Summary - (Y/n) has always dealt with harsh criticism when it came to her work, but that never meant she was immune.
Notes - Sorry for the wait for a new post! I decided that weekends will be my off days from writing to preserve my sanity 💀
Warning(s) - Bullying, violence, mild gore
Song Inspiration -
Acsida - Privet Privet 2009
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(Y/n)'s small living room was dimly lit by soft, flickering candlelight, casting shadows across the walls that seemed to stretch and twist in strange patterns as her TV hummed in the background. She sat on the floor, legs outstretched as her back leaned against the couch, absentmindedly working on a small canvas resting on her lap.
Art lounged on the couch behind her, his head tilted as he silently browsed through channels, glancing down at (Y/n) and her work occasionally. His now pristine hand played with her hair mindlessly, combing his fingers through it as he found the texture satisfying.
(Y/n) didn't mind, though. It made her aware of his otherwise silent presence, which she had come to call home. It soothed her and kept her relaxed as she worked.
Through their time together, they soon found that regardless of nearly being polar opposites, her more calm and reserved demeanor greatly complimented his boldness and chaos. Their shared interest in death was what drew them to each other, but everything else just seemed to perfectly fall into place for them.
Art surprisingly came to respect her personality as she respected his. It was refreshing for him, in a way, which he never thought was even possible until she proved him otherwise.
It started out as curiosity, wanting to understand how someone with such interests could be so tame. That curiosity then grew into an obsession, taking note of her smallest behaviors. Whether it was the way her nose twitched when she didn't like something, or simply her breathing patterns. He knew everything there was to know about her.
She dabbed her brush into a deep crimson, dragging it across the canvas in harsh, deliberate strokes. (Y/n) could feel Art's gaze lingering on the piece, and for a moment, she wondered what ran through his head when he saw her art.
"You like it?" She asked, her voice soft and curious.
Art didn't respond with words, as usual. Instead, he sat up, his silent movements almost ghostly as he leaned over her shoulder. His head cocked from one side to the other as he carefully observed the piece. He then grinned with a thumbs up, patting her shoulder in approval. She placed her free hand over his.
"Thanks." (Y/n) giggled.
"I just don't understand how someone would think it's appropriate to ever publicize something like that."
The laughter stopped, both of them looking up to the TV screen settled on a talk show.
"I mean, think of the children! They could run into it on the internet and be traumatized and need therapy."
(Y/n)'s gaze hardened, heart beginning to race as she took in their insults. She chewed her lip as she watched, nearly drawing blood.
"Trust me, I don't think they're the only ones who need therapy -"
The channel suddenly changed, remote in Art's hand as he frowned at the screen and waved it off in distaste. He then looked down at (Y/n) who began to calmly clean up her area.
Too calmly.
She stood up, taking her supplies with her as she made her way to the sink to clean everything off. His eyes followed her carefully, paying attention to every minor difference or change. As soon as he caught her mouth twitch he rose from the couch.
YOU ARE READING
Blood of A Rose
Fanfiction(Y/n) is an aspiring artist, but rather than mainstream, she captures what she considers to be the beauty of death. She has been fighting with the industry and local art museums to publicize her work. Reaching negative publicity, a particular clown...
