Work Text:
Jeung yoonchae had always believed that inspiration came like lightning—bright, immediate, impossible to ignore. It struck when it wanted to, danced along the nerves like fire, and left her breathless, desperate to create.
But lately? It had felt more like a clogged hose in midsummer. Dry. Dusty. Pathetically sputtering. Her fingers twitched for a brush, her soul itched for color, but nothing came.
The canvases in her LA studio—wedged above a ramen shop and below an overzealous yoga studio whose goat pose exercises sounded suspiciously like stampedes—were testament to her block. They leaned against the walls in half-hearted stacks, smeared with abandoned ideas. Murky blobs of ochre and vermilion glared at her like disappointed children.
She sat on a paint-splattered stool in just a pair of boxers and an oversized hoodie, hair up in a chaotic bun, and a paintbrush sticking out of it like a pirate’s mast. Her eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying, but from too many nights of staring at blank canvases and hoping they’d blink first.
“I need a new muse,” she muttered, chewing the end of a cold, forgotten breadstick. “Or divine intervention. Whichever gets here faster.”
Inspiration was clearly not hiding under the couch, nor was it curled up in the paint jars. It definitely wasn’t at the bottom of her fourth cup of instant noodles this week.
So, with a sigh that sounded dramatic even to her own ears, she threw on some jeans, stuffed her sketchbook into a tote bag (just in case), and walked out into the afternoon sun. Her destination: the small but cozy community art gallery two blocks down. Sometimes, soaking in someone else’s passion helped. Or at the very least, gave her an excuse to feel envy, which was kind of like motivation in a different outfit.
The gallery was quiet, perfumed with sandalwood incense and dreams. Soft indie music played in the background, probably by a band called something like “Soggy Fern” or “Sad Bicycle.” She drifted past canvases and installations, mentally rating them on a scale from “meh” to “actually good, dammit.”
Then, a voice. Warm, confident, edged with amusement.
“You ever capture someone and just know—this shot’s gonna make people fall in love?”
Yoonchae froze.
That voice. That smug, liquid-gold voice.
She peeked around the corner into the photography room.
And there she was.
Megan Skiensidiel.
She stood in front of a framed photo of a street vendor mid-laugh, long brown hair tucked behind one ear, camera slung around her neck like it belonged there. The light hit her just right, spotlighting her like a living exhibit. She looked casual, almost careless, in ripped jeans and a tucked-in graphic tee, but her presence was magnetic. Like a girl who knew her angles—both in life and in love.
yoonchae recognized her instantly. They’d met at a couple of art mixers before, shared a few drinks, exchanged sarcastic barbs, but never anything more. She remembered megan had made a joke about taking candid nudes and winked when yoonchae blushed.
yoonchae inched forward, trying to stay unnoticed. Not because she was shy—okay, maybe a little—but because meganradiated a kind of confidence that made yoonchae feel like a dull smudge in comparison.
And then... the coffee hit.
It came like a tsunami of urgency. Her bladder made its displeasure known with the subtlety of a marching band. She looked around frantically, saw a small wooden sign that read RESTROOMS →, and booked it down the hall, praying she wouldn’t pee herself in an art gallery. Again.
The first door was slightly ajar. Without hesitation, she pushed it open—
—and walked directly into a steam-slicked scene straight out of a Renaissance wet dream.
Megan Skiendiel. Naked.
yoonchae froze. Completely. Like a cartoon character mid-scream.
megan stood in a cloud of warm light and residual shower mist, toweling her hair, utterly at ease in her own skin. Every curve, every line of her body glistened like poetry. Her expression didn’t change—she just quirked a brow as if she was wondering what flavor of yogurt yoonchae had brought.
yoonchae’s jaw dropped. Her soul fell out through her toes.
“I... uh... door wasn’t locked?” she squeaked.
Megan's voice was maddeningly calm. “I forgot.”
She didn’t reach for a towel. Didn’t flinch. Just looked yoonchae in the eye like she was the one fully clothed and annoyed.
“You gonna stand there forever, or close the door?” she added, lips twitching with amusement.
yoonchae let out a strangled noise halfway between a gasp and a wheeze. Then she slammed the door and sprinted down the hall like a gremlin in flight.
Back in her studio, safe but not remotely calm, she collapsed onto her futon. Her pulse was still racing.
She was so fucked.
yoonchae tried to forget it. She really did.
