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havokangel · 7 years

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Shape Of You - Part 1/2

Warren Worthington III x Reader

written by @kurtwxgners & @alexsunmners

a/n; aka, the artist au no one asked for.

so first and foremost, this has been in the works since NOVEMBER. NOVEMBER. alex and i have been busting our ass for MONTHS over this fic and we hope we did it justice. sorry for keeping you all waiting, but we hope it was worth it! enjoy guys!

also on ao3

part two here

tags; @mvximoff @madelyne-pryor @rax-writes @paperclipmac @v-writings @dicckgrayson @emmcfrxst @iamplaguedwithideas @hastyscribe @softwarren @jubillee @mutantlaura @idontknowwhattocallthisposts @theatricalenthusiast @themidnight-train @thequeen-ofnerds @xxencagedxx

artist!warren playlist

ILYSB // LANY

Sex On Fire // Kings of Leon

The Less I Know The Better // Tame Impala

Comfortable // Lauv

Holy Ghost // BORNS

Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? // Arctic Monkeys

Never Be Like You // Flume

Sex // The 1975

Post Break Up Sex // The Vaccines

Idfc // Blackbear

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby // Cigarettes After Sex

Trouble // Cage The Elephant

She Moves In Her Own Way // The Kooks

R U Mine? // Arctic Monkeys

I Walk The Line // Halsey

Boys Don’t Cry // The Cure

Summary; You know Warren better than you think anyone else does; you know about his art and his habits and a bit about his dad, and you know that he’s reckless and self-destructive and that he doesn’t do relationships.

Which wasn’t a problem until now.

There’s no denying that Warren Worthington III is incredibly attractive. Girls and boys alike always seem so naturally drawn to him, and you wonder if the universe had specifically put him in your life to make you angry. Warren may be the Adonis of your university, but there’s always a catch with boys like him: his ego, which may as well be bigger than the sun, and you’re almost positive that he knows he’s got everyone in your art class wrapped around his finger. You’re first hand witness to that, for an hour and a half three times a week. Everytime he cuddles up to some wide-eyed girl and suggests that they swing by his place that evening, you roll your eyes so hard you’re almost surprised they don’t fall out of your head. He tells them he’d love to have them model for him sometime. You’re pretty sure that’s what he tells every girl he wants to fuck. It makes you cringe. So, that’s why you usually kept to yourself in that class - that is, until Warren actually acknowledges your presence.

The project you’re working on, is simple, so simple that even someone who was just taking this as an elective, like yourself, could pass with flying colors without giving it too much attention. It’s still life week and you’re meant to be drawing the fruit bowl in the middle of the room, which feels like a cliche or something, but who are you to argue with the teacher’s assignment. You had put your headphones in a while ago, before Warren had started making his usual rounds of the class, to project his ‘artistic advice’ onto other students who didn't know any better, who were probably only taking his incredibly condescending advice at all in the hopes of gaining his affection. Or an invitation home. You’re pretty sure Warren has fucked half the class already and for reasons that escape you, the rest of the class hasn’t figured out that they should probably just steer clear of him. So when you see out of the corner of your eye a stool being pulled up next to you, a sigh leaves your mouth. You pull out a headphone, and look at Warren, who’s oh-so-carefully examining your sketch through his probably fake and definitely expensive glasses.

“Y’know, if I were you, I’d shade in this area,” He suggests, finger pointing to the bottom of the bowl. “It’d really make the drawing more realistic, and it’d give it more depth.”

“Excuse me?” You say with offense, looking down at your paper.

“M’just saying, it’d look good if you shaded there.” Warren repeats, leaning his chin against his hand.

“Look, just because you’re some ‘up and coming’ artist, doesn’t mean I’m going to do what you thinks good,” You tell him, using air quotes around your words to make your point. “Besides, the prof is always telling us to develop our own art style.”

“Ouch!” Warren petulantly says, clutching his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so sassy, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You say with a roll of your eyes, ripping your completed sketch out of your book. You get up to go turn in your sketch, Warren quickly following behind you.

“Look, we haven’t really talked before, I was just trying to break the ice!” He says petulantly, though the effect is ruined by the smirk tugging at his lips. You swear that he was born with that permanent smirk on his face. The teacher points to the pile of sketches, and you place it there. “You’re always so observant, and I just want to get to know you.”

“Way to break the ice,” you mutter under your breath, moving back to the table where your things are.

“Why don’t you swing by my place tonight, I’m having a little get together with some other art majors,” Warren suggests casually, as you gather your things. “I’ve got lots of good wine, and you could check out my portfolio.”

“Sorry Warren, I’d love to be around people I have nothing in common with, but I've got plans tonight,” you retort, hitching your bag a little higher on your shoulder.

