COLORS - N.RK
SUMMARY: the artsy guy in your class offers to paint you; who knew he meant in more ways than one? (10.7k)
PAIRING: artsy!riki x afab!reader
CONTAINS: praise +petnames! oral + unprotected sex, paint play, guided masturbation w/ a paintbrush, slight insecure reader, rik paints you w/ his....y'know, dark-haired ki w/ streak!! consent king ki :)
NOTE: based on colors by halsey! w/ a sexy twist :) my first smut writing so please feel free to provide any feedback
he tapped the end of the brush to his lip in thought, before dipping the bristles into the blues of his palette.
you wondered, in that moment, what it would be like to understand that feeling. taking merely seconds in thought instead of minutes before creating the next stroke. how effortless it seemed to him, the ideas that he'd spend those quiet moments pondering before bringing them to life on canvas. you'd been in the back of the class, staring at your own blank canvas for the last hour.
whoever said art class was an easy elective clearly didn't understand the concept of creative block, absent talent, and nishimura riki. though if you're truly feeling cynical, you could say that with time, a bit of guidance, maybe the first two could be helped. but not him, not riki.
he'd been the biggest distraction since day one.
it started with his paintings, of course. you'd look over during class only to be met with a canvas brilliantly decorated with deep and vibrant hues, bursts of color depending on the day. sometimes you'd see a sunset, with the soft shades of burnt oranges in a stark contrast against cloudy blues. other times you'd see a moonlit sky, with acrylics that made the stars shine so brightly you'd sworn they'd been plucked from the night. campfires, adorned with embers and surrounded by lush trees, detailed depictions of swans, beautiful, beautiful work that you never seemed to have the talent to achieve.
you swore it was just envy. plain and simple. you wanted to be like him, nothing else. that the only reason your eyes kept wandering over to his side of the classroom, had simply been for bits and pieces of inspiration.
but then you noticed it. not just his painting; him. the way he'd spend moments in between his strokes, looking at his art with such an intensity you'd wonder if the painting itself would break into a sweat. you'd watch as he created images with pursed lips and pinched brows. the way he'd bite his lower lip as he made intricate 'corrections' to such minuscule mistakes along his board. but above all, you would notice the level of reverence he'd seem to have for his creations, from start to end. how he never seemed to eye a blank canvas as a sign of failure, but a chance for a new story to tell. how he seemed to care for every aspect, shade, and 'accident' he'd make along the way.
you could learn from him in that regard. maybe even learn a couple more things from the class overall if you stopped staring at him so much, too.
from the stool upon which he sits, your eyes inevitably float back to your very own canvas, shining the same shade of snow it did as when you first began, without so much as a stroke. it's evident you won't be getting much done today, and the time on your wristwatch, confirming the soon approaching end of your class, aids in the thought. you began to pack your items up amidst the sea of chatter from other students, hoping to slip out earlier than the formal end of the lesson.
but it's as if your professor senses the end too, calling everyone to attention in a voice that almost instantly quiets the noise. her pale legs reveal themselves as she hobbles from around the desk, mentioning how quickly the time seemed to have passed without her noticing. you wondered what that was like, too, being able to get so deep and into art; instruction, or the doing, that you lost track of time. the class itself never claimed your attention that drastically, though riki had been a close second.
"class, before you all are dismissed-" professor jona begins, grabbing the thin-framed glasses from her desk and slipping them past her nose. "i'd like someone to share their piece, and the story behind it."
her green eyes search the room for a victim, and you don't bother stopping the packing up of your items. she'll pick riki; she always does. can't say you blame her, really. not when he's clearly one of the most skilled ones in the class. his painting always told a story, the same way his eyes, hands, and teeth-bitten lips did as he created them.
but it's your name instead, you hear ring out from the front of the classroom, freezing you in motion as heads from around the room turn toward the back.
"(y/n)!" professor jona speaks again, as if the state of shock you remained in, backpack suspended in mid-air, wasn't enough to indicate that you'd heard her the first time. "would you like to turn your easel around, tell us about your work today?"
no. not really, you think. especially considering the blank state it's remained in for the past hour, the only story you'd be able to tell is how you'd simply propped the canvas onto the wooden frame, not much else. unless they really want to hear about how you spent the entire class looking at riki's fingers rock back and forth along his own art.
"i um...." you began, throwing the bag over your shoulder with a low huff. maybe if you act as if you're still about to leave early, she'll ultimately end up choosing someone else. "i'd rather not, really."
"oh don't be so bashful!" professor jona persists, her wrinkled hands gesturing to your canvas again, with the pursuit of several eyes following the direction. "we'd all love to see what you have; you don't have to go too into depth."
if there was any depth at all, you would gladly have shared. but just like the stares from your peers and professor alike, the canvas was simply blank.
you wondered if this was your fault. the only reason why you'd gotten by in this class had been coasting on last-minute assignments, turning in poorly depicted attempts at abstract art, void of any true feeling or real emotion. simple lines and splashes of color thrown together in a manner that screamed you were acting out of time constraint, no real passion. your realistic art had always been an inadequate imitation of the theme you'd gone for, never truly able to capture the true 'essence' or feelings the others seemed to channel. something too tethered, controlled with little to no artistic tone or voice. nothing ever effortless, true, or deep. nothing like riki's.
maybe this was inevitable. only a matter of time before she'd stop picking him. after all, you were nearly halfway through the semester, and there had of course been plenty of students with their own, deep, abrasive, and abstract stories to tell. you just wish she hadn't started with you.
but as you held your backpack close to your side; you'd realize that she had no intention of giving up. so in a quick attempt to get the humiliation ritual over with, you picked up your easel and gave it a turn.
silence at first, then the soft attempts to stifle snickers, low mutterings from amongst the class that made you want to burrow into the ground beneath you and hide.
the red curls hanging along the side of your professor's head shook as she gave you a nod: as if both validating and trying to understand the vision herself. "oh, well that's just....."
