Chapter 353: Brushstrokes of Mischief
The studio smelled of paint, rain, and victory.
Malik sat cross-legged on the floor, bare dark skin marked with streaks of color like a living canvas. A faint drizzle still shimmered through the room, the remnants of the rainstorm he'd conjured for the session. Across from him, Aoi reclined against his shoulder, her breathing slow and content, a small, satisfied smirk ghosting her lips.
She idly twirled a paintbrush between her fingers, tapping it against her chin. A streak of turquoise decorated her cheek, and her short, dark-green hair was a mess of damp curls. Even like that—especially like that—she looked untouchably self-assured.
The oversized raincoat was the only thing either of them had bothered to reclaim. Malik had draped it loosely around her shoulders, and she wore it like a queen's robe, unbothered by the streaks of paint and the cling of vinyl. He still held her, his arm a lazy circle around her waist, his chin resting just above her temple.
Neither of them spoke for a while. The rain illusion hissed faintly against the marble floor. The world outside could have ended, and they would have missed it.
Aoi broke the quiet first. "You're staring again."
"Not true," Malik murmured.
"You're staring."
"I'm admiring my work."
She turned her head just enough to give him a side-eye. "The painting or me?"
He smiled, small and guilty. "Yes."
Her lips curved slightly, but she didn't push it. Instead, she lifted the brush again and twirled it lazily. "You've ruined this one, you know. It's crooked now."
"Then I'll frame it," Malik said. "Every good piece of art deserves its chaos."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you love it."
"I tolerate it."
He chuckled, low and warm. "I'll take tolerance. It's a high compliment coming from you."
Her answer was a wordless hum, followed by a stretch that left her leaning fully into him, eyes half-closed. For a moment, she seemed almost peaceful. Her life, usually a blur of movement and missions, rarely allowed this kind of stillness.
Malik didn't waste it. He studied her quietly—the way her damp hair stuck to her cheek, the faint flecks of lavender in her gray eyes, the way paint dotted her collarbone like constellations. His gaze traced down to her lips, soft and slightly parted as she breathed.
For all her sharp edges and battle scars, Aoi was still something delicate at rest.
He knew better than most how quickly that peace could shatter.
"You should sleep," he said quietly, shifting to pull her closer. "You've been running too long."
She tensed, just slightly, the way she always did when her control was challenged. "I can't. There's work to do."
"Let it wait," Malik replied, his voice soft but firm. "One night won't change anything."
Aoi sighed, but didn't pull away. Instead, she turned the brush in her fingers, pressing the bristles lightly against his bare chest. "You make everything sound so simple."
"It is simple," he said. "You're tired. You need rest."
"And you're trying to keep me here."
Malik's smile didn't waver. "I'm trying to take care of you."
She raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in every line of her body. "Is that what we're calling this now?" Malik pulled her onto his lap, her large, fat ass pushing down on his soft dick, "Tell me, you'll let me take care of you, just like you take care of me."
Aoi's breath hitches at the sudden shift, her fingers tightening around the paintbrush. "You don't need to be taken care of," she says, but there's something uncertain in her tone.
"Don't I?" Malik's hands slide up her raincoat, coming to rest on her waist. "Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes, Aoi."
She studies him, her gaze searching. "You always say things like that, but you never mean them for yourself."
Malik shrugs, his expression softening. "Maybe I should."
The rain illusion around them shifts, droplets falling faster, heavier. The studio lights catch the water, turning it into a thousand tiny stars suspended in the air. Aoi watches them, her face unreadable.
"I can't stay," she says finally, but her voice lacks conviction. "There's too much to do."
"Too bad, you're mine," Malik offers, his tone light but determined.
"We can do it together. My love for you is too hot to put out." He moved his hand over her face, tilting it closer, giving her the chance to touch her lips to his.
Aoi hesitates for only a moment before pressing her lips to his, the kiss slow and deliberate. Her hands rise to Malik's shoulders, gripping his soft and hot skin, the slick of his sweat on his body only deepening the passion as she deepens the contact. The taste of him is familiar now—paint, rain, and something uniquely him, a flavor that lingers on her tongue.
She shifts on his lap, feeling his softening cock press against her thigh. The vinyl of her raincoat slides against her skin as she moves, a quiet whisper of sound that blends with the patter of the rain. Malik's hands tighten around her waist, pulling her closer, his touch both possessive and tender.
Aoi doesn't break the kiss, her breath steady, but her body betraying her. She tilts her hips slightly, the motion instinctive, her desire for him still pulsing through her veins. Aoi, with skill, turns herself around on his lap, her small, perky breasts pushing on his chest as she adds her hot tongue to their kissing. Malik's breath grows deeper and hotter as Aoi shifts on his lap, her weight a pleasure as her breasts press against his chest.
