#the last two I erased the other artists doodles (exception of the first one) for the other artists privacy

[novicedraws]

Sketches!

[sporadically-writing]

Hello! I saw that you were open for OW requests and was wondering if I could request relationship headcanons for Hanzo with an artist s/o? Maybe they work at the office of OW and they just started talking some day when he notices them drawing? Thank you in advance!

Aww, this is cute! I love it! I'll do my best my anon friend!

It started out as innocuous as anything else. Hanzo received a form with some strange indentations on one of the corners. He thought it was strange but didn't really think much of it at first, papers get crinkled in transport from person to person all the time.

But then he kept noticing them on a lot of the papers he saw around base. They weren't large, just small collections of lines in the corners and margins of certain papers. They weren't uniform across the board either, each one was different. He found himself casually investigating the forms he got from the Overwatch office for these little markings, just out of curiosity. 

Eventually, on one of the mission reports he had to sign, he found a small drawing of a cherry blossom. Then it made sense, those little indents he'd been finding had been what remained of little erased doodles! He smiled at the cherry blossom drawing. It was simple. Minimalist, but whoever in the office had put a lot of love into making the little thing. They had apparently forgotten to erase it this time.

He filled out the report like he was supposed to and went to the office to turn it in. He walked into the office to see you, headphones in, doodling on another form. You were, adorable. In your own world, enjoying your time between the next time someone needed something from you. 

Hanzo knew your reputation. Everyone on base did. You were good at your job. Taking a few minutes to unwind with some music and a drawing wasn’t going to stop you from getting the work done that you were supposed to.

What were you sketching? Looking closely at it, he could see it was a little stylized version of a dragon actually! It was peeking out over a ledge you had drawn (represented by a line), with it’s little paws squished against the line and sticking its tongue out. Cute and a little funny.

“Oh! Uhm... Agent Shimada, did you need something?” You said, slightly surprised that your little moment of quiet was interrupted.

Whether or not you found yourself embarrassed, Hanzo definitely was and stuttered out an apology. “I just... needed to turn this in...”

Luckily for him, you took it without a further question and after a moment he finally said, “You... you’re a very good artist. I’ve noticed the remains of some of your drawings. It is nice to know who made them.”

You gave your standard response to comments like those but then Hanzo said something else, “Why do you erase them?”

“It’s not necessarily that I’m shy about them, I love making them you know, I just... I can’t help myself sometimes and these forms are really the only paper we have in here. I just don’t think anyone wants to see them on their official documents.” You pause, “Well, except you apparently.”

Hanzo blushed but nodded in understanding. The two of you just sort of hung out and talked for a while after that, spending the time getting to know each other. Well, given your station on base, more him getting to know you but there was a fair trade of details shared amongst the two of you. You were only briefly interrupted by Cassidy who stopped by to return a pen he borrowed a long time ago. He looked between the two of you, grinned and walked out. Great. Thank you Cole. Whatever information he thought he had would likely be all over base by breakfast tomorrow. That’s alright, you couldn’t really bring yourself to be bothered at the moment. 

The two of you would continue your little ritual every so often when Hanzo had to turn papers in. He would stop by, handing off what he needed to, you’d show him your lasted drawing and you both would talk. Eventually you started making it a regular thing, having some tea and your drink of choice together while you just chatted.

One day, after a rather disappointing lull in your visits with Hanzo, you came back from lunch to find something sitting on your desk. It was a sketchbook, empty save for the first page which held a note and slightly different renditions of your previous cherry blossom and dragon doodles. 

The note read, “You always said you needed paper of your own for your drawings. I hope this will suffice.” 

You smiled and another idea formed. That afternoon you took the sketchbook and tore out one of the back pages once you were finished with it.

Hanzo returned to his room later that day to find a piece of artwork having been placed on his door. It was a drawing of his and your silhouettes against a painted night sky. Underneath it was another note, “You’re smart. Come find me.”

The piece was created in a way that held subtle clues in the foreground as to where the scene was taking place and after a little time, Hanzo joined you on the roof of the base. You had prepared a small cafeteria snack picnic to share as a thank you and if anyone asked you or Hanzo what your first date was, that night would be your answer.

Lemme know what you thought! Have a lovely day/night!

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 27 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul draw each other, and Gene makes his confession. The sky is falling and we’re getting pretty near the end.

It felt like a shorter lunch than it really was. Paul ate all of his soup, but only half his sandwich, while Gene dove into both with as much relish as usual. In fact, he ate two sandwiches and Paul’s leftovers.

“I hope you didn’t want to do it right after we ate,” Gene said awkwardly. Paul was looking at the plates and silverware, debating cleaning things up. In the end, he just wiped off the counter and stuck all the dishes in the sink.

“Nah. Give it awhile.” He shrugged. “The only trouble is, we’ve pretty much exhausted all our entertainment options at my place.”

Gene smiled.

 “Paul, are you really telling me all you have over here is a T.V., an album collection, and some self-help books?”

“I’ve also got sketchpads. And painting supplies.”

“You still paint?”

Paul shrugged again.

“It’s not great. I don’t have time to really…”

“Let me see.”

Gene was actually a pretty fair artist. He never drew cartoons of his bandmates like Paul was prone to, in a bad mood, but he liked to sketch out comic book characters. He’d never taken any classes that Paul knew of, but he was talented. Talented enough that Paul was a little wary of showing him any of his efforts.

It occurred to him how stupid that was. He was about to fuck this guy—had spent the last four nights in bed with him, even—but somehow showing him some acrylic paintings was making him nervous. Somehow what passed for his body of work was more vulnerable than his actual body.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cool.”

“C’mon, they’re in the guest bedroom. I’m surprised you didn’t find them earlier.” He’d had aspirations of having his own studio, or at least using one of the rooms for that express purpose, before the reality of nine or ten months on the road at a time hit him. He didn’t even paint enough while he was at home to justify that kind of expense.

Gene followed him over to the guest bedroom. Paul leaned over, dress hiking up as he yanked some cardboard and canvases out from under the bed.

“Here we go.” Instead of holding the pieces up for Gene’s inspection, he just set them out on the bed. He hung back a bit, heart thumping, not quite daring to want to watch Gene look at his work. Actually showing it to Gene felt a little like hearing his own voice on the answering machine, or the echo from a microphone, all the flaws bouncing back at him, magnified a dozen times.

The pieces didn’t have too much meaning behind them, nothing really far out or deep he was trying to convey. Bright streaks of color, some of it in splatters, but most of it in strokes, with no consistent pattern. Purples and pinks tended to dominate. There were points where he’d tried to layer on the colors, fooled around with it, only he’d half-forgotten the proper technique to do it the way he wanted. Most of the art didn’t really have a focal point, except for an odd one-off where he’d tried to paint a sunset while it was still in the air. That one was on a piece of cardboard torn off a refrigerator box. It had maybe a found art, rustic quality to it or something. And the color scheme wasn’t too bad, either, the red sun spilling over a hasty backdrop of orange and pink clouds and trees instead of his neighbors’ houses.

“I like this one a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Superman couldn’t fly with that sun.” Gene picked up the piece of cardboard carefully—too carefully, a piece of paper that had been beneath it starting to flutter towards the floor. Paul snatched it before it got there.

“What’s that one?”

“Oh, it’s only a sketch,” Paul tried to dismiss, but Gene seemed curious enough for him to hold it up for Gene to see. Part of him wanted to hide it back under the bed like a child, for all that it wasn’t particularly incriminating. Just a sketch of his own face. The hair was probably the most accurate part, hopelessly unruly; he didn’t quite think he’d gotten his own nose right, or eyes, but…

“In the makeup.” Gene’s finger touched the edge of the star on his eye.

“Well, sure. It kept me from having to shade much.”

“You look depressed there.” Gene still running his finger down the sketched-out lines of his face made Paul feel stupidly warm, like he was touching him by proxy.

“I don’t look good?”

“I didn’t say that.” A pause. Paul could always recognize when Gene was about to start a critique with him. He’d hesitate, which was kind of funny, because he never did it with anyone else, just plowed through with whatever comment he had. Paul would usually get offended anyway, but he was trying not to, at least for today. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”

Not a critique at all. Paul was vaguely surprised.

“What’re you wanting?”

“Let me try my hand at it.”

“Gene, I’m not letting you go over my drawing—”

“No, no. Let me borrow one of your sketchpads.”

“You wanna draw me right now? What for?” Paul could feel himself tense up slightly as he reached over, gathering up the paintings and stuffing them back under the bed. Despite himself, he was yanking out another pad of drawing paper from there as well. “If you wanted your album photo, all you had to do was check the newspaper.”

“I don’t want your photo. Just you.”

Paul handed the sketchpad over. There was an odd sting somewhere in his heart.

“You can’t want what you’ve already got,” he said quietly. He didn’t wait for Gene to respond, clearing his throat hastily. “I make a terrible art model.”

Gene’s expression, a little unreadable earlier, quirked a little.

“I’ll let you draw me, too.”

