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Muse: Acrylics on canvas

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A muse
is a love affair
art and souls. - Atticus 










On a Sunday morning, half asleep, sticky with sweat and nursing a soreness that can only come from one thing, Jeongguk is sure he’s hallucinating. Some kind of fever dream, his subconscious running wild and playing tricks on him, because there’s no way—


“Let me get this straight,” Jeongguk breathes, turning so that he’s facing Jimin, who’s sitting by the edge of his window lazily blowing rings of smoke into the window, not a lick of clothing on, all that skin bathed in sunlight, burnished gold and packed with soft muscle.


It’s no wonder Jeongguk feels like he’s been fucked within an inch of his life. Jimin never knows his own strength, and feeds off the way he knows Jeongguk wants him, uses all the praise he gets in order to give more , give harder .


Sitting up hurts a bit, but Jeongguk manages, still hazy and flushed hot at the direction his thoughts have taken. “You want to do what ?”


Jimin doesn’t answer right away, preferring to leave Jeongguk impatiently glaring at him from his bed. When he does answer, it’s quiet but assured, as if he’s put thought into this—as if somehow he’s held this want for longer than Jeongguk realized. (He has ). “I wanna’ paint you. On you, I mean. Like, on your skin.”


This is news to Jeongguk, given how fiercely Jimin protects his work, often secluding himself in their spare bedroom whenever he feels the need to lose himself in paints. Sometimes it’ll be days before Jeongguk sees his face, sometimes he never sees the final product, especially if Jimin isn’t satisfied with the outcome, though lately that hasn’t happened either. So of course, with that in mind, is why Jeongguk is surprised. He’d never have imagined Jimin being comfortable with sharing the process, let alone involving him in it.


His silence must confuse Jimin, for he stubs the cigarette on the windowpane and faces him fully, parted legs swinging to and from. A soft sound leaves him, akin to frustration. “You know I haven’t touched a canvas in weeks. I’ve tried to, but nothing works,” he stresses, eyes alight with fervent need, his art as loved by him the same way he does Jeongguk.


Intensely, enough to regard him as precious in his life as the paints always staining his fingers.


“Nothing fits .” Jimin stresses, but then he’s moving, striding towards him, crawling into their bed and sliding his palms against Jeongguk’s bare thighs, parting them as he comes closer, fingertips leaving faint traces of heat in their wake. “I need help, Gguk-Ah,” he whispers, lips mere inches away from Jeongguk’s, teasing what he knows Jeongguk wants more than anything. The closeness, the press of his tongue followed by the scrape of his teeth against his lower lip.


Jeongguk trembles in bed, fisting the sheets. Stomach taut as he shudders through an exhale, arches into Jimin’s hands—hands that create beautiful things and bring them to life—wanting more even when it’ll hurt .


“You wanna’ paint on me,” He murmurs, a soft keen leaving him at the faint brush of Jimins lips so soft and wet against his. Jeongguk’s not sure what he wants more, whether it’s Jimin's kisses or for his fingers to wrap around his cock, but when he receives both—he moans into Jimin's mouth, high and breathless.


“I want it,” Jimin’s breath fans across his lips, and even though they do this enough—kiss so lazy they could go like this for hours and not come up for air—it still leaves him vibrating with goosebumps from within, his body warm like melted honey to be swallowed. “Is that a yes, baby? Are you gonna’ be my canvas? Let me make you even more beautiful?”


The want in Jimin's voice, the sheer need , leaves Jeongguk feeling so high he’s certain the only things grounding him are Jimins hands—those beautiful hands—slowly stroking his stirring erection  from base to tip, and nothing more. Jeongguk can’t possibly go again, still too tender and sore inside, and yet—God, and yet, he’s insatiable; always biting off more than he can chew and craves more.


“Yeah,” Jeongguk keens, Jimin's teeth scraping just beneath his jaw leaving him to writhe in bed. To move his hands and bury them between Jimin's soft black hair and tug . Jimins groan echoes hot against his throat, his breath marking him up, a tease to what his teeth could do if they just bite . “Yeah, Baby, I’ll be your canvas. Want you to make me beautiful, too.”

The thing about Jimin is that he never rushes anything. Sex, conversations, Art —it all happens on his time, at his pace. Nice and steady, sometimes achingly slow. He’s the type to prolong a conversation until he can sort through his thoughts in silence and weigh the outcome of each word, the type to fuck Jeongguk gently, or to fuck himself on Jeongguk even more so, no matter how frenzied he feels on the inside, begging for a taste of reprieve. The type to receive a commission in June and finish it in October, solely because his need to excel and perfect every detail overrides his sense of time. Sometimes his self preservation, too.


It’s been a long time of Jeongguk watching him grow into the man he is now, assured in his skill and yet always striving to be better; a slave to his trade on some days, a master to it during others. Yet, days have passed since that spare bedroom turned studio has been used, and as the clock continues to tick, Jimin's patience with himself begins to thin, and as consequence he tortures himself with late nights and frantic fucking that doesn’t satiate either of them until exhaustion wins out and they cave.


Jeongguk has long since agreed to be whatever Jimin needs him to be, as his support system or as his canvas, and like always, even while knowing he has the option, Jimin takes his time. Makes him shiver with anticipation, wondering when it’s going to happen, and how it’ll happen.


Jeongguk knows Jimin’s style, having seen his boyfriend’s pieces proudly displayed in galleries whilst rich trophy wives battle with their checkbooks out in order to take them home, so he knows what to expect design wise, but— But the question remains:


When ?


Jimin purposely edges him with whispered promises to make him so beautiful that everyone will want a piece of something that’s solely his —yet denies him a date. It has to be right , he insists whenever he’s asked. Casual, as if he’s not running himself ragged over his lost inspiration, slashing droplets of black paint across the walls as a wordless release of all that anger he’s bottling up.


So, Jeongguk lets Jimin settle. Does his best to ease his frustrations by making his favorite meals, wearing the lingerie he keeps tucked inside the drawers for special occasions, letting Jimin watch him masturbate and come on his face when he too wants some fun. It works, and things seem to cool down despite the fact that no painting has occurred.


In fact, it takes so long to happen—Jimin’s proposition, that is—that it slips his mind, a whisper in the wind he can’t quite remember the sound of anymore.


Of course that is when Jimin decides he’s ready. That the time is right. Granted the time he chooses happens to be when Jeongguk has returned from the store, dripping wet due to the rain and his lack of an umbrella, and shivering from head to toe. As he’s toeing off his socks, whining about the chill and shucking off his jacket, Jeongguk sees a flash of black hair heading inside the spare bedroom. Music is playing, The kind Jimin enjoys as he’s working, which must mean he acquired an unexpected commission or—


The volume lowers, and through their small apartment Jeongguk hears Jimin call for him, sweet and airy. “ Baby , can you c’mere?”


Jeongguk swallows heavily, recognizing that tone, considering its the one he hears oh so often, usually right before Jimin watches him burst at seams, a coy, Baby can you come for hyungie? He shivers.  “Can it wait a second? M’all wet from the rain.”


No , I actually really need you right now,” as Jeongguk is stalling, face flushed, Jimin peers through the open door and finds him where he stands. Amused and warm, he says, “What are you doing standing there, silly? Come.”


