Elov33 - My Art

[elov33]

Artstyle study^^ (Kvaess on X)

[elov33]

I highly doubt this man would ever touch a microphone BUT ANYWAYS

[elov33]

Iso art WOOOO

[elov33]

Iso x Clove inspired window for an art project ^O^

[geckogoblin]

I would let you carve out an aorta from my still beating heart but you aren't chill enough to understand that

[elov33]

Ringing in the New Year with Ronin Beaufort!

Along with a little oneshot - Enjoy!<3

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The club smells like citrus cleaner, expensive cologne, and bad decisions waiting to happen. Red light washes over everything, pulsing slow and lazy, confetti sticking stubbornly to the floor while the DJ pretends the countdown isn’t about to hijack the whole night.

Ronin’s leaning back against a leather footstool like it personally owes him money. One arm braced, his shoulders loose, his posture casual in the way that takes effort to perfect. His suit jacket hangs open just enough to be irritating. He looks like trouble that dressed up for the occasion.

And of course, he catches you looking. Of course he does.

A corner of his mouth lifts, smug and unbothered. He doesn’t turn right away. He lets the moment sit between you. Lets you feel it. Then, he finally angles his head toward you.

“…Y’know,” he says casually, voice smooth over the bass, “I’m startin’ to feel like I should charge admission.”

The countdown begins to echo through the room. Laughter swells. Drinks spill, and confetti shifts beneath moving feet.

Ten. Nine.

Ronin glances at the chaos, unimpressed, then back at you, his grin sharpening. He chuckles softly, shaking his head like he’s absolutely not flattered. Totally. Definitely not.

Eight. Seven.

“Oh, come on,” he adds, tilting his head to the right slightly, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the face people make when they want something… or someone.”

Six. Five.

You open your mouth to deny it, but he’s already smiling, already reading you a little too well—amusement flashing in his eyes.

“Lemme guess,” he adds, adjusting his jacket—an unnecessary motion performed solely because he knows it will draw your attention.

“You just want to see me in a suit, huh, darlin’?”

There’s a beat. Fireworks flash outside the windows—gold, white, and loud enough to rattle the glass.

Four. Three.

He chuckles under his breath, clearly pleased with himself. He pushes off the footstool and crosses the space between you without hurry, as if the rest of the world can wait. Like he knows you won’t move. The noise of the club swells around you—champagne popping, someone shouting too loud in your ear—but it all dulls when Ronin steps into your space.

“Can’t blame you,” Ronin says lightly. “I clean up real nice once a year. Tradition and all.”

Before you even get a chance to reply, his hand lifts. Two fingers hook lightly under your chin, barely there, with just enough pressure to tip your face up. Not forceful. Never that. It’s deliberate - confident in the way that makes your pulse trip over itself.

“Hey,” he murmurs, clearly amused. “Look at me.”

His thumb brushes your jaw as his eyes search your face, something unreadable flickering behind the usual cocky calm. He leans in, close enough that you can catch the scent of his cologne under the citrus cleaner, close enough that his breath ghosts over your lips. Close enough that it feels intentional. Yet his gaze never wavers, eyes locked on yours with that familiar, infuriating confidence.

Two… one!

The room erupts as midnight hits. Cheers and laughter fill the space, but Ronin stays right there, like the moment belongs only to you—eyes still on you like the rest of the party is background decoration.

“Happy New Year,” he says, tone light and smug, unmistakably pleased.

“And hey—don’t worry. I’ll wear the suit again.”

A pause. That damn grin.

“Can’t have you missin’ it too much.”

For a split second, it feels like he might close the gap. Like he wants to. Like the whole room is holding its breath with you. Then, he smirks—of course he does—and pulls back just enough to make it unfair, his fingers lingering under your chin a beat longer than necessary.

“Careful,” he adds. “Wouldn’t wanna start the year distracted, writer darlin’.”

He starts to pull back. Just a little. As if giving you the chance to stop him.

You don’t.

Your hand catches his wrist before his fingers can slip away from your chin, grounding him there for half a heartbeat longer. His eyes flick down—quick, surprised—then back up to yours. Something warm and unmistakable settles into his expression, the teasing edge softening into something real.

“Well,” he murmurs, barely audible over the noise, “guess that answers that.”

This time, when he leans in, there’s no showmanship. No audience. Just intention.

The kiss is slow. Unrushed. His mouth warm and gentle against yours, like he’s memorizing the moment rather than trying to steal it. One hand slides to your waist, steady and sure, thumb pressing lightly as if to remind you he’s there. Present. Choosing this—choosing you.

The world keeps celebrating around you—cheers, laughter, fireworks cracking the sky—but it all fades beneath the quiet certainty of it. The way he lingers. The way he doesn’t rush to deepen it, just lets it be soft and real and new-year-bright.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smiling to himself. “That felt like the right way to start the year.”

His thumb brushes your cheek once, affectionate now instead of teasing.

“Happy New Year, baby.” he says again, softer this time.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Happy New Year!!

[elov33]

My performanceart sketch for a college assignment along with a description of my idea.<3

Description:

Theme: Body Ideals

The Piece: The performance takes place in a store window on a shopping street in a city center — a place where ideals, consumerism, and self-image often blend together. In the window stands the performer, posing like a mannequin. She wears neutral clothing that still reveals her body shape, while posters displaying various body ideals, quotes, and the demands society places on women hang in the window in front of her. Her feet and legs slowly begin to fade away, symbolizing how her identity is disappearing as she tries to conform to all the ideals.

It is set on a shopping street so that people passing by can see her. They could stop and stare — but they don’t. Why? Because they don’t actually care about her appearance as much as she thinks they do. The pressure to fit in makes us believe that everyone notices every little detail we dislike about ourselves, which simply isn’t true. Most people are busy with their own lives and problems. It’s not worth stressing over. The world keeps moving, often without noticing every individual’s insecurities. (The shadows represent the audience. They are blurry and have a low opacity to show that they pass by without noticing her — and ultimately, that they don’t matter, their opinions don’t matter whatsoever.)

The performance itself becomes a kind of experiment: how many people will actually take the time to stop and look at her?

The store where the performance takes place is called “Allodoxa”, a reference to Allodoxaphobia — the fear of other people’s opinions. I also named the street that the store is on “BDD”, referring to Body Dysmorphic Disorder (commonly known as Body Dysmorphia), which is when someone becomes obsessively preoccupied with parts of their appearance that they perceive as “wrong.”

What I want to highlight with this piece is: “How much are we controlled by ideals that others don’t even notice?” Many people suffer in silence, afraid of not fitting in. The struggle with body ideals is often an internal battle — one the outside world doesn’t see.

Hopefully, that will change in the future. C:

[elov33]

Solvivan Brugmansia art by meeee! I feel like he would have MC's name embroidered everywhere...