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Reason #245 that I wish I could draw:
Tom is in my head. Not sixteen-year-old human Tom, but not ugly Voldie Tom either. Still young, still too damn beautiful for his own good, but also too pale to be human, and with eyes the color of blood. All black and white but for his eyes, and the tracery of narrow cuts that cross his chest, as if he'd been submitting to bloodplay; and he is standing against a wall with his arms spread, and smiling, simply wickedly, and if we could see his tongue it would be ink-black and forked.
I think I've been reading too much Laurell K. Hamilton.
Tom is in my head. Not sixteen-year-old human Tom, but not ugly Voldie Tom either. Still young, still too damn beautiful for his own good, but also too pale to be human, and with eyes the color of blood. All black and white but for his eyes, and the tracery of narrow cuts that cross his chest, as if he'd been submitting to bloodplay; and he is standing against a wall with his arms spread, and smiling, simply wickedly, and if we could see his tongue it would be ink-black and forked.
I think I've been reading too much Laurell K. Hamilton.