All the credit for the idea goes to Surferosa!
Enjoy! xxx
They're pampering him. As much as it can be called like that. From the corner of her eyes she can see them standing around him, each of them busy with something. He's towering above everyone and everything, seeing his face is not even necessary. His bare back is threatening enough. There's a thick, dark aura vibrating around the blue giant so vividly, it wraps the whole ship into the blanket of terror and fear.
Her breathing is slow and deep, eyes closed. The only method to help her calm down, clean out her thoughts. It's slightly harder than usually, since the air is heavy, leaving a weird metallic taste in her mouth. Like blood. The realization makes her frown. She can't meditate in an environment like this. It's every aspect was designed to cause dread, the threat is undeniable even with closed eyes. Long years of practicing meditation means absolutely nothing in such hell. She's observing whatever is in front of her. She's definitely not stupid to turn around or take a single step without permission. That move would most likely cost her life. And she's not planning on dying anytime soon.
"Painter!" The unexpected shout makes her flinch a little before turning away from the scaled looking wall of the spaceship to face the Accuser himself.
His unearthly voice echoes around her, causing a drop of icy cold sweat to slide along her spine. Keeping her around while he was getting ready was completely needless. It was nothing but a test. And she still hasn't got the slightest piece of information whatsoever about why she is present on the Dark Aster at all. She wasn't invited nicely but she wasn't dragged either and the fact that she is standing face to face with the commander of the spaceship probably means it's her lucky day. She might even survive.
Ronan looks even more intimidating with his full armor on. His face painted, eyes flickering with a wicked, purple spark. The woman does everything to keep her face muscles under control while waiting for him to speak up. But instead of talking, he simply turns around and walks away. A firm grab on her upper arm indicates her to follow the Kree. She's left with no choice other than doing it so. Though she's not particularly short, it takes a serious effort keeping up with him. His steps are immense and dictatorial, twice the size of the Painter's. She glances to her left just to find out whose grip is blocking the blood circulation in her arm. Black eyes are staring back at her. Another woman. Blue, just like her commander. Metallic modifications all over her exposed skin, her head, arm. She's truly unusual. The grip intensifies, signaling how much the subject doesn't appreciate the attention. The Painter can't help it, it's deep within her nature. Her whole life is about observing. But for the sake of keeping her much needed and appreciated limb alive, she focuses her attention back to the considerable sized back of Ronan. As grotesque as the situation is, her curiosity is still dominating over her fear.
They step into the main part of the Dark Aster, the control room. It seems nothing different than the rest. Dim, frightful and unfinished looking. Ronan's heading toward his place, sitting down slowly. His height barely lessen with the move.
"Nebula!" His voice makes the painter flinch again, scolding herself mutely for making the same mistake twice. At least the grip disappears. She shakes her hand a few times to make sure the blood finds it's way back into it. Nebula walks up to the blue giant, standing right beside him. There she is again, the painter and her observations. She absorbs everything around her, already knowing things she probably shouldn't. "The Painter. I was expecting something different." If she would've counted how many times she heard this before, it would probably be an awful lot, so at any other situation her instant reaction would be to roll her eyes at the idiot who makes the same statement again. In given circumstances, she rather sets that aside and inhales deeply as an answer. "They talk about you. They say you own magic." The edge in his tone is obvious as he says the last word, putting the tiniest evil smirk on the side of Nebula's lips. "Do you?"
"If that's what they say, they must be fools. They mistake me with a wizard." It's already too late reconsidering if she should dare using such a tone with the Accuser. But provocation is something she definitely can not tolerate, making her switch into offensive mode so quickly, she can't even think through who she's talking to. Nebula instantly looks at her master, the blade is already in her hand. All she's waiting for is a sign to let her use it.
Ronan doesn't move. He's already decided what the intemperate woman's fate is going to be. It was settled before he even let her set a foot on the ship. How could she possibly be anything else than ordinary when her home planet is the negligible Terra? She behaved modest until the very moment she opened her mouth. Disrespect and insolence are equals with a death sentence. But he still has to see what makes her so special around the Galaxy. If not magic, than what? "Those fools say that your paintings are alive. Tell me about it."
The Painter bites on her lower lip to avoid asking the obvious: since when is the blue giant so interested in such a trivial thing as fine art?
Still, what he says is true. That's why people can't get enough of her work. "I pay attention. This is it. There is no secret. I have a good insight into human nature." Despite what she thought, Ronan doesn't seem to be disappointed by the answer. Of course he's not, he has no idea how easy it is to read between the lines and figure someone out with nothing but the use of his senses, without weapon, threat or hate.
"Good insight? Prove it!"
"With respect, I don't think you understand. I'm just painting, I never share my impressions with the subject. It's completely irrelevant for them. I put it all on the canvas." The icy drop of sweat turns into a whole glacier on her back when the Kree gets on his feet again.