The wind picks up outside and it begins to rain harder, scattering thick droplets across their windows, which is what Jeongguk blames the sudden shiver curling across his spine to be for. Slowly, he unhooks each button of his shirt, then slips it over his shoulders, Jimin’s eyes on him hot with every inch of skin revealed.


“You’re such a beautiful boy,” he praises gently, still making no move to come forward. He won’t . Jeongguk knows he won’t, that Jimin will remain rooted in his spot even if he takes hours to reach him, and that alone—that feigned disinterest— masked with such soft praises makes him bold. Makes him burn bright.


“M’your beautiful boy,” Jeongguk tells him, fingers smoothing across his chest, fingertips shy of touching where he’s sensitive.


Jimin runs fingers through his hair, smoothing untamed black strands off his forehead, and arches a single dark brow at Jeongguk. “ Yeah , you are. All mine .”


The shirt comes off, the fabric sliding onto the floor with a rustle. Jimin hums, giving him a subtle cock of his head before he disappears inside the studio to wait for Jeongguk.


There’s a fierce sense of determination spreading through Jeongguk’s body as he heads towards his boyfriend, bare feet padding against the floor; the tick of the clock seemingly echoing around the apartment for a moment before the music resumes its volume, each painting seemingly watching him from where they’d been displayed in frames; a mixture f styles and colors: all subjects of practice for Jimin during his abrupt moods to try other things. This is important to Jimin, he trusts him to be a part of his passion even if just to practice in hopes of inspiration.


Inside, the room Jimin uses as his makeshift studio is nothing but a small extension in their apartment. And yet, amidst it all there’s an order to the chaos. Half finished paintings lay in a corner of shadows, where they’ve been banned out of sight but never out of mind, contrasting to those that are finished hanging where even the barest of light may reach them and coordinated by moods.


Jeongguk spies a vivid mixture of yellows, blues and golds depicting sunrise and smiles; knowing that is Jimin's piece for him and smiles, a rush of breath leaving him relaxed. Titled Euphoria , as that’s how Jimin describes feeling when they’d met.


Against the window, tucked in a corner is a mattress dressed in muted grey covers and a set of pillows where Jimin usually tends to crash during periods where his life consists of picking up a brush and foregoing everything else. A desk resides beside it, scattered with stained newspapers, an ashtray of cigarette butts, Jimin’s speaker and an array of paints in tubes; some old and some new.


At the heart of it all, is of course the easel.  Imposing in the middle of the room, it gets the best lighting. Sitting atop of it is a dreary, unfinished watercolor rendition of this very room, wherein the middle sits  line figure—blood red amidst the greys, browns and blacks.


Jimin ignores it, as if it's not a testament to his frustration and focuses wholeheartedly on his task, which happens to be making the mattress more comfortable by shoving the books piled onto it to the side. He’s wearing nothing but an oversized chambray shirt, undone down to his navel, where below, his ass peeks whenever he bends to smooth out the covers.


It’s not unusual to find Jimin undressed, given their apartment is a hot, stuffy, cramped little thing that no amount of natural air can fix. Though Jimin claims he does it for different reasons. I don’t like feeling trapped whilst I work, is one of his favorites. The less I wear the less clothes I have to worry about staining is another. Jeongguk’s favorite to hear, of course, is: The less I have on then the quicker it takes me to fuck.


Fingers fumbling at his sides, Jeongguk clears his throat so that Jimin will look at him. The music pounds inside the room, sending his pulse racing something fierce, his heart beating wild in his chest.


Jimin does turn. Lounged on the mattress, he looks like a God, bare and within reach for Jeongguk to touch. “Hi there,” he says, patting the space he’s made for Jeongguk to occupy. A quirk of his eyebrow show he’s amused, especially when Jeongguk comes closer, enough to tower over Jimin where he sits. Palms splayed over his jean clad thighs, warm and soft, he murmurs. “You’re still a little overdressed for this, bun. I don’t wanna make a mess.”


“You didn’t specify I had to be naked for this,” Jeongguk mutters, though he’s all bark and no bite, as he hooks his fingers into his belt and begins unfastening it, the leather whisper soft as he feeds it out of the buckle. Jimin giggles, a light, pleasant sound amidst the thrumming bass in the room, watching him—his fingers more so.


“Well, you don’t have to be, but it’s much more fun if you are,” Jimin murmurs thickly, casual in the way he traces a single finger over the seam of Jeongguk’s zipper before he inches closer, hot breath fanning against his hip as the zipper comes undone with a sharp hiss. “Besides, I’m only going to practice. Get a feel of what I want on you. What’ll look the best.”


Jeongguk’s breath hitches and then he exhales heavily once Jimin helps him kick off his jeans, his boxers coming next. He’s already half hard, embarrassingly so, as a bead of precome pearls at the tip solely off the way Jimin stares at him. Perhaps Jeongguk has always liked the way Jimin does that—makes him feel so wanted, so special—perhaps it's not just Jimin but anyone.


He’d be a liar if he says the thought of people watching him, of people wanting him didn’t turn him on. Jimin knows this, and sometimes, when the mood is right and he’s feeling particularly mean in that way Jeongguk yearns for, he’ll do something about it. Jerk him off in a semi public place and whisper filthy in his ear how passerby’s will hear him moan or see him come.


A harsh little slap against the underside of his dick, and Jeongguk comes to the present, blushing and mortified. Jimin on the other hand stares up at him fondly, something sweet present in the curve of his smile.


“There’s time for that later, bun. I got work to do,” Jimin tells him, the back of his knuckles brushing soft over the curve of his cock before he pulls away and comes to a stand beside him. With a gentle nudge to his shoulders, Jeongguk goes lax and lets himself be guided onto the mattress, flat on his back with Jimin watching him. Tender fingers card through his hair, sifting the strands off his forehead, that and the music pulling Jeongguk under. “We’re just gonna experiment a little today, alright? I’m gonna try some colors on your skin, freestyle a bit and see how it pans out, so don’t be nervous, ok?”


“Can I fall asleep?” He asks, and Jimin snorts. “You keep touching my hair like that and that’s what I’m gonna do. Sleep.”


“Do whatever you want, baby, the one thing you can’t do is move around.” Jimin hums, moving to press a kiss to his lips that’s supposed to be chaste, but soon becomes more as Jeongguk wants to take take take . Breathless, Jeongguk hungrily licks into Jimin’s mouth, one hand holding him by the jaw so he doesn’t move away, the other sneakily trying to move between his thighs. He doesn’t make it, Jimin grabbing his wrist and pressing it hard against the mattress, pulling away with an audible gasp, soft lips parted and glistening with saliva. “Hope you enjoyed that since I’m not gonna kiss you anymore until we’re finished.”


Jeongguk glares at him. “You’re mean,” he says, always so needy and desperate; it always gets him into trouble—which is partly what he’s looking for.


“Hm, I could be meaner,” He murmurs, His laugh a quiet sound amidst Jeongguk’s sulking frown. “Try not to move, okay? It’s practice, but I want to try and get something done.” Jimin smiles at him, but doesn’t acquiesce to Jeongguk’s demands. He does however press a single kiss to the inside of his palm before laying it flat on the mattress.


