I bet you guys thought I was dead! (This is where your supposed to reassure me that I'm loved.) Nooo, I didn't die! I've just been like a squirrel with ADD on PMS for the last four weeks, so I've refrained from writing (excluding FaeMail, of course.)
Enough rambling. I own myself, my sketchpad, and the pencil mentioned later in the story.
I don't own any cheese though.
Damn.
I was sketching when he gallivanted into my personal space, effectively stopping me from whatever act I had been commencing with.
"You're not drawing me again, are you my dear?"
I don't know how you can put so many tones into one sentence, but let me tell you, he can pull it off. First there comes the natural smug haughtiness of his nature, then the impishness, then the pleased and subtle joy drizzled on the top, with just a hint of childlike euphoria.
What can I say? He's a complex guy.
Person.
King-y thing.
"For your information, highness, I'm not drawing you this time. I'm drawing my Muse." Oh, how I love to burst his bubble… I'll deal with the repercussions later.
If I once said his words were laced with emotion, it is nothing compared to his facial expressions. Of course he can always control them, but he likes to get the point across effectively… especially when he's making someone feel guilty. First comes the minor embarrassment, then he covers it expertly with a sweet but terrible stare, and, with a slight quirk of his mouth, the mischievous and near dangerous look his subjects are so famous for.
"Are you now? Tell me, why is he wearing my clothing?" he inquired.
"Er… about that. Heh. Yeah. You see," I paused, knowing that I wouldn't get out of this one without loosing my pride, or a limb, and finished the sentence in a frantic jumble, "He looks like you sometimes and reminds me of you so I call him," a gasp for breath, "Mini-GK behind his back!!"
His response was a slow blink. I fidgeted with my pencil. He lounged on my computer chair. (On a side note, I never let people sit in my chair, him and my best friend excluded. I let her, because she would slap me if I told her to move. I let him because I don't care to test that particular hypothesis with another person.)
"Who do you like better, me or your Muse?"
"Why, you of course, your majesty." I'm treading on string cheese here, so let's see if I can get through with out my feet smelling like Limburger.
"Good then." he drawled, glancing at my computer screen. He then pulled a very graceful and regal double take.
"Good God, you're obsessed with the man!" he exclaimed, looking at a rather shirtless picture of the David Bowie style Goblin King.
"What?! He's pretty! LOOK at him!" I exclaimed, offended that he insulted my poofy mullet muffin. Oh, yes, I said it.
"Look at his hair, dear. It looks like one of those mushroom clouds your people are so fond of making over other countries."
Let it be said that I am not above sticking out my tongue at royalty.
"You're just jealous of his awesomeness."
I got a dry look in return that clearly stated, 'Oh, I am so much better looking.'
"You really should thank him, you know. He gave you such good business, did he not?" I asked weakly, knowing that I had already lost this strange argument.
"I suppose you are right. He did give people some false hopes before running though…"
"You mean the pants?"
"What?"
"Uh, nothing."
Well? Did it make you laugh? REVIEW And you get an (unwilling) shirtless mini-Jareth! Or a cookie. Whichever you prefer.