Work Text:
The screen’s blue light washed over Jimin’s face, carving hollows under his eyes in the dim studio. His thumb moved in a practiced, jerky rhythm, scrolling past auction results and exhibition announcements. Then it stopped. The headline was a familiar font, a familiar style. “Jeon Jungkook and Rising Starlet Kim Yuna Spark Collaboration Rumors at Gallery Opening.” The photograph was blurry, taken from a distance. It showed Jungkook, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his inked arm flexing as he held a door open. The woman beside him was laughing, her hand not quite touching his elbow.
Jimin’s breath hitched. He knew. He knew it was nothing. Jungkook had come home that night smelling of cold air and expensive whiskey, had curled his big body around Jimin in their bed and mumbled about boring small talk into his hair. But the tightness in Jimin’s chest didn’t care about logic. It was a cold, hard knot just behind his sternum, squeezing with every heartbeat. He dropped the phone onto the velvet modeling stool as if it had burned him. The studio was silent except for the low hum of the dehumidifier. Canvases leaned against the exposed brick walls, all of them draped in white cloth. Only one stood uncovered on the easel, a work in progress.
The heavy studio door swung open, and Jungkook filled the frame. He carried two mugs of steaming tea, his broad shoulders stretching the thin cotton of his white tank top. A fresh tattoo, intricate lines of black and red, peeked from under his sleeve. Silver hoops glinted in both his earlobes. “There you are. I made you chamomile. You’re all wound up tonight, I can feel it from the kitchen.” His voice was a low rumble, softened by affection.
Jimin forced a smile, accepting the mug. His fingers brushed Jungkook’s, and the warmth was a fleeting comfort. “Just… reading. The usual nonsense.”
Jungkook’s dark eyes, sharp and perceptive, scanned his face. He leaned down and pressed a firm, possessive kiss to Jimin’s temple. “It’s all noise, baby. You know that. The only person in my gallery is you.” He gestured with his chin towards the empty canvas. “Speaking of. Are you ready? The light is perfect right now.”
“Yeah,” Jimin said, the word sounding thin. He placed his mug carefully on a side table cluttered with paint tubes and palette knives. His movements felt stiff as he walked to the center of the room, to the circle of warm light cast by the overhead lamp. The velvet stool was there. A silk robe was draped over a nearby screen. Jungkook watched him, his gaze intense and focused, already an artist assessing his subject.
Jimin’s fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his soft linen shirt. He let it slide off his shoulders, pooling on the polished concrete floor. He pushed his loose cotton trousers down, stepping out of them. The air in the studio was cool, raising goosebumps on his skin. He stood there, naked, feeling utterly exposed and yet, under Jungkook’s unwavering look, also seen. He settled onto the stool, arranging his limbs as he had a hundred times before. One leg bent, the other extended, his back arched just so. His long blonde hair fell over one shoulder.
Jungkook picked up his palette, a well-worn piece of wood stained with a thousand colors. He dipped a brush into a mix of ochre and titanium white, his brow furrowed in concentration. The only sounds were the scratch of bristles on linen and their breathing. Minutes stretched. Jungkook would paint in a furious burst, then step back, head tilted, eyes critical. He mixed a new color, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips.
“It’s not right,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jimin. He loaded the brush again, approached the canvas, and made a swift, decisive stroke. He stepped back again. His frown deepened. “The line here… the curve of the hip. It’s off. The body isn’t translating.”
The words landed in the quiet room like stones in a still pond. Jimin felt them physically. The body isn’t good. The cold knot in his chest exploded into a wave of heat that rushed up his throat and pricked behind his eyes. All the scrolling, all the headlines, all the laughing women with their hands almost touching his Jungkook—it all coalesced into a single, devastating sentence. His breath came out in a shaky gasp.
“What did you say?” Jimin’s voice was a whisper.
Jungkook, lost in his artistic problem, didn’t look up. “The anatomy. It’s not capturing what I see. The light on the planes of the stomach, it’s not…” He gestured vaguely with the brush.
“My body isn’t good?” The question was louder now, trembling.