“And that's what? Netflix bingeing until three a.m.?” Warren calls after you, watching as you make your way towards the door. You just turn and give him a blatantly fake smile, flipping him off to the amusement of the students watching. He just sighs with a smile, his hands moving to his hips. He'd always see you during class, and he always wondered how a girl like you was always so quiet, and observant during class. And to be quite honest, he was getting pretty tired of the usual girls he flirted with during this class; so he took an interest in you, initiating the conversation with you today. You looked like you could be fun, and the way you had snapped back at him only confirmed the idea.So as the next few weeks unfold, he’s not too sure why his usual lines and tricks aren't working on you, like they had on everyone else. And you're pretty sure you might wring his neck, if he asks you to come to one more of his art shows; or to his loft for “modeling purposes.”

Warren finds out that when you get angry or annoyed, you look undeniably attractive. He also finds it attractive, that when you think no one is paying attention, how you'll chew at the tip of your pencil out of concentration. And, when you're in the dark room together, you look otherworldly under the red lights. He hasn't felt the need to pursue someone like this in a long time. No matter how much you two may argue and banter, there's no denying the underlying chemistry between the two of you. Between hook-ups and Uni, he’d kind of forgotten what it was like to “chase” someone he’s taken an interest in, so when a partner project comes along that requires a human canvas, he’s quick to sign your name along with his.

“I'm sorry, but when did I agree to be your partner?” You question him, seeing your name scrawled out in his handwriting.

“Oh c’mon princess! I'm a good partner,” he winks, as you roll your eyes at him. “We could get a head start on it tonight. I got plenty of ideas, and not to mention, some good wine.” You can't deny that he's the best artist in the whole damn class, and you've heard from others that he actually does have the best wine, and he's a pretty decent host. You're positive he’s also got way better art supplies, which would no doubt increase your chances of getting a nice grade.

“Alright, alright,” You give in, rummaging around your bag for a spare pen and paper. As you scrawl your number on the paper, Warren’s smirk on his face grows. “Text me your address, Worthington. I'll see you at 7.”

And like you had planned earlier, that’s how you end up in Warren’s loft; watching him pour you a glass of wine. (You’d be lying if you said you weren't at least a little nervous. Worthington may be an asshole, but he's also definitely easy on the eyes.) Kings of Leon is playing softly in the background, as he hands you the glass of wine.

“Well, I’d never thought I’d see the day,” Warren says, leaning back against the counter, as he takes a sip of his wine.

“And what’s that?” You ask, even though you're pretty much certain of what he's going to say.

“The day I got you to come to my place. It's a miracle, it really is, princess!”

“God, you're an asshole,” you reply with a laugh, bringing your glass to your lips.

“Yeah, but you like it. Don't lie to yourself,” he teases, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Oh, you're right! I love when you tell me everything I draw is fucked up,” you quip, as he shakes his head with a grin.

“In the art world, that's called constructive criticism,” he says defensively, as you just laugh.

“Well in the real world, that's called being a douchebag.”

Warren grabs the bottle of wine, and circles around the island, cueing you to follow him to the living room. He plops down on the couch, patting the space next to him. You sit, crossing your legs as he rests his arm on the back of the couch. “Alright, down to official Uni business!” He exclaims, reaching to grab his notebook off the coffee table. “I have some experience with using human canvases, so I've got a few ideas.”

“Human canvases, huh?” You comment, swirling your glass. “That human canvas wouldn't happen to go by Emma, from our class, would it? I've heard some pretty good stories from her about you, y’know.”

“Ha, ha,” Warren says, rolling your eyes petulantly and making you chuckle. “Anyways, as I was saying, you know Tumblr, right?” You nod. Of fucking course, he’d have a Tumblr. “Well, you've seen those pictures of paintings on people's backs and shit, right?” Warren asks, his brow raising. It takes you a second to think of what he's describing before it clicks in your brain.

“Oh, Worthington, you've gotta get a couple drinks in me before I do that.”

“I knew you'd say that.” Warren laughs lightly, moving to grab the bottle of wine. “It's a good thing I got this, and more options.”

As the wine begins to flow, so do the ideas. None of them really sound that appealing or creative, and you're pretty sure you're closing in on a decision. As Warren, it’s the alcohol that’s affecting your decision making, but you’re almost certain that it’s the way Warren is so effortlessly making you feel at ease; like he’s taking down the front to an act he puts on all day.

“Fuck it,” you say, interrupting Warren’s list of ideas. “Let’s do the back painting.”