“I feel like you’re hard to draw.” But he’d gotten another piece of cardboard to bear down on after tearing off a page of the drawing paper for himself. Then Paul was gathering the rest of the supplies—pencils and gummy erasers—from where they lay in a coffee mug on the nightstand. It wasn’t exactly the most put-together setup. He just wasn’t around enough for any extra effort to be worth it. The guest bedroom’s only real use was as another place to stash his tour and art stuff. He could count the number of times anyone had slept there on one hand. “You don’t… really have one feature that really stands out—”

Gene stuck out his tongue.

“Oh, God, I’m not drawing that. Just your face. C’mon, sit down.” Paul gestured towards the bed, scooting up on it himself, sitting cross-legged on the pillows, dress bunched up. The cardboard and piece of paper were resting on his thighs, one of the pencils in his hand. He gave Gene the mug and sketchpad, scrutinizing Gene’s face. “Let me try first, okay?”

“Go for it.”

He’d never really studied Gene’s face before. That sounded a little stupid, given everything. Gene still wasn’t exactly attractive, though he looked a lot better now than he had when they’d first met. That hadn’t been the draw. It still wasn’t the draw.

Paul didn’t ask Gene to try for any particular expression as he started in, drawing the circle, the center line, mapping out the sections of his face in the half-remembered way he’d learned back in school and trying to adjust from there, only to, as usual, abandon the mapping about two minutes in. Gene’s eyes weren’t quite as dark as his, and his nose was bigger—you can’t hide the hook, Totie had said, back on their stint on the Mike Douglas show, and Paul remembered snickering with everyone else about it backstage. She’d had his number. Gene had struck up a friendship with her after that, excited to get to know another Jewish entertainer. Paul privately hoped he hadn’t banged her in the process.

He was distracting himself. It was hard to do the expression lines around Gene’s mouth without making him look forty-eight instead of nearly twenty-eight, so Paul abandoned all but a light insinuation before skipping over to his hair. He thought he could get that right, at least. Gene’s hair was somewhat coarse, and tended to frizz even worse than Paul’s own did, and it wasn’t as thick. All of the teasing and backcombing and tight ponytails had done a number on it. Paul pursed his lips, trying to approximate the texture with his pencil, and the sheen with his eraser.

“How’s it coming?” Gene asked, after about fifteen minutes. He’d been pretty patient, not shifting around much, even stopping himself the few times he tried to scratch his face.

“I think I did a damn good job on your eyebrows.” Paul turned the sketch around with a slight groan. “Everything else is a little…”

“You made me look really sad.”

Gene wasn’t wrong. Paul hadn’t quite figured out what to do with Gene’s lips when he’d drawn them, so he’d had them sink down a bit. The eyebrows really were pretty good, to his own estimation, and the hair was okay, and he’d at least started with the proper face shape, but—he hadn’t really caught Gene properly. Whatever his essence was, it hadn’t transferred onto the page.

“Frowns are easier to draw. Smiles, you have to get just right, and get the light in the eyes…” Paul shook his head. “Not a lot of room for error, right? And if you mess up, your drawing ends up looking like Norman Bates.”

Gene laughed, shaking his head.

“But you’ve got me looking like myself. It isn’t just the eyebrows. The chin and the mouth are right--”

“But it’s not great, either. I’ll try again later on.” Paul set the drawing down. “You can do me if you want.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, shut up.” Paul shifted, suddenly antsy. He’d only ever seen Gene draw his own fanzines and doodle on napkins. He knew Gene wasn’t going to take this as a serious art study, but… but on the same token, letting Gene draw him felt--revealing. Almost too revealing. He wasn’t as bothered by the face Gene was going to draw as what it signified. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what Gene saw when he looked at him. What stood out to him.

If he drew a pair of tits, Paul grimly promised himself he’d keep denying Gene at least until tomorrow.

“Tilt your chin up a bit,” Gene said, and Paul did so. His fingers worried unconsciously at the straps of his dress. Paul waited for more instructions, but they didn’t come. Just the scritch of the pencil against the sketch paper, and the occasional fuzzy sound of the eraser rubbing back and forth on the page. Gene kept such direct eye contact on his face that Paul was getting a bit intimidated.

“You took art in school, right?”

“Only a couple of terms. I liked it, but I wanted to get in all the electives I could.”

“Even weight training?” Paul scooted to the side.

“Your art school had weight training?”

“God, yeah. We even had a football team.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never said we won anything.” Paul paused. “Do you want me to pose?”

“No. You’re fine like you are.”

“Should I smile?”

Gene looked like he was considering it for a second, and then he shook his head.

“Just relax.”

Paul tried to, but he kept fidgeting. Not getting any direction was making him nervous. He wasn’t gutsy enough to try to look alluring without the makeup as a shield. Gene had stopped talking as he’d gotten more into the drawing, only responding to Paul’s attempts at conversation with a few “yeahs” and “uh-huh”s. He was taking longer than Paul had, too. But he seemed pleased with himself far before he signed the bottom and held it out for Paul to see.

“Here you go.”

Paul was a little stunned.

He was nearly right there on the page. Big dark eyes greeted him. Full lips, slightly parted, revealing a little of his front teeth. High cheekbones. Gene’s portrait of him was more thorough and detailed than Paul’s attempt, stopping at the shoulders, where the dress straps drooped. More attractive than Paul knew he actually was; Gene had, oddly, been kinder about Paul’s nose and jaw than was accurate, but all the same-- he’d captured something of Paul on the page. Some facet. Tenseness or intensity or both. The sketch was clearly of a chick, sure, but-- it was him.

“Gene, this… shit, this is really good.” Part of what impressed him was the self-assured pressure and definition of most of the lines. Paul’s own tended to fade out, like he was mentally erasing them after committing them to the page, but Gene went into it with a much heavier hand overall. The contrast was interesting. “And I thought all you could draw was Batman. You’ve been holding out on me for years.”

Gene shrugged.

“I had someone cute in front of me. That makes all the difference.” He paused, moving to sit beside him, pointing at the sketch. “You’ve got pretty eyes.”

“Since just lately?”

“No. Since always.” Gene seemed to hesitate. “Paul, in a way, you don’t really look all that dif--”

“Peter told me they made me look like a beagle,” Paul stumbled out before Gene could finish. He wasn’t sure why he interrupted that way. Gene snorted, reaching over and draping an arm behind Paul’s shoulders. Paul let him.

“Maybe more like a moppet. You remember those posters.”

“Yeah. Julia had them in her room when we were kids.” But he wasn’t displeased at the comparison, somehow, reaching to put the sketches and supplies on the crowded nightstand, before leaning back against Gene’s arm and shoulder. He could feel Gene start to tense, so Paul turned his head, impulsively, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “One of them was a harlequin or something, I don’t remember.”

“Paul.”

“What?”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t look all that different.”

“Come off it.” Paul could feel something cold and odd trickle up his spine, something he was almost afraid of. “I’ve had tits for a week and a half, don’t try to kid me.”

“I’ve been kidding myself.”

“Gene, what’re you talking about--”

“You’re the same as you always were. You’re beautiful.”

Paul sat there stunned. The icy feeling up his spine seemed to melt and dissolve in an instant. He didn’t want it to. He wanted to hold onto it. Use it as something to protect him, something to chase away any hurt, any vulnerability. His face was going florid, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t look directly at Gene, staring instead at the hem of his dress.

“I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. But I think… I think there might still be something there after we break the curse.” Gene’s hand found one of the shoulder straps on his dress, fixing it back up, though his gaze was still firm on Paul’s face. Completely unwavering. Paul’s heartbeat felt like it could smash straight through diamonds. “I know that’s not enough for--”

“It’s enough.”

“Paul, look--”

“It’s enough.” Paul was surprised at the slow strength starting to rise from his voice with every word, like a newborn foal wobbling to its feet. “Even before all this happened. Any time I’ve ever gotten to have with you is enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He was able to look at Gene now, right in the face. The warmth he’d tried to avoid was blazing inside him. It felt funny, somehow, to feel so sure, so certain, in the face of a maybe, that things would still be all right, one way or another. It felt like the bulk of the burden, the fear, was really, truly beginning to dissolve. “Gene, I…”

He couldn’t say it. Gene was waiting on it, face so near his own he could feel his breath. He kissed him instead, reaching his arms around him half-blindly, clenching tight. Paul was panting as soon as Gene broke the kiss, pressing another and another against his cheek and chin and throat, climbing into his lap as though he belonged there, and maybe, for just a little while, he did.

Gene was so warm, so unbelievably warm. Paul could swear he could feel Gene’s own pounding heartbeat against his. His breaths were coming only a little bit better than Paul’s were, his dark eyes dilated. Gene’s mouth was back on his before Paul could think clearly, needy and wanting, and it was all Paul could do to pull back and manage one last request.

“Hey. Before we-- do you think you could take me back to o-- my bedroom?”

Gene had him gathered up in his arms in seconds. Paul held tight, pressing his face against Gene’s shirt for all of the minute it took to cross from one room to the next, taking in his scent as he finally dared to hope.

