The Arrows Of Love || VMIN

Sweetheart

Author's note: Please please please visit the other book's complementary chapter for this one, otherwise you'll have a really hard time understanding what's happening ❤️

Reminder: Bold italics means things that has occurred in the past, and by "past" it can mean in the past five minutes to infinity.

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"Have you ever fallen in love, Peony?"

The short glides of the inked brush surfing on the cream-like canvas halted, again, for the nth time since morning.

He had been on it for a while now, Jimin realised; glancing at his now longer shadow on the moonstone-carved floor, created by the golden rays of the midday sun, and attached to the legs of the citron-made drafting chair he was seated on.

The Prince stared at his toes, at his right toenail idly scratching the bejewelled ground, sighing; then looked back at the canvas, palette held in left hand, tilted to a side.

What was he even doing today?

Nay, wrong question.

What had he even been doing for the past three weeks and two days, including today?

The pleasant atelier, made of translucent white gems and stocked with fragrant colours, for a while had become the place where he spent his leisure the most. But leisure, excluding the time that was needed on nourishing and refreshing himself, all of his daylights had become.

From sunset, his time and he himself, both were reserved to his husband.

This sudden sloth lifestyle wasn't fairing well for his health, the mortal told himself; gaze on his now even plumper thighs squeezed together on the smooth, shiny wood, blemished in crimson that weren't removable pigments fallen from his brush by mistake; peeking from under the dishevelled chiton which felt and appeared like the petals of a daffodil on his skin.

Ahem.

They were the mastery of the nocturnal artist who tortured his helpless body with never ending splashes of blinding pleasure, ruthlessly played with his soft, delicate parts like a tyrant ruler; until his legs would turn numb, trembling and dirty, and until he would only rave his tormentor's name, teary-eyed and delirious in oversensitivity.

One, two, three. Three were the highest numbers of rounds they ever had in one night, after which the beast would only laugh, sweet and rejuvenated; holding him to his chest while he himself shook like a leaf in a storm, on the verge of unconsciousness, simply incapable to vie with the other's inhumane stamina.

Even through constant habit, his body hadn't accustomed itself to this new state it seemed- explaining the intense fatigue he was suffering everyday.

Absently putting the palette and brush back on their table, the Prince spontaneously yawned, also for the nth time since morning, getting down from his seat to wash his hands.

After spending many a night with his husband, as nature dictated, some characteristics of this mysterious monster had transpired themselves to him- an adulating charmer, a sweet pervert, and an insatiable, excellent lover.

But to his everlasting dismay, also a garrulous talker.

If Jimin wasn't so increasingly besotted with his dulcet voice and flattering words, his own brash conciseness would have brutally collided with the other for sure.