective blanket shielding her from all angles so no prying eyes could catch a glimpse of her. His arms enveloped around her sides and he leaned over her and kissed the base of her head.

He could feel her panting into his jeans, her hot breath was sinking through to his skin, not that he minded at all.

After a minute of complete silence from everyone, including the metronome that had been stopped, Dalton felt (Y/n) slowly start to breathe properly and calm down beneath him. He leaned up straight but kept his hands firmly on (Y/n)'s hips, helping her straighten up.

Paint was smeared onto her hands and up her arms and there was a splotch on her cheek near the corner of her lips. He could see a bump forming on her forehead which would leave a nasty mark for a few days and would surely cause a headache soon.

(Y/n) gripped Dalton's shoulders before she dropped her head down onto his chest.

"Dalton, why don't you help (Y/n) get cleaned up and checked over? You can stop by for your things later." Ms Armagan patted his shoulder, her eyes doing a once-over of (Y/n) to clarify that she was truly okay and mostly unscathed before she got to her feet and faced the rest of the students. "Alright, class dismissed." There was only ten minutes or so of class left, they may as well pack up and get a head start on their next class now.

"Ready, up we go."

(Y/n) kept her eyes closed but let Dalton take her weight when he stood up and carefully pulled her up with him. She could feel her legs shaking beneath her and her temple was throbbing like she had been hit with a baseball bat, but she was okay.

Her fingers dug so far into Dalton's shirt that she was sure she had started a small hole in the fabric but she didn't care. She buried her nose in his shirt, breathing in his cologne and aftershave while he curved his arms around her waist and guided her out of the room.

She wasn't sure where he was taking her until, after a moment, he opened the door to the disabled bathroom and guided her inside.

He needed to make sure she was okay and get rid of the paint before it stained her skin and stayed there for a week. He couldn't take (Y/n) into the boys bathroom and he wasn't walking into the girls bathroom either when people might see him or overhear their conversation. This room was spacious, private and empty.

"Let me look at you,"

(Y/n) could have melted when he took her face in his hands and smoothed his thumbs over her cheek. The concentration was clear on his face and his tongue poked out against his bottom lip before a gentle smile formed on his face.

"Are you alright?"

"Hmm, I think so," She wasn't truly sure. The shaking in her system was slowly subsiding but the adrenaline was amplifying thousands when Dalton cupped her thighs and effortlessly lifted her up to sit on the sink.

"Want to tell me what happened?" Something about his voice made (Y/n) think he already knew. He looked the perfect mix between calm and colossal as he stood between her spread legs with a damp paper towel in his hand. He slowly started to wipe the oil from her cheek, taking his time to brush the corner of her lips as he did so.

"The metronome… the rhythm made me tired, must have drifted for a minute or so. Scared myself back to reality I guess."

Reaching up, (Y/n) gently cupped Dalton's wrist, not stopping his movements but holding on as he continued them. He cleaned the paint from her face and took the time to kiss her bruised temple before he held her hand and started to clean the blue and black stripes of paint from her arms.

"So you didn't, I don't know, project into the Further?" He was taking a leap of faith.

This conversation could go a whole different way and set Dalton up for a failure, but he had to know. He had to know if (Y/n) was experiencing what he had gone through only a few weeks ago. He couldn't help her or keep her safe if he didn't know what was happening and Dalton wouldn't stand for anything happening to (Y/n). He couldn't have anything happen to her.

Her blown pupils and parted lips told Dalton the answer.

"You've been there too?"

"I never mean to, it's why I don't sleep, and why I have the nightlight."

Dalton dropped the paper towel into the sink when (Y/n) leaned onto the edge of the sink and wrapped herself around him. She tucked her face into his neck but her arms deadlocked around his chest like she was afraid he was some kind of mirage, about to disappear before her.

She knew there was a reason she felt so connected to him.

