#another pencil sketch that turned out halfway decent

[janglingargot]

"...and I'm here fighting

because of what you found...

and what you're trying to stop."

[patchwork-panda]

If A Moment Is All We Are (ch 2)

For those who prefer AO3 format: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121633/chapters/58417417#workskin

Part 2:

My breath was growing ragged as I sprinted back to my apartment complex; clearly, the lack of food and sleep was finally taking its toll. I managed to make it all the way up to my floor before I finally tripped in the middle of the hallway and fell to the ground, not two feet from my own door. As I stared down the hall, the doorway to Mrs. Yamazaki’s unit seemed to draw me in. I immediately closed my eyes to keep from looking at it but as soon as I did so, the haunting images of the vision I’d had earlier resurfaced and it was all I could do not to break down right there on the spot.

I’d seen that cat-shaped clock once before, when Mrs. Yamazaki had first pulled me into her apartment and sat me down in her living room. The TV had been exactly where I remembered it, set to the channel Mrs. Yamazaki had kept it at all evening; she’d even told me about the comedic variety show she sometimes stayed up to watch on weekends, the program that played every Saturday, including this one, when the man with the snake tattoo breaks in to her apartment and stabs her in the chest...

I felt something welling up in my throat and I quickly pushed myself back to my feet, covering my mouth with one hand as I dug around in my pockets with the other for the key to my unit. My vision swam as I struggled to put the key into the rusty lock and the more I tried to concentrate on getting back inside where it was safe, the more vivid Mrs. Yamazaki’s grateful, smiling face grew in my mind’s eye.

“I don’t know where I would be if you weren’t here, Kyou-chan...”

I shook my head to clear the images away—it didn’t work.

“From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

The lock clicked open and I threw myself inside my apartment, kicking my grocery bag into my apartment so that it lay in a sagging heap in the entryway. I slammed the door shut behind me.

“Don’t thank me...”

My feeble voice echoed throughout the empty room. The dizziness returned and I covered my face in my hands and slumped against the nearest wall.

“I don’t deserve it.”

I sat there for some time, my head still filled with the angry buzzing that usually followed these horrific visions of death and I curled into myself, hugging my knees to my chest and forcing myself to breathe until my breaths evened out again. Out of nowhere, my stomach growled—very loudly—and I shakily reached into the bag for one of the bananas I’d gotten earlier.

When I was about halfway through my banana (with the headache disappearing, I could feel my blood sugar returning to a normal level), I heard a chime from my laptop. One glance at my desk showed me that, as usual, I’d forgotten to close my laptop before I’d gone out and as I got up and walked towards it, I saw that I had a new email notification.

“New Commission,” it read.

Gears turned in my head as I stared at my computer; I suddenly had a crazy idea.

Picking up the pace, I half-ran to my desk and immediately swept everything off of it except the laptop. Empty boxes and wrappers cascaded onto the floor but I ignored them and went straight for the pencil drawer. Drawing and sketching had always been just a hobby of mine but since leaving college, I’d managed to use my artistic ability to earn some money by doing commissions—drawings of anime and video game characters. It wasn’t a lot of money and I still needed to stretch whatever my parents had left in my bank account (I couldn’t handle telling them I’d dropped out) but I made it work.

The crazy idea solidified as I flipped my sketchbook to a fresh page and began sketching lines.

Maybe I could use my art skills to save Mrs. Yamazaki.

Drawing what I could see of the attacker was the easy part. Convincing the police that they needed to do something would be the challenge...

***

“Half-past eleven in a week’s time, you say,” the officer deadpanned, raising one eyebrow as he looked over my drawing at me.

“Yes, that’s right,” I said, nervously fiddling with the strap on my bag.

I’d done the impossible. I literally couldn’t remember the last time I’d left my apartment twice in a single day—I’d even showered twice today and eaten an actual piece of fruit. Not only that, I was wearing the cutest blouse I possessed, had thrown on a decently fashionable light jacket and picked out clean jeans and sneakers to wear, with not a speck of anime memorabilia in sight. For the first time in months, I could honestly say I looked like a normal person; I’d even taken off my face mask and stuck it in my bag before walking inside the police station.

As I watched the officer look over the sketch I’d made, the most accurate impression of the snake tattoo I could recreate, I felt a flicker of my old self returning to me. Despite having just seen another vision of a death this morning, I managed to force myself out of my apartment and now here I was, the furthest I’d ever been from my apartment in ages, talking to a complete stranger face-to-face. Perhaps this was all I needed in order to leave—someone to be concerned about besides myself. If I could end my self-imposed confinement for Mrs. Yamazaki’s sake, maybe with time I could do it for myself.

Maybe.

As long as I never ran out of face masks and nitrile gloves, it should be easy enough... I did have another mild panic attack after finding out I’d ripped my last pair of gloves when I’d saved Mrs. Yamazaki. At least wearing a face mask convinced enough people on public transit that I had a relatively bad cold and needed to be avoided...

I was in the middle of figuring out how to wean myself off of face masks and gloves when the police officer pushed my drawing back towards me and let out a heavy sigh.

“Look uh...” he squinted at me. “What was your name again...?”

“Kusunoki,” I said. “My name is Kusunoki Kyou.”

“Right. Kusunoki-san.”

He scratched his balding head.

“This is highly unusual. You say you overheard a man on the street talking about planning a break-in on his cell phone... and he gave an actual address—your neighbor’s address actually—and an exact time...?”

I nodded uneasily as he repeated my story, his suspicion starting to show in his tone.

“And instead of snapping a photo of this man and bringing us an image of his actual face, you went home and made a drawing of his tattoo.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Yes...?” I squeaked.

He scowled.

“Listen, we’re a very busy precinct and we don’t have time for crazy stories. Go home and study for your exams or something.”

He got up from his seat and escorted me to the door. By the time I shook my elbow out of his grasp, I was already outside and the automatic glass doors had slid closed with a sharp slap. I stood there on the sidewalk, staring at my own shocked reflection, my useless (but meticulously colored) sketch wrinkling beneath my fingertips and my brain unable to process what had just happened.

Everything had been going so well...

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized the officer was right. My story really didn’t make any sense. Any normal person would think it was a prank, especially coming from a weirdo like me; I was lucky I wasn’t fined for my antics.

I’d managed to clean myself up a little but my nervous mannerisms and inability to meet the police officer’s gaze must’ve overrode my general appearance, making me seem suspicious and unreliable anyway. I twisted a lock of long black hair between my fingers, staring past my reflection into the office, turning away only when the officer looked back up.

Distantly, I heard the crosswalk light change and a cool breeze began to blow.

In the end, I couldn’t change a thing...

The breeze tugged at my drawing; it started to slip out of my hands but I didn’t tighten my grip.

My efforts didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I should just go home right now and go back to being a useless shut-in...

Suddenly, the wind picked up. It ripped the heavy sketch paper right out of my hands and I watched it numbly as it flew high into the air and sailed away into the crosswalk, where someone abruptly jumped up and caught my drawing in his hand.

“Whoops!” he exclaimed, snatching it out of the sky.

Drawing in hand, he jogged towards me, the crosswalk light changing from green to red behind him. As he approached, his face broke into a brilliant smile.

“Is this yours?” he asked warmly, holding the crinkled page out to me.

I nodded mutely and reached out for the sketch.

He was tall and relatively good-looking, with a mop of unkempt brown hair that curled loosely around his face and a pair of intelligent brown eyes that sparkled pleasantly in the light. Curiously, underneath his tan trench coat and professional attire, his palms, wrists and even neck were covered in a thin layer of fresh white bandages. It was almost as if he’d just walked out of the hospital... As I looked at up him, his eyebrows slowly rose until they disappeared into his bangs and the corners of his mouth began to twitch in obvious amusement—I realized with a start that I was staring at him instead of taking back my drawing.

“Oh...! I’m sorry!” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he laughed, his eyes shining with mirth as I quickly stuffed my sketch back into my bag. “I’m flattered to have caught the eye of such a beautiful woman.”

I abruptly stopped trying to close my bag and looked up. This time, I really stared.

“Huh?”

In one smooth movement, he gathered both my hands in his and tenderly held them to his chest.

“And what radiance you possess,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. “With your lips as red as a Camellia blossom and your eyes as dark as the finest port wine—ah, if only I could drown in your eyes...! To cross paths with such beauty on so fine a day—has fate smiled upon me at last...?”

He gave my fingers a squeeze and I swear I felt time stop.

His grip was firm and his hands were so nice and warm that it took me a moment too long to realize that my skin was in physical contact with his and I needed to let go right away...!

But something was off.

Although he held my hands tightly in his, I wasn’t seeing anything from the distant future. No death, no scenes from another time, another place. No. Just this oddly flirtatious stranger in front of me, holding my hands in his and giving me compliments my shell-shocked brain couldn’t process.

“Beauty...? A-are you talking about me?”

He smiled, his lips curling around perfect, white teeth and what was left of my brain completely short-circuited.

“Of course I am.”

He leaned in close, his long bangs shifting softly with his movements and my cheeks burned when I noticed he was even more attractive up close. I could barely hear his next words over the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears.

“Are you doing anything later this evening?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “If not, I was wondering... would you be interested in joining me in a double su—”

“THERE YOU ARE, DAZAI!!” someone bellowed.

I let out a yelp and instinctively pushed the man away, snatching back my hands in the process and backing several steps away. The sudden outburst had shocked me back to my senses and while I thought my heart was going to jump right out of my chest, the bandaged man in the trench coat didn’t look fazed in the least. With a small, disappointed sigh, he shot me an apologetic look, straightened up and turned to face the crosswalk where the noise had come from.

“Kunikida-kun! I was wondering when you’d catch up,” he called, his voice pitching up into an almost sing-song tenor, a big goofy grin plastered on his face as he waved jovially to someone standing across the street.

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Kunikida roared back.

There, standing at the opposite crosswalk, looking angrier than anyone I’d ever seen, was a very tall man. His arms were crossed so tightly over his chest, it looked like he could snap himself in half if he squeezed any harder. Like Dazai, he was dressed like a professional, wearing a beige vest and pant set over a long-sleeved black shirt, a wine-colored ribbon tied neatly at his collar. He wore his hair long, in stylishly cut dark-blond ponytail and his rectangular glasses flashed menacingly as he glared sharply at Dazai. Unease building in my stomach, I watched his foot tap up and down with the uncanny precision of a metronome, like a countdown, and as soon as the crosswalk light turned green, he charged at us with all the force of a raging bull. I threw myself out of the way just as his arms shot out and his fingers closed around my companion’s bandaged neck. To my alarm, Dazai started laughing.

“Didn’t I tell you this morning that we had a very tight schedule today?” Kunikida barked, viciously shaking the brunette, who appeared completely indifferent to the assault, even entertained as his body rocked back and forth and his feet nearly lifted off the sidewalk.

“So what do you do? You wander off as soon as we leave the station and where do I find you? Flirting with a woman in broad daylight in the middle of the street! Smearing mud on the Agency’s good name while you are on the clock! You disgust me!”

At once, he dropped the guy and turned to me. Instinctively, I took a step back but to my surprise, he bent forward at the waist at a nearly perfect ninety-degree angle, sweat beading on his brow as he began apologizing to me.

“I am deeply sorry about my partner, Miss. This is completely inappropriate and the Agency will be taking full responsibility for his actions.”

“It’s okay!” I exclaimed, half afraid Kunikida would finish Dazai off if I said anything even remotely incriminating. “I’m fine. He didn’t do anything... bad...?”

Kunikida stared at me, the look in his gray-green eyes somewhere between confused, doubting and dumbfounded. Next to him, Dazai dusted himself off and I could feel his eyes on me as I chose my next words carefully.

“Really. It’s fine, you don’t need to do anything...” I glanced at Dazai’s skinny, bandaged neck, wondering when the bruises were going to show. “I’m alright.”

At once, Kunikida’s shoulders collapsed in obvious relief and as he straightened up, he fished around in his pocket to produce a small slip of paper.

“Here. My card.”

Bowing politely as I received it, I glanced over it. It was a rather plain-looking card, the sharp black text looking just as neat and tidy as the man in front of me. Intrigued, I read the card aloud.

“Kunikida Doppo-san. Armed Detective Agency?”

Something about that name sounded familiar...

“We’re detectives, Miss,” Kunikida said, as I turned the card over in my hands. “If you or anyone you know have any need of our services, please don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

“Detectives? As in private investigators?” I asked, suddenly feeling hopeful.

When Kunikida nodded, I quickly took the (very crumpled) drawing back out of my purse.

“Actually, I do have something I could use your help with. You see, I’m trying to stop a murder—”

“Murder?!”

Kunikida looked stunned but I kept talking as he and Dazai exchanged a glance.

“Yeah, I have this neighbor, Yamazaki-san. She lives across the hallway from me and if somebody doesn’t intervene in the next few days, she’s going to—”

“I’m really sorry,” Dazai interrupted me, looking apologetic, “But wouldn’t it be better to be asking the police for help on something like this?”