She washed her face. Twice. Drank water like she was training for a hydration competition. Even cleaned her studio, which meant moving canvases from one side of the room to the other and pretending she wasn’t stalling.
But the image of Megan—dripping wet, smiling like a goddess amused by mortal suffering—was branded into her brain. And not in a poetic, fluttery-heart way.
No, it was more primal than that.
Every time she picked up a brush, her hand hesitated, like it was waiting for her to just admit the truth: she wanted to paint her. Not an idea. Not a dream. Megan. In the flesh. Again. Voluntarily this time.
But that was ridiculous. You don’t just go up to someone and say, “Hey, remember when I walked in on you naked? Would you mind doing it again, but slower? With better lighting?”
So she painted other things. Kind of. Sort of.
Except every brushstroke betrayed her.
A shadow curled like the arch of Megan’s back.
A swirl of red formed the memory of her lips.
And her eyes—damn her eyes—they found their way into every canvas, like ghostly signatures she couldn’t erase.
yoonchae threw her hands up one night and groaned. “I’m not even painting her anymore. I’m being haunted by her.”
The worst part? The painting that emerged from it—painted in a caffeine-fueled haze with trembling fingers and unsteady breath—was possibly the best thing she’d ever created. It was raw, sensual, ethereal. A woman in repose, mouth slightly open, one hand resting between her thighs like she’d just been touched, or wanted to be. The colors bled like desire.
yoonchae stared at it for hours after she finished, knees tucked to her chest.
She didn’t know whether to sell it, burn it, or confess to it.
In the end, she chose the most terrifying option.
She went to find megan.
───
It took three days to track her down. LA was big, and yoonchae was stubborn but deeply socially anxious. Eventually, she spotted her in a riverside café, the kind of artsy place that served lavender lattes and played jazz versions of K-pop songs.
megan sat by the window, laptop open, sipping an iced lemon tea. Her profile was unfairly elegant—sharp jaw, soft lips, casual beauty that looked like it had rolled out of bed straight into an aesthetic Instagram post.
yoonchae stood awkwardly behind a potted plant for a full minute before gathering the courage to walk over.
“Hey,” she said.
megan looked up and immediately smirked. “Ah. The girl who busts into bathrooms.”
yoonchae flushed. “Only the unlocked ones.”
“Well, in that case,” megan drawled, “what brings you to my table? Need to see me naked again?”
yoonchae’s ears burned. “Actually… yeah.”
megan blinked.
yoonchae hurried to clarify. “I want to paint you.”
That only seemed to make things worse. Megan’s eyebrows rose high enough to rival Mount Halla.
“Not from memory,” yoonchae added quickly. “For real. Properly. Posed. Consent and all that.”
megan stared at her.
yoonchae swallowed. “You made me feel something. Not just sexually, I mean—yes, obviously—but… artistically. I haven’t felt this alive with a brush in months.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, megan smiled. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
megan leaned back, laced her fingers behind her head. “Alright.”
yoonchae blinked. “Wait—what?”
“I’ll pose,” megan said, as casually as if she’d agreed to lend her a charger. “But if I’m getting naked again, I want snacks. And flattering lighting. And I get to photograph you while you paint.”
yoonchae’s mouth was dry. “Deal.”
───
Her studio had never looked so romantic.
Candles? Check. Silk-draped couch? Check. A decorative fruit bowl that nobody intended to eat but made things look vaguely classical? Also check.
yoonchae stood in the center of the room, obsessively adjusting the curtains to let just the right amount of golden hour light filter through. She wore a fresh hoodie and her favorite (least stained) jeans. Her heart was racing.
megan arrived in skirt, a tank top, and her ever-present camera slung around her neck. She looked around the studio like she was appraising it for a photoshoot.
“Nice setup,” she said. “Are you seducing me or staging a commercial for luxury grapes?”
yoonchae laughed nervously. “Maybe both?”
megan raised an eyebrow, then shrugged out of her clothes.
She did it slowly, with theatrical grace—like every movement was deliberate, teasing. She was in her skin the way most people are in their favorite sweater: comfortable, confident, relaxed.
yoonchae sat in front of the canvas, trying very hard not to pant.
megan reclined on the couch, one leg draped lazily, head tilted back. She looked like a modern-day Botticelli, but with better lighting and the kind of smirk that could start wars.