That finally broke Jungkook’s trance. He looked at Jimin, really looked, and saw the sheen of tears in his wide eyes, the violent blush staining his chest and neck. Confusion flickered across Jungkook’s face. “Jimin-ah, no, I meant the painting. The representation. The pigment isn’t—”
“The body isn’t translating,” Jimin echoed, the words biting and sarcastic. He unfolded from the stool, his movements jerky with a hurt that was now fully awake and raging. “Of course it isn’t. Why would it? It’s just my body. Not like the bodies of all those models and actors they keep linking you to. Those are probably good bodies. Photogenic. Worthy of your perfect lines.”
“Jimin.” Jungkook’s voice held a warning, but it was edged with dawning alarm. He set the palette down. “Stop. You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I?” Jimin laughed, a brittle, horrible sound. He grabbed the silk robe and yanked it around himself, not even bothering to tie it. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about all night! Kim Yuna’s hand on your arm. The article said your ‘chemistry was palpable.’ Is that what you need? Palpable chemistry? Because I’m just sitting here, getting cold, while you tell me my body isn’t good enough for your canvas!”
The tears were falling freely now, cutting tracks through the faint highlighter he’d applied earlier. “I see them, Jungkook. Every single article. Every single rumor. I know it’s stupid. I know you love me. But it’s like… it’s like a drip, drip, drip on my forehead, and tonight you just took a hammer to it.” He swiped angrily at his cheeks. “Maybe you should paint one of them. Maybe their hips would translate better.”
Jungkook crossed the space between them in two long strides. He didn’t reach for Jimin, just stood there, his muscular frame taut. Shock had wiped the frustration from his face, leaving only raw concern. “You think… you honestly think for a second that I look at anyone else? That any of those empty faces in those stupid magazines could ever compare to you?” His voice dropped, gruff with emotion. “You’ve been holding onto this? By yourself? Why didn’t you tell me it was hurting you this much?”
“Because you’d just say it’s noise!” Jimin cried, his hands fluttering in the air. “And it is! And I feel insane for letting it get to me! But it does, Jungkook, it does! And then you say things like that, and my stupid brain just… connects the dots into the worst possible picture.”
“Look at me,” Jungkook commanded, his voice softening. When Jimin finally met his gaze, his eyes were blazing with a fierce, possessive love. “I am an idiot. A blind, fucking idiot with a paintbrush. I was talking about the paint. The stupid, dead paint. Not you. Never you.” He took a careful step closer. “The curve of your hip is the most perfect line I have ever seen. It’s the reason I picked up a brush in the first place. I spend my life trying to chase it, to pin it down, and I fail every time because it’s alive. It’s you. And no canvas will ever be worthy of it.”
Jimin’s angry resolve crumbled under the weight of those words. A sob broke from his lips. All the anxiety, the weeks of silent worrying, poured out in ragged breaths. He looked small and wrecked in the oversized robe.
Jungkook finally closed the distance. He didn’t embrace him immediately. Instead, he lifted a big, paint-stained hand and cupped Jimin’s wet cheek, his thumb swiping gently at the tears. “You are my only muse. My only everything. Those rumors… they’re flies buzzing around something they can’t have. They don’t get to see this. They don’t get to see you.” His other hand came up, framing Jimin’s face. “You are so unreal and pretty it sometimes hurts me to look at you. You know that?”
Jimin leaned into the touch, his body sagging. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the fight gone, leaving only exhaustion and shame. “I’m so stupid.”
“No,” Jungkook said firmly. “Never that. My beautiful, overthinking angel. Keeping this poison inside.” He leaned his forehead against Jimin’s. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I’m sorry my careless words hurt you. Let me make it right. Please.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He bent and slid one arm under Jimin’s knees, the other around his back, lifting him effortlessly. Jimin gasped, his arms looping instinctively around Jungkook’s neck, burying his face in the warm, smoky scent of his skin. Jungkook carried him away from the easel, away from the failed painting, to the large, worn leather couch in the corner of the studio. He sat down, settling Jimin sideways on his lap, cradling him like something precious.
For a long time, he just held him, rocking slightly, his lips pressed to Jimin’s hair. His large hands rubbed soothing circles on Jimin’s back through the silk. Jimin’s crying subsided into hiccupping breaths, the tension slowly leaking from his muscles under Jungkook’s unwavering care.