"missing something." you hear a classmate murmur from beside the professor. upon a glance to your right, you see it's jake whose lips the words leave, followed by hushed chuckles among his surrounding group.
you resist the urge to roll your eyes, quickly flipping the stand back around in part annoyance, part embarrassment. it was bad enough that you seemed to have this massive block regarding creation on your own. but putting it on display, for everyone to see and judge, hadn't made it any easier.
there's a warmth that floods your cheeks upon the remembrance that riki is likely one of those doing the same. he didn't seem like the type to chuckle to himself or make jokes about your disposition, though the thought hadn't calmed you at all. ultimately it had been the principle; the guy you'd spent all the time watching in class had now probably been eyeing you back with an opinion of his own amongst many. artsy, effortless riki. you didn't even want to peer in his general direction to find out.
instead, you let out a quiet huff. "sorry, profesor jo, i just-" you pause, eyes flickering up to meet hers; and only hers for the sake of your dignity. "haven't been able to find much inspiration."
her head bobs faster now, serving as what she surely intends to be an empathic response, despite her already calling you out in front of the entire class. "and that's okay!" she says, a wrinkled smile forming upon her features. "we've all been there," she remarks, tilting her head down to meet eyes with you from above her frames.
she turns her attention back to the overall class, using your sorry canvas as an example of how not to deal with creative block. she mentions the importance of looking into the world around for inspiration and ideas for creation, taking moments of quiet to truly observe before painting.
what she doesn't understand, is that you've tried this before. spent more time than you can recall staring at your own works of art, quietly waiting and hoping to create something that felt real, true to you. any organic idea that you could transfer onto the canvas just as effortlessly as so many others seemed to do. that the whole 'just start painting' thing hadn't worked for you, often ending in a horrid mess of color, devoid of any true explanation or story. all she saw, ultimately, was your apparent lack of effort at all.
"....and i'd like to mention that there are so many wonderful artists in this class!" she drones on, aiding further in your embarrassment. "connecting with other artists helps, especially-" her eyes return to you as she says this.
"take riki for example!"
of course, you think, watching as she gestures over to his stool just next to the left side of her desk. "riki, you'd help out a classmate if asked, right?"
a groan that you manage to suppress, claws at your throat, the heat in your cheeks grows hotter with each second when you see it. riki, from the corner of your eye, giving a slight nod in return to the instructor who thought it wise to air you out.
he can hardly get his verbal response out before she interrupts him, noting once again how class is coming to a close. funny, she'd have more time for instruction had she cut the tangent about leaning on each other altogether. "well isn't that just splendid!" she drawls, turning back to you with a knowing smile. "i suggest you two get together right away!"
you wanted to melt into the floor.
"with all that being said," she clasps her hands together. "i'd still love to hear about someone's piece.....riki, if you will?"
unbelievable. there's just actually no way.
but when the streaked hair giant turns his canvas toward the majority of the class, you close your eyes in acceptance. listen to his annoyingly charming voice as he tells the story of his piece. it's a simple one, so far at least. incomplete, but still containing all the depth yours lacked. he says he'd just playing around with colors for a while, but when your eyes finally peel open to see it, you're amazed how structured it actually looks. how familiar the gently drawn out lines of the picture seem to look. you think it may be a shelf he's working on. whatever story may come of it, you'd inevitably hear about it when he got called on again.
the rest of the class has followed your lead, stuffing items into their respective bags as you pop up from your stool. your professor gives praise to riki (of course) and the last bit of instruction before you finally turn toward the door. you're finally about to leave when you hear it.
hurried footsteps making their way behind you, your name on his lips as he approaches.
you whip around faster than lightning. because there's no way he's actually trying to talk to you.
but when you look back, all six foot two of nishimura riki stands, looking back at you with an expression of gentle curiosity in his features.
he's handsome up close. with long lashes that flutter rapidly as a small smile forms upon his features; he extends his hand in an effort to grasp yours. "(y/n), yeah?" he grips the same hand you hadn't even realized had been drifting upward. "are you busy this weekend?"
you nearly let out a bitter laugh, realizing exactly what this is about. "i'm not, but," a swish of air sounds as you let your hand fall from his gentle grip. "you don't actually have to help me with painting, despite what professor jo says."
although as you eye him carefully, you can't say it wouldn't be nice. you imagine making time to spend with him outside of the classroom. the deep voice of his booming from behind you as he shows you how to make your way around a canvas, stroke by stroke.....
but alas, you know he's got more than enough on his plate. being the arts (to include dancing, singing, and rapping in other curricular areas), prodigy, and all. it was considerate that he'd said what he did upon being called on by professor jo, but truth be told, what else could he have said? can't help her these days, professor jo; i'm busy carrying the world? the comments he'd given were to be nothing more than a courtesy, not an obligation. "besides, i'm sure i'll find my inspo at some point."
"actually," he says, his smile seemingly growing softer in what you presume to be an element of quiet admiration. shyness perhaps? "it'd help me too, if anything." he says.
"i was hoping i could paint you, if you'd let me."
oh. you think. he wants to paint you?
your hand has seemingly drifted up again, because he lets out a low chuckle as your pointer finger finds your chest in confusion. "m-me?"
another low laugh leaves his lips, this time with a nod in confirmation. "yeah, you." he says, his dark orbs glistening with delight under the harsh blue light from overhead. "we'd be helping each other out, really."
then, his voice drops a tone as he tucks his hands into his side pockets. "you inspire me," he says, his eyes shifting gently along your face in a way that feels sincere. you almost miss the way your heart stutters at his words due to pure shock.
because....how did you inspire him? by staring at the back of his head every class? you aren't sure what kind of inspo he usually derives his creations from, but it's quite a shock to say that you've made the list. especially considering that glorious works of art he's decorated his pieces with. maybe he means your essence, truly. the way you'd sit quietly in the back of class, unassuming and clearly out of place.
maybe he needs help depicting a trainwreck.
brushing the thought off, you roll your shoulders, shifting your weight for a brief moment before responding. "oh, well," you clear your throat as the palms that clutch your canvas begin to moisten. "alright, then."
when you offer a smile of your own, he quickly pulls his phone from his back pocket, handing it over to you in a swift movement. you hope he doesn't notice the way your fingers tremble upon typing in your digits before handing the device back over to him in a matter of seconds.
he doesn't seem to, because upon receipt of your contact info, he offers nothing more than a bitten back smile before he sends you a message, confirmation that he's got the right number. "great," he says "how does....." his eyes roll upward as he ponders the thought. "saturday at noon sound?"
