Work Text:
They say if you are bold enough to prove your worth to the Gods, these divine entities will grant you with your deepest, most twisted and unfeasible desire. However, all deities are capricious creatures, their immortal nature makes them indulge in whimsical acts; thus this statement almost never stays true.
A man nearing his thirties, a secretly misanthropic sculptor devoted to art, one of the most renowned crafters in Korea, knows this and yet strongly believes he has the Gods on his side. For how lucky could a mere man be to earn his living by doing what he loves?
Yes, he is talented enough to give his sculptures a life-like appearance, that's the main reason he is so well known.
He is passionately attached to his profession: carving magnificence out of shapeless blocks of marble or granite. Even if he doesn't get paid insane amounts of money and believes his statues are of greater value than what his clients pay, for Namjoon an austere life is enough. This way he is as free as a mortal can be; after all, luxury and vanity are the worst kind of prisons a human can wander in.
It is a terrible pity that what he loves doing also brings doom to his life.
Namjoon is lonely by choice. Please do not misinterpret, he is a great conversationalist with a mind too brilliant to remain silent, but he still prefers to spend unending hours sitting inside his studio with the serene company that only his statues can provide.
Irony at its peak: he excelled on recreating the anatomy of both men and women in upmost detail, he learned by heart every curvature and crevice of the human flesh, and yet he couldn't bring himself to embrace someone in the most intimate of ways.
This feverish passion of his always spared him no time to appreciate the affection that a woman, or man, could give.
He is reminded of the misery of his ephemeral existence as his rough hands clench and unclench longing to grab tender, candid flesh instead of the usual cold, rounded edges of stone. Namjoon can't seem to find what he is looking for: a partner whose beauty exceeds that of his ivory creations. At this point, he is tired of trying. Every man he meets is handsome to some degree but either too rough or too lanky, and every woman he meets is delicate in her own way but either too conceited or too uncultivated.
He is not being picky. They are not worthy of his love because they are imperfect.
How many times has he met up with men of the trade and discussed this matter for hours, ending the conversation abruptly because they didn't seem to understand? Needless to say, all of these men were happily married and had discarded art as a lover long ago. They tell him to hurry up and marry the first lady that happens to bump into him and is decent enough, confidently suggesting he will learn to love her the same way he does art. But love is a deep, complex feeling, not something easy and practical as they imply. 'Hurry up, you will start withering soon.' 'What are you going to do when you grow old, die alone?', they say, and it unnerves him how plain everyone is.
Outraged, Namjoon always comes back home refusing the idea of marriage. But when moonlight falls upon his favorite collection of books, caressing the painting hanging on the wall or the sharp surface of marble, he wants to marry art in all its forms. He has come down to realize that absolutely no person that breathes could aim to be as beautiful and interesting as art itself, so, under the faint and discreet light that radiates the moon, he mutters his vows to the abstract entity.
One fine afternoon, he is set on the arduous task of carving the personification of art out of the most exquisite block of marble he could get his hands on. He's grown tired of his lover being caged in the constricting walls of his imagination, hence why his hands are currently working on the stone to bring the fluctuating image of a young man to life.
Three days later, he gives the statue one last polishing touch and routinely steps back, coming to stand in front of it to observe his whole work from a different angle. His experimented and judgmental eyes scan over the figure, searching for any spot, imperfection or hard edge, but he finds none. Namjoon knows he has succeeded in his ambition to materialize the broad concept of art in one sculpture when he ends up completely embellished by it. A creation so supreme it exceeds the limits of what is heavenly possible.
A young man with a lithe body perfectly rounded in the right places; wrists, ankles, knees, all of his articulations look delicate and scream how necessary careful handling is. The ivory marble suddenly looks soft, pliable under his scrutiny, warm even; it only adds magic to the moment. Rounded face, small ears and nose, sharp eyes and doll lips take his breath away and he doesn't want it back, he would gladly perish by observing such beauty.
Naturally, he immediately falls prey to the infatuation caused by his greatest creation; leaving a clear path for madness to take over his life.
