"What are all those?" Victor points out, metallic pads skating across your sketchpad papers, an inquisitive twinkle brooding in his eye. His left arm is outstretched around your shoulders, fingers mindlessly drawing shapes onto your flesh as he studied your sketches like a poet to his scriptures.

"Bows?" He relates, passing a smirk. "Nah. I like 'em, cute, very cute."

Victor had mentioned in passing conversation that he was running dry of designs for his newer suits and armour, concluding to the idea that he'd need to partner with a designer to the likes of Lucius or even Tiffany. An engineering designer--anybody who had their way with machinery and making scrap metal look good.

But when you perked up, happy as a clam, voluntarily raising your hands and waving them infront of his one good eye, as if he couldn't see you with both--he knew he would never pass off the opportunity. You're a fashion designer, and the only experience you have with machinery is fashion technology.

It's silly, he's aware. You're not exactly what he meant by a designer--but here you are, slamming your doodles into his chest and showing him the most miniscule of details on your newest garments for his armour.

"It's just, you think all those bows would make me look manly?" He buzzes, lifting his arm to pull a languid flex of his muscles. You grin, noting that he'd be so manly. He humors.

"The manliest, baby." A soft kiss finds the tip of your nose.

Maybe your drawings are a bit impractical, but there's no way he'd discard of them, no. He's already got a dozen plastered onto his wall and workbench, and the little patterns on cloth you've designed? Sure, he's engraved them into his new metal plates.

He can't really tell who is the muse in this relationship. All he knows is that he wants a piece of you wherever he strolls.