#artist reader

Thank you for the love, dear! I hope you enjoy the result. Remember that taking a break is always healthy, so please take good care of yourself! Not only your physical health, but your psychological and emotional health as well! Enjoy reading ~

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Artist!reader who given up of art (headcanons)

HWEI / JHIN

I usually use (__) to indicate the space where you can add your name — or whichever name you prefer.

》》 • Masterlist: League of Legends • 《《

》》 • All Masterlist • 《《

────≫Hwei

❈ Warnings: no one

❈ Words: ~ 640

🖌️ As soon as he finds out what happened, the next day Hwei covers your eyes with his hands while keeping you standing in front of the door to a forgotten room at the back of the studio.

When he steps away, he reveals a pile of canvases that were started and never finished, covered in dust — the part of his art he had never shown to anyone; the part of his art that fails daily; the part of his art that discourages him halfway through the process. The part of his art that Hwei hid from the world because it expressed a broken part of himself.

— I don’t think there’s such a thing as a perfect artist, (_). There are only artists who choose to try again. But that’s the point: to choose to try again.

🖌️ Hwei is somewhat hurt by it. Knowing you had given up your art felt like some shades of spring had been removed from nature’s palette. If the art of someone like you dies, the lungs of the world lose another breath of life.

instead, you created one within the walls of your room in Wayne manor. you painted the walls, hung up lights and posters and anything visually interesting. empty floor space was filled with shelves and those shelves were filled with trinkets and memorabilia.

paintings of your creation were hung proudly around your room because if no one else in your family cared to look, you made sure to honor them.

fast forwards to now, you finally have a ticket out. a full ride scholarship to the California Institute of the Arts, which you had won through a Wayne organized youth art competition.

[first person.]

standing next to all of the other teenages that happily chatted with their familys hurt. it wasnt that i had expected them to show but some part of me still yearned for the sibling and parental bonds that they shared with eachother.

a tap on the sleeve of my [dress/suit] brought me out of my thoughts. i turned and was taken aback at the sight of alfred, who smiled and pulled me into his arms.

"congratulations ____, i hope you didnt think i would miss out on such an important award ceremony." he handed me a bouquet of [favorite flowers] and gave a pat to the back of my head.

alfred had always been a constant in my life, every award i had received he was there watching, like the father never had the time to be.

"are they here?" i couldnt help but ask and alfred sighed. "yes, but not for the reasons you may have hoped."

my eyebrows furrowed and alfred decided to continue. "since this is a Wayne Foundation funded event, master bruce wanted to make an appearance, and decided to bring the others."

i felt myself deflate. "right. will you clap when they call me up?"

he smiled. "of course ____. you best hurry on, i assume theyll start to announce the winners soon."

i nodded and he pulled me into one last hug before the other participants and i were ushered away.

-----

"____ ____" my name had been called on the microphone and i had barely been able to soak in the shocked and alarmed faces from the waynes before i made my way up onto the stage.

up on a the big screen on the stage, my art work was presented in a slideshow. i was congratulated and handed a small golden trophy and a certificate with my name proudly on the front.

the applause was deafening as i turned my head to the crowd, seeing hundreds of strangers, several friends from gotham academy, and most importantly alfred. he clapped loudly for me and held a proud smile.

warmth blossomed in my chest as i continued on the stage and walked down the several of steps, going to sit in the seat my friends had saved me while.

