Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kim Minjeong 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 Seoul 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?”

Minjeong froze.

That voice. That smug, liquid-gold voice.

She peeked around the corner into the photography room.

And there she was.

Yu Jimin.

She stood in front of a framed photo of a street vendor mid-laugh, short brown bob 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.

Minjeong 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 Jimin had made a joke about taking candid nudes and winked when Minjeong blushed.

Minjeong inched forward, trying to stay unnoticed. Not because she was shy—okay, maybe a little—but because Jimin radiated a kind of confidence that made Minjeong 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.

Yu Jimin. Naked.

Minjeong froze. Completely. Like a cartoon character mid-scream.

Jimin 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 Minjeong had brought.

Minjeong’s jaw dropped. Her soul fell out through her toes.

“I... uh... door wasn’t locked?” she squeaked.

Jimin’s voice was maddeningly calm. “I forgot.”

She didn’t reach for a towel. Didn’t flinch. Just looked Minjeong 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.

Minjeong 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.

Minjeong 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 Jimin—dripping wet, smirking 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. Jimin. 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 Jimin’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.

Minjeong 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.

Minjeong 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 Jimin.

---

It took three days to track her down. Seoul was big, and Minjeong 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.

Jimin 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.

Minjeong stood awkwardly behind a potted plant for a full minute before gathering the courage to walk over.

“Hey,” she said.

Jimin looked up and immediately smirked. “Ah. The girl who busts into bathrooms.”

Minjeong flushed. “Only the unlocked ones.”

“Well, in that case,” Jimin drawled, “what brings you to my table? Need to see me naked again?”

Minjeong’s ears burned. “Actually… yeah.”

Jimin blinked.

Minjeong hurried to clarify. “I want to paint you.”

That only seemed to make things worse. Jimin’s eyebrows rose high enough to rival Mount Halla.

“Not from memory,” Minjeong added quickly. “For real. Properly. Posed. Consent and all that.”

Jimin stared at her.

Minjeong 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, Jimin smiled. “You’re serious.”

“Very.”

Jimin leaned back, laced her fingers behind her head. “Alright.”

Minjeong blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’ll pose,” Jimin 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.”

Minjeong’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.

Minjeong 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.

Jimin arrived in jeans, 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?”

Minjeong laughed nervously. “Maybe both?”

Jimin 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.

Minjeong sat in front of the canvas, trying very hard not to pant.

Jimin 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?” Jimin teased, lips curled.

Minjeong gripped her brush like a lifeline. “You’re… ridiculously distracting.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

Minjeong exhaled shakily. Then began to paint.

And as she painted, Jimin raised 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,” Jimin murmured.

Minjeong didn’t look up. “I might be.”

The first session went smoothly.

Okay—"smoothly" was a stretch. Minjeong’s hand trembled every time she tried to paint Jimin’s collarbone without staring too long. Jimin, of course, noticed.

“You paint like I’m going to bite you,” she said lazily.

“You’re naked on my couch,” Minjeong muttered, not looking up.

“And yet, you’re the one sweating.”

Minjeong wanted to throw her palette at her. Or kiss her. Or both.

Jimin 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 Minjeong 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 Minjeong 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 Jimin tightened 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 Minjeong’s pulse.

Jimin 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.

Minjeong didn’t drop her brush this time. She simply stood, slowly, with a painter’s deliberation.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “I want to taste.”

Jimin’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.

Minjeong crossed the room in two careful steps and knelt by the couch. Her hands hovered over Jimin’s skin, reverent, trembling, like she was afraid she might ruin her by touching.

Jimin’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.”

Minjeong swallowed hard, her breath shaky. “Like what?”

“Like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted to paint.”

Minjeong reached out. Her hand slid along Jimin’s hip, fingertips grazing the delicate dip of her waist. Jimin’s skin was warm, soft, and real.

Then their lips met.

The kiss was hesitant for only a second. Then it turned molten.

Jimin pulled her in, fingers tangling in Minjeong’s hair, dragging her down until she was hovering over her. The taste of lemon tea lingered on her lips. Minjeong 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—Minjeong’s most beautiful work of art now lying beneath her, naked, glowing, grinning like sin itself.

And then—

Jimin’s hand slipped into Minjeong’s waistband.

She froze. Her body stiffened just enough for Jimin to notice.

Her hand brushed over the thick length beneath the fabric.

A pause.

Then a quiet, breathless, “Oh.”

Minjeong’s heart dropped. She sat up slightly. “I should’ve told you—”

“Shhh.” Jimin’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.”

Minjeong’s breath caught.

“Is that okay?” Jimin asked.

Minjeong nodded, unable to speak.

Jimin kissed her again. And then she kissed lower.

Lower.

Down Minjeong’s chest. Down her trembling stomach. Until her lips brushed the flushed head of Minjeong’s cock, exposed now, heavy and needy.

Jimin’s breath warmed her skin.

And then her mouth wrapped around it—wet, slow, reverent.

Minjeong let out a broken gasp, her hand shooting into Jimin’s hair, hips jerking upward before she could stop herself. Jimin moaned around her, eyes fluttering closed, tongue swirling with deliberate curiosity.

“You feel like... velvet,” she murmured between licks. “Hot velvet.”

Minjeong’s laugh turned into a groan. “Jesus.”

Jimin just sucked harder.

And when Minjeong 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.

Jimin swallowed everything, then licked her lips with a smirk. “You taste like... I don’t know. Paint thinner and something expensive.”

Minjeong collapsed onto the couch beside her. “I’m in love with you.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Say that again when your brain's not made of goo.”

“I’m serious.”

“Good,” Jimin whispered, tugging her in for another kiss. “Now lie down. Your turn.”

Jimin lay back, her skin flushed and glistening from exertion and something far more intimate. Her chest rose and fell in uneven waves, lips parted as if still tasting Minjeong’s name from that last kiss. She looked wrecked—in the most beautiful, awe-striking way Minjeong had ever seen.

And still, somehow, she smirked. “You look like you just saw God.”

“I might’ve.” Minjeong leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jimin’s thigh, slow and reverent. “She just happens to have great oral technique.”

Jimin laughed, breathless, then arched as Minjeong’s mouth moved higher. Her teasing had vanished—what replaced it was a trembling anticipation, a quiet gasp as Minjeong’s fingers ghosted over her soaked folds.

“You’re so wet,” Minjeong whispered, her breath skating over sensitive skin.

“You’re the one who started this,” Jimin managed, voice already shaking.

Minjeong slid a finger inside her.

Jimin moaned—a sharp, honest sound that filled the studio with something sacred.

Minjeong leaned in, whispering against her collarbone, “Tell me how you want it.”

Jimin’s hips lifted into her hand. “Deep. Slow.”

So Minjeong obeyed.

She slid another finger in, curling just right, her thumb stroking gentle circles. Jimin gasped again, arms wrapping around Minjeong’s shoulders, legs trembling.

Minjeong 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 Jimin’s skin.

“I’m gonna cry,” Jimin breathed, smiling and sobbing a little all at once.

Minjeong kissed the corner of her eye. “Then cry. I’ll keep loving you anyway.”

And then she lowered her mouth.

Jimin’s gasp shattered the silence. Minjeong’s tongue moved slow, deliberate, tasting her like devotion. Jimin writhed, moaning louder now, one hand tugging at Minjeong’s hair like she needed something to hold onto or she’d float away.

Minjeong licked and sucked until Jimin’s thighs quaked, and her cries turned into pleading.

“Minjeong—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 Minjeong’s head.

But Minjeong 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.

Jimin whimpered. “You’re evil.”

Minjeong smirked, guiding her fingers back in, her lips teasing a nipple until Jimin was begging again—this time louder, messier, uninhibited.

And again.

By the third orgasm, Jimin was gasping her name like it was the only word she remembered.

And then came the shift.

Minjeong sat back on her knees, her chest heaving, sweat slicking down her back. Her cock throbbed, hard again, flushed with need. Jimin’s eyes flicked down to it, dilated and dark with want.

“I want to feel you,” she said hoarsely. “All of you.”

Minjeong’s breath stuttered. “Are you sure?”

