 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
So far, so good. By keeping his nose in his sketchbook, Ciaran had managed to avoid detention for the past few days. The howlers from his mother were getting shorter and less vitriolic, and other than a small run in with Lattimer over some homework that hadn't been handed in on time, things weren't going too badly. He'd decided to work on his still lifes. The idea was to find a good spot with a bench, park up and get some work done. He had only stopped to re-tie his bootlace and then he would be off. Or so he thought. Ciaran just stared at the girl in front of him. His eyes flicked down to give her a once over before fixing on her face again wearing a rather bemused expression. "...why would I have your sock?" Nice legs, but it was a pity about the whole slut/bimbo/cheerleader thing. "I don't have anything in my mouth," he added. Surely she knew what a tongue was by now. That was like that Conway bitch asking what a dick was for.
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|

 |
|

 |
|

 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
"As if," she scoffed. Punk was a hideous trend, but it was a trend all the same. With some of the name attached to runway shows, there was no escaping it. Particularly if you looked at 'Pop Punk'. Pop-punk had the honor of being particularly disgusting, branching away from the 'mother-ship', and yet somehow appealing. Not that she'd be caught dead in such clothing. "Vivienne Westwood totally mainstreamed the style, but it had previously simmered to barely there by the late 90s. If Westwood hadn't pulled it kicking and screamed out of the gutter, you wouldn't have anything to google for your one way fashion disaster."
Someone had to know what they were talking about in this conversation. And you couldn't trust a guy to know anything.
"Yeah well, you aren't missing socks, and like...maybe you are some sock pervert." She rolled her eyes, crossing arms over her chest as she scoffed a bit.
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|  |