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inks-writing-space · 2 days ago

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So I read the hand fic with Elijah. And my mind immediately went to Klaus’ hands. Like. This man is an artist.

So…I am requesting him using his hands to make art on her literary. She is naked and he is teasing her with paint. But without brushes - just hands and fingers all over. Until it’s not only hands anymore. :)

Colours- Klaus Mikaelson x f!reader

My Masterlist

2.3k words: You watch Klaus paint and he decides to creat another masterpiece...

Warnings: smut, slight choking (literally in one sentence), inapropriate use of paint, destruction of a velvet chair, hand kink, paint kink (if that exists)

A/N: Thank you for this beautiful idea Anon it was so much fun writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it. Also I changed the beginning a little because you said no use of brushes but I couldn't let this opportunity pass ♡

You smile as you watch the brush glide over the canvas. You were sitting cross-leged in a chair in Klaus' office watching him create art in front of you. A glass of wine was in your hand and you couldn't tear your eyes of your boyfriend. You had tried to read but it was impossible when Klaus Mikaelson was literally next to you. He was drawing some woods you had never seen before and you were able to make out shadows of wolves running through them. You knew that this gift was meant for his daughter Hope and you enjooy watching the hands that had drawn so much blood and taken so many lives create something magic. Whatever that says about your mental health.

"You are starring," he mumbled and you chuckled. "I just enjoy watching you paint a lot." Klaus smirked and put the finished canva away and pulled out a sheet from his desk. Your breath hitches as you opened it. On it were you and Klaus entagled into each other. And neither of you was wearing anything.

Klaus smirked, "The trick is to draw what you like and not what you have to."

You laughed, "And you want to have me naked I assume?" He grinned, "I would never say no to that. But what I mean is that you alays have to take pleasure in painting. For example...," he stepped a little closer tracing your colarbone, "I could draw you like I just did...or I could draw on you."

"What are you talking about?," you whispered your head spinning a little. "Take of your clothes for me, will you baby?," he whispered.

You nod and now here you are naked, your knees pressed together and your arms crossed over your chest in an instinctive attempt to shield yourself. But Klaus is already standing in front of you, palette in one hand, a fine brush in the other. And you know thate there’s no hiding from him.

"Arms down," he said his voice soft as always. He would stop if you wanted him to, you know it but you didn't want him to. You are just nervous what's about to come.

You lower your arms trembling just a little.

His eyes darken with a small smirk, “That’s my girl.”

The first touch of the brush is featherlight. A streak of deep blue across your collarbone, followed by a slow trail of green curving along your shoulder.

You sucked in a breath, your skin not the only thing tingeling

Klaus smirked a litt. “Ticklish?”

“No,” you lied. Your voice came out thinner than you have meant.

He chuckles low in his throat, painting down the dip of your neck with maddening precision. “Liar.”

Another stroke. This one longer. Across your chest avoiding your nipple on purpose. The bristles drag a line of shimmering bronze over your ribs, a whisper of sensation that makes your thighs clench involuntarily.

He noticed. Of course he does.

"You’re very obedient tonight," he murmured, switching brushes without warning. "Makes me wonder how far I can push you."

His next stroke is bolder. A swirl of red just under your breast, and this time, he doesn’t avoid anything. The brush flicks over your nipple, slow and deliberate.

You gasped, back arching slightly. “Klaus-”

A soft kiss silenced you. Right above your heart. His lips warm, reverent, smeared with a faint touch of violet.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Not when his hands are so sure, so patient. Not when his gaze stays locked on you like you’re something holy.

The next color is gold. He paints a line from your hipbone to the top of your thigh, dragging the brush in slow, deliberate curves. He kneels in front of you, face close, but never touching. You’re breathing faster now.

“Klaus,” you whispered, barely audible.

He looked up at you, lashes dark and low, lips stained like sin. “Yes, sweetheart?”

You blink down at him, voice trembling. “This isn’t just art.”