Jimin reached for her, pulling her down, grinding their bodies together. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

So Minjeong aligned herself, rubbing the tip along Jimin’s soaked folds, letting it catch—once, twice—before pushing in.

Jimin’s mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“God—you’re—big—” she gasped.

Minjeong froze. “Too much?”

“No,” Jimin whimpered, legs wrapping around her. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”

Minjeong drove in deeper, moaning as the warmth enveloped her. She buried her face in Jimin’s neck as their hips moved together, slow but desperate, deep and unrelenting.

Jimin cried out with every thrust.

“Yes—fuck—yes—right there—Minjeong—!”

Minjeong 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!” Minjeong groaned.

Jimin’s eyes rolled back. “Faster—please—I’m—” Jimin moans loudly. "Need it fast—please! Please!"

And Minjeong gave her everything.

"Fuck! Jimin—fuck! Take it, baby! Gonnna destroy your pussy!"

She pounded into her with reckless abandon, breath catching every time Jimin moaned 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—” Minjeong gasped.

“Inside,” Jimin begged. “I want to feel it—feel all of you—breed me, breed me!”

Minjeong's thrusts grew erratic, her voice cracking. “I’m—cumming—cumming—take my seed, baby—”

Jimin cried out, her nails digging into Minjeong’s back. “Yes—fill me—fill me up—”

Minjeong 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 Jimin’s, boneless and wrecked.

They lay there, gasping, trembling, utterly undone.

The world stilled.

For a moment, Minjeong 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 Jimin’s bare chest against her own.

She stayed like that—buried inside her, holding her, forehead resting against Jimin’s—long after her body stopped shaking.

“I think you broke me,” Jimin finally murmured.

Minjeong let out a laugh, low and breathless. “That was the goal.”

Jimin smacked her thigh weakly. “Don’t be smug. You just bred the last of my brain cells out of me.”

Minjeong grinned, nuzzling into her neck. “Worth it?”

Jimin pulled her in tighter. “So worth it.”

The studio was silent again, save for the soft sound of their breathing. Minjeong slowly slipped out, and Jimin whined at the loss. She didn’t go far—just curled beside her, still flushed, her fingers tracing patterns across Jimin’s stomach.

“l wasn’t planning to fall in love with you,” Minjeong said softly.

Jimin blinked up at her, caught off guard by the sudden honesty.

“Then what were you planning?” she whispered.

Minjeong smiled faintly. “Paint you. Lust after you. Possibly cry into a pillow. The usual.”

Jimin laughed, then reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Minjeong’s ear. “You’re such a disaster.”

“I know,” Minjeong murmured. “But you stayed.”

“I did.” Jimin’s voice was quiet, but steady. “And I will.”

---

They didn’t put a label on it.

Not right away.

But Jimin 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 Minjeong’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.

Minjeong 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 Jimin’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.

Minjeong stood at the edge of the room, in a black suit jacket she borrowed from Jimin, trying not to panic.

A reporter asked her who her muse was.

Minjeong 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, Jimin cornered 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.

Minjeong raised an eyebrow. “Déjà vu?”

Jimin leaned in, breath warm against her ear. “Time for round four.”

Minjeong laughed, pulled her in, and kissed her like a prayer.

---

They never needed labels. Never defined what they were with words.

But when Minjeong saw Jimin asleep 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.

Chapter Text

The gallery was silent now. Shadows stretched across polished floors, and the echoes of polite conversation and clinking glasses faded into nothing. Minjeong stood in the center of the room, half-dazed, the adrenaline of her solo show still pulsing through her veins.

Then Jimin stepped behind her—heels quiet, presence thunderous.

“Locked the door,” she whispered.

Minjeong turned slowly. Jimin’s eyes glittered in the low light like something dangerous and delicious.

“Time for round four,” she said again, and this time her voice was darker. Promising.

Minjeong didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Jimin was on her in seconds.

Their mouths collided—hot, wet, breathless. No teasing this time. No slow build. Just tongues clashing and lips bruising as hands groped desperately, tugging fabric, pulling bodies close. Minjeong gasped as Jimin backed her into the marble sink, one hand fisting in her suit jacket, the other already working to yank her belt free.

“You wore my jacket to the show,” Jimin growled, biting down on her lower lip. “You have no fucking idea what that did to me.”

“I think I’m starting to get an idea,” Minjeong breathed, bucking her hips.

Jimin dropped to her knees like it was her throne.

And Minjeong—God—nearly lost it right there.

Jimin yanked open her pants and released her cock, thick and pulsing, flushed dark with arousal. She didn’t pause. She didn’t hesitate. She licked the head once, slow and purposeful, just to taste.

Minjeong moaned, grabbing the counter behind her to keep from collapsing.

Then Jimin swallowed her whole.

Her mouth was a furnace—tight, wet, obscene. Her tongue flicked the underside with practiced precision, and when she sucked, cheeks hollowing, Minjeong nearly blacked out.

“Fuck, Jimin—fuck—”

Jimin pulled off just long enough to gasp, “You’re so hard it’s fucking rude.”

Then she dove back down.

Minjeong’s hips twitched. She couldn’t stop herself. Jimin took it greedily, moaning around her shaft, her hand wrapping the base to stroke what she couldn’t take yet.

But Minjeong needed more.

She yanked her up by the hair, eyes blazing, and kissed her fiercely—tasting herself on Jimin’s lips, tongue demanding, desperate.

“Studio,” she panted against her mouth.

Jimin’s grin was feral. “Race you.”

They nearly tripped over each other up the narrow stairs to Minjeong’s studio. Clothes vanished between kisses and rough laughter. The front door slammed shut behind them, locked without even looking. It was instinct now.

Minjeong shoved Jimin against the inside wall, pinning her there. Her cock pressed against her thigh, already rock hard again. Jimin reached down and stroked it deliberately.

“You gonna fuck me against the wall?” she challenged, biting her lip.

Minjeong hissed. “Keep talking like that and I won’t even make it to the bed.”

“Good.”

Minjeong spun her, pressed her front-first against the wall, kicked her legs apart with a growl.

Jimin moaned, arching her back. “You’re so fucking big—”

Minjeong spat in her hand, lined herself up, and slid the tip against her soaked entrance. Jimin shivered, gasped, pushed her hips back, begging wordlessly.

“Say it,” Minjeong growled in her ear, grinding against her slowly, just enough to tease. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your cock,” Jimin gasped. “Want you to ruin me.”

That was all it took.

Minjeong slammed into her—one deep, brutal thrust—and Jimin screamed. Loud. Raw. Beautiful.

She pounded her without mercy, hips slapping against ass, the sound echoing off the high studio walls. Each thrust drove Jimin higher, her hands bracing against the wall, cheek pressed to the cool plaster.

“You take me so well,” Minjeong snarled, grabbing her hips. “Tight little hole swallowing me whole.”

Jimin was babbling now. “Yes—fuck yes—don’t stop—don’t you fucking dare—”

Minjeong bent forward, teeth scraping her shoulder, hand snaking between her legs to rub her clit in tight, fast circles.

Jimin exploded.

She came with a scream, legs shaking, juices gushing around Minjeong’s cock as she kept thrusting through it—chasing her own high.

“I’m gonna—fuck—gonna cum in you—”

Jimin turned her head, eyes wild, lips parted. “Inside. Fill me.”

Minjeong slammed into her three more times—and came with a growl, ropes of cum pumping deep inside, throbbing, thick, endless.

When she finally pulled out, Jimin dropped to her knees, legs too weak to stand.

Cum leaked down her thighs.

Minjeong dropped beside her, panting, eyes blown black. “Round five?”

Jimin laughed breathlessly. “You’re fucking insane.”

Minjeong leaned in, licking a stripe up her throat. “That’s a yes.”

Jimin hadn’t even caught her breath when Minjeong hauled her up off the floor—gently, but with unmistakable intent.

“Studio lights,” Minjeong growled, her voice low and commanding. “Camera. Get them.”

Jimin blinked through the haze of orgasm and sweat, her legs still shaky, but her body already heating up again at Minjeong’s tone.