“You okay over there?” megan teased, lips curled.
yoonchae gripped her brush like a lifeline. “You’re… ridiculously distracting.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
yoonchae exhaled shakily. Then began to paint.
And as she painted, meganraised her camera and started taking pictures of her. Click. Click. Click. The sound felt intimate, almost voyeuristic.
“You look like you’re making love with your eyes,” meganmurmured.
yoonchae didn’t look up. “I might be.”
The first session went smoothly.
Okay—"smoothly" was a stretch. yoonchae’s hand trembled every time she tried to paint megan’s collarbone without staring too long. megan, of course, noticed.
“You paint like I’m going to bite you,” she said lazily.
“You’re naked on my couch,” yoonchae muttered, not looking up.
“And yet, you’re the one sweating.”
yoonchae wanted to throw her palette at her. Or kiss her. Or both.
megan was a devil—an artist’s dream with the flirtation level of a Greek siren and the patience of a cat watching a mouse drown in wine. She didn’t just pose—she performed. Her eyes tracked yoonchae when she thought she wasn’t looking. Her fingers rested on her own thigh like she was her own sculpture. She knew what she was doing. She knew.
But yoonchae didn’t stop painting. She couldn’t.
Every session, they pushed the unspoken boundary a little further. Every touch of the brush across canvas felt like touching skin. Every smirk from megantightened something low in her belly.
By the second session, they didn’t talk much. Just breath and glances.
By the third session, the air had thickened.
It was hot in the studio, but not because of the temperature. Even the candles seemed to flicker in rhythm with yoonchae’s pulse.
megan adjusted her pose, stretching one leg, toes pointed toward the ceiling, her body languid.
“You keep looking at my thighs like they’re cake,” she said, voice velvet.
yoonchae didn’t drop her brush this time. She simply stood, slowly, with a painter’s deliberation.
“Maybe,” she said softly, “I want to taste.”
Megan’s eyes flared, hunger flashing beneath her lashes. She propped herself up on her elbows, lips curling. “Then come here.”
The brush clattered to the ground.
yoonchae crossed the room in two careful steps and knelt by the couch. Her hands hovered over megan’s skin, reverent, trembling, like she was afraid she might ruin her by touching.
Megan’s fingers found the hem of her shirt, tugged. “You’ve seen me bare,” she murmured, “but I want to see you when you look at me like this.”
yoonchae swallowed hard, her breath shaky. “Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted to paint.”
yoonchae reached out. Her hand slid along megan’s hip, fingertips grazing the delicate dip of her waist. megan’s skin was warm, soft, and real.
Then their lips met.
The kiss was hesitant for only a second. Then it turned molten.
megan pulled her in, fingers tangling in yoonchae’s hair, dragging her down until she was hovering over her. The taste of lemon tea lingered on her lips. yoonchae groaned against her mouth, hips pressing forward instinctively, heart thudding like it wanted out of her chest.
Clothes disappeared between feverish hands and soft gasps. The canvas remained forgotten in the corner, still half-finished—yoonchae’s most beautiful work of art now lying beneath her, naked, glowing, grinning like sin itself.
And then—
megan’s hand slipped into yoonchae’s waistband.
She froze. Her body stiffened just enough for megan to notice.
Her hand brushed over the thick length beneath the fabric.
A pause.
Then a quiet, breathless, “Oh.”
yoonchae’s heart dropped. She sat up slightly. “I should’ve told you—”
“Shhh.” megan’s voice was a balm. Her eyes never wavered. “I’m just surprised. Not upset.”
Then she smiled, fingers curling gently around her shaft. “Actually… I’m curious.”
yoonchae’s breath caught.
“Is that okay?” megan asked.
yoonchae nodded, unable to speak.
megan kissed her again. And then she kissed lower.
Lower.
Down yoonchae’s chest. Down her trembling stomach. Until her lips brushed the flushed head of yoonchae’s cock, exposed now, heavy and needy.
megan’s breath warmed her skin.
And then her mouth wrapped around it—wet, slow, reverent.
yoonchae let out a broken gasp, her hand shooting into megan’s hair, hips jerking upward before she could stop herself. megan moaned around her, eyes fluttering closed, tongue swirling with deliberate curiosity.
“You feel like... velvet,” she murmured between licks. “Hot velvet.”
yoonchae’s laugh turned into a groan. “Jesus.”
megan just sucked harder.