His hands move to grip her hips, holding her in place as she kisses him deeper, her tongue exploring his mouth with the same precision she applies to everything else. The raincoat clings to her skin, the cool vinyl a jarring contrast to the heat of their bodies. Her thick ass settles against his thighs, her soft, warm pussy brushing teasingly against his still soft cock.
She grinds down slightly, the motion deliberate, controlled. A low hum of approval escapes her as she feels him start to harden again beneath her. "Insatiable," she murmurs against his lips, but there's no complaint in her tone—only the quiet acknowledgment of inevitability.
Malik's fingers trace the curve of her hips, his touch possessive yet reverent. "You say that like it's a bad thing," Malik murmurs, his hands sliding up her raincoat to cup her breasts through the slick material. His thumbs brush against her hardened nipples, making her arch into his touch.
Aoi's breath hitches, her lavender eyes darkening with renewed desire as she rocks her hips against his growing hardness. The vinyl of her coat makes soft rustling sounds with each movement, a counterpoint to the gentle hiss of the rain illusion surrounding them.
"Always so ready for me," Malik whispers against her neck, his lips tracing the line where paint and skin meet.
"Even when you pretend you have somewhere else to be."
Her only answer is a sharp intake of breath as he shifts beneath her, his hands guiding her hips into a slow, grinding rhythm. The studio fills with the scent of their mingled sweat and the lingering aroma of turpentine and rain.
Malik's cock stiff again, poking her inner thigh, but Malik doesn't move, making her make the choice of what to do next, his mind too focused on her lips and eyes. Aoi's gaze sharpens, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. She shifts her weight deliberately, her inner thigh pressing against his hardness as she leans forward to capture his mouth again. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling just enough to make him gasp into the kiss. The vinyl of her raincoat slides against his chest as she moves, creating a tantalizing friction that makes his breath catch.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she murmurs against his lips, her voice low and husky.
"With you," he replies, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, "every game is dangerous."
Her answer is to rise up on her knees, the movement fluid and controlled. She reaches between them, her fingers wrapping around his cock, guiding him to her entrance. The head brushes against her wetness, and she lets out a soft sigh before sinking down onto him in one smooth, deliberate motion.
They both move hard and fast against each other, neither of them lasting too long in the heat of the moment, as they both get ready to cum again quickly. Malik's back arches as Aoi sheathes him completely over and over again, her thick thighs gripping his hips as she moves.
The vinyl of her raincoat slides against his skin, creating a sensual friction that matches the rhythm of their bodies. Her lavender eyes lock onto his, sharp with desire and something deeper—something she'd never voice but that he knew too well.
The studio around them pulses with their passion, the illusory rain falling faster, droplets catching the lamplight like shattered glass. Colors from the smeared canvas transfer to her skin as she moves, abstract patterns tracing her curves in blues and golds. Malik's hands grip her waist, guiding her rhythm, his thumbs brushing against the swell of her hipbones.
"Fuck," she breathes, her voice tight with building pleasure. "You feel so good, Malik."
He smiles, dark and knowing, his fingers tightening on her skin.
"You always feel good." And as soon as their lips made contact with one another, both came, Aoi clenching tightly around Malik as his shaft shot rope after rope of his cum inside her pussy. The force of their shared climax leaves them trembling, breathless, collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and paint-stained vinyl. The illusory rain slows to a gentle mist, droplets fading before they can touch their heated skin. Malik's hands remain on her hips, holding her close as they both come down from the high, their breathing ragged and synchronized.
Aoi rests her forehead against his, her eyes closed, a rare moment of complete surrender. The paint on her cheek smears against his skin, leaving a faint turquoise mark on his temple. She doesn't pull away, doesn't retreat into her usual sharpness—she just stays there, grounded in the aftermath.
Malik's thumb strokes her hipbone, a slow, repetitive motion that seems to calm them both. The studio is quiet now, save for the soft hiss of the rain and the sound of their breathing. The air smells of sex and solvent, rain and skin. As their eyes meet, Aoi smiles at him, feeling him grow hard inside her again, "More?" she asks, moving her hips and grinding against him. Malik groans, the sound rumbling through his chest as Aoi grinds against him, her pussy still clenching around his hardening cock. His hands slide up her sides, nails lightly grazing her skin as he pulls her closer. "You're insatiable," he murmurs, his lips brushing against her collarbone.
"Says the man who can't keep his hands off me," she replies, her voice husky with renewed desire. Aoi rolls her hips, the slow, deliberate movement making Malik's breath hitch. She leans back slightly, giving him a better view of her body—the smeared paint, the way her skin glistens with sweat and rain, her breasts rising and falling with the rhythm of her breathing.
"You're the most beautiful thing in this room," Malik says, his gaze locked on her, his hands gripping her hips as he starts to move beneath her.
The phone on the nearby table chimed, breaking the spell.