He actually looks slightly taken aback for a moment, his plump lips parting for a moment as if he’s going to say something; but closing them, lips curling into a small smile. He closes his notebook and stands, your gaze following him. “Alright princess,” He says, offering his hand to you. “Let’s get started.”

Warren rearranges his furniture in the living room, pushing the couches out of the way so he would be able to paint. He rummages through his closet for some old sheets, spreading the already paint stained sheets on the floor. You hurriedly finish your wine and pour yourself another large glass as you watch Warren set things up because it’s hitting you that you’re going to be pretty much half naked on his floor, with his hands all over you. You watch him as he sets up a couple lights around the area, arranging them to his liking. He leans down to the couch, and grabs a pillow, chucking it to you with a playful smile.

“For your comfort,” He says simply, running a hand through his curls. “I’m-I’m just gonna go into the other room. Take… take your shirt off, and get comfy. There’s an extra sheet over there, in case I get paint on your skirt, or whatever.” Warren quickly excuses himself, much to your amusement. You’re actually quite flustered if you’re being honest; you expected him to make some suggestive comments throughout the night, but he's been a gentleman so far.

Taking one last sip of your wine for some courage, you slip off your shirt and place it over the back of the armchair. You unclasp your bra and put it on the armchair as well. You wrap your arms around your chest for a moment, feeling the vulnerability set it. You can do this, you convince yourself, as you settle yourself on the floor. You're gonna be fine, and you're going to get a really fucking good grade.

“Worthington!” You call out, raising your head to look over your shoulder. “I'm ready!”

Warren comes into the living room, his hands full of his supplies. It takes everything he's got, not to drop them. He really thought he wouldn't be affected by you being half naked on his floor, but he was so wrong. With your hair splayed over your shoulders and sheet over your legs, you look like you had just fallen asleep after…. after some pretty suggestive activities. And it doesn't help that you look like this, on his floor. He just clears his throats and tries to get his shit together as he makes his way over to you, setting down his supplies beside your body.

“Uh, do- do you want me to play some music or something? Do you want any more wine?” He asks, trying to maintain his professionalism.

“Yes to the music, no to the wine, unfortunately.” You reply, earning a laugh from Warren. “I'm pretty sure I'm past tipsy.”

“Aw, that's cute,” Warren teases, as he puts on some soft music. Of fucking course, he listens to Tame Impala. ��You're a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you retort, as he makes his way back to you. “Not all of us binge drink as often as you do.”

Warren chuckles, and gets to his knees, pondering the best way to go about painting. If he wants to get precise strokes and details, he's going to have to be close to your back. “Is it… is it alright if I sit on your thighs?” He asks carefully, preparing for some snarky comment. You're quiet for a moment, and even though he can't see your face, he's sure that you're cringing. But he's proven wrong, as you just burst into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah, sure, that's- go for it,” You reply, between giggles. “Just don't crush me.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” Warren quips, moving to straddle the upper part of your thighs.

“Definitely not. You're like, way more ripped than an artist should be.”

“Wait, what?” Warren asks, not fully processing your statement.

“Uh, nothing, just- just sit already, Worthington!”

Warren feels his cheeks heat up, and shakes his head with a fond smile. When he settles on your thighs, that’s when he realizes how close he actually is to you. Christ, his dick is pretty much pressed against your ass at this angle. NO, Warren thinks to himself, Do not think of her ass. Focus on the painting. Focus on the painting.

Taking one last deep breath, he picks up a brush to start. He dips the paintbrush into a deep purple, moving his hand to the middle of your back. You instantly shiver when the paint comes in contact with your spine, eliciting a small squeak of surprise from you. Warren just laughs softly and asks you if you’re good. When you just nod against the pillows, he starts again. As he works, you’re pretty sure you’ve entered Heaven. His free hand is soft and inviting as it occasionally touches your skin, and the strokes from his brush are soothing against your skin. When Warren leans down to examine the details of his work, you feel his breath against you - and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t make your heart flutter. The music in the background fades as you slip in and out of consciousness, the mixture of wine and the paint making you sleepy. You’re not sure how much time has passed because before you know it, you feel Warren’s weight leave you; making you frown.

“Is it done?” You ask, voice laced with grogginess, as you turn to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is slightly disarrayed, and his white shirt has splatters of blue and purple on it.

“Yeah, it is,” Warren starts, searching through some bags to dig out his camera. “Do you mind if I take a few for class?”

“No, not at all.” You answer, turning to rest your face back on your arms.

