artist reader & wood carver joel
joel loves spending quality time with you; it's one of his favourite things to do.
your shared studio is quiet, save for the rhythmic scrape of joel's carving knife and the soft drag of your brush.
everything feels golden, slow.
your side of the studio smells like turpentine and acrylics, while his side smells of cedar shavings and linseed oil. there's an overlap in the middle where your supplies end up on his desk and his gloves find their way to your cart. neither of you seems to mind, as everything is easy to find.
you change sitting positions often, unable to stay still, or when you need to find a different angle to keep going. you sit cross-legged on the floor, paint smudged on your hands and your forehead from running your hand through your hair, but you haven't noticed that yet.
he's focused on carving an owl. you're sketching him in silence yet again — he always says he doesn’t like being drawn, but you catch him peeking, watching how your eyes trace him before you commit to paper. you think he doesn’t even realize how gentle he looks when he works. sometimes you pause just to stare at him. his hands are strong, worn and calloused, the frown on his face, his focused face, and the way he hums quietly to himself.
you could paint or draw anything you wanted to, but he always ends up being your favourite subject.
he glances up when he feels your gaze.
"you've got shavings in your hair, hold still" you say with a soft smile, setting the canvas aside before getting up and walking towards him. he doesn't look up, his mouth twitches as he watches your footsteps get closer to him. he leans into your touch as you brush them off. "there you go, better now." he wraps his hand around yours gently and presses a kiss to your paint-stained palm of your hand before going back to carving.
there's a shelf in the studio that holds your shared works; it's where your worlds meet. around the room, there are portraits put up by joel himself of his favorite paintings that you made, and wooden figures that decorate the house. your favorite figure is a deer on your nightstand that he made just for you, and the horse he gifted ellie. his favorite paintings are the intimate ones, colorful sketches of nature, people you love, friends, and animals, horses. lastly, a few quite personal ones that he refuses to let you put away.
sometimes, when his hands are too sore or his mind too cluttered to focus on carving, Joel still comes into the studio with you. He won’t say much—just slips inside with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a mug of tea in hand, settles into the couch by the window, and watches you work. you’re standing at your easel today, barefoot, shirt streaked with paint, hair pulled messily back. the room smells like linseed and paint, your palette lies open on a wooden bench next to you.
joel would tune his guitar slowly, deliberately, the soft twang of strings breaking the quiet in a way that somehow fits—like it’s part of the rhythm of your brushstrokes. He starts to play something gentle, a little folk. not demanding attention, just filling the space between you. You glance over your shoulder at him, your smile small but warm.
you turn back to your canvas, letting the sound of his music settle into your spine, guiding your movements without thinking. There’s something about the way he plays—steady, raw, a little unpolished—that makes your painting come easier. and he just watches.
some days, this is enough. You, him, a quiet room, and the shared act of creating. when you finally set your brush down, you stretch your arms over your head and he pats the empty space beside him with a lazy smile.
when the sun dips low and both of your hands are tired from carving and painting, you boil water, make some tea for both of you, and curl into his lap as if it is your throne. joel wraps an arm around your waist and takes your tired hand in the other, thumb pressing carefully at the aching tendons in your wrist, massaging with care, soothing the ache from the long hours of sketching. "too much drawin' again," he mutters, concerned.
you hum and nod as you melt further into his warmth, cheek pressed against his shoulder. his flannel shirt smells of cedar and soap, and your eyes flutter shut, enjoying the moment. when your eyes are open again, you catch the way his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose—like they always do when he forgets he’s wearing them. you love how he looks like this. so settled, so deeply himself. so yours.
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don't copy, translate or claim my work as your own. thank you
gummygunk
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
