#designer au

[art-the-f-up]

Happy Ladynoir July guys. This happens after this comic

[garlicisgodsbestinvention]

perfect dimensions

(Carmy x Designer!Reader)

Summary: The Bear is weeks from opening, and Sugar hires an interior designer to bring the vision to life. Part 1/3.

Warnings: cursing, WILL contain smut later 👀NO use of Y/N because this is the 21st century. Carmy x female!reader, reader is described as having longer hair but that’s it for physical descriptions. NOT EDITED because I’m lazy girl tehe

—————————MINORS DNI——————————

“I hired a designer,” Natalie tells them in passing on Thursday, waving a vague hand when both Syd and Carmy open their mouthes to ask, “She’ll be here in like, twenty minutes.”

“Okay, heard, but we already have a design,” Carmy says, gesturing to the wall covered in layouts.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you had a degree in architecture and engineering. Those are fake dimensions, Bear; we don’t know shit about anything, so someone is going to come in and make sure that we’ve got the right fucking shade of white!” Natalie shouts before the office door slams shut, leaving Syd and Camry to stare after her with equal confusion.

“Pregnancy is making her…” Syd starts to say.

“Mean?”

“Yeah, mean. Definitely a little mean,” Sydney sighs, “She’s right though. Vibe doesn’t get us to opening night.”

And that’s how Carmen finds himself stuttering through an introduction from a now much-more-pleasant Natalie when she shows a woman through the front doors.

Carmen extends his hand to you, clearing his throat, nodding like a fucking idiot when you tell him your name.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m uh, I’m Carmen.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, mouth spreading into a smile that makes his heart beat a little faster. “Walk me through?”

Natalie takes the lead while Carmy and Syd hang back. One glance at the look on his partner’s face should have sent Carmy scrambling for something else to do, but he’s not fast enough to remove himself from her presence before a laugh is bubbling from between her closed lips and he’s desperately hoping his face isn’t turning red.

“Im, uh, Carmen,” Syd lowers her voice in a mocking tone.

“Fuck right off,” Carmy shakes his head at her.

“You literally forgot your name!”

“I didn’t forget my fuckin’ name—“

“Like oh my god, a pretty girl with pretty eyes appears and you forget how to talk!”

“Are you done?”

“Absolutely not. I can’t wait for Richie to meet her.”

Carmen wishes the day would never come.

Ten minutes later you appear back in the dining room, Fak following close behind with a shit-eating grin that makes Carmy wish he had never gotten out of bed this morning.

“Carmy! Did you know she likes to bake?”

“No, Fak, we’ve only just met. Would you let her do her job?” Carmen sighs, rubbing his fingers into his eyes to stop an oncoming headache. Syd snorts.

“We’ll chat more later, Neil, I promise,” you say.

“You might have just made yourself a new best friend,” Syd laughs.

Carmy looks away the moment your eyes swivel over to his, trying to disguise that he’s staring as best he can.

“So,” you say, “Natalie said you had drawings. May I see?”

Camry’s fingers itch in a weird way, but he manages a nod before striding over to his backpack to pull out the notebook while you scan the wall of swatches and inspiration photos. You nods your head a little, like you’re concocting an idea.

Carmy wants to twirl a finger through the strand of hair hanging loose out of your updo.

“So, uh, this is what I’ve come up with so far.”

He then spends the next ten minutes walking you through each of the drawings, explaining himself a little too thoroughly, and making random comments about lighting and booth fabric. You look intent the whole time, brow furrowed at the page, occasionally pointing and you don’t even have to say anything—Carmy just starts to over explain immediately following the point of your painted fingernail.

When he’s done, you nod your head slowly, the corner of your mouth twitching up. You’re wearing some sort of lipstick that reminds Carmy of the stain of touching a cherry pit.

“These are amazing,” you say finally, and Carmy feels his face heat. “I like the vibe. I love the vibe, actually. Are you a sensitive person?”

You look up at him and Carmy short-circuits.

Syd says yes, at the exact time he says no.

“Conflicting signals,” you say, “Anyone else to weigh in?”

It takes a second for him to realize that you’re making a joke, and he has to shake himself out of a stupor caused completely by the sight of your smile.

“Uh, no, no I’m good. Gimme feedback,” he says, and you reach out to flip the pages back, landing on the entry.

“Great. I’m going to tell you what we need to fix,” you say, straight to the point. “This entry is too small. Either we need to extend out into the sidewalk, or we need to push the kitchen back by at least five or six feet. The bar is going to create a bottleneck right here, and we need to inset these shelves to give you a little more working room. The lighting here needs to be sconces, and the bathroom doors need to slide to maximize space—this is too small for a swinging door.”

Carmen is fully intent on taking in every word you’re saying, but out of the corner of his eye he can’t help but see Syd’s face transform into something mildly resembling devious.

