wow i haven't posted here in a while...perfectworldshipping sort of took over my life
tumblr didn't help either
so, this fic...ppl say it's good so i won't whine about how it sux. be grateful :)
um...warning: smut, sort of (don't get your hopes up)
Augustine dips the brush in light blue, painting the tiniest details on a Sylveon. Lysandre fights the urge to blinks as the brush paints over his eyelid, ribbons captured perfectly around his eyebrow.
"Stay still, mon cher."
"I—" Augustine shushes him.
"Still, mon cher." Lysandre has the urge to roll his eyes, but that would count as moving, so he doesn't. He forces himself not to shudder as a Houndoom appears on his neck, the brushstrokes feather-light.
Augustine frowns, displeased with some minuscule detail. He licks the paint off, biting down once very gently, and Lysandre's breath catches. "Is that...safe?" To his surprise, Augustine ignores that his lips are moving.
"It's edible body paint, cher."
"And you just had that lying around...?"
"I made it. For you," he says, smiling softly.
Lysandre turns pink. "I never wanted it."
"But I want you to have it." And he restarts the Houndoom, ending the conversation.
Augustine 'messes up' thrice, marking his neck with shallow love bites each time. When he finally deems the Houndoom acceptable (and Lysandre's neck thoroughly abused), he takes blue for a Gyarados constricting his arm, for a Honedge wrapping around his wrist.
He doesn't finish them all at once, leaving them without yellow to paint a Gallade leaping down his other shoulder, whites and greens blurring into each other.
"Tu as froid?" he asks, putting the final touches on Absol curled over his forearm.
"A little," Lysandre admits. Even though the room is heated, going nude in winter is never a good idea.
"Ah, désolé. Can you hold out a bit longer?" It's not a question, and it's not like Lysandre can answer, swallowing a moan as Augustine's brush, now tipped with brown, dances very pointedly over his chest.
"So, this is why..."
"Of course. Why else?" Lysandre's glad that the no-talking rule seems to be taken out, but now he is reacting, and that is Very Bad, because Augustine will definitely notice and Lysandre may as well be dead.
"Relax, mon cœur." Lysandre goes crimson, because yes, he has noticed, and why couldn't he just disappear. Augustine chuckles, picking a yellow to finish the mane of a Pyroar sprawled across the entire left side of his body, tail just touching his thigh.
He closes his eyes, not willing to watch him paint another Pyroar, female this time, positioned so it bites his hipbone. "Open your eyes, cher. I want to see you." And Lysandre can't really refuse him like that, so he does, seeing the two Pyroar form a sort of yin and yang on his abdomen. He fights the urge to move, knowing he'll be sore from staying still for so long.
"Spread your legs."
"What?"
"Spread your legs, cherì," he repeats, his brush clean. "I have more to do."
Lysandre does, unwilling to meet Augustine's eyes as he undoubtedly stares at him. "You're hard," he observes.
To say he was flustered was an understatement. "Yes, I am, and could you please finish so I can deal with it?" His voice has a sort of hysteria to it, from being in such a vulnerable position.
"Of course." He brushes over his cock just once, and Lysandre grips the rug underneath him to keep from bucking up. "Don't worry, cher, I'll take care of you once I'm finished, all right?"
He takes a pale blue for a Dragonair, brushstrokes infuriatingly light against his inner thigh. "...Augustine..." he growls.
"Patience, mon cher." The Dragonair is finished with a dark jewel, so he dips his brush in green again for a Serperior just under his knee. Lysandre sighs, unsure if he should be relieved or not. It's probably better not to think about it, with his erection sucking most of the logical thought out of him.
After finally finishing a Roserade arching around his ankle, Augustine stands. "Can I—"
"No. Stay still." Lysandre grumbles, but doesn't object. He had promised him this day, and he was not a man to go back on his word. Augustine makes to leave, but he calls to him.
"Hurry up."
"Of course." Lysandre relaxes his neck, cursing its soreness. He closes his eyes, thinking of anything but—
"Smile!" He hears the telltale click of a camera, eyes flying wide open.
Augustine holds a camera in his hands, smiling much too happily. Lysandre almost jumps to his feet until he remembers he's supposed to stay still. He wonders, in a somewhat detached way, is that a bad thing? That he has a camera?
It's best not to think about it, especially not when there's soft lips on his and another tongue in his mouth. Augustine's hair falls into his face, one of his hands snaking down to grip Lysandre's cock, stroking quickly.
He pulls back, to let him breathe. "You're beautiful," he murmurs and kisses him hard, drinking in every sound Lysandre makes. Lysandre twitches and trembles under him, throwing his hand down to slam against the ground in a futile effort to stay still. Augustine tuts, stay still mon cher, easily holding both his hands behind his head with one of his own. It's not that he's stronger than Lysandre, definitely not, but when he's so completely gone, he's not even fighting it.
Augustine decides he's tired of waiting and presses his thumb into the head of his cock, deepening the kiss. Lysandre comes without warning, white splattering over the Pyroar, ruining the perfect Dragonair. Any sound he might have made is muffled by Augustine's mouth on his, so it's eerily silent as his back arches, going limp in Augustine's hand.
Lysandre finally breaks the kiss, panting. He closes his eyes, suddenly very cold, very sore, and very tired. He only opens his eyes when he hears another click of a camera, distantly registering that might be a bad thing.
"Oh, you look lovely in this...maybe I should put it as my Xtransceiver background—"
"No. No. You are not doing that. Delete it. Now," he demands, blushing furiously. He makes to knock it out of Augustine's hands until he realizes his legs may as well be jelly, for how well they worked right now.
"I'm joking, cherì. Only I will be able to see you like this, forever immortalized—"
"Spare me the poetry. Could you, ah, help me clean up?"
"Clean?" Augustine sets the camera off to his side, looking at Lysandre like he's just noticed the mess over his stomach, the colors bleeding into each other. He starts licking at the Roserade's bouquet, looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "Why, of course, mon cherì, I'd love to." Augustine bends down, erasing every drop of color off Lysandre's skin with only his tongue, a paintbrush in reverse turning the canvas blank.
well if that wasn't an awkward ending idk what is
reviews are love~