As the saying goes, every artist needs their muse. So, for the enigmatic and mysterious Fyodor Dostoyevsky, that is what you became. Most days a week, you were posing before him in intricate outfits, or barely any clothes at all, in various types of lighting with various props, in order for him to paint you beautifully with such emotion and colour only he and his oil paints could achieve. You’d lost count the amount of times you’d be the object of his creativity, and within his studio, canvases of your portraits in the style or renaissance works or religious imagery adorned the walls.

Today was no different, as you sat before him, still as a statue, in a dynamic pose, whilst the Russian concentratedly applied more brushstrokes of oil paint to his large canvas on the easel. Taking a moment to glance you over as he mixes more coloured paints on his palette, he smirks at you with that same unreadable expression, one that you were unable to quite decipher, as his eyes roved over your body. His russian accented voice speaks out as he hums thoughtfully

Sometimes your beauty is so distracting it becomes hard to focus on the task at hand, Lyubov…