[chaotic-yeet]

every single fucking one yobi

Hey Strawberry, you asked for this

Do you ever doubt anyone else's existence other than your own: Not really no

On a scale of 1-5 how afraid of the dark are you: 5+ I have nyctophobia so it's extremely bad for me

The person you would never want to meet: Does knowing them and no longer speaking count? An old friend of mine, I hope I never see her again

What is your favorite word: I'm actually not sure, I have a few ones I like to say because I pronounce them wrong, but I don't think I have a favorite

If you were a type of tree, what kind would you be: Maybe a birch tree? They're my favorite kind in minecraft sooo

When you looked in the mirror this morning, what did you first think: "Damn I need to wash my face more"

What shirt are you wearing:. A Mammoth one! It's dark gray, has a bear on the back and front chest area, and has blue, pink, and purple fade on it (the bi flag!)

What do you label yourself as: a fuckin bastard or dumbass thats what

Bright room or dark room: I have sensitive eyes so a dark room, but with either soft light or nightlight, I hate complete darkness

What were you doing at midnight last night: Talking to @the-strawzish-clownfish , while being on call with @psychotic-roach he had fallen asleep

Favorite age you've been so far: 13 probably, which sounds weird, but my mental health got better that year (it didn't stay that way but eh)

Who told you they loved you last: @psychotic-roach !! And I love you too (once you read this :D)

Your worst enemy: Myself and an old friend I mentioned in like, question 3

What's your current desktop picture: On my main laptop it's a Marble Hornets fanart (that I adore) and on my Chromebook it's some space doodles in the bi colors

Do you like someone: Fuck yes I do, @psychotic-roach you're fucking great and deserve the world

The last song you listened to: Deku Palace remix! I'm a huge EDM/ Trap fan, combine it with Zelda music and I'm hooked!

You can press a button to make one specific person explode, who would you pick: Old friend from before

Who would you really just love to punch in the face: Many, many people

If anyone could be your slave for the day, who would it be and what would they do: Well probably a close friend of mine, and I'd have him play smash with me and make pancakes with me (basically beg him to hang out even though it's quarantine so we can have fun again)

What's your best physical attribute: Probably my hair, it's dyed purple and used to be shaved

If you were the opposite sex for a day, what would you look like and what would you do: I'd probably look the same just taller and less curves, and I'd probably jerk off or go on some 3am walk because fuck it I can

Do you have a secret talent: I don't think so, I have a shitty memory, but not when it comes to naming ninjago episodes, @the-strawzish-clownfish can verify

What is one unique thing you're afraid of: Touching Rays, any kind, especially the ones at aquariums that come up to the tank wall that you can pet

You can only have one kind of sandwich, every ingredient is at your disposal: Well call me white, but my usual, white bread turkey and shredded cheese. That's it. I'm super lame.

You just found $100 how are you gonna spend it: Save it, I always save hundreds without hesitation

You just got a free plane ticket to go anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately: Uh, probably Georgia to see some family

Basically an Angel says I'll give you lost of booze forever be specific: Uh, fuck I dunno I don't drink, Fuckin' Crown Royal for shits and giggles why not

An island in which you can make your own rules, what's the first: Stay on your own turf unless someone allows you to come in, unless it's emergency (and I know this rule will cause problems, it's a guideline at best)

What is your favorite expletive: Tie between Bullshit and Fuck, I absolutely love those two

Your house is on fire (but everyone is okay) what one object do you grab: Well, in my current room right now? My phone, I'll still have contact with people I love and have my art (the only thing I care about in here) with me too

You can erase any horrible experience from your past: Main one, I won't actually say allowed but Roach you know what it is, but one I can put on here, Probably some embarrassing thing I did, most like everyone else

You got kicked out of your country, where would you live: GERMANY! I love the German language and I'd absolutely love to go to Germany and live with it!

Death is a good dude and says you can choose who to bring back: My cat who died a few years ago, he was an awesome cat that didn't deserved to die at 6 years old

What was your last dream about: I have super long dreams, like so much goes on in them it's like a story, too long to type out, @psychotic-roach knows it. Long story short, Pirates and apartments under water

Are you a good (insert whatever): Am I a good, fuck I dunno let's do artists because it's easy. I think I do decent enough

Have you ever been admitted to the hospital: No, only when I was a newborn in the nicu because I wasn't latching right

Have you ever built a snowman: Nope, but my friend did and I watched. His snowman was tiny and got stepped on, my friend shed a few tears

What is the color or your socks: Not wearing any right now, but usually gray

What type of music do you like: EDM AND TRAP BABYYY IF IT'S LOUD I LOVE IT

Do you prefer sunrise or sunset: Sunset definitely, I burn easy so having the nice night air slowly come over with the stars is nice for me

Favorite milkshake flavor: Chocolate!

What football team do you support: American football? None. German Bundesliga teams? Stuttgart. We were assigned teams in my German class and that was mine! Stuttgart all the way!!

Do you have any scars: Yes, many. They range from self harm, to actual cat scratches, to me falling, and many more

What do you want to be when you graduate: No idea!

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Weight, I have bad self esteem so it's never enough

Are you reliable: Honestly, no. I have bad memory and I will forget if someone needs something

If you could ask your future self a question what would it be: How's Roach doing, and what's Oregon like?

Do you hold grudges: depends, mostly no, but sometimes yes

If you could breed two animals together and defy the laws of nature, what two would you breed: Uh good question, probably Cat and Opossum, really just to see what would happen

Most unusual conversation: Mental health stuff with my parents and therapist, more awkward than anything

Are you a good liar: Not really no depending on the person

How long could you go without talking: Well in quarantine all day, regular days though, maybe an hour at best, I absolutely love my friends, just only certain ones

What has been your worst haircut/ style: Back when it was longer than my shoulders and I wore it down. Except I never took care of it so it looked like shit.

Have you ever baked your own cake: Yes every birthday I make mine! I even had my friends help me with my most recent one!

Can you do any accent other than your own: maybe a southern one but no not really

What do you like on your toast: Nutella or cinnamon and sugar. I know, terrible for you

What is the last thing you drew a picture of: Uh me and @psychotic-roach and our pets but I'm self conscious about my art so I just didn't really show it to anyone (sorry Roach, I'm just super shy about my art!)

What would be your dream car: Me and my family had a running joke that I liked Tesla's, so probably a Tesla

Do you sing in the shower: No but I want to, I just don't like people hearing me sing

Do you believe in aliens: I believe we're not alone in the universe, weather it be new life billions of miles away or way advanced life a few galaxies away

Do you often read your horoscope: No, but astrology is fun to fuck with sometimes

What is your favorite letter of the alphabet: probably E or something, it's soothing in a weird way

Dinosaurs or dragons: DRAGONS DRAGONS I LOVE DRAGONS I'M A HUGE HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON NERD!!!

What do you think about babies: They're sweet sometimes, I'm honestly afraid of holding one or having to take care of one though

Freebie! Ask anything you can think of: I can't really think of anything so I guess just @psychotic-roach I love you!! @the-strawzish-clownfish thank you for these painful asks, they were fun :)

[dansphlevels]

The Subject Series

  This fic was written for her @phandomreversebang with artist @corgi-lester. You can find the art here. This fic has been in the works for a long time but I really like it and I hope you will too!

Summary: Tensions have been rising in Phil’s hometown at the rise in gun violence and string of robberies. However, Phil has bigger things to worry about me, like his newest art assignment to paint a series of portraits showing the true character of a person you know. Phil has his subject, the only problem is, he doesn’t actually know Dan, though he’s more than willing to rememdy that. 

Length: 8k

Highschool!phan au with artist!Phil and newkid!Dan, including the growth of a friendship, Phil being a little stalker-y, and Dan not understanding the concept of stranger danger. Was heavily inspired by my Drabble series ‘Artists’ and recent events involving gun violence. 

“I want to do five paintings, all different sized canvases that link together.”

 Mr. Hebbs shook his head. “Phil, this isn’t that complex an assignment. You only have to do three, and canvases aren’t required.”

 “It’s fine, I get a discount on them at my job,” Phil insisted. “And I like to paint at home.”

 “But Phil—” Mr. Hebbs saw the look Phil was giving him and changed direction. “You have other classes, I don’t want-”

 “I really appreciate everything you do,” Phil reassured with his teacher-pleasing smile. “How about I let you know if it’s too much? Then I’ll go down to only painting three canvases.” Mr. Hebbs started saying something else, but Phil quickly cut him off with a “You’re the best! I’ll see you in class!”

 Phil was already halfway out of the door when Mr. Hebbs called out, “But Phil! Who is going to be your subject!”

 “I’ll figure it out!”

———

 The beginning of the semester was not something to be excited about. You could be the best student in school, but you still wouldn’t cheer about it if someone held a gun up to your head.

 Phil was right in the middle of the spectrum. He definitely didn’t hate school, but the end of winter break meant less free time for art and more brain power having to be spent on things like trigonometry and physiology.

He spent most of Trig staring at the other students in the class. For the art project, he had to find a subject to paint a few times, but no one in his classes stuck out to him.

 As Mr. Goinstein lectured, Phil felt his hands fidget almost on their own merit, scribbling out a design on his travel-sized sketchbook. It ending up being the teacher, with his hairline receding almost as far back as in real life, his suit cheap looking but well pressed. Phil wondered if his hair had gotten greyer in the past few weeks.

