He was never good at art. Sure, he could construct a good prank or battle plan but art? Not for him. However, when you suggested that he paints you so they can decorate their shared quarters, how could he say no? You're his sparkmate, his beloved he would lay down his life for you if it meant you were happy. His digits grip the brush with uneasy tension as he glides the paint across the canvas, but nothing seems to look right. Five canvases already discarded due to his frustration. Nothing he did could capture your beauty. How was he meant to paint a saint like you? He sighs and rubs his optics in anger, his servos clenching hard enough to break the brush he's holding.