And he knows it borders narcissism, but he vehemently adores the statue his bare hands have crafted; admiring its alluring curves all day, worshipping the inert body more than he did any god. He committed such a grave, enormous blasphemy with no hint of remorse.
Namjoon doesn't blink when he asks the most expensive tailor in town to make an exclusive piece of clothing that is worthy of being worn by his love. The very next day, he is draping the velvety purple tunic over the statue's shoulders, gently, slowly smoothing out the cloth with the palm of his hands. When he is finished tying up a pretty knot over the statue's middle to keep the robe in place, his eyes look up to linger on the sharp, stony ones that morosely don't show any emotion.
His fingers caressed the supple skin that is sadly no skin but cold marble: deceiving, a grotesque trickery he constantly fell for.
What he is experimenting is surely the most perverse form of love: to be so fond of someone you can't have is the worst kind of torture and will most likely be the cause of his demise.
Does he care? Of course he doesn't, he joyfully swims in the agony. He is enamored with the pain.
Every day he talks to his favorite statue as if it had the capacity of hearing, of listening and understanding his language. It is a dialogue that keeps the last bits of sanity in him. He waits for no answer and yet he bares his soul, cracks open his chest and allows himself to be vulnerable in front of the only one he loves.
"Do you know what I want?" Namjoon asks sounding more like a sob as he holds the statue's hand between his in a fierce grip. "For you to be real so that you can hold my hand. I want you to breathe on my ear. To inhabit my life. To break this heart in million pieces if that is what you wish to do. It is yours."
These days he came up with a definite name for him. What is a work of art without a name? A disgrace, the most detestable humiliation to art ever done.
Yoongi.
It had been relatively easy to hold onto this particular name since its core meant softness*, a name that fits the statue of his dreams entirely.
"Do you like it?" Namjoon whispers one placid afternoon, head lowering to let his lips kiss the long, polished marble fingers, tracing them up to its knuckles. "I know it doesn't do your beauty justice, but it is your name now. Great stories begin with a name, and I want to write our story some day."
Spring makes its appearance when least expected after months of desolate, unrelenting winter; snow slowly liquifies during the morning and partly evaporates by midday when the sun is most warm. Birds chirp, flowers erupt on the side of the road, the world goes on but Namjoon seems to be stuck in time; his never-ending desire for Yoongi burns so vigorously he could melt an entire iceberg by merely standing next to it.
Namjoon is only human, a man at that, he has earthly needs that can't stay locked up inside for much longer.
It is not enough when his hands wrap around the frigid, chilly, hard waist, running them up and down the statue's sides. No warmth generates from the friction, only his palms get colder. His head falls onto the solid round surface of the statue's small shoulder. "Why do I want you if I can't have you? I am sick." He grimly sobs like a lost child, tears brimming in his eyes as the desperation is too strong for him to fight against anymore.
He jerks his head up all of a sudden, a bolt of electricity tingling his spine as he anticipates what he is about to do. "This feverish desire I have for you will never be sated," he murmurs before pressing his thick lips against the cold, thin ones; both mouths sealed in a delirious kiss.
It feels distant and one-sided and he doesn't know why he was expecting otherwise. Well, he actually does know. Against all reason and logic, Namjoon wants him to be real.
Gazing at the statue's frozen features, he licks his lips and tastes dust, and the very next second he is kissing those lifeless lips again, not caring how insane he is for doing this, for feeling so much. He wants it, he wants it, he wants it.
Then he perceives it, - like the winter sun, it is barely noticeable but definitely there - a tiny patch of warmth steadily radiating from where his lips are pressing. With a gasp, he removes his mouth from the spot, leaning his head back a bit to watch the statue's lips turn a tender shade of pink.
He must be hallucinating, too drunk on his eagerness, but what he sees is the ivory shade of the statue's face and neck slowly turn rosy. Namjoon chokes on air when the cold surface - now flush skin - turns malleable under his hands, flesh dipping where his fingers are applying pressure. "Impossible." He repeats under his breath, again and again, as he stares with eyes wide open at the irrational process of stone hair shifting to black, silky locks.