“You want to—?”

“Take pictures?” Minjeong cut in, dragging a finger through the cum trickling down Jimin’s thigh and raising it to her lips to suck. “Yeah. I want you dripping and on camera. Want you to see how you look when I own you.”

Jimin whimpered.

The words should’ve made her blush. Instead, they made her wetter.

She stumbled toward her gear—naked, flushed, breath hitching—and grabbed her DSLR from the equipment shelf. Her hands were trembling as she set the tripod, adjusted the studio lighting, and pointed the lens toward the couch draped in the same silk she’d once posed on.

Minjeong dragged the couch into frame and dropped onto it like a queen. She spread her legs, cock heavy and still slick, one hand lazily stroking it.

Jimin swallowed hard behind the lens.

“Now strip for me,” Minjeong said. “Slow. I want the camera to see everything.”

Jimin stood, body bathed in the glow of soft, golden light. She hit the shutter. The first click echoed through the room like a countdown.

Then she began to pose.

One hand tangled in her hair. A shift of her hips. Chin tilted, lips parted. She posed like she was being fucked by the lens itself. Every click of the shutter only made her bolder—legs parting wider, fingers ghosting down to her slit, stroking it in front of the lens.

Minjeong groaned.

“Touch yourself,” she commanded. “Eyes on me. Then on the camera.”

Jimin obeyed. One hand slipped between her thighs, fingers finding her clit. Her other hand held the shutter remote, snapping photo after photo as she moaned into the lens, body arching.

“You’re such a filthy exhibitionist,” Minjeong said, voice thick. “My pretty little muse.”

Jimin whined. “I want you again.”

“Say it to the camera.”

Jimin stared into the lens. “I want to be fucked. I want Minjeong’s cock back inside me while the camera watches.”

Click.

Click.

Click.

Minjeong stood. “Then get on your knees.”

Jimin dropped instantly, ass resting on her heels, camera flashing every few seconds as she looked up at Minjeong’s cock like it was holy.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeyed.

Minjeong slapped her cock against Jimin’s cheek once, then twice, painting her with pre-cum.

Then she slid it in—deep.

Jimin moaned, eyes watering, mouth stretched wide.

Minjeong cradled the back of her head, hips rolling slowly, deliberately. “Look at you. Taking me like a good little photographer. I should publish these in a gallery. Call it ‘Obedience.’”

Jimin gagged slightly, then moaned around her. Her mascara was smudged, hair wild, tears running down her cheeks—but she looked gorgeous. Feral. Owned.

Click.

Click.

Jimin pulled back with a wet gasp. “Please fuck me again. Want to cum with you inside.”

Minjeong growled and hauled her up, bending her over the arm of the couch.

The camera was still rolling.

She entered her in one brutal thrust—no warning, no mercy.

Jimin screamed.

Minjeong grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head back. “Tell the camera who’s fucking you.”

“You are—Minjeong—fuck—my artist—my owner—”

Minjeong slammed into her harder.

“You fucking love this. Love showing off. Getting used like my personal slut.”

“Yes—yes—God, yes—!”

The flash lit the room every few seconds, freezing the moment in stark, delicious contrast: Jimin bent, writhing, painted in sweat and cum, her eyes rolled back.

“Breed me,” she choked. “Fill me again. Want to be leaking you all night.”

Minjeong nearly blacked out from how hard she came.

She buried herself deep and let go—hot, thick ropes flooding Jimin’s pussy again, dripping down her thighs as she gasped and shook, collapsing forward onto the couch.

Jimin was wrecked.

But she turned her head, looking over her shoulder into the lens.

Click.

Still perfect.

The flash faded.

The only sound left in the studio was Jimin’s ragged breathing and the slow drip of cum down her inner thighs. Minjeong pulled out with a wet, sticky sound, and both of them groaned—Jimin from oversensitivity, Minjeong from watching the slick mess of white that followed.

“Camera still recording?” Minjeong asked.

Jimin turned her head, panting. “Red light’s on.”

Minjeong stepped forward, dragging her cock through the mess between Jimin’s thighs, smearing their combined fluids across her swollen folds. Jimin shuddered.

“You love being filmed like this, don’t you?” Minjeong murmured. “Love that I’m turning you into art—again and again.”

Jimin moaned, pressing her ass back. “I love being your filthiest masterpiece.”

Minjeong grabbed her by the jaw and kissed her—hard. Her taste was still there: sweat, spit, a trace of cum. She devoured her.

Then she pulled back and said, “Shower. Now. You’re not clean yet.”

---

The studio’s shower was small, made for quick rinses between messy sessions—but it was warm and tiled, and the lighting was soft. Minjeong shoved Jimin inside, following her before the water even heated.

The camera followed too, lens now fogged with steam, red light blinking as it captured everything: slick skin, dripping hair, and Minjeong’s cock hardening again at the mere sight of her muse under hot water.

Jimin stood with her back to the wall, hands bracing behind her as water poured over her chest. Her nipples were stiff, sensitive from earlier, and her expression was dazed but eager.

“Pose,” Minjeong growled. “Like you're being filmed for a wet spread. Look into the lens.”

Jimin obeyed.

She arched her back, legs slightly parted, water tracing down the valley between her breasts, her stomach, disappearing between her thighs. She reached down, spread her lips open, and held herself like that—lewd, unashamed.

Click.

Even if it was a video, that single second seared itself into Minjeong’s brain like an eternal frame.

“You look like you want to be eaten alive,” Minjeong murmured.

“I do.”

Minjeong dropped to her knees.

Her tongue slid up through the folds—licking slowly, reverently, tasting every trace of herself on Jimin’s pussy. Jimin let out a cry, hips twitching, hands flying to Minjeong’s soaked hair.

“Oh—fuck—fuck, your tongue—!”

Minjeong groaned into her, devouring her cunt like she was starved for it. She fucked her with her mouth, sloppy, loud, water running over both their bodies like a second skin.

“You gonna cum on my face while the camera watches?” Minjeong said, pulling back to breathe before diving in again. “You gonna show everyone how nasty you are for me?”

“Yes—yes—don’t stop, I’m close—!”

She slipped a finger inside, then two, curling against the spot she knew drove Jimin insane. Her mouth latched onto her clit again, sucking like she wanted to leave a hickey inside her.

Jimin shattered.

She came with a wail, thighs squeezing Minjeong’s head, her legs giving out. Minjeong held her up, licking her clean through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving the lens.

The camera got it all.

---

After the shower, they didn’t towel off. Minjeong laid her down wet on the couch again, water still clinging to their bodies, the silk soaked and sticking to Jimin’s back like a second skin.

Minjeong straddled her.

Her cock, heavy and gleaming with pre-cum, rubbed against Jimin’s drenched slit.

“Let’s make something they'll never delete,” she whispered. “I want you to ride me in front of that camera.”

Jimin whimpered. “And if I fall apart again?”

Minjeong kissed her throat. “Then I’ll hold you together.”

She rolled to her back and pulled Jimin over her. Guided her down, slow, so fucking slow—

Until Jimin’s tight heat was swallowing her again, inch by inch, stretching around her cock like it was made to be there.

Jimin gasped. “You feel impossibly big like this—oh my god—”

Minjeong grabbed her hips and bottomed out. “Bounce.”

Jimin did.

She rode her—wild and unfiltered, her hair a mess, her moans echoing. The camera was at the perfect angle, capturing Minjeong’s hands bruising Jimin’s hips, the wet slap of bodies meeting, the full length of the cock disappearing inside her over and over.

“You’re mine,” Minjeong groaned. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Jimin sobbed. “Yours to fuck, yours to film, yours to—oh—breed—”

Minjeong slapped her ass, hard.

“Good girl.”

The orgasm hit them both like a freight train—Jimin came with a scream, walls fluttering, head thrown back—and Minjeong thrust up hard, shooting thick, hot cum deep inside again. The camera caught everything.

And they didn’t stop.

The room was drenched in scent—sex, sweat, heat, and the faint tang of paint thinner that clung to the air like a ghost of their lives before this night. The tripod camera still blinked, recording. Its lens, splattered faintly with steam and sin, stared back at them like a voyeur too mesmerized to look away.