A smile spreads across his mouth.

“No,” he agreed, dragging the brush one final time across your inner thigh, “this is foreplay.”

And then he leans forward, kisses you in between your legs making your hips jump and your mouth whimper

But he doesn't touch you there yet. Instead, he stood. Tilts your chin up with paint-stained fingers. “You’ll sit there for me, won’t you? Just a little longer,” he says softly, “and let me finish what I started.”

You nod. Because what else could you do?

You're already trembling for him, painted like a canva and aching for something more. Anything more.

Klaus watches your breath hitch as he dips his fingers into the colour palette , warm and wet and wicked. Then he reaches for you.

He starts at your waist, dragging streaks of red up your sides, pressing, while mapping out every curve like he’s memorizing it. His touch is firmer now, his fingertips spreading paint over your hips, your stomach, your thighs.

You bite your lip, holding back a sound when his hands settle at your waist and he leans forward to kiss just under your navel.

“I could do this all night,” he murmurs, paint glistening on his fingertips, “but I’m not sure you could.”

You exhale shakily. “Try me.”

That earns you a dark chuckle. “Feisty little muse.”

His hands return to your thighs, thumbs pressing color into your skin, up and up until you're gasping again.

“You’re shaking,” he notes, almost amused. His fingers slide along the edges of your thighs, spreading you just slightly. Not touching, no but everything in you is burning.

And then finally he slides one hand between your legs. Paint-stained fingers ghosting over the place you need him most.

You cry out softly, hips rising instinctively.

Klaus groans, low and rough. “Look at you,” he whispers. “So fucking beautiful. I don’t think I’ll ever paint anything else again.”

He leans forward and kisses you again, finally on your mouth, before slowly kissing down your colour stained skin. Every kiss is worship. Every stroke of his fingers sends chaos spiraling through your bloodstream. And just when you think you can’t take any more... he pulls back. Just enough to whisper against your trembling skin: “Now… are you ready to let me ruin my masterpiece?

You don’t get a chance to answer.

Because Klaus is already moving, his veiny hands slick with paint, mouth tracing every curve he missed before. His fingers stroke between your legs, gentle at first, almost reverent. He groans at the way your body responds, the mess of colors smearing between your thighs, the soft moans slipping from your lips and he chuckled at the sound.

He doesn’t need brushes anymore. He’s using you to mix the paint.

His hand cups your breast, smearing gold across it with a possessive kind of tenderness. His other hand is still working between your legs with a slow and steady rhythm like a man who know exactly what he is doing to you. He kisses your neck sucking deeply creating a hickey on it.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I want to feel you come apart with nothing but color between us.”

Your hands grip the chair, knuckles white. Your thighs tremble. Your head falls back.

And that’s when it hits you.

The chair.

“Oh my god,” you gasp suddenly, “Klaus...wait- the paint...the chair, it will stain”

He pauses.

Just slightly.

Looks up at you with the most incredulous grin you’ve ever seen on that devilish face.

“You’re seriously thinking about the furniture right now?” he laughs, breathless and stunned and almost amused. “Darling, I’m literally using your body as a color palette.”

You flush, gasping as he sped up his fingers inside you curling them, “I just like...it’s velvet!”

Klaus chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ll buy another one.”

And then he dips his head between your legs without another word, replacing his palm with his mouth. Your body arches. Your cry echoes off the studio walls.

And suddenly, there’s no room left for coherent thought. His mouth moves in rhythm with his fingers, working you open, and the colors on your skin feel like they’re burning into your bloodstream. He sucks your clit between his teeth before whispering, "Let go. Come on my fingers in this ridiculous expensive velvet chair."

You fall apart for him loudly, while thanking whoever might have created the universe that Klaus' walls are soundproof.

And when you come down from your orgasm, he’s still kneeling between your legs, licking the paint from his fingers like he just tasted something divine.

“You made quite the mess,” he hums.

“You started it,” you breathe.