"Come on, we're going back to the dorm." He helped (Y/n) slide down to her feet and his hands cupped her hips, giving a gentle squeeze when she smiled up at him curiously.

"But we have another class?"

What was he talking about? They both had a different class coming up, then lunch, then they usually met Chris afterwards and spent their free afternoon with her. They couldn't just swan back to the dorms now, the day wasn't over, it was only just beginning.

Dalton could see the questions rolling around in (Y/n)'s head but he silenced them with a kiss. One with more passion and more confidence than this morning. A kiss that has his teeth nipping on her bottom lip and his tongue swiping into her mouth, taking control of every one of her senses.

"You need sleep, and I need to look after you."

#dalton lambert imagine #dalton lambert x reader #dalton x reader #dalton lambert #imagine #insidious #insidious the red door

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coldcalamari · 11 months ago

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i got inspired by a conversation with @aidanchaser (hope you dont mind me tagging you 🙏) to make a vampire/fantasy au :) these are some sketches and ideas for it !!! i think im gonna work on the hero costumes some more but i thought id let everyone see the first drafts for now ☆

i have a handful of thoughts abt the au, but ill leave them under the cut so i dont make the post too long !

like i said, its a fantasy/vampire au! in my au, they are both trans. marinette still uses she/her and adrien uses they/he/she. apologies if any of this is hard to understand or written poorly, writing isnt my strength.

Adrien and Marinette are already dating in the au, but Gabriel doesnt approve of their relationship. Adrien decides she's tired of her father's overbearing nature, and she runs away from home in the middle of the night. When they're almost to Marinette's house, they're attacked by a vampire and "killed" (thats what the second drawing is depicting, Adrien's "death"). Adrien is pronounced dead, and nobody realizes she's been turned into a vampire.

Adrien is still in love with Marinette, but is scared she will be afraid of him now that he's a vampire, so he decides to try and win her heart while in disguise (as Chat Noir).

Meanwhile, Marinette is convinced that Adrien's death was more than a random killing. She adopts a secret identity (Ladybug) in order to investigate Adrien's murder and find out what really happened that night. (she also learns some magic to help her along the way!)

the love square looks like this in the au. Marinette finds herself really liking Chat Noir, but is obviously still grieving for Adrien. Chat Noir, after teaming up with Ladybug, starts to develop feelings for her and wonders if he should try to move on instead of chasing his old life.

I think at the end of the story, there would be a happy ending. Once everything got revealed, Marinette would just be happy to have Adrien back, regardless of them being a vampire or not. things would be different in their lives, but they still love each other no matter what

#please ignore how bad i am at drawing side profiles im so out of practice 😭#anyway i have more thoughts but i think im gonna work on the au more before sharing them. this is just the basic premise!#i am by no means a writer but i hope you all enjoy my au regardless 🙏#my art #scribble #miraculous ladybug #chat noir #ml ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #adrinette #marichat #ml vampire au #cw blood #should i angst tag this?#im gonna #cw angst

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edupiii · 3 months ago

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im distraught by the fact Murder Drones is ending, so to make me (and possibly you) feel better, here are:

Some Random MD Character Head Cannons!

Most of these are goofy silly and aren’t really that important, but I wanted to share them anyways :3

　　*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

Uzi 🦇

- uses she/they pronouns but is fine with being referred to with other pronoun sets. however, they don’t like to be referred to as it/it’s since this set was used in a derogatory way towards her when they were younger (still sometimes is)

- has autism + ADHD but is not accommodated for it in school

- her guilty pleasure anime is Ouran High School Hostclub (kiss kiss fall in love!)