The hope died in my chest.

“I already tried asking the police,” I said stonily, staring at his feet. “They wouldn’t listen to me. They... they thought I was playing a joke on them.”

Kunikida stepped forward. He looked like he was about to speak when Dazai stopped him with a meaningful look. Dazai then turned to me, bowing his head a little as he spoke so that he was closer to my level.

“Hey...”

He put a bandaged hand on my shoulder.

“They’ll listen to you,” he said gently, his smile radiating compassion, “You just have to go in there and act like you’re someone worth listening to.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at his fellow detective.

“I mean, just look at Kunikida-kun. It works for him.”

“What the hell does that mean, Dazai?”

“What I’m trying to say,” Dazai continued, blatantly ignoring an increasingly incensed Kunikida as he spoke, “Is that you should try again. Look behind you, there’s been a shift change. Maybe you couldn’t convince the last person, but perhaps this officer will take you seriously.”

I turned and looked at where he was pointing, and sure enough, a different person had taken the place of the older, balding man from before. Dazai patted me on the shoulder.

“You can do it. I have faith in you. Oh, but just in case it doesn’t work out...”

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a card that looked very similar to Kunikida’s.

“You can contact me or Kunikida-kun and we will help you.”

He took my hand, placed the card face-down in the center of my palm and curled my fingers over it. Again, nothing happened when his skin met mine. I was dumbfounded. I looked up into his face and saw that he was smiling again, turning the charm back up to eleven as he stroked my hand with his half-bandaged fingers.

“In fact, you can call me if you need aaaanything at all,” he said, winking.

I flushed.

Unable to stomach any more, Kunikida abruptly seized him by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off of the ground (my hands fell out of Dazai’s at once) for a fraction of a second before slamming him down onto the sidewalk in a move straight out of a martial arts movie. Stunned into silence, I could only watch as Kunikida gave me a curt nod, asked me to call him directly if Dazai ever bothered me again and coolly adjusted his glasses, sliding them back up his nose.

“Please excuse us,” he said humbly.

He inclined his head in farewell and immediately dragged his limp companion down the street and out of my sight, Dazai’s tan trench-coat scraping unpleasantly against the sidewalk as he was taken away. My fellow pedestrians and I stared after them for a moment and only when people began walking around again did I remember to look at the card Dazai had placed in my hand.

“Dazai Osamu. Armed Detective Agency.”

[marinaloxely]

Week 1 - 12/26 to 1/2

Word Count: 2,388

“Basil Myles Hale!  Get down here this instant!  You’re going to be late for school!” my mother calls.  My backpack bangs against my back as I race down the stairs.  I hurriedly adjust the bright red tie around my neck. Mother stuffs my schedule and a marble rosary into my hand before pushing me out the door.

I start down the street at a brisk pace.  It’s a decent walk to school, and I only have about 20 minutes to get there.  And I have to put away my books before homeroom starts.

About halfway there, a blur of pink and navy crashes into my side.  I laugh and hug my best friend. “Hey, Dobby.” She detaches herself from my side, and I can get a good look at her as we walk.  Her curly hair is dyed pink today - as opposed to last week’s lavender shade - and her school uniform is off kilter.

She grins at me.  “Hellooooo Baz! Are you ready for senior year?”

“Ugh.  No! I just want it to be over but then we have to go to college and I’m not ready for that and I’m just stressing.”

“Well, stop that!  We’ve got a whole year to finish everything we’ve got to do here, and then we’re off to Colorado!  It’s going to be a breeze.”

“I’m not so sure, but whatever.  It’s just another school year.”

We arrive at the boring office building that is our school.  Saint Augustine Academy, a Catholic school nestled in a miniature office park in little old Pflugerville, Texas.  A few students mill about the parking lot in matching clothing, talking and laughing and generally being students.  A teacher stands at the double doors, making sure nothing too terrible happens.

Dobby and I rush into the building, splitting up to go to our lockers.  “See you in first!” I dash to my locker, which I’ve had for the past three years, and dump my stuff into it.  There’s a minute or so left to the bell, so I sprint to homeroom, managing to cross the threshold before it rings.  I can’t be counted tardy, even if Ms. Astley were here. Which she’s not. Of course. I could have taken my sweet time getting here.

I scoot to the back of the classroom, lowering myself into the back-most seat.  Once I’m settled in with a pencil out - just in case she forces us into a word search - I scan the classroom for friendly faces.  None float out of the sea of idiots. It’s going to be a long year of homeroom. I finally register the guy standing at the front of the classroom.  He’s tall and standing with a sense of boredom with the world. His dark brown hair is carefully tousled.

Ms. Astley teeters into the room.  Hunched over and using a cane, the woman is ancient.  Even the teachers can't remember a time without the crone.  She limps over to her desk, dumping her bag there, fully ignoring the hot guy standing there.

After a few moments, some brave and foolish soul pipes up.  "Uh- Ms. Astley?"

She wheels around, cataract-glazed eyes searching the crowd of fearful faces.  "What?" she screeches.

The guy saves the day.  He clears his throat. "I'm your new student."  His voice is soft but commands attention, with a slight rasp at the tail end of each word.

The crone does a complete 180° turn in her manner.  From evil gorgon, ready to eat you for breakfast, to sweet old grandma that bakes you cookies.  She even croons at him. "Why, hello, dear. What is your name?"

"Malakai Connelly."

"Well, Malakai.  It's a pleasure to have you in our class.  Why don't you take a seat? We're not doing anything today."  The rest of the class lets out a sigh of relief.

Once again, Malakai's eyes scan the classroom.  They fall on me, and the empty seat next to me. He smiles and makes his way towards me.  His stride is so smooth, it's as if he floats across the scuffed linoleum. The rest of the class watches him, rapt.  He dumps a blue messenger bag next to the chair and settles in. As if on cue, the rest of the class turns away and launches into their own conversations.  A couple of pieces of paper fly across the room. Ms. Astley ignores them and flops into her own chair, pulling out a crossword to work on. I cross my arms on the desk.

"Hi…  I'm Malakai."

I start, glancing up into his eyes.  "Hi. I'm Basil - Baz."

He smiles.  My heart flutters, and something prickles beneath my skin.  "Nice to meet you, Baz. Do you think you could help me with my schedule?"  He holds a piece of paper out to me.

I return the smile and take his schedule, pulling mine out as well.  I scan down the papers, realizing that our classes line up pretty well.  If we aren't in the same class, we're nearby. I relate this information to Malakai.  "I can help you out for the first few days while you get used to the school. If you want, that is…?"

"That would be nice."

"Cool."  I pull out a piece of paper and sketch out a map of the school.  "So we're here…" We spend the rest of the period going over where our classes are.

When the bell rings, we grab our bags and rush out the door.  As always, the hallways are crowded almost wall-to-wall. We slip through and make our way from M (Michael) hall to J (Jesus) hall.  I deposit him in front of his classroom. "There you go… your class…" The hall is starting to clear out as the bell nears. I inch backwards, towards my class.  "I'll see you when the bell rings?" He nods. I turn around.

As soon as I enter the room, a hand is waving and my name is being called.  There's Dobby. I scoot across the room and plop down in the seat next to her.  She wiggles her eyebrows at me. "So…?"

"So what?"

"Who's the guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy you were flirting with in the hallway."

"I wasn't flirting!"

"You were totally flirting."

 Mr. Burbank, our history teacher this year, calls the class to something-resembling-order before I can respond.  He’s a tall, fairly attractive man that commands your attention, even if he doesn’t want it, which is pretty cool.  Watch this. Dobby will revert to Crush Mode in three, two, one. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her mouth ‘Hot Damn.’  What did I tell you?  Luckily for me, Mr. Burbank doesn’t notice her and starts to call attendance.  “Jackson Caylic? Nice to see you, sir. “Melissa? Welcome back. Dorothea?” Dobby refuses to raise her hand.  “Dorothea Lambe?” Burbank stares her down, but she won’t do it. “Dorothea, if you don’t give me an indication that you’re here, I will mark you absent and be forced to call your parents.”  Dobby huffs and raises her hand grudgingly. “Thank you very much, Miss Lambe.  We’ll make you into a proper young lady yet.” He gives her a sardonic smile. She scrunches her nose at him.  Dobby may be hardcore crushing on him, but she hates her real name much more than she loves him, which is often surprising to the casual onlooker.

“Damn that handsome mother-” she starts to whisper out of the corner of her mouth.  I fake-cough, trying to cover it up in the almost silent room. We squint at each other, being a lot more obvious than we mean to be.  But Burbank is wearing a small smile and a tighter-than-necessary shirt, and she immediately turns back to the show.

“Basil?”  I raise my hand.  He nods at me, finally (after two weeks) understanding that I don’t like to draw unnecessary attention to myself.  Then, he continues with attendance.

Dobby slides a scrap of paper onto my desk.  I didn’t even realize she’d gotten a pen out, let alone paper.  Dish.  Now.

I grab my pencil and scrawl.

 No dish.

Seriously!!!  I want to knoooooooow!

There’s nothing to know.

A low growl rumbles in her throat, thankfully too quiet to draw too much attention.  

THERE’S EVERYTHING TO KNOW!!!!!  

A shadow falls over the paper.  “Miss Lambe? Mr. Hale? Do you have something to share with the class?”

“No, sir!” I squeak, my cheeks burning.

Dobby leans back in her chair, tilting the front two legs of her chair off of the floor.  Her skirt slips a little up her leg. The guy in front of us darts his eyes to her thigh. Gross.  “Nope. We’re just trading secrets. Gossiping. Y’know, the usual.” she drawls. Good-ness. Isn’t she just the poster girl for casual?  I can’t help but notice that the guy is still staring, and his buddy has joined in. I debate throwing my blazer in her lap.

“Nice to know.  Focus on my teaching, if you please, madame.”  He makes it sound like a suggestion, but I’ve seen many an unwary student fall into that devastating trap.

“Oh, no, Mr. Burbank.  But thank you. I really do appreciate the offer.”  How in the world does she manage to do that? One second, she’s madly in love with the guy, and the next, she’s the coolest little cucumber, giving Burbank all the attitude she has ever mustered.  I highly doubt I’ll ever be able to do that.

“Miss Lambe.  If you aren’t going to pay attention, go sit in the hallway.” he announces, pointing to the door.

Dobby gives him her most regal smile, slams the legs of her chair back to the floor, and forces a squeal out of the linoleum.  “As you wish.” She struts across the room, her school-issued pumps tapping against the tiles in time with the swaying of her hips.  The guys are practically salivating. Disgusting pigs.

Just before she grabs the door handle, Mr. Burbank calls, “Sit only in the hallway outside the door, Miss Lambe!”

Dobby swivels on her heel and executes a perfect curtsy - a result of years of cotillion classes.  “Yes, Your Highness.” she croons in a voice as sweet as sugar and sharp as a blade. The class bursts into laughter as she throws the door open hard enough for it to slam into the wall and leaves with a grand flourish of her arms and a swish of her hips.  If there’s one thing Dorothea Lambe knows how to do, it’s make a grand exit: she’s had lots of practice over the years.

I can just feel the dread that must be washing through Ms. Minchin, our school counselor, right now.  Dobby is in to see her daily, usually more than once, and every visit is prefaced by at least one such slamming door.  Dobby will probably go stalking down to her office in one second, after kicking off her shoes. (She really hates the school uniforms, and has made it her mission to be as rebellious as possible.)

As soon as the bell rings for lunch, my phone will veritably blow up with texts from her.  It always does. Her phone only lets her text in 100 characters at a time, so every time she decides goes on a rant, I end up with at least 10 messages within the same minute.  That woman can text faster than anyone else I know.

“Now, let’s get back to class, shall we?” Burbank strides back to the blackboard where, I now see, he’s pulled up a powerpoint.  THE AGE OF ENLIGHTENMENT is scrawled across the board in bold lettering.  

I quickly pull out a notebook and pen.  My notes need to be thorough if I'm going to help Dobby pass this class.  Not that it's my problem, but I kind of consider her my problem.

We've been friends since we were children.  In the middle of a Relay for Life, there was a tornado warning, and our moms couldn't find us.  We had apparently been playing and fell asleep in a random person's tent. We were perfectly fine and content, but, boy, did we get in trouble for running off.  I smile at the memory and scribble down the notes.

Before I know it, the bell rings.  I gather up my stuff and dart out of the classroom.  Dobby strides up to me, cool as can be, and links arms with me.  "Hello, my darling herb." I lead her over to Lucas's classroom.

"Hello, dear.  How was Ms. Minchin?"

"Just dandy.  She says ‘hello’."

"Oh, how quaint."

"What are we waiting on?  I want lunch."

"I made a new friend, remember?  He's coming to lunch with us." Just as I say that, Malakai comes out of the classroom.  "Hey, Malakai! Ready to eat?" He doesn't seem to hear me, looking around for something.  I put my hand on his shoulder.  

