Work Text:
Being vulnerable with your partner came as easily as breathing to you — his gentle words and soft gaze as natural and soothing as a cool, babbling brook on a hot summer day or as welcomingly as a warm blanket on a cold winter evening. He was an artist and saw beauty in everything — from the fluttering wings of the butterfly that flitted in front of your faces to the curve of a friends’ smile to something as small as a fingerprint.
And never before had this trait of his been as obvious and endearing as it was now. Now that you were laid bare before him, nude body sprawled out on a blanket that neither of you minded losing, whilst he hummed in that same old way and mixed some body safe paints onto his palate. You’d seen him carefully pick up and inspect each bottle before picking out what he deemed as the most acceptable shades and turning to you — that same old smile on his face that never failed to leave your stomach fluttering with those butterflies he loved to paint.
‘I think I’ll start from the top,’ he mused, more to himself that anyone else, before kneeling down beside your head and smoothing out your hair, ‘are you okay?’
You hummed in approval and smiling against his lips when he leaned down to give you a chaste kiss — a smile that remained even as he pulled away. He had always been a worrier, even when you had been the one to propose something (as you had this), so his questioning was far from a shock — in fact you’d almost been expecting more of it.
Though, thankfully, your Darling wasn’t in much of a mood to delay your fun and quickly began to mix up his paints — and you were barely able to contain your excitement.
~•~•~•~•~•~
An ocean of asters sprung up from the edges of your lips and wormed their way up above your eyes with intricate interlocking stems that you could barely feel as they were painted. A garden of purple buds and blossoms that was quickly framed by a chain of baby’s breath that dipped in and out of your hairline.
Then he moved on to your throat: splotches of daintily dotted white popping like fireworks against the sky of your skin. His brushwork more dotty than consistent as he didn’t bother drawing their stems, instead focusing on the blossoms himself as he adjusted the colours with each new press of the tip against your neck.
After that came your chest and collarbone, with which he took great care. Mixing calla lilies with camellias of pink, red and white — a bouquet of attraction that sprouted from the swells of your breasts and wound upwards and over your collar and shoulders. A display that left no skin uncoloured, undecorated, unloved whilst he offered more and more praise with each stroke of the brush.
‘I love you,’
‘You’re so beautiful, did you know that?’
‘Perfect,’
‘You’re doing so well,’
And, when you whimpered at the innocent brush of his fingertip across your nipple when he went to correct the paint, he smiled and chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you when we’re finished,’
Your stomach and sides were adorned with blossoming carnations — wedding white that faded into pink and then deep red as he approached the apex of your thighs. Pure love to a promise of remembrance to a deep love that echoed through his sweet touches and his reassuring words — promises you knew he’d keep (he always did) but that left you terribly wanting nonetheless.
Words crafted as beautifully, as intentionally, as the artwork that now adorned your body that was growing and twisting and almost taking on a life of its own as he continued to work and promise and praise and touch. Leaving no room for doubt as he decorated you.
‘You can ask me to stop if you’d like. Hm? No? Alright, but remember that you always have the option,’
‘Your beauty is astounding,’
Explaining the meaning of each flower as he painted its petals upon your flesh — your stomach, then your thighs. Leaving your head spinning, chest heaving, as he was so close — so very close — and yet still he made you wait. Making you listen to his adoration as he illustrated his affections onto your body itself.
If you’d have been a bit more patient then the romance of the gesture would have left you speechless.
~•~•~•~•~•~
Red chrysanthemums; I love you. He had those flourishing in the depths of your stretch marks.
Daisies; loyal love. Those decorated the circumference of your thighs in delicate chains that tickled as they were applied.
Gardenias; you’re lovely. Their blossoms, detached, free-floated around your knees.
Heliotrope; devotion. Deep purple splotches nestled into the crease where your legs met your body, tantalising centimetres away from where you needed him.
Morning glories; affection. Dotted along the inner side of your calves, each placed on a spot he kissed as he made his way further and further down your body.
Red tulips; passion. He dotted them around your ankle, their stems intertwined with yellow tulips (sunshine in your smile) and yarrows (everlasting love) for good measure.
Red salvias; forever mine. The final flowers he painted, which decorated the outline of your sex with a beautiful array of peaking blossoms and buds that made you giggle and keen as they were applied to your sensitive skin.
Then, finally complete, Wally placed his palate to one side and stood back to admire his handiwork whilst you admired him in return: blue hair dishevelled and partially hanging over his face in tendrils of deep beautiful blue that he hadn’t bothered to put back in place; cardigan discarded and white sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his wrists and hands covered in splotches of colour that matched the mess made of his striped pants; the satisfied smile on his face as his eyes looked you over from ankle to crown — lingering on your exposed, decorated pussy for a few beats before moving upwards once again to meet you own needy, inquisitive gaze.
‘You look amazing,’ he finally offered, his words making you smile as you ushered him over.
‘Thanks to you,’
Once he was close to your level, you grasped his collar and pulled him into a kiss so passionate that it stole the breath from his lungs and neatly had him stumbling over his own legs as he hurriedly knelt down to meet you. You felt him gasp against your lips as he took a moment to adjust before he tilted his head to the side and deepened it — one paint covered hand flying to the back of your head as his fingers tangled themselves in your hair, his other reaching down to both steady you at your waist and keep himself up right as he shuffled between your spread legs.
For a moment you almost felt guilty about so many hours of work going to waste — you’d seen your reflection, after all, and Wally had done a fantastic and very detailed job. But that guilt evaporated mere moments later when you were forced to break the kiss and you saw how worked up your beloved had gotten: dilated pupils, panting breaths, parted lips and a string of saliva connecting you two that broke the moment you rushed forwards and captured his lips in another, even messier kiss.
No longer guilty about the paint not having the time to dry as he lowered you down to the floor and settled between your decorated thighs. No longer guilty about the amount of paint you were sure to get on his clothes as he rubbed his hardening dick against your wet, neglected pussy and you both moaned. No longer guilty about the artwork only lasting a matter of minutes when one of his hands left your hand reached between you to start clumsily rubbing at your clit.
No longer guilty because it was clear that he wanted to make a mess as much as you did.