Artist at work
⟢ he’s so dumb, I love him.
⟢ inappropriate use of a power ring, implied shibari, piv sex, Kyle being stupid (affectionate)
Kyle loves when you look pretty for him, the artist in him can’t help it.
He also can’t help but abuse the ring, he knows he’s not supposed too, but you looked so pretty begging him oh so sweetly ‘just this once’ and Kyle Rayner in all his infinite wisdom is just a man.
You look so pretty with green light digging into your thighs, making the flesh bulge that he can’t help but reach for his sketchbook.
The consistent plap! plap! plap! Filling the room only just manages to reach your ears, your legs feel like jelly and your elbows gave out an orgasm ago, face pressed against the pillow as your mouth hangs open freely.
You personally, probably would’ve been mortified to see your own expression if you could even form a thought but not Kyle.
The hand holding your ankles, keeping your knees pressed to your tits disappears, instead reaching for the discarded sketchbook where he had been previously drawing you, only the first lines of the sketch had been made before you had pounced, streaking lines of charcoal down your thighs and on the crumpled sheets.
But now, as your hair splays across the pillow, skin bulging against the constructs maybe he shouldn’t have discarded his sketching so early.
When the thrusting stops and your orgasm slowly fizzles away to a dull, throbbing ache, you have to muster up the energy to press your elbows into the mattress, looking down with a groan, the green light holding your limbs in place now gone.
Only to see your boyfriend in all his naked glory, cock still halfway inside of you with his sketchbook and charcoal in hand.
“Kyle!” You squeal, kicking your legs out as best you can with him so close
“Ow! Shi- babe!” He rubs out a stray line on the paper, doing his best to catch your flying feet with one hand, yelping when your heel connects and thumps his hip bone.
Your expression only makes the confused line between his eyebrows deepen.
“Kyle! I was literally about to cum and you- you fucking-” your enraged rant turns into unintelligible squabbling, not all that different to an impression of a static duck.
“You looked good!” He urges, his sketchbook flipped out his hand by your toes.
“…”