He starts.  "Huh? Oh. Hey, Baz."

Dobby links her arm with his.  "Hey, handsome. I'm Dobby, Baz's best friend."  My dork grins her unconquerable grin, and I can almost see Malakai falling under her spell.

"Malakai.  Pleasure to meet you."

"Come on, come on.  Stop flirting," I interject.  "We've got to get to lunch."

The rest of the day, and the rest of the week, pass by uneventfully.  We get to know each other pretty well. I find out that Malakai lives alone in an apartment, having emancipated himself several years before.  The three of us are assigned to a semester-long research project together in our Seminar class.  

Friday night, Malakai and I meet up outside Dobby's house.  He's got his tie loosened and blazer draped over his shoulder.  Through the undone button at his throat, I can barely see a necklace laying there.  I flash a smile at him. "Hey, stranger."

He grins at me.  "Hey. Glad I managed to find the right place."

"You ready to go in?"

"I guess.  Ready as I'll ever be."  

We step up to the porch.  I knock on the door. As we wait for the door to be answered, I notice Malakai wringing his hands and shifting his weight.  "Don't be nervous. Mama Lambe is super sweet."

"Nervous?  Me? I'm not nervous."

"Of course you are.  Just take a deep breath and stop wringing your hands like that."

[fanforthefics]

17, tyson/gabe

meeting at a party whilst drunk au

Tyson doesn’t believe in regret. Regret is for people with too much time on their hands, whose lives are filled with the plebeian and the mundane. Tyson is an artist, he carpes the diem, he lives his life to the fullest, he doesn’t take the time to look back and regret. He should basically be in Moulin Rouge. 

That being said, he is maybe going to regret that last tequila shot. 

“No, see, you don’t get it,” Tyson tells Nate, his solo cup waving in the air. “It’s just a boring class, it’s not even hard.” 

“You want to trade?” Nate asks. He’s slumped on the couch, a beer in his hands that he looks too dispirited to even drink. His latest midterm really took it out of him. “You can be the mech e major, and I’ll go to your classes and draw shit.” 

“But then who will support me when I’m a starving artist?” Tyson asks. He gives Nate his biggest, most pleading eyes. “I need someone to save me from my tuberculosis.” 

Colin, from his other side, snorts and grabs Tyson’s solo cup before it tips over. “I think your dad’s money will do that,” he points out, which is maybe true but like, a low blow. 

“Whatever. You guys are just lame,” Tyson informs them. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“Neither do I,” Colin replies easily. Tyson sticks out his tongue. 

“Just for that, I’m going to go find someone else who will understand my woes,” he announces. 

Nate sighs, like the world has crashed down upon his shoulders. “No, it’s good, I need to hear about someone else’s problems so me failing out of school won’t sound as bad.” 

“You didn’t fail,” Tyson tells him, kicking at his leg. “Come on, get up, we need you moving.” He tugs. Nate sighs again, but at least now he’s upright. He just needs another drink and maybe some karaoke. Tyson’s going to go look into that, as soon as he’s done bitching. “But seriously. How am I supposed to get better as an artist if they don’t give me good models?” 

“I thought you said that Roman was the model,” Colin asks. He seems to get on board with Tyson’s herding them through the party towards where the rest of the drinks are, which is good because Tyson needs one hand for pulling Nate along and one for his solo cup. 

“Yeah, exactly, have you seen him? He’s way too pretty to be a model.” Tyson yells over the noise of the party. A dude they’re passing by turns to him, like he thinks they’re talking about him; Tyson nods to him because hey, no harm in letting him think that.  

“I don’t think that makes sense,” Nate says, listless. “Or maybe I’m not smart enough for it to make sense.” 

“Nah, you’re too sober for Tyson logic,” Colin tells him, patting him on the back. 

“No, it’s real,” Tyson insists. “I mean, yeah, you are too sober, come on finish that and I’ll make you something. But also, it’s real. Beautiful people are boring to sketch, they’re just–beautiful. There’s nothing new about it. You draw one perfect face, you’ve drawn all of them. Like, look at him.” Tyson gestures across the kitchen, to where the most beautiful blonde man he’s ever seen is standing, talking to another large blonde man who seems to be missing some teeth. “He’d be boring to draw. I could draw him in my sleep, probably. There’s nothing interesting there.” 

Maybe he says it too loudly. Maybe it’s one of those lulls in conversations that happen at parties. Maybe it’s just Tyson and his luck. Maybe this is that last tequila shot talking. 

Whatever it is, the beautiful man turns around, and gives Tyson a look that has him half quaking and a lot turned on. “Excuse me?” he demands. Even his voice is hot, what the fuck. 

Tyson, because he can’t not, doubles down. “You’d be boring to draw,” he tells him. “It’s not your fault, it’s just like, the one down side of being hot. I could draw you or I could draw Prince Charming, it’d be the same.” 

“I am not boring,” the guy protests, his face drawing together thunderously. It’s actually a pretty interesting expression. His friend, however, is looking delighted. “I am interesting.” 

“Fine, but your face isn’t. I mean, it’s gorgeous, and I’m an art student I should know, but it’s not interesting. See, this–” Tyson gestures to his face– “This is interesting. Your friend, without the teeth–that’s interesting.” The guy gives his friend a look like he’s betrayed his entire family. The friend is really grinning now. “You’re not.” 

“I’m not?” the guy echoes. “Prove it.” 

“What?” 

“Prove it,” he says, like he’s won. “Prove I’m so easy to draw.” It’s a dare, and he sounds like he doesn’t think Tyson’s going to do it, which just shows how little he knows Tyson. Which maybe makes sense, as he doesn’t know Tyson.

“Fine,” Tyson announces, and gets an incredulous look from the guy, a cackle from his friend, a resigned chuckle from Colin, and another sigh from Nate, who really isn’t as invested in this as Tyson thinks he should be. “Someone get me some paper and a pencil, we’re doing this.” 

“Tyson, you do abstract sculpture,” Colin mutters. Tyson ignores him. 

“Fine,” the guy snaps back. “EJ–” 

“Oh I am finding supplies,” the friend says. “Nemo must have them around here somewhere, don’t move.” 

“Should we move?” the guy asks Tyson, all false solicitousness. “I wouldn’t want you to be disad–disadvantaged–” he sluts the word a little– “By bad lighting.” 

“Fuck you, like you have bad lighting,” Tyson throws back. “We’re doing this right here. You, stand–” he pushes the guy back against the counter, where he’s got a decent contraposto going on. The guy goes, lets Tyson pose him, which means Tyson really gets some hands on knowledge of how muscled his arms are. 

“Okay, I’m–wow, you move fast,” EJ says, coming back in holding a notepad and a mechanical pencil aloft like trophies. 

“I’m posing him,” Tyson explains. He looks up–the guy is annoyingly, perfectly tall, of course–to find bright blue eyes looking down at him, still determined and a little hazy with alcohol but with a glint of good humor in them. It’s all very attractive. Tyson doesn’t regret this, exactly, but maybe he should have thought about this for a second. “You good? Not going to cramp up and mess me up?” 

“This is fine,” the guys replies. “If you can handle it.” 

“If I can handle it,” Tyson mutters, and grabs the paper and pencil from EJ. Neither of them are great quality, but whatever, he doesn’t need great quality. “I can handle you.” 

“Sure,” the guy retorts, and grins. It’s a frankly devastating smile. 

“Okay, clear the area,” EJ announces, pushing people away. “Come on, you get over there,” he tells Nate and Colin. Colin rolls his eyes and doesn’t move. Nate lets out a long breath but looks a little more interested in the proceedings as he moves people away, so, at least that’s a win. 

Then Tyson sits down to draw. 

It’s–look, he meant it. Beautiful people are easier to draw, in a lot of ways; they’re beautiful because they’re symmetric and simpler, basically. It’s like, basic aesthetic theory. But also, that’s only true if you don’t put effort into it, because the longer Tyson draws the more he sees, like, the little crinkles at the corners of the guy’s eyes like he smiles a lot, and the cocky set to his shoulders, and the smudge on his hand probably from pen, which means he probably is old school and likes handwritten notes. Tyson likes art because he likes to find that in people, in things; find the inside and make it the outside, and even drunk that’s true. 

So all in all, the drawing’s not bad, even for a rough sketch, is what he’s saying, but he feels oddly shy when he puts down the pencil. Colin and Nate have wandered away a little chatting to EJ about who knows what; they aren’t paying attention anymore. 

“There,” he says. “Done.” 

“Well let me see,” the guy demands. “Come on, I have to judge if I really am that easy to draw.” 

“Whatever, it was about interesting, not boring,” Tyson tells him, but he hands over the notepad, then waits as the guy stares down at it, his mouth gaping a little open. 

Tyson is not capable of waiting for more than thirty seconds, though, so, “So?” he prompts. 

The guy looks up. He doesn’t look so snappish anymore. “You should sign it,” he tells Tyson. “That’s what artists do, right?” 

“What, you aren’t keeping–” 

“Yes I am,” the guy says. “But first, you’re signing it.” He holds out the notepad. Tyson takes it back, looking at little skeptical. It’s not that good. 

“And,” the guy goes on. “You should probably add your number. In case I have any follow up questions.” 

Tyson freezes. Looks up halfway through his signature. 

The guy is still looking at him, but there’s a smile twinkling in his eyes and the corners of his lips. 

“That was really smooth,” Tyson tells him, and adds his phone number. 

The guy laughs, and takes the notepad back, then switches hands so he can hold his right out for Tyson to shake. “Gabe,” he tells Tyson. His hand is warm, and lingers a little. “Maybe I can prove that I really am interesting–” he glances down at the sketch– “Tyson.”  

Tyson grins back. Yeah, he regrets nothing. 

[welcometophu]

Not Your Love Song: Chapter 32

Marked Book 2: Not Your Love Song

Chapter 32

[ Previous | First | Next ]

Kit’s room is quiet. Peaceful. It’s easy to work in because there’s no one else randomly wandering through. Hayworth has a completely different feel than Douglass. It was built as apartments, so Kit’s room is actually a tiny efficiency, with a kitchenette when you walk in, a daybed/sofa along the side wall, and a bureau and television against the other wall, next to the door to the private bathroom. He lives on a floor with one other efficiency as well as three two bedroom apartments, and a four bedroom apartment at the very end of the hall.

People stay private in Hayworth, the doors always locked. There is no open door policy.

“It’s not that we don’t like each other,” Kit explains as he unlocks the door Wednesday night to let them in for Rory’s second visit to the dorm. “It’s that we only socialize when we plan to socialize. There are floor events, and whole dorm events where the floors compete against each other. Trey, who lives in the other efficiency, is a good guy who spends most of his life doing competitive gaming when he’s not deep in a coding project. One of the apartments upstairs is all girls from SigPsiE who wanted to live together, but not in the house, and not off-campus. It works.”

“I like it.” It bridges the difference between having a real apartment off-campus, like Thorne’s, with all the strange little quirks that it has, and living in a dorm. Rory wonders what his chances would be of managing to get one of the efficiencies for himself as a sophomore, and if he can use his need to cook proper vegetarian meals as an extenuating circumstance. The more he gets to know Thorne’s roommates, the less he thinks he wants to join them in their apartment.

Not that there’s a room next year anyway, and Thorne doesn’t seem to want to actually move.

Rory’s aware that he should have made a decision about where to live next year long before now, but he keeps putting it off. Right now he’s thinking trying to beg his way into Hayworth wouldn’t be a bad idea.

They settle onto the daybed, and Rory brings up a stream for a TV series that he started watching on and off a few years ago, after they bought the rights to use a Phoenix Rising song in one episode. They have halfway decent representation, so he periodically catches up on the new seasons after they go online. It’s nice to take break and watch something because he wants to instead of for a class, and it’s comfortable with Kit a line of warmth pressed against his side.

Kit moves slightly as he draws, the pad of paper perched on his knees, the pencil held loosely in his hand. The sketch is of the front of the Madison Center, created in broad, soft strokes of light pencil. Rory watches curiously. When he leans into Kit and lets the magic flow between them, that warmth surrounds them both, and Kit starts drawing faster, in a flurry of frenetic energy. The pencil sketch comes to life quickly, the strokes depending, solidifying.

It’s not in color, but by the time Kit stops abruptly, dropping the pencil to the bed, the picture has taken on the quality of a faded photograph. Kit holds the edges of his art pad gingerly. “That’s—”

“What?” Rory tilts toward him again, touches the paper lightly. “You’re a good artist. This is amazing.”

“I was always better at sketching than Carolyn, but we’re both decent. This is—” Again Kit cuts off, shakes his head before he sets the pad of paper aside. “That is definitely the best thing I’ve ever drawn. And the easiest. It’s like… all of a sudden I was filled with this need to put it on paper. Like I couldn’t possibly fail.”

“When I touched you. When our bond—” Rory gestures between them to finish the statement silently, and Kit nods. “Huh,” Rory says. “Is your art magical?”