- had a My Little Pony phase when they were younger and even made a pony sona. When she’s tired and can’t sleep, she puts on their favourite mlp episodes and listens to them while they fall asleep

- is a Warrior Cats kid

- listens to hyper-pop and scene music along with their usual rock, goth, scream-o and night core songs

- is a passionate artist but has kept her sketch books and digital drawings hidden from others ever since they were mocked for drawing “cringey stuff” in elementary school. They still draw when she has free time and she has become more comfortable sharing their art work again (though mostly only with N)

- has multiple fursonas

- also has a crap tone of ocs with super traumatic backstories

- loves to watch crappy horror movies because she laughs at the dumb choices the stupid human protagonists make. however if N is ever over for a sleepover, she’ll refrain from suggesting any scary movies since they know he doesn’t like horror

- they were picked on for having a unconventional name at a young age, but when she found out it was the name of a firearm, she began to believe she had the coolest name out of all of their peers

- knows all of the FNAF game and book lore and will talk about it if given the chance to

- wants tattoos and piercings but thinks they would look weird or bad on her since they’re a robot. to compensate, they occasionally will put super cool stickers she finds on her plating

- has extensive knowledge on Pokémon types weaknesses and strengths

- writes and reads fanfic

- after Nori passed, young Uzi would try to talk to Khan about mechanical engineering just so he would pay attention to them

- Uzi and Thad were decent friends in kindergarten and elementary school, however they grew apart due to their differing personalities and social groups as they got older. Uzi believes that Thad did this on purpose to preserve his popularity. Thad is not aware of this belief.

- already had intrusive thoughts before the Solver was activated, but they became more aggressive and disturbing after it awoke

- despite enjoying getting work done in silence or listening to music, they find that she works better when N is nearby talking about anything. it’s like a comforting white noise

- has a bad habit of challenging V to anything and everything. this is simply because they know V won’t back out, guaranteeing a fun yet quite spiteful competition for the two

N 🐶

- mainly uses he/him pronouns but is open to multiple pronoun sets

- has ADHD and social anxiety

- whenever he hears classical music, his anxiety spikes a bit as it reminds him of his time in the Elliot Manor

- knows how to slow dance but isn’t very good at it

- before Tessa repaired him, N was originally discarded due to his lack of boundaries with humans (aka, speaking casually to them/out of turn), and his clumsiness

- is the fastest of the DD trio

- he doesn’t really enjoy anime as much as Uzi does but he really likes western cartoons like Adventure Time, The Owl House, Craig of the Creek, etc.

- very much dislikes horror in any form (have it be in a movie, video game, book, etc)

- likes to watch nature documentaries, however he skips the bits when an animal dies or is hurt because he feels bad for them

- doesn’t enjoy loud noises or shouting, however he makes an exception for Uzi and V when they yell out in excitement

- knows an ungodly amount of information regarding dogs, wolves or just canines in general. he will start talking about them if ever given the chance

- he doesn’t always understand some things Uzi talks about but he listens anyways since he enjoys her voice and company

- brings V out to social gatherings in the bunker in an effort to get her more aquatinted with the colony and make the workers feel more comfortable around her. However his efforts are in vein since by the end of the party, V is standing against a wall gabbing with Lizzy and every other drone is avoiding her

- N has tried to learn about football so he could play with Thad and his team, but he didn’t understand the rules in the slightest and worried about tackling Worker Drones and potentially hurting them

- when him and Uzi first had a sleepover, he wandered around her room and asked about all the trinkets, plushies, books and posters they had

- draws whenever he gets the chance and gifts his doodles to his friends

- isn’t very good at fighting games, but loves playing games like Stardew Valley, Animal Crossing and Spiritfarer

- whenever at sleepovers, N tries to get everyone (usually Uzi, V, Lizzy, and Thad) to play Just Dance or do karaoke of Disney songs

- vocal stims words he thinks sound interesting

- he often feels as though he speaks too much, so he usually apologizes when talking about something he likes or just knows a lot about. Uzi and him have actually developed a thing where if he feels like he’s been talking for too long, he will give her a thumbs up to which she will respond with two thumbs up, letting him know that he’s good to keep talking and doesn’t need to apologize

- really wants to find out where all the immortal dogs had been put so he can go visit them

