Persona 5 x F!Reader

The Artist

        You wiggled your fingers after taking the brace off. It was becoming stifling and it hindered your ability to study. Your boot and crutch sat a little ways away, and you tossed your brace over in the small pile of hospital stuff. Surely the doctors wouldn't mind if you just took off your things for a couple hours, would they? Besides, the breeze in the park was magnificent, and you couldn't pass the opportunity to let your appendages feel the warm wind.

You leaned back against the trunk of the tree now that your arm and leg were free of their hot prisons. You lifted up your Japanese literature book, intending to read everything you missed and perhaps more that caught your attention. Exams were tomorrow, and you were a little behind thanks to all the hospital visits. You needed to study before you began to fail.

You started off strong. You were able to read three short stories in a matter of an hour. However, as the afternoon dimmed into an early evening, the price of studying in a relaxing environment began to take its toll on you. With each turn of the page, you could feel your conscious dim and your focus fluttering off into some nonexistent fantasies. Before long, your eyes drooped shut, and the book fell to you lap on the page you stopped on.

A young artist, frustrated with his lack of ideas, perused through the greenery of the park in hope of some sort of bolt of inspiration. As time waned, he sighed in frustration. Not a single thing peaked his interest. How could he hope to create something as beautiful as the thing that gave him passion for art if nothing anywhere near that beautiful could be seen? He brushed his indigo-colored hair that swooped gently in his eye out of the way and clutched his sketchbook. He would have to return to his sensei's abode eventually. However, he was determined to search the whole park before he had to return.

The young artist continued onward. Just as he almost finished his walk around the park, disheartened by the lack of possible pieces, his caught a glimpse of you. A light blush coated his cheeks as his eyes raked in your figure, imprinting every detail into his memory. Your long, smooth waterfall of (h/c) tresses pooled around your frame that leaned against the rough, rugged tree trunk. Your blissful face, with your eyelashes gently caressing your cheeks and your lips slightly parted and curved softly into a faint smile, was perfectly illuminated by the setting sun. If only he could see what colors the pools beneath your eyelids were. A book sat in your lap, the pages being held down from your hands resting upon either side. Your legs were crossed, and your black leggings clashed satisfactorily with your white socks. Saying that his breath was taken away was an understatement to the artist. You were a goddess. You were exactly what he was looking for.

He quickly found himself the perfect angle, sitting himself down on the grass before holding his fingers up in a rectangle. Should he draw you vertically or horizontally? Should he shade you now, or wait until he had paints to fully shade you in? He wanted to ask you so many questions. He wanted you back at his studio, but he refused to wake your celestial-like expression. He refused to alter you from that exact pose, that exact beauty. He flipped through his messy sketchbook, finding a blank page to start a new drawing on. He gripped his pencil that was once tucked away in his pocket loosely between his fingers. He immediately started sketching out your curves and edges, only looking up to confirm a thing or two before continuing.

He had no idea how long he was there or when the last time he looked up was. He delved into his work more fervently than most of his previous works before. However, after a while, he looked up to notice you were gone from your spot. His focused mood instantly shattered into one of worry. Where did you go? He glanced around, trying to find your form. He got up from his spot in the grass, twisting and turning to find any sign of you, but you had disappeared, vanished into thin air. Had he been so invested in his work that he neglected to see you leave? Frustration welled up inside of the artist, but with that frustration grew a new-found determination. He would find you again, even if it was the last thing he did.