GOD
This is the fifth part of the whore geng series. Yes, I did say it was a trilogy, and stretched it with a "prequel", but now im just giving up. Here take it.
You can blame it on omgorgasm because this is written for her. This is also for mawaru_berry because she likes the HanChun
*********
GOD
Yoochun pauses outside the door, unsure of what to do and seriously questioning himself for coming to a place like this. He should never have even considered the idea, no matter what Yunho said, but the two of them had been friends since high school and Yoochun knew Yunho did not praise people too often, and ‘flawless’ was certainly not a word he had ever expected to hear from the playboy. Plus Yunho had already promised to buy this portrait, brushing off the high price tag that came with one of his paintings, only muttering something about how he and his roommate will split it. It was an offer Yoochun could not turn down.
Yunho had told him that he will inform this Hankyung beforehand, so when Yoochun pushes open the door, he expects the room to be set up for a portrait session. It is in a way, the room a little lighter than Yunho had described, nowhere near bright, but the candles on the table gave off enough light for him to see the stand already set up near the windows. And the figure lounging on the bed in a silk robe talking to another man with red hair and milky skin, who had a long, bare leg cradled in the blonde man’s exploring hands. Yoochun clears his throat loudly and the redhead turns a glare at him and makes a low growling noise that sounded like one an angry cat would make. Hankyung’s hands drop away and the other man leaps to his feet with an almost snarl, stalking past Yoochun, only to stop by the doorway with a dangerously sweet whisper of “I hope he fucks you so hard that you can’t walk for a week.”
Yoochun was still stuttering about how he is here to paint and not for that, when all that doesn’t seem all that important because the other man is now standing right before him, close enough to touch. Then he is touching, because the other man is leading him to the bed. He starts to protest only to have the blonde man tell him that if Yoochun wanted him in a certain position, then he would have to arrange him personally. Hankyung lies back on the bed, exposing his long neck and leaving that robe riding dangerously high on those thighs and he looks so fucking perfect that Yoochun can’t even bring himself to change the tantalizing picture. Not that he wanted to risk touching that skin. He looks like an angel, only if angels were born with blonde hair and endless legs and screamed seduction.
He sets up his oils and the paints on one side perched on a box and his hands smooth lightly over the edges of the canvas; his usual routine. Painting was a dying art and Yoochun was determined to make each and every one of his pieces absolutely perfect. He paints and the beautiful creature on the bed starts taking form on the canvas; Yoochun doesn’t change a detail, he never does, but it’s not even necessary in this case, because even with his artist’s eye, he could not think of anything to fix or change. Hankyung is an excellent subject, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t figet impatiently. They paint in silence and there is nothing but the dark gaze always locked on him that reminds him that this wasn’t his usual painting. There’s something in those eyes, an invitation, a challenge, an understanding. Yoochun could tell that here was someone else who strived for perfection and the intensity of that gaze burned through his body and sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.
He paints amid soft breathing that curled around his ear and those dark eyes that he couldn’t help but look into. He felt as if his soul was being peeked into and those dark eyes were reading through his secret thoughts and dreams and things that he kept hidden even to himself. The painting takes form, those high cheekbones and perfect red lips, the lean muscles in those legs and the soft fold of silk around his shoulders leading to the hollowed shadows of those collarbones. It is beautiful and so very, very close to the original, yet there was something missing. No matter how many times he fixed a spot or added an extra shine, that missing piece did not come alive, not even when the silk looked smooth enough to run his fingers along and that hair was soft enough to twirl between his fingers.
Hankyung clearly notices his frustration, because there is a smile curled around those red lips now, as if he was anticipating this, as if he knew exactly what was wrong and how to solve it. The knowledge that this stunning man before him could not only provide him with the most beautiful painting but could also complete what he could not, complete him, sent a tingle of desire all the way down to his toes. Without even his request or order, Hankyung gets up fluidly from the bed, his robe sliding even higher before caressing down his leg again. The blonde man walks over and takes the painting off the stand and places it on the bed without even a glance.
Yoochun is wondering at that, but that wisdom is still there in those eyes as Hankyung walks over and starts squeezing more paint onto his palate, mainly corsa rosa, with a little bit of vermillion and a touch of sangria. The colours blend together like passion, pain and sacrifice. Beautiful but not as much as the perfect shade of red that Hankyung’s lips possessed. A red that escaped all the shades in his mind and they reminded Yoochun of strawberries, cherries and pomegranates all at once. He wondered what it would be like to taste them and if he could make that red even more pure if he kissed those lips enough.