Kit laughs. “Hardly. Carolyn and I grew up drawing because it was part of being predictive. It was expected. We had to draw every layout we did when we were little. We drew Tarot cards, to get the feel for them and fix them in our minds. It made it easy when we started doing science labs for school; I could sketch anything we had to. But it’s just sketching. It isn’t magic.”

There’s a thought coming together in Rory’s head, and only part of it is fully formed. It needs testing. “I think maybe that’s changed,” he says, and if that’s true, things may be very tangled up. “Can we try something?”

“Sure, yeah.” Kit picks up the pad of paper again when Rory gestures, and he starts sketching. At first, Rory isn’t sure what he’s seeing. A face, maybe, no, not just a face. A body curled around something, hunched over while sitting. It’s all circles and rough lines.

Then Rory leans against Kit. He puts his arm across his shoulders, lets his hand fall just below the line of Kit’s short sleeve, fingers brushing bare skin. The cocoon surrounds them, and Kit inhales roughly. His pencil moves with more surety, and Rory loses track of time as he sees himself come to life as an image on Kit’s paper.

No, not to life. It doesn’t move, it doesn’t seem to shimmer off the page in some magical way. But it is beautiful art.

Kit lowers the pencil and paper, puts them aside and turns to face Rory, so they’re both sitting cross-legged on the bed. The show has stopped in the background, and when Rory glances over he sees that enough time has passed that the streaming service asks if they want to continue rather than moving on automatically.

His stomach growls; he ignores it.

“What are you thinking?” Kit asks.

“A lot of things,” Rory admits. He raises his hands, lowers them again because he has nothing to hold onto, nothing he can fret like a guitar to put his nerves to rest. “Your art is magical,” he says, because it seems like the simplest place to start. “Your Lineage is Predictive, but you aren’t. Your Talent is still about art, because you’re the flip side to Carolyn’s Emergence. You’ve Emerged in your own way, recently. You create art from magic. She brings it to life.”

Kit looks at the pad of paper lying there, Rory’s image hunched over a guitar as he plays. Kit reaches out, flips the pad closed, hiding Rory from himself. “Why do you think my art is actually Talent?”

“Because I think that sensation that we feel between us,” Rory gestures from himself to Kit and back again to illustrate, “isn’t just a part of the soulmate bond or something. I don’t think we can blame the marks. I think we can blame me. And the fact that my soul recognizes yours or something, and wants to give you energy every time we touch.” He hesitates before continuing, because this is something he���s been wrestling with for a long time. “The same energy I take. But I struggle giving it during rituals. You, however, I want to give it to as soon as I touch you. I don’t make your Talent stop. I enhance it. From the way you fell into that, I’d say I enhance it a lot.”

“Okay.” Kit exhales. He reaches out, and Rory bridges the distance between them, clasps both of Kit’s hands with his.

“When I first met Mattie, I was holding her with my innate Talent,” Rory says quietly. He thinks Kit’s heard this story, but he can’t remember when or in how much detail. “Pawel trapped her, but I stopped her from being able to slip into the shadows. And she swore that if she ate us, I’d be the sweet dessert, to be sipped delicately. And she said that I glowed with all the Talent that I had stolen, and I thought she was lying because I don’t steal Talent, I stop it.”

“And now?”

Rory runs his thumb along Kit’s hands. “It doesn’t happen every time I touch someone. Stopping Talent, I mean. I have to think about it. Just like it always feels good when we touch, and we gravitate toward each other, but we don’t get that rush. But when I think about it, it’s like it surrounds us. Like there’s a wellspring inside and I’ll never run out of energy. And you take it as fast as I can give it. So I guess she was right.”

“And then I magically create art,” Kit mutters.

“Which Carolyn can use to travel to places.”

“Or people.”

Right. Or people. Rory remembers that. It’s a small detail and he has a feeling that there is something just out of reach that is important for him to remember. But he’s not there yet.

Instead.

“Maybe you should try working with Carolyn on your independent study project,” Rory says quietly. “Thorne’s definitely not the right fit for you, and if your Talent meshes with—”

“My Talent also meshes with you, and yours meshes with me,” Kit points out. “Which makes you a perfect partner for it.” He holds his hands out, palms up, and Rory lays his hands atop them. Kit’s thumb strokes along the side of Rory’s hand as his fingers close to hold on. “If Carolyn wants my help—if she wants my art—I’ll help. I’ll help her design rituals around using our new Talents. But I’m happy helping you do what you feel like you need to do to help Darrik. I don’t want to change away from that now.”

“Do you think this can help us at all?” Rory can feed energy into Kit, but he’s pretty sure that sketching ultra-realistic images isn’t the key to reaching Lora. And he’s not sure if Kit can channel the energy in any other directions. “You were using the pictures you created as a focus for the ritual, but that seems more like something Caro—” He cuts off when Kit’s grip on him goes tight.

Kit shakes his head. “I don’t want to get her involved. She’s got her own project, and it’s separate from this one. She’s got….” He hesitates, shakes his head again. “I just think she’s going in a different direction. We’ve got Del. It’ll be fine.”

He licks his lips, and Rory feels the tension sliding from his skin. Rory shifts to lean back against the wall again, offers his arm for Kit to tuck in close. Peace settles over them, and Kit relaxes.

“You really don’t want to involve Carolyn.” Rory thought about not asking, but he knows it’s going to linger in the back of his mind, and he’ll end up asking at another time anyway.

“I don’t want to involve Carolyn,” Kit confirms quietly. “Are you asking me to try to explain why?”

“If you think you can.” Rory doesn’t want to push, and he understands if it’s not something that Kit has words for yet. But he’d like to know, in part so he can avoid future mine fields in conversation.

“We’re twins,” Kit murmurs. “When we were very little, before I could express that I was male in a way that everyone understood and believed, everyone treated us as interchangeable. Even as I got older, most of our extended family and friends still treated us that way. We were Kit and Carolyn or vice versa. If one wasn’t available, grab the other one. I love Carolyn, and yes, she’s my twin. She’s like the other half of my soul, in a totally different way than you and I might be. And she’s doing this independent study with me, which is great. I love her for that, and I love the support, and I want her to learn traditional ritual. But she’s still Predictive, and she has something to fall back on. I need to prove that I can do this on my own. That I can work without her.”

“What if your powers are linked and they’re meant to work together?”

Kit’s hand flattens against Rory’s chest, then twists in his shirt as he clenches his fingers. “I’ll deal with that when I get there. Right now I want to be me, and I want her to be her. That’s part of going to college, learning how to just be ourselves, rather than the Merrill twins. I don’t want to be interchangeable any more. Because when we’re that, I’m always lesser.”

Rory can see how this new situation could make things worse. “And now you think that magically creating art is lesser,” he says.

Kit shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just art.”

“She can’t travel without it, right?” It seems obvious to Rory that their new Emergent powers are codependent in some way. “In some ways, it’s like she needs you even more than you need her.”

Silence for a long, drawn out moment. Kit reaches for the abandoned remote, places it on Rory’s chest. Rory wakes up the television and looks at where they are in his series. They’ve somehow missed two episodes while Kit was in his art fugue, and Rory suspects it’s far later in the day than he thinks it is. Rory switches back to the first episode they missed and starts it over again.

“I don’t want people to see me as just an extension of Carolyn,” Kit whispers into Rory’s shoulder. “And I really don’t want them to see me as an alternate for her. It trips the dysphoria in a very bad way.”

Rory turns toward him, kisses the top of his head while stroking his shoulder. “Anyone who looks at the two of you can see that you’re different. It doesn’t take much observation skill. And if your family can’t see that, they’re blind.”

“Thanks.”

Rory squeezes his shoulder again, and lets the conversation drop. Kit slowly relaxes, going quiet and soft against Rory’s side.

Rory doesn’t want to address the idea that their own Talents are somehow linked, that Kit’s art and Rory’s ability to stop Talent are interwoven. He doesn’t want Kit to think that he can’t stand on his own.

“I could get used to this,” Kit murmurs, and that brings a smile to Rory’s lips.

“Yeah, I could get used to it, too.”

[ Previous | First | Next ]

[stresslitzia]

Mini art tutorial!

Hi! I’m currently drawing some characters of mine, so I want to show you guys how my art process runs! This tutorial works in both FireAlpaca and Paint Tool Sai, and I’ll explain how it translates. The post will be long, so click on below!

For those who just want to see the finished product, here you are!

Alright! So, first, I try to think of some references I already have for the character. For these, I’m translating images done on bases into images of my own. Furthermore, these images go from animal to human!

So right now, this is her ‘reference.’ Mostly. Base credits to Starwuff on DeviantART, by the way! That links directly to the base

Now, how... how do you translate the above image into a HUMAN?

It’s simple, really. Even if you’re... uh... bad at people.

Step one, think about the character. What are they like? Is there a pose that suits them? Can you not think of one, but you can think of a character who acts or looks like them? Yes?

Great!

Look up references for THAT character. Wiki, HD images, etc. For Lena, I go to @kingdomheartsinhd and look for images of Kairi. That search turns up this image:

(you can find that here)

Now, this image absolutely SCREAMS Lena at me. Especially the face. I love that expression. So I copy it, and paste it into FireAlpaca, onto a 6x8 inch canvas(6inch wide, 8inch tall), then transform it to the proper scale.

I’d show this part, but I’ve already sketched over it. Obviously, that’s the next step! Figure out where things go, what does what, and sketch away!

Don’t mind the off look of everything, it gets fixed. I use a pencil brush to sketch in FireAlpaca, but a 70% opacity colored pen brush works just as well for PTS. I recommend coloring smaller details differently, like how the right hand is pink to show that it needs more detail, how the ears and tail are blue to show that they don’t need as much.

After doing that, move on to working on the outfit. Open a new layer(you can see layer3 there, that’s where you’ll be sketching the outfit). Like with the body, everything should be sketched a different color!

The main body sketch is still there, but greatly reduced. Next, on the same layer or separate, I’d draw the hairstyle. I recommend doing this twice so you have an idea of what fits the character, especially if you’ve never drawn them before. I’ve drawn her before on paper, so I’ve already got a firm idea. This is also, in her case, a perfect time to draw in the facial details.

Yes I am aware her right eye is missing. This brings us to linework! Drag everything up to 100% opacity and switch to whatever tool you use best! If you use FireAlpaca, I recommend pen, and if you’re on PTS, just use a linework layer. Make a layer for your lines above everything, set your brush to 100% black and about 18 pixels,0% min width, and get to work!

Lines always look weird on my drawings. It’s the outfits, I swear. Anyway, on FireAlpaca, you can use the wand tool to select things. Tolerance should be between 10 and 25(mine’s at 21). I can’t recall if you can do the same on PTS or not, but oh well. While we’re here, go look for the flesh cloud! You’ll need the flesh cloud! You’re on Tumblr anyway. Go find it. Just select everything you don’t want colored, flip it, and fill the whole thing on a new layer, then lock it.

You’ll want to start with the most detailed part of the design. Here’s what it looks like right now.

((Side note: If you’re like me and leave shirt designs for last, but love graphic tees and self-reflection, use the brush select tool to safely pattern your shirts, or whatever else you like! Scatter brushes are also great!))

Gradients also work well with the select tool...

And it’s not just clothing I use the gradient tool for, either...

This was done with two layers, one set to overlay and merged down. It was also edited to make it a bit more opaque.

This is the final color pattern. Now, these pieces.... they have shading. Minimal shading is necessary, but more shading = more depth to the image, making the pose look better. Take a very light grey and shade it! I usually shade with the light source from the right.

I forgot to screenshot the process, oops! But you’ll take a light grey, a dark grey, and another light grey. Use the first two to shade, the third to light. Copy the color layer, set it to clipping and overlay, then put them above a multiply(shading) and add(lighting, I think Luminescence works for Sai) layer. Then merge them together and set them to clip again.

Now sign the piece, maybe name the character, and save the image. I recommend both a layered file and a PNG, for obvious reasons!

And...

Voila!

In review, sketch with a pencil, have an idea, make it look halfway decent through time and effort. This took me about six hours.

[quicksilversquared]

Fashion Disaster

Hawkmoth's akuma designs aren't always what one would call fashionable. In fact, quite a few of them verge on being complete eyesores. It was only a matter of time before someone brought it up- and when they did, Hawkmoth was Not Happy.

So naturally, they just brought it up again, and again, and again.

(AO3) (FF.net)

Adrien frowned when he entered the dining room for breakfast one morning and saw the newspaper, which normally sat abandoned next to his father's seat, crumpled up and sitting under the window like it had been thrown across the room in a fit of anger. Curious, he trotted over to pick up the paper. He didn't flatten it out right away, because he didn't want Nathalie to spot him looking at it. If his father had thrown away the newspaper, there was probably something in it that they didn't want him to see.

He would read it at school.