Reason strives to persuade him into thinking this is not happening, that he must be dreaming, that he has finally lost his mind. However, he shuts it down and pays no mind, the transformation is unfolding right in front of his eyes and it feels real.
When those sharp eyes start to blink repeatedly, small lashes flutter in the purest way and Namjoon falls to his knees, glancing up at the short lad with the prettiest chocolate brown eyes.
Namjoon loves art. He can love no human, for humans are the epitome of imperfection, but he, Yoongi, his creation, looks human from head to toe and yet every inch of him is flawless.
Yoongi is art.
And Namjoon yearns to taint everything with his carnal touch: his immaculate pale flesh, his rounded face with squishy cheeks and red lips, and what the purple tunic doesn't let him see.
His scabrous hand comes up to grab Yoongi's dainty and smaller one. Marveling at the sudden softness, he squeezes the warm flesh and their hands fit together like they are meant to be intertwined.
"I can hear you breathing and your pulse is wild against my hand, but I suppose I must be dreaming." His words break the silence and his lower lip quivers from raw emotion. He brings the pale hand to his face, leaving a soft kiss on top without breaking eye contact.
"Please, stand up, master. I should be the one kneeling."
The color of Yoongi's voice is the most beautiful mix of pastel hues he could ever imagine, but he doesn't like the superior way in which he was addressed. Namjoon's face contorted in the weirdest manner as delight and fretting fought to win over control of his facial expression.
Yoongi may be his creation but he is also his equal.
"Do not call me that." he begged, carefully standing as it was demanded of him. They are at eye level now - the piece of marble that remained intact under his naked feet assisted Yoongi on the task of being as tall as his creator. "Call me Namjoon. Or better, call me whatever your heart desires."
Namjoon's ears eagerly await for his mellow voice, but Yoongi only regards him with silent adoration and sparkling eyes, leaving the older no choice but to envelop him into a tight embrace; and this time, it is reciprocated.
Two bodies, different in size but equally relaxed, lie next to each other impossibly close on the fresh green grass of a well hidden meadow. Yoongi is wearing the flowing white blouse Namjoon bought for him a few days ago, and his skin glows like a diamond whenever the sun filters through the oak's leaves. When he laughs, he has the prettiest gummy smile and Namjoon is unable to resist. Pulling the lithe body on top of his sturdy one, the older kisses him, tongue lapping at those honeyed lips he can't seem to get tired of.
"Your smile kills me and brings me back to life. At the same time." Namjoon utters against his mouth in one breath. Yoongi seems to enjoy his poor attempt at poetry, hums approvingly leaving gentle kisses all over Namjoon's angular jaw, and it really feels like he has died and is currently living in Paradise.
"You don't have to court me, I'm already yours." whispers teasingly the angelic creature on top of him, making his insides churn with contentment and his pride swell.
However, his angelic looks do not always go hand in hand with his character. Yoongi possesses a strong temperament, he is both determined and insecure, and visceral at times. Definitely human.
Namjoon patiently reasons with him and calms him down when the shorter loses his temper over the most trivial things.
They are standing side to side in the kitchen one lovely afternoon, each immersed in their own task involving ingredients and cooking utensils, and Namjoon is swiftly dressing their salad for dinner when a loud, exasperated sigh shakes the agreeable silence.
"This is insufferable!" cries out his beloved, grumpy partner right after he threw open the oven's lid. "Why did I get bread instead of cookies? Useless, useless..."
As Yoongi dolefully laments the pitiable outcome of his hard work with brows furrowed and displaying the most kissable of pouts, Namjoon feels the need to grab him by the waist and smooch his sullenness away, but knowing how moody the smaller is, that would only upset him more.
Namjoon attempts to keep his wild heart at bay by continuing on stirring up the salad, glancing tenderly at him for a few seconds - afraid if his eyes linger for longer he will be too tempted - and smiles softly. "Dear, it is fine by me if you don't know how to bake cookies."
"Hush, you big idiot." Yoongi hisses while holding the burning tray full of small dots of bread between his gloved hands, hastily placing it on top of the counter to gloomily stare at it. It's like he is contemplating throwing them to the trashcan but can't bring himself to do such a cruel thing after putting so much effort into making the questionably edible dessert. "I must learn how to cook properly."