“Heard,” Carmy says, nodding his head as you looks back up. “Let’s rock.”

——————————————————————————

You become a fixture in Carmy’s life in the same way that Sydney or Richie or Nat are, appearing every time he turns the corner and whispering a hello in passing before you start barking orders to the contractors who listen to your every word. Strangely, he can relate. A week ago you told him, Carmen, please decide which side of the bar you want the ice machine on, and do it quickly so I can tell the water guy when he gets here. He’s never made a decision so fast in his life.

Even Nat had popped an eyebrow when he replied, on it, before you’d even really finished your sentence.

Usually, he’s on autopilot—walking in and straight back to the office or the kitchen and hardly ever stopping to notice what’s going on. He’s the first one in and the last one out by design, so he doesn’t even see everyone else arrive until they’re already there.

This morning, though, Carmy walks into the kitchen to see you already there, writing something out in a notebook as Natalie talks, waving her hands wildly.

“Okay, I got you,” you’re saying only glancing up when Carmy’s shoes shuffle too loudly on the floor. “Oh! Good, you’re here. I need you.“

Carmy raises his eyebrows. “Need me?”

“To look at paint swatches,” you say, ushering him into the main dining area. The words ring in his head like bells as he follows you, the scent of your perfume surrounding him as he walks through the crowd of it. You smells so good, and it reminds him of New York City somehow, the faint scent of rain.

He figures that you must have come in even earlier than he and Natalie both, because you’re dressed more casually than usual, and there’s a charm necklace dangling over your tee shirt that he tries to identify when you turn without you realizing he’s staring. He makes out a paintbrush and nothing else.

“Right, so,” you start, gesturing to the wall. There’s a beat of silence with them both staring at the three swatches on the wall, and then Carmy turns towards you.

Your words overlap.

Carmy says, “I hate them.”

At the same moment, you say, “They’re horrible, right?”

Carmy laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, not it.”

“Okay, so hear me out.” You say, leaving his side to pull something from your folder. “Pink.”

“Pink?”

“Like, oyster shell pink. Neutral enough that in the low light it’ll look pale, almost indiscernible from white. And this wall—“ you point to the back where the booths will be and shake your head. “Has to be a mural. It’ll look unfinished if it’s bare.”

Carmy nods along with everything that you say, trying to envision it. “What kind of mural?”

You tilt your head, chewing at your lip. Carmy completely short-circuits for an embarrassingly long second.

“I might have some ideas,” you say in a soft voice, crossing over to the table where you’ve set your things and pulling out a black sketchbook.

“Two artists in residence, huh?” Carmy jokes, his stomach fluttering when you smile.

“Do you draw anything other than food and restaurant interiors?” You ask.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” you repeat, looking up at him. He knows that you want him to elaborate—he would never admit out loud that he spends the hours he’s not cooking trying to replicate the way your necklace hangs off of your neck and the curve of your wrist.

Occasionally he doesn’t do weird, obsessive, borderline creepy things—sometimes he sketches the buildings outside his window as the sun goes down, or tries to remember what the boat in Copenhagen looked like, or that one place he used to drink coffee at in New York.

Your eyes narrow at him just a little, like you’re trying to read all the things he’s not saying.

He dips his head, half to look at the page you’ve opened the notebook to and half to get out from under the scrutiny of your pretty eyes.

“That’s insane,” Carmy finds himself saying, looking down at the waves of color on the page. “It looks like, almost like wood? Or marble. That’s—fuck, that’s so cool.”

The page is covered in shades of brown and deep green and black, melding together into something that reminds him of tree rings or stained wood panels, muted like an old chinoiserie river painting.

“You could hire someone to change it out seasonally maybe, it’d be cool, but I think something like this would look nice with the color of the wood we picked for the tables—“

“Will you do it?” Carmy asks, fingertips tracing over the edge of the paper and coming away brushed with color—oil pastels. “Could you, I mean, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it like this.” He tells you, rubbing the tips of his fingers together and watching the color meld together before meeting your eye.

Your mouth is parted, eyes wide as you look at him, and he gets the urge to flick your bottom lip to see if it’s as soft as it looks.

“I,” you start to say, “Yeah. I can do it. If you want me to.”

“I do,” he says, too quickly. “Want you to. Paint it.”

Because what else would he be asking you to do? He wants to throw his entire brain into the blender on high.

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll start tomorrow.”

He makes a mental note to make sure he’s there all day to peer through the windows and watch you work.

[jekisatsu]

ueifhewiufh Couterier King is DONE. YIPPEEEE

[starrspice]

Take this silly Idea I had

Sun and Moon are famous fashion designers and are known to be rather high maintenance and demanding.