-----

the after party had just started and i had been situated next to my painting collection, chatting with other participants and art teachers from some of the other gotham schools that participated.

one of my friends had let out a slight yelp as she was shoved away following by my body being roughly turned to face damian

damian, the "art prodigy" of the family and my half brother. his brows were furrowed and his hands tightened around my shoulders. "since when could you paint?!" he had shouted, attracting attention from around the room. "how did you even enter-"

he was cut off by duke pulling him back. duke had been about to speak before tim had butted in. "damian is right, we would have known that you entered. how the hell did you hide it for so long?" he practically growled in my face.

i took a step back and felt myself fall into the usual indifferent stance. "i didnt hide anything, if any of you bothered to talk to me at all i would have told you." i felt my eyes watering and took a quick breath. stephanie had flinched at my words and even duke frowned. i decided to continue. "countless art competitions ive been in, ive invited you all to each one and funny enough-" i paused and let out a small huff of laughter. "the only one i havent invited you to is the one you guys have shown up."

bruce walked forwards, clearly confused. "i looked over the entry list and i didnt even see your name?" he said it like a question and i had to scoff. "i used my real last name, not wayne. now if youll excuse me, i think im going to go out to dinner with my friends. a goodbye party, if you will."

with another step back, i turned to walk away but backtracked, whispering another thanks and i gave alfred another hug, then turned away again.

my friends surrounded me, forming a protective circle from the waynes as we exited the building. i took one last look at my so called family for the- hopefully- last time and felt a weight lift off of my chest.

My Lieutenant

—————

It was inevitable, your predicament. To be honest, it never ceased to amaze you how quickly you could lose inspiration instantly after having a sudden spark of creativity.

The canvas and paint purchased about a while ago?

Currently collecting dust in your art studio—well the paint, anyway, the canvas had been as bare as it was since being manufactured.

In the moment, outside the office building, two weeks ago, you were high on newfound confidence and self-reflection, the dull hum beneath your bones pulsing a little more that day. It was that buzz that made you want to create, to expand your capabilities and to jump back into something long abandoned.

On that day, picking colors and measuring cloth, you had actually felt…good. There was no shaken apprehension in the air, and a new understanding had been forged within you, one of yourself and what it could mean.

So, who could blame you for getting a bit ahead in the moment? For wanting to express this in the only way you knew you could without scribing or a facial expression that screamed Get me outta here!

Hopefully, no one would, and hopefully, the incessant artist block that seemed to plague you would finally leave.

Even now, two something in the morning, sketchbook in hand, you sat on your bed, staring at a blank page that seemed to taunt you for your lack of action. Beside you, your laptop dinged, a reminder to plug it in to charge, and suddenly you were considering just giving up for the night and settling for a comfort show.

That option was becoming more appealing as you twiddled your pencil absentmindedly. Nothing would come from just staring and wracking your brain, so you decided to throw in the towel.

The sketchbook and pencil were placed upon your desk, and your laptop was being plugged in, the device growing brighter in a second. Before deciding to turn in, a sweet treat was suddenly calling your name. You specifically recalled the cookies Gina had so graciously baked this morning, and suddenly you were tiptoeing out of your room and making your way to the kitchen.

The stairs were quiet against your feet, cold tile quickly meeting them as you quietly ushered to the kitchen. You swore you could see the cookies’ scent luring you closer to their resting place, expecting to find them unsuspecting to your hungry hands.

What you didn’t expect, as your eyes adjusted to the dark, was for Simon to be there, overhead oven light on as he stirred something in a mug. By the smell of it, tea—Earl Grey, maybe?

You immediately stopped in your tracks, withholding the surprised yelp that nearly escaped as you watched him quietly.

He hadn’t noticed you, or if he had, didn’t voice it. His back was to you, and as your eyes tracked his form, not a shirt was in sight. Under the warmth of the oven light you could see the scars that littered his skin, adorning the rippling muscles beneath them.

Your breath was already struggling, but when you looked up past his neck, you nearly choked aloud at the sight of his mask also being absent.

Blond hair, buzzed at the sides, curling at the top is what you were gifted with. It was slightly tousled from the mask or sleep, you couldn't tell, but you enjoyed the sight all the same.

Simon then stopped stirring and seemingly brought the spoon to his mouth, licking it clean before placing it on a nearby paper towel. From behind, you heard a low sound of enjoyment rumble from him, then he was moving the cup to his lips and turning around.