The strong resolution in his voice makes Namjoon laugh lightly, and he teases. "Do you wish to cook for me that badly?"
His beloved is quick to answer. "No. I want to learn new things for myself." Namjoon hums approvingly, he was merely teasing him. He wants Yoongi to learn, to do whatever he feels like doing, to exist as an independent being not as an extension of Namjoon. The distinct sound of plastic shuffling tells him Yoongi has finally discarded his failed attempt of cookies, and he has to take a deep breath when those graceful arms wrap affectionately around his middle. "Not everything revolves around you, Joon. Not even I."
It is one of those mornings they decide to make the most of by going on a stroll downtown when Yoongi presses closer to his side and looks up at him with eyes full of glittering gratefulness. It is inevitable to melt under such powerful spell, and Namjoon waits for him to say something before his body becomes a puddle of flesh and bones.
When they turn right and the streets are less crowded, Yoongi finally speaks up. "Thank you for taking me with you everywhere you go. Makes me feel human."
What he says has a bittersweet aftertaste, and Namjoon feels inexplicably aggravated by the underlying confession of a fear he wasn't aware his beloved was dealing with daily. He blames himself for not realizing earlier how his partner was bearing such heavy weight on his delicate shoulders all alone.
His grip on the smaller's waist tightens in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. "You're human."
As they walk down a somewhat busier street, he feels Yoongi's body tense under his touch at the uneasiness the strangers' eyes provoke with their intense and outrageous staring. Namjoon has never really paid attention to them before, but now he can't seem to stop the growing desire to punch their nosy faces out of the way.
"I see it in their eyes, Joon." Yoongi trembles, sharp eyes losing their fierceness, wavering, and the sadness that's taking over his pale features is the most violent thing the older has ever witnessed in his entire life. "Everyone looks at me like I am not- like I am a monster, an abomination."
Namjoon doesn't care that they are in the middle of a crosswalk blocking the path for some pedestrians, he stops walking in that very moment because he has greater matters to attend right now. He cups Yoongi's face between his hands, and the sudden attack of affection makes Yoongi widen his eyes at him in embarrassment, cheeks steadily heating up under his palms.
"Can't you see? Their eyes are naturally drawn to your human elegance and that makes them envy you." Namjoon can feel all those eyes actually burn holes on his back, but the only eyes that hold any power over him are the ones staring up at him in endearing bewilderment. "Now tell me, aren't you mine?"
He knows he doesn't need to ask, he already knows the answer, but it still stirs his whole soul when Yoongi immediately mutters "Yes", and it is enough for him to gather the courage to lean down and capture that mouth in a brief kiss.
It is comically chaotic how people are deliberately avoiding them, walking past in all directions, and Namjoon finds it enchanting how their hasty movements highly contrast with the serenity of Yoongi's half-lidded eyes. "Then as long as you're mine you're no monster, no abomination."
The grim veil of night falls at last, covering the sky with the heartwarming solace of twinkling stars, and timid rays of moonlight come through the opened window. The Moon is a gentle creature, her pale light bathes the sheets and their bodies with utmost care and it feels spellbinding, but the mood is terribly shattered by a sort of tension not sorted yet.
As they lay down in bed, comfortably wrapped in each other's arms and unable to sleep, Namjoon is the one who tackles the matter with a simple question.
"What is troubling you?"
He slightly bumps his nose against Yoongi's: an encouraging gesture to coax a sincere answer out of him.
"You should have realized by now."
An ambiguous reply encased in a demanding tone leaves Namjoon wondering what exactly his beloved wants from him. Whatever it is, he will need to be more specific because Namjoon knows him better than the palm of his hand but he is no mind reader.
"I am a humble man, but you only need to ask. Ask, and I would walk on fire for you. I would swallow needles for you. I would do anything, solely for you."
"Make love to me."
Desire hits him like a slap to the face, leaves him breathless for a good minute before he can collect every burning bit of himself, and all the time his hands itch with the ungodly need for touching, caressing and grabbing every expanse of pale skin that belongs to Yoongi.
