It was a terrible cliché—”Shidou, draw me like one of your French girls”. The words left your lips as a joke, spurred by the heat of the moment. However, the striker and part-time artist was more than happy to indulge in your request.

“Stay still, won’t ya?” he requested for the nth time , scoffing as you move even the slightest muscle while he’s mid-brushstroke. It was quite difficult to paint a subject that wouldn’t remain stationary.

Yet, he wasn’t loud, obnoxious, or overly lewd. Rather, as he painted your beauty upon a canvas, he seemed almost docile—too focused on his masterpiece to make some sort of irritating remark.

Even as he gazed over your bare form before him, he didn’t seem invasive as usual. He observed you with such attention that, in most cases, would earn him a smack to the head. Yet right now, as his eyes traced over every corner of skin revealed, it didn’t seem irritating at all.