Paper cuts. They seemed to simple, yet hurt like a bitch, really. Only, once upon a time, they just simple meant they hurt like a bitch, and you whine about it a bit because they did hurt, if there was anyone around to listen. Only these days, Rory had come to learn that a paper cut could actually mean you were about to be someone's random snack. He was sitting on his front steps, sketch pads and oil pants strewn out all around him as he worked on a painting of Linlithgow Palace with the loch stretching behind it... the amazing view he had from his modest little cottage in the small village. On the step below, he also had a large artists book with his latest drawings in it for the next edition of Lachie the Scottish Leprechaun, a cute little children's book series a good friend of his wrote that was now a number one bestseller in Britain, Ireland, and Europe. Rory had been illustrating the little story books from the first one ever published and now it was basically the biggest source of his income. He kept his job at the hospital as a wardsman two days a week because he just enjoyed it and had a lot of friends there, but truth was, he didn't actually need a day job with how much he earned from his art with these books and sideline commission of painting Scottish features and landscapes for tourists.

( He wasn't alone that evening, though, despite being wrapped up in his work... )


Word Count | 6,587