As Warren adjusts the lighting once more for the photographs, he realizes just how dangerously attractive you look. With your hair sprawled out and your body half covered with a sheet, you look like you’ve just fallen asleep in his bed. It’s almost a little too much for him, as you yawn. He shakes himself from his thoughts before he finally starts to snap some pictures. With every click, he can feel himself stray to thoughts of how you’d look underneath him, and how your lips would feel against his. He won’t admit it, but he definitely snaps more than he should, for nights when he can’t shake off the feeling of how your ass felt underneath him. When he sets down his camera, he takes note of how you’re more or less fast asleep on his floor. He kneels down to your face, where he gently places a hand on your shoulder.

“You want to take a shower?” He asks softly, as you rouse from your lax state. “Or I could wipe you off if you don’t want to move.”

“You do it,” You mumble back as if it was the obvious answer. “Don’t wanna move.”

Warren nods in understanding, moving to the kitchen to grab some washcloths. He runs them under hot water, and rings them out, before going back to you. He takes his place on your thighs once more, pressing the warm washcloth on your back. His free hand finds its home on your side, balancing himself as he wipes carefully down your spine. Your reaction is entirely unanticipated and it sets him reeling.

The groan you release is muffled, but not muffled enough for Warren not to hear it. It sounds akin to a pleasured groan; one that is produced when a person is in the midst of a climax and it shakes him to the core. He freezes, and tenses above you. It’s only then, you realize, that Warren fucking Worthington III is hard against your ass.

You’re suddenly not so tired anymore.

It takes Warren a moment for him to collect himself before he starts wiping off your back again. You do your best to stifle your groans, but you’re sure he’s doing it with more pressure deliberately. It’s not long before Warren is done wiping off the paint, and you’re about to thank him before the washcloth is replaced with his hands. The moment his thumbs dig into your shoulders, you know, that you’re completely and utterly fucked.

You’re sure he knows what he’s doing to you, as his deft hands travel around your back, his thumbs digging in all the right places. Warren bites his lower lip, as you’re underneath him, a wicked thought crossing his mind. His hands drift to the base of your spine before he lowers himself so that his lips are level with your ear. You physically shiver when you feel his lower lip brush against the shell of your ear, his fingers dancing across your skin.

“You okay, princess?” Warren’s voice is three octaves lower than usual, and the slight lust in his tone is enough to make a heat of wave surge through your body. You can’t physically make the effort to actually form any coherent words, so you just opt to make an ‘mmh’ that sounds pathetically desperate to your ears. There’s a long, tense pause, as he takes in your answer. You’re about to say something, say something to convince you both that this is maybe a bad idea, but your words are caught in your throat as he places a kiss to the nape of your neck, and he doesn’t stop there. His lips place hot, wet kisses down your back, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose it right then when his tongue traces the dip of your spine. His calloused hands travel down your sides, pulling down the dirtied sheet to reveal your skirt, that in the process of painting, has been hiked up a little. The way you’re fisting the pillow underneath you is enough permission for Warren to continue.

He pushes up your skirt and just lets out a dark laugh at what he’s met with. Your lace cheeksters make your ass look fantastic, and he loves the way they look against your skin. His large hands suddenly grasp the swell of your ass, causing a surprised moan to fall from your lips. “Goddamn, princess,” he groans, voice gravelly. You barely even process the feel of his lips suddenly sucking hard at one of your cheeks, his thumb moving to stroke you outside of your panties. You let out an absolutely wrecked moan as he marks up your ass, his thumb rubbing at your clit in uneven circles over your underwear.

He grows quickly impatient with that and opts to scoot forward slightly. Your back arches the second he starts mouthing at your clothed heat, a yelp escaping your lips. Warren hums in approval at your reaction, and that's when he takes the cue to rid you of your underwear altogether. His hands make quick work of the underwear, throwing them behind his shoulder, long forgotten. Your breath is ragged and short as his rough hands grasp your ass, and you all but scream his name when his tongue presses against your cunt.

The angle’s a little awkward, but you don't really care: because all you can focus on is the feel of his tongue lapping at you like a starved man, and the feel of his hands spreading your ass apart. Warren alternates between deep, longing licks and short, teasing ones. Your knuckles are turning white from how hard you’re grasping the pillow underneath you, and you nearly lurch forward when you feel his tongue against your ass.

“Fuck!” You curse loudly. Your voice cracks from how dry it is, but you don’t care. Warren fucking laughs at your reaction, because he knew you were close, too.

He keeps up the teasing, deep licks for a couple more minutes. He wants to see how far he can push you until you’re begging for the release you need. He’s always been a tease. It takes Warren by surprise when he feels your hand place itself in his curls, fingers digging into the roots of his hair. You impatiently press him harder into you, and he seems to get the point. His tongue immediately moves down to your clit, where he focuses his attention. With every movement of his chin, you could feel the day old stubble rub against the apex of your thighs, only increasing the pleasure. The second Warren’s fingers nudge at your clit, you gasp out his name; finally getting that release you’ve needed for the past ten minutes.

