The bedroom in Ink’s apartment was a chaotic masterpiece, much like the artist himself. Dim light filtered through a cracked lampshade, casting a warm glow over paint-splattered walls adorned with half-finished sketches and haphazardly pinned photos. The bed, a sagging relic with a patchwork quilt, creaked under the weight of the moment. Amidst the clutter, Ink stood triumphant, a small, clear bottle of lube clutched in his hand like a hard-won trophy. His sharp, mischievous grin was directed at the man sprawled across the bed—Cross, usually a fortress of stoic restraint, now stripped bare in more ways than one, his pale skin flushed and his dark eyes narrowed in mock irritation.
“Found it!” Ink declared, waving the bottle with a flourish. “Told you I had some stashed away. What, did you think I’d leave you high and dry, darling?”
Cross propped himself up on his elbows, his toned chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate breath. “I think you’re a disaster waiting to happen, Ink. How do you even live in this mess? I’ve been lying here for ten minutes while you played treasure hunter in your own damn room.”
Ink’s laughter was a low, throaty sound as he sauntered over, his lean frame moving with a predator’s grace. His dark hair fell into his eyes, streaked with a rogue splash of blue paint that matched the chaos of his space. “Oh, sweetheart, patience is a virtue. Besides, the wait’s half the fun—gets you all worked up, doesn’t it?” He tilted his head, appraising Cross with a wicked gleam. “Look at you, all tense and grumpy. You’re adorable when you’re pissed.”
Cross snorted, though the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Adorable isn’t the word I’d use. Try ‘annoyed beyond belief.’ Are you gonna use that stuff or just wave it around like a flag?”
“Keep sassing me, and I might just make you beg for it,” Ink shot back, popping the cap with a dramatic flick of his thumb. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, the slick sound cutting through the quiet room. His gaze locked onto Cross, intense and unyielding, as he stepped closer. “Now, be a good boy and spread those legs for me. I’m not asking twice.”
Cross’s jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, but he complied, albeit with a pointed sigh. “You’re insufferable, you know that? Bossy little artist.”
Ink’s grin widened as he knelt between Cross’s thighs, his free hand pressing firmly against one leg to guide it wider. “And you love it. Don’t pretend otherwise—I can see it in that pretty face of yours. All that stoic nonsense crumbles the second I take charge.” His voice dipped, teasing but laced with authority. “Relax, Cross. I’ve got you.”
Cross’s breath hitched as Ink’s slicked fingers brushed against him, cool and deliberate. “Relax, he says,” Cross muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “As if anyone could with you looming over them like some smug, paint-stained dictator.”
Ink chuckled, his fingers moving with slow, purposeful precision, circling and pressing just enough to make Cross’s sharp tongue falter for a moment. “Oh, come now, I’m a benevolent dictator at worst. Look at me, taking such good care of you. You should be thanking me, not throwing shade.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Cross’s thigh as he worked, stretching and preparing with a confidence that was as infuriating as it was intoxicating. “Though I gotta say, the way you squirm is a damn fine thank-you.”
Cross’s hands gripped the quilt, knuckles whitening, but he refused to give Ink the satisfaction of a full reaction. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he growled, though the edge in his tone was undermined by the heat in his gaze. “What, you get off on torturing me?”
“Guilty as charged,” Ink purred, his free hand trailing up Cross’s thigh with a featherlight touch, a stark contrast to the firm, steady rhythm of his fingers. His own arousal was evident, pressing against the fabric of his worn jeans, and he made no effort to hide it. “But can you blame me? Look at you, all laid out like a fucking canvas. I could paint you like this—raw, open, mine. Hell, I might just do that later.”
Cross’s eyes darkened, a mix of irritation and desire flashing through them. “You’re ridiculous. And don’t even think about dragging a paintbrush into this mess.”
Ink’s laughter was sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, darling, I’ll drag whatever I want into this. You’re in my domain now—my rules, my game.” His fingers pressed deeper, slow and unrelenting, drawing a low, involuntary sound from Cross that made Ink’s smirk grow impossibly wider. “There it is. Knew I’d get you to crack eventually. You’re not as tough as you pretend, are you?”
“Keep talking, Ink,” Cross shot back, his voice rough but laced with a challenge. “See how long it takes before I flip you over and shut you up myself.”
Ink’s eyes gleamed with delight at the threat, his movements pausing for just a moment as he leaned in, his face inches from Cross’s. “Oh, I’d love to see you try. But not yet.” His voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with promise. “I’m just getting started.”
He pulled back, his fingers stilling but not withdrawing, leaving Cross teetering on the edge of frustration and anticipation. Ink’s smirk was pure mischief, his gaze locked onto Cross as if daring him to make the next move. The air between them crackled, heavy with unspoken promises and the certainty that things were about to get a whole lot messier.
And Ink, ever the artist of chaos, was more than ready to paint this night in bold, unapologetic strokes.
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