 Phil jolted when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” a voice whispered, “do you have a pencil?”

 Phil turned around to double check that he wasn’t hearing things— he sat at the back of the class for a reason, how dare someone move to be further back than him— except no one had moved. The boy sitting before him- or rather, behind him— wasn’t a regular face in the class.

 Phil would know. He’d drawn every face in the class; or attempted to, at least.

 The boy was looking at him expectantly, and his mind snapped back in to focus. “I don’t have a pencil,” Phil replied. The boy looked down to his hand, where he was holding a 2H pencil. “This is special. I can’t— I might have a pen?”

 Phil wanted to frame the slightly wonderstruck expression the boy gave him. With his face a little warmer than it had been before, he dug through his backpack and found a pen, giving it to the new kid.

 Phil looked back at his doodles. Would it be creepy if—. Before he could finish the thought, his pencil was back on paper, sketching out an oval with two lines intersecting it. He marked the eyes, then the nose, adjusted the chin, and added the hair. Before he knew it, he’d drawn the boy sitting behind him.

 If the boy was a troll.

 Phil flipped to the next page, trying again only this time with more space. The problem with drawing faces an inch high was that in real life, they were notably bigger, which meant that details were lost in the drawing. Sometimes the faces turned out fine. And sometimes they turned out looking like the person had just crawled out from underneath a bridge offering to grant your fondest wish in return for your first born child.

 Phil scribbled out another face, this one closer to scale. It was more accurate. This time, the boy looked like he’d ran into a brick wall. He didn’t look ugly, per say, just… flat.

 Phil turned to the next page, drew out another oval to act as his guide, and then turned around, looking at the boy while pretending to be looking at the clock. He was very convincing, too. However, there was no clock on the wall.

 But the boy was new, he didn’t have to know that.

 By the end of class, Phil had made four different drawings of him, all of them barely recognizable. The last one was more accurate, though it still wasn’t quite there.

 Phil closed his notebook as the bell rang, sighing as someone taped his shoulder. “Here’s your pen back.”

 Phil took it, and took the opportunity to look at the boys face again, trying to find where his features lines up with his guidelines. “You’re new, right?”

 “Um, yeah.” When he smiled, little dimples formed on the sides of his cheeks. “I transferred from AHS. I’m Dan.”

 “I’m Phil. Could I take a picture of you?”

 “Um, what?”

 “I’m in Photography,” Phil quickly lied, the muscles in his face hurting from the effort of smiling. “We just needed to take a picture of someone for a warm up.”

 “Oh, I’m in Photography too!” Phil tried not to let his panic show through. “And sure, I guess. As long as it’s not for a big project or anything, I don’t really want to see my face framed in the middle of the hallway or anything.”

 Phil smiled, grabbing his phone and clicking the video button. “Don’t worry about it.”

 He kept the video recording for just long enough to catch Dan’s dimple on camera before turning off his phone and stuffing it in his bag.

———

 Dan’s nose was practically perfect. It was very proportionate to his face. The problem Phil had been running into, Phil later found out, was his eyes. Dan’s eyes were more almond shaped, with discreet eyelids. Phil had been emphasizing his eyelids too much.

 That night, in his room, Phil played the video over an over, screenshotting it at the best moments. Then he pulled out a piece of drawing paper and sketched out his face, this time with a reference picture, and kept erasing and adding to it until it was clear who the subject was.

 The paper still felt too empty, so Phil sketched in some flowers around his head. He got his blending stump and darkened his cheeks, making it look like he was lightly blushing. “Yes, very kawaii,” Phil muttered.

 That would be his project. And Dan would be his subject.

 Though he’d have to get Dan to agree to it first. Because unlike Photography warm ups, this project would actually be hung up in the school hallway.

———

 “Hey Dan!” Phil called out, jogging up next to Dan in the hallway. He turned around, smiling a little uncomfortably.

 “Hey...”

 “Phil,” Phil reminded him.

 “Right, I knew that. Hey Phil.”

 Phil would do one of the paintings with Dan laying in coffee beans. He would still do the flower one, but each painting would have a different background, Phil decided, all very soft, aesthetic things. Dan seemed very soft and aesthetic, even though he was wearing all black. Phil bet he ran a pastel tumblr blog.

 Dan turned to head towards one of his classes, and Phil kept in tow with him, even though his class was on the other side of the school. “So, I was wondering. We have this project—”

 “In Photography?” Dan finished. “The rule of thirds thing?”

 “Um, no. In ADAPA-”

 “What?”

 “It’s, um, Advanced Art Design and Presentation but the letters are in the wrong order because AADP doesn’t roll of the tongue that easily. I’m doing this subject series, where I paint a person a few times. It’s very low key, and I was just wondering if I could paint you.”

 Dan stopped in front of one of the English classes, giving Phil a weird look. “Why?”

 “I dunno. Why not?”

 Dan considered this. “Wouldn’t that be weird? You, just… painting like, two pictures of me?”

 Phil didn’t correct him. “Nah, it’s pretty normal. Everyone in ADAPA is doing this project, so you won’t be the only subject or anything.”

 Dan hesitated, squeezing the strap of his backpack.

 “I’ll just need to take a few pictures of you. And I’ll pay you fifteen pounds,” he added.

 Dan glanced into the classroom, still hesitating. “Only if you let me take a picture of you for the photography project,” he conceded, “and help me with the camera. They wouldn’t let me in the Beginning Photography class because I’m a senior, so I kinda lied about my skills. And since you’re in Photography too…” he trailed off, looking hopeful.

 “Sure, no problem.” Phil hadn’t touched a camera since 6th grade. “Here, let me give you my phone number so we can set it up.”

 “Great.” Dan’s cheeks were the same shade as they’d been in Phil’s drawing, only Phil’s drawing was in black and white. In real life, Dan was in full, vivid color.

———————-

 “Are you okay?” Phil asked with a comforting smile, leading Dan up the stairs to his room. “You look kind of pale.”

 Dan ran a hand through his curly mocha hair— it was mocha, Phil had decided— following him up the stairs. “I’m fine. I walked past the bakery on Main and it was closed. Do you think anything happened?”

 Phil shrugged, leading him into his room. His dirty laundry was kicked into a corner by his bed, which was little more than a cheap box frame and small mattress. Most of the room was taken up by his art supplies, paint splattered tarp spread out underneath his desk and two easels. Notebooks and canvases sat in piles along the wall, some blank, others completely filled, mostly with paint.

 “Wow,” Dan commented as he looked around. “You're a very convincing artist.”

 Phil laughed. “What else would I be? Do I look like a sportsman to you?”

 Dan looked him up and down, biting his lip. “No. But the tarps do suggest you may be a serial killer.”

 “Well, I'm not. Unless you consider killing trees as being a serial killer. With all the supplies and paper I use, I'm probably one of the leading causes of deforestation.”

 Dan snorted. “Nice.”

 Phil found his phone, waving it triumphantly. “Got it. Let's go take some pictures?”

 “Sure.”

 “Come on. The basement has really good lighting.” Phil lead him downstairs, the silence getting awkward quickly. “What was that you were saying earlier? About… the cake shop on Main?”

“The bakery. It was closed. Do you think it could have been the same thing that happened with the funeral home?”

 Phil sighed. “I hope not. I hated it enough the first time.”

 “Right? I hope the police find whoever is doing it and lock them up for life. I don’t care if Mrs. Roes will recover, it’s not fucking okay.”

 Phil glanced back at Dan who was following him tensely, his arms crossed. “You good?”

 “‘M fine. It’s just frustrating, it’s like, what are we supposed to do about it, you know?”

 Phil knew what he meant, he did. But he was more focused on the way Dan’s features curled when he was frustrated, the way his eyes changed with intensity. Dan looked angry and helpless at the same time and it was so contradictory, Phil had to do one of the paintings with this expression. He’d paint it so Dan was surrounded by blooming flowers and scowling like they did something to personally offend him.

———

 Phil didn’t make a habit of lying, but he found himself lying to Dan almost as often as he told him the truth. Dan sat down on the couch and Phil adjusted his phone lense until it was just right, then pressed the record button.

 “Let me know when you’re taking a picture,” Dan requested, squeezing his hands.

 Phil nodded. “Three, two, one…” He twitched his thumb, pretending to touch the screen. Dan smiled falsely, holding it for a few moments then breaking it.

 “So natural,” Phil commented from behind the camera. “Hey Dan, what do you call fake spaghetti?”

 “I don’t know, what?”

 “An im-pasta.”

 Dan laughed, smiling widely enough for both of his cheek dimples to be on full display, and Phil knew he was going to be screenshotting that later.

 “That’s horrible. Phil, what’s the difference between a snow-man and a snow-woman?” Dan waited a second for dramatic effect before answering: “Snowballs.”

 It was Phil’s turn to crack up, the phone shaking in his grip.

 “Hey, just take the pictures without telling me,” Dan decided. “Otherwise it’ll feel too fake.”