Jimin was limp atop Minjeong, her thighs trembling, her cunt overstimulated and leaking. Their combined fluids coated her inner thighs and Minjeong’s stomach. She whimpered when Minjeong twitched inside her.

“I can’t,” she breathed, voice broken and blissful. “I’m gonna die.”

Minjeong chuckled, stroking her back, the rough edge in her tone finally softening.

“You’ll live,” she whispered. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

She shifted slightly, pulled out of Jimin with a wet squelch, cum immediately spilling onto the soaked silk beneath her. Jimin gasped—more from the loss than discomfort—and flopped beside her, legs still twitching.

Minjeong reached for Jimin's camera.

Jimin blinked. “You’re gonna photograph me now?”

“No.” Minjeong turned the lens toward them both, flipped the display so they could see themselves in the frame—naked, flushed, fucked-out, and radiant. “Us.”

Jimin’s throat bobbed. “We look…”

“Like we belong to each other.”

Minjeong hit the shutter.

Click.

The flash bathed them in white for a heartbeat. Jimin flinched, then smiled. It wasn’t wicked or teasing. Just soft. Real.

Minjeong climbed on top again—not to take, not to dominate, but to sink into her.

She pushed her cock back into Jimin slowly, gently, watching her expression melt open as she slid in fully with ease. They both gasped, the stretch familiar now, the rhythm slower, smoother. Their hips rolled in quiet waves. No pounding. No choking. Just movement.

Minjeong cupped Jimin’s face as she fucked her in a whisper-soft tempo.

“You’re mine,” she murmured. “Not just for tonight. Not just on camera.”

Jimin’s breath caught.

Minjeong kissed her eyelids. Her jaw. Her collarbone. Her hands laced with hers above her head as she drove into her again—deep, full, languid strokes that made Jimin sob in silence.

“No more playing pretend,” Minjeong whispered. “You’re not just a muse. You’re the one.”

Tears welled up in Jimin’s eyes—but she didn’t shy away.

“I’ve always been yours,” she said shakily. “Even before the first painting. Even before the bathroom.”

Minjeong choked on a moan. “Then let’s stop dancing around it.”

Their bodies moved together like brushstrokes—wet, layered, intentional.

“I want you to be mine, Jimin,” Minjeong whispered, lips hovering over hers. “Girlfriend. Partner. Muse. All of it.”

Jimin kissed her. Soft. Certain.

“Yes,” she whispered between licks of her tongue. “I’m yours.”

Click.

One last photo.

Jimin, eyes closed, Minjeong inside her, their foreheads pressed together like vows.

The camera blinked once more, then finally powered down.

---

Later, they laid tangled in blankets, the silk discarded, the studio bathed in quiet.

“Are we keeping the video?” Jimin asked sleepily.

Minjeong smirked against her neck. “Only if you promise never to show anyone else how perfect you look when I fuck you stupid.”

Jimin laughed. “Deal. But we are printing some of those photos.”

Minjeong’s hand skimmed over her side, possessive and adoring. “And where exactly do you plan to hang them?”

Jimin turned her head, eyes gleaming. “Bedroom. Gallery. Maybe over the kitchen sink?”

Minjeong kissed her again—slow, deep, reverent.

No camera. No canvas. No mask.

Just them.

Just real.

Chapter Text

Now they had shared their studio, and practically cohabiting the place, Jimin had a rule about mixing work and love.

Namely: don’t. But Minjeong was a walking exception to most of her rules. And right now, that exception was sitting on the edge of Jimin’s bed, sipping iced coffee from a mason jar and wearing absolutely nothing except one of Jimin’s oversized linen shirts and a pair of blue earbuds. The morning light had no shame; it loved her openly—casting her bare legs in soft gold and making Jimin’s camera fingers twitch from across the room.

"You're staring," Minjeong said, not looking up from her phone.

"You’re sitting in my studio light like it’s your birthright."

“It might be.”

Jimin scoffed softly, shifting a lens cap from her nightstand to the nearby desk cluttered with SD cards and battery packs. Her camera bag was open. Half-unzipped like a question. She wasn’t supposed to be shooting today. In theory. But she had a freelance portrait job scheduled for tomorrow—an indie musician who wanted ‘moody with grit, but not cliché’—and she needed test shots. Lighting, tones, a mood board brought to life.

Minjeong looked up. “Are you going to ask, or just circle me like a starving cat?”

“You’re not even wearing pants,” Jimin mumbled.

“You’ve shot me with less.”

A beat. Then Minjeong grinned, all smug and dangerous. “What? Don’t want to blur the lines between girlfriend and muse?”

“You’re always blurring lines.”

Minjeong uncrossed her legs and stood up, smooth and fluid like she knew what that did to Jimin. She padded over barefoot and leaned on the desk next to her. "Let me help. Use me for the test shoot. I'm here. I'm gorgeous. I'm dating you. That's three out of four requirements."

“What's the fourth?”

“Payment.”

“You want money?”

“No,” she said, smirking. “But I could be convinced to trade services. Something… physical. Later.”

Jimin was already reaching for her camera.

---

The session wasn’t technically professional. But it wasn’t entirely personal, either. Jimin adjusted the softbox angle while Minjeong posed lazily against a cracked white backdrop. No makeup. Bare feet. That same oversized shirt. Messy hair from their lazy morning. It was raw. It was honest. It was unfair how easy she made it.

“You know,” Jimin said, half behind the lens, “if I submit these as test shots, the client might ditch and ask for you instead.”

“I’m not a musician.”

“They won’t care.”

Minjeong tilted her head. “You really think I’m that good?”

“I think you make me better,” Jimin said. It came out a little too real. But Minjeong’s smile softened. She held the look for one more shot—then padded over and kissed her, careful of the camera.

They spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the set on Jimin’s laptop. Jimin edited in silence while Minjeong sprawled on her stomach beside her, chin in her palm.

"You ever get nervous showing your work?" Minjeong asked.

"Always. But less with you."

"Why?"

"Because you see all the mistakes and love them anyway."

Minjeong nudged her playfully. "That better be about your photos."

Jimin laughed. “Mostly.”

---

Later that night, after Minjeong fell asleep on her couch wrapped in the throw blanket, Jimin finished exporting the shots. She picked one and dragged it into her pitch deck. It was too intimate for client use, technically—but something about it felt right. Like art. Like truth. Like the week-old rhythm of someone suddenly not shooting alone anymore.

She saved the file under a new name: muse\_02\_final.tif

And just like that, her rules started changing again.

---

Jimin wasn’t used to people watching her work.

Sure, clients hovered. Assistants hovered. PR reps with too much hairspray and too many questions hovered. But no one watched her the way Minjeong did—curious, calm, completely unthreatened. She didn’t ask to help. Didn’t pretend to understand every setting. She just watched, perched on a folding stool in the corner of the studio, one leg tucked under her, sketchpad resting lazily on her thigh.

It was Monday, and Jimin had taken a commission from Undercut Magazine—gritty, indie, “we only shoot on film” aesthetic types. The subject: a rising rapper named NO\:ELLE, known for velvet vocals and intentionally trashy TikToks. Her whole team smelled like kombucha and clove cigarettes.

“Can your girlfriend move?” the stylist asked, gesturing vaguely at Minjeong with a brush in hand.

“She’s fine,” Jimin said, not looking up from the camera settings. “She’s not in frame.”

The stylist blinked. “Oh. I just assumed she was, like… part of the vibe.”

“She’s always the vibe,” Jimin muttered.

---

The shoot went fine. Good, even. NO\:ELLE knew her angles and had that specific Gen-Z charisma that made every outtake feel curated. Jimin shot her against graffiti brick, half-silhouetted by backlight, cigarette tucked behind her ear like rebellion.

But she kept glancing over.

Minjeong wasn’t posing, wasn’t watching the model. She was sketching. Completely in her own world—every now and then chewing the tip of her pen, eyes darting between paper and some image only she could see. Jimin’s camera hand twitched.

Focus, she told herself. Professionalism.

Still, when the last flash faded and the set wrapped, Jimin all but drifted toward her.