Somehow, over the excited racing of your mind and pounding of your heart, you moved to the side, veiled by the darkness of your surroundings.

Luckily, when Simon turned around, he had closed his eyes, so there was a lesser chance of him spotting you.

As he took a deep sip from his tea and an even deeper sigh, all heat seemed to leave your extremities and rush to your face. Then, he was bringing his cup down, your eyes following the movement.

A sleeve tattoo sat gracefully on his arm, his chest and abdomen—beautifully scarred and carved by muscle—were on full display. His sweats lay low on his hips, accentuating the vibrant v-cut that sat on the end of his torso.

Your mouth became terribly dry, lips clamping shut when you realized your mouth was agape. As your mouth regained moisture, you were struck with a fatal amount of shame.

Simon probably was in the same boat as you in regards to a midnight snack, and had most likely abandoned his layers thinking he’d be (1) straight back to bed, and (2) not secretly perved on from the shadows.

Despite recognizing this, you couldn't look away, and as much as you tried to pry yourself from your hiding place and scamper back upstairs, you became further entranced the second Simon raised his left hand and scrubbed down his face, the action bringing attention to just that—his face.

You were already hot and bothered from his body alone, but one thing was entirely clear: Simon is not a butterface whatsoever.

As expected, there were scars everywhere; near his eyes, on his cheeks, around his mouth, but like the others, they adorned him. They made his being appear more like a model turned soldier than a man with the memories of war. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, curling it upwards on his Cupid’s bow before it was disappearing back into his mouth.

Those lips—his lips, were terribly inviting, and as your eyes tracked higher, you were greeted with a charmingly crooked nose that was born, no doubt, from it constantly breaking.

On one cheek there was a pretty gnarly scar, a jagged thing formed from awkwardly healed skin, a piece of him that was surely textured differently from the other cheek—which had only small nicks upon its surface. The cut itself had caused a lack of hair to grow there, and though you couldn’t tell this from your position, it was one of the main things that made Simon so self-conscious.

Finally, you looked at his eyes—bigger looking without a barrier of fabric. They still had their dark, coffee-like color, alluring all the same, but the surrounding area being exposed felt almost like…context? On the respective sides of his nose there are deep lines, ones that looked oddly similar to your own. Underneath his bottom eyelids, bags sat proudly, as if boasting their presence for being on Simon’s face.

This stranger, this handsome stranger, was in your house; drinking your tea, stealing your breath, making you crave something like never before all in the span of a couple minutes.

All in the span of two weeks.

Fourteen days.

Delusion, maybe? Or perhaps desperation?

Who knows, but what you surely know—what you feel—as you slowly turn around, hunger sated, is that your artist block is completely gone. Nowhere to be found, as if it hadn’t been harassing you endlessly for nearly a week.

Returning to your room proved a tad difficult. Your legs wobbled and shook as you walked through the hallway, knees nearly giving out as you crept back upstairs, hands jittery from adrenaline and utter perversion.

Even as you closed your door, having finally reached the safety of your chambers, Simon’s face and body flashed like a teased every time you blinked.

His stature and build were nothing new, but seeing it displayed so…explicitly had desire’s fingers curled at your nape, pulsing fire down, down, down.

Suddenly you were conjuring up thoughts about how his hips would grind into yours as he brought you to your peak time after time. How those dog tags would dangle over your face as he so tenderly explored your body with his hands, his mouth, his—

You nearly screamed when a knock sounded on your door, shaking like a leaf as you tried to rid those perverted thoughts away.

When reality finally caught up, you quickly realized the only person that could’ve knocked, and simultaneously prayed to any higher being to simply smite you then and there.

Of course, he’d seen you! He’s a Special fucking Operative for Christ’s sake, he probably clocked you the minute the you stepped out. Why did you truly believe your little attempt at camouflage would actually work?

As still as possible, you simply stared at the oak door protecting you from confronting your own shame. You even debated on opening it, figuring We’re both adults here, but quickly abandoning that when you realized how much you had stared like some desperate schoolgirl.

