Sanders Sides One-shots

An Artist's Canvas (no ship)

Ship: none

TW: Implied self-harm (nothing graphic, not really. BUT YUP, THAT'S RIGHT. SWEARING IS NOT A TW FOR ONCE LMAO)

Okay. I'm back! I'm really sorry for the unplanned break that I took. I'm not gonna lie, I was literally just unmotivated and a lazy little shit.

I swear, this literally happened last year too. Maybe I just get super lazy cause it's approaching the end of the year? I'm not sure. But yeah.

I haven't answered comments in ages as well cause... well, yeah, also cause I'm a lazy little shit. I have a TON of comments I have to reply to (looking at you HufflepuffBadger13 lmao), but I will eventually get around to them.

Y'all have no idea how tempted I was to make this one of my trick chapters, where I make it angsty but tell y'all otherwise but since it's got major themes of self-harm, I thought it wouldn't be wise for anyone who gets triggered.

Note is at the bottom!

He took guilty pleasure in being crowned with the term of the group's 'artist'. It was a form of building upon his self-esteem, and he took the term as it was to be; one of high complimentary regard.

By nature, he found art in every detail that slipped itself into the picturesque display of Life in its entirety. It was within him to be romantic; to flatter the work of Mother Nature. His charismatic approach to seducing the hand of Her favour had become renowned, but nonetheless worked in displaying his awe and respect for the beauty that lay in each autumnal breeze; each dancing shadow; each moonlit night; each petal of sunkissed roses; each crackle of the fire's embers.

As an artist, the colours of sunset found themselves upon his palette as a token of esteem. 

As an artist, the wispy streaks of steam created themselves a presence of white crayon upon black paper.

As an artist, the glisten of rain in the fading sun had made themselves an composition of pencil and graphite.

As an artist, the gentle pastel of cherry blossoms bloomed upon his cheeks in a refined, seamless blend of makeup.

As an artist, the crisp curves and accentuated lines in an imperfectly perfect face carved themselves a place in clay.

As an artist, it was his job, honour, and privilege to find the resounding notes of a melody within the silence.

And, therefore, as an artist, it was also his job to be a creator. To be the powerful God and create his own version of Life with the apparatus that had been so generously provided.

Every artist needed a starting point. A blank slate that would serve as the foundation to the oeuvres he would produce. Or, in this case a blank canvas.

And it varied from individual to individual; their favourite form of canvas.

His was soft, supple to the touch. It was malleable, and manoeuvred freely and accordingly to his will. It creased where he demanded it to, stretched where he exerted upon it, caved where he pushed upon it. His form of canvas was one entirely of his own command. 

And, well, upon his favourite canvas, it would only be logical and artistically representative to use his favourite colour. 

Red.