"perfect," you say, not giving yourself the chance to overthink the next words. "sounds good to me."
"saturday, then." he reiterates, pulling his hands from his pockets to retrieve his canvas as he makes his way to and out of the door. just before he crosses the threshold, it's as if he remembers to say something. because he pauses, turning back toward you with a slight amusement in his features. "it may not be much help and.....you've probably heard it before, but,"
he gestures to your blank board lazily, biting back another soft smile that threatens to reveal itself at any moment. "just.....try to paint what you feel."
and in a flash, he's gone. leaving you in a manner that far more in need of air than before.
when you finally do return home, it's as if the inspiration that you'd been waiting to hit you for weeks strikes you with a bat. the only thought on your mind is him, and when your fingers finally touch the canvas to adorn it with washed-out watercolors, the image forms underneath the low light of your apartment living room.
you picture his smile from earlier, the shy one before he asked to paint you and tucked his hands away. the stubborn part of your brain recalls the way the ends of his lips seemed to twitch as they formed the words. the recollection makes you feel excited, and a flash of bright orange appears in a flash, straight and long, across the canvas.
sprinkles and specs of purple appear next as you recall his voice, your heart refusing to let go of the way it stuttered when he'd called your name out at the end of class in a manner that made you feel thrilled. they line the edges of the once white board as your fingers move frantically, should they forget even for a split second what he sounds like.
red is next. it's the brightest one that glides effortlessly along the board as you imagine his plump lips, how he'd bitten them up as he spoke to you the same way he'd do so when creating a work of art of his own. you want to project yourself into the image itself, as if to surround yourself with the very color you'd associated with his lips. you wanted to be swarmed in it; and the feeling of warmth you'd imagine they'd give. you picture the lovely pair making their way up your chest, down your back, along your shoulders, before switching to blue.
even if his eyes were brown, it's the one color you feel captures the essence of them. the strength and unwavering gaze they'd seem to trap you in earlier, the same way they'd do with his own art. the color is light as you make broad strokes with your thumb, index, and pinky fingers. because in that sense, his eyes can be that way as well. gentle, soft, in a glint amidst them, like when he'd told you to paint what you felt, before he'd left you in the classroom for the day.
and so you did exactly that; looking at the abstract work now, with its bright blend and fusion of colors, is something you'd never thought you'd be able to do. the work that sits before you now is a highlight of this afternoon, every feeling you'd felt toward him encapsulated in those mere moments before you'd gone your separate ways. bright, intentional, beautiful, and anything but void of emotion.
--
saturday comes sooner than expected.
he offers you a water when you take a seat on the cushioned chair he has set out for you, to which you politely decline. it's sweet of him, truly, but being without a bottle leaves you less opportunity to fiddle with anything. "this is....a nice place."
and it is. the living room of his apartment was spacious, the walls lined with small portraits; some drawn, painted, or taken with a camera. the only spot that wasn't practically littered with images or depictions of art was the wall you sat in front of. instead, it had been lined with shelves of books, serving as the backpiece for the picture he'd soon create.
he offers a small smile as he pulls a stool in front of his easel. "thanks," he says, before setting up an array of various paints in front of his canvas. "make yourself comfortable, please."
you'd worn a dress for the occasion: flowy and floral. light and loose enough to feel comfortable. but it wasn't every day that you'd be offered the chance to be painted by an artist, specifically not from one as talented and handsome as he was. so despite his words, you found yourself shifting within the seat, trying to catch the low hum of bossa nova that played lowly in the background.
he looked comfortable, though. in his black top and grey sweats, you watch as he assembled his items with the same ease and carefree nature he'd always carried with regard to art. the sunlight that peered through the curtains captures the blonde streak of his hair and the delicate features in a manner that makes your chest stir. you wonder if he's ever created a self-portrait: ever tried bringing his own beauty to life on a canvas.
but you don't ask. because you're only slightly more curious about why it's you specifically who sits in the chair amid the backdrop of books. as he settles into a comfortable position on the stool, the words finally leave your lips. "so.....i have to ask," you start, tilting your head in inquiry. "why paint me?"
he pauses his set-up for a second, looking up at you with the same glimmer of amusement behind his eyes as that day in the classroom, as if the answer had been quite obvious. "i think you're pretty."
the words leave his lips so matter-of-factly, you almost feel foolish for asking. a new color that you hope won't last long enough to be captured in the portrait floods your cheeks as you blink in shock. "t-thank you,"
you aren't sure what else to say, really. you didn't think he ever noticed you, not really. from where you sit in the classroom, it was a semi-surprise to you that he had even known your name.
he simply murmurs a hum in acknowledgment, turning his attention back to the partially done canvas. "and a bit frustrating." he says with a sly smile.
that earns another tilt from you. the tone is light, playful, but the truth in his words still clear. "frustrating? how?"
he dips the thick-rimmed brush into the water that sits in the center of his palette, the same way you've watched him do countless times. "i've done countless portraits before; so many sketches," he says, bringing the bristles toward the browns for the background. "beautiful works, people would try to buy them off of me, y'know?"