He smirks, rising to his feet and lifting you effortlessly into his arms, uncaring of the stains on his shirt or the paint now coating the poor chair.

“Then I suppose I’ll be the one to clean it up,” he says, carrying you across the room. “But first…”

He lays you down on a clean canvacloth that was always spread across the floor.

“…let’s make one more masterpiece.”

Your skin is flushed and stained, your body humming from what he just did to you. But Klaus? He’s just getting started.

He kneels beside you, dark eyes roaming over every inch of painted flesh. And then, he reaches for the buttons of his shirt.

One. Two. Three.

You watch him undress like he’s stripping away the last layer of control. His shirt falls to the floor. Then the rest leaving him gloriously bare and already hard for you. You whimper and immediately reach for him, wanting to touch his chest, his cock, his face, just everything.

He crawls over you, the muscles of his stomach flexing as he leans down and kisses you. You touch his body leaving the first stains off paint on him.

The kiss is messy and hot. His tongue slides into your mouth sliding across yours while his right hand cup ed your jaw as his body presses down, sliding against yours, the slick of the paint smearing where skin touches skin.

You gasp into his mouth when you feel his cock brush against your thigh, thick and ready.

“Klaus-”

He silences you with another kiss, this time a little softer but the message was clear: Let me do the work. His hips grind against yours over and over until you are whimpering, turning him around, so you were sitting on his lap. You knew you were only able to turn this man because he let you. And somehow that turned you on even more.

You scratched your nails over his chest, the wounds healing immediately but now a little blood was mixed with the color and you groaned sucking hickeys into his chest that would probably vanish in seconds again.

The canva cloth beneath you moves with every shift, paint from your bodies beginning to transfer in smudges and prints. Art being made in the most primal way possible.

You sink down on Klaus' cock slowly groaning into his neck scratching him while you kept riding him. The way he stretched you out made you whimper and your hand wrapped around his throat choking him lightly while you kept working yourself up on him.

He let's you have this moment for a second and then he lifts you up, sliding out of you. Using his vampire speed to flip you onto your stomach.

You gasp, hands instinctively pressing into the canvacloth, and he’s on you before you can fully process it. His chest against your back, his cock pressed between your thighs.

He grabs your hands, fingers laced with yours, pressing them down flat into the paint.

"Hold still," he growls into your ear, voice rough and low. "I want your body imprinted into this canvas exactly like this."

You moan as he lines himself up again, the anticipation making your thighs tremble. He pushes inside you in one deep, claiming stroke.

You cry out, hips rocking back into him trying to gain your friction back. The stretch is perfect, the weight of him above you even better.

His grip on your hands tightens. His pace builds, slow and deliberate at first, every thrust pressing your painted skin deeper into the canvas, leaving both of your handprints, smears, and the shape of your body burned into art.

“I could fuck you like this for eternity,” he growls, voice ragged. “Look at you. How can someone look so perfect and so ruined at the same time?”

You nod frantically, barely able to breathe, your cheek pressed into the canvas as he fucks you harder now, grunting with each thrust.

Paint streaks both your bodies, his fingerprints everywhere, on your ass, your hips, your thighs. The sound of skin against skin echoes through the room, your moans mixing with his breathless curses.

You're getting close again and of course he can feel it.

He releases one of your hands to slip his arm under your stomach, pulling you up slightly to change the angle and draw circles over your clit. His other hand stays over yours, pinning you there like he’s signing his name.

“Klaus...fuck....I’m...”

“Let go,” he commands, voice breaking. “Come for me again, love. Make a masterpiece with me.”

And you do. You fall apart beneath him again, your back arching as he pounds into you, chasing his own high. He follows with a groan, burying himself inside you and holding you there, his body taut and his breath ragged.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence only the sound of your heart pounding interrupting it.

Then Klaus finally exhales, and roles off of you

He kisses your spine softly while wrapping his arms around you.

“…Definitely not selling this one,” he murmurs.

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