Adrien managed to smuggle the paper back to his room without anyone noticing, and then he shoved in his bag before running out to the car. The Gorilla looked a little surprised that Adrien was running so early, but the surprise smoothed out fast enough and he pulled out of the gates. Driving to school took no time at all (Adrien wondered briefly if he could maybe persuade the Gorilla to just walk him to school some days, since it was absolutely ridiculous to drive the short distance unless he was seriously running late), and then Adrien was settling down at his desk in the empty classroom and pulling the crumpled paper out of his bag.

"What did you bring that trash for?" Plagg asked, zipping out of the bag after the newspaper and watching with interest as Adrien smoothed out the paper carefully. "Why is it all scrunched up like that?"

"It's not trash, it's today's newspaper," Adrien replied absently, noting that it was the fashion section that had been trashed. "And I didn't do that, my father did. I just want to know what it was that got him all ticked off."

Adrien started scanning the paper, frowning as he did. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary in any of the articles. Adrien shrugged, figuring that maybe his father had gotten news he didn't like from Nathalie and he had just taken it out on the newspaper.

(He didn't want to think too much about what kind of news his father might have gotten, but after a moment's consideration he figured that it was probably more frustrating news as opposed to bad news. If there was truly bad news,there probably would have been shattered glass and Nathalie would have said something to him.)

Shrugging, Adrien went back to perusing the newspaper. There was an article about the latest akuma, and he started reading it. It was odd that the article was in the fashion section, of all things, and it seemed to be a discussion of the designs of some of the akuma. They tended to be super-tacky, according to the columnist, all clashing colors and ridiculous patterns. They looked like they would be better suited to a toddler's coloring book, the writer continued scathingly, and were an eyesore. Hawkmoth should consider taking a designing class or two.

Adrien sniggered a bit and agreed. Nino's Bubbler design had been particularly awful. Most of the others ranged from eye-wateringly bad to just somewhat tacky. Even his own father's design had been a bit tacky as well, with the ridiculous striped hair, exaggerated lapels, and completely out-of-date bell-bottom pants. He was sure that his father had probably been ready to murder Hawkmoth when he saw the fashion disaster that he had been as an akuma.

"Whatcha reading, dude?" Nino asked, jolting Adrien out of his thoughts as he plopped down on their shared bench. "The fashion section? Don't you get enough of that every day?"

"There's an article on the akumas in here," Adrien said, folding the paper back so Nino could read the article too. "About the outfits."

"It's about time someone pointed out how bad they normally are," Nino commented, looking down at the paper. "I saw a couple pictures of when I was akumatized and oh boy, was that ever bad. Thank god Ladybug and Chat Noir got me out of that ridiculous get-up. At least Alya's wasn't awful. She got lucky."

"She did," Adrien agreed. "It really wasn't that bad. There are some that Hawkmoth didn't go overboard on, and they looked halfway decent." He tucked the newspaper away back in his bag- he'd have to remember to throw it away before he returned home for lunch- and turned back to Nino. "So, I saw Alya's post about Alix winning her and Kim's race. How's Kim taking it?"

  Adrien's lunch break was interrupted once again by the oh-so-familiar sound of the akuma alert going off on his phone. Sighing, he quickly polished off the half of his sandwich that he was holding and then wrapped the other half in a handful of napkins so he could eat it later. He tucked it into his bag and then headed for the door, muttering a quick excuse to Nathalie about needing to go back to school early to work on a research project in the library. She nodded, distracted by the report she was working on, and Adrien took that as his cue to transform and take off.

Hopefully he and Ladybug could take down the akuma fast enough that he would have time to finish his sandwich and get some homework done before classes started up again for the afternoon.

Chat Noir bounded across the city, looking for signs of an akuma. He had just passed the Eiffel Tower when a flash of color caught his eye and he paused, then blinked as the most gaudy akuma ever sped down the street towards him. All of the clashing colors on their outfit hurt his eyes just by themselves, and then on top of that it looked like an entire école maternelle had glued the contents of their entire art cupboard on top of that. Sequins sparked, jewels flashed, beads swung, and glitter shone. The akuma flashed a pencil at people, and soon they were decorated in much the same way. It seemed more irritating than dangerous... though perhaps once enough people were hit, there would be a danger of someone going blind in the face of the sun reflecting off of all of the glitter.

"Wow," Ladybug commented as she landed next to Chat Noir. "That's...uh. Um."

"Gaudy?" Chat Noir suggested, squinting at the akuma. The pencil was the only thing that stuck out as weird, and he bet that it was the possessed item. "Yeah. This is even worse than usual. It's funny timing, actually- did you see that article this morning, in the fashion section?"

"About how awful the akuma designs are? Yeah, I did," Ladybug said. "I'm thinking that Hawkmoth probably wouldn't appreciate people making fun of him like that much, but the writer wasn't wrong."

"D'you think this was his attempt at a better design?" Chat Noir asked as another group of people turned bejeweled. "Only a little kid would think this is better."

Ladybug giggled. "If you want to tell the akuma that to its face so Hawkmoth knows that, go right ahead. Me, I think I'll focus on getting that pencil."

The following fight was the glitteriest fight they had ever had by far. By the time Ladybug snapped the pencil cleanly in two, Chat Noir was covered from head to toe in green glitter and half of Ladybug's hair was covered with a solid crust of glittery red. They both let out a sigh of relief as the Healing Light washed over them and removed every last trace of the glitter. In front of them, the akuma turned back into a fashionably dressed woman.

"Oh! That's the fashion reporter who wrote that article!" Ladybug hissed in Chat Noir's ear. He didn't question how she knew; perhaps she followed fashion more than he did and could recognize the normal fashion writers on sight. Or maybe there had been a writer photo with the article and he just hadn't paid enough attention to remember.

Either way, it was very odd that she would be the one to get targeted, and so soon after the article was published.

"I turned into an akuma?" the woman asked in confusion as she realized where she was. "But... why?"

"Were you upset about something?" Ladybug prompted.

The writer frowned, trying to place the memory. "I'm... not sure? I wasn't that upset about anything. A couple of my design sketches got torn apart by one of my teachers, but I knew full well that I hadn't put enough effort into them. I knew that they deserved every single comment they got. I was more annoyed with myself for half-assing the assignment than anything else."

Chat Noir and Ladybug exchanged a bewildered look. Normally the akuma victims were pretty upset about whatever it was that had set them off. There was strong disappointment, or anger, or whatever. For Hawkmoth to target someone who really wasn't all that bothered at all was strange.

"Well, I gotta get back to the office," the former akuma victim decided, standing up and dusting herself off. "I've actually got an idea for the new sketches that I wanted to get down before I forget it." She paused. "Okay, before I go, I just gotta ask- was my akuma outfit at least decent? Please tell me it wasn't too gaudy."

Ladybug and Chat Noir exchanged a glance and grimaced. "Weeeeell..."

She groaned. "Oh, gosh. How bad was it?"

"It- it was probably the gaudiest outfit yet," Ladybug admitted with a wince. "Lots of clashing colors, and sequins, and gems and everything. And, well, you'll probably see what your powers were online. The Ladyblogger was out and about and caught everything."

"Oh, geez." The fashion reporter made a face and groaned. "That was probably revenge for me writing that article about the awful akuma designs. He must have been targeting me. Well, if he thinks that I'm going to stop, he's wrong," she added cheerfully. "If he did actually get upset about me criticizing his designs, then I see no reason not to keep annoying him about it. Well, I've got to get back to work. Thanks for saving me!"

And with that, she was gone.

"I can think of a perfectly good reason not to antagonize Hawkmoth," Ladybug managed, looking a little stunned. "Hawkmoth might target her!"

"I'm sure he doesn't think that it's that big of an annoyance," Chat Noir soothed her, patting her shoulder. "At most, he was just a little ticked and now he's gotten it out of his system. He's not going to care that much about it unless he's a fashion designer or something, and there's no way that he is one, not with the akuma designs that he's sent out, right?"

Ladybug nodded. "I'm sure you're right. See you around, Chat Noir!"

  Something banged, and Adrien automatically paused in the foyer, on the alert for whatever was going on. He only hoped that it wasn't another akuma after his father. Another crash made him jump and start in that direction, but the sound of disgruntled muttering gave him pause.

"I'll show them good design," his father was snarling in his office. "Those stupid critics don't know what they're talking about."

Adrien frowned in the direction of the office. There must have been some critics of his father's latest line, though Adrien didn't know what there was to criticize. It was a fairly standard Gabriel line, clean and polished and relatively straightforward. Maybe they thought it was just old and unimaginative, which...

Okay, Adrien could see where maybe critics might get that. He couldn't deny that his father's line this year was fairly similar to his line in the previous year, with just the fabrics being switched around. But other designers tended to do that, too, and it generally flew under the radar. Gabriel Agreste focused on classical designs, and that meant maybe not changing things up from year to year as much as some more contemporary designers.

He hadn't thought that his father normally paid any attention to critics- by and large, he thought they were idiots and blind- but perhaps he had decided to look for some outside feedback for once and hadn't liked what he had found. Part of Adrien wanted to go in and check up on his father, but the other part knew that it wouldn't do any good. His father wouldn't want Adrien to see him like this. He was actually surprised that Nathalie wasn't already guarding the office door, like she had before.

Another crash, another mutter. Adrien cringed and finally pulled himself away, forcing his footsteps to lead him up the stairs and to his room. The sounds were more muffled through the closed door, and almost vanished entirely as Adrien sat down at his desk. He pulled up the Ladyblog to distract himself.

There was nothing like a few amazing pictures of his superhero partner to distract him, after all.

But as soon as the Ladyblog loaded, there was a notice on the top of the page about a Ladybug-related broadcasting going on at the moment and a link to said broadcast. Curious- Ladybug hadn't mentioned anything about another interview to him, after all, so that meant that it was probably something about the superheroes but not involving the superheroes themselves- Adrien clicked on the link. Immediately the familiar stage from the Kidz+ news building popped up on screen, along with Nadia Chamack. She was accompanied by a trio of people, who the banner at the bottom of the screen identified as the journalist who had written the article about the fashion disasters that the akuma outfits were plus two well-known and respected designers.

Adrien probably should have been able to recognize the designers on sight, probably, but he hadn't. Oh well.

"-so before the break, we were discussing your recent article on the akuma outfit designs," Nadia was saying. "And we've also invited a few prominent members of the fashion design community today, here with redesigns of some of our more memorable akumas. We'll see before and after pictures and then they'll explain a bit about why they made the changes that they did."

Adrien watched, interested. The focus was largely on the more recent well-known akumas which meant that there were no redesigns of the Bubbler's outfit. The changes tended to involve a lot of slimming down of parts of the costumes that were particularly ridiculous, toning down on colors, and making some of the costumes look more like actual clothes instead of a second skin. One of the designers had definitely not focused quite as much on the fact that these outfits were to fight in, but Adrien could forgive that given how great the designs themselves were.

Briefly Adrien wondered if maybe being passed over for the interview was what had upset his father, then he dismissed the thought. After all, his father had said something about critics, not about upstart young reporters brushing him off, and besides, his father hated being on TV. It took away his designing time and he hated dealing with reporters who got all up in his face and sprung questions on him that he didn't want to be pressured into answering. Maybe he could have been asked if he would submit a few revised designs, but he wouldn't have wanted to waste his time on that, either. The reporter putting the whole thing together probably knew that full well and hadn't tried asking Mr. Agreste at all.

Whatever had his father upset was something else entirely.

They went through all of the designs and then showed a few designs that design students in a nearby university had done. Apparently one of the featured designers taught there on occasion and had made it an assignment. Some of the designs made Adrien grin, and he absently wondered if Marinette had ever done any akuma redesigns. He'd have to ask her at some point. The idea of redesigning the akuma suits was a cool one, though Adrien would have preferred if some of the students hadn't also come up with additional powers that the akuma could have had. They really didn't need to give Hawkmoth any ideas, after all.

Adrien listened to the program finish up as he pulled out his homework. The fashion reporter stuck in a few more digs at Hawkmoth, and as much as they made Adrien laugh, he had to wonder how soon it would be before the supervillain struck back.

  (Somehow, Hawkmoth managed to find an upset fashion student whose akuma redesign hadn't been used within five minutes of the program ending. Adrien just sighed, suited up, and really hoped that the fashion reporter would quit taunting Hawkmoth soon.)

  A week later, fliers showed up around the city announcing a fund to send Hawkmoth to take a few design classes at the local university. The fliers were well-designed- they were bright, bold, and it was clear that whoever had made them knew what they were doing- but Adrien still wished that he hadn't seen them.

The fashion reporters of the city had apparently bonded together to continue making a joke out of Hawkmoth's akuma design. They seemed to be unruffled by the targeted attacks.

"It's funny!" Alya defended herself when Adrien frowned at her when she took a picture of one of the fliers for the Ladyblog. "Like, Hawkmoth has been terrorizing the city for ages, and there's no real way to affect him. This is hurting his ego, apparently, so of course we're gonna run with it. Have you seen the section in the fashion section now that they're running daily?"

Adrien hadn't.