"I said, prove it." His face is stone cold, there isn't a slightest trace of human emotion on it. He's not even human, after all. Yet, it's not the face that bothers the woman in front of him. It's the eyes that make her stomach turn.
"I can't do it without agreeing on my own execution."
"What makes you think you haven't done that already?" The lump in her throat doubles in size. She's been driven up against the wall. If she refuses to give something and feed his hunger for whatever he thinks he can understand, she's dead. If she cooperates and tells him ten percent of the things that already caught her eyes, she's dead.
What's the best way to tell Ronan about the obvious tenseness in his posture, in his jaw, fists clenched all the time; the extensive effort to constantly show his position from the way he wants to look to the custom made throne he's sitting on, proving his worthiness for everybody including himself, all related to a lack of approval from a dominant male, a father maybe? And she's barely scratching the surface. She can't jump into a suicide mission like this, though this is exactly what he's trying to make her do. The Painter needs to outsmart the blue giant and she has to make it fast. Patience is most likely not one of his main virtues.
"She." The Painter instantly finds herself in the center of the blue woman's dark glance. "How did you call her? Nebula? By the way she's standing beside you, substantially closer than it would be reasonable in any situation, I'm assuming she either sleeps with you of if not, she definitely hopes so. There's not a single moment wasted without showing you how worthy she is for your attention, may it be the attitude to make sure letting you know she's ready for whatever you may ask for, or simply the posture she observably spares for you and nobody else, not to mention the careful little looks she gives you, probably wishing you'd catch one and know what to do with it." Nebula seems both perished and furious, the muscles in her body turn into stones. Her eyes are flaming with hate and anger, knowing she can't destroy the intruder until there isn't an order for that. "As woman to woman, my apologies, but I doubt he knows what to do with it."
"Enough." It's hard to tell whether she overstepped the line or not. The expression on Ronan's face could mean anything. If that would be possible, the Painter might believe she actually saw the Accuser's lips curl upwards at some point, but she must've been hallucinating. One thing is for sure, if Ronan will decide not to kill her, Nebula will. With pleasure. The Kree sits back, ignoring Nebula's trepidation completely. "You may paint me." His words make both women gasp with hatred.
"How should I do that? All the things I need are..."
"Behind you. Don't you dare talk back to me. You are not to question my commands." Nebula can't contain herself anymore, the words she's trying to swallow are still fighting their way out.
"Ronan, don't let this filth deceive you! She knows nothing. She knows nothing about you!" Even the Painter gets surprised by the blue woman's sudden diatribe. According to the irritated look on the Kree's face, she behaved way more carelessly than she should ever dare to. There will be consequences.
"Get out, Nebula." He doesn't even look at her while giving the order, making sure she knows how much of a mistake she made. There's no place for disobedience. Especially not it front of someone who needs to be made sure about how much of a god he really is. She can't hesitate for too long before following his words, storming out like a thunder. "Get to work, Painter."
If she doubted his words were serious, it's time to think it over. The Accuser demands a portrait of himself, right now. The question is, will he like the way he's seen by her? She can't paint lies. Whatever gets on the canvas must be reflecting the truth and nothing else. The Painter's duty is honesty. Whether the subject can accept it or not.
She starts working without a word. What the mouth can't express, the eyes will understand perfectly. She's finally in the most familiar and safe place, her own imagination. Even Ronan's cold, dark aura can't get through the walls guarding the sacred place inside of her mind. In fact, he could simply leave her alone, his presence is not important anymore. The picture has already born in the Painter's head. It only needs to be materialized by slow strokes of the brush. But he stays.
He can't understand why the woman's face has changed. He can't understand any of her small moves either. She probably thinks her words surprised him, though it was nothing the Accuser wasn't already aware of. He couldn't care less about what the Painter had to say. Her reactions, on the other hand, did surprise him like very few things before. A woman, a miserable human without trembling or begging for her freedom, her pathetic life; without tears that disgusted him deeply.
"I'm done." The Painter steps away from the finished work, not taking her eyes off of the Kree. It's time to find out how much time will the giant give her to live. Five minutes or thirty seconds.
Ronan walks up to the canvas, taking a long look at it.
"You have failed, Painter."
"Have I?" She's not pretending to be an obedient dependant anymore. What's the point if she's going to die anyway?
"You are nothing. Yet, you still think you can do whatever you want to. You are at the mercy of me, Painter. Aren't you afraid?"
"No."
"You lie." He's right, the woman's lying. She's long passed the point of the Accuser's limit of tolerance. And now her picture is most likely the last drop. Painting him like this was not a brave decision. It was a rather insane one. "You haven't paid attention."
The Painter glances at him suspiciously. It's not the reaction she was expecting and now she's getting late with a clever reply.
"On the first place, I wasn't even allowed to watch."
"I see you've broken that rule as well."
"It's not my fault you've been standing in my peripheral vision." It's too late thinking about what words she should use. The filter between her mouth and brain has already disappeared, causing her even more trouble.