V 🦊

- uses she/her pronouns but she is okay with they/them pronouns too

- has generalized anxiety disorder

- when she was a worker in the Elliot Manor, she kept quiet to avoid upsetting or disturbing any of the humans around her. even when spoken to, she would speak as little as possible

- before Tessa repaired her, V was originally discarded due to her poor vision and skittishness around humans

- always found her maid uniform to be stuffy, irritating, and incredibly hard to move in, hence why now she doesn’t wear pants or anything constricting

- remembers the entirety of her Solver transformation but isn’t able to remember much of her time being possessed by the Solver

- she is physically the strongest of the DD trio

- whenever she is introduced to someone new (have that be through N or Lizzy), her first response is to try and intimidate them by saying unsettling things or bringing out some of her weapons. this is her way of judging the individuals character and helps her decide if she actually wants to be around them or not. due to this way of introduction, her friend circle is very small and many workers avoid her as much as possible

- tries to avoid affection or comfort from others as much as possible since she doesn’t know how to physically or emotionally react to it

- also try’s to avoid comforting others since she doesn’t believe she’s very good at it (she’s not good at it but she’s learning lol)

- thanks to Uzi, V now likes to listen to J-Pop and vocaloid

- whenever she is genuinely complimented she sputters a bit but will quickly respond with something along the lines of “i already knew that” or “and it took you this long to notice?”

- V is still unsettled by Uzis wings and tail as it is a continuous reminder of her own transformation. she’s become a lot more used to them being present but they still cause her to twitch uncomfortably

- doesn’t enjoy parties or sleepovers but if N, Lizzy or Uzi invite her to one, she has a bit of difficulty saying an honest no. she’ll suffer through the social interaction to make the few people she cares about tolerates happy

- unlike N and Uzi, she enjoys hunting for her oil and feels embarrassed when it is given to her in a canister. in private, she will go out and hunt for a bot or two from a different colony, however she doesn’t torture her prey like she used to

- V will occasionally put on her prom dress and strut around in it because it makes her feel good

- she isn’t very good at video games, but if challenged to a fighting game, she can’t say no

J 🐯

- uses she/her pronouns (trans women btw)

- experiences imposter syndrome quite frequently and when this happens, she will become more strict with her peers in hopes that the overcompensation will cause others to not question her authority or ability. This applies to both her time in the Elliot Manor and her time being the DD trio leader

- acted as Tessa’s main assistant at the manor, helping her keep on schedule and debriefing her on the days tasks. despite her attempts to keep Tessa on track, J found both herself and her human companion getting sucked into whatever nonsense Tessa wanted to do

- before Tessa repaired her, J had been originally discarded due to her unwelcoming attitude and overly strict demeanour

- J likes to draw but she doesn’t/didn’t often have the free time to sit down and doodle

- has the most difficulty remembering what happened at Elliot Manor since she is the most in line with her original programming

- is the main strategist of the DD trio

- would practice her monologues when she flew alone and would try them out on unsuspecting prey

- pitched the idea of keeping count of kills to V, which created a not so friendly competition between the two. N attempted to join but would forget to track how many kills he got during each hunt

- once on Copper-9, she found herself getting homesick fairly often. despite her workaholic tendencies, she misses the days of goofing off with Tessa

- J has a large skill set when it comes to her arsenal. V prefers her claws and blades while N prefers his blades and guns, but she doesn’t prefer one weapon over the other(s) because she is well versed in using all of them

That’s all for now!

　　　　　　　･:*+.\(( °ω° ))/.:+

#murder drones fandom #murder drones episode 8 #murder drones headcanon #edis headcannons #hope you guys liked these cause they were super fun to write out :3 #murder drones uzi doorman #uzi doorman #murder drones n #serial designation n #murder drones v #serial designation v #murder drones j #serial designation j #murder drones nuzi #n x uzi #v x lizzy #not necessarily but can be read as those ships if you want #headcanon

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