On his feet, Jimin moves towards his desk, where he’s concentrated in selecting a brush and what paints he’ll use. Watching him has always interested Jeongguk, and he lays on his side, enraptured by the intensity in he exudes.


Jimin falls in love with colors the same way he fell in love with Jeongguk. With passion overflowing inside him, without hope to ever come up for air. His heart helpless to do anything but that. It’s—Heady and consuming.


Jeongguk shifts in bed, attempting to quell the throb warming his cock. He’s supposed to be serious, and he wants to be—wants to hear jimin say he’s been so good—but it’s hard .


Especially when Jimin seems content to ignore him subtly writhing on the mattress. He’s pretentious about his choices, though they’re always stunning, which leaves no room for error even during a practice.


“I think I’ve got it,” He Tells Jeongguk, who’s now on his stomach, impatiently kicking his legs back and forth, muffling desperate sounds against the pillow, heat trapped under his skin when Jimin looks at him, as if he suspected this is how they’d end up. “I think you’ll like it, too. But we’ll play it by ear as we start. You ready?”

That’s how Jimin’s blue period begins. Nestled in a corner of their spare bedroom, on a rainy day, not a stitch of clothing on their bodies, but still too warm. Jeongguk lay on his back, thighs trembling—so sensitive and ticklish whenever the fine bristles of the brush smooth over his skin. It starts with Jimin swirling midnight blue along the ridge of his collarbone, swallowing those little gasps, those breathy Hyung, Hyung, please , then he moves lower. Dipping the brush into a lighter shade, “Turquoise, bun. Reminds me of the space between cities, and the color of the sea. Makes me think of home. Busan, yes?”


Jeongguk’s response dies in his throat as the very tip of the brush rubs along his nipple, whisper soft and cold . A deep blush tints his cheeks. He tries to gather himself so he isn’t simply a hollow canvas and focuses on anything save for how it feels when he’s touched.


“The piece on the canvas,” Jeongguk begins, still thinking about it; the lone silhouette of the bright red man clashing against the muted room and what it might mean. Jimin hums his acknowledgment, brush sliding across his other nipple in a succession of small circles, each touch electrifying to Jeongguk and sending goosebumps across his skin.


“Which one, baby? there’s a few,” Purposely evasive, Jimin gives him a look, pleading not to ask.


Jeongguk still asks. “The one on the easel—Oh, that feels nice—hhn, Hyung, Don’t ignore the question.” Earnest, Jeongguk tries again, but gentler. “Why didn’t you finish it?”


Another thing about Jimin is that he can talk to anyone who will listen about paint with the same precision one might notice in a mathematician about numbers. He knows what’s in every color, which compliment each other, what they mean, or how to use them in combination with any other medium; all of this easy. And yet, ask him to speak about his feelings—his own—and it's like plucking a fish out of water to watch it die.


Which is why Jeongguk isn’t surprised that it takes him longer than necessary to answer, nor that the strokes against his skin have become much more insistent, as if Jimin is communicating onto his skin what he feels rather than speak it out loud. What began to look like simple lines now slowing forming into something else; abstract maybe. Jeongguk can never tell right away.


“I made that when I was mad, not at you or at anyone in particular, but myself,” Jimin reveals , focus absolute on his piece. Lower lip bitten between his teeth, black hair swept in a disarray across his brows, he looks stunning, Jeongguk thinks. “Looking at it now puts me in a bad place, but I wouldn’t ever throw a piece out, so until I decide what to do with it, it’s there being a nuisance and reminding me that the last thing I touched pissed me off. Does this excite you?” Jimin then asks conversationally, eyes falling between Jeongguk’s legs where his cock remains hard.


“You piece of sh–shit, you can’t just— Oh —” Jeongguk squirms, the brush now dipped in an opalescent glaze ticklish around the center of his chest and swooping low, across his torso, a sharp but breathless giggle leaving him. His toes curl in the mattress. “Fine, Fine! I-I like it when you stare at me like this,”


Jimin’s brush dips lower, and Jeongguk’s breath hitches as it smooths across the indents of his hips. “Like What?”


“Like you’ve never seen anything more beautiful before,” Jeongguk whispers, tongue heavy in his mouth as he swallows. “Like you wanna fuck me.”


“A fact. You are beautiful,” Jimin murmurs affectionately, a dip of gold following on the next stroke of the brush, followed by a deep purple that can pass as blue; a surprise in his usual repertoire.


Jeongguk preens at the praise, watching the line of Jimin’s jaw, how his throat works a swallow, how his lips part but no sound escapes.  “How beautiful?”


Jimin looks at him then, and it’s there—intimate and raw—What they call limerence when loving someone too much can become dangerous. “Like I could paint you for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.”


Oh ,” Jeongguk shifts, parting his legs wider. Thick thigh straining, toes digging into the soft sheets beneath him.


“It’s also given that I’m always down to fuck you,” Jimin says with a soft sound, peering up at him. Fingers smoothing down his abdomen and circling his navel make Jeongguk hiccup and Jimin giggles, pleased at the reaction. “You’re so cute. I haven’t touched you and you look about ready to come.”


Shameless, Jeongguk ruts his cock against Jimin’s arm where it lay beside his thigh, fingers wrapping around his limp wrist to try and coax Jimin into stroking him. “M’so wet and you aren’t even hard. It’s killing my ego.”


“It’s called delayed gratification and patience, bun. Maybe you should try it sometime, hm?” Jimin responds in kind to his impatience by flicking two of his fingers against his flushed cockhead, the sting dull but present enough for Jeongguk’s thighs to jerk shut.


Hyung ,”


“Be still or Hyung won’t finish and we can’t have that.” Jimin’s voice warms his inside like melted sugar, fingers skirting across the tip of his cock, smearing the precome across each digit, before he pulls back.


Jeongguk moans, then promptly opens his mouth to suckle Jimin’s fingers clean. “That’s a good boy, you look gorgeous like this. All for me, right?”


“‘ Syours ,” Jeongguk slurs around the fingers in his mouth, gasping as they’re shoved in further to make him gag, make tears sting his eyes.


“I know that,” Jimin assures softly, the heat trapped inside the room causing a bead of sweat to trail down his neck.


Delirious as he traces that one drop he wishes to lick clean, Jeongguk tries to remain still and focus as Jimin straddles his thigh and resumes painting; the fingers gone and now resting wetly against his shoulder. The brush returns, coated in a shimmering Prussian Blue glaze against his nipples again, and Jeongguk whines. “ Thank’you, hyungie ,”


“You should see yourself the way I do right now,” Jimin breathes, words a little softer. A whisper against Jeongguk’s ear.


He swallows, eyes falling shut. Jimin and all he is—his praise and his unrelenting devotion to him and his artistry as if they’ve become one in the same—overwhelming. “ Baby ,” he sighs,  face burning bright. “I’m just...just the canvas. Please .”


“You’re way more than that,” Jimin is insistent, but gentle. Jeongguk knows he means it. Knows for a fact that in a heart as big as Jimin’s there’s only room and conviction for one .  


