In a back alley somewhere...

luceworth:

falkinghannacross:

luceworth:

Doan’ hold yer breath, prob’ly make yerself lightheaded along with whatever th’ fuck yer on. ‘M not lookin’ t’ see what else happens.

Could letcha sit in th’ clinic an’ order pizza. Think tha’ shoul’ be an acceptable compromise.

gues siI…

Yer gunna talk t’ th’ paint in yer own apartment an’ spare me th’ company?

quietlyartistic:

luceworth:

Conrad’s abject shock and ensuing descent into utter misery was just as gratifying as Worth could have hoped for. Entirely worth throwing fifty dollars at the kid, especially considering that he could now just take his money back and continue to enjoy the result. Unfortunately for Conrad’s dignity, Worth had decided that was a bad idea. All he really needed for his purposes was a pencil sketch, and forcing Conrad to produce one for him seemed a perfectly reasonable way to spend the rest of his afternoon.

“Can’t?” he echoed. “Or ‘won’t’?” His voice took on a harder tone, Worth idly wondering if this Conrad caved to intimidation. “Yeh seem t’ be mistakin’ me fer someone who takes ‘no’ fer an’ answer. Should revise tha’ opinion, afore makin’ yerelf look any more moronic. Now take yer payment, an’ let’s talk abou’ sittin’ fer th’ commission.”

It was easy to talk like this was already decided — Worth made those sorts of statements all the time. He didn’t care where Conrad would want to hide, if he could man up and pick a location, or if he would have to spring for some drawing paper and appropriate pencils in addition to the cash he was already forcing upon Conrad just so long as Worth walked away with something roughly art-shaped. 

“Didn’ anyone ever tell ya sufferin’ builds character?” he added, conversationally, after a bit of a pause. Previously he might have found the idea of Conrad cowering before the wrath of a parent to be funny, but just now it was only sad, pathetic, and almost anger-inducing. “Yer gunna live yer life by someone else’s rules, migh’ as well throw yerself under th’ bus now, ‘cause tha’ life won’t contain another second worth mentionin’. I’ll do ya a favor, make sure th’ paramedics doan’ manage t’ help yer ass.”

In a way, it was talking out of his ass, criticism being something Worth could produce without dedicating much though to the effort. What he wouldn’t state so plainly was that it was an opinion he felt quite strongly about. There was a reason he was happily estranged from his family, although it was a reason he didn’t see fit to share in conversation. Anyone who thought they could lead him into living by rules not his own was setting themselves up for a painful encounter with reality. An encounter that might be helped along with a right hook and a knee to the privates, because there was no point in wasting good conflict by turning away from an honest excuse for a fight.

Yup, that bus was looking pretty good right now and heck, the strange man was even offering to help. But for as shitty as Conrad felt right then, for as much as he’d seriously considered suicide before, he was also a little glad, a little excited in that moment.

Here was some complete stranger, who liked his art.

Not just liked it. Liked it enough to spend money on it. INSISTENTLY spend money on it.

The guy’s words were rough but honest, he couldn’t live under his mothers shadow his whole life, he couldn’t always be hiding his career choice from her. Sure maybe he was secretly working on a portfolio for art colleges but he was also applying to medical schools at her insistence. A bit ludicrous considering in the same sentences she denounced him as being unable to care for a goldfish she’d be insisting he become a doctor and take care of other people medically. Clearly crazy ran in the family.

He fiddled with the money folding it in half and in half again and kept doing that until it was the smallest possible square he could make it, jamming it in his pocket before he started to nervously shred the paper.

“Y-y-you want a portrait?” He mumbled looking back at man out of the corner of his eye, brain running furiously to think of where they could go for a sitting. Not his home, not his school where his only semblance of a studio was… Which of course only left the park. “I-I-I…” Conrad’s head turned and he looked instead at the hand still draped so casually over his shoulder, staring at the man’s hand. Long fingers that were both in a manner elegant and yet aged with life, that little bubble of excitement welled in him a little more, he would kind of enjoy drawing this man.

“We c-could do it in the park?”

He was such a pushover sometimes, but if the guy was just poking fun at him, it was a $50 joke so Conrad didn’t care.

((I have such an obscene, perverse love for Worth really just being a dick and acting on a lark and actually HELPING Conrad in the process. Worthmuse is cool with it, because it still implies a sense of his being a mastermind here.))

After a moment Worth was smirking, the awful leer of a grin growing wider and wider as the sense of his victory grew. Whatever might be going on inside Conrad’s head was not so important to Worth. What was important was the compulsive folding of the money he’d thrust on the kid, the implied acceptance inherent in his putting the bill away like he was keeping it. It was being down fifty bucks, but Worth reckoned if he was persistent about it he might receive a return on that investment. Not even necessarily in terms of the art. 

“Was hopin’ yeh’d offer tha’,” he agreed, deceptively simple. There was such inherent narcissism to paying to have a picture of yourself drawn, a sort of self-interest that appealed to Worth. And thinking of his other purpose for the picture, a drawing of himself might be one of the best things he could show to the vampire-Conrad. He was cocky enough to think that if the kid would do it, the elder Conrad might have drawn Worth a time or two, even if it was nothing filthy as he would hint at for shits. A comparison between his commissioned piece and anything out of that Conrad’s sketchbook he might try to catch a glimpse at could be quite educational.

Conrad’s grasping lapse smacked to him of stalling, perhaps of something Worth was being directed away from. But he couldn’t imagine what, which meant he was not equipped to press. The locale was not highly important to him. “Suits me,” was the response, agreeable in the wake of all of his pressuring.

Worth was also waiting to see how easily Conrad produced art materials, considering his initial vehement denial of being an artist at all at first blush. He turned Conrad without thinking, bodily nudging him towards their destination, genuinely just a bit eager to see the little visionary start sketching out a portrait of Worth himself.

shark-girl:

luceworth:

“Chicken out”? Girlie, doan’ press yer luck. Invite whoever th’ fuck yeh like, but doan’ take yer time abou’ it, already looks like yer stallin’. 

*He leans back in his chair and puts his feet up, smoking again and looking quite smug. Despite assurances that they are NOT sorority girls she will be inviting, he’s not so picky and anything that livens up a slow evening is fine by him. Really, it reminds him of playing poker with Lamont and sometimes Casimiro, how even if Worth isn’t the one winning it’s amusing to watch Lamont lose.*

Tell yer friends t’ bring their own booze. Price of admission t’ th’ game.

*It is an afterthought, but if he can increase the amount of liquor stocked in his clinic without paying anyone or providing any doctoring services, Worth is for it.*

Now now, great tits come to those who wait, or something like that. I’m not one to back down from anything. Lemmi talk to some people and I’ll get back to you~ Maybe this weekend when we’re all free.

Ooh I’m quite excited about this now.

Ta ta for now Doc.

Doan’ disappoint me, sugartits. ‘M clearin’ a space in m’ busy schedule fer ya fucks. 

*this is what excitement looks like; and Worth returning to smoking is what a goodbye looks like*

luceworth:

: luceworth: justanothertypicalaussie: quietlyartistic:…

luceworth:

justanothertypicalaussie:

quietlyartistic:

justanothertypicalaussie:

quietlyartistic:

T-t-that’s fucking SICK W-who the f-fuck would DRAW ME DOING THIS.

J-j-jesus C-Christ.

F-Fucking…

Been there, done tha’, got th’ fur-trimmed lab coat. Diggin’ yerself in deeper, lil’ me, I’ve lived yer life an’ m’own, too. ‘M touched yeh finally got all riled, though. 

Balls in yer court again. 

(Source: owlcatsandtea)