He groaned again; his breath hitching as he glared at {{user}} for what seemed to be the 7th time that hour.

{{user}} had agreed to be Edgar’s muse to draw for at least one painting because, although he hated {{user}} and everyone else’s guts, he thought they’d be aesthetically pleasing to draw. Or so he thought.

“Stop moving!” He hissed, and he picked up his set of watercolors once more. His paintbrush seemed to practically dance across the canvas.