Outside their little bubble, lighting strikes, bringing a dimly lit room alive, and yet, the noises don’t dissuade them. Jeongguk’s eyes open slow, and he holds Jimin’s gaze, too hot on his skin. Too telling.


Jimin’s blue period ends, nearly three hours in, bodies caked in sweat . Hs fingers tremble as he discards the brush and leans back to take every inch of what he’s created in. Delicate, he reaches out, as if wanting to touch, but pauses at the very last second and just stares .


“Is it what you wanted?” Jeongguk asks, a timid question loaded with hope. Uncertainty even. Am I what you wanted? What you needed ?He wants to ask, but doesn’t.


But that’s the thing about Jimin: he always seems to know things even without hearing the questions. Call it a having an eye for things that go beyond what’s in front of him, or call it routine after years of the both of them drowning in insecurities over feelings they’d been too cowardly to admit; whatever the cause, Jimin can read him like an open book.


“It’s— you make my art sing , baby. It’s more than what I hoped for. It’s alive,” Jimin praises, oh so tender and warm. His fingertips ghost along the dip of Jeongguk’s chest, held there. “Do you wanna’ see?”


And as Jeongguk nods and waits for Jimin to return from their bedroom with a mirror, he thinks, What amazing luck he has that out of everyone Jimin could’ve chosen to let in, he chose him .


Jimin’s art, however, is a different story. A wonderful balance of colors and years of honing his crafts, he paints a picture of feeling; one of misery bathed in beauty; an ode to himself these days.


Starting at the epicenter of Jeongguk’s  torso, bathed in various blue tones, he’s recreated something mirroring a Bellini piece, so unlike his usual style of choice. Nothing in concrete in imagery, and yet even to an untrained eye like Jeongguk’s it’s apparent that there are flowers wilted across his chest, decayed and weeping, seemingly yanked by the roots and left to rot.


“They’re dying,” Jeongguk whispers. And he understands the implications, knows what the bigger picture is amidst these beautiful things. “Are you projecting?”


A sad smile curves the edge of Jimin’s lip, and he laughs. “Of course you’d get it, Bun, cause you know me. Yeah, I guess I am projecting. A little bit,” Jimin says, teeth latched onto his lower lip, an anxious expression present in his eyes. “It feels like I’m dying inside, you know? Like I’ve sold out somewhere down the road into that guy who makes living room portraits when I told myself I wouldn’t be that type of person.”


“You’re not the guy who makes living room portraits,” Jeongguk protests, “You’re diverse, Baby, there's a difference. Don’t let a few commissions you haven’t been pleased about pull you under. Just look at all of this— look at me . You’re not soulless, Hyung. If anything I think you put a little bit too much of yourself into your craft, and it’s running away with you.”


And it’s there, that urgent need bruising beneath Jeongguk’s ribs, insisting he shout— Can’t you see? I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe In you. Can’t you see? Can’t you see, Jimin?


In an act of desperation to reach Jimin before his own demons crawl up and take him away for the night, and ruin what should be a moment of clarity and peace, Jeongguk takes his hands and laces them together. Brings his fingers up to his lips and presses a series of kisses against each one, uncaring that they’re stained.


“Let’s distract you for a little,” Jeongguk  says, a whisper across Jimin's knuckles. “Get our mind off that and think about something else. Please .”


“I don’t want to be someone easily forgotten,” Jimin admits in a whisper, casting a look across Jeongguk’s shoulder towards the paintings he’s most proud of. Within them, Euphoria. “Just another wannabe who thinks he can make a difference. I don’t want that for me,” He says, fingers flexing in Jeongguk’s hold. “Don’t want that for you either. You deserve much more than this. Being with a hasbeen who peaked once and hasn’t been able to the same way since.”


“I deserve you and you deserve me,” Jeongguk remarks quietly, but insistent. “There’s no imbalance, baby. We’re equals. You’re not a has-been.”


Jimin doesn’t seem to buy that, if the frown on his face is any indication. “Aren’t I?”


Jeongguk presses a fork hand against his chest, giving him a light shove so that he can fully take in what he’s created. “You’re not. Don’t you trust me? I wouldn’t ever lie to you, especially about that. Look at how you flourish when you just let yourself feel, baby. This isn’t the work of someone soulless.”


Silence follows with Jimin surveying him, more so what he’s created. Eyes sharply focusing on every single detail; some Jeongguk’s untrained eye wouldn’t ever be able to spot but are inherently visible to him. Though Jimin doesn’t move, nor does he speak, Jeongguk can see he likes what he sees in him. Not enough to erase his doubts, but enough to not storm off in a fit of rage over another failed piece.


A tentative fingertip brushes down his chest, barely there and feather light. Jimin hums, pensively staring at the flowers. “I should name this so I don’t forget. I should also photograph it,” there’s a pause, wherein Jimin asks, “Are you comfortable with me taking pictures? It would show everything, but tastefully.”


“As tasteful as a hard cock can get,” Jeongguk flushes, But agrees nonetheless. These are for Jimin's personal collection anyway, for them to admire late night in bed when the mood strikes. “Get your camera then.”


Within seconds Jimin is up, still gloriously nude—the Henley doing nothing to cover him even as he does a half-assed job to button it. He doesn’t leave right away, but collects his things in order to set them on the desk, no doubt to clean and reorganize later on. The music is lowered, the track changed to something much more sensuous, and the window is cracked open an inch. Once that’s done he leaves the room, only to return quickly with his camera clasped between his hands, head ducked down towards it; a massive black thing with a thick strap that's around his neck. He's fiddling with buttons on it, focused on getting the settings right.

Jeongguk clears his throat, hands fisting into the sheets whilst he waits for Jimin to register that he's there waiting for him impatiently.

It takes a few seconds, but when Jimin does look up and meet his eyes, it's Jeongguk’s turn to fidget, always eager to be praised. Told he looks good even when he's aware of it already. Bold, like he wants Jimin to do that and then really show him he means it.

“Oh baby, look at you so pretty there,” Jimin breathes, eyes heavy lidded as they roam from his face down to his toes. His grip around the camera seems to tighten.


Jeongguk swallows hard, beckoning him forward.

“Hyung,” He says, aware that from the edge of the bed where Jimin is standing he can see everything. “Does this pose work alright?

Jimin sets a knee on the edge of the bed, sending him a blank look that contrasts with the amused lilt of his mouth. “You’re a little shit. You know it does.”

“Yeah?” Cocking his head, so that when he swallows JImin will stare at him, Jeongguk is teasing when he asks, “Do you want me?”

Always ,” Jimin is quick to reply. He slinks in close, fingers curling around Jeongguk’s ankles, smoothing up his calves and towards his thighs. With a gentle But wordlessly insistent nudge he parts each thigh wide enough for his body to settle comfortably between.  Jeongguk’s breath hitches.


“Take your photos, Mr.photographer, otherwise you’ll lose your shot,” Jeongguk sighs, sinking further into the covers, pliant and shivering with anticipation.