 “Okay, I’ll do that. Why did the farmer win an award?” Pause. “Because he was outstanding in his field.”

��——

 “You certainly don’t waste your time,” Mr. Hebbs commented, peering over Phil’s shoulder. “Who’s that?”

 “He’s a new student,” Phil replied without looking up from his work. He was just adding the final touches to Dan’s painted face, carefully adding a highlight. “He’s in one of your photography classes.”

 “Oh. I suppose I’m just not used to seeing him with the flowers.” Mr. Hebbs scratched his jaw, thinking. “I would make sure to highlight the glabella,” he suggested after a moment.

 “The… what?”

 “The glabella. Right… here,” he said pointing to the space in between the painting’s eyebrows, careful not to touch it.

 Phil dabbed his brush back in the paint, adding some of it to the area Mr. Hebbs had been referring to.

 “How long are you planning on staying?”

 Phil glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already 2:50 and school got out at 3. “How long are you going to be here? I won’t need too much more time.”

 “I need to leave at the bell, but you can stay as long as you clean up, and turn off the lights and lock the door when your done. If anyone asks where I am—”

 “—I’ll just say you’re in the bathroom,” Phil finished, smiling down at his painting. “As per usual.”

 “Perfect.” The art teacher looked at the painting again, tilting his head to the side. “I’d add more lowlights to the hair too.”

 “Can do.”

———

 It happened again. Sometime that afternoon, a man had broken into the garden store a few blocks away from Phil’s neighborhood, brandishing a small handheld gun and demanding the cashier on duty give him everything in the till. The cashier went to get the code for the safe— apparently he wasn’t a very smart cashier— and the shooter opened fire. The gun only had a few rounds in it, but it was enough to shatter the front windows and stun the cashier.

Phil saw the destroyed storefront as he biked home from school, his completed painted sticking out of his book bag. The next morning, he listened as his mum read to him the article in their local paper describing the events.

 “‘We recommend all small shops in the downtown area invest in panic buttons and try to have more than one person on staff whenever possible. And, until this situation is under control, we ask that all students avoid walking or biking through town on the way home from school.’ Sorry Philly, it sounds like you’re going to have to find a new way home.”

 Phil slouched, cupping his cooling coffee in his hands. “Do I have to? We don’t know if they’re going to rob another shop.”

 “They’ve got a gun,” Kath reminded him. “And there’s already been four incidents now.”

 “They may not have all been the same person!” Phil argued, but it was futile. Kath shook her head.

 “I’m sorry, but it’s just not safe.”

———

Phil was wheeling his bike out from the rack when a familiar voice called out his name. He looked up and was met with an even more familiar face- one he’d studied and recreated a few times over various types of papers and a canvas.

 “Phil!” Dan called out again, jogging over, smiling widely.

 “Hey!” Phil called back when Dan got closer. “What’s up?”

 “Absolutely nothing,” Dan said easily, “Do you want to hang out? I’m biking home too.”

 Phil smiled back. “Sure! I have work soon-ish, but I can hang out until then.”

 “Nice.” Dan pulled out one of the bikes a few away from Phil, walking it around the rack. “Where do you work?”

 “Hobby Lobby. It’s not very exciting, but I do get a pretty good discount on art stuff.”

 “And you get money for art stuff,” Dan added. “I thought only professional artists used real canvases, aren’t they like, super expensive?”

 “To someone getting paid minimum wage? Yes. But they’re not that bad.” Phil mounted his bicycle, buckling his helmet on under his chin. Dan got on his own bike, except was missing something vital.

 “No helmet?”

 “I’m not seven,” he teased. “No offense.”

 “None taken. Because unlike you, I’m not going to crack my head open on the concrete and die before I can even graduate secondary school.”

 An image flashed before Phil’s eyes of Dan laying on the pavement with a perfect stream of blood coming down from his temple. For a moment, he really wanted to paint it, before he realized that was probably not the appropriate reaction. He shook the thought away.

 “Ooh, fighting words,” Dan teased as they carefully pedaled away from the school. “Do you wanna race?”

 The image flashed before Phil’s eyes again, except this time Dan was smiling, his lip bloodied. Imagination-Dan winked at him.

 “You’re on,” Phil responded to Real Life Dan, the one that had just challenged him to a race. “After this street, we race until we get to the park, deal?”

“Deal.”

 As soon as they crossed the street, Dan took off, speeding down the way. Phil pushed harder, pounding at the pedals until he was almost in line with Dan. Dan glanced behind him, and upon seeing Phil, laughed, pushing to go even faster.

 “Slow down! Let me— let me pass!”

 Dan let his feet up from the pedals, the wheels still spinning at about 200 rotations a minute as he thundered down the street. Phil kept pushing until he was side by side with Dan, the park within view.

 Then Dan’s feet hit the pedals again and it was all over.

———

 Phil arranged the canvases in the way they’d be set up once he was done. They were all slightly different sizes and lined up perfectly with about two centimeters between each one, so they ended up as a large square shaped collage. Only one was done so far, the one with the flowers. It had Dan with his head slightly tilted, looking off to the side with his lips pressed closed. Dan’s skin ended up a little paler than it was in real life, with his cheeks and lips a little extra pink to complement the flowers. His hair was softer looking than real life, the individual hairs not emphasized. All in all, he looked more like a porcelain doll than Phil had intended, but he wasn’t one to complain.

 Phil typed up the card for it:

Phil Lester Subject Series: Ethereal (adj): extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world.

 One down, four to go.

———

 Phil waited for most of the students to leave the classroom, looking out for one in particular. But soon no one else really seemed to be leaving, so Phil shuffled over to the door, peeking in carefully like he was doing something he could get in trouble for. In reality, the only person he could actually get in trouble with was Mr. Hebbs, for leaving his independent study early to walk to the other side of the school. Except Mr. Hebbs didn’t care about things like that, so really, Phil’s caution was very unnecessary.

 A few people remained in the class, putting away props or talking in small groups. Phil scanned it until he saw the familiar black shirt and brown hair. He hadn’t ever draw Dan from this perspective before- well actually, he’d really only drawn his portrait. Phil could do one where Dan’s arms were crossed in front and his back was bare. Backs were so cool to draw.

 But that might look like Phil was looking for an excuse to draw Dan shirtless, which was not a normal friend thing to do, so he scrapped the idea.

 (That was a lie. He actually put it in the ‘Work In Progress’ folder in his brain.)

 The group Dan was talking to dispersed, and he looked down at his phone, completely oblivious to Phil creeping up behind him.

 “Rah!”

 Dan stumbled forwards, fumbling with his phone. When he met Phil’s gaze, his eyes were wide. “Phi-il!”

 Phil stuck out his tongue as he laughed. “You voice just went up, like, two octaves!”

 Dan brushed off his pants dramatically, not smiling, but not quite scowling either. “What do you want, pleb, now that you almost made me piss myself.”

 Phil was still smiling. “You biking home? We could go together, you could come over if you want. It’s a lot more boring biking now that I have to go the long way around town.”

 “I should shun you for scaring me like that. Alas, you still owe me fifteen pounds, so I shall wait until I’ve been paid to shun you.”

 “Fifteen pounds?”

 Dan smiled. “For modeling for you,” he said sweetly, pushing his curly fringe out of his face flirtatiously.

 “So you’re not just doing that out of the goodness of your heart?” Phil joked.

 “The goodness of my heart?” Dan scoffed. “Nonsense! I’ll have you know, Lester, that my heart is made out of pure coal.”

 “Right. So, are you biking with me or not?”

 “It depends. Do you have the money?”

 “At home,” Phil promised, then cringed. “This feels dirty. Like you’re my drug dealer or something.”

 “Daniel?” The teacher called out from behind her desk. “Are you leaving now?” A quick scan around confirmed that besides the teacher, they were the only ones left in the class.

 “Oh, yes, sorry!” Dan rushed over to grab his backpack and he and Phil sped-walked out of the class. When Phil looked at Dan next, his cheeks were the same color as the tulips Kath liked to keep on their kitchen table, or #15 in his acrylic set. “Oops.”

———

 They rode their bikes back to Phil’s house, then played video games there until Dan had to go home. He said a polite hello to Kath on his way out, and gave Phil a little wave goodbye.

 “Who was that?” Kath asked after Dan had left.

 Phil smiled casually. “That’s Dan, he’s a new student at school. I’m doing a painting project with him- well, of him.”  

 “Oh, what will it look like?”

 “A few different pictures of him with different backgrounds that represent him. It’ll be mostly really soft pastel things.”

 Kath looked back at the door even though Dan was long gone. “Huh. He didn’t really strike me as soft, especially with all that black.” Phil was about to argue when she cut him off. “But you’re the artist, do whatever you think would look best.”

———

 Phil had set up his phone when Dan had left to go to the bathroom. The video was only four minutes long, but it had some good moments in it. Phil had stationed his phone under the tv so it filmed their faces straight on. He paused it a few times, screenshotting, until he got to the perfect point.

 Phil stared at the image for a few moments. No. He couldn’t.