"but this," he taps the bridge of his nose with the end of the brush, brings it to the space underneath his eyes, then his lips. "you," he says, dark eyes shadowed by even darker hair fall upon you. "i can never seem to get you right."
your heart hiccupped as the words left his lips. he's tried before to capture you, or your essence, by the way he's phrased it. he speaks of you as if you're the art itself, that he's only done his best to replicate it. you almost ask him again; why you? but the answer has been made clear. especially with how he looks now, as he moves his fingers along the whites of his page, etching it with color.
so you ask something else. "i....inspire you that much?"
he doesn't even pause again, nodding ever so slowly as his slim fingers clutch and control the brush. "of course," he says, with a smile "everything does." he continues; and the way the light captures his adam's apple as it bobs isn't lost on you. "the ducks by the pond on campus, the fog in the early mornings before classes,"
"the cherry blossoms by the park," the way his expression shifts as he eyes his painting lets you know something is coming together. "pretty girls that sit in the library," he says, with a gentle wink. "it's hard not to be inspired."
you'd let out a snort if the last remark didn't make you flustered. undoubtedly, there was beauty everywhere, especially the sakura trees and the formation of ducks by the pond. but to be so inspired by it to try to bring it to life was a completely different thing. and to be so inspired; to see it in you, had been something you hadn't even fathomed.
the piece, you begin to realize, is in fact a continuation. this was most certainly the one from class, with shelves arranged to form the image. it was only upon hearing his words that you understood they'd been proper bookshelves, like the ones you'd sit under in between courses. the same thing he'd tried to replicate somewhat in the living room of the apartment.
you suppose this really had been helpful for him. maybe in a matter of moments, he would be able to capture you the same way he does a bright sunset, or a vivid horizon upon a beach. "well," you say, eyes falling onto the way his hands drift. "glad i could help."
the room grows with a soft quiet as riki works. he watches you intently from across his stool before turning back to his piece to drag his hand across it. his brows furrow in that same familiar way they would in class, and he wears the unmistakable expression of concentration when creating something beautiful, something real. it's funny, being on this side of it. you'd never thought you'd be the focus of it when it came to his works.
but here you are, sitting as he moves with pinched brows and quiet precision. it's only the sound of bristles meeting cloth, accompanied by quiet jazz that fills the room, your lips hesitant to even so much as quiver. it's only when he lets out a sigh of frustration that they finally twitch.
"is...everything okay?"
he nods slowly, dark hair bouncing with the subtle shake. "yeah, i'm just..." he huffs, moistening the bristles. "a bit scared is all."
never in a million years did you think you'd hear those words leave his lips. riki, the class prodigy, who'd generated creations worthy of praise and even more....was scared? he, who the professor had looked to as an example to project, promote, and constantly acknowledge. the artist whose minimal 'mistakes' only aided in his works coming alive?
"scared?" you ask now, squinting. "for the....features, right?"
he nods lowly, biting at his lower lip. "i just don't want to mess it up, y'know?" he mutters, as a battle wages behind his eyes. "i don't want to ruin it."
funny, how all the times you'd spent looking at him in the classroom, this is the first time you truly see him. sitting now before you, in a pair of gray sweats and wearing an expression of worry, is when you finally feel as if you recognize him; the real him.
your classmate and peer, the boy who shows to the world the fruits of his labor, the beauty in his works, but deep down deals with the same challenges and worries as you. the boy who feels and experiences the same points of block when creating. the boy who feels stuck in his own work because of: you.
only the pressure for him was ten times worse. often looked at as the example, golden boy of the field, you realized he didn't get to have these rare moments of block, let alone show up and leave his class with a blank canvas the way you did.
maybe, you begin to wonder that you are both more alike than you realize.
he smiles a soft one before shifting back to work, but you've already seen it. the flicker of vulnerability in his features. the gentle frustration behind his eyes at himself for being unable to bring his vision to life. a feeling you know all too well.
before you realize it, you clear your throat. "i tried what you told me the other day," you say, returning the soft smile as you speak. "about just painting what i felt."
when his dark eyes meet yours, you hope the words provide him any kind of consolation, any help as you continue. "my piece was a little more abstract, but.....it worked."
it's true. his advice on a random afternoon had done more than a dozen art lessons, videos, and lectures from professor jona. you'd only hope that even if he hadn't been able to capture what he'd been going for, at the very least, the image could make him feel something other than frustration.
of course, it had helped that you had a very handsome, tall, and downright gorgeous muse in mind as you created it, but maybe: he needed a reminder of his own words to do exactly that. especially if in his eyes; you were as pretty as he said you were.
riki nods, his hands moving slower as he works, as his attention shifts to the words that leave your lips. "that's good," a genuine tone echoes through the room. "what'd you paint?"
"it was....a bit of everything," you say, thinking of the flurry of colors you'd produced mere nights ago in your living room. "but it's better than anything I've done in....a while."
you shock yourself with your own honesty. perhaps it's something in the air; the warm silence in which you two safeguarded within the four walls you sit in, up until this point. there's an ease the energy of the room has shifted into, the jazz being an excellent choice to aid in it.
in a moment's notice, he stops working completely to offer another sweet grin. though it's not unlike the smiles he's given you before, this one is most certainly softer; more authentic. "that's really awesome, actually," he says, a soft glimmer in his eye. "hoping i can do the same, hm?"
before he can even do so much as shift back into his perpetual 'flow-state' you quickly tell him that he can. "i took the advice you gave me a bit literally, but," you start. "whose to say you can't do the same?"
this question seems to intrigue him, because he places both the brush and palette down nearby, before raising a brow. "what do you mean?"
so you tell him. explain that even though the piece you worked had been shapeless, lifeless, it held thousands of words and feelings beyond it. that expression, in that moment, relied more on color, the feeling itself it'd drawn from you. not a series of shapes and angles aligned in a manner that could change at any moment.
"it's like this," you say, practically itching in your seat to tell him about it. "think about what you're feeling and... choose a color that best represents it."
he squints in thought, and you can practically see the art critic in him willing itself out of his body. "that does seem to better fit abstract art, though."
a scoff nearly leaves your lips upon hearing his words. it's as if another switch flips in your body because in that moment, you finally understand the persistent debates and arguments held within class. the snarky remarks jake and other classmates would make amongst each other from and across their sides of the classroom. the rebuttals against those who taught and thought of art as a clinical process, a study; something to be perfected and achieved.
those who thought of the field with deep intricacies and nuances as a craft to be improved upon. the very same people whose views contain such constraint that seep into your subconscious, blocking out any imperfect thought or paralyzing you as you stand before your own page. one to be graded, critiqued, and misunderstood by anyone who didn't quite 'get it' or feel what you felt.
and to be quite frank, it'd be a shock to see if he were one of those people. so you challenge the very thought.
