Pokémon K_S Villian-tine's prompt, "Illustrate" Now Grammerly'ed

[K_S]

Villiantines prompt 7,


illustrate


Rank: Teen toeing the line of Mature

Summary:

He'd initially refused Grace's little game. He'd learned to draw on graph paper after all. A crude "fill in the squares" sort of thing that'd whittled away his time at meetings or covered half-complete sudoku or crossword puzzles when he was bored.

His "art" seemed too childish for such delicate work.

Grace disagreed.

Thus started a game that was part negotiation, part lust, and wholly enjoyable for them both.

Cw: adult relations between two consenting adults, most of the clothes stay on, but the allusions and sensual nature of their interactions are the cause of the rank.​

He'd initially refused Grace's little game. When she'd gone on about how "simple" it would be, he pointed out that simplicity had nothing to do with it. He'd learned how to draw on graph paper. A crude, "fill in the squares", sort of thing. He'd whittled away his time at meetings or in lines, turning half-complete sudoku passwords into odd geometric patterns.

He hadn't completed a crossword puzzle in five years. Most of them had devolved into squarish doodles when he got bored.

His "art" seemed too childish for the delicate work she proposed. And he held to that stance until she'd introduced him to pixel art and cross stitch.

Even he could recognize the technique, the same tricks he'd employed when just filling in had gotten boring.

After, when she asked again, he said yes, but with a caveat.

He'd need a month to practice. She'd granted it, and more. They'd found tangents to play in. Brushing against old hobbies of cooking, art, and chemistry, they put their heads together, twining offshoot passions into a pleasant whole.

The end result was a weeks-long negotiation, two drafts of rules, a middle ground reached, and a day in.

The tools of their sport was a teakettle, an old ceremonial tea serving kit, and his old trainer's portable cook stove. A quick look up to confirm that everything was edible, proceeded him fetching the cutting board. A whim had him make a stop over to his home office. When he returned it was with thin bits of metal with an interesting history, and a knife set with an equally fascinating tale attached to it.

The whole thing started with a massage. Warming oil in a small bowl over the stove, he got it to warm but not hot. After, he dipped his hands and retraced Grace's warm flesh with his calloused fingers, spreading a base coat of oil until her skin looked tanned. He was languid rubbing it into her back, smoothing stress points until she melted into the sheets and softness of their adlibbed blanket and pillow nest in the center of the livingroom floor. Once she was properly semifluid, he revisited his canvas. He switched the bowls, letting the heavier honey-based oil steep, and when it was ready, and her neck properly nipped to his satisfaction, he got back to work. He traced a simple grid, leaning heavily into the strokes, and she trembled under each motion. She fought the urge to arch into his touch, sensualist she was, fighting herself to ressit ruining his work.


Once the lines were dark enough, straddling the line between discernible but not too dark to look tacky, he stopped. She was, as a perk, riled and swearing at him that "his mythology nothing, temperance wasn't a virtue, it was torture with a twist".

As a result his temperence and charity were sorely tested. Giovanni could merrily make her eat those words. He nearly broke their little game by indulging her repartee. But experience taught him that while the resultant back and forth would be fun... He wasn't quite in the mood for word games.

The kiss he stole, to punish for her talking too much, left her breathless and whimpering...

And as she'd misbehaved, he bent the rules with a chuckle. Leaving her on the blanket-covered floor in her nest of pillows to stew.

Pinned, not by any force of his, but out of raw anticipation.

A quick trip to the kitchen to clean his hands, he returned with a steeping cup, work blades, and a few bowls with his supplies..

He made a slow, maddening presentation of the last steps.

Pointedly ignoring her needing fingers and the bunching fabric under her hands. He worked on the edge of her sight, chopping, mixing, and stirring. Humming a familiar tune, that when translated, was quite raunchy. The scents for the base, binds,, and dyes, were meticulously picked from her favorites. Some alterations had made them blend well. The scrape of blade over bowl's edge warned he was wrapping up.

Besides him she was all but vibrating. And his smirk as he watched was predatory intent at it's finest.

He'd tease each sense without laying a finger on her, until she either snapped or stayed in her role. Regardless he'd won. And it was the epitome of privilege to watch her uncensored reaction.

The click of Nevermelt Ice meeting steaming water to trigger the aprop chemical reaction was a promise. The wait was all but done. Settling his varied blades alongside the kettle to warm, he swirled the peach a nd red-highlighted paste to its proper texture. Setting his book open to the right, he propped it open so he could refer to the pictures as he worked. He set flat blade to gather the paste, starting at the bottom-most square, just to the left of the small of Grace's back, right on the edge of her hip bone.

At the epic center of the graphic, he trickled a generous trail of henna paste. She almost broke, hissed at the cool rush of chilled oils and plant matter meeting hot blade over her skin. Smirking at the familiar meep, Giovanni flitched the thickest blade from the pile, letting warmed metal smooth and scrape over the henna paste. Banishing the chill with a few practiced strokes. He may have made a show of fussily slicing off the excess on top to make the cool linger longer, to make the warmth of his strokes snap along her nerves and summon soft mewls.

Once he was satisfied with the broad shape he returned the blade to its nest of lukewarm kin and set to work. A slow, languid, sculpting, that would leave the pre-approved patterns in place.

Any teasing pokes and prods he indulged would be paid back in agonizing full when it was her turn next week.

He was looking forward to it.