“Whatcha drawing?”

Minjeong tilted the pad.

It wasn’t the model.

It was Jimin.

Not candid—not a caricature. Just a sketch. Raw. Messy. A few bold lines had caught her posture exactly: camera cradled in her hands like a living thing, brow furrowed, mouth set with quiet fire.

Jimin stared. “That’s me?”

Minjeong looked up, smirking. “I only draw what inspires me.”

Jimin nearly dropped her camera.

---

That night, Minjeong cooked.

Badly.

“I followed the recipe!” she defended, standing over a wok of questionably burnt noodles.

“You translated the recipe using Papago and blind optimism,” Jimin countered, clinging to the kitchen doorframe in silent horror.

“Whatever, artist privilege. I don’t need to cook when I can paint emotions and make you come six times with one look.”

Jimin dropped her forehead to the door. “I’m never letting you read your own fan comments again.”

They ate on the floor. Mostly pickled radish and instant dumplings, because the noodles were a war crime. Jimin edited photos while Minjeong sat behind her, chin on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her middle.

“Do you ever want to go big?” Minjeong asked softly. “Like… full exhibitions. Seoul Photo Biennale. National Gallery. Vogue Korea spreads that cost more than rent.”

Jimin paused. “Sometimes.”

“But?”

“I think I’m scared I’ll lose the part that makes it mine.”

Minjeong kissed her neck. “Then don’t let it go. Just let it grow.”

Jimin turned.

Their kiss was slow. Familiar. Not urgent like before—but deep. Grounded. Like two people kissing because they could, and that alone was enough.

“I’m printing one of the NO\:ELLE shots,” Jimin murmured between kisses. “And one of yours.”

“Mine?”

Jimin nodded toward the sketchpad. “You caught me. I want to hang that in the studio.”

Minjeong’s lips curved against hers. “Next to the cum-stained couch?”

“I was thinking above the printer.”

“Classy.”

They laughed into each other’s mouths until the world narrowed again—just limbs, breath, and the faint hum of the hard drive spinning behind them.

---

Three days later, Jimin was invited to a gallery event hosted by ISO//NATION—a collaborative photography collective known for moody lighting, black turtlenecks, and intense critiques that doubled as foreplay for the art crowd.

She brought Minjeong.

Officially, as her plus-one.

Unofficially, as insurance against boredom, pretension, and her ex.

"Why do I feel like I’m being brought in as emotional backup?” Minjeong muttered as they stepped into the high-ceilinged warehouse-turned-gallery.

"Because you are,” Jimin said, adjusting her camera strap. “Also because you look incredible in wide-leg trousers.”

Minjeong smirked. “I thought you liked me better out of them.”

“I do. But I also enjoy showing you off.”

And show her off she did. Jimin introduced her to two editors, one smug photojournalist from Busan, and a woman who worked in analog film restoration and looked like she belonged in a Wong Kar-wai movie. Minjeong kept her cool. Smiled politely. Said “mm” at all the right moments.

Then she showed up.

Han Chaeyeon.

Tall. Sculptural. The kind of woman who made turtlenecks look like foreplay. She’d once been Jimin’s second shooter and—for a brief, regrettable summer—more than that.

“Jimin,” Chaeyeon purred, sliding in with a wine glass and a gaze that could cut silk. “I didn’t know you were bringing… a friend.”

“This is Minjeong,” Jimin said. “My girlfriend.”

Chaeyeon’s brows rose. “Oh. The painter. I’ve heard… things.”

Minjeong’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Good things, I hope.”

“Very vivid things.”

Minjeong stepped closer, voice sugary. “Well, my work tends to leave an impression. Especially when it’s painted on someone moaning.”

Jimin choked on her wine.

Chaeyeon laughed, low and throaty. “Touché.”

---

They made it halfway through the exhibit before Minjeong caught Jimin watching her ex.

Not lustfully. Just… thoughtfully. The way artists did with other artists—comparing techniques, wondering if they still edited on Lightroom or got pretentious with Capture One.

Minjeong didn’t like it.

She didn’t hate it. But her jaw was tight, and her grip on Jimin’s waist lingered longer than necessary.

Later, back in the studio, Jimin kicked off her boots and leaned against the counter. “You good?”

Minjeong stood near the tripod, arms crossed. “You looked at her like she still means something.”

“She does mean something,” Jimin said honestly. “But not like that.”

Minjeong tilted her head. “You sure?”

Jimin took a step forward. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m possessive,” Minjeong corrected, pulling her hoodie over her head. “There’s a difference.”

Jimin smiled. “Show me, then.”

---

Minjeong stepped forward and spun Jimin gently until her back hit the wall.

“Strip,” she said softly.

Jimin obeyed, eyes wide with anticipation. Shirt, jeans, underwear—gone in seconds, her body already flushing under Minjeong’s gaze. Minjeong stayed dressed. Just unzipped her jeans and let her cock spring free—thick, flushed, twitching with need.

Jimin whimpered. “Fuck.”

Minjeong walked her back until her thighs hit the couch and pushed her down. “Camera’s still set,” she murmured, reaching over to press record. “Don’t worry. This one’s just for us.”

She knelt between Jimin’s legs and ran her cock along slick folds, slow and taunting. “She doesn’t get to see you like this. Doesn’t know how soft you get when I touch you here—” she thrust in, slow and thick.

Jimin cried out. “God—Minjeong—fuck—”

Minjeong grabbed her hips, buried herself deeper. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“You—fuck—it’s yours—it’s all yours!”

Minjeong groaned, thrusting harder. “That’s right. I’m the one who fucks you. Films you. Paints you.”

Jimin arched. “She could never do this to me—never make me this full—!”

“Say it louder,” Minjeong snarled, thrusting so deep that Jimin gasped.

“You’re the only one who gets me like this!” she sobbed. “Only you!”

Click.

Minjeong snapped a photo—Jimin, flushed and ruined, mid-thrust.

“That’s going above your desk,” she growled.

And then she bent Jimin forward, pulled her up by the waist, and fucked her like she was proving a point—with force, precision, and enough heat to wipe every trace of Chaeyeon from Jimin’s mind.

“I don’t share,” Minjeong whispered in her ear.

“I don’t want anyone else,” Jimin cried, trembling as she came.

Minjeong followed with a growl, burying herself to the hilt and filling her full.

When they collapsed onto the couch, sweaty and shaking, Jimin whispered, “Next time, I’m making you jealous.”

Minjeong smirked. “Try me.”

Chapter Text

Minjeong knew Jimin was trouble the second she said, “Babe, don’t freak out,” and pulled out a stack of portfolio shots featuring a shirtless man who looked like he bench-pressed Teslas for breakfast.

“Who the hell is that?” Minjeong asked, eyes narrowed.

“That,” Jimin said sweetly, “is Daniel. The client booked him for my next editorial test shoot. High-end menswear concept. I need a model who can look expensive while wearing nothing but a watch.”

“He looks like he moisturizes with crushed diamonds.”

“He’s very professional,” Jimin offered, utterly unhelpfully. “And photogenic. Like, annoyingly so.”

Minjeong narrowed her eyes. “You already know what angle his jaw hits best, don’t you?”

Jimin had the audacity to smirk. “Of course I do. I’m a professional.”

Minjeong didn’t say anything. But her silence was loud, simmering.

She wasn’t insecure.

She was territorial.

There was a difference.

---

The day of the shoot, Daniel showed up to their shared studio twenty minutes early, dressed in a crisp white shirt that he later peeled off to reveal a body carved by some sadistic Greek god. Jimin was in her element, sleeves rolled to the elbows, camera dangling from her neck like a weapon. She directed him with that same confident tone that made Minjeong melt in bed—but now she was using it on him.

“Let the shirt slip just a little more, Daniel. Good. Now look past me like you’re thinking about sin.”

Minjeong, seated on the old stool in the corner of the room, squeezed her sketchbook so hard the spine creaked.

She tried to draw. Tried to focus.

But every time Jimin let out a soft “yes, that’s it” or adjusted the model’s collar with gentle fingers, Minjeong’s cock stirred beneath her jeans.