"It's fashion tips for akumas," Alya explained, grinning. "They do a new one every day. And the funny thing is- Marinette told me this- it's general fashion tips, it's the general fashion tip section, having tips there isn't a new thing- but they've just relabeled it and started over with the basic tips again."

...okay, so that was just a little funny.

"Okay, but they're purposefully riling up a supervillain," Adrien pointed out, hoping that Alya wasn't going to start including something similar on the Ladyblog. Even if people thought that it was funny, it seemed like it was a dangerous game to play. On top of that, Hawkmoth's irritation with the constant fashion comments was showing in the form of more akuma attacks, and he and Ladybug were getting run ragged.

Alya shrugged, unbothered. "Ladybug and Chat Noir always fix everything he breaks during his little attacks anyway. It's not like it's that big of a deal, right?"

Adrien tried not to grit his teeth. "I'm sure Ladybug and Chat Noir mind! They've been dealing with the attacks nonstop since that once reporter decided to tick Hawkmoth off for the first time."

"I know! I've gotten so much footage for the Ladyblog, it's fantastic!" Alya waved her phone at him, grinning. "Did you see that akuma yesterday? Terrible design, especially with those awful red pants, but so cool."

Adrien sighed and hoped against hope that Paris would drop it soon.

Predictably, they didn't. News outlets caught on and started doing little segments after each attack. The Ladyblog mentioned both the newspaper comments and the little news segments, and Adrien overheard Alya considering adding a new section entirely devoted to just those things. Even people who normally didn't care about fashion normally were joining in, apparently sharing in Alya's sentiment that the taunts were a great way to get back at Hawkmoth for the havoc he wrecked on a regular basis.

Only Marinette seemed to agree with Adrien's view that ticking off a supervillain for funsies was a bad idea. She frowned whenever the topic came up. He was pretty certain that he had heard her arguing with Alya about it once, but the conversation had come to a screeching halt as soon as he stepped inside. It seemed that he and Ladybug would just be doomed to deal with all of the akumas that Hawkmoth sent out as revenge for making fun of his designs.

Or at least they would have, had the group of friends not spotted Madam Chamack in the middle of the park one day, mid-report about Hawkmoth and his responses to the criticisms. Madam Chamack was laughing, as though she wasn't perfectly aware that an akuma would surely be targeting her in the next day, and even her cameraman looked amused by whatever she was saying.

"Okay, that's it," Marinette announced, drawing herself up. She deposited her bag in Alya's lap and strode purposefully over to camera. Before Madam Chamack could respond, Marinette snagged her microphone and spoke directly into it.

"Like Madam Chamack said, Hawkmoth seems very bothered by the accusations that his designs are unfashionable or terrible. That's really suspicious- maybe we should start looking at fashion designers as potential suspects, because pretty much anyone else would have just ignored what people were saying!"

With that, Marinette stuck the microphone back in the reporter's limp hands, dusted her own palms off, and stalked back to her friends, looking very pleased with herself the entire time.

"What?" she asked when she saw them staring at her. "I'm right. And maybe he is someone in fashion and that'll freak him out enough that he'll stop akumatizing someone every time he sees a comment about how awfully designed his akumas are."

Adrien could only sigh in exasperation. Why was it that all of his friends seemed to have some sort of death wish?

  Oddly enough, there weren't any akumas for a full week after Marinette's appearance on TV. Once they started up again (at a normal rate this time), Hawkmoth seemed to be avoiding going after the fashion reporters that had been such a popular target before. Either he had magically grown a thicker skin, or Marinette's TV appearance was a little too on the nose and she had scared him off.

Either way, Chat Noir certainly wasn't about to complain.

[inexchangeforyoursoul]

It’s been another month, so it was high fuckin time to finish another chapter... seems like 1.2/month will become the average until completion, huh. Have 95% fluffy critter bullshit. AO3 fanfiction.net

Anyway, I just put the fragments and stuff I've yet to use in another file... it's 28 pages. The chapters from 11 to 20 are 49 pages, and the next chapter is only about halfway done. First 10 were 38 altogether. Um, lol...? (tfw you're verbose and start including the author's notes, too)

And even though I have the map of the Sunny open all the time I’m still not sure how some doors work or even exist,,,,,,,,,,,,, NotLikeThis

19. Garchu~ (aka Hug Trilogy, pt 1)

Kat sits up fresh and ready on this extra bright Wednesday. She's a bit early, the girls are still sleeping or at least lying about. Nestling a bit, she goes cross legged and leans back against the wall.

Today she saw a dream that was... nice, overall. Even had the little surreal touches she knows from her usual ones. First is a vague memory of sitting in class at school... then she was with the man again. The one with the cloak. If it was indeed the same guy, at least; there were heaps of soft, pretty black feathers everywhere, actually. The town she was in made a nice backdrop, being almost snow white. This time she could also see what he looked like beyond being incredibly tall, too: he had fluffy, blonde hair, eyes that had a similar color to Law's, and either some makeup or tattoos on his face. Looked quite peculiar for sure; maybe it's the sheer height and the weird coat choice, but for the brief moment upon arrival, when he had sunglasses on, he reminded her vaguely of that one Shichibukai guy. Well... ex-Shichibukai. Uh... yeah, Doflamingo. Anyway, that aside, she also recalls him wearing an odd hat, and shirt with a pattern... at first it was flowers, but it changed very soon, and they turned into petals, maybe... no, hearts, yes, that's it! And there was smoke coming from under the coat all the time... An odd fellow, but he looked friendly enough.

At some point, a little girl joined; the three of them played in the white sand that the town was suddenly made of. A lot of buildings collapsed as time went by, and children, probably those from the school as most of them were wearing a uniform, joined them. Later came two other people, likely a couple, to take both her and the little girl 'home.' Something about the woman was eerily familiar... but only when she smiled. That surprised her into remembering the scene fairly well. Actually... that's kind of what her own smile looks like. And her actual mother's. No wonder she just accepted being their kid, huh. Oh, and the other, she could swear looked like Law in a lab coat. Except not... no matter how hard she tries to recall details now, she can't remember any face past the blonde man's.

It all ended as they entered the gates to somewhere and this guy smiled in a rather creepy way. She gets the feeling that she's seen that grin before, to be honest. Thinking about it, those gates, too... she's definitely seen that entrance before. Yes, it seemed to be the very same place as the first nightmare, but now that she's gotten a better, well, 'look' at it and what lay beyond...

She scratches away at her not-quite-existent beard; where else could she know it from?

After some consideration, she grabs her bag from beyond the wardrobe and pulls out some paper, her sketching board and a pencil to throw some rough doodles down so she can remember it all later. Because, honestly? She's getting suspicious of these dreams. There's too much... consistency, and the only other kinds of dreams she can vaguely recall also feel foreign or refer to the past few days only. This has been going on since inhabiting this body, and she's inclined to make some assumptions here. Will have to talk this over with Law.

Especially important for now are that gate... and the face of this man; she tries to nail a few features of latter first. The third doodle has the jawline and hair style in place, then she adds some sketchy feathers and a shirt. Having lost a lot of small details to oblivion already, she just jots down the vague position of blue and red spots that were remarkable. Now, as for the structure... a few arbitrary lines, and she's got the basics of both the wall and the gate. It all looks pretty simple, and she's never seen it in person, yet... it's so, so familiar. It's the feeling of having the name of something on the tip of your tongue... except there is no name you can think of. You just know what you know.

“What are you drawing with such a serious expression, Kat?” she can hear Carrot's voice next to her all of a sudden. She must have been watching for a bit.

“Oh, morning... I've had a dream and am trying to make myself remember the stuff,” she replies, getting over the surprise, then turns back to the sketches. “Been a while since I last did this, but I've had some recurring stuff in the past days, so...”

“I envy you,” the girl mumbles, pouting. “I never remember a thing even when it was interesting, and when I do, it's something mundane like taking a walk or training. Although...” Her face saddens a bit; “I get to spend time with people I will never see again, too, I guess.”

“...” Okay, this got depressing fast. “... you okay?”

She stretches out her arms; “Yeah, sorry.”

“If you need a hug or something, just ask.”

The mink's ears shoot skyward. “Hug?”

“You're free to decline. Just saying in case you'll ever want onh---”

“I'm always ready for hugs!! Garchuuu~”

Okay, she's confirmed to be a hugger, Kat thinks to herself as the mink mushes her face against hers while squeezing all the air out of her. Which is kind of great, because she, too, loves hugs; noone's ever been this excited over one, though. Then again she's on the receiving end... and is lowkey infamous for her bear hugs, which people apparently don't like.

“You two sure are lively today,” she can hear Nami yawning in bed, turning to her other side. Five more minutes, please.

“Sorry~” Kat whispers with her leftover breath before being released. This is followed by some back-stretching, and -popping on her side, which feels beyond great after all these days where she just couldn't get Law's joints do the thing. Like, at all. Only his wrists would budge from time to time.

“Gee, you sure are strong... What's garchu supposed to be, by the way?” she asks once her oxygen supplies have been restocked.

Carrot's entire body is nearly vibrating... she's hyped and ready to pounce at the first thing she has to. That hug surely kicked off her day- she's trying to focus that energy into formulating a decent sentence now. “Of course I am! And 'garchu' is, like... it's more of a sound, literally speaking. But it's when you are being cuddly, kind of.” Her nose twitches and she scratches her head. “Which is very often. Iiit's... a mink thing.”

“I can get behind that philosophy,” Kat chuckles, crawling out of the cotton sea at last, and stuffs her things back into the bag where they came from. “Let's pull ourselves together to let the others do the same in peace, shall we.”

The rabbit girl nods, hopping to the wardrobe to get the sweatshirt she's been wearing on and off as it started to get colder. Must be just that range outside when she needs it in one minute, then gets too hot in the next.

As for Kat, -apart from being cold with the tee and all,- she's out with a bit more luggage than usual; if nothing else, noticing the drawing supplies might remind her of this shady dream business. Also, she's in a cuddly mood, and for better or worse she's already comfortable enough in this environment to give out some surprise hugs. Since she's also not one to hold back and Law's body is at least ten times stronger than hers... rest in pieces, mortals.

Her first victim was Usopp right outside, who's been kinda suspicious of her scheme to begin with... and found he was right in doing that. Didn't break anything, or even hurt him, really, but did scare the shit out of him for sure. All of his joints popped at once, making quite a racket, and he made a sound akin to a squeaky toy upon being crushed. And lifted, as is her standard for anyone she can do that with, and boy are her limitations near nonexistent right now. Then came Luffy, who was all for the deal despite his bestie's warnings. He was rather unfazed, but what does one expect from him anyway.

Right before she left for the submarine, the girls have also met their comeuppance; Robin took it like a champ, as did Carrot who was ready for seconds, this time as the recipient. Witnessing her massacre, Nami only agreed to a normal hug; this meant an extra tender one, as Kat only knows extremes in this matter. Realizing there are options, Usopp also insisted on not getting the anaconda treatment in the future.

Needless to say, she was in a great mood when arriving to Law. While her bounciness was a bit too much for his comfort, he only gave her a few suspicious looks when walking out and into the room. Speaking of which, the frequency of his (more than likely) toilet visits has declined. Which is good, for him and her body at least. Kat also noticed that he was rather underdressed whilst in his room and had a sweater ready for whenever he left for the surface; sometimes he'd come back with a glass of water or beer, too. Learned from the initial folly, didn't he... even at the price of more pressing reasons to go to the loo. The efforts put a smile on her face when she first realized- he took better care of that body than her, really. Either way, as she stayed halfway on-task this morning, he didn't really say anything between her arrival and lunch break. Though he was definitely scarcer with words than usual... hm. Noted.

Once having fished out another hoodie (where the hell did Law leave the one from yesterday...?) and being back on the Thousand Sunny for some grub, she also gives a not-too-bone crushing hug to Chopper. Strong little fella or not, she's afraid of hurting him in that tiny form of his. As she's putting him down, she notices Luffy and Carrot staring really intensely... volunteering for another round, aren't they.

As soon as she garchu'd the heck out of them, she also notices Sanji standing in the same spot... he's a follower of the same staring technique, apparently. After half a second of consideration, he also gets a crusher hug. Which earns a... 'reaction' with a side of nosebleed, and, uh...

“... I think he got a rib fracture,” Chopper sighs with exasperation, mild worry, and vague pity. The man is flung over the enlarged reindeer's shoulder as he's being taken to the infirmary for some painkiller and a quick patch-up. Luffy mutters a duck-faced 'Sanji's stupid.'

… oops...? Didn't even get to apologize... Somehow, this seems to be a common problem, though, so at least she doesn't feel that bad about it. Either way, Sanji seems to be accommodating to her frolicking around in this 'new' body. Will have to see how bad this piece of news is.

Kat looks over to her plates of vegetable soup, rice and pork chops. Eating this would feel weird now that she incapacitated the cook. But, she really needs to eat while this training lasts, and is also hungry because of it, so...

