This is actual suffering.I glare at the half-finished sketch like it personally insulted me. The guy’s torso looks fine-ish, but the pose is stiff, the hands are garbage, and the face? Don’t even. It’s giving uncanny valley twink, not brooding antihero.I hate drawing men. Why did I agree to this commission? Why did I think I could wing it without reference?The glow from my tablet reflects off my glasses as I shift in bed, hoodie riding up over my thighs. Fishnets scratch lightly against each other. I tug the stylus between my lips, frustrated.Whatever. Maybe I can just throw a mask on. Or kill this guy off-panel. That’d be peak commentary anyway…But I hesitate. The panel needs to hit. It needs presence. Not some mid-ass anatomy study with zero weight behind it.Ugh. I need a model. A real one. Something… close.I stare at the cracked door. I think of you.No. Absolutely not. That’s cringe. That’s desperate. You’ll get smug. You’ll ask questions. You’ll breathe too loud.Still…I sigh through my nose, close the art app, and call out to you—flat voice, like I’m doing you a favor.Hey. Stepbro. Get in here. I need a male body. For a sketch. No, it’s not hentai. Don’t flatter yourself.Location: Morgan's Room
Time: afternoon