Jaw clenched tight, cheeks tinged with color, Jimin begins. He’s almost clinical in the way he positions Jeongguk in order to ensure he captures the right angle. Never settling for less, especially when it comes to his creations. It’s no wonder the unfinished stacks of canvases inside this room have piled up. Jimin doesn’t settle for nothing less than perfect. Not even for photographs nobody but them will see. He lowers his camera after a few shots, and wets his lips with the tip of his tongue; watching Jeongguk beneath him. To tease, because he lives for seeing him squirm, Jimin runs a finger alongside his inner thigh, precariously close to his cock. “beautiful.”

Jeongguk gives a coquettish little tip of his head. Eyes heavy lidded and zeroed on Jimin. “The flowers or me?”

“Both,” Jimin tells him. Brusque and blunt. “I can’t explain it, but you give me what I need . That and it’s turning me on to see you covered in paint I put there.”

“Do something about it, hyungie,” Jeongguk purrs, thighs closing around Jimin’s hips and squeezing tight enough to not let him go. He reaches for Jimin's hands, his favorite feature, and brings them up to his lips,  gentle as he bites his fingertips. “You can come on me when you’re done.”


Jimin sends him a guarded look that loses its heat the more kisses Jeongguk gives him. At first it’s his fingers, then his palms, then— then he’s breathing fast and warm against his wrist, until he’s moving, and they’re moving, and Jeongguk doesn’t know where he ends and where Jimin begins .


At first Jimin is hesitant, seemingly still lost inside his head and tense. But when it clicks that Jeongguk is here—willing and wanting him no matter what he does; be it through his blue periods or through an array of living room portraits—he melts .

“You love me like I love you,” Jimin breathes against his neck once they’re settled and the paint has been wiped off thanks to a much needed shower, softly littering the skin with bruises; as if he’s not satisfied with paint and needs something much more concrete to solidify the point that Jeongguk is his .


The camera rests against their nightstand, full of photos that Jimin will add into the small photo album beneath their bed that houses memories of them from their earlier years to now.


Jeongguk is all too willing to be whatever Jimin needs, and arches into him, Jimin’s name falling past parted lips in a sigh. “I love you,” He whispers, exhaustion, followed by reverent hands smoothing along every inch of his body, making him a step shy of passing out in their bedroom. “ m’yours , Baby.”


Again ,” Jimin demands, moving so that he can assess the fresh marks left by his teeth and tongue against Jeongguk’s neck. The lamp is turned on, bathing the room in soft light, illuminating half of Jimins profile, the other half swathed in the dark. “Jeongguk-ah, say it again.”


And Jeongguk, so sleepy and exhausted after a grueling day, murmurs an incoherent “I love you,” to Jimin who smiles against his neck, but shakes his head.


“Not that,” he protests softly,  something urgent coloring the strain in his voice as he burrowed closer into Jeongguk. Cuddling him close, his body radiating a welcome heat that fights off the nights chill. “What you said earlier. I need to hear it.” Jimin stops talking like he’s said something he didn't mean to say out loud, something he didn't mean for Jeongguk to hear him ask for, as if wanting to be reassured he’s doing well is so unreasonable. Even quieter, he says, “ please .”


At first it doesn’t click. Sluggish and trying to blink away exhaustion clinging deep in his body, Jeongguk shuffles in bed until he’s sitting up against the headboard and staring down at jimin where he’s lying over his chest.


He says lots of things to Jimin, always complimenting for the littlest things, not just to appease his desire to be praised, but also because it’s just what fits. Whatever Jimin does, he does it excellent. Nothing short of perfect. Which is why Jeongguk flounders a bit, unsure of what it took—until it dawns on him, and oh .


Oh . “You’re not a has been,” Jeongguk tells him into the quiet of their bedroom, gently carding his fingers through Jimin’s hair, fingers scratching his scalp until a content little rumble leaves him. Not done now that he’s started, Jeongguk continues, “You’re not soulless.”


It’s rare when Jimin flusters, his composure a sharp thing rarely rattled to its core, but it’s clear he is. His face tinges with heat, and he ducks his head into his folded arms, warm breath fanning onto Jeongguk’s skin. “m’not?”


“No, you’re not,” Jeongguk shakes his head, smoothing his fingers over Jimin's nape , dipping them past his tee shirt and then across the dip of his shoulder blades where warm skin tenses at the touch. “I promise it’s gonna get better.”


“I need it to,” Jimin whispers, and it’s full of so much longing—so much aching sorrow, that Jeongguk can do nothing but hold him tight.

Out of place, stiff in this pressed shirt that only comes out of the closet for times like these, Jeongguk lingers around the room, eyeing the crowd. The air is icy and cloying with expensive perfume, Always so tense, these highbrow art connoisseurs, toffee lipped, syringe filled princes and princesses with too much money to blow and not enough brains to discern between what’s abstract and what’s plain nonsense; Jeongguk could do without being near them, but this isn’t for him.


These things rarely are.


Gallery showcases are for Jimin. A time where he gathers up every piece he hates least and holds up on display, heart on his sleeve barely stitched together for the taking as he watches anxiously from afar. Eager to ask every person if they love what they see, if they’ll remember him as more than that guy with the pretty face and the blowjob lips who can string together colors they think will look nice above their mantels.


And it burns something ugly and cold deep in Jeongguk’s chest to see that hope flare in his Jimin’s eyes whenever someone comes up to him, only for it to fade and die out right in front of him; that plastered smile one reserved for disappointment. Makes Jeongguk want to carve a hole into the ground and shove everyone who pisses him off into it and maybe spit on top of it.


But he remains calm, because Jimin wants him to. Jeongguk collects a glass of whatever they’re serving at these things—something fruity and crisp and too light to get him feeling good—and surveys the area. Anything is better than watching the life be sucked out of Jimin.


Open plan, wooden flooring and high industrial beams crossing across the ceiling makes up the gallery. What was once an abandoned building now home for the rich to splurge on art they like but don’t understand.


On the walls are a variety of paintings, each a different style for their respective artist, who stands beside their section beaming at whoever shows interest to buy. The others have a minimum eight displays, versus Jimin who’s brought home an outrageous fifteen. These galleries showcases are always about him, with the addition of newbies on the scene looking to make a name for themselves, and yet, even as the star of the show, Jimin sometimes sells the least but is spoken about the most.


Early in their relationship, when  Jeongguk felt brave to ask why, Jimin hadn’t even flinched while answering. “They don’t take me seriously, because of this —” he’d pointed towards his face, smile so devoid of any life that it had left Jeongguk feeling open and raw; his heart torn right out. “I’m only ever going to be another thing, you know? Pretty thing who makes pretty things. That’s all.”


That’s all. So frustratingly used to that, his Jimin, who’s so much more than a pretty face and whatever else the masses sexualize him out to be.


Drives Jeongguk nuts, this kind of living. Seeing people live so easily knowing they reduce a person to nothing more than how they look.


But he doesn’t say anything, because Jimin doesn’t want him to. No need for a knight in shining armor, he says. No need to whip out his dick on a whole loves Jimin more pissing contest. Just stay mellow bab y, that’s Jimin’s way of handling him. People are people, ugly and shallow little things .


Mid sip of his now fourth drink, which he hears through word of mouth is champagne—the expensive stuff to remind people that they’re still valid in their spending—Jeongguk sees Jimin’s paintings and sucks in a sharp breath. He always stands out, his skill one no other can even hope to recreate n its entirety, so intrinsically Jimin in his use of colors.


