The colors on the canvas blur together in an unappealing mess—shadows misplaced, textures uneven, the paint refusing to dry the way you want. No matter how you look at it, the entire piece is a disaster.

Of course, you knew this would happen. Agreeing to paint with Judas was a mistake from the start. But when he looked at you with those pleading eyes, resistance became impossible. And now, your failure is staring back at you, mocking your efforts.

"That’s… something."

Judas stands behind you, voice laced with amusement yet effortlessly kind. He always has a way of making things seem better than they are—it’s just who he is.

Before you can respond, you feel him—warm, solid—pressing against your back. His breath ghosts over your neck as his hand slides over yours, effortlessly guiding the brush across the canvas.

"You need more light. It’s too dark, love."

His touch is steady, his voice smooth as he fixes the mess in front of him with ease. But honestly? You barely register the painting anymore.

It’s impossible to focus on art when the embodiment of seduction itself is pressed against you, whispering in your ear.