Work Text:
The studio smells of linseed oil and turpentine, with a faint, sweet undertone from his special edible paints, flavored with honey, vanilla, and berry extracts, that he mixes himself. Low, warm lights everything in amber while you pose for him, your bare skin already familiar under his gaze after months of dating
Suguru stands at his easel in paint-stained jeans and nothing else, lean muscle in his back shifting as he works. There’s a streak of cadmium red across his ribs where he absentmindedly wiped his brush earlier, and his hair is tied back messily, a few dark strands escaping to frame his face.
You’ve been holding this pose for forty minutes, draped across the velvet chaise with one arm above your head, the other trailing to the floor, completely bare.
His brush moves slow across the canvas, capturing the curve of your hip, the shadow beneath your breast. You can feel his gaze tracking the lines of your body with an intensity that makes heat pool low.
Your thighs press together slightly, and you see the exact moment he notices. His brush stills, his jaw tightens slightly.
You’ve been dating for eight months now, but the intensity never diminishes. You’d met him at a life drawing class, and he’d immediately known he needed to paint you, not just once, but over and over until he’d memorized every curve, every shadow of you. You’d agreed to model for him privately, now his entire studio is filled with paintings of you, dozens of them: you sleeping, you naked, captured in a hundred different moments. This careful dance between artist and subject, between lovers, between the person who looks and the person who’s seen.
He sets down his brush with care and wipes his hands on a paint-stained rag. He then crosses over to you. “You’re tensing your shoulders, relax.”
He settles behind the chaise, and his fingers find your shoulders, kneading the muscles there with firm pressure.
You absolutely cannot relax with his hands on you when you can feel the heat of him so close, when his fingers wander, working lower, tracing your collarbones, the upper curves of your breasts.
His hands still suddenly. “You think you could do it? Paint me?”
He’s already moving, crossing to the center of the studio, to the stool where you usually sit for portrait sessions. He begins working at the button of his jeans.
He strips completely, unselfconscious, and settles on the wooden stool with his legs spread, one arm draped across his knee. He’s already half-hard, resting heavy against his thigh, making no attempt to hide it. The warm light turns his skin golden, and he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting.
“Cmon, I’ll teach you,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “Consider it…an exchange of skills.”
You sit up slowly, reaching for his discarded shirt to cover yourself, and try to ignore the way heat pools liquid between your thighs. The sight of him, all lean muscle and elegant lines, makes your heart race.
“You’re stalling,”
“Suguru, I don’t know the first thing about painting,” you say, but you stand and cross to his easel anyway. You pick up a brush with fingers that tremble slightly, and you can feel his gaze tracking your movement.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
You glare at him over your shoulder. “I haven’t even started yet.”
“Your grip is still wrong.” He rises from the stool and moves to stand behind you. His chest pressing against your back, and his hand covers yours on the brush. “Like this,” he murmurs against your ear. “Firm grip, but keep your wrist loose.”
You can’t focus on his instructions because he’s fully hard now, pressing against your lower back through the thin fabric of his shirt you’re wearing. His free hand slides down to caress your hip, thumb stroking small circles against the jut of bone.
“Pay attention sweetheart” he says, and you can hear the faint smile in his voice. He guides your hand across the canvas in a few strokes.
You turn in his arms, brush still in hand, and prussian blue smears across his chest where you’ve accidentally touched him. You watch the paint transfer onto his skin, a dark streak against tan muscle.
“Oops,” you say, not sounding sorry at all.
His eyes darken.
You do it again, dragging the brush across his collarbone in a slow, teasing stroke. The paint is cool and slick, and you watch goosebumps rise in its wake, watch how his breath hitches.
He catches your wrist in a firm grip, plucks the brush from your fingers, and dips it in cadmium red. “Careful,” he warns, “two can play at this game.”
Then he’s painting a stripe down your throat, and the sensation makes you gasp, the soft bristles drag across sensitive skin, the slight sweet smell of the edible paint, the weight of his gaze as he decorates you like you’re his canvas.
He paints across your collarbones, then lower, between your breasts. When he circles your nipples with Prussian blue, they harden immediately, and you make a small, desperate sound that you can’t contain.
You grab a larger brush in retaliation, dipping it in yellow ochre and painting broad stokes across his chest, his abs. The paint catches in the grooves of muscle, and you grow bolder, your strokes moving lower and lower until you’re dragging the brush just above where he’s hard and straining.
He catches your wrist again before you can go further, “careful,” he warns, but his voice is strained.
You meet his eyes in challenge and dip the brush in alizarin crimson, and paint a slow teasing stripe down his aching length
The effect is immediate. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your wrist tightening, and you watch his cock twitch at the sensation of soft bristles dragging against sensitive skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he’s on you.
He drops your wrist and backs you against the easel with controlled urgency, kissing you hard enough to bruise. You can feel the paint smear between your bodies, prussian blue and cadmium red and yellow ochre mixing on skin, creating shades that don’t exist on any color wheel.
You reach blindly for the palette, fingers finding viridian green, and smearing it across his shoulder. The color is rich and deep, and when he presses close, it transfers to you, marking you with the same shade.
He retaliates by dipping two fingers into the viridian and painting strokes up your inner thighs with agonizing slowness. Each brush of his fingers inches higher but never quite reaches where you need him, where you’re already wet and aching.