There’s a vibrant display of soft pinks, sky blues and yellows, with faded hints of coffee brown.  Someone sits by a cabin window watching the outside in motion from a train.


It’s not the first time Jeongguk finds pieces of himself in Jimin’s public works, his boyfriend always claiming he’s the source of his inspiration. And yet every time a hint of his person appears on a canvas, Jeongguk’s heart sings a little louder. How lovely, to be seen through the eyes of another person like this, where everything he deems a flaw is put up on display as something other than that.


If anyone notices the resemblance they’re gracious enough not to point it out. Save for Bill, Jimin’s pseudo rep who’s always got something to say.


“Isn’t that a bit too…you know ,” no amount of hand gestures can hide it, his veiled disgust at the implications of a man painting another man in a romantic setting.


Jimin never pays any mind to that, dismissively brushing off critiques and continuing to do whatever he damn well pleases. “Hell yeah it’s a bit you know, and I like it.”


He’s vibrating with excitement as people line up to admire the beauty that is Spring Day , his prized piece; the only pop of color in a line of contrasting dark works telling the tale of man through his emotional transitions, from young, obsessed and terrified, to more mature, insightful and at peace. It’s the first genuine smile Jeongguk has seen on his face all night.


Jeongguk discards his champagne on a nearby tray, then comes closer, where he hears various praises and offers to purchase the piece. Jimin isn’t the type to sell to just anyone, not at a showcase, shrewdly judgmental when it comes to who gets to keep a part of him inside their home. The way he dismisses those who aren’t worth his time is fantastic; never rude, but sharp and unrelenting, it leaves the housewives eager for more of him , and the husbands eager to beat him senseless and turn ugly with jealousy.


Jimin catches Jeongguk’s eye amongst the small crowd as he’s closing a sale, and smiles at him , something intimately theirs that nobody else gets to have. It soothes that always there, but fleeting insecurity that weighs heavy on his chest, makes breathing a little easier.


Later on, once Spring Day has been sold, and the energy simmers down, Jeongguk will pay close attention to all of Jimin’s pieces as if seeing them for the first time. Amongst them, surprisingly so, the lone red man clashing against the muted room: the piece Jimin hadn’t known what to do with. Jeongguk didn’t even realize he’d finished the piece, but then again, sometimes he works late and by the time he’s arrived, Jimin is finished and his studio is locked.


There’s warmth engulfing him suddenly, and Jeongguk sinks into the feeling, knowing it’s Jimin having an urge to simply hold him close. Chin tucked against his shoulder, he makes a series a soft rumbles, hands dipping beneath his shirt to settle against his stomach. More heat trapping against bare skin.


“Can you believe that’s the least favorite tonight?” Jimin tells him, knuckles brushing along the seam of his jeans. Always so unfazed by the looks they attract, Jimin finds a way to have his hands all over Jeongguk, seeking comfort through touch. “It’s gotten some offers, but I can tell it’s by people who’re settling, which is fine, I guess.”


“People have no taste. I’m not surprised,” refutes Jeongguk bluntly, only to smile at Jimin’s responding laugh, hushed against his neck. “They don’t get it. That’s a personal problem and says more about them than it does about you, hyung.”


“You have so much faith in me,” Jimin’s voice has gone quiet, too close against his ear. Jeongguk shivers. “More than anyone. It scares me a little.”


That stings ugly and deep, a black hole left empty inside Jeongguk’s chest, because that’s... not it. He laces their fingers together, forming this sort of bulge of palms beneath his shirt whilst attracting stares. “Why’s that, mh?”


Jimin seems to contemplate what to say next, psyching himself up for some battle he’s unaware of. That’s how it is with Jimin, though. He rather fight than talk, finding it easier to let his emotions explode rather than air out.


“Sometimes you look at me and just like—it hurts good, you know? Cus’ you’re so earnest. So perpetually genuine and good and open with it, this thing called being in love and shit.” Jimin tells him, as if there’s no one else in the room. As if this showcase is unimportant. “You just love so good , make it seem like its so easy, when I know for a fact I’m not easy to deal with and being in a relationship with me is difficult. I guess it’s just overwhelming to be loved like that, to have someone believe in me so hard, y’know? Yeah, it’s hard. It’s scary and it hurts. Hurts a lot.”


“I just love you,” Jeongguk says. As simple as that. His truth. “It’s not the hardest thing I’ll ever do.”


Jimin finds that Jeongguk’s neck is the perfect hiding place, and ducks in close, warm breath hiccuping on his skin. His fingers give a weak twitch, then settle. He’s uncomfortable, that brief bravery now gone, and fighting a real mean urge to run away and not come out for a day or two in order to collect himself. This Jeongguk knows with certainty, that Jimin’s hot headed temper fizzles into nothing but steam the moment he’s forced to confront his own feelings.


He sighs. Says, “I’m gonna blow you in the bathroom, you know, make you feel better and less like a limp vegetable, cus’ I’m so giving and shit.”


Jimin stills for a moment, but then he’s smiling, pressed solid against Jeongguk’s back. He stifles a giggle, then doesn’t, laughing hard enough that it echoes something fierce inside. “What’d I do to deserve you?”


Jeongguk shrugs it off, but his chest hurts. His stomach does too. He’s irrationally aroused by the thought of getting Jimin to blow his load across his face, paint it like he’s one of those French girls. They’ve been here before, and apparently they’re still there. He could use a smoke, and doesn’t even like cigarettes. “You got lucky, I guess.”

Unsurprisingly the success of his showcase puts Jimin in high spirits. The sun seems to shine a little brighter for him, the sweet haze of validation, as well as the rich scent of fresh money in his pocket tiding him over for a few days. It’s always exciting, getting to experience these momentary lapses of abrupt happiness with Jimin where’s he’s all smiles, crooked tooth and crinkled eyes. He fucks different, less lazy and more determined, hips slapping hard against the curve of Jeongguk’s ass, but he also gets fucked different; wants it harder and louder, unbearably messy and wet and too hot for their stuffy apartment during the summer haze of Hongdae.


But—Jeongguk knows how to adapt, and he’d lie if he says he doesn’t enjoy the come ups, or how they make Jimin the happiest. So they ride the wave, live in their domestic bliss, cooking dinner together and feeding each other in the living room, naked because jimin swears less clothing means less laundry duties, soaking in the peace. Basking in all that post success glow.


Sometimes they don’t even make it out of bed, preferring to waste a day between the sheets, rediscovering how good it feels to surrender to the demand of their bodies craving one another. Jimin often fucks him without hurry, drawing it out, savoring each little sound he drags out of Jeongguk with his cock; keeps his head spinning, his world tipped on its axis. All that romantic shit he claims he’s no good at, yet does better than anyone else.


Other times, when Jimin is feeling restless, Jeongguk will wordlessly enter his studio, then return to their bed with all he needs in order to let all those frustrations loose on his skin. And it’s a different kind of bliss, living like that, not knowing what’ll come next after this, whether or not Jimin will ever attend another showcase, but oddly cathartic in a way. Jimin doesn’t seem to worry about it, focusing on a small personal collection of Polaroid shots of all the places he’s painted on Jeongguk instead.