Hankyung uses his fingers, long and elegant, ivory against the vibrant red, to mix the paint, all the while staring at him. Even though he was still dressed in his shirt and vest and the other only in a thin robe, he felt much more naked as the other’s eyes seemingly undressed him with each passing moment. Then the other is standing right in front of him and Yoochun could only stare as a long finger strokes his cheek, leaving a trail of bright red in its wake. Yoochun could only stare fixated at the mirror directly oppostite him, at the red shining starkly on his skin and how perfect that face looked so close to him, as Hankyung turns to smile at him in the mirror. It is only as he feels hands slide up his chest, the vest lying halfway across the room and the shirt now unbuttoned and half off, that he understands how Hankyung plans to show him the way to perfecting that painting.
There are hands sliding along sleek skin and that stunning red on his own body fascinates him and when Hankyung uses his teeth to slide down the zip of his jeans, Yoochun can’t help the choked gasp at the sensation. There’s the smell of paint all over them and fuck, if it isn’t the best aphrodisiac for him. It’s only when his member slips out, already hard that he realizes just how much he had desired to touch this man in front of him all this time. So he does, hands smoothing through the silky blonde locks and then he is gripping tight, because of the sudden heat on his member as Hankyung licks his way slowly up his length. Yoochun bangs his head hard against the wall when he feels the cold paint on the inside of his thighs, where his legs met the curve of his butt and the intense surge of need and desire as the blonde man takes him whole in his mouth and sucks and teases and bites.
The heat leaves suddenly and he is still panting against the wall, when he feels something hard and straight brush against his throbbing member. He tears his eyes away from Hankyung’s face, now inches from his and looks down to see his favourite brush, the relatively short, but very thick one that he had used to paint the blue sheets of the bed. It is so familiar yet so foreign and he doesn’t know if he is clutching tighter onto Hankyung because of the way the brush was lightly caressing his balls and along his length and fuck, pushing slightly onto his slit or because of the way the other was leaving marks down his neck. Then he almost upsets the palate of paint at his feet when he feels the brush-now sleek with his precome-slide into him suddenly and Yoochun silences his gasp as the thick length moves within him, biting into Hankyung’s shoulders.
He gasps and squirms and then it’s not enough, nowhere near enough, because he needs more, needs more power and skin and completion. Still the loss of contact as the brush, his only relief, is removed and dropped to the floor almost makes him sob. Then the stand topples and crashes into the palate and paint flies everywhere, because Yoochun is slammed up higher against the wall, the other pressed tight and he realizes how stupid he is, because that thick brush? That was absolutely nothing compared to the thick, hardness now in its place. Now there’s heat and tightness and a length that wasn’t there before and Yoochun can only wrap his legs tighter around the other’s waist, just so the other could get deeper. He is moaning and gasping, loud and harsh, with each thrust because he just doesn’t think the other could go any deeper yet the other proves him wrong each time, plunging so deep that Yoochun doesn’t think that such places even existed within him.
There are stars in front of his eyes and all he can do is clutch at Hankyung’s shoulders to stop himself from breaking apart, even though he couldn’t care if he did, because this felt so damn good. He sees a man in the mirror, a man with his mouth parted as moans slipped from swollen lips and who arched backwards each time, the look of utter ecstacy written all over that face. It takes him a moment to realize it’s his own reflection, simply because such a wanton picture of lust and pleasure could not be up-tight, introverted Park Yoochun. But then there’s so much pleasure coursing thorugh his entire body, it’s undeniably him and he wonders why he hasn’t come long ago. Then Yoochun registers the tight grip around his member as Hankyung uses only one arm to hold him up, those fingers stopping his release mercilessly. He begs and pants and there are incoherent murmurs spilling from his mouth “please…Hankyung….noo..please…anything…” then “Oh God!” when Hankyung bites down at his earlobe. The man pauses and smirks, “God?….I like it”. Then Yoochun can only scream in indescribable ecstasy when Hankyung releases his grip whilst simultaneously throwing himself against the wall, putting his entire weight into that one last thrust that plunges straight into Yoochun’s soul.
There’s red paint over his chest, in his hair, across his cheeks, on his thighs and in every unmentionable place on his body. The whole room smells like sex and paint. He stares at the picture as he walks out, the missing spark that would complete the picture now so obvious. Hankyung had painted it for him, painted all over him, touching here and there, in gentle dabs and flowing strokes and using his own beautiful perfect self as the brush and Yoochun’s body as the canvas.
