@bestiard sent: Casually sneaking from behind him, almost as a wolf hunting in the dark, but only to climb on his back and take a good sniff of his scent.
Standing at his desk, Alex sifts through a collage of discarded designs; half-hearted lineart of panthers prowling towards pin-up girls, a snake coiling like an encroaching vine around a disembodied, stilletto-heeled leg. What forced a frown to crease his brow, however, was a singular bill that was hidden away and unopened for a week or so, only fished out once the ‘out of sight - out of mind’ approach wore off and he submitted to the droll task of calculating whether he would be in debt for the rest of the week. Idly scratching at his jaw, the dollar signs blur, unfocusing along with his attention span, his scrutinising stare easing as his gaze flickers then gravitates to a sketched face --- peering at him over the corner of the document he should be studying. The prospect of his financial destitution no longer matters, any consequence of his inaction becoming insubstantial when his eyes lock onto her illustrated gaze.
Lucia had become a fixture in his parlour and flat even during her absence. The once empty contents of his fridge now stocked with provincials prepared for her spontaneous drop-ins; bottles of soda and pre-cooked meat, clementine rinds in the kitchen bin, a rented VHS of a B-movie collecting dust on the countertop. Mortal comforts assume the idolisation of religiously protected relics, much like any conversation with her, where even the most phatic and one-dimensional remarks and comments could rival the significance of a sermon. The bill is brushed aside, revealing a full page of fine-point drawings shaped by his memory, her face immortalised in overlapping repetitions and varying angles. So fixated on which details to amend; how to assure her likeness, whether the intone of a shadow was too harsh, which medium to use for colour, he is oblivious to his subject’s silent footsteps behind him. All until he feels a familiar pair of hands slide over his back. “Christ, you’re quiet when you want to be,” he huffs in amusement, unstartled. Grinning, his head inclines to face her, only to still when he hears a deep inhalation below the nape of his neck, her breath over his skin coaxing a tremor to stroke, sinuous and languid, from the crown of his head down to the base of his spine. “Lethal, you are, Lu. Could kill me pullin’ that stunt,” he murmurs, warmed by her sudden embrace.