 The picture was of Dan biting the video game controller, his competitiveness getting the best of him. Originally, he’d bitten the controller as a way to make fun of Phil’s habit of doing just that when the game got too stressful, but before long he was doing it without realizing it. The shot was very, very real, very candid, very original. It was also not pastel.

 Oh well. Surely, Phil could put some sort of spin on it so it’d fit his theme. He wanted these painting to really represent Dan’s personality, that soft side he’d seen earlier in the day when the teacher embarrassed him. The real Dan.

 He pulled out canvas number two and got ready to go to work.

———

 Another store was broken into, though this time the criminal left without stealing anything. Phil didn’t bother reading the full article, scanning for the important parts. He’d have to continue taking the long way home, and the small store owners downtown would have to continue spending their money on security that shouldn’t be needed instead of more important things. The identity of the shooter remained unknown.

 “I hate this,” Dan ranted, dumping out the dirty water with so much force that Phil almost felt the need to protect his canvas. “How dare they? I heard that it might be more than one person doing it, too.”

 “Like, a gang?”

 Dan scowled, shaking his head. “Worse. People saw one person doing it and getting away with it, plus getting a bunch of media coverage. It’s a low life’s dream.”

 “I heard there’s going to be a protest later,” Phil recalled. “A bunch of the business owners are marching down to the police station and asking them why they aren’t doing more.”

 “Meanwhile, people are in the hospital, and the government hasn’t even mentioned it.” Dan sighed, rubbing his hands on his pants. “I don’t hate the government or anything, but they’re completely pointless if they’re idle. There are people out there with guns, literally shooting people and causing chaos, and our leaders are silent.”

———

 The second painting took longer to make. Phil wanted this one more realistic and it as harder to paint the way Dan was biting the controller.

 When it was done, he typed up the description on the document with the other one:

Phil Lester Subject Series: Zealous (adj.): having great energy or enthusiasm in pursuit of a cause or an objective.

———

 “We don’t think that there will be any attempted robberies on our store, armed or otherwise,” the balding manager explained. “However, it is important to go over procedures like these from time to time. If an armed robber enters the store and demands money, we ask that you are complacent. There is a panic button under each of the registers that you can press, which will alert the police station.”

 “Will an alarm sound?”

 The officer standing next to the manager adjusted her ponytail. “No. The panic button won’t set off any alarms or give you away.”

 Someone directly behind Phil spoke up, startling him slightly. “Has a panic button ever worked?”

 The officer smiled reassuringly. “They haven’t been used much in our city, but earlier this week one was pressed by mistake, so we are assured that they work just fine.”

 Phil’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he slipped it out, checking the screen.

 From: Dan  Do you wanna hang out Saturday?

 From: Phil  I thought you had work?

 From: Dan  Lol  I was fired

 From: Phil  Why???

 From: Dan  …  They didn’t like the way I dusted  We on for Saturday??

 From: Phil  Sure

———

 “It’s perfect. Phil, can you help me get the camera ready? I want to take your picture under the cherry blossom tree.”

 Phil made a face. It turned out Dan hadn’t just intended to make Phil pay him for his ‘modeling’, but planned to make Phil follow through with the entire deal. That meant Phil had to be the model for a change, so Dan could take pictures of him for his art project, in the advanced photography class Dan was underqualified for. And Phil had to help him use the camera, because, oh right, Phil had lied to him about being in a photography class too. Phil couldn’t even remember why he lied, but he did, and now he was eating his words.

 They went up to the tree and Dan inspected it with a critical gaze. Phil did too, but for a different reason. “No way this is a cherry blossom tree. Do those even grow here?”

 Dan shrugged, tilting his head to the side as he looked at the tree. “I don’t know what it is, but here it is. Can you stand by the trunk?”

 Phil stood by the trunk and Dan handed him the camera expectantly. Phil fiddled with it, pretending that he knew what he was doing, though he probably wasn’t very convincing, as it took him about three minutes to realize the reason nothing was showing up on the screen was because the lense cap was still on.

 After at least another ten minutes, they had the camera working and adjusted to the sunlight.

 “What was the assignment again?” Phil asked, getting progressively more nervous the more Dan fiddled with the camera.

 “Rule of thirds or something, idk. I’m pretty sure it’s just making sure you have three focal points, which I have. You, the tree trunk, and the flowers.”

 Phil shuffled uncomfortably. He may not have held a camera since sixth grade, but the rule of thirds was not exclusive to Photography. “I think you’re thinking about something else. The rule of thirds is where the subject of the art only takes up one third of the space.”

 Dan looked up from the camera, genuinely surprised. “Oh. I guess I’ll have to back up then.” He ducked under the drooping ribbons of pink flowers and Phil listened to his footsteps walks away, chewing on his lip nervously.

 “Should I come out, or—?”

 “No, that’s perfect! Move your feet together!”

 Phil did as he was told. He stood so his feet were almost together, with both of his hands hanging limply by his side. He tried to make a normal face, though he wasn’t sure how Dan could see him through the thick flowers.

 After a long minute, Dan exclaimed “Got it!”

 Phil happily ducked under the flowery branches, meeting Dan on the other side where he showed him the viewfinder of the camera. Phil blinked. “It’s…”

 “It’s cool, right? I feel so hipster and artsy.”

 “It’s cool,” Phil agreed, still taking it in. The picture didn’t have his face- in fact, it hardly had his torso at all. The picture showed the entirety of the blossom tree, framed on either sky with an intense blue sky, darker than normal as the sun just barely began to set. Underneath trees flowers were Phil’s legs with his hands on either side. “Yeah. I like it a lot.”

 Dan smiled widely, taking the camera back and flipping through the pictures. “Thanks! I’ll have to choose my favorite one and then edit it, which I don’t actually know how to do-”

 “Hey Dan?”

 “Hmm?”

 “Can I see the camera for a second?”

 Dan gave him a curious look but handed it over. Phil messed with it for a second before finding the off switch and putting it back in its case, carefully hiding in in his backpack he’d left on the grass.

 “Phil-”

 Phil looked up, giving Dan a small, almost sad smile. “Hey Dan?”

 Dan swallowed. “Yeah?”

 “You’re it!” Phil clumsily tapped Dan on the shoulder, sprinting past him.

 Dan was so shocked it took him a moment to react. “What! Lester!”

 Phil laughed, trying to run faster, but within moments Dan was gaining. “How are you so fast?! On a bike is one thing, but-” Phil cut himself off with an annoyed noise as Dan smacked him on the arm, turning and sprinting in the other direction. “Agh!”

 Dan’s laugh echoed as he ran away, Phil in hot pursuit. “You’ll never catch me! I am the jolteon of humans!”

 Phil cupped his hands around his mouth as he yelled “Nerd!”

 Dan turned, running along the edge of a small grassy hill. “Slowpoke!”

 Phil forced himself to run even faster, despite his aching lungs. He refused to lose to Dan again.

 He swiped at Dan, mumbling in annoyance when he missed. Dan cackled, turning his head to look back at Phil. He turned back and immediately stumbled, tripping and rolling. Phil tried to stop so quickly he ended up stumbling over the same rock and found himself toppling down the hill, the entire world becoming a blur of grass and sky. He’d seen photos that people had taken as then rolled down grassy hills like this one, and for the first time in a long time, he found the urge to get into photography again.

 He gave up trying to slow his descent and gave in, tucking his arms in to protect his face and letting his body speed up.

 There was the blue and there was the green, the green that was the true definition of ‘grassy green’ and Phil had never thought it was that nice of a color but it really was. Then there was the slight dizziness, and the unmistakable sound of Dan laughing, and Phil found himself not minding the downhill lull anymore.

 He slowed to a stop as the hill flattened out. One more half roll and he was face to face with Dan, laying on the soft ground with grass in his hair, trying to hide his wide smile with his hands.

 Phil didn’t even try to hide his smile, rolling over a little and tapping Dan lightly. “You’re it.”

———

 The painting showed Dan with grass in his hair, grinning from ear to ear as the bright blue sky blurred behind him.

Celeste (adj): belonging or relating to heaven.

———

 Phil pushed the door open hesitantly, looking around. As soon as they heard the door open, a large woman hurried over to the sandwich counter. “Hi, how can I help you?”

 Dan followed Phil in, both still looking around. “Um, hi, are you open?”

 “We are. Though we haven’t been getting much traffic lately.”

 “Since the shootings,” Dan translated grimly.

 She nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately. But the sandwiches are as good as ever, what can I get for you?”

 They ordered, paying individually then going to table to eat their sandwiches. “I’m getting closer to finishing the paintings,” Phil announced. “The theme I was going for was kind of lost, but I think it will still be fine. What’d… the Photography teacher say about the cherry blossom picture?”

 Dan had just taken a huge bite of his sandwich right before Phil asked him, and he made a face, trying to swallow it but failing to. “She liked it,” he answered when he’d gotten most of it down. He wiped his mouth, swallowing again. “She wants to hang it in one of the hallways for the rest of the semester.”

 Phil choked on his sandwich. “Actually?”

 Dan smirked. “Literally all you can see of you is your legs and hands. And it’s a good picture, you shouldn’t be self conscious.”