Meanwhile Y/N is forced to take a position as their personal assistant (if they don't stick with the internship they don't graduate)

They run Y/N ragged and drive them crazy with their outrageous demands.

[psina-dubina]

Colored drawing, now with the beautiful text by @revacholstarfish (and me LOL)

Revancholstarfish:

“Obi-Wan has not expected Qui-Gon's cooperation in this matter, and since he has not received said cooperation, either, one might say his expectation was rather adequate. This particular model in front of him, though, has been anything but unobliging; the broad shoulders have filled up the space Obi-Wan reserved within the fabric, although the fingers over the buttons were not quite as deft as he has hoped.

"Mr. Kenobi," the man said, "I'm honored to be graced with your designs. Quite often the occurrences have become, won't you say?" His teeth-showing grin was mostly sincere. "The third time we've met this month. If I didn't know better, sir..."

"Thank you, darling," Obi-Wan's hand flattened a non-existent wrinkle over the man's lapel. "You may go."

-------

The insides of his grey wool blazers were quite smooth, although it has become a bit stifling after wearing it the entire night. Having slided his arms out of it, Obi-Wan was reaching out for a coat hanger when he heard the familiar footsteps clicking in the corridor: Steady, but always a bit hesitant.

He turned on his heels to see Qui-Gon standing in the entry way; he was...

The blazer escaped from his fingers. It didn't make a sound when it fell onto the floor; "you need to fasten the buttons," Obi-Wan heard himself say. He strided across the room in three steps; "helps achieve the form of design. Where did you --"

He was brought into a kiss; Qui-Gon's hands rest gently around his waist. Warmth radiates from them and he wanted that -- needed that, although he has been overheated all night --

"It was in your workshop," Qui-Gon said as a way of explanation. "I tried to find you..."

"Try harder next time." Obi-Wan gave another onceover at his own design; gods, working with any other models will be much harder. "Now while I blow you, I'd like you to keep these on."

Me:

Obi Wan thoughtfully smoothes the lapel on Qui Gon's chest.

-You have to open my show in this.

Qui Gon looks at him a little surprised, stoping his back with his hand:

-But do you know that I'm not a model? I'm not even sure I can stand beautifully, not to mention walking like them...

O: it's a matter of practice, God, I spent all day today looking for a model who will decorate this outfit, and he was always there!

I can practice it with you.

Q: hasn't there been a single truly talented man who would decorate your show all day?

Obi Wan opens his mouth

Q: I mean among the models. Won't critics be furious when they see how instead of a carved model, an old man who can barely keep his back straight comes out in oil and makeup? Besides, don't you need a talented lighting artist who will decorate your show?

O: in the modeling business it's called inclusiveness, and if critics really don't appreciate this work of art, they don't have eyes. And I'm sure that my talented artist has an equally talented assistant who can replace him with one show.

Q: if I agree, it won't be one show, dear, if I don't slip on the podium, you'll want me to perform on several more.

Obi Wan rolling his eyes a little: maybe.

Obi Wan after a short silence: and we can really smear you with oil, you know.

Q: still, I'm afraid you're a little corrupt about my beauty

Obi Wan says, twisting his wedding ring on his finger a little: maybe a little...

Qui Gon thoughtfully shuts up and hugs Obi Wan closer to him

Obi Wan after a while and a little quietly: so it's not? I can really open the show with you... you know the fashion designer and his muse...

Q: I'm afraid to hurt your career dear, you know I don't look like I was 20 anymore, and even then I'm a little absurd about it.

O: you won't! And oh gods, and my models are at least 25

Q: still about 25 less than me

Obi Wan, ignoring: you really look good, regard it as a professional's view. And I don't care if critics and the yellow press will piss off what I chose as the model opening the show, my husband!

Qui Gon is silent for a long time, frowning a little

Qui gon, looking at Obi Wan, speaks quietly and a little uncertainly: will you show me how to go correctly? ...

[tartquez]

AU where acclaimed creative director, Valentino, on the verge of being ousted from [insert storied Italian couture house… maybe Valentino because it would make me giggle] takes a hail mary trip to the Spanish countryside to sequester himself away in a beautiful summery guesthouse to find inspiration for his next collection and save his career.

Enter the son of his generous hosts, Marc.

Summer romance shenanigans ensue… turning old tablecloths into sundresses… flirty sunset horse rides… sketching each other by the river… Marc standing on a little wooden stool to act as Vale’s fit model… Vale teaching Marc how to cut a dress on the bias… Marc showing Vale how he used to hand embroider his and Alex’s clothes when they were little so they could tell them apart… Vale brushing a fingertip across the raised surface of a tiny lovingly embroidered ant on a faded red sock and a little puppy on another tiny pair of socks…

[vortex-randomly-fandom]

More designer au stuffs✨✨✨

This reminds me of that one Christmas holiday aus comics with sanses.