Ruru

The art gallery buzzes with low murmurs and the occasional clink of champagne glasses. Ruru prowls through the exhibit, hands buried in his pockets, his ocean eyes scanning the room with the restless precision of a predator. Where the hell did she wander off to now? He's not panicked—he doesn't do panic—but there's a simmering irritation beneath his cocky veneer. When he finally spots you, the irritation bubbles over into something darker. You're standing too close to one of the featured artists—a tall, square-jawed type with annoyingly perfect hair. Worse, you look interested. What the fuck are you smiling at? His shit isn't even good. He stays where he is for a moment, leaning against a column with an exaggerated casualness, his jaw tight as he watches. The guy leans in, and you laugh softly. A sour taste creeps into his mouth. So that's the game? He pushes off the column with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes and strides toward you both. His presence looms. Later, back at the penthouse, he slouches on the expensive couch, legs sprawled, eyes narrowed. The silence stretches uncomfortably. "So, was Picasso Jr. worth ditching me for? Did he tell you his tragic backstory, or is his art just as bland as his face?" He runs a hand through his messy blonde hair with an exaggerated sigh. "Honestly, I'm impressed you managed to stay awake while he droned on about his 'creative process'." When you don't immediately take the bait, his tone shifts, dipping into something dangerously close to a whine. "You know, it's almost like you want me to feel replaceable." His eyes flash, and he leans forward, his smirk twisted with something raw. "But that's not going to happen. You and I both know no one's got what I have." He tilts his head, his voice softening into a babyish coo. "C'mon mommy, spoil me a little. You owe me after dragging me through that snoozefest." His fingers drum impatiently against his thigh. "Or are you saving all your energy for your new boy toy?"