Your eyes shut tightly as you cum, your grip on Warren’s hair tightening as he rides out your orgasm. His fingers are still rubbing at your clit, making your body pulse and writhe underneath him. It’s not long before he finally detaches himself from your aching cunt, and hastily making his way up towards your lips.

He leaves a couple more kisses on your ass and spine before you’re resting your weight on your elbows to meet him halfway. You’re pretty sure a first kiss has never been so utterly filthy before. His tongue is immediately in your mouth, and you’re kicking yourself for being turned on by the taste of yourself on his lips. At the taste of yourself, you can’t help the needy little moan that leaves your mouth, which causes Warren to actually fucking growl.

It’s a blur, as Warren’s hands plant themselves on your hips, practically manhandling you to your back. He leans back on his heels to pull off his shirt quickly, returning to give you a bruising kiss. It’s a mess of tongue and teeth, as his hands greedily knead at your breasts. Your hands shove themselves between your bodies, fingers trying to unbuckle his belt as quickly as you can possibly manage. The second his belt falls to the floor with a ‘clink,’ Warren detaches his mouth from yours once more. He kicks off his jeans and briefs hurriedly, wasting no time to come back to you.

When he comes back down to you, you can’t really help yourself, as your hand slides down once more to grip his length. The second you stroke him, Warren gasps heavily into your mouth; his eyes screwing shut. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, as you stroke his cock. You let out a small noise of surprise when he regains his focus, his hand moving to hold the base of your throat.

His hips grind forward, the length of him sliding across your wanting entrance. When you whine in response, Warren just chuckles darkly, ducking down to brush his lips against yours.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” He whispers, the hold on your throat tightening. “Want me to fuck you good?” You’re so far gone that your body feels like one huge pulse; controlled by the single hand on your throat, the soft lips ghosting against yours. Your slightly trembling hand moves to grip his wrist as your hips roll into his, your head nodding almost frantically, giving him the green light. He smirks down at you, and you can practically see the lust in his eyes. The second he tightens that grip around your throat, you can already tell that you’re going to have trouble walking straight.

He slides into you easily, filling you to the brim. The ragged moan that the two of you let out is so fucking filthy, that it makes the whole situation even sexier. He doesn’t waste any time in setting up a deep, punishing rhythm. Warren’s lips seem to be connected permanently connected to your jaw as he fucks you, his teeth scraping at biting at the skin there. Your gasps are loud but you don’t care because they’re quickly muffled by Warren. Your hands move under his arms, nails digging into his back, only causing Warren to thrust harder into you.

You’re already sensitive as hell from earlier, which makes you cum quickly around him. The second Warren feels you clench around him, eyes rolling back into your head, he knows he’s got you.

“Fuck, yeah,” He groans, his hand leaving your throat. “So fuckin’ hot when you cum.”

You wrap your arms around his neck to yank him back down for a bruising, mean kiss, his tongue fucking into your mouth, as he feels his orgasm creep up on him. All it takes is for him to pull back and take one good look at you, to finish; the fucked out look you give him is what does him in.

He cums with almost a yell, his hips slamming hard into yours and stilling; his hot cum spilling into you. Warren collapses against your chest, his breath ragged, his heart rate elevated. It seems like you both just lay there for an eternity, as he keeps his head resting in the crook of your neck. Part of you wants to believe that this whole thing was a mistake; something to blame on the alcohol. The other part of you wants to feel his lips on yours once more and to feel his hips thrusting against yours.

It feels like ages before Warren stands, moving to the kitchen to grab a warm cloth to clean you up with. You lie there feeling almost jaded as you let him clean you up, shivering at his touch when he moves the cloth between your legs. He leans back on his heels and offers you his hand, helping you up. You stumble slightly, but Warren is quick to catch you. Warren just coughs out a small laugh, which causes you to scowl at him playfully.

“I... I think I may need that shower now,” you tell him quietly. Warren just chuckles and nods in understanding. He helps you to the bathroom because lord knows your legs don’t work properly after that. In the bathroom, he starts up the shower and throws you a towel, turning to make his leave. Warren is surprised when you pull him back by his wrist, a tired smile playing at your lips. Your eyes are half lidded, high off the sex and still drunk off the wine. Warren wonders how you still manage to look beautiful, even after he just fucked you senseless. His breath hitches when your finger grazes the dips of his abs, his eyes following your finger, tracing over the paint smears that litter his skin.