Malik groaned softly. "Of course. The universe hates romance."
Aoi lifted an eyebrow. "That would be your schedule hating you."
He glanced at the glowing screen hovering in mid-air, the message reading: Guest has arrived. Clothing prepared.
"Midday meeting," he muttered. "I should have known it was too quiet."
"Then go," she said, not moving.
He stayed still. "I'd rather not."
She smirked faintly. "You have that face again."
"Which one?"
"The one that means you're about to pretend I can't take care of myself."
Malik laughed, pushing himself upright. "Guilty." He stood and reached down, helping her up with a practiced gentleness that she never quite knew how to respond to.
When she rose, the coat slipped slightly down her shoulder. He fixed it without thinking, wrapping it closer around her. "You'll catch a cold," he said softly.
"From what, conjured rain?" she teased, but the way her voice softened betrayed something else—something warmer.
He brushed a stray streak of blue paint from her jaw. "Still. Humor me."
Aoi looked at him for a heartbeat too long before finally giving a resigned sigh. "…Fine."
The illusionary rain had begun to fade, the ceiling clearing to reveal the glass skylight and the pale glow of the sun outside. Aoi blinked at the light, then grimaced as she felt the drying paint tightening against her skin.
"Ugh. It's starting to dry. I feel like a cracked statue."
"Beautiful, but fragile," Malik said, smiling.
"Gross, actually." She shot him a look over her shoulder, already walking toward the back of the studio where the shower alcove waited. Her bare feet left faint prints of blue and green across the marble. "Don't look at me like that, Malik."
"I hate to see you go," he said, half-singing the words, "but love to watch you leave."
Aoi stopped mid-stride, turned, and threw the paintbrush in her hand. It struck him squarely in the forehead, leaving a bright purple dot right between his brows.
He blinked, stunned. "You did not just—"
"Direct hit," she said triumphantly. "Told you: art's all about aim."
Malik rubbed his head, trying not to laugh. "You're impossible."
"Mm-hmm," she said, disappearing through the archway, her voice echoing faintly. "And yet, here you are."
The sound of water followed a moment later — the steady rush of the shower filling the quiet. Malik exhaled, shaking his head, still smiling.
He wiped the purple paint from his forehead with a thumb, smearing it across his skin in a way that reminded him of the abstract patterns now decorating Aoi's body.
His phone chimed again—a reminder of the meeting currently walking herself closer, and walking just down the hall. The message was insistent, demanding his attention. Malik sighed, reluctantly gathering his clothes from the floor. As he dressed, his gaze kept drifting back to the shower alcove, where the soft murmur of Aoi's humming mingled with the water.
"Running late," he muttered to himself, but he didn't move.
Instead, he walked over to the canvas—once pristine white, now marked by Aoi's body. The paint had smeared where she'd lain against it, creating an abstract impression of her curves, her presence still evident in every streak and smear. Malik's fingers traced the outline of her hip, the memory of her skin still warm beneath his touch.
A knock at the door broke the spell.
He clapped his hands once, and magic pulsed through the air. The studio came alive. Brushes lifted themselves, jars sealed, the rain illusion dissipated completely. Paint flowed off the floor and back into their proper containers like obedient streams of color. Within seconds, the chaos was gone, replaced by spotless order.
Malik, now alone, stood in the middle of the room surrounded by blank canvases and fresh air. He looked down at his paint-marked arms, the smudge on his forehead, and laughed under his breath.
A wave of his hand, and his usual clothing shimmered into being — a crisp white shirt, light trousers, gold-trimmed vest, his rings glinting faintly under the skylight. The look of a gentleman again, as if nothing wild had happened here at all.
But the faint streak of turquoise on his wrist stayed. He let it.
The faintest sound of footsteps reached the door. Another knock followed — sharp, playful, familiar.
"Come in," Malik called.
The door slid open, and Anko Mitarashi leaned against the frame, grinning. "You know, for someone who claims to be a genius, you really don't hide your paint fights very well."
Malik smiled, brushing the spot on his forehead. "Caught me red-handed — and purple-foreheaded, apparently."
She laughed, stepping into the room, eyes sweeping over the cleaned space. "So… whose idea was the paint rain this time?"
"A joint operation," he said smoothly.
Anko raised an eyebrow. "Joint, huh? Should I even ask which joints we're talking about?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Just art, Anko. Just art."
Her grin widened. "Good. Because I heard you're on a painting streak lately." She leaned in slightly. "So tell me, Malik—"
He met her gaze, smile steady. "You want to know if I'll paint you next."
Her grin turned mischievous. "You read my mind."
He gestured toward the fresh canvas, still damp at the edges. "Then by all means, sensei. Let's make something worth framing."
And as the mansion filled again with laughter and light, the paintbrushes began to stir on their own, eager for the next story to take shape.