"whose to say it does?" you ask, a newfound confidence rising within your voice and body as you squint back at him. "it may end up capturing more than you think."
and there it is. the flicker of worry, concern, and unease that brings his eyebrows together and purses his lips. the expression seems to rip the words out of you before you can register them.
"you won't mess it up, riki."
there's a sensitivity in your voice that manages to simultaneously ease him and you as it floods the room. professor jo would be in shambles upon seeing this. the class wreck, trying to ease the expert into something new? unfathomable.
but your professor hadn't been there. in the living room sat only two art students, sharing quiet thoughts and confessions in the shadows of their own vulnerabilities across the thin veil of paint and cloth. no prodigies nor washouts; only you and riki, and the gentle hum of jazz the record player provides.
the pause he takes is relieved momentarily, and his eyes dance along the features of yours he'd so longingly tried to imitate. they flicker back to the painting, then to you, as he purses his bottom lip as if to say why not?
"show me." he then says, though if there weren't so much humility in his voice, you'd think it a command; one you easily oblige to upon hearing it.
accompanying this feeling, is a quiet ache in your chest upon hearing his words that sticks with you. a subtle feeling of regret that sits in your core upon the realization of the truth; that no matter how it seemed, he'd only ever been just like you. intrigued, thoughtful, and curious about the true meaning and value of art. maybe you'd have realized it sooner if you'd spent time with him, rather than merely looking at him from the back of the class. or even at times judging how 'perfect' his presentation had always seemed.
a pang sits in your chest for all lost time, but the curiosity in his tone makes you want to make up for it. in a flash, you're on your feet, crossing the room to stand in front of him. he only watches with intrigued brown eyes as you pop the canvas from the easel, and set it on the floor. "join me?"
he nods quickly, picking up the paints and setting them next to the piece on the floor as you take a seat next to the work. to the record player he goes, to turn up the bossa nova before he returns to sit next to you on the floor. you're grateful, truly: you were beginning to wonder if he'd hear your stuttering heart over the low tone of music.
he sits along the carpet, shifting the paints along the hardwood portion of the floor to prevent any major messes. "so....a color for a feeling?"
"exactly," you respond, watching as he mixes a deep blue with a gentle red, before dropping the tool. "exactly like that."
"so like....red for anger? green for envy?"
"not quite," you say, wracking your brain for the words. "it's more so what something makes you feel."
the images from that night flash in your mind; the recollection you'd had of his smile, voice, and their coinciding colors. a hue of greens, purples, and oranges across the canvas as the emotion had been pulled out of you. "for instance....." you look at the partially done image and faceless depiction of you that lies before you both. "libraries make you feel....."
"warm." he says lowly, an ease in his voice that stirs a new feeling of it's own in your chest. "cozy."
you're just about to ask what color he associates with the feeling, but he's already reaching for the brush again to dip into a slightly dried brown on his palette. instinctively, your hand grips his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. you pull away almost instantly, as if you've burned yourself upon the realization of what you've done.
"sorry," you say quickly, gesturing back to the palette. "i just....i also only paint with my fingers."
a tip he didn't necessarily need to take, but one you'd felt important to mention. he'd been using watercolor this whole time, so you'd felt safe to mention it. had it been acrylic or oil, you'd have been hesitant. though the ease with which you'd be able to work with the material, to you, at least, had made you feel more connected to the creations in a way.
but he does take it, wetting his fingers in the muddled water before connecting them with the brown, drawing lines along the canvas. then, suddenly, "what was your inspo when you did it?" he asks, looking up at you as his fingers dot the blank portions. "any muses of your own?"
you almost don't register the question, looking at the way his pale fingers run themselves along the whites of the board. in a flash, though, it hits you, earning a low, ironic chuckle that flies from your lips.
under different circumstances, you'd have dodged the answer completely; insisted on giving a vague answer or simply telling him "a guy". but in the spirit of revelations about each other and the unguarded ease with which you two had slipped into moments ago, it felt right to tell him. after all, he'd been the one who'd opened that door. insisted on calling you 'pretty' and apparently, the inspiration for his own works.
so, looking up from the piece his hands shuffled across; you attempted to use the same matter-of-fact tone as he did earlier when answering your question. "i thought of....." you give the same genuine smile as he did. "you, riki."
you aren't sure what to expect when the words leave your lips. a flood of color tints his cheeks as he looks back at you, and he bites back a surprised smile. "oh," he says, amusement skirting his tone. "guess i should have known, hm? you are always staring at me in class."
the record player may as well have scratched, because in that moment, you feel your heart plummet.
this entire time, he had noticed.
"i-" for a brief moment, you wondered if this had been what it was like for your brain to actually short-circuit. "i-"
he lets out a soft, throaty chuckle at your perturbation before gripping your wrist in his hand. "relax, pretty," he says, gesturing to the work with stained fingers. "clearly i noticed you, too."
his eyes capture yours under the cast-in light the windows provide. they hold you with a reverence for a brief moment, and upon feeling your once-tense hand loosen a bit, he doesn't let go. not even when he turns back to work the page.
with one hand lining the canvas and the other holding yours, he dots the lines of the depiction of your hair with a mellow yellow. after a moment of watching him sprinkle the color along the edges, you ask what it means.
he looks up at you, before a look of awe unfolds upon his features. "hopeful." he says, running the color along the lines of the portrait.
he spreads the color amongst many along the features of the canvas, slowly making his way toward the portions he'd once been hesitant about. you're tempted to ask what each of them means, but let him move in silence for some time, leaning into the way he clutches your hand.
then, by surprise, you feel a cool sensation against the back of it as he reaches to press the same color of yellow along the smooth skin, streaking the tone in a stark contrast. your heart practically trips over itself upon the contact, and you glance up at him to clarify. "hopeful?"
he nods, and doesn't stop there. before you can ask why, he dips his index finger in a shade of orange before dragging it along your arm, avoiding your floral dress as he does. he mutters something quietly, personal, in a tone so intimate you could melt. the jazz nearly drowns it out, but you think he says the word; "happy."
the sensation of his fingers running along your arm is enough to make you twitch; something you're almost positive he catches as he works the paint along your skin.
but you don't pull away, try to stop him as he continues. you only turn toward him, allowing him to work the paint up toward your collarbone, earning a low gasp from you as he shifts and adjusts his palette.