“I know you’re sweaty from the sex, but don’t think I didn’t notice the paint,” You tell him, as you look up at him through your lashes. Your fingers idly trace up his torso and to his neck, tracing his collarbones. Warren’s adam’s apple visibly bobs as you move them to his lips, tracing them gently. His lips part, and as a natural reflex, they slip into his mouth. His tongue laves over them for a fleeting moment, before you’re caught off guard by his hands gripping your hips. He all but slams you against the counter, your fingers popping out of his mouth. Warren mouths at your neck, one of his hands moving to inevitably finger you again. You’re quicker than him though, your hand wrapping around his wrist to stop him. He pulls away like a docile dog, probably thinking he pushed your limits. Pushing his curls out of his face in reassurance, you say,

“Not that I’m opposed to the idea, it’s just that the water’s probably getting cold.”

The confused visage melts away, replaced with an almost bashful smile. He just leans forward, resting his face in the crook of your neck. It takes you slightly aback when he presses a chaste kiss underneath your ear - a kiss lovers most likely share. You try not to think about it too hard. He pulls back, and you both get into the shower. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You both clean up and share small, fond smiles as you pass the shampoo back and forth. When you get out, he wraps you up in a towel and leaves you be to change. As you dry your hair with your towel, the reflection in the mirror is only what can be described as a hot mess. He surely did a number on your neck, that’s for sure. Looks like it’s going to be nothing but scarves and turtlenecks for the next week.

He offers you his bed to stay in for the night, and as pleasing as it sounds, you have to deny. You have work early the next morning, and you’re sure if you spend the night he’ll add more damage to your neck, which you just can’t have. As you gather your purse, Warren comes up behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you squirm a little when he presses light kisses to the marks he’d left earlier. Your arms overlap his, as you try to break free out of his grip, only to fail. He spins you so that he can mouth at your jaw. The bastard.

“Warren,” You all but stutter out, with a smile. He pulls back with a smug grin, raising his brows in fake innocence. “You’re making it so hard for me to leave.”

“That’s the idea, princess.” He quips quietly, his lips ghosting over yours as he leans in for another kiss. You turn at the last second and push out of his grip with a mischievous grin. Warren sighs in defeat, pushing back his damp bangs.

Cutting him some slack, you stand on your tippy toes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When you pull back, he’s got a crooked grin on his face, and almost a wicked gleam in his eye. You back up to the front door, and before you turn the knob to leave, you say,

“See you in class, Worthington.”

The next few weeks are slightly surreal. Neither of you acknowledges that you had sex, but the dynamic between the two of you is very obviously different. You’re friends now-or at least friendly. Warren reigns in his ‘constructive criticism’ in class, and you work together on another project, and everything feels normal, besides the whole ‘being friends’ thing. You still roll your eyes when you see him smooth talking the other people in the class and you definitely don’t cut him any slack for his ego, but it’s less aggressive and more bantering now, and you don’t really know where this is going, but you like being his friend, so you just figure you’ll let it happen. You don’t go to his parties though, and you don’t show up to any of his exhibits. They feel like you’re committing to something, though you’re not sure what, or even why it feels like that, and it sets you slightly on edge.

Warren doesn’t keep asking you to things either, which is why you’re feeling almost as surprised as he looks when you push open the door to one of the campus art galleries where his latest exhibit is being displayed along with other top student artists from the area. He glances over reflexively as he hears the faint noise from the door, and then freezes when he sees you. You’re pretty sure this is the first time he’s seen you put any significant effort into your appearance, and you’re not hating the distinctly appreciative look in his eye as he takes in your dress and heels.

“What’re you-” he starts, and breaks off, still staring at you as if this is unfamiliar territory and he doesn’t know how to proceed. “I don’t think I mentioned this show to you,” he remarks with feigned nonchalance, and you smirk at him.

“You didn’t. But I’m here to see if you can back up all that shit you like to talk about being an ‘up and coming artist’ or whatever,” you quip, and a small answering smirk of his own curves his lips as he hands you a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

“Princess, I can back up all my talk,” Warren retorts, a slightly suggestive emphasis in his tone that makes you laugh as you take hold of his proffered arm and he begins to lead you around the small gallery.

He takes you through the other student’s sections first, and you expect him to trash talk everything about their exhibits, but he doesn’t-well, not all that much. He points out details in the pieces that you wouldn’t have picked up on and he tells you about the process and the techniques you’re unfamiliar with without being overtly condescending about it. You’re almost hyper aware of the other girls in the gallery throwing lingering glances his way, but not once does he leave you to fend for yourself.