And not in the fun way.

In the I-might-fuck-her-in-front-of-him way.

---

“You’re staring,” Jimin said, pausing between shots.

“You’re flirting,” Minjeong countered, tone deceptively mild.

“I’m directing.” Jimin turned back to her camera, lips curving. “Would you like to file a complaint?”

Minjeong didn’t reply.

She stood, quietly, and walked out of the room.

Jimin didn’t notice at first.

Not until she returned ten minutes later with her sketchpad again—and a look in her eyes that made Jimin’s stomach flip.

“You okay?” Jimin asked cautiously.

Minjeong didn’t answer. She just sat down cross-legged on the floor and began to draw. Her pen moved furiously, more aggressive than graceful.

Jimin leaned to peek.

It wasn’t Daniel.

It was her.

Ruthless lines. Fierce expression. A little unhinged. Beautiful and dangerous.

Jimin’s stomach twisted deliciously.

---

“Break time,” she announced too loudly, waving Daniel off. “Back in twenty.”

Daniel smiled, not suspecting a thing, and left to grab a protein shake or whatever pretty men did to stay pretty.

As soon as the door shut, Minjeong was on her.

“You think you’re clever,” she muttered, backing Jimin toward the supply room. “Think you can flirt in front of me like that?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Jimin gasped as her back hit the shelf. “You said you wanted more realism in your lighting setups.”

“I said nothing about realism,” Minjeong growled. “I said I’d shove your camera down your throat if you touched his collarbone again.”

Jimin grinned, eyes wide and pupils blown. “Oh no. Are you going to punish me?”

Minjeong yanked her hoodie over her head and pushed Jimin roughly onto the crate beside the backdrop stand. “Strip.”

“What if Daniel comes back?”

“Then he’ll hear what happens to girls who don’t remember who they belong to.”

Jimin’s breath caught.

She obeyed.

---

By the time she was down to nothing, Minjeong had her jeans unzipped, cock flushed and hard and heavy with need.

Jimin stared at it like she was starving.

“You’re already hard?” she whispered, voice wrecked with anticipation.

“I’ve been hard since you told him he had ‘perfect angles.’”

“Baby, I was working—”

Minjeong grabbed her jaw. “Face the wall. Bend over.”

Jimin gasped but obeyed. Her palms pressed to the metal shelf, her bare ass presented, glistening already with arousal.

Minjeong ran her cock along her folds, slow and punishing. “You’re soaked,” she muttered. “Dripping. Just from posing near another man?”

“Only—” Jimin gasped as Minjeong slid just the tip in, “—because I knew you were watching.”

Minjeong chuckled darkly. “Good answer.”

She drove in deep with a single thrust.

Jimin screamed.

“Louder,” Minjeong ordered, pulling her hair back. “Let him hear who you belong to.”

“You!” Jimin sobbed. “I belong to you, fuck—don’t stop—”

Minjeong slammed into her again, and again, her thrusts brutal and fast, each one landing with the wet slap of skin on skin.

“You wanna perform? Then take it like the little slut you’ve been teasing me into punishing.”

“I—ah—f-fuck—yes—”

Minjeong pulled out suddenly and spun her around, hoisting Jimin up onto the crate. Her cock glistened with slick, still hard, twitching against her stomach.

“Wrap your legs around me,” she growled.

Jimin did. “Breed me,” she whispered, arms around Minjeong’s shoulders. “Stuff me so full I forget his name.”

“Oh baby,” Minjeong muttered, guiding herself back in, “I’ll make sure you never remember anyone but me.”

The position was deeper—intimate, filthy, overwhelming.

Minjeong buried her face in Jimin’s neck and fucked up into her so hard the shelves shook.

Jimin moaned, breathless and high-pitched, tears slipping from her eyes. “Yes—yes—right there—I’m cumming—!”

She fell apart on Minjeong’s cock, clenching hard, writhing. Minjeong bit her shoulder, thrust a few more times, then growled as she came deep—spurting thick, hot ropes inside her until it dripped down her thighs and onto the crate.

They panted in sync, sweaty and flushed, clinging to each other like the world had collapsed around them.

---

Five minutes later, they emerged from the storage room.

Daniel looked up from his phone and blinked. “Everything alright?”

“Perfect,” Minjeong said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Jimin looked dazed. Boneless. Slightly cross-eyed. She waved vaguely.

Daniel blinked again. Then said, “That backdrop smells weird now.”

---

Back upstairs, as Jimin reviewed the photos with cum still trickling down her leg, Minjeong dropped a final sketch on her desk.

It was Daniel.

With devil horns and “DO NOT TOUCH” scribbled in red across his abs.

Jimin burst out laughing.

Minjeong kissed her temple, then whispered, “Next time you want to act up, ask for permission first.”

Jimin looked up with a smirk.

“Then I guess I’ll misbehave again real soon.”

It started with one wrong click.

Jimin was curled up on the studio couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, wearing Minjeong’s old hoodie—sleeves swallowed her hands, and there was a paint smear on the collar she hadn’t noticed. Her hair was wet from a shower. The early evening glow streamed in, soft and peach-colored. She looked like she belonged in a photo herself.

Minjeong had been watching her from the easel, pretending to sketch. She wasn’t. She was just watching.

Then Jimin made a noise.

A soft, breathless, mortal-noise kind of “oh fuck.”

Minjeong blinked. “What happened?”

Jimin slowly closed the laptop. “So, funny story…”

Minjeong’s stomach dropped.

“Did you… send nudes to a client?” she asked.

Jimin cringed. “Worse.”

That got Minjeong to sit up straight. “What’s worse than that?”

“I submitted the wrong folder to Gallery Margin.”

Minjeong blinked.

“The private folder?” she asked slowly.

Jimin nodded.

“With the unedited, hi-res, raw footage?”

Another nod.

Minjeong’s voice was flat. “Tell me you didn’t include the photo. That photo.”

“The one with you bent over the couch—head turned, tongue out, my cum running down your thighs?” Jimin asked meekly.

Minjeong’s eye twitched. “That’s the one.”

“I did,” Jimin whispered. “But in my defense, you looked like art.”

“Because I am,” Minjeong snapped. “Not for them.”

Jimin stood, hands raised. “I emailed the curator already. I told her it was a mistake. But she—uh—replied. And she loved it.”

Minjeong stared.

“She wants to feature it. Says it’s the centerpiece of her upcoming exhibit. Said—and I quote—‘it redefines feminine vulnerability with a violently honest lens.’”

Minjeong slowly covered her face with both hands.

“She also suggested printing it at 60x90 centimeters. Backlit. Hung at pelvis-height.”

“Oh my God.”

---

They met the curator two days later.

Lee Heeyeon greeted them with a warm smile, pressed-together palms, and the kind of energy that screamed “lived in Berlin for two years and doesn’t know how to relax.”

“You must be the subject,” she said, looking at Minjeong like a priest seeing a vision. “It’s an honor.”

“Same,” Minjeong said flatly. “Though I was hoping to meet you clothed.”

Heeyeon either didn’t hear the sarcasm or chose to ignore it.

“I was moved by the piece. The rawness. The contradiction—how exposed you were, yet in complete control. That cocky turn of your head—like you knew you were being worshipped.”

Minjeong blinked. “I think I was just turning around to tell Jimin I was going to cum.”

Jimin stomped on her foot under the table.

Heeyeon beamed. “See? Natural. Spontaneous. Unrepeatable. That’s what we’re capturing.”

Minjeong tried to imagine her face—flushed, half-lidded, dripping—as part of a wall-mounted gallery installation.

Nope. Brain short-circuited.

Jimin tried to salvage it. “It was an intimate moment. A deeply personal one. Maybe too personal for public viewing.”

Heeyeon gave her a knowing look. “That’s what makes it matter.”

Minjeong exhaled sharply. “Do I at least get a title credit?”

“Of course.” Heeyeon smiled. “I was thinking something poetic. Consumption, perhaps. Or Consequence.”

“I vote Violation.”

Jimin coughed into her sleeve.