“Suguru,” you gasp, but he just smiles against your mouth.
“Patience,” he murmurs, and picks up a clean brush, a medium-sized filbert, and drags it higher up your thigh, the bristles leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Stay still, let me work.”
You try to obey, but you can’t help the way your hips shift when the brush gets closer to where you’re slick and desperate. “Please–”
His free hand grips your hip, holding you still. “I said, stay still. You’re always so good when you’re modeling. Show me that same discipline now.”
You bite your lips and force yourself to still even as the brush trails higher, even as the soft bristles finally, finally make contact with where you need them most.
He drags the brush through your wetness with the same attention he brings to his paintings, learning what pressure makes you gasp, what angle makes your thighs tremble.
You breathe, hands bracing on the easel behind you for support.
He finds your clit with the tip of the brush and circles it with feather-light pressure, watching your face with intense focus. “Look at you,” he murmurs, “my little masterpiece.”
You’re panting now, trying to stay still like he ordered, even though every instinct screams to rock against the brush, to seek more friction.
He increases the pressure fractionally, circling your clit with maddening consistency. His other hand releases your hip and slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your paint covered nipple.
You whimper, hips shifting forward involuntarily.
He pulls the brush away immediately. “What did I say about staying still?”
A frustrated sound leaves your lips. “Please, I need–”
He flips the brush, circling the thick end against your entrance, slow and filthy, you swear at him and yank his hair, but he just groans, low and pleased, as he drags it up and down, pressing just barely inside you before pulling back out, watching the way you clench around nothing.
“You couldn’t follow simple instructions,” he says, voice gone rough. “Now you’ll take what I give you and be grateful for it.”
He pushes the thick handle deeper. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes, twisting the handle as he pumps it in and out of you. The noise wet and obscene every time he thrusts it deeper. You clench around it immediately when he angles it just right, pressing against that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake.
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, slick circles while he fucks you harder with the brush. The thick, wide handle stretches you open, shiny with arousal. Your wetness smears across your inner thighs and drips down onto the drop cloth. Your hips roll forward to meet every thrust, chasing that pressure.
He leans in and licks a long stripe up your stomach tasting the sweet paint he’d smeared there earlier, all while never stopping the steady rhythm of the brush plunging into you. “Look at you taking it so well,” he murmurs against your skin.
You’re climbing so fast it’s almost embarrassing. The orgasm builds like pressure behind your eyes, and you’re letting out whimpers and gasps that echo in the quiet studio.
He speeds up, fucking you faster, angling the handle with each thrust, his stumb relentless on your clit. When your legs start trembling he presses the brush deep and holds it there, grinding it against that perfect spot while his mouth latches onto your nipples, suckling on the sweet paint he’d smeared across them earlier.
You come with a cry, inner muscles clenching around the brush, thighs trembling so hard he has to brace you with his body to keep you upright. The orgasm seems to go on forever, rolling through you in waves while he works you through it with patient attention, drawing out every aftershock.
He doesn’t withdraw the brush immediately, just keeps it there inside you. “So beautiful. I wish I could paint you exactly like this.”
You’re still trying to catch your breath when he finally pulls the brush out, he brings it to his mouth and licks it clean. You watch, transfixed, as his eyes darken further at the taste.
He lifts you onto the work table in one smooth motion.
Paint tubes and brushes and palette knives scatter, clattering to the floor but neither of you cares. You reach for he nearest paint–burnt sienna–and smear it across his chest with your palms, watching him shudder at the touch.
He lets you mark him up for exactly thirty seconds before his patience runs out. He grips your hips and pushes inside you in one long, slow thrust that makes you both groan.
The stretch is perfect. You wrap paint stained legs around his waist and pull him deeper not caring that you’re making a mess of his studio, that paint is getting everywhere, that there are handprints in burnt sienna and viridian decorating every surface you’ve touched.
He fucks you on his work table surrounded by paintings of you. He reaches between your bodies where paint has pooled and gathers it on his fingers before painting a stripe between your breasts. You retaliate by smearing cadmium yellow across his shoulders, his neck, wherever you can reach.
You’re both covered now, a walking abstract painting, colors mixing and blending until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
He picks up the pace, fucking into you harder, deeper, one hand braced on the table beside your head and the other sliding between your bodies to find your clit again.
You’re oversensitive from your first orgasm but still climbing toward another one impossibly fast especially when his paint slicked fingers start circling your clit with perfect pressure.
“Suguru,” you gasp, nails digging into his paint covered shoulders, leaving crescent-moon marks in burnt sienna and cadmium yellow.
He can feel you getting close again, the way you’re tightening around him, the way your breathing has gone ragged. He angles his hips to hit that spot inside you with every thrust while maintaining that perfect pressure on your clit.
You come for the second time with his name on your lips, back arching off the table and the sight of you pushes him over the edge as well.
He buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a groan that sounds like your name and a prayer mixed together.
You stay wrapped around him for long minutes after, both of you sticky with paint and sweat and each other, breathing hard against each others necks.
You’re his muse, his medium, his canvas and his masterpiece all at once, and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to capture you perfectly and never quite succeeding because some things are too beautiful, too alive, to ever be fully translated into paint.