 “But still… I don’t know how I feel about my picture being in the hallway.”

 Dan leaned on his elbow, smiling at Phil a little too sweetly. “Mr. Hebbs was setting up the folding panels to display your classes latest project on. Which I believe is the Subject Series, with my face in literally every single painting of yours.”

 “Oh.”

 “It’s fine. You can hang up my pictures if I can hang up yours.”

 “Deal.”

 They talked for a little longer until they finished their sandwiches and brought the wrappers to the trash. The woman from earlier came over, wiping down the table. “Thanks,” Phil said. “The sandwiches were great.”

 “I’m glad you liked them!”

 “Do you mind if we hang out here for a while?” Dan asked, looking around. Besides the sandwich counter, there were a few rows of shelves with different fancy looking foods stacked on it.

 “Go for it, I’ll just be cleaning up back here but if you need anything, let me know! My name’s Bertha.”

 They looked around for a while. There was a shelf full of fancy olives that they looked at, making fun of the names and trying to make bad innuendos with some of them.

 “Extra stuffed. Mmm.”

 Phil shoved him gently, smiling. “What about this one? ‘Chopped red’.”

 Dan shivered, “it sounds like a murder scene.”

 “Did I show you that thing?” Phil wondered aloud.

 “‘That thing?’”

 “The… goose thing? Here, I’ll show you.” Phil pulled up the article on his phone, handing it over to Dan who began to read it quietly. It was so quiet that when the door opened, they both heard it clearly.

 Loud footsteps and then the sound of something being dropped on the counter. “Anyone there?” A gruff male voice said.

 “I’ll be right there!” Bertha replied, hurrying over. “What can I-” she stopped mid sentence.

 Phil peered through the wire shelves, trying to see what was happening. There was another row of shelves between them and the other customer, making it difficult, and even when Phil managed to see through them, it took a moment to process. He’d seen guns on tv, and he’d seen bigger guns carried by police in other countries, but it was the first one he’d ever seen in England. It was so small, so unassuming, but still it made Bertha’s smile drop and the color from her face drain. He gestured towards his bag and she opened the cash register, slowly moving the money into his bag. There wasn’t much there.

 Phil tapped Dan urgently, covering his mouth for a second when Dan opened it to say something. He pointed to what was happening, and watched as Dan went from confusion to shock to something else.

 The man turned around, walking over to the shelves where they were hidden. Phil gestured for them to crouch. That was what you were always supposed to do, you were supposed to crouch, make yourself smaller, do your best to hide. Escape if you could, but if that wasn’t an option, then learn to breathe a little quieter.

 And Dan, poor Dan. Poor pastel-souled, gentle Dan, with his soft curls and brushed pink cheeks. He stared at the man through the shelves intensely, not even blinking. He held his phone so tightly his knuckles were white.

 The man was less than a meter from them. Phil squeezed his eyes shut, staying perfectly still as the steps got closer. A small gun and an even smaller bullet and just like that, it would all be over.

 But the bullet didn’t come. Phil opened his eyes and immediately caught onto the dirty jeans on the other side of the shelf. He hadn’t seen them.

 Dan nudged him, making intense eye contact and holding a finger in front of his own mouth, then he stood. Phil tried to pull him back down, but Dan just carefully stepped away, knowing Phil wouldn’t dare make a noise at a time like this.

 “That’s all there is,” Bertha announced in a monotone. The man turned around quickly and for a moment Dan was frozen. Then he kept moving, walking slowly to the side of the shelves.

 “You think I’m fucking stupid? Where’s the rest?”

 “There isn’t any—”

 The man pointed the gun straight through the shelf, right at her. “I know how these businesses work. There’s always a safe.”

 Bertha was a statue. “There isn’t a safe. Or if there is, I don’t know where it is, I’m new—” the man cocked the gun and Bertha became more desperate. “Honest! I have money, I’ll get you that, but there isn’t—”

 “Get me your money. All of it. Then we’ll take a look around and see if we can find the safe, and you’d better hope we can.” He brought the gun back down, but didn’t put it away.

 Phil didn’t dare turn around, but he could feel Dan standing next to him, as still as a statue. The man turned around, picking something up off of the shelf, and that’s when Dan made his move.

 He walked forwards quickly, raising his phone in his hand and slamming it down on the man’s head. He stumbled forwards, more annoyed than hurt, and Dan jumped on his back, wrapping an arm around his throat. Then it was all a blur- the man yelled out, Bertha was calling 999, the man lifted the gun, Phil stood up, Dan grabbed a can of extra stuffed and broke it over his head. The gun went off, another broken jar of olives to the man’s face, there was a fight and it didn’t seem anyone was winning and then they toppled into the first metal shelf and five dozen jars of fancy sandwich toppings rained down on them, followed by the shelf. They fell to the ground, crushed under the heavy shelf. Then Dan was free and the man was almost free, but Dan had an aluminum can of something in his shaking hands that he brought down on the man’s head with a “Fuck! You!”

 Then there was the police and Dan was in handcuffs and the man was unconscious and Phil was still just standing there.

———

 Phil had finished all five of the paintings.

 They were completed, all with their printed out labels. The hallway was quiet as Phil carefully hung them on the folding platform, arranged just as he’d planned from the beginning. There was the Ethereal painting with soft, porcelain Dan; the zealous painting with Dan gnawing on the gaming control; and the celestial painting, with a smiling Dan laying at the bottom of that hill with grass in his mocha curls.

 Then there were the two other paintings, the newer ones. The fourth painting was a side profile of Dan with shadows covering half of his face. The side of his face that could be see was deathly intense, a somber anger that Phil had failed to identify that day in the sub shop. That painting was tilted Undaunted (adj): not intimidated or discouraged by difficulty, danger, or disappointment.

 The final painting was of Dan a week after the incident. They were walking along an empty school hallway after class had ended. Dan was wearing a black hoodie, his hands in his pockets. He stood tall with a confidence that Phil supposed was always there, but he’d never really noticed. The painting was from the front perspective, with Dan smiling that smile he only really gave to Phil, his head tilted to the side.

 Dan had been walking beside him, maybe a little in front. He turned around, giving Phil that fond smile. “I feel like you have the wrong idea of me. Like, you think I’m this shy, timid person or something, or like I’m really innocent or soft or something.”

 Dan hadn’t gotten in trouble for attacking the man with the gun. He’d been told he should’ve avoided confrontation if possible, but he didn’t get in trouble with anyone besides his mom, who’d given him a ‘stern talking to’.

 Phil had wiped his hands on his shirt. “I don't think that,” he lied. Sometimes it seemed as though he only lied around Dan.

 “Okay. Just checking.”

 Phil adjusted the last canvas, the painting from that day.

 Enigmatic (adj): difficult to interpret or understand.

 He stepped back, admiring his work. It was the first time he’d seen them all together. Ethereal, zealous, celestial, undaunted, enigmatic. Soft, competitive, radiant, unyielding, mysterious.

 Mr. Hebbs came up beside him, admiring the work with a quiet appreciation. Phil crossed his arms, feeling the exhaustion from the last few weeks finally set it.

 “He looks so different in each one,” Mr. Hebbs commented quietly. “Which one is he really?”

 Phil looked at each painting again, individually. Soft, competitive, radiant, unyielding, mysterious.

 He sniffled. “I don’t know.”

  The End.

[toddmichaelrogers]

Letter to You

All in due time

I am obsessed with the concept of time. When I read an article about light moving across time and space to reach us from distant galaxies, and how...what we are viewing in those distances may have already passed into death thousands of years ago, it gets my dick “Super Mario 2 (Japanese Version) hard”.

I think about equations of time v.s growth on a nearly daily basis. I am obsessed about it.

Some may feel possessed

I myself obsess about it

My youngest brother was born twenty-two years ago. His name is Ben. This week, he came for a surprise visit by telling me he would be here and then allowing me to forget. The added bonus was we got to celebrate his birthday together. That night, I drove him and his friends and Kelsie around (they may all be kids to me, but Kelsie’s been my brother’s partner for longer than I’ve known my own). We spent the night at a false speakeasy, and a giant championship pool hall, empty but for a few of us. As the night ended I drove the kids up to a hill called love circle, where a year ago I had imagined killing myself (I had a concussion, it’s cool).

In the car Michael, this kid I had not seen in a decade, popped in a song that maybbbbe three people in the world might have known. It’s a B-Side which could only be known to someone such as myself, someone who cares entirely too much for a half-forgotten Scottish 1980s group. 

“Is this fucking Big Country?” I asked. And then both parties continued asking in astonished voices if the other if they enjoyed the same band, until Michael ripped his shirt open to reveal a 1986 tour tee. “What the fuck?!” I screamed. And then preceded to tell him that Spell Saga was inspired by this band’s music; there was no need to explain what Spell Saga was to the kids in the car, they had seen the card game and its stacks of packages sitting in my living room.

The game has continued to haunt me. The rest of the packages will be sent out sometime in the next 30 days, and the manufacturer will be paid up for services rendered in the next week. That is about 1500 days since I decided to pursue the project, and over 800 days since the Kickstarter worked and we knew it was going to go to print. 