He has restrained this primal need of his for so long that at this moment he fears he can't conceal it anymore. All control is lost when his huge frame looms over Yoongi like a starving beast, his eyes barely admire the quiet beauty under him before he leans down into the crook of his neck.
Clothes are soon discarded, wet tongue lasciviously laps everywhere, teeth graze and bite teasingly at untouched skin, soft moans leave that luscious mouth in response to his ministrations and the only thing grounding Namjoon to earth is the feeling of a pair of hands tangling around his own hair.
The taste of Yoongi's skin is too tantalizing, too addicting, his mouth urgently latches onto one perky nipple while his hands greedily squeeze all the way from his flanks to the back of his smooth thighs. His avid mouth leaves a wet trail of sinful kisses as it travels down south, his rough fingers continuously knead on the supple flesh of Yoongi's bottom and he keeps it up until a particularly ardent whine fills the room and Namjoon knows.
Enough teasing.
And this time he looks into Yoongi's eyes and finds a different kind of glow in them. There's no trace of that innocent gleam of adoration he is so familiar with, it has been replaced by raw incandescent appetite.
When their lips finally connect, it also differs from what they usually experience, it is a bruising clash of tongues and teeth that leave them gasping for air and aching for more.
Yoongi's legs shyly spread wide and Namjoon places his body between them. Oil works its magic easing the entrance, the tight ring of muscle slowly opening up with the help of Namjoon's fingers spurred on by the delicious moans coming from Yoongi's throat. He sweetly kisses the younger all the time to distract him from dwelling too much in the weird sensation of being filled.
It is maddening. Tight heat suffocates his length once he enters him, his mind is drifting away with every breathless moan he manages to coax out of Yoongi as the latter's hands grip his shoulders with a force almost foreign, pulling him closer.
Namjoon grunts as he moves inside of him at a promiscuous pace, unbearably fast and then slowing down to make the moment last. Yoongi claws all over his broad back, moaning wantonly against his neck with his legs wrapped around the older's middle and squeezing every time Namjoon hit that knot of nerves inside him. It's driving both of them mad.
Unbearable pleasure makes them explode unexpectedly and all they see is blurred lines and white hot as they reach their climax, the sensations heightened by their solid love for each other and even oversensitivity feels gratifying.
When they make love they shift into the mightiest form of existence: they become one and the same.
If there are any Gods out there, they are definitely on Namjoon's side and shall believe he and Yoongi are meant to be, that they deserve the merriest of lives.
But rumors extend quickly in such a small town, and there are certain humans whose jealousy for a love they can't experience lead them to do things they shouldn't.
Namjoon comes home after a tiresome day of meeting an especially arrogant client to the ghastly sight of crimson blood, one lavender bruise and pearly tears painting Yoongi's face.
Rage overpowers worry and he pulls Yoongi into him a bit too forcefully, cradling his head and holding him protectively.
"I'm going to murder whoever did this to you."
He means it. He will gladly end the worthless existence of the person responsible for this atrocity in the most gruesome way ever seen by mankind.
"No, you won't." Namjoon is taken aback by the broken manner in which his beloved utters those words. "You are better than a filthy criminal."
With a wet rag and swallowing his own wrath, Namjoon delicately cleans his porcelain face and tends to the small cuts on his favorite honeyed lips. Yoongi doesn't want to tell him who should be held guilty, he continues repeating how Namjoon must not go on the hunt to take reprisals for what has happened.
"But...they deserve death, love." He tries to reason with him after softly rubbing a calming balm on the most critical spots.
"Yes. Death may come for them one day, but not by your hands." Yoongi looks so convinced saying this, so brave. Namjoon suppresses a shudder when his beloved holds his hands in his more delicate ones, long fingers drawing circles on the roughest parts of his palms. "Not by the same hands that touch me gently at night. Do not taint the hands that created me, please."
And Namjoon agrees to it - albeit grudgingly - mostly because he will never upset the person he would die for by giving into his pathetic desires for revenge.
"Anything you wish, I will do. And if there's something I cannot do, I will learn to do." Namjoon quietly states.
The promise is sealed with a kiss.
The rest is history.