“I want to show you,” Jungkook murmured into his hair, his voice a deep vibration against Jimin’s ear. “Not on a canvas. On you. Let me show you how perfect you are to me.”
Jimin pulled back slightly, looking up at him through damp, clumped eyelashes. Jungkook’s eyes were dark, intense, but the possessiveness in them was now tempered with a profound tenderness. He understood. This was a language beyond words. Jimin gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Jungkook’s hands went to the loose knot of Jimin’s robe. He untied it slowly, parting the fabric. The cool air touched Jimin’s skin again, but this time he didn’t feel exposed. He felt unveiled. Revered. Jungkook’s gaze traveled over him, not with a painter’s critical eye, but with a lover’s worshipping hunger. “See?” he breathed. “No paint can do this justice.”
He leaned down and captured Jimin’s lips in a kiss that was not gentle. It was claiming, desperate, an apology and a promise fused together. Jimin melted into it, his plump lips parting, his fingers tangling in Jungkook’s dark hair. The taste of salt from his tears mixed with the faint mint on Jungkook’s tongue.
Jungkook’s mouth left his lips and began a slow, deliberate journey downward. He kissed the pulse point on Jimin’s neck, sucking gently until a faint pink bloom appeared on the pale skin. “My mark,” he whispered, his breath hot. He moved to the hollow of Jimin’s throat, then lower, to the delicate line of his collarbone. Each kiss was a brand, a declaration. His hands roamed, mapping the territory he knew so well—the dip of Jimin’s waist, the soft swell of his stomach.
When his mouth closed over one nipple, Jimin arched off the couch with a sharp gasp. Jungkook swirled his tongue, nipped lightly with his teeth, then soothed with his lips, all while his big hands gripped Jimin’s waist, holding him in place. He moved to the other side, giving it the same devoted attention. His hands slid down, over the dramatic curve of Jimin’s hips, coming to rest on the full, rounded swell of his ass. He squeezed, a firm, appreciative groan rumbling in his chest. “This,” he said, his voice thick. “This perfect, maddening curve. My favorite thing in the world to hold.”
He shifted them, laying Jimin back on the soft leather of the couch. He loomed over him, a vision of sculpted muscle and intent. He pulled his own tank top over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the defined abs, the tapestry of tattoos that swirled over his shoulders and down his arms. Jimin’s hands rose immediately, as they always did, drawn to the hard, warm flesh. His fingers traced the lines of ink, then found a nipple, pinching and rolling it, a small, familiar act of possession that made Jungkook’s breath catch.
“That’s it, baby,” Jungkook encouraged, his voice a low growl. “Take what you need.”
Jimin’s other hand smacked Jungkook’s chest playfully, then rubbed the stinging spot. It was their rhythm, their push and pull. Jungkook responded by dipping his head again, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down Jimin’s torso. He paused at his navel, dipping his tongue inside, making Jimin squirm and giggle despite the lingering emotional rawness. The sound was like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Then Jungkook’s hands hooked under Jimin’s knees, pushing his legs apart and up. He settled between them, his eyes locked on Jimin’s. “I’m going to paint you now,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “My way.”
He leaned forward and took Jimin fully into his mouth. Jimin cried out, his back bowing off the couch. Jungkook worked him with a relentless, focused intensity, his tongue flat and broad, his lips creating a perfect, wet seal. It was overwhelming, a sensory obliteration of all the dark thoughts. Jimin could only writhe, his hands fisting in Jungkook’s hair, his heels digging into the muscles of Jungkook’s back.
Just as Jimin was teetering on the edge, Jungkook pulled off with a wet pop. He reached for the small bottle of oil on the side table—used for cleaning brushes, now repurposed. He poured a generous amount into his palm, warming it between his hands before slicking his fingers. He watched Jimin’s face as he pressed one thick finger inside, his other hand splayed possessively on Jimin’s thigh.
“You’re so tight, baby,” he murmured, working Jimin open with a careful, stretching rhythm. “So perfect for me. Taking me so well.” He added a second finger, crooking them just right, and Jimin saw stars, a broken moan tearing from his throat.
When Jimin was loose and dripping, begging with incoherent pleas, Jungkook finally undid his own jeans, freeing his hard, thick length. He slicked himself with the remaining oil, his eyes never leaving Jimin’s. He positioned himself at Jimin’s entrance, the blunt head pressing insistently. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough with need. “Watch me make you mine. Again.”