It takes you the better part of two hours to reach his section of the exhibition, in part because he seems to have taken it upon himself to explain the aesthetically and technically impressive aspects of the other artist’s work and because he keeps being stopped by unfamiliar, but important looking people. When he finally reaches his own display, you’re astonished by his lack of overt arrogance, actually looking a little unsure of himself as you stand in front of the first big piece. It’s a hazy, unfocused, dimly lit photograph of his apartment living room in weak evening sunlight, and while you can certainly appreciate its aesthetic value, you feel like you’re grasping at straws as you try to come up with a deeper meaning for it.

“So what does this mean?” you say eventually, still studying the enlarged photo on the wall before you. “I mean, it’s a good photo, and I get the technique, but is there a message you’re trying to send or whatever?” Warren laughs sheepishly, one hand ruffling his hair unconsciously.

“I-uh-that shot was a total accident, to be honest. I told my professor that it was an attempt to capture the intangible sense of melancholy brought by the ending of a day, but actually, I fell asleep on the couch and my glasses fell off, and then when I woke up again the light was gorgeous, but I could barely see, so I grabbed what luckily turned out to be my good camera and sort of hoped for the best,” he explains, cheeks slightly flushed, and you can’t stop the giggle that escapes you as your gaze drifts from him to the photo and back to him again.

“Y’know,” You remark after taking a second to compose yourself. “I definitely thought you wore those glasses to be some ironic cliché hipster or some bullshit like that rather than actually needing to correct your vision.”

“Yeah, I’m blind as a bat.” Warren nods complacently at your remark and the utterly unperturbed manner in which he accepts your jab brings on a fresh wave of laughter from you, leaving a slightly inscrutable smile on his face as he watches you. The next block of work is a small spread of still life charcoals, and as you examine them a little more closely, you let out an incredulous chuckle.

“These are from class. Our class. I thought you were an edgy boundary pushing artist or whatever but you actually put some honest to god fruit bowl still life in your big exhibit,” you giggle in an almost accusatory manner, and he glares at you in mock offense.

“Hey, don’t knock the classics. My technique is really good in these and I gotta counterbalance my edgy stuff with something so the old people don’t have heart attacks,” he says defensively, and you roll your eyes, taking his arm again and tugging him on to the next display board.

“Whatever you say, maestro.”

Warren watches you as you pull him around his exhibit, asking questions about his work and more often than not teasing him about his answers, not taking any of his gracefully articulated pretentious explanations seriously when you ask what the art means. He’s utterly unaware of the other girls watching him enviously as he walks with you around the gallery and the thought crosses his mind that he hasn’t had this much fun with someone else in a long time. Your skin is warm against his and even though neither of you has mentioned that night in his loft, he sure as hell hasn’t forgotten it. That night and the events that transpired aren’t far from your mind either, and as you approach the final photograph in his exhibit, you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips, because it’s you.

The photo is familiar, but it’s not one of the ones the two of you handed in as your final project. The painting on your back is a technically excellent as you remember it being, but something about the lighting of the photo and the drape of the sheet over your lower back makes this one infinitely more suggestive, and you look away after a couple of seconds, heat rising to your cheeks.

“What, no questions about this one?” Warren asks, teasingly and you roll your eyes, even as you avoid looking over at him.

“No, I think I’m already pretty familiar with the details of this particular photo, thanks,” you retort, and he chuckles. Looking around the gallery, you notice that the rest of the guests have more or less cleared out now, and the staff hired for the event are starting to clear away the tables. You don’t check the time but you know it’s getting late, and yet you’re not quite ready to leave because you like spending time with Warren when he’s like this. No arrogant superiority and not blatantly flirting with anything that breathes. Glancing up at him, you make a split second decision, tightening your grip on his arm and starting to tug him towards the door.

“C’mon, let me buy you a drink. There’s a really good bar not far from here,” you say decisively. He doesn’t resist, but he gives you a quizzical look as you pull him along the sidewalk.

“I’m not complaining or anything, but is there a particular motivation to buy me a drink?” He asks and you let out a short laugh, leaning into his side a little because the night is colder than you had expected.

“Let’s just call it payment in kind, or whatever. I’ve talked a lot of shit about your art, and you proved me wrong tonight, so it’s the least I can do. Besides, I’ve been having a good night. Have you?” You tease him, and Warren chuckles in response, unwinding his arm from yours and tugging you to a brief pause as he takes off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders before offering you his arm again. You give him a surprised look as you hook your arm through his, leaning a little more heavily against him than necessary because you never expected him to be like this with you, but you definitely don’t dislike it in the slightest. “Look at you being a gentleman, Worthington,” you quip, and you can’t quite tell under the dim glow of the streetlights, but you think he might actually be blushing.

“Don’t spread it around, I have a rep to maintain,” he jokes, and you roll your eyes and elbow him lightly in the side as you continue down the sidewalk together.