Sometimes people write very frustrated messages online wondering where their packages are, but the comments that mean the most to me are the ones where people are nice hahaha. No, I shouldn’t laugh, it’s haunting. Trying to do something right and trying to handle your own mistakes in public is about as nerve-wracking and humiliating as anything since 7th grade.

In the meantime I’ve taken all those worries and embarrassments and pushed them into the next Spell Saga release (Deck 1.5 The Under Sky) which may or may not work, we’re about to find out in March. The concept and design are so ridiculous and in depth that I’ve been forced to finish the entire thing before playing it at all--something I have not done since Spell Saga 4.0 was finished to show at Gen Con back in 2011. The whole thing could be rendered nearly pointless if the game isn’t fun to play--but then again, how can you know? Countless hours of Photoshopping and weird little doodles for an unknowable outcome. If that isn’t the official theme of Spell Saga, or indeed, everything I make, then I don’t know what is.

Speaking of time, games, and 7th grade (and as was mentioned in previous correspondence) this Autumn, after twenty years of waiting, I will be releasing a card game I started making in 7th grade. The illustrator is my friend Weshoyot, who just sent me the final pieces this past week. This is after we began working on it together 9 years ago! My god, I know this blog has a sort of theme running through it but even that takes me aback, (it also takes me a-straight-back, to 2009, when I was getting married to my first wife, designing EPIOCH instead of planning a wedding, and about to start work on both The Novel & Spell Saga...what a fucked up year…)

The novel I started still continues, and work goes well, actually. Yes it’s been 8 years, but after forcing a second draft on New Years day of 2016 I have now arrived, one year later, into new territory. Most of last year was spent agonizing through a muck of the same few chapters. It was almost nerve wracking to pick it back up, after a month’s rest, and knock-out another two new chapters without a hint of friction.

I was talking to my brother while he was in town (we always have the same talk and he hates it, but I always push it) “why aren’t you making things” I ask him every visit. I know he wants to. And I can’t speak for him, or rather, I won’t but I think there’s this perfectionist thing that hits in varying degrees. (I’m speaking more about myself then him, right now) I’ve read that  perfectionism is linked to depression, and alcoholism--this idea that things need to be a certain way, or they aren’t worth it--when really, that’s not true at all. 

Things just need to be as good as you can make them at the time, and then finished. I spent most of last year stuck on the same songs, and the same chapters, unsure of how to move forward, yet sure they had to be brilliant or cool.

But, I’m not either of those things. I don’t know how many passes I think will bleach the uncoolness out of something, but it doesn’t work. There’s something to be said for taking one’s time--and of course putting something away and rewriting it is definitely in everyone’s best interest...but still, finishing things as best you can is important.

I was talking with Meagen the other day about this, about how we as human beings tend to think if something is not hard or time consuming that it must not be good--that a novel should take ten years and not, say two. See? I even wrote the word “one” there and had to erase it. A novel? In a year? How drab.

We as artists don’t believe in ourselves, and pretend that putting time into a project will make it that much more special--or even better, waiting forever to start it...Fuck the fuck outta that. Make it and be embarrassed and move on. Just make it as best you can.

I am afraid of many things, including the new chapters I just wrote, because they happened quickly. But that is how art appears! It boils up like feelings because that’s what art really is. The craft is in getting past yourself to sit down and start the thing past your own fears. The craft is in making it sound good. the craft is in finishing it. I hope my brother starts making things, and I hope I start making things quicker.

The last day he was in town, I put on the pants I bought when I was 22. They were my favorite pants to write in for years, lasting through a full marriage and into a new one. A pair of 2005 women’s jeans so old the crotch is ripped out (my dick hangs like a cotton bulge). I looked at myself in the mirror, decided against them, and picked out another pair of pants for the evening. It was President’s Day, and my band EFFORTS was about to play our first show.

I had spent three weeks wanting to vomit every time I thought about it. But the date on the flyer appeared and with it, our last practice before loading our gear. By the end of practice I was too hungry to be nervous, and Zach, Geoffrey and I arrived at the venue to drink.

Meagen appeared, worried about a friend of ours. We stood in a parking lot across the venue and I tried to console here, it had been a rough couple of days for the both of us.

Last week was Valentine’s. I spent the night before the holiday of hearts holding our dog, Ellie, as her heart began to fail. It had been three years since the doctor told us she would die any day, and now it seemed the curse had come to claim her. I whispered nice things into her ears as she melted across my chest, and then we both feel asleep. 

I dreamed she could talk, and she told me she was hurting. And then she transformed between a young girl and grown women, back and forth again as Meagen and I held her. At the end of the dream she told me to look up at the ceiling to see what death looked like for dogs; it was a dance of shadows and light that made no scientific sense, but I understood all the same. When I awoke Ellie was staring at me, alive and well, he heart has since settled to normal.

So Meagen and I were already wound up when some really bad shit went down for a friend. I tried to console Meagen across the street, minutes before the soundcheck. I was already hot in my leather jacket, but I kept it on because the homemade arm band was tied around my right limb. The arm bands were an idea I had floated by Zach months ago and, black for mourning, with our logo, the crucibolt emblazoned upon it. I had sat down sometime between my dog trying to die and the show to make the both wraps at home using ribbon, velcro patches and iron-on sheets cut carefully and branded by my wife’s straightening iron. (i. have. never. been. cool.)

Meagen asked if I was nervous, and I said yes. Then, we walked into the venue to smoke and drink some more, Geoffrey and I both having quit tobacco except for rare occasions and the first-show-ever exception.

I waited 32 years to perform music--it still feels like a daydream that was never actually supposed to happen, but at the same time, if I’m being honest, events were always leading to this. It feels like I pulled off a miracle that was always going to happen.

On stage we were surrounded by a dimly lit room, filled with lots of people we knew. I didn’t know what to do so Zach instructed me from his drum kit on what to say to the sound guy. Then we launched into our newest song, “6 pack, nice abs!(stinence)” and I immediately heard my own vocals for the first time ever. It was an awful shock. But that feeling was overwhelmed by the rush of sound screaming out from behind me as I stared down at what my fingers were doing and sang as well as I could.

It was Zach’s idea to start with “6 pack”. I had spent two years planning for this moment, certain (god-damn-it, certain!) that when I got to play this shit live, the band (whoever that would be, there was no band, barely any songs, a pipe dream), we would start the show with the opening track of the album “everyone will leave and you”, but two hours before the show Zach said we needed to open with  6 pack, it, and it was agreed. Plans are just plans, sometimes real shit needs to happen.

Here’s a video of it.

We got through the first pre-chorus, and then I was almost smiling as we launched into the second verse

Some may feel possessed

I myself obsess about it

By the end of the song I was already sweating from the stage lights and the leather jacket; and the way I was screamed, stooped with the guitar strap across my shoulder, I felt myself nearly black out several times, a moment that would continue throughout the show.

It occurred to me afterward the opening lyrics were written while driving down the very same street the bar was on, near-as-exact to a year ago as I drove to buy airplane bottle liquor while texting my Father in an AA meeting.

Dad’s on his way to a meeting

I’m on my way to the store

And there I was, holding the guitar I grew up pretending to play, the cherry-red-heavy my Father let me borrow as he left for California, a son who had never written a song, asking someone he didn’t know very well for a guitar they never used anymore. 

He used to write little songs

He don’t write nothin’ no more

Then, the song ended and I heard people yelling and applauding. without looking up, Zach clicked us into the next one and we slammed through another two minute punk song about feelings (the boys and I recently decided to call our genre mid-punk, as we are so damn old compared to ‘dem kids’). It was during this one my head started to get away from me, that I began to realize I was, somehow on a stage and not in my imagination, and I had to grip the guitar pick tighter and focus on what I was doing. That is how insane it felt. And then, at some point during the set, stage lights started to jump and bounce everywhere and the surreality lifted into some sort of mega-dise of everything I had ever wanted.

My favorite part of the entire show was turning to Zach & Geoff between songs and laughing before we launched into whatever was next. Here was the set list, lest we ever forget:

6 pack, nice abs!(stinence)

everyone will leave and you

may you absorb all evil

the bridge song

better off without you

I saw a pale horse

west coast

ash to dust

word waster

vera

Everything ended with me singing a song I had written about a time 5 years ago when Meagen and a friend--the very same one I was consoling her about--were playing Super Mario 2 (Japanese version).

I’ll never be as happy as I was

On those Winter nights

After the show ended, Ben walked up on stage to give me a hug and congratulate me. “I can’t believe you just watched me play a show!” I shouted. I hope he noticed how perfect it was not, as I sure did.

It is so important to just go for things, and fuck up, and not be perfect, and then try over, and over, and over again. When it comes to art, you can do anything you want (if you’re meant to do it). And why would you want to do it, why would you dream about it everyday, if that dream wasn’t meant for you?

Work hard. Fuck up. Fix it. Let go. And finish.

That’s my plan, over and over again, and somehow, it looks like it’s starting to work. If you’re waiting for a package, I hope you have it by the time you read this. And if you’re ever in Nashville, I hope you can see EFFORTS play a show.

-mE.