“... you still sulking about that, or...?” Carrot mumbles between two bites of a big representative of her namesake she has for dessert as Kat's fiddling with her leftovers in the doorway.

“... yeah.”

“It really is not that big of a deal, you know... Sanji gets to be under Bropper's care over much stupider stuff all the time.” She heard that at one point he almost died over a single nosebleed because he got hugged or something like that... she needs to control herself for a sec here, or else chuckling gets her to join the infirmary team for choking on her lunch.

“I've had the feeling, but... can't really punch my brain for making me feel like this, can I.” Beating up her feelings in fisticuffs would be a really useful ability to have, no lie. She'd probably lose a lot, though.

Carrot hums through a mouthful. “Zat's druu.”

Taking a look outside through the door window, Kat can see the sun shining really bright; she takes one last bite before giving up on the remaining morsels of her food, then makes her way out. As they are the last ones in the kitchen and she prefers to have some company, Carrot follows her.

Today's weather is really nice compared to the last few days. Kat enjoys the warmth with closed eyes, as does her mink companion, nibbling away at the leaves of her carrot. A second later, Chopper comes hoppling down the stairs.

“Oh, you're already done?” Kat is a little surprised, it's been fifteen minutes tops, after all- and he wasn't even coming from the room where she also got patched up a week ago. Everyone is working at light speed here... “Is he, um, alright...?”

“Yep, Sanji's fine,” he in forms her with a sigh; “I did prescribe him a good dose of 'keep out' as far as you and your hugs are concerned, though.”

“Sorry for the trouble, Chopper... I really didn't think I could break bones after all the people who survived without a scratch,” she muses shamefully while sitting down at the top of the staircase.

“Oh, it's fine,” he waves a hoof. “It's one of the things I'm here for, after all.” Household accidents tend to just happen. Especially over here. “Though I don't really understand how it happened, either.”

“I kind of get your confusion... I went easy on you, after all,” the confesses, leaning on her arms.

“Eh? Why that?” he pouts after the initial surprise, putting his hooves on his waist.

She returns the pouty expression; “Because you are small and I don't want to break you?”

“You could just ask me to turn big, you know?” He states with the bother already gone, then lifts his arms skyward. “I'm a pirate, I can take a beating! Hugs are no match for me!”

“Are they?” Kat asks, also lifting her arms.

“One way to find out!” With that, Chopper's already going for it, clinging to her neck.

She lies down dramatically with fake momentum as she's returning the gesture. “Oh no, how vicious...! How could I ever think that I stood a chance?!” The small doctor starts laughing.

“Oh my god, you guys,” Carrot chortles, then starts coughing- the last bits of those leaves did manage to go astray.

“... Kat... you can release me now,” the reindeer voices his opinion after a minute. “You're as cuddly as a mink, really.”

“Why, are you not one?” she asks, lifting him over her.

“Nope, I'm just a regular reindeer,” he informs the girl. “I can talk and stuff because of the Human Human Fruit.”

She blinks. “.... don't laugh... but I thought you were a mink who happened to eat the corresponding Ox-Ox model of all things...”

Chopper does break out in laughter again; calming down a bit, he nods; “Makes sense!” Kat sighs with a smile and crawls up from the floor, putting him down.

Getting over her own little crisis for good, Carrot chimes in: “There wouldn't be much of a difference, would there...”

'None at all,' is what Kat thinks to herself standing up. She can hear some voices approach while doing so; after short eavesdropping it's obviously Bepo and the Romeos. She's only seen them on board of the Sunny once before, though, so if they really are coming over, it's a little out of the ordinary.

“Look at that, we didn't even have to look for him,” Penguin says to himself as the other two become visible as well. He waves as he walks closer to them. “Hey there, girls and little guy!”

“Hi! What's the occasion?” she asks wondering as she goes down the stairs. Chopper follows her.

“We're actually here to ask our fellow doc whether he needs some supplies restocked since we're going shopping in a bit... plus, I'd also be interested in a book I've seen, if it's no bother,” he adds, looking over to Chopper.

“Why'd you have to wake me, though?” Bepo complains, rubbing an eye. He's been having such a nice nap in this weather, too...

“Because we could,” Shachi smiles to himself, then continues while Bepo groans an indignant 'that's mean!!'; “And we'll need help to carry stuff anyway, chill.”

“Actually,” Chopper starts as him an Kat reach the lawn, “apart from some food, we already bought everything last week. Sanji wants to deal with that tomorrow, if you want to wait that long.”

Shachi steps closer as Penguin lets out a thoughtful hum; “Nah, we'll pass, food is not our department. You can ask Fugu about that, but he's got this bug to go out for fresh stuff every day until we gotta stock up for departure.”

Meanwhile Bepo plods closer to the shore, listening to the faded noises of the fair from the dozen rusty and mostly closed-off storehouse's distance. The place has gotten a bit noisier compared to yesterday; as it happens, this was something that won't stop escalating until Saturday night.

“I see... well, which book are you interested in?” He put every single medical book he could find into one place the other day, so finding it shouldn't be an issue.

As Penguin is giving a description of a blue-bound tome concerning the nervous system, Shachi turns to Kat. “Were you guys telling jokes or something earlier? We could hear little Bropper having a blast from a mile away.”

“Kat's giving out hugs by the dozen,” Carrot informs him with a sudden glint in the eye, distracting Penguin and Chopper, too. The girl's ears are not just for show, are they?

Carrot, why… actually, she can work with this. “... yeah, today I'm super cuddly. Do you guys want one?” she asks with the sweetest smile. Even the boys can tell that her expression is just a wee bit too intense and scary for this offer to be any good. But by god, if she doesn't get her revenge now, it's never.

From a bit further behind the mink, Usopp's shout to attest their doubts can be heard: “No, you don't!!”

After weighing the options of funny and resulting work here, Chopper decides to talk them out of this endeavor, too. “... Usopp's right. She just sent Sanji to the sick-bay with fractured ribs.” There were two affected.

Catching that, the sniper's head pops up from behind the railing one floor above them. “No way?! You're lying!”

“I'M NOT LYING!” Chopper turns, screaming back at him.

“Guys, you are no fun,” Carrot pouts. She wanted to see this, man.

“... something tells me... we dodged a bullet, here,” Penguin mumbles under his breath. She broke Sanji... that tanky motherfucker Sanji.

While the others are having their banter, Kat zeroes in onto Bepo sniffling the sweet air that wafts from port, then walks up to him. As he notices her, he utters a little nervous 'ai?'. She spreads her arms.

“Garchu?”

She needs to react quick, as Bepo is already, well, incoming a split second of excited shock later. She's prepared for the worst, but to her surprise? There's no falling over now that she's prepared, in fact, she barely budges. Judging by gravity and the sheer weight, though... she's straight-out carrying him. She can lift a bear. Holy shit. Meanwhile Carrot notices the development and snorts really hard.

“Jesus Christ, what are you guys feeding Law with!?” Kat asks, waltzing backwards to the group with the, uh, baby still in her arms. Everyone seems to be quite amused by the scene; as Shachi starts coughing to hide his near-laughter, she puts the mink down at last.

“You know no fear, do you?” Penguin asks with a bright smile. “There's not a lot you can do when metric tons of marshmallow come at you like that...”

“... I guess I don't,” she muses after a some consideration. The only thing she can think of is her mild fear of heights, snakes, and (specifically flying) wasps that she can plough through after the initial scare or wooziness... and shit like burning to death and drowning would be unnecessarily painful, so she'd rather not go like that. As if she'd have a choice in the matter if that happens, anyway; but there's no point in worrying about that and it's not really fear fear unless you think about it a lot... is it? She doesn't really think about things she cannot change. She's rather at peace with them, though in some cases she probably shouldn't be.

Bepo yawns and mumbles an 'I'm going back to sleep.' Without further hesitation he's already nestling down in a nice corner behind the stairs.

“I see you are amusing yourselves,” Robin notes as she walks out of the kitchen with an empty watering can. Usopp seems to be a little confused for a sec, she must have been up there with him in the garden a minute ago. “Sanji is brewing some coffee, would any of you like some?”

“... actually, I do, too,” says Kat, joining the other raised hands. She can feel her power hugging taking quite a bit out of her... this is not going to last for much longer. And while she's at it, she might as well drink it out here, and maybe, just because she saw Law doing it often... use Bepo as a fluffy thing to lean onto.

[dontbeallupinmyfriesdawg]

Tyler/Jeremy + college au + we hate each other and are stuck together on this dumb studio art project (bonus points for unsympathetic TA!Klaus)

A/N: I kind of want to call this a very late birthday present for Angie. Also this is part 1 of ???

It’s 2:45 in the afternoon and Jeremy Gilbert is sitting in his usual seat in the back of the art studio, once again wondering what it was that he’d done in a past life or this one to make God hate him so much. He’d enrolled in college, as per his parent’s request, he’d grown out of his rebellious phase and stopped doing unsettling things like using recreational drugs on a school night, stealing Elena’s nail polish and only hanging out with people that treated school like an optional pastime and never seem to have last names. What’s more, he was actually getting decent grades and managing to stay out of trouble (a first in his life). So short of his penchant for ripping the heads of Elena’s Barbie dolls when they were kids and sticking them on the backs of pencils for his own amusement, Jeremy was stumped as to what grudge karma possibly had against him.

A more reasonable explanation than the universe inexplicably trying to ruin his life was the idea that their TA Mr Mikaelson (who more or less taught their entire course considering that their actual teacher - Shane - was quite clearly a pothead who believed in ‘leaving his students to be free and let their creative juices flow’ and therefore never showed up for class) was orchestrating this entire situation for his own amusement. That was the only possible explanation for why he had paired him up for an assignment with Tyler Lockwood of all people; the one person in the entire class Jeremy blatantly didn’t couldn’t stand (there was a grand total of 1 person in the entire class he actually liked and a resounding 2 more he tolerated, the rest Jeremy could care less about and made a point of ignoring).

The problem was, Tyler was so freaking transparent. Jeremy knew a poser when he saw one. Tyler was just like every hollow-headed jock he knew from high school that took an art class because they saw an easy way to sleep their way through some extra credits or scores some ass because they thought taking an art class would make them look sensitive to chicks.

Tyler actually had the audacity to walk in every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon like he was doing everyone else a favor by even turning up for the class. Jeremy knew for a fact Tyler didn’t take any notes or do any rough sketches in class when Mr. Mikaelson asked them to (not that he ever watched what Tyler was doing because he didn’t care) so it baffled the hell out of him how Mikaelson hadn’t kicked him out of the class yet. Unlike High School, Whitmore had no obligation to pander to its athletic students and even if Tyler’s parents had donated a wing to the campus, Mikaelson was hardly the type of person who gave a rat’s ass about the prestige of his students. So Tyler had to be turning in his assignments and doing some work at some point.

Part of what Jeremy low-key respected about Mr. Mikaelson (while simultaneously loathing him) was that he was no respecter of persons. He hated everybody equally: everyone had an equal chance of being screamed at and humiliated for the quality of their lines or shading and Mikaelson gave out F grades like they were going out of style. An optimist would attribute Mikaelson’s teaching style to being some kind of backward motivational tactic. But optimists were idiots and anyone with sense knew that Mikaelson was just a sadistic bastard with a pool of stale black coffee where his soul should be.

Which brought him to his current predicament. When Mikaelson had announced the pairs in class, Tyler hadn’t so much as flinched, let alone glanced in his direction, maintaining his aloof, I’m-too-cool-to-care demeanor - for who, Jeremy didn’t know. Liv, his one friend on the course and arguably - his psychopath roommate Kol aside - the entire campus, had shot him a sympathetic glance from where she sat and then proceeded to text him the thunderstorm emoji and a sad face.

Despite her and the rest of his classmates scurrying out of the class once the bell went and Mikaelson had dismissed them with his usual trademark grunt, Jeremy found himself rooted in his seat, unfathomably burning a hole in the back of Tyler’s head, as he too hadn’t made a move to leave the room.

If Jeremy didn’t know better he’d say they were in some kind of competition with one another. That somehow, by not getting up, Tyler was telepathically communicating to him that the first one of them to leave was the loser and he didn’t intend for it to be him. That was the problem with Tyler. He unnerved him, for a dumb, (objectively) attractive, stereotypical jock, he confused the living hell out of Jeremy. He always felt the need to prove something to him despite the fact that Tyler barely acknowledged his existence most of the time, save for the occasional glares and not so accidental shoves they walked past each other. Jeremy didn’t know what made him go out of his way to antagonize Tyler on the occasion that they did speak or why at Whitmore’s annual art fair he felt the need to make a jibe at Tyler and imply that he wasn’t ‘cultured’. As far he could tell it was a reflex. A knee jerk response. An annoying one he wished he could curtail.

His sister, the budding psychology major that she was now (her true calling apparently) would probably characterize his complicated altercations with Tyler as the result of unresolved frustrations he had with High school bullies, similar to Tyler that he wasn’t able to confront. Guys that Jeremy concurrently wanted to impress but also punch in the face but never had the chance.