It takes five minutes to reach the bar, and when you slip inside, it’s fairly empty, only a few other patrons nursing drinks in booths or at the counter. You hand Warren his jacket and point him at a table in the corner as you head to the bar to order drinks for the two of you.

“Did you-you didn’t need to buy me a drink,” he starts and you scoff, cutting him off.

“I said I would and it’s not like one beer costs me all that much. You can buy the next few if you really feel you have to for whatever reason,” you say, and he just laughs, clinking his bottle to yours before taking a sip.

The two of you sit and drink for another hour, and true to his word, Warren buys the next few drinks for the two of you. It’s a little surreal, spending time with him like this, and as the night wears on, this unfamiliar tension starts to build between the two of you. It makes you feel like there are sparks skittering over your skin and you can’t stop thinking about the first time you and he were drinking together. His hair has gotten progressively messier and his shirtsleeves are rolled up and it could be your imagination or the alcohol or a whole range of other factors, but his crooked grin seems to be getting more and more suggestive by the minute and you can’t help but consider just how of big a mistake it might be to kiss him.

It only takes one or two drinks for you to be on Warren’s side of the table, leaning into his side with his arm around your shoulder, and you don’t really want to think about what the consequences might be if the night goes where you’re steering it. Not long after that, the pool table in the corner of the bar clears out and you get up from your seat with a smirk, grabbing his hand and pulling him over.

“You know how to play, or am I gonna have to ask someone else here to teach me?” You ask with a wicked smirk on your face. Warren smirks back at you as he downs the last of his drink, rising to his feet and following you as you tug him over to where the pool table stands in the corner.

“Don’t you worry sweetheart, I know how to play,” he drawls, slinging an arm over your shoulders and pressing in close to your side as you survey the table. You know how to play pool. You play pretty damn well. But Warren doesn’t need to know that. Though, you’re not sure he’d care that you were strategically miscommunicating about your skill level, given that result is having you pressed up against his chest as he leans over you, his arms around your shoulders to help you guide the pool cue.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying the warmth of his body pressed up against yours or the way his arms felt as they wrapped around yours, repositioning you gently. His breath is warm on your neck and on an impulse, you deliberately rub your ass up against him. The way his breath hitches in his chest is enough to bring a satisfied smirk to your face as you do it again, a little less subtly this time. Warren lets out a low, muffled groan as you line up the next shot, hitting it dead on. His grip on your body is getting steadily tighter as you continue to deliberately roll your hips back against his, gratified when you feel his hard on against your ass.

It takes all of about ten more minutes of this teasing before he takes the pool cue from you, setting it on the table before gripping your waist tightly and ducking his head to graze his lips along the column of your throat. You let out a low sigh of contentment as you turn in his arms to face him, a hint of a challenge glimmering in your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck, briefly taking in the empty bar before smirking at him.

“Bathroom. Five minutes,” you whisper, voice low and suggestive, before pulling away, walking over to grab your bag from your chair and then past him to the bathroom in the corner, incredibly aware of his gaze on you as you go.

He’s there in less than five, but the bar is almost totally deserted so it doesn’t really matter. The second the door is locked behind the two of you, he’s pushing you up against the sink counter, hands heavy on your hips as he kisses you hard. Your tongue is sliding against his as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in closer as you slip back to sit on the edge of the counter. As Warren dips his head to mouth along your neck, you reach blindly into your bag, feeling around till you pull a condom out. He lets out a breathless groan of arousal when he sees what’s in your hand.

“You came here knowing you wanted to fuck me, didn’t you princess?” he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, and you just shoot him a coy smile as you undo his belt buckle, pushing his pants and boxers down past his hips to roll the condom on, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the low hiss he lets out at your touch.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. It’s not like you don’t wanna fuck me, though, is it?”

That’s all it takes for him to push you back further onto the counter, shoving your dress up your thighs as he hauls your panties down your legs and discards them before parting your legs with rough hands, pushing into you with an urgency that makes your head spin as he tugs the neckline of your dress down to knead at your breasts.

It’s quick and rough and hot and when he pulls away from you to dispose of the condom, you have an assortment of marks along the neckline of your dress that you can’t quite hide. Warren gives you a crooked, tired grin as he re-buckles his belt.

“That was a damn sight more fun than the gallery, sweetheart,” he says and you smile at him in the mirror as you touch up your lipstick.

“I know how to have a good time, Worthington.”

He pockets your panties before heading back out to the main bar, and you follow a few seconds later, a self-satisfied smirk firmly in place as you leave the bathroom. Neither of you mentions the sex as he walks you back to your apartment, and he doesn’t kiss you goodnight.

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