#had more sketches but its always difficult to compose it all in one image properly

[delicourse]

some dunmeshi girls

[forehead-enthusiast]

Muse

Pairing: Rowoon x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: An artist and their model- both too attracted to each other to admit it. 

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Rowoon sat a few feet away from you, as still as he could, which wasn’t very still at all, but you appreciated his effort. You had a sketchbook propped against your knees and a pencil in hand, and were doing your best to trace the contours of his face against the page.

“How’s it going so far?”

“It’s okay.” You hadn’t gotten much completed yet, and if you were entirely honest, it was difficult to capture how beautiful he was. Still, it wasn’t altogether awful. He fidgeted as you looked up to take him in once more before returning your gaze downward. Without you knowing, he gazed at your figure, bowed over itself, infatuated with your focused expression.

It was fairly easy for him to sneak glances. You were always so engrossed in art that you barely noticed anything around you, which was lucky for him. This wasn’t news to you, of course. You knew how focused you could get as you watched graphite grind onto paper, trying to pull the dreams from your mind and trap them in the form of rough sketches and pictures. You got so focused, you almost forgot how attractive your usual model was.

Almost.

It was rather distracting to have a model of such caliber. Every angle on his face was breathtaking. Every shade of brown in his glossy hair was stunning. Every time he breathed in, you felt the urge to illustrate the way he looked when his chest rose and the way he looked when it subsequently fell. If only your hand could keep up with your brain, you’d have filled the room from floor to ceiling with stacks upon stacks of drawings, but alas- you had to focus on one moment of him at a time. 

“Am I sitting still enough?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, you’re fine. I’m just grateful you’re willing to do this for me.”

I’d do anything you asked. Especially if it means I get to spend hours with you alone. The words floated around Rowoon’s head, taunting him with their straightforwardness. He waved them away with a swing of his large hand before he noticed you looking and flashed a totally natural smile. He sighed discreetly as you looked up every so often, each time your eyes alight with inspiration and flecks of sunshine. 

Sometimes he liked to close his eyes and take in the world that seemed to only exist for you two: the scratching of a pencil, the smell of aging wood and dust that was suspended in time, and the warmth of the setting sun on his skin. 

Time seemed to fade as he sat there. The world stopped turning, nighttime stopped falling, the ice in your water bottle ceased to melt. The air moved like honey, thick and sweet and slow, and he’d let himself drown in your drawing sessions if he could. 

He hoped you felt similarly, even if only a bit.

You did.

You wondered if he ever noticed you drawing extra slowly on some days, longing to extend the minutes and prolong the inevitable goodbyes and goodnights. You wondered if he thought you looked at him too long or too often, or with too much softness in your eyes. He’d be right. You wondered how you managed to get into such a wonderful predicament. So gently tortuous in its opportunities. 

“Is my pose okay?”

You chuckled. “Yes, Rowoon, it’s fine.” It was a silly question. No matter what he did, he’d look like a masterpiece anyway. That’s the beauty of being beautiful. Every movement, every instinct, every flick of a finger and every sidewards glance was lovely. 

“Alright, just checking. My shirt isn’t on backwards or anything?”

“No, it’s not. You know models don’t usually talk this much, right?”

He grinned sheepishly, swinging his legs gently through the air. He looked so young and boyish sitting there, like a grade schooler waiting to get his picture taken for the yearbook. It was such a contrast from his tall and imposing stature it made you smile without realizing.

Rowoon watched your eyes crease with affection, and prayed the glow of the sunset would mask the warmth on his cheeks.

He let the silence stretch on, only occasionally tapping his fingers on the underside of his stool when he couldn’t resist. He thought about how your eyes draped over him, taking in his minute details. He thought about your hands tracing over his silhouette, sliding across his jawline and shoulders, and flushed at his own imagination. He pictured what it would feel like if you were to actually get up from where you sat and touch him, your gray-stained fingers threatening to smear their imprint on his skin.

You looked at Rowoon, and wondered what could lead him to make that expression. How would you describe it? Tender? Bashful? It almost seemed scandalized by itself, as though it was trying and failing to restrain impulsive thoughts. It was both hard to look at and hard to tear your eyes away from. 

Your flush matched his. Your hearts pounded in tandem with each other, and you could almost hear their rhythm reverberating off the walls if you only listened closely enough.

Rowoon couldn’t stop his imagination from blooming with scenarios of you and him, and, worried they’d begin to overflow out of him in petals of confessions, broke the silence.

“S-so what are you drawing right now?”