"Watch you mouth, human! You forget who you're talking to." The giant still doesn't make a move, causing her panic to grow with every moment, getting harder for the Painter to hide behind her convincingly confident mask.
Nobody ever dared behaving in such an irresponsible way with the blue giant. His power is unquestionable and infinite, and her fright is obvious despite the effort to make him believe otherwise.
"You must be reminded how your painting should look like. Your punishment will make you remember your master."
The Painter can't believe her ears. Nor does she believe her eyes as Ronan is getting out of his armor, leaving her standing paralised. The cold sweat turns into fire on her spine, keeping her eyes on the Accuser, her breathing quickens. She should be terrified. And she is, terrified by how excited the situation is making her, slowly heating up the blood in her veins.
He's standing in front of the Painter, naked, his purple eyes fixated on her.
"Come closer."
She's walking up to him without breaking eye contact, trying hard to look like she's not bothered. Taking the chance to feast her eyes from every angle, he's built like a God. Thick neck, broad shoulders with long arms, muscles visible through the blue skin. Exactly like her painting. She can't make herself look below the waist just yet, she's too afraid of her own reaction. So instead she's getting behind him, bearing her glance on him from head to toe, pupils dilated by the magnificent sight. Her palm is hovering at the nape of his neck before she gets to touch. A long, unhesitant stroke down to his buttocks. She can't make herself stop at the waist, her cuiosity won't let her. His skin is not cold as she expected it to be. For her biggest surprise, she finds it warm and soft.
"You are still not brave enough to step ahead, Painter. I command you to do it."
The woman does as she was told, but Ronan's command has very little to do with it. Though his face is unreadable, his body is not. And the reaction at her touch is unmistakable. His erection is more than impressive, making the Painter's blood boil.
"Get undressed." She's almost doubting if it's reality or something different, either way she's taking her clothes off, keeping her glimpse at the Kree.
He's motionless, waiting for the woman to drop the last bit of fabric on the floor. The way she's doing it is exceptional. They both know how it's really going to be. He can't punish her with something she wants just as much as he does. And she leaves no doubt about how much she wants it. A gift, served as a punishment. Her painting looks perfectly like Ronan, after all.
"Take me in your hands, Painter." His voice echoes around them, but she doesn't move.
"I'd rather take you in my mouth." She turns around and walks up to his place, sitting down on it. "If you don't mind." Her disobedience shouldn't be left without a word, but the offer is too good to be wasted. She will pay for it later.
Ronan steps in front of her, knowing nobody else has ever sit on that place except for him. The Painter looks up at him before carefully running her lips over his huge shaft, gripping it tightly with her small hands. Her mouth feels like the sweetest victory around him, gentle and hot. Her tongue draws little circles on the most sensitive spot, sending lightnings into the Kree's spine. Pleasure is not something he can easily experience, yet her lips make him drop his head back with amusement. The moment he catches the woman take notice of his reaction, he grabs her wrist firmly, making her stand up and turn around. She smells divine, almost indescribable. Her skin is delicate and velvety as her body is pushing against his, like it was made to be touched and caressed. Something Ronan doesn't know. He's not familiar with tenderness. He takes what he wants without question, but the Painter is nothing he ever met before. She seems to enjoy his rough touch, though he's aware of how fragile humans can be. Something he never cared before.
The woman kneels on the seat as it's indicated by the Accuser, she can't wait to feel him inside.
"Are you ready for your punishment?" His touch on her most aching spot instantly makes the Painter moan. The feeling of her wetness is marvelous, he can barely get enough of it.
"Yes, please..." Her sigh is begging, just like he wants it.
The Kree positions his tip right at her entrance, sliding inside without a warning. He bends forward, covering her mouth with a huge hand, trying to muffle her scream. She dips her nails into his arm, arching her back with pleasure, desperately wanting him to start moving. Ronan pushes himself into her completely, amazed by how incredible the Painter feels like, tight and soaking. He slowly pulls himself out, putting one foot on the seat before pushing back inside, getting to pound her mercilessly. Grabbing her waist with both hands, she's now aware that she can't make a sound, though it's hard to contain herself when her body is flooded with desire. His vastness fills her completely, and the pace keeps on intensifying. His capability is clearly un-human. She doesn't need much more to feel like she's ready to explode. The impact the Accuser makes on her is unlike anything else, and he keeps on moving in and out, sending the Painter closer and closer to the edge, until she's getting so tight around him he can hardly believe his senses. She doesn't care about what she's allowed to do anymore, her moan is loud and passionate, her body trembles with pleasure as she's feeling Ronan reaching the climax, hearing him moaning by the sensation of her, still tight around him. He's throbbing inside, making her straighten up on her knees, gasping for air with her skin glowing with sweat.
The Accuser leans closer to her ear.
"I forgive your behavior for now, Painter. But later I might need another portrait to be made."