---

That night, they sat on the couch in silence. The studio lights were dim, the only sound the quiet hum of the street below. Jimin sipped from a water bottle like it might protect her from judgment.

Minjeong stared straight ahead.

Finally, she said, “You showed them something that belonged to us.”

Jimin flinched.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you didn’t stop it,” Minjeong said. “You let them call it art. Let them strip the moment down to a concept and hang it on a wall like you weren’t fucking me so hard I couldn’t see straight.”

Jimin swallowed. “I’ll pull it.”

Minjeong turned to her, eyes dark. “No.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“You don’t get to fix this,” Minjeong said, low and dangerous. “You want to put me on display? Then you deal with what comes next.”

She stood, pulling her hoodie off slowly, deliberately, revealing nothing underneath.

Jimin stared.

Minjeong stepped forward, eyes locked on her. “You want to treat me like your best work?”

“Yes,” Jimin breathed.

“Then get on your knees and worship me like you fucking mean it.”

---

Jimin dropped instantly.

Minjeong’s cock was already hard, flushed, heavy with frustration. She stroked it slowly, letting it throb in her fist just inches from Jimin’s lips.

“Open,” she ordered.

Jimin obeyed.

Minjeong fed her in, slow and steady, until Jimin’s lips were stretched and full, eyes wide and tearing.

“Is this what you want them to see?” Minjeong murmured, thrusting gently. “Me, fucking your throat raw? Camera right there, lights perfect, shadow just right?”

Jimin gagged around her cock, moaned, nodded.

Minjeong grinned darkly. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

She pulled out, spit trailing from Jimin’s mouth. Jimin gasped, licking her lips.

“Get on the couch. Face down.”

Jimin scrambled to obey. Minjeong followed, guiding her up on her knees, spreading her open.

“I want you leaking when they hang that photo,” she said, lining up.

“Please,” Jimin whimpered.

Minjeong thrust in one hard motion—deep and fast.

Jimin screamed.

“Louder,” Minjeong growled, gripping her hips like handles. “Let the neighbors know who’s dripping out your cunt.”

Jimin’s eyes rolled back. “Fuck—Minjeong—so big—too much—!”

“Take it.”

She thrust harder, each slap loud and wet, her cock driving in so deep Jimin clawed the cushions.

“Say it,” Minjeong panted. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—fuck—Minjeong—it’s always been you—!”

She bent forward, biting Jimin’s shoulder as she came—thick, hot ropes pumping deep into her. Jimin sobbed through her own orgasm, back arching, legs trembling.

Minjeong didn’t pull out.

She just lay on top of her, panting, chest pressed to Jimin’s slick back.

They stayed like that—quiet, tangled, wrecked.

No lens. No frame.

Just raw truth.

---

Later, as Jimin cleaned up and Minjeong sat shirtless on the edge of the couch with cum drying down her thighs, she finally spoke again.

“I’ll tell Heeyeon no.”

Minjeong looked over. “Don’t.”

Jimin blinked.

“You’re right,” Minjeong said. “It is art. But we do it my way.”

"You are the most bipolar person I've ever met."

"Yet, you love me."

Jimin didn’t deny her girlfriend words. Minjeong leaned back.

“No names. No captions. No gallery press using my face. And you don’t show another fucking soul the full set without me approving every pixel.”

Jimin nodded quickly. “Okay. Deal.”

Minjeong’s expression softened.

“Because I trust you,” she added quietly. “Even when you fuck up.”

Jimin knelt again, head resting on Minjeong’s thigh, lips brushing bare skin.

“I’ll never forget it’s yours.”

It started with more fucking.

Not lovemaking. Not tender exploration.

Fucking.

After that public exposure, they were insatiable, more than ever.

Every day, in every room of the studio-slash-loft they now unofficially shared. In the paint-stained kitchen, over the wobbly sink. In the half-darkroom where Jimin had once spilled developer fluid and now regularly spilled her moans. On the drafting table, couch, bathroom tile, against the studio window—once during a thunderstorm, which was dramatic, ridiculous, and made Minjeong come harder than she’d ever admit.

Something about the gallery photo being accepted—about Minjeong’s body immortalized mid-ruin, about people knowing but not touching—had flipped a switch inside Jimin.

She wanted more.

More photos. More possession. More of Minjeong’s cock inside her, all the time.

---

Minjeong kept pace like a beast.

She had stopped asking if Jimin was sure.

She was always sure.

Bent over the kitchen island, Jimin gasped, fingers curling over the marble lip.

“Again,” she choked.

Minjeong’s hips didn’t stop. Her cock was already soaked, buried to the hilt, thrusting so deep Jimin’s knees trembled.

“Fucking insatiable,” Minjeong growled.

Jimin looked over her shoulder, hair in her face, flushed from cheek to thigh. “Fill me up. Every time.”

Minjeong grabbed her hips and slammed in hard. “You like leaking, don’t you?”

Jimin moaned. “I want to smell like you for days.”

---

That month blurred.

They stopped pulling out.

It wasn’t discussed. It just… unraveled.

Minjeong would come inside her and hold her there, panting, their skin sticking together. Sometimes she whispered, “God, I want to breed you,” and Jimin would tighten around her and whimper.

“You think I won’t?” Minjeong once snarled during a rough round against the studio window. “You think I don’t want to see your belly swell with my cum still dripping out of you?”

Jimin came so hard she cried.

It wasn’t just sex.

They were making something.

Art. History. Filth. Love.

Photos mounted in frames. Paintings left half-finished because Minjeong would get distracted by Jimin kissing down her stomach. A pile of Polaroids in a locked drawer labeled private—Minjeong naked, sweaty, cum-slick, straddling Jimin’s camera bag like a throne.

“You’re going to ruin my SD cards,” Jimin said once.

“Worth it.”

"Fine."

---

Then came the changes.

They were subtle.

At first.

Jimin started getting… tender. Her breasts were sore. She cried during a commercial for soy sauce. Her appetite vanished one week, then doubled the next. She woke up one night craving melted cheese on toast at 3 a.m. and nearly bit Minjeong when she said, “Do we have to?”

And then she puked. Twice.

Minjeong didn’t panic until Jimin passed out in the shower.

“Go to the clinic,” Minjeong said. She wasn’t angry. She was pale.

Jimin nodded from the futon, bundled in a hoodie that used to fit looser.

The next day, she texted Minjeong from outside the building.

[my sexy muse in my studio 🖤]: uh

[my sexy muse in my studio 🖤]: babe

[my sexy muse in my studio 🖤]: we need to talk

[my sexy muse in my studio 🖤]: don’t freak out okay?

Minjeong sprinted across Seoul for her.

---

Jimin sat outside the clinic, holding a paper bag with a pamphlet and a small white envelope. Her legs were crossed, her hands fidgeting. Her face was unreadable.

Minjeong crouched in front of her.

Jimin handed her the test result.

“Positive,” she said.

Minjeong stared.

Jimin gave a nervous laugh. “Turns out, when you keep getting bred every night for three months straight without protection, this kind of thing happens.”

Minjeong blinked. “You’re pregnant.”

Jimin nodded. “With your baby.”

There was silence.

Then Minjeong sat down beside her slowly. Then reached over and grabbed her hand. “You okay?” she asked softly.

Jimin turned to her. “I think I want it.”

Minjeong swallowed. “Okay.”

“I mean—I wasn’t planning to be barefoot and glowing and full of your child, but like… the idea doesn’t suck.”

Minjeong laughed, short and disbelieving. “You’re glowing already. You’ve been glowing since the second I met you.”

Jimin leaned on her shoulder.

Then whispered: “Breed me again tonight?”

Minjeong growled. “You’re unbelievable.”

---

That night, they didn’t fuck with rage.

They fucked with awe.

Minjeong laid Jimin down like a canvas. Worshipped every inch of her—kissed her soft belly, suckled her tits until Jimin cried out, rubbed her soaked folds until she was sobbing into the pillow.

“I want you to show me what made this,” Jimin breathed, pulling her in close. “Paint me from the inside.”

Minjeong slid her cock into her slowly—deep, reverent, shaking.

And Jimin gasped, arching into her, legs wrapping around Minjeong’s waist.