Yoochun had found his answer and his muse.
You can blame it on omgorgasm because this is written for her. This is also for mawaru_berry because she likes the HanChun
*********
GOD
Yoochun pauses outside the door, unsure of what to do and seriously questioning himself for coming to a place like this. He should never have even considered the idea, no matter what Yunho said, but the two of them had been friends since high school and Yoochun knew Yunho did not praise people too often, and ‘flawless’ was certainly not a word he had ever expected to hear from the playboy. Plus Yunho had already promised to buy this portrait, brushing off the high price tag that came with one of his paintings, only muttering something about how he and his roommate will split it. It was an offer Yoochun could not turn down.
Yunho had told him that he will inform this Hankyung beforehand, so when Yoochun pushes open the door, he expects the room to be set up for a portrait session. It is in a way, the room a little lighter than Yunho had described, nowhere near bright, but the candles on the table gave off enough light for him to see the stand already set up near the windows. And the figure lounging on the bed in a silk robe talking to another man with red hair and milky skin, who had a long, bare leg cradled in the blonde man’s exploring hands. Yoochun clears his throat loudly and the redhead turns a glare at him and makes a low growling noise that sounded like one an angry cat would make. Hankyung’s hands drop away and the other man leaps to his feet with an almost snarl, stalking past Yoochun, only to stop by the doorway with a dangerously sweet whisper of “I hope he fucks you so hard that you can’t walk for a week.”
Yoochun was still stuttering about how he is here to paint and not for that, when all that doesn’t seem all that important because the other man is now standing right before him, close enough to touch. Then he is touching, because the other man is leading him to the bed. He starts to protest only to have the blonde man tell him that if Yoochun wanted him in a certain position, then he would have to arrange him personally. Hankyung lies back on the bed, exposing his long neck and leaving that robe riding dangerously high on those thighs and he looks so fucking perfect that Yoochun can’t even bring himself to change the tantalizing picture. Not that he wanted to risk touching that skin. He looks like an angel, only if angels were born with blonde hair and endless legs and screamed seduction.
He sets up his oils and the paints on one side perched on a box and his hands smooth lightly over the edges of the canvas; his usual routine. Painting was a dying art and Yoochun was determined to make each and every one of his pieces absolutely perfect. He paints and the beautiful creature on the bed starts taking form on the canvas; Yoochun doesn’t change a detail, he never does, but it’s not even necessary in this case, because even with his artist’s eye, he could not think of anything to fix or change. Hankyung is an excellent subject, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t figet impatiently. They paint in silence and there is nothing but the dark gaze always locked on him that reminds him that this wasn’t his usual painting. There’s something in those eyes, an invitation, a challenge, an understanding. Yoochun could tell that here was someone else who strived for perfection and the intensity of that gaze burned through his body and sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.
He paints amid soft breathing that curled around his ear and those dark eyes that he couldn’t help but look into. He felt as if his soul was being peeked into and those dark eyes were reading through his secret thoughts and dreams and things that he kept hidden even to himself. The painting takes form, those high cheekbones and perfect red lips, the lean muscles in those legs and the soft fold of silk around his shoulders leading to the hollowed shadows of those collarbones. It is beautiful and so very, very close to the original, yet there was something missing. No matter how many times he fixed a spot or added an extra shine, that missing piece did not come alive, not even when the silk looked smooth enough to run his fingers along and that hair was soft enough to twirl between his fingers.
Hankyung clearly notices his frustration, because there is a smile curled around those red lips now, as if he was anticipating this, as if he knew exactly what was wrong and how to solve it. The knowledge that this stunning man before him could not only provide him with the most beautiful painting but could also complete what he could not, complete him, sent a tingle of desire all the way down to his toes. Without even his request or order, Hankyung gets up fluidly from the bed, his robe sliding even higher before caressing down his leg again. The blonde man walks over and takes the painting off the stand and places it on the bed without even a glance.
Yoochun is wondering at that, but that wisdom is still there in those eyes as Hankyung walks over and starts squeezing more paint onto his palate, mainly corsa rosa, with a little bit of vermillion and a touch of sangria. The colours blend together like passion, pain and sacrifice. Beautiful but not as much as the perfect shade of red that Hankyung’s lips possessed. A red that escaped all the shades in his mind and they reminded Yoochun of strawberries, cherries and pomegranates all at once. He wondered what it would be like to taste them and if he could make that red even more pure if he kissed those lips enough.