He pushed in, in one slow, inexorable glide. Jimin’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, his body stretching to accommodate the familiar, breathtaking fullness. Jungkook paused when he was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. He dropped his forehead against Jimin’s, their breath mingling. “You feel that? That’s where I belong. Nowhere else. No one else.”
Then he began to move. His thrusts were deep, measured, and devastatingly thorough. Each drive was aimed to claim, to reassure, to rewrite every insecure thought with sheer physical sensation. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the leather couch, their mingled gasps and moans filled the studio, a symphony far more honest than any brushstroke.
Jungkook’s hands were everywhere, leaving their own marks. They gripped Jimin’s hips hard enough to bruise, holding him in place for each powerful thrust. One hand slid up to tangle in Jimin’s long blonde hair, tugging his head back to expose the long line of his throat. Jungkook latched onto it, sucking another dark mark into the pale skin. His other hand came down on Jimin’s ass with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the room.
Jimin yelped, the pain flaring into white-hot pleasure. “Again,” he panted, his voice wrecked. Jungkook complied, delivering another smack, then another, painting the pale flesh with a rosy, hand-shaped blush. He alternated between cheeks, the rhythm matching his thrusts, a relentless, possessive punctuation.
“This is my canvas,” Jungkook grunted, his pace becoming frantic, losing its measured control. “My masterpiece. My Jimin. Every mark. Every sound. Every fucking tear. Mine.” He changed the angle slightly, and Jimin shattered, his orgasm ripping through him with a force that blurred his vision. He clenched around Jungkook, milking him, crying out his name like a prayer.
The sensation tipped Jungkook over the edge. With a final, deep thrust and a guttural roar that was pure possession, he came, pulsing inside Jimin, his big body collapsing over him, a sweaty, trembling weight.
For minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing slowing. Jungkook was careful not to crush Jimin, shifting to his side and pulling Jimin tightly against him. He nuzzled into his neck, placing soft, apologetic kisses over the fresh love bites. His hands, now gentle, stroked over the reddened skin of Jimin’s ass, soothing the stinging warmth.
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispered again, his lips moving against Jimin’s skin. “For every time you ever doubted. For every time I was too blind to see it.”
Jimin turned his head, finding Jungkook’s lips for a soft, spent kiss. “I’m sorry I kept it inside.”
“Never again,” Jungkook stated, his voice firm. “You come to me. You yell at me. You smack my chest until I listen. You hear me?”
Jimin nodded, a small, genuine smile touching his swollen lips. “I hear you.”
Jungkook shifted again, standing up with a grunt. He scooped Jimin back into his arms. Jimin, boneless and sated, looped his arms around Jungkook’s neck, resting his head on his shoulder. Jungkook carried him out of the studio, through the quiet house, and into their spacious bathroom. He set Jimin down on the closed toilet lid and started the water in the large, sunken tub, pouring in a generous amount of Jimin’s favorite sandalwood-scented oil.
While the tub filled, he tended to Jimin with a quiet, focused care. He used a warm, wet cloth to clean the drying paint smudges from his own hands, then gently wiped the sweat and oil from Jimin’s stomach and thighs. He was meticulous, tender. When the tub was full, he helped Jimin step in, then climbed in behind him, settling Jimin between his legs, his back against Jungkook’s solid chest.
The hot water enveloped them, soothing Jimin’s sore muscles and the tender marks on his skin. Jungkook’s arms came around him, holding him close. He rested his chin on top of Jimin’s damp head.
“The painting,” Jimin said softly after a long silence, his voice drowsy. “It’s ruined.”
Jungkook’s chest vibrated with a soft chuckle. “Good. It was shit anyway. It could never capture you.” He pressed a kiss to Jimin’s hair. “I don’t need a canvas. I have you.”
Jimin closed his eyes, the last remnants of anxiety dissolving in the warm, scented water and the secure circle of Jungkook’s arms. The rumors were still out there, he knew. The articles would keep being written. But here, in this bath, with the evidence of Jungkook’s devotion written on his skin in bruises and bites, they felt as insubstantial as smoke. He was the muse. He was the masterpiece. And for now, that was the only truth that mattered.