You found yourself snapped out of the trance that peculiar expression of his had trapped you in, and took a moment to compose yourself and answer.

“Ah, the lips. My favorite part.”

There was a long pause, and you realized the implications of your answer as Rowoon pressed a hand to his chest, desperate to keep his heart contained within.

“Of me-”

“T-to draw! My favorite part to draw.”

“Right, of course!” He forced a laugh, and couldn’t even convince himself it sounded organic. 

You tried to return to drawing, but your pencil hovered above the image of his lips, and you found yourself clutching the thing too tightly to draw properly. You hoped it wouldn’t snap in your grip- you only had the one. What, you didn’t claim to be some professional artist who could afford more than one decent pencil at a time.

“…Why aren’t you drawing?”

Rowoon’s low voice seemed to fill the space around you, rich in its tone.

“It’s your favorite part, after all.”

He gulped. You imitated him unintentionally. His mind was going even more wild than before, practically exploding with thoughts of you. He bit the lip you were struggling to draw, teetering on the edge of no return. You were just a few feet away. The distance seemed to widen as he watched it, and it seemed to threaten that if he waited much longer, it would become too great a gap to close.

“Do you need a closer look?”

He got up from his stool, and took a step towards you. His feet felt glued to the floor, in the space where the model was meant to stay. He pried them up. 

You stiffened as you watched him come closer, the expression on his face mesmerizing yet somehow terrifying. While you could never admit it, never assume it, you understood what that expression meant. Who it was for. You covered your face with your sketchbook, but even with it blocking your vision, you could picture the way he looked vividly, and grew frustrated at its inability to shield you.

Long fingers tapped on top of the sketchbook, pushing it down and away from your face. No matter how many drawings you must have of this face, nothing could prepare you for it at this distance. 

He was crouched down on the floor, looking up at you. You’d never seen him from this angle. Your heart raced at the sight, sometimes forgetting to pause between beats. 

He took hold of your wrist gently, guiding it towards his face.

“Touch me.”

Your fingers reached out despite yourself, and pressed gently against his lips. Your thumb slid across his bottom lip, and while you weren’t sure if you could really be considered conscious, you took note of how soft it felt. 

Your sketchbook and pencil slid off your lap and clattered onto the floor as he kissed you.

His jaw was tilted upwards in your hands. His palm was large enough that it completely covered yours. You could taste the sunlight on his lips, warm and gentle like summer rain. They fit so perfectly against your own, it was a pity to separate them, even to kiss again a moment later. In those pauses, his murmurs would fill your mouth, your lungs, his mumbled words would dance on your tongue. He murmured your name. Your name, over and over, as if reciting an incantation. The way his voice sounded when he said it was soft and smooth and dark, and felt like velvet when it touched you.

It felt dangerous to kiss him. It was addictive, all too pleasant to be permitted. He grew sweeter each time you lingered. At some point you had slid off your chair to join him on the floor carpeted with eraser shavings. His hands had discovered your lower back, and embraced you like there was no other purpose for them in life. Meanwhile, your hands had found his neck and the collar of his shirt, and left the smudges of silver he’d been fantasizing about. You could feel his racing pulse against your fingers. 

The sun had finished setting. Cool shadows were strewn about the room, coating you in shades of gray and blue, but his hands on you were warmth enough. He looked at you, breathless in his arms, and wished he had the ability to draw, to immortalize this moment. He let his fingers run themselves through your hair, and smiled softly. 

You couldn’t even meet his eyes. You could feel the flush that had spread to the tips of your ears, the back of your neck. You figured if you were to face him directly now, you might simply melt.

He lifted your chin, and grinned when your eyes widened, then tightly shut.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I love you too much.”

You scrunched your face up tighter at the words that spilled out uncontrollably, far too honest to be intentional. His low laugh floated around your ears. You opened one eye cautiously, only to find him staring at you adoringly. He leaned in to kiss your cheek, then the other, then all across your nose and chin and forehead. He kissed your fingers, your palms, his lips exploring the hands that knew him well. 

“It’s the same for me.” He spoke into the curves of your hands. “I love you more than you can imagine.”

He cupped your face in his hands, and pulled you suddenly into another kiss, as if to memorize how it felt when your lips melted into his. You practically fell onto him, with his arms supporting you as you pressed against his broad chest. He leaned back onto the ground, gently taking you with him, and began to smile too widely to kiss you properly.

“Yes!”

He positively beamed in celebration, his soft hair splayed on the floor. He looked like an angel with a coffee-colored halo framing his face.

He really was a masterpiece.