And when yoonchae came—mouth open in a cry, hips trembling—it was with such force that she felt like the orgasm painted her from the inside out. A masterpiece of pleasure. A splatter of raw truth.
megan swallowed everything, then licked her lips with a smirk. “You taste like... I don’t know. Paint thinner and something expensive.”
yoonchae collapsed onto the couch beside her. “I’m in love with you.”
megan raised an eyebrow. “Say that again when your brain's not made of goo.”
“I’m serious.”
“Good,” megan whispered, tugging her in for another kiss. “Now lie down. Your turn.”
megan lay back, her skin flushed and listening from exertion and something far more intimate. Her chest rose and fell in uneven waves, lips parted as if still tasting yoonchae’s name from that last kiss. She looked wrecked—in the most beautiful, awe-striking way yoonchae had ever seen.
And still, somehow, she smirked. “You look like you just saw God.”
“I might’ve.” yoonchae leaned down and pressed a kiss to megan’s thigh, slow and reverent. “She just happens to have great oral technique.”
megan laughed, breathless, then arched as yoonchae’s mouth moved higher. Her teasing had vanished—what replaced it was a trembling anticipation, a quiet gasp as yoonchae’s fingers ghosted over her soaked folds.
“You’re so wet,” yoonchae whispered, her breath skating over sensitive skin.
“You’re the one who started this,” megan managed, voice already shaking.
yoonchae slid a finger inside her.
megan moaned—a sharp, honest sound that filled the studio with something sacred.
yoonchae leaned in, whispering against her collarbone, “Tell me how you want it.”
megan’s hips lifted into her hand. “Deep. Slow.”
So yoonchae obeyed.
She slid another finger in, curling just right, her thumb stroking gentle circles. megangasped again, arms wrapping around yoonchae’s shoulders, legs trembling.
yoonchae kissed her throat, her breast, her ribs. Every inch of skin felt like a new canvas. She wanted to worship her—not just with fingers, but with reverence. Like the art she was born to make.
“You’re perfect,” she whispered against megan’s skin.
“I’m gonna cry,” megan breathed, smiling and sobbing a little all at once.
yoonchae kissed the corner of her eye. “Then cry. I’ll keep loving you anyway.”
And then she lowered her mouth.
megan's gasp shattered the silence. yoonchae’s tongue moved slow, deliberate, tasting her like devotion. meganwrithed, moaning louder now, one hand tugging at yoonchae’s hair like she needed something to hold onto or she’d float away.
yoonchae licked and sucked until megan’s thighs quaked, and her cries turned into pleading.
“yoonchae—fuck—don’t stop, I’m—”
She came with a cry that curled in the air like incense, her back arching off the couch, thighs clamping around yoonchae’s head.
But yoonchae didn’t stop. She lapped up every wave of it, relentless, then slid back up her body, kissing her jaw, her ear, her neck.
“Again,” she whispered.
megan whimpered. “You’re evil.”
yoonchae smirked, guiding her fingers back in, her lips teasing a nipple until meganwas begging again—this time louder, messier, uninhibited.
And again.
By the third orgasm, meganwas gasping her name like it was the only word she remembered.
And then came the shift.
yoonchae sat back on her knees, her chest heaving, sweat slicking down her back. Her cock throbbed, hard again, flushed with need. megan’s eyes flicked down to it, dilated and dark with want.
“I want to feel you,” she said hoarsely. “All of you.”
yoonchae’s breath stuttered. “Are you sure?”
megan reached for her, pulling her down, grinding their bodies together. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
So yoonchae aligned herself, rubbing the tip along megan’s soaked folds, letting it catch—once, twice—before pushing in.
megan’s mouth fell open in a silent scream.
“God—you’re—big—” she gasped.
yoonchae froze. “Too much?”
“No,” megan whimpered, legs wrapping around her. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”
yoonchae drove in deeper, moaning as the warmth enveloped her. She buried her face in megan’s neck as their hips moved together, slow but desperate, deep and unrelenting.
megan cried out with every thrust.
“Yes—fuck—yes—right there—yoonchae—!”
yoonchae kissed her fiercely, gripped her hips, and picked up speed. Their bodies slapped together in a symphony of sweat and gasps and soft curses.