The worst he could do is tell you to not do that again, maybe scold you about privacy while he’s at it. Maybe he’d still be shirtless and mask less while he did it; maybe you’d see the way his lips moved when he spoke, or the way his eyebrows behaved when he was being expressive.

Or maybe, a dark little voice sneered at you, maybe he didn’t mind…maybe he did that on purpose…maybe he wanted you to see him like that.

You juggled this for about a second before you’re nearly crumpling in on yourself, trying to shake the delusions out of your head. The last thing you needed was another failed attempt at romance, especially after the last one.

So, what did you do? Well, first, you bit the bullet and opened the door. You were already feeling humiliated, how much worse could it get at that point? To your surprise? Relief, more like it, Simon wasn't there, instead a small plate sat on the floor.

The cookies.

You had forgotten all about the cookies, and here was Simon—the object of your slow descent into madness—delivering them literally on a platter.

You nearly fainted.

How did he know what you’d wanted? You had no idea, but you certainly weren’t expecting this after your little voyeuristic adventure.

You picked up the plate and tucked back into your room, quietly closing the door.

Then, mind still foggy from a lack of sleep and something else, you sat down on your bed, cookies in hand as you reached for your sketchbook and pencil with the other.

Tentatively, you began nibbling on a cookie, and excitedly, you flipped to a clean page, a clear piece of art worthy of being created.

There was no denying that Simon knew you were eyeing him, but there was also no denying he had single-handedly sparked a moment of creativity in you that was gonna last until you grew tired of it.

But that was the thing: Simon as your new muse was something you couldn’t fathom being tired of. And as you happily munch and enjoy those heavenly cookies, the page was quickly filled with the utter Adonis who selfishly hides his beauty behind a shield of fabric.

——————————

My Lieutenant

—————

He had to admit, a home gym was hardly unpleasant, and now, as Simon racked the barbells, sopping wet in sweat, he considered buying a membership. His apartment building had one, but he was barely home long enough to enjoy it.

Wiping his sweaty hands down his pants, Simon grumbled uncomfortably. The room was air conditioned, and he wore shorts and a tee to avoid sweating too hard, but the mask stayed on, so, to his dismay, the fabric clung to his sweaty face, rubbing oppressively against his incoming stubble.

He resisted the urge to rip off the balaclava altogether, still wary of these new surroundings and prying eyes.

BUZZ

A vibration from the bench; his phone.

Feelin’ real famous for a dead man, he thought, waltzing over to check the device once more. He grumbled again when his moist hands hit the metal, cringing at the sensation.

He felt his body go still, eyes scanning over the screen as comprehension began seeping into him.

Simon couldn't help but infer you’d actually enjoyed his company, why else would you be offering breakfast with him?

Well, you hadn’t said breakfast explicitly, but it was early enough to have some with a proper cuppa. And, feeling a little homesick—as much as he hated to admit already—who was he to deny?

Not to mention, all this personal PT deserved a reward.

Simon blinked once, twice as he awkwardly tapped away. His thick digits were definitely not made for such a small keyboard.

It took an uncharacteristic amount of effort to tie your shoes, mind racing with unwarranted possibilities.

Would he want to go?

He’d have no choice—he’s literally being paid to accompany you everywhere, but part of you wanted to know if he’d still go willingly without money attached. If he was fine with sitting with you and all your jittery, jumpy essence.

You’d literally dined with him yesterday, hopefully that would help to convince him. Granted you’d almost fainted from the sound of a lawnmower breaking, but that’s what do-overs are for, right?

…right…?

You could always force yourself to forget such an embarrassing event, you’re perfectly capable of doing so, it’s as easy as—

BUZZ

BUZZ BUZZ

Your hand snatched your phone up so fast your nails scratched on your bed comforter.

The Lieutenant:

Lead the way

be ready in 10

Anywhere else we going?

