The artist and his muse

I

Red stained his brush as he tried to replicate the man's parted lips.

He tried to concentrate over and over again, imposible futures flooding his mind, the urge to keep him like that, to swallow him over and over again, to devour him whole...

And yet there he was, mere meters away from him with a canvas between them both.

It would be just so easy to not stain the brush but his model's neck, his arms, touch his brown hair, part his lips further with his tongue...

Fuck.

The paint had stained his neck red instead of his lips.

...

Quickly, he searched for a napkin or anything of sorts, fidgeting around his things...

When a slim and familiar hand offered him a piece of cloth.

His muse was in front of him, ass naked, giving the man the cloth that had been covering him for the last few hours.

He couldn't help but stare at the other's beauty, appreciate it, wish that those brush strokes weren't a mistake but the truth portrayed on that canvas.

The artist muttered something to thank him, failing at that and, to not make it even more awkward as it had been, he used that cloth to erase his mistake as well as he could.

"...Do you think it looks like me?"

His muse spoke, his voice even softer when they were alone.

"Mh, enough for the people who don't know you to feel like they do."

The naked man returned to his seat.

"Right... How can you make one that actually looks like me?"

The muse, getting to the position he was just a few minutes ago spoke again.

"... I would have to get to know you first, wouldn't I?"