Hankyung uses his fingers, long and elegant, ivory against the vibrant red, to mix the paint, all the while staring at him. Even though he was still dressed in his shirt and vest and the other only in a thin robe, he felt much more naked as the other’s eyes seemingly undressed him with each passing moment. Then the other is standing right in front of him and Yoochun could only stare as a long finger strokes his cheek, leaving a trail of bright red in its wake. Yoochun could only stare fixated at the mirror directly oppostite him, at the red shining starkly on his skin and how perfect that face looked so close to him, as Hankyung turns to smile at him in the mirror. It is only as he feels hands slide up his chest, the vest lying halfway across the room and the shirt now unbuttoned and half off, that he understands how Hankyung plans to show him the way to perfecting that painting.
There are hands sliding along sleek skin and that stunning red on his own body fascinates him and when Hankyung uses his teeth to slide down the zip of his jeans, Yoochun can’t help the choked gasp at the sensation. There’s the smell of paint all over them and fuck, if it isn’t the best aphrodisiac for him. It’s only when his member slips out, already hard that he realizes just how much he had desired to touch this man in front of him all this time. So he does, hands smoothing through the silky blonde locks and then he is gripping tight, because of the sudden heat on his member as Hankyung licks his way slowly up his length. Yoochun bangs his head hard against the wall when he feels the cold paint on the inside of his thighs, where his legs met the curve of his butt and the intense surge of need and desire as the blonde man takes him whole in his mouth and sucks and teases and bites.
The heat leaves suddenly and he is still panting against the wall, when he feels something hard and straight brush against his throbbing member. He tears his eyes away from Hankyung’s face, now inches from his and looks down to see his favourite brush, the relatively short, but very thick one that he had used to paint the blue sheets of the bed. It is so familiar yet so foreign and he doesn’t know if he is clutching tighter onto Hankyung because of the way the brush was lightly caressing his balls and along his length and fuck, pushing slightly onto his slit or because of the way the other was leaving marks down his neck. Then he almost upsets the palate of paint at his feet when he feels the brush-now sleek with his precome-slide into him suddenly and Yoochun silences his gasp as the thick length moves within him, biting into Hankyung’s shoulders.
He gasps and squirms and then it’s not enough, nowhere near enough, because he needs more, needs more power and skin and completion. Still the loss of contact as the brush, his only relief, is removed and dropped to the floor almost makes him sob. Then the stand topples and crashes into the palate and paint flies everywhere, because Yoochun is slammed up higher against the wall, the other pressed tight and he realizes how stupid he is, because that thick brush? That was absolutely nothing compared to the thick, hardness now in its place. Now there’s heat and tightness and a length that wasn’t there before and Yoochun can only wrap his legs tighter around the other’s waist, just so the other could get deeper. He is moaning and gasping, loud and harsh, with each thrust because he just doesn’t think the other could go any deeper yet the other proves him wrong each time, plunging so deep that Yoochun doesn’t think that such places even existed within him.
There are stars in front of his eyes and all he can do is clutch at Hankyung’s shoulders to stop himself from breaking apart, even though he couldn’t care if he did, because this felt so damn good. He sees a man in the mirror, a man with his mouth parted as moans slipped from swollen lips and who arched backwards each time, the look of utter ecstacy written all over that face. It takes him a moment to realize it’s his own reflection, simply because such a wanton picture of lust and pleasure could not be up-tight, introverted Park Yoochun. But then there’s so much pleasure coursing thorugh his entire body, it’s undeniably him and he wonders why he hasn’t come long ago. Then Yoochun registers the tight grip around his member as Hankyung uses only one arm to hold him up, those fingers stopping his release mercilessly. He begs and pants and there are incoherent murmurs spilling from his mouth “please…Hankyung….noo..please…anything…” then “Oh God!” when Hankyung bites down at his earlobe. The man pauses and smirks, “God?….I like it”. Then Yoochun can only scream in indescribable ecstasy when Hankyung releases his grip whilst simultaneously throwing himself against the wall, putting his entire weight into that one last thrust that plunges straight into Yoochun’s soul.
There’s red paint over his chest, in his hair, across his cheeks, on his thighs and in every unmentionable place on his body. The whole room smells like sex and paint. He stares at the picture as he walks out, the missing spark that would complete the picture now so obvious. Hankyung had painted it for him, painted all over him, touching here and there, in gentle dabs and flowing strokes and using his own beautiful perfect self as the brush and Yoochun’s body as the canvas.
Yoochun had found his answer and his muse.