"shy," he chuckles, gliding his fingers along the curve of your neck. his eyes glimmer with the exact emotion he claims to experience upon exposure to the specific feature, as shown in how his fingers start to tremble upon nearing your face.
it's a feat of your own, trying not to twitch or shudder as his fingers dance along the corners and curves of your body, as if marking you like a portrait itself.
as he dons you in colors, you'd wonder how long he'd been connected to the feeling of them. how often had he grown shy upon seeing you in halter-tops on the way to and during class? how happy had it made him when you'd rolled up your sleeves to reach a book on the top shelf of a section in a library? did it always give him hope to see the ways in which you'd styled your hair on a specific day?
as the questions float in your mind, it seems as if he has one of his own. because after a moment, he pauses, then glides a swatch of blue along your chin as he lifts it up, as if you ask if the very movement is alright. as if to make sure no lines had been crossed.
it's only when you nod that he continues, muttering a soft "nervous." he wipes the blue along your cheek with his thumb, as he cups it before leaning in. "really nervous."
the words rip a gentle gasp from your throat, and you feel your breathing grow shaky as the gap between both of you begins to shrink. the feeling had been more than mutual, and by the way your hands fumble as they reach for the fabric of his clothes, it had been for some time.
finally, without taking his eyes off of you for even so much as a second, his nimble fingers manage to find the color red, but not before dipping into the water, and gliding the vibrant shade just beneath your lip, along the edges of your mouth. "desire," the words comes out closer to a groan as they tumble from his lips. "want."
you're leaning into his touch, eyes darting along his features, which solely concentrate on you. in that moment, it's as if you completely understand what it must feel like to be the subject of his art. he eyes you in the way he would a canvas, his dark brows drawn together and his plump lips pouting in veneration.
only, as his eyes circle yours, there's something softer behind the brown orbs, a gentleness in the way they glide along the colors of your cheek; and a new question. one that he chooses to now verbalize as he gazes into your eyes underneath the sunlight. "(y/n)," he breathes, blinking softly, as if he could etch the image of you behind his lids. "would you do me the honor of letting me paint you?"
and when you give a shaky nod, accompanied by a soft 'yes', he snaps into action.
the gap is closed with a gentle tug of your face towards his. the lips you'd long thought about feel softer than you could have ever imagined as they move against your own. there's a burst of your own red that seems to flood your chest, want spilling from you like a fountain as you nearly stumble over the painting in an attempt to lessen any further space.
he seems to understand this, because the strength you hadn't realized he had reveals itself as he pulls you into his lap. the flap of your dress rises slightly as he does, and his reaction isn't lost upon you as he steadies your thighs, shuddering lowly.
there's a reverence to his movements, a quiet restraint as he holds you as if you are something fragile, something delicate. his paint-stained fingers make their way up your exposed thigh, each finger tinting your skin a new shade. he stops upon reaching the waistband of your lace panties, before pulling his lips away to inspect your features.
you should feel silly when he does, the gentle features of your own colored in with washed shades of red, blue, and orange alike. admittedly, there's a low chuckle that he can't suppress as he eyes you, which welcomes a warm smile in return as you bring your hand up to wipe his own smudged cheek. but beneath it all is the clear and undeniable expression of sheer want.
so he presses forward, adjusting your body in his lap so that your back is against his chest. you lean into his warm embrace, tilting your head back to look at the delicate, unwavering features of his again.
you think he's going to take your lips between his again, when his arm reaches across the painting you both sit before, and he grabs the paintbrush. "riki..." you mutter, eyes following his fingers as they make their way back to you. "what-"
he silences your concern with a kiss, only breaking apart to whisper the gentle words that send tingles along your skin. "wanna try something first."
and then you feel it.
the drag of the thick-rimmed wooden brush along your skin, along the dips and line of your collarbone. a gasp leaves your lips as he continues moving it down the line between your breasts, the soft fabric of your dress sliding with it.
his other hand pops the clips of your bra mere seconds upon the dress making it's way down, the restraint in his actions growing thin. "riki..." you say again, although it's fathomed more out of a plea than simple concern.
a plea that he moves quickly to fulfill as your satin bra slides off your shoulders. "hm, pretty?" he says, bringing the end of the brush to your now exposed breasts, rubbing small circles along your nipples. then, lower, "feel good?"
you will the words to leave your throat, but they seem to be suspended there with each flick of the hardened material against the peaks of your chest. all you manage to get out is a low whimper as your back arched away from his chest to chase the contact of the brush.
but that doesn't seem to be enough. his lips find new spots along your neck to kiss and bite along as he lets out a low hum. "need to hear you say it, hun."
an unruly shiver emits itself from you as you feel his lips press themselves along your erogenous zones, marking them in a manner that will most certainly leave colors that can't so easily be washed away. the sensation of his bites paired with the lazy glide of the brush just past your areola almost proves too much to handle.
he seems to feel it too, his breathing growing heavy as he watches your lashes flutter every so often from the contact. his sweats don't help much, either; they easily give way to the shape of his hardening cock as it presses into your back while kissing you.
but it's only when you let out a weak. "yes, riki," between ragged breaths that he finally acts.
his nimble fingers move to spread your thighs apart, hiking up your dress as his other hand with the brush moves downward. the handle drifts along your chest, past your waist, then to your slick panties. shockwaves are sent through your body as he glides the wood across your clothed clit, bringing it up and down in an agonizingly slow pace.
your hips buck at the sensation, willing him to apply more pressure along your pussy with the brush, a low moan threatening to erupt from your throat as you grind.
