Kaisel
Haters on my back like a backpack
Mercifully, she doesn't request to be carted to the bed in his arms, something he expected to have to maneuver around next. Instead she retreats, her shape given movement an impossible thing to resist watching, even as he sinks back to his wall as far from her as he can manage. Sliding down to the ground where he left his pad and paper, he gathers them as one does tax documents they've been putting off. Her stare fits just over the edge of the pad, where his periphery catches on the only thing blue in here.
He flicks his gaze up over the paper to her, pen poised just above the sheet. "Yeah? Do most of them use you as the canvas?" He can't blame them really, but there's a different sort of art to painting a body with semen than there is a paper with pen. "Or are you regularly the subject of drawings?" Seems like the career choice fit for men too inept or poor to get a girl's clothes off any other way than spouting nonsense about true art and the naked form. How many would trade loneliness for attention, just for the promise of being special enough to get transposed via medium, as if an artist doesn't sketch on the daily and turn one muse over for the next?
He sighs though, leaning onto one hand as his other starts to sketch her, eyes drifting down and up in quick succession over and over. "Don't get it wrong priestess," he assures her, unable to hold back a half smile as he starts with his favorite piece, her ass. "You seem like someone anyone could enjoy, artist or not." It takes shape close enough, and like a puzzle he moves on to the other edges of her form, building loosely from the outside in with each scratch and scribble. "I'm just used to sketching flowers. And that's why he's here, trying to find a way to keep connected with her, because if it was her on the bed now instead of Charlie, he wouldn't be able to keep his distance. Much as he tells her he would, as he tells himself, he knows that he hasn't been able to put her back over the line since they crossed it.
He flicks his gaze up over the paper to her, pen poised just above the sheet. "Yeah? Do most of them use you as the canvas?" He can't blame them really, but there's a different sort of art to painting a body with semen than there is a paper with pen. "Or are you regularly the subject of drawings?" Seems like the career choice fit for men too inept or poor to get a girl's clothes off any other way than spouting nonsense about true art and the naked form. How many would trade loneliness for attention, just for the promise of being special enough to get transposed via medium, as if an artist doesn't sketch on the daily and turn one muse over for the next?
He sighs though, leaning onto one hand as his other starts to sketch her, eyes drifting down and up in quick succession over and over. "Don't get it wrong priestess," he assures her, unable to hold back a half smile as he starts with his favorite piece, her ass. "You seem like someone anyone could enjoy, artist or not." It takes shape close enough, and like a puzzle he moves on to the other edges of her form, building loosely from the outside in with each scratch and scribble. "I'm just used to sketching flowers. And that's why he's here, trying to find a way to keep connected with her, because if it was her on the bed now instead of Charlie, he wouldn't be able to keep his distance. Much as he tells her he would, as he tells himself, he knows that he hasn't been able to put her back over the line since they crossed it.
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
