Artist's Eye [Uta x Artist!Reader]

”I know my pulse races whenever I get a human customer.

I can’t explain it.

There’s just...something thrilling about it.”


And so he senses with you, that strange, little quickening of his pulse as he catches your scent upon entry. Dressed so simply with little adorning your features, you walk amongst your humankind as if draped in invisibility. You speak little. Your gaze locks with the ground. A little sketchbook and pencil remains tucked beneath your arm, ready to access should something catch your eye.

It was just by chance that you stumbled into his shop; and not just an ordinary emporium, but a magnet for ghouls of all types - including Uta, the owner himself.

Despite that eminent danger, you found yourself returning to that quaint spot over and over.

Truth be told, you could not ignore the thrill surging through you.

He likes that you fancy his shop so, that your creativity flows with such ease in his presence. You like that he encourages your work, that he dispenses his advice often enough for you to improve. Neither one of you are required to speak of your identities; it is more than obvious to the both of you which is ghoul and which is human.

Yet, you have created the perfect, symbiotic relationship, causing all other to pale in comparison.

You bring him fresh coffee, brewed and prepared to his liking. He provides snacks, suiting both of your needs and tastes. Conversations are always light and pleasant, and you always leave behind appropriate tips for his company and permission to stay in his workplace as long as you do.

“You should at least let me pay you,” you always say. “I always seem to take up your room and time when I’m here.”

And every time, he would reply,

“It’s on me. From one artist to another.”

Never did you feel so free to express yourself creatively than you did with him.

Alas, one can only ignore the elephant in the room for so long.

He always dulls his hunger with various snacks and loads of coffee when you are around. Having grown a bit of a soft spot for you, his little, artist friend, he shudders at the thought of harming you in any way, shape or form. But, at the same time, he cannot deny the watering in his mouth occasionally torturing him every now and then as you sit with him. He falls under the control of your scent, so sweet, bitter but completely intoxicating. His logical side warns him against continuing these meetings

But, each time you bid him farewell with a warm smile and twinkling eyes, he loses every bit of strength to tell you know.

He decides to leave it up to fate. Whether it ends in tragedy or happiness, he would wash his hands of it.

You both knew what you were signing up for, so the consequences would fall accordingly.

You seem far more enthralled with your work. Your neck bent, your hand hastily scratching at your book, you barely communicate beyond the basic “yes,” “no,” or maybe nothing more than a grunt. You randomly glance in his direction for a second or two before immediately returning to your piece. Cheek resting into his hand, he watches you with curious eyes. He follows the curve of your spine, the length of your arms, your nimble fingers clutching your tools of invention, your hair framing your face as you hover. His own artist’s eye cannot deny your aesthetic appeal - just another way to become all the more enticing. He so wishes to internally strangle himself for such...disgusting thoughts of you. He truly thinks of you as a cherished companion, so to reduce you to a meal is nothing short of wicked.

All the same, instincts are a powerful component, both to human and ghoul.

Swallowing the hard lump forming in his throat, he rises from his seat, swaggering over to you. Though the shuffle of his shoes prove rather loud, you look up not once. He takes advantage of your focus and creeps behind you in hopes to catch a glimpse of your masterpiece in the making. He leans in just a little. Then, his eyes widens at the image before him: an exact depiction of him.

Every line, every stroke possess such precision and elegance. You adorn the page with various patterns and designs very reminiscent of his own designs. If he had to choose one thing those so accurately represented him, he would pick this piece of art, all made with pencils.

For a minute, his breath catches in his throat.

Sensing his presence behind you, a heat spreads across your cheeks. Your hand begins to shake ever so faintly as you continue. He sees your lines becoming a little ragged, so he turns to you and says,

“Impressive.”

You swallow and lick dried lips.

“Oh!” you reply with feigned surprise. “Thank you! I am very detailed oriented, so I’m pretty sure that’s all it is.”

He could almost taste you on his tongue just from inhaling your aroma repeatedly. He released a silent but trembling breath.

“I assure you,’ he continues.  “ You have an artist’s eye. You should be proud.”

You allow his words to sink in. You scan your work. You brush the little specks of led and shavings left behind. A swell of pride builds up in your chest.

“Well, thank you.”

Suddenly, you sense a soft, feathery yet tingling sensation run along your neck. Slow and rhythmic, the air you realize comes from his nose, barely touching your skin. Immediately, a shiver jolts down your spine. Your breath catches. Your muscles clench. You cannot pin point whether this is fear or excitement, as you notice hints of both melding together.

Was this it? you wondered. Was this the end for you? Would he finally give into his basic needs as a ghoul?

He touches your shoulders, firmly but gently. You sense cold lips meet with the skin below your ear. Slowly, deliberately, he draws in your fragrance.

To a human, all one would smell is little to nothing, of coursed, based on the person.

But, to a hungry ghoul, the iron, the salt, the blood and juice running through toughened vessels, fat, and muscles, is far more tempting and mouth-watering than any steak or hamburger produced by humans.

Sweet, salty, perhaps a hint of bitterness, a whiff of your flowery perfume.

Yes, he could easily picture himself pinning you to the floor, tearing away at your flesh bit by bit until nothing remained. His tongue pushes between his lips, circling over the skin. He smirks a bit as he feels you shiver at his touch.

If he thinks the smell is intoxicating, your taste is to die for. His senses become heightened. His heart pounds. The hunger rages, clawing, desperately attempting to break free, just that he might sink his teeth into your delicious, enticing flesh.

His lips encircle that patch of flesh, softening it, reddening it, swirling his tongue about and tasting what he can without breaking the skin. Your fist curl against your sketch book. Much to his surprise as well as your own, you lean into him as if begging for more

And he cannot help but smile with confidence at this reaction.

Suddenly, the lust for blood melts away, and he releases you, a wet pop resounding in your ear.

The fear dissipates, and you can only focus on the warmth and pleasure remaining.

“Hm,” he hums against your ear. “I’m hungry.”

“Mm? Wanna grab a snack then?”

Releasing you from his grip, he turns the stool around, allowing you to gaze into his mysterious, crimson eyes.

You two are walking on eggshell’s in this relationship,

but that makes it all the more thriller.

“Yeah,” he replies, playfully tapping your nose. “sounds good.”