"easy, baby." riki purrs, applying just enough contact to drive you insane if prolonged. "wanna take this slow."
but you don't. not with how much time you'd felt had been spent with inaction, watching and waiting from opposite sides of the classroom, but ultimately wanting the same thing. each other.
so you wrap your fingers around the base of the brush, keeping his touch there in alignment with yours in an attempt to bring it closer. "rik, please,"
his restraint seems to fray at your given nickname, and his grip on the handle eases at your touch. he pauses from neck kisses against your shoulder to peer over it instead, watching as you push the end of the brush closer towards your clit. he cracks only slightly as he watches you buck into the thick handle.
"fuucck," he hisses, adjusting his hand on the handle so that it clutches yours along the wood. "okay, baby....just....lemme guide you, hm?"
you nod fervently, loosening your own grip in submission as he changes the tempo and pace with the brush, flicking the tool from side to side in a way that makes your core ache. before you can stop them, whimpers are tumbling from your lips, soft, high-pitched squeals that grow with each movement along your panties. he lets you tilt the brush at a devastating angle to shallow along your lips now, your underwear sticking to the wet folds as you both move.
"shiitt, riki," you finally moan, your handle on the brush growing weak as you succumb to the pleasure that lights up every nerve in your body. "so....fucking good."
riki nods into your shoulder, the pounding of his heart thudding from behind your back as he grunts lowly. "i know, baby," his free hand drifts up to caress your exposed breasts, adorning them with specs of color; reds of course, deep hues and expressions of devastating want. "keep rubbing that pretty pussy for me, wanna see you do it in circles."
there's something about the low tone in which he speaks that makes you wish to obey. so in mere seconds, you switch to the circular motion he's told you to, mouth agape from the sheer pleasure it brings.
"oh," you moan at the contact, feeling his hand tighten around yours in an attempt to maintain the pressure. "oh my fucking god, riki,"
you won't last long. not with the way he picks up the tempo as your hands go slack with delight. the sounds of moisture sliding against the tool and material of the fabric rival with the heavy breaths between moans you let out. "i'm gonna fucking....mmgh.."
the dizzying spell of his hands against your chest leaves you breathless, and the struggle to find words pursues as he presses down harder, drawing out longer, deeper circles. "mm gonna what, pretty?"
the sudden jerk and twist of your body is the answer as you let out a drawn-out moan, clawing at his clothes for any semblance of grounding. your orgasm shoots through you, a sharp jolt that spreads from your pulsing clit along the nerves and veins of your empty walls, past your shaking thighs. the sensation is enough to make your skin along every exposed part of your body tingle as you squeak the words out. "mm....fuckin' coming,"
the sound that erupts from riki upon your undoing is nothing short of feral. he groans as he watches you twist in pleasure, only slowing down the pace of the brush when you push against his hand, whimpering as you ride out the sensation. "my fucking god, baby," he grunts into your ear. "you're so damn beautiful."
your hand is still clutching his clothes when he drops the brush and pulls away. in mere seconds, he slides the dress up and off of your figure, before guiding you out of his lap and onto the carpet. you watch intently as he hovers over you, pulling off his own shirt without doing so much as letting his eyes leave yours.
and boy, is he a work of art.
tattoos along his rib, you see dark letters that spell out 'CHOSEN' in a stark contrast against his skin. just above his waist, you see a bright red kiss mark, the vibrant in the same hue he'd painted his 'desire' toward you with. the same shade that stains your cheek, after he'd dragged his finger across it with watercolor.
instinctively, your finger comes up to palm it, circling the pair of lips in awe as he throws his shirt to the side. "so are you." you respond, a bit breathless from the high of the climax and the way he looks at you.
you don't miss the flood of pink in his own cheeks as he leans down to kiss you, peeling at your underwear with his fingers. when he gets them off, they are neglected just as easily as the thought of the jazz music that hums lowly in the back, drowned out by the noise of wet, sloppy kisses exchanged between you both.
the kisses grow messier, louder, as his lips move down toward your exposed cunt as he places several along your thighs, then a harsh lick along your clit.
a gasp leaves your throat, and you nearly squeeze your thighs shut as he suckles and rolls your sensitive parts around his tongue. the image is almost too much to bear; his head between your thighs, streaks of paint from his fingers that line them in an attempt to keep them open. your fingers make their way through his locs as you grip his hair, moans from your throat flying freely now.
"shiit, riki, i'm gonna-" your voice cracks at the devastating pulsing his tongue performs against your swollen clit. "m'gonna cum again, fuck." you manage to whimper out.
your eyes squeeze shut, though between flashes, you can see hues of yellow and blues have accumulated within the pale streak of his hair. whether it had been from the paint he'd coated your hand with from earlier, or the flecks from the tip of the paintbrush you'd both held, you weren't sure. but it all added to the image you'd never be able to forget; not now, not ever.
you come with a harsh shudder as he flicks his moist tongue through and around the folds of your pussy. "ngh!" you cry out, gripping the locs of his dark hair even harder as your thighs tremble.
he clutches them as you ride out your high, letting out a deep groan and bringing his head upwards to place another kiss along your cunt. "mhm, such a pretty girl,"
you can only twitch in response, growing weary as the second flood of pleasure washes over your senses. riki is already making his way back up your face with a line of kisses as he mutters sweet words into your skin.
he takes his time making his way up, running his fingers along the sides of your waist, the sticky sweat of it alone enough to activate a new blend of colors he spends on you.
the feeling of his hands along your skin is something you don't think you'll ever get used to. not with how every gentle stroke seems to set you on fire, sending you into a frenzy. the same, you begin to realize, can be said with regard to satiation. because as you lie, trying to recover from your last high, you practically ache to become close to him again. the once skin-tingling pleasure begins to shift to one of want when his lips find yours. "ki...." you mutter between kisses. "need you, please."