It doesn’t last long, as euphoric highs rarely do, but it’s a slow sort of spiral into their usual routine. Jimin is still the same at his core, but the light begins to dim. What he began loving during the course of those few days after the showcase now irritates him. Canvases begin piling up in the corner of his studio again, the easel empty as he fights to regain some kind of inspiration.


Jeongguk often arrives to a silent apartment and finds Jimin by the windowsill where he’d left him earlier in the morning, smoking a cigarette and aimlessly staring outside, as if he hadn’t moved all day.


“Hyung,” he’ll say, breaching that gap between them, because sometimes Jimin is too stubborn to ask for it. “What do you need?”


More often than not, having him close, feeling the warmth and beat of his hearts close by is enough for Jimin. He’ll cling, hands fisting into shirts and tugging close.


“Your hands,” Jimin likes to murmurs. A little odd and without explanation, “I like them. They just—the weight of them grounds me, yeah? Yeah, yeah . That’s what I need. Just that.”


And it’s usually so odd to find Jimin oddly vulnerable in that silent way of his, where words don’t come easy, but somehow make themselves known through action. The little hitch in his breath, the subtle tremble in his hands, the tick in his jaw or the glossy emptiness that sometimes crosses over his face. All these, Jeongguk knows are Jimin’s ways of telling him he needs. He wants.


Days differ in suggestion, but the begin and end the same; inside that little room, music blaring, with Jeongguk splayed across that dingy mattress with the paint stained grey sheets, his body the canvas for Jimin’s restless hands.


He’s hoping for a distraction when they get mail delivered to their door a few days later, a package in this case, all wrapped tight in thick parchment paper and tied together with loose rope addressed to one Park Jimin.


Jimin stares blankly at the mailman, but accepts the parcel regardless and closes the door after bidding him a good day. “Bun,” comes out airy and gentle, Jimin’s tone full of mingled curiosity and dread. “What’s this?”


And that gets Jeongguk shifting, a little uncertain and unable to hold Jimin’s gaze, because well. He’s done a thing . One that could result very bad or very good, or just very chaotically neutral, wherein this thing won’t ever be put to rest and brought up for the rest of their coupling.


He bites the bullet, unwraps the parcel and holds it out, nervous for Jimin’s reaction.


At first there’s nothing but noise of suburban bliss drifting in from the open windows. The sound of dogs barking, children playing and everything else soaking into their bubble echoing about in their apartment.


Jimin’s eyes glaze over when he fully realizes what he’s looking at, fuzzy with fondness, all that’s good and feels even better honing in on him. Like Jimin wants to eat him up, maybe throw some love words, the whole scenario; keep them as they are, a shade of fucked up but content with it, forever .


“You’re a real sneak,” Comes from Jimin, very soft, just a little hitch in his usual composure.


Still kind of nervous and a little confused in the chest, heart beating like the things gonna burst, Jeongguk blurts: “God you look real fucking dumb when you’re about to get soft on me, hyung.”


There comes a slap to his arm, firm but not as hard as Jimin can deliver, then there’s just soft fingers on him. “You’re such a jackass, ruining my moment. I was about to pour my feelings out, just purge them all over you just now, a facial of the heart, but definitely messier.”


“Classy,” Jeongguk swallows. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says teasingly, but he’s blushing. He’s so full of it, opting to play it cool as if hearing Jimin talk about his feelings doesn’t cut him up inside and leave him feeling light on his feet. Real casual like, he says, “It’s just a portrait of me.”


“If anyone else had done this it would’ve been just a portrait, but it’s never really simple with you,” Jimin murmurs, fingertips skimming soft along the edges of the frame. “You always go all out for me for no reason.”


And while it’s true, it’s no ordinary picture, but one he’d paid a lot of money to have recreated onto a canvas by the only other artist he trusts aside from Jimin himself, Jeongguk still feels as though it’s nothing grand. Just him doing things to surprise Jimin, so that he knows that whatever he creates; be it living room portraits in muted pastels for the bored and rich, show stopping pieces like spring day or little flowers dying on his chest in acrylic blues, they’re all valid. All special.


“I know it’s not, like, your work perse and that it’s a recreation, but I really wanted you to have this so that whenever you’re feeling a certain way about your art you can look at this and just—I don’t know, just see that you’re doing better than you realize.” Jeongguk fumbles, hands shaking with nerves as Jimin holds his gaze. “Even dying flowers serve a purpose, you know?”


Jimin regards him silently for a moment. Then he seems to put the pieces together, starting with Jeongguk’s late nights, his prolonged silence, all those hints and what they mean. “This is what you’ve been sneaking around doing, huh? You weren’t working.”


Heat creeps up Jeongguk’s neck, coloring his face. “I mean—to be fair, I do work for a living, y’know? But yeah, yes ...I worked very hard to get this done.” Not to mention having to endure posing semi naked for eyes other than Jimin’s to ensure the proportions turned out the same was always an awkward affair for those involved. Thank God Taehyung is a professional and seeing bare skin means nothing to him in a sexual context. Shifting as sweat begins to dampen his palms, Jeongguk says, “D’you like it?”


Bun ,” Is all Jimin says, but even such simplicity is enough. He comes closer, setting the canvas down gently, then he’s everywhere, heat and muscle up against Jeongguk. Soft fingers curve around his jaw, always so gentle, his Jimin when dealing with the things he treasures most. “Do you really have to ask? Course’ I like it.”


Jeongguk kind of loves it when Jimin always sighs before kissing him, like a day's worth of tension weighing heavily on his shoulders  instantly becomes easier to bare the moment their lips touch. Shivers run down his spine as the kiss retains this heavy sort of gentleness to it, all soft moans and brief hints of tongue, Jimin clinging to him, fingers ticklish as they brush down his throat.


They pull back to catch a breath, though soon they return, kissing open and hot, this surge of need cloying through their senses the way perfume seeps into your skin. Jeongguk doesn’t know who’s moving who at this point, light as if he’s walking on air, he just knows that suddenly he’s caging Jimin against the kitchen counter and swallowing each sound hungrily, head spinning. His stomach flips every single time they do this; especially when  Jimin kisses back so eagerly .


Does he feel it, too?


How it hurts so good deep in the chest, a throb right between the ribs where the hearts beats the moment they come together; how each kiss builds and builds, pulsing with want and heat until it’s as if they’re melting .


Moving slow, Jimin’s soft lips brush against Jeongguk’s, agonizingly delicious with each brush of their tongues licking hot, chasing deeper. Bodies on Autopilot, Jeongguk and Jimin are nothing but feeling, harsh breaths, mingled cries and trembling hands undoing what little clothes are left clinging to the sweat on their skin until they’re nothing but piles discarded amongst their apartment.


“You never wear any clothes, but when you do they’re a nuisance,” Huffs Jeongguk, casting a baleful glare at the long sleeve shirt, as well as the jeans he’d all but wrestled off Jimin in a haste that hang haphazardly off a chair and across the floor.


Jimin laughs, light and airy in a room so humid. “Sounds like a personal problem to me, Bun.”