“You’re gonna be so full,” Minjeong whispered. “I’m gonna fuck you until the baby knows it’s mine.”

She moved slowly. Deep strokes that made Jimin’s walls flutter. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

They didn’t stop for hours.

Minjeong whispered to her belly between thrusts. Told it stories.

Jimin wept when she came. Held Minjeong close and whispered, “I didn’t know I could be this loved.”

Minjeong kissed her.

“Let me love all of you,” she said. “Even the parts we didn’t plan.”

Chapter Text

During the first trimester of Jimin's pregnancy, Minjeong is having a breakdown in 4K.

Minjeong had seen a lot of strange things in her life. Nude exhibits featuring a naked man eating soup in slow motion. Paintings made with menstrual blood. A photographer who once tried to use a dead fish as a light diffuser.

None of it prepared her for seeing her girlfriend’s uterus on a screen.

The ultrasound room was far too white. The air smelled like lemon-scented nerves. The moment Jimin hopped up onto the table and yanked her shirt up to expose her still-flat stomach, Minjeong backed up like someone had pointed a gun at her soul.

“You okay?” Jimin asked.

“No,” Minjeong said honestly, frozen with wide eyes near the sink. “I don’t do hospitals.”

“You’re not the one with an alien lifeform squatting in your uterus.”

“That’s my alien lifeform,” Minjeong muttered, crossing her arms. “I put that there.”

Jimin shot her a look. “You’re very loud for someone hiding behind a paper towel dispenser.”

Before Minjeong could reply, the ultrasound tech entered, chipper and utterly unprepared for the gay chaos she had just walked into.

“Hi there! First pregnancy?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jimin replied calmly.

“Yes,” Minjeong echoed, but more like she was confessing to murder.

“Let’s take a look then,” the tech said, applying the gel. “You’re about seven weeks along, right?”

Minjeong watched the wand glide over Jimin’s belly with the horror of someone watching a horror movie in 4D.

And then the screen lit up.

Blurry.

Gray.

Blobby.

Minjeong’s jaw dropped. “Is that it? That’s our baby? It looks like a bean having an existential crisis.”

Jimin snorted.

The tech laughed politely and said, “That’s perfectly normal.”

“It’s shaped like a kidney,” Minjeong whispered. “Do kidneys cry? It looks like it might cry. Why is our child a crying bean?”

Then the sound hit.

A galloping, whooshing heartbeat, fast and frantic, like it was trying to escape through the screen.

Minjeong immediately burst into tears.

“Oh my god,” she choked, staggering backward. “It’s real. It’s alive. We made a living, pulsing, whooshing bean.”

Jimin blinked up at her. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m fucking ruined.”

And then she fainted. Right there, onto the clean hospital tiles.

---

During the second trimester, everything is sex and crying.

By week fourteen, Jimin was glowing. People said that like it was a beautiful thing. Minjeong said it like it was a warning. Because yes, she glowed— but she also cried, screamed, demanded curry at 2 a.m., and was constantly horny.

Minjeong lived in a state of permanent confusion. There was no warning system. Just a sudden shift in the air, like a storm brewing behind soft eyes.

One moment,  Jimin would be laughing at a cartoon squirrel commercial. The next, she’d be sobbing into a throw pillow.

“I just— he was carrying a little nut,” she’d wail. “And no one helped him. Why does the world let squirrels suffer ?”

Minjeong nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Bastards.”

An hour later, Jimin would be naked on the floor, hands between her thighs, looking up at Minjeong like sin incarnate.

“I need you to rail me,” she’d whisper. “Like your dick has a grudge.”

“You just called me emotionally insensitive because I didn’t peel your tangerine the right way.”

“Because you bruised it.”

“I breathed on it.”

“Are you railing me or not?”

Minjeong’s pants hit the floor before she could finish the sentence.

---

The sex was somehow filthier now.

Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was the way Jimin’s breasts had grown a cup size and Minjeong couldn’t stop staring at them. Maybe it was just Minjeong’s inherent desire to fuck her pregnant girlfriend through every surface in the loft.

“You’re so wet,” Minjeong would groan, pushing two fingers in before even undressing.

“You made me this way,” Jimin would gasp, already grinding on her palm. “Now take responsibility.”

Minjeong took it.

Every goddamn night.

There were days when Minjeong didn’t even pick up a paintbrush. Just picked Jimin up, bent her over the armrest, and filled her until she was crying and twitching from overstimulation.

And Jimin loved every second.

“You know this is your fault,” she moaned once as Minjeong pounded into her. “You couldn’t keep your cock to yourself. Now I’m swollen, hormonal, and needy. ”

Minjeong bit her shoulder. “Then I’ll fuck you every night until the baby’s born.”

And she did.

---

Third trimester. The belly has become a god.

Minjeong thought nothing could shock her anymore.

Then Jimin stood up one morning, stretched, and her robe slipped open— and Minjeong saw the full, round curve of her belly in the sunlight.

She dropped to her knees.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “You’re divine. You’re a holy shrine. I want to build a temple around your womb.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who got me like this.”

Minjeong pressed a kiss to her belly button. “And I’d do it again. Right now. On the floor.”

“You are so messed up.”

“You’re glowing like a wet sunset with tits.”

Jimin slapped her forehead. “You need help.”

“You need my cock.”

“I literally can’t bend over.”

Minjeong stood up and grinned. “Then lie down and let me do all the work.”

They didn’t make it to the mattress. Again.

---

By week thirty-four, Jimin waddled, like penguin. Not walked. Not sauntered. Waddled. And Minjeong cried every time.

“She’s waddling,” she whispered once, wiping her eyes with the hem of her hoodie. “It’s so cute . It’s my cum waddle.”

Jimin stared. “Your what ?”

“You heard me.”

“Stop saying that in public.”

“I’ll whisper it. Into your belly. Tonight.”

Jimin walked away mid-rant. Or rather, she waddled away.

Minjeong followed, sniffling. “I just love you so much. You’re full of life. And tits.”

“I'm literally going to punch you in the soul.”

---

Thirty-eight weeks. The Bean becomes a Person.

The next ultrasound was like watching a miracle unfold in 1080p. The blurry bean had become a baby. With fingers. And toes. And a face. A real face.

Jimin laid back as the probe moved across her belly. Minjeong sat beside her, holding her hand, staring at the monitor like she’d forgotten how to blink.

“She’s sucking her thumb,” Jimin whispered, eyes wide.

“That’s my thumb-sucker,” Minjeong said reverently.

The heartbeat echoed again, steady and fast.

Minjeong leaned forward, kissed her belly, and murmured, “You better come out looking like your mom.”

“She already has my nose,” Jimin said.

“Good. Mine’s stupid.”

“I like your nose.”

Minjeong grinned. “You’re going to say that when I’m ugly-crying during labor?”

“I’m going to say it while squeezing your hand until it snaps in half.”

“ Hot.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re having my baby. ”

Jimin turned to her, still flushed, still glowing.

“And I’d do it again,” she whispered.

Minjeong kissed her.

Right there, on the sterile paper, next to a blinking monitor and a tiny girl sucking her thumb.

---

Minjeong’s second solo exhibit was supposed to be a triumphant return.

After months of praise following her first show, where she accidentally immortalized her very pregnant girlfriend in various stages of nudity, arousal, and abstract holiness—Minjeong had found herself with offers. Big ones. Galleries wanted her to expand. Curators sent her books and buzzwords. Collectors whispered about “ownership of the female form” with wine-stained lips while looking directly at Jimin’s tits.

It had gotten weird.

But Minjeong hadn’t stopped painting.

In fact, she had painted more.

The second exhibit, “Devotion,”  was more than just a gallery. It was a shrine.

Sixteen new pieces, all of them larger than life. Painted in oil and gouache, layered and raw, hung in white- walled silence. The centerpiece— a seven- foot canvas of Jimin reclining in bed, belly full and round, bathed in morning light— was so intimate that one critic cried at the press preview and called it “blasphemously tender.”

Minjeong had dressed for the opening in a crisp black tuxedo, sleeves rolled just enough to show off her tattooed forearms. She looked like a