For some reason, giddiness bloomed wildly in your chest. Flowers of joy laying seeds in your mouth, sprouting a shy smile on your face.

You answer immediately, not giving two hoots about looking eager, because that’s exactly what you are. Terrified of what could happen outside of the safety of your home, yes, but also deathly afraid of missing that ‘good’ Dr. Smith is sure exists.

Good things do happen, you know that, and maybe finally stepping out of such a bubble wrapped atmosphere was the only way you’d finally experience them.

Just an appointment at 11

It won’t be long, you were sure to leave out the specifics, insides still churning at the thought of it.

Three dots jumped up, disappeared, jumped up again, disappeared again.

The Lieutenant:

Understood

Apprehension hung heavy in your chest, the desire to know what Simon was thinking before replying with such a short response had you pulling your lips in a line. If he was fixing to pry but stopped himself, you’d appreciate it—you settled on that as comfort.

You clicked off your phone, grabbing your purse and keys from their designated places. Before stepping out, you huffed out a sigh, fear a steady wave in your blood.

—

“Morning, soldier,” Francis, one of the cooks, greeted Simon when he went downstairs, “Ms. Wilson’s in the garage.” She spoke then slipped away, leaving no room for conversation. Simon didn’t mind and appreciated her directory aid.

As he made his way to the garage, the gentle aroma of warm vanilla crept past the mask and into his nose. Despite his best effort, he followed with newfound enthusiam.

The doors were raised, offering him the sight of you halfway in the back seat of your car, seemingly looking for something.

He made sure his presence was known, wary of startling you again, “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he didn’t know where the last part came from, but he was also a man who didn’t waste words.

You’d nearly scrambled to get out, abandoning your search for car refresher. The little trees went poof somehow.

Upright, vertigo gentle in its assault, you swayed slightly as you offered a smile. Although, it looked more like a painfully awkward grimace.

“Ready to go?”

You nodded, looking at him now that your sight re-focused.

He looked bigger somehow, as if he’d widened during the night. His jeans were snug against his thighs, teetering on the edge of too tight. An all black hoodie outlined his torso and biceps, his boots shining in the early sunshine practically singing and gleaming, and that mask—bones and all, was oddly alluring in the early morning.

You rounded the vehicle, opening the driver’s door to get inside.

“Oi,” Simon was suddenly very close to you, broad hand out expectantly, the smell of hot water and Men’s Dove floating around in your personal bubble. It wasn’t unwelcome per se, but it didn’t exactly quell the nervous energy building in your chest.

You looked at his hand, keys still your own, unmoving and still beside him. You caught his eyes, brown as Uncle John’s cigars, staring into them with obvious confusion plastered on your face.

Simon’s brow arched, and gently—so gently—he pried the keys out of your hand, before rounding to the passenger side. His movements were calm, tactical, and when he opened the door, his gaze returned to you.

“In.” He spoke clearly, direct but not unkind. As extra emphasis, two thick fingers tapped the open door, as if beckoning you to him.

You huffed out, barely audibly but visibly obvious, and rounded your way to him.

Simon stepped out the way as you scooted past him, that same scent of warm vanilla giving a polite beating to his nose. He hated the smell of overly sweet things, but this was an airy aroma that caused the faintest irregularity in his heartbeat.

As you sat down, you looked up at him, purse clutched in your hands. Your eyes darted from the keys in his hand to his eyes. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous for him to drive. There was a small voice in your head that said his accent meant an incapability of driving on the right side, and you knew it was daft and ultimately ignorant, but anxiety is rarely logical.

Simon didn’t think you’d realized, but he caught the overly terrified countenance that plagued your features. Despite his effort, a sound left his chest, one that could be argued as a chuckle.

“You’ll be alright,” he swung the door as if to close, stopping to utter something else, “promise.”

With that, he closed the door, fingerprints evident on the panel beside the window.

——————————