“You feel—so good—so perfect—so fucking tight!” yoonchae groaned.
megan’s eyes rolled back. “Faster—please—I’m—” megan moans loudly. "Need it fast—please! Please!"
And yoonchae gave her everything.
"Fuck! megan—fuck! Take it, baby! Gonnna destroy your pussy!"
She pounded into her with reckless abandon, breath catching every time meganmoaned her name like a prayer. Her cock slammed in deep, hitting that sweet spot again and again, their mouths colliding mid-thrust, teeth clashing in messy, heated kisses.
“I’m gonna—fuck—gonna cum—” yoonchae gasped.
“Inside,” megan begged. “I want to feel it—feel all of you—breed me, breed me!”
yoonchae's thrusts grew erratic, her voice cracking. “I’m—cumming—cumming—take my seed, baby—”
megan cried out, her nails digging into yoonchae’s back. “Yes—fill me—fill me up—”
yoonchae came with a shuddering roar, emptying herself in long, hot ropes. One. Two. Three. She thrust until she was spent, until her body collapsed over megan's, boneless and wrecked.
They lay there, gasping, trembling, utterly undone.
The world stilled.
For a moment, yoonchae forgot they were in her cluttered, paint-splattered studio. Forgot about the wilting fruit bowl on the windowsill, the forgotten canvas drying in a corner, or the distant thud of goat pose yoga from above. There was only the slick warmth between them, the heavy breaths in her ear, the rise and fall of megan’s bare chest against her own.
She stayed like that—buried inside her, holding her, forehead resting against megan’s—long after her body stopped shaking.
“I think you broke me,” megan finally murmured.
yoonchae let out a laugh, low and breathless. “That was the goal.”
megan smacked her thigh weakly. “Don’t be smug. You just bred the last of my brain cells out of me.”
yoonchae grinned, nuzzling into her neck. “Worth it?”
megan pulled her in tighter. “So worth it.”
The studio was silent again, save for the soft sound of their breathing. yoonchae slowly slipped out, and megan whined at the loss. She didn’t go far—just curled beside her, still flushed, her fingers tracing patterns across megan’s stomach.
“l wasn’t planning to fall in love with you,” yoonchae said softly.
megan blinked up at her, caught off guard by the sudden honesty.
“Then what were you planning?” she whispered.
yoonchae smiled faintly. “Paint you. Lust after you. Possibly cry into a pillow. The usual.”
megan laughed, then reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind yoonchae’s ear. “You’re such a disaster.”
“I know,” yoonchae murmured. “But you stayed.”
“I did.” megan’s voice was quiet, but steady. “And I will.”
───
They didn’t put a label on it.
Not right away.
But megan started staying over. Her camera took up permanent residence in the studio, often perched beside the easel as if it had claimed a spot next to yoonchae’s brushes.
Sometimes, they painted. Sometimes, they photographed each other. Sometimes, they had sex on the studio floor with paint still wet around them and laughter tangled in their moans.
yoonchae started waking up to soft kisses and iced lemon tea waiting on her windowsill.
She started painting again with purpose. With joy. With fire.
And her art exploded—new depth, new warmth, new truth. It was like every inch of her brush now moved to the rhythm of megan’s heartbeat.
She got her first solo show a month later.
It was modest—a small, white-walled gallery tucked between a wine bar and a boutique perfume shop—but it felt like the Louvre to her.
People came. People stared. Some cried. One couple got into a whispered fight over whether the nude figure reclining in one piece was erotic or sacred.
yoonchae stood at the edge of the room, in a black suit jacket she borrowed from megan, trying not to panic.
A reporter asked her who her muse was.
yoonchae didn’t hesitate.
“A girl who let me see her,” she said, voice firm, lips curving. “All of her.”
That night, after the last guest left and the gallery lights dimmed, megancornered her in the gallery bathroom—the same one with the overpriced soap and the mirror lit like a movie set.
She locked the door this time.
yoonchae raised an eyebrow. “Déjà vu?”
megan leaned in, breath warm against her ear. “Time for round four.”
yoonchae laughed, pulled her in, and kissed her like a prayer.
───
They never needed labels. Never defined what they were with words.
But when yoonchae saw megana sleep on her couch one lazy afternoon—hair mussed, camera beside her, limbs tangled in a throw blanket with paint still on her ankle—she knew.
She didn’t need a word for it.
She just picked up her brush, and painted.
Because she knew, they are madly in love with each other.