"i know, hun," he hums into your lips, the taste of yourself spilling onto your tongue as he kisses you. "gonna give you everything you need, promise."
but he's so agonizingly reverential. his hands move along your sides as if he'll break you should he grip too hard. he treats your body as if you were the painting from earlier, restraint of expression holding him back from painting you with all the brightest colors of his own.
you couldn't wait a second longer. not when you'd already waited for what felt like an eternity for a moment even remotely close to this; to him. so a slight push, you lift his weight from atop you, breaking the kiss.
"ki, i'm not like the painting, okay?" you say, running your hands along the base of the artwork that adorns his own body. "you're not gonna ruin me," you say, tugging at his sweatpants; which does a poor job at hiding his now leaking tip.
the darkness that falls upon his eyes is instant, and the once careful painter you'd known from earlier seems to fade away as the words leave your lips. it's as if he'd been waiting for you to say them all along, because his response is almost instant, his low voice practically dripping with need as he looks down at you. "what if i want to?"
this only makes you tug harder at his sweats, a low plea sliding off your tongue in desperation. "then do it, ki please do it." you gasp. "please ruin me."
and at your words, the last of his resolve crumbles. he practically rips his pants away, willing the space between you to ultimately disappear. "fuuckk, hun," is the only throaty, guttural warning you get before he lines himself up, and pushes into you.
the sensation is instant, hitting you as nearly as hard as the orgasm from mere moments ago, as the sheer width of his cock fills you with pleasure. you claw at his arms, pulling him down for any kind of support as he slams into you, a feeling that leaves you breathless.
a yelp emerges from your throat as you feel a sharp sting across your ass, accompanied by the echo of a slap. the sensation is so sharp you feel your eyes begin to well; that, just like his other markings, will leave a bright hue for you tomorrow, if it hasn't already.
the moans that erupt from him upon entry nearly send you over the edge again. it's as if you can feel the last of his restraint fray as he pounds into you mercilessly. he holds down your arms onto the carpet as he fucks you; as if you could go anywhere, anyway. as if you could do anything more than moan his name as he kissed, sucked, and nibbled at any exposed part of your body.
the moisture that spills between you sends the exchange of color down the valley of your breasts, and along his shoulders. it's a lovely shade of lilac that you've decided feels like passion, harmony, lust; all at once. and maybe one day, something more.
it's the same gorgeous shade you see when he breaks the kiss to look into your eyes. a gasp is evoked from you upon seeing the smudges materialize along his neck, a mix of the blue and red he'd given you.
you wonder how you look underneath him, smeared in the material with your mouth hanging open, willing your teary eyes to stay open as his cock drags in and out of you.
"beautiful," he says, as if reading your mind before picking up the pace. "long way from the back of the class, huh?"
you'd answer him if you could, but the only thing that seems to be able to leave your lips are the high-pitched moans that rival his low, deep groans as he speeds up.
his brows furrow as he presses his forehead to yours, his mouth parting in awe as he loses himself in the velvety warmth of your cunt. "i'm....not gonna last, baby." he mutters, biting his lip between grunts as the slap of his balls sounds throughout the living room. "i'm so close."
you felt yourself nearing the end, too, the coil in your stomach twisting and swelling with a sensation that threatens to spill over at any minute. the long lashes that riki peers through flutter every so often he watches you twitch beneath him. then, his brown eyes manage to stay open for just long enough to give a plea of their own, and a question, low, wrecked tumbles from his gasping lips.
"can i- fucckk, ngh," he starts, gripping your thighs with the tenacity of a man who longed for this just as deeply as you had. a man who took great pride in ruining you the way you insisted. "can i come on your belly, baby?"
you nod gently, whimpering out a soft "yes" as he tastes the salt along your skin with each sloppy kiss along your face. in a few quick, deep strokes, you're sent over the edge, gripping him with your walls as the nerves of your pussy flood with waves of euphoria. "sshiiittt, riki!" you hiss, the tears that formed from your pupils spilling over as he rams into you.
his eyes roll back after he sees you unravel beneath him. through visions of flashes of white you see his sharp jaw slacken as the heat of his breath glides along your cheek. "shit, (y/n) i'm gonna...."
the last of his resolve is used to pull out of your twitching cunt before your skin is pricked with liquid, hot and white, along the curve of your breasts, stomach, and facial features alike. "fucckkk" he groans, his chest heaving in delight. his lips find your face again, now adorned with streaks of his cum. "there she....fuckin' is." he croaks, as his eyes dart along the paint and cum littered portions of your figure.
he wills himself not to collapse on you, as if he'd ruin the very art he'd work so hard to create. but alas, he grows weak, succumbing to the fatigue as he eases himself onto your body, careful not to put all of his weight on you. there's a deep, low chuckle that sounds in your ear as he runs his hands through strands of your hair. "mhm, finally," he says, low, fucked-out. "got you right."
a swell of pride enters your chest, because his words, and the gentle expression of joy in his features as he kisses along your face, you know he's done it. finally brought to life the essence and emotion he'd been trying to for months; if not on canvas, he'd undoubtedly captured the image in his mind for many more months to come.
soft sighs and chuckles erupt from you two, and he takes his fingers to swirl the remaining color around your body gently. he does so the entire time eyeing you as if you'd truly been a mosaic, a mural, and the portrait all at once; as if you had been the real art this entire time. the once-forgotten bossa nova reemerges from the player, no longer drowned out by the sounds of bliss you'd created only seconds ago.
in a swift movement, he pushes off, and pulls you back into a gentle embrace, in no rush to clean either you or him, as if erasing the very proof that what had occurred would undo him completely, all over again.
so there you lay; breathless, weary, blissful, and content. the very words that described the body you claimed, and adorned in colors and the essence of love alike, his masterpiece.