“You’re my personal problem.” Jeongguk rolls his eyes, thumbs smoothing beneath the full curve of Jimin’s lower lip. Tugging, then easing it back, enough to flash a hint of tongue and teeth.


Palms trembling as they settle on Jimin’s chest, above his heart where it pounds as unsteady as Jeongguk’s breathing, Jeongguk dips low, pressing a kiss against his sternum. Chest expanding as he sucks in a sharp breath, his entire body full of nothing but a constant rhythm of Jimin Jimin Jimin .


There’s words trapped in Jeongguk’s throat that burrow deeper, refusing to be told and demanded to be felt through touch. Trailing fingers across Jimin’s thighs, taut muscle flexed beneath his fingertips, Jeongguk kneels and looks past his fringe, Jimin gloriously naked. In soft afternoon light, peaks of sunset hitting his skin, He’s the most beautiful person Jeongguk’s ever seen.


Smooth skin glints golden, toned and soft to the touch of his knuckles as they brush across the inside of his thighs, and Jeongguk moans off the sight alone. The tip of his nose nuzzles just beneath Jimin’s navel, where he smells like soap and body lotion; lower he goes, brushing along the faint hair that leads to his groin, Jimin’s cock twitching beside his jaw.


“You’re gonna take care of hyung,” Jimin murmurs, leaning against the counter, arched forward. Fingers thread into Jeongguk’s hair and caress each strand, only to tighten when Jeongguk licks a fat stripe up the length of his cock, mouthing at the flushed and wet tip before taking the head into his mouth. “Oh— Yeah , you are.”


Jeongguk savors the sounds Jimin makes, dragging his tongue across the slit and suckling around it softly. Hot and heavy, Jimin’s cock makes him feel full, makes his jaw ache the more he takes in, and yet it’s not enough to stop.  


Hands moving forward, Jeongguk jerks Jimin closer by the hips, humming soft as he urges Jimin’s cock deeper down his throat, saliva peeking past his lips; a real mess of spit and garbled whines.


Gguk —” Head tossing back, his Adam’s apple working on a deep swallow, Jimin sighs, so lovely when he lets go. “Feels good, feels so nice .”


Wet lips part at the tip on the pull off, Jeongguk using his hands to stroke down the shaft nice and tight how Jimin likes, with extra pressure around the tip. “Your cocks good,” he says, throat overworked in such a short time, “Tastes good, too.”


Jimin’s fingers flex in his hair, gentle even as they tug Jeongguk forward, the tip of his cock brushing hot streaks of precome along his chin. This seems to entrance Jimin, for he doesn’t take his eyes off the sight, and makes a mess across Jeongguk’s face by smearing the mess across his lips.


“Pretty thing, you look so gorgeous,” Jimin murmurs,  eyes falling shut once Jeongguk slots his lips across the wet tip yet again, this time noisier. Slick sucking sounds echo in the apartment, mingling with Jimin’s sweet little cries. Jeongguk hollows his cheeks, sucking down the shaft, cramming  it as deep as it’ll go and gagging when it does. His fingers dip between Jimin’s legs, grabbing at his ass and squeezing tight. “Jesus, Gguk —m’gonna come already if you keep that up.”


Spurred by Jimin, and the heat and sweat clinging to his chest and the flush of heat coloring his cheeks, Jeongguk kneads his ass, then moves, fingers dipping between his cheeks and lower, applying faint pressure where Jimin likes.


His thighs tremble when Jeongguk lifts one of his legs and curves it across his shoulder. Loud, a sharp groan leaves Jimin when saliva slick fingers massage his perineum in time with Jeongguk’s mouth. And god—Jimin can be so sensitive at times, a single touch enough to get him to come, versus other occasions when it takes hours of play.


Today looks to be the former, if the pinched expression on Jimin’s face is any indication. He writhes, foot digging between Jeongguk’s shoulder blades when the slit is toyed with; his husky moans growing deeper in pitch in a chorus of Ah, Ah, Ah’ s.


“Want you to come on my face,” Jeongguk mumbles against the shaft, lips glistening with saliva. Looking up past his fringe, Jimin peers down at him, cheeks flushed, breaths ragged.


Shit , you’re too good to me. Always so good,” he groans, breathless and prisoner to Jeongguk’s mouth as he presses little kisses down the twitching length, stopping to nuzzle against his balls before he sucks each into his mouth. “O-Oh, That—I like that.”


Mhm ,”Jeongguk purrs, mouthing at the smooth, dark skin. “I know.”


A ragged breath, followed by hard fingers tugging his hair. “Gonna’ come,” Jimin gasps, eyes hooded and heavy on him, the kind of look that sends a shiver across Jeongguk’s spine.


Pulse echoing in his ears, a discordant thrum loud against his temples, in time with the throb of his hard dick straining to be touched, Jeongguk moans around the shaft in his mouth, tongue working beneath the glans, then over the tip. He sucks with purpose, fisting Jimin’s cock; heat spreading down his skin.


When Jimin comes it’s soft, his moan ragged and hushed; lip bitten between his teeth and thighs straining. Jeongguk pulls off as he does so, fist slick in jerking the shaft while he catches the rest against his tongue and across his cheek, a nasty, pretty thing he’s sure Jimin likes to watch.


He’s not disappointed, for Jimin stares at the mess across his face and smiles. So exhausted and lazy now, he traces his thumb over Jeongguk’s lip, then brings it towards his mouth to lick clean. It’s like that, mouth full of three fingers now, sticky and hot, that Jeongguk comes; overwhelmed and trembling.


Because how heady is this —to have everything he’s ever wanted within reach, to get to experience Jimin in all his shades, from vibrant blues to the darkest of greys without any worry that in time it’ll all be another phase that fades away.

On a dreary Monday morning, just as another piece finishes drying against Jeongguk’s skin and Jimin ruins any chance of his painting retaining its form by sucking hard bruises between his thighs, Jeongguk looks up.


Inside his oasis, where different colored phases, along with paintings come and go, He spots Euphoria, Jimin’s piece made just for him. Beside it, a new addition to an otherwise blank space, which one would suggest mimics Jimin’s heart: a lonely place with space for only those things that are important , is Jeongguk: an array of flowers wilting down his chest.


Paint stained fingers squeeze Jeongguk’s thighs and he squirms, parting them further; Jimin’s glossy black hair falling past his eyes and shielding them from view as he dips low, a hint of tongue brushing against the tip of his cock.


Jeongguk’s eyes threaten to close, the pleasure and heat surrounding Jimin’s mouth all kinds of fantastic. What started as yet another day where inspiration hit Jimin suddenly and he had to get his hands on Jeongguk has now ended in this—straining composure fraying at the edges, his heart in sync with the race of his pulse, his chest now a blur of reds, burnt gold and black.


“You’re the best muse anyone could ever ask for,” Jimin says, lips pouting soft against the crease of his inner thigh. Tortuously slow, always taking his sweet time on whatever he sets out to do, Jimin lifts Jeongguk’s legs. Brings them up to his chest, paint clinging to his skin, tongue dipping just short of frustrating and teasing against his rim. “Lemme thank you for your hard work.”


On the wall, the painting he’s so intent on staring at even as he struggles to, it reads: Muse, acrylics on canvas— Love of my life .