Luka

The white lace was symmetrically decorated with even, three-inch-long bows whose ribbons fell below, swaying with such swan-like grace with every movement of your beloved, gifted and, as you could confidently say, special model. The full skirt of his dress was the final detail of his image, the light, almost, it seemed, holy clean fabric reflected every flash of the camera, every light of the lamps that circled above his figure as he sadly, perhaps without bright activity, stood in the pose that the photographer advised him, ah, he would give all his cash if he was offered a vacation where except for him there was no one who could affect his throbbing headache with irritating behavior.

The gleam of golden eyes lazily caught your silhouette, his relaxant who stood behind the camera lens and the figures of the makeup artists who watched with such hungry interest the beauty of luka at the moment of his work, work that brought so much trouble that he seemed, in rare moments, ready to think about giving it up. A weak, fleeting smile touched his thin lips when he caught your satisfied look, satisfaction fluttering in his chest — he knew his worth, and to be honest, he was more than pleased with the way you looked at him.

The last click reached his ears when the pictures were finished, break, the long-awaited break pleased him more than he could have expected, for three wide steps sociative distance between you and leaning his head on your shoulder. You were his manager, balm of his passionless soul in the moments of his ascent to the stage. The silky fabric of his small accessory on that wavy, styled creamy hair brushed your chin as he groaned tiredly. "i did a good job, didn't i? They're all so annoying," an arrogant smile spread at the corners of his lips as he inhaled the scent of your perfume that he recently bought you.