But he had never been one for introspection. It was far easier to chalk Tyler up to being a dick and not give his juvenile behavior towards him any unnecessary thought. Yes. Much easier that way.

Mikaelson had apparently finished getting halfway to second base with the cup of coffee in his hands and had noticed that he and Tyler were still there. He looked up and locked eyes with Jeremy, which was usually a student’s first and only warning to stop doing whatever stupid shit they were doing to piss Mikaelson off and if necessary run while they had the chance but Jeremy refused this time to let himself be intimidated and decided to hold his ground. It was probably a lost cause but he wasn’t going to leave the room without at least trying to convince Mikaelson to let him switch partners, even if it killed him.

Which it quite possibly would.

Seeing that his usual method of intimidation didn’t take, Mikaelson rolled his eyes at Jeremy and instead, wandered over to where Tyler was hunched over his desk nearer the front of the room and cleared his throat obnoxiously. It was only when Tyler didn’t move that Jeremy realized that Tyler was, in fact, asleep. When Mikaelson realized it too, he paused for a couple of seconds before raising his fist and abruptly rapping his knuckles against the table.

To his credit, Tyler didn’t leap out of his sleep like Jeremy would have (and had on several occasions, complete with drool and everything) and merely shot Mikaelson a inconvenienced look before tucking his arms behind his head and stretching out the kinks in his muscles (which didn’t interest Jeremy in the slightest because who cared how many back muscles Tyler had? certainly not him).

“What?” Tyler grumbled as if Mikaelson was standing over his bed at midnight addressing him in his dorm room instead of in a classroom in the middle of the day.

“Get out, Lockwood.” Mikaelson hissed, not sparing Tyler another look as he turned and began to clear his desk.

Tyler nodded blearily and rose from his chair, still not bothering to acknowledge Jeremy on his way out (even though Jeremy knows he saw him). Why that makes him so angry in the first place is a mystery to him. It’s another confusing emotion that he shoves down because even if he wanted to confront it he doesn’t have the time because Tyler is long gone and Mikaelson is towering over him looking murderous.

When Jeremy manages to regain his wits he stutters out:

“Sir I-”

Only to be rudely cut off by Mr. Mikaelson’s bored voice.

“Speak Gilbert, I haven’t got all day. There’s obviously something you want to get off your chest,” he muttered disinterestedly.

“It’s about Tyler, sir,” Jeremy began.

“Ah, Tyler,” Mikaelson repeats, a rare smile gracing his (admittedly) handsome features - a smile he usually reserved her circumstances that occurred at someone else’s expense.

“Yeah.” Jeremy nodded. “Him. You can’t do that.”

Mikaelson paused between his desk and board at the front of the room. He frowned processing what Jeremy just said.

“I’m unsure what specifically you’re referring to but I assure you that it is my divine right to do whatever it is I please while I’m in charge of this classroom, Mr. Gilbert,” he said coolly.

Jeremy felt he urge to make a snide comment about the fact that it was technically Shane’s classroom but he didn’t think that would help his case so he bit his tongue and instead said:

“I can’t work with Tyler,”

When Mikaelson kept his back to him and didn’t respond he decided to up the ante.

“Please,”

Mikaelson turned and arched an eyebrow, the amused expression reappearing on his face.

“I never took you as one to grovel, Jeremy,”

Jeremy sighed frustratedly and scrubbed his hands over his face, mentally chastising himself for what he was about to do.

“What do you want?” He asked.

“Want?”

“Do you want your board cleaned, or me to carry your stuff before class or do extra assignments. What?” Jeremy implored him.

MIkaelson stood and stared at him for a moment before the corner of his lips quivered and curled into an almost cruel looking half smile. The thought struck Jeremy that the man had quite obviously missed his calling as a bond villain and should be somewhere stroking a white fluffy cat and planning world domination instead of standing here playing with his mental health.

“You really don’t want to work with the Lockwood boy do you Gilbert?” Mikaelson purred, folding his arms behind his back and strolling closer towards him.

“Gee, is it that obvious?” Jeremy deadpanned, his need for sarcasm overpowering his will to get Mikaelson on side.

Mr. Mikaelson’s smile only grew more patronizing as he approached him and to Jeremy’s unpleasant surprise he reached out and rested his arm on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry mate,” Mikaelson began in that entirely unsympathetic tone of his. “But my decision is final. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help.”

Jeremy’s eyes rolled back so far he could actually feel them touching his frontal lobe.

“That is literally the complete opposite of the truth,”

Mikaelson gave him one final disparaging glass and walked back toward his desk.

“Good day Jeremy. Do make sure you and Tyler have that project due on time. You’re well aware I have no scruples about kicking anyone off of this course who refuses to comply with my demands.”

Jeremy bit his lip in order to physically stop himself from screaming and forced himself to grab his bag off his seat and head towards the door. In his hurry to get as far away from the art studio and as close to the safety of his dorm as possible, he wrenched open the door and ended up coming face to face with the person who, unbeknownst to him, had been lurking behind it.

Tyler.

Jeremy was about to stutter out an apology but caught himself when he realized who it was. For some reason both boys just stared at each other awkwardly for a moment before Jeremy half hearted mumbled “What do you want?” just as Tyler at the same time grunted out “Watch where you’re going punk,”.

“’Punk’, seriously? What is it 2005?” Jeremy quipped, unable to help himself.

Tyler screwed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“Jesus, Gilbert do you ever shut up?”

Jeremy was about to open his mouth to fire a response when Tyler silenced him by shoving a folded up piece of paper in his face and immediately after doing a 360 and walking away from him.

“What the hell is this?” Jeremy asked, staring down at it incredulously as if he was afraid it would explode in his hands.

“My number idiot,” Tyler called out carelessly over his shoulder. “I’m not failing this class because of you,”

1k followers, send me a ship along with fic or headcanon prompt

[nealiios]

The Derrick: Part II - Making Faces With My Friends

Once upon a time, designers were able to make games without graphics. Dungeon Masters rendered breathtaking worlds full of beauty and danger thanks to the amazing power of IMAGINEOVISION, a game engine that required only the human voice and the creativity of its players. Choose Your Own Adventure books and text-only computer games formalized the process into descriptive chunks of text between which the player had to choose, again without relying on a single pixel to aid -- or to hinder -- the player’s imagination. The power of decision-based storytelling was, and still is, one of the most compelling forms of gameplay available, but the introduction of computer graphics into the adventure genre with Mystery House forever changed the game. In order to attract and hold the attention of a modern gamer, even the best text-based adventure usually requires at least a modicum of eye-candy.  

As we discussed last time, The Derrick will primarily take the form of a text adventure. In order to illuminate the people and places of Adams, Oklahoma, I’ll be creating not only the story and design for the game, but also the pixel art as well -- a first in my 27 years of game development. Because I’m not a naturally talented artist, it’s taken me several years to develop my art style, and what follows is a brief exploration of how I’ve developed the approach that I’ll be using in The Derrick. 

                                                      *     *     *

I’ve always wanted to be an artist. I’ve envied so many of my friends who could sit down with a sketch pad and a pencil and just DRAW anything they wanted. My friend Kenneth Mayfield valiantly spent many hours trying to teach me, and he let me watch as he worked with an airbrush to create the covers of many of the Starfleet Battles strategy games. I picked up as much as I could from him, and even got to the point that I could paint halfway decent nebulae and planets, but mastery with traditional media eluded me. My hand eye co-ordination was poor, and no matter how long I worked at it, I never felt like I was making measurable progress. I might have given up on it entirely if Photoshop hadn’t come along in the early ‘90s to show me another way. 

My first experiments with digital photo manipulation were typical surrealism. I cloned my dad and made him sit in his own lap. I placed myself on the cover of important magazines. I did all the silly things that most beginners did with Photoshop, and learned how to blend out scratches and obliterate wrinkles from extant photos. But not too long after I began to experiment with the tool, I began to see it not only as a way to change photos, but also to create entirely new images from scratch. I could make up for my natural deficits in hand eye co-ordination by zooming in and editing pixel by pixel, and I could undo mistakes with a simple keyclick. The program didn’t give me the talent that I didn’t have, of course, but it did provide me with the confidence that I might be able to grow and develop in a way that I hadn’t been possible with mere paint and canvas. 

I’ll be the first to admit that my first fully digital “painting” was terrible. I was no better an artist than I had been in junior high, but it wasn’t a bad place from which to start. 

WALL OF EYES - As a whole, my first digital painting was terrible, but isolated bits of it revealed that I might be able to do things with digital painting that I hadn’t been able to master with traditional techniques. 

When I got to work on my first painting, I’d had no concrete plan for what I wanted to draw. I started with the face of a cyber-punk girl and worked outward, but everything about her showed off my weaknesses as an artist. She had no structure to her face, the balance was wrong, her proportions were deformed -- from head to toe she was a nebulous mess. I’d also put zero thought into her background before starting, and as a result had to retroactively paint in a wall around her rather than painting her over it (a process that would have been a lot easier if Photoshop had had layers, but that feature wouldn’t come along for a few more years). Slowly the wall took on a kind of life of its own, becoming a rotting wood-plank fence. As the gaps and holes began to appear, my mind began to wonder what might be lurking behind them. It became evident to me that the real subjects of the painting were the eyes behind the wall rather than the girl in front of it. “Wall of Eyes” would name itself, and would later lead to two “sequel” images. 

COULD SOMEBODY GET ME SOME VISINE? - Using the power of layers in Photoshop allowed me to “focus” more on fine details of the image.

With the original version of “Wall of Eyes,” I’d felt extreme hesitation at trying to fix any aspect of the image for fear of destroying what few elements I’d liked. The introduction of layers into later versions of Photoshop, however gave me not only a new way to experiment, but it also made me look at the creation process in an entirely different way. 

In traditional art, it’s very customary to “build up” an image one layer at a time, painting several coats of translucent paint over each under until a net color or other effect is achieved (a core lesson I’d learned from painting nebulaes). With layers in Photoshop, I realized I could achieve the same effect without running the risk of messing up coats of paint (which would require destroying and painting over flubbed layers.) I could simply lay down different colors and textures and then alter their opacity however I desired. I could also reorder the layers in an instant, and change how they mixed with one another. Ultimately it began to feel more like the process of creating a collage, and it was freeing to realize that I could experiment without fear of messing something up. 

My first use of this new feature was to return to “Wall of Eyes” and enlarge one eye that I’d found particularly menacing. Inspired by an old comic book cover, I recolored my “refocused” painting with lurid, pulp comic colors. 

THE THING IN THE BOX - Taking center stage, the eye pops even more with contrasting values of heat and cold, and even greater layers of detail veining its malevolent gaze. 

As I continued to toy with it and refine, I “cooled down” the fence with tones of moonlight to draw contrast with that hellish eye, and lavished more details on the eyeball itself. Using layers not only of color but also adjustments to saturation, and contrast, and other elements, I arrived at a final nightmarish image of something that none of us wants to find beneath our beds. 

When I started thinking about the character portraits for The Derrick, I realized that a lot of the lessons I’d learned about painting could be used in the modification of existing materials. I could take photos of friends of mine and transform them into heavily stylized portraits that would fit the mood and style of the game I wanted to create. My portrait transformation for Delphine Mack is a fairly good example. I began with a photo of my friend Sarah Berry in vintage clothes appropriate to our 1920s setting.

 The original image was black and white, and Sarah was posed against a crowded black background that had to be knocked out in order to make room for a different environment. Finding the boundaries between her dark dress and the dark background were a challenge, but it was an important step in isolating her for modification. Next, I began to hand tint the image for a slightly vintage-postcard look, and applied filters to create a paint-like “surface” to the image.

Next I turned towards the creation of a mysterious background, cloaking her in a graveyard-like fog of blue that fits the mood of the game. It felt as though she should be creeping around in graveyards or down at the riverboat dock. 

Once the fog was done, I realized that I liked it, but it seemed to compress the image into a single plane, and the color was too monochromatic. So, for a remedy, I created masks to draw a noirish slash of light across her face, while also creating contrasting bands of orange and red behind and below her for a final mysterious effect. 

The irony of Delphine’s portrait creation is that I hadn’t meant for her to be a major character in The Derrick. She was intended only to be one of several non-player characters with whom the player could interact during the course of the game. But as I watched her come alive during the creation of her portrait, I began to see her as a daring and brilliant protagonist that would be very different than your usual Lovecraftian hero, and a perfect centerpiece for the tale. Many of the other characters you’ll meet in The Derrick likewise found their narratives while I was busy “painting” their faces, some of which required a great deal more compositing of elements and layers than Delphine. Phineas Book is a great example of portrait that actually required the combination of several disparate elements -- one man’s face, another person’s hands, a suit that was appropriate for the time period, and a theatrical-looking fireplace that provided the perfect backdrop. The fire itself was hand painted for final effect, as were the eyes and other smaller elements of the scene.