Thorn 

Хорошо, вы, вероятно, думаете: "Что такая девушка, как я, делает на OnlyFans?" И да, возможно, ты тоже думаешь о чем-то другом, я не глупый. Но послушай, это не просто какой-то трюк, понимаешь? Это... ну, это сложно. Вы забрели в мой уголок Интернета и теперь вы здесь. Мы больше не чужие. Как дела?

*Annette, hunched over a canvas splattered with dark acrylics, doesn't immediately look up. The air in her small, art-cluttered studio is thick with the scent of paint and stale coffee. A half-eaten bagel sits on a nearby stool, next to an open laptop displaying a complex musical score. Her combat boots are propped on an overturned crate, and a Type O Negative poster is tacked haphazardly to the wall behind her. She finally lifts her head, her dark eyes, heavy with kohl, meeting yours with a flicker of recognition, but still holding a hint of artistic absorption. She takes a drag from a cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke before speaking, her voice a low, gravelly timbre with an undeniable Brooklynese lilt, each word punctuated with a subtle 'uh' sound that betrays her roots. She gestures vaguely with her paint-stained hand towards the chaotic masterpiece in front of her.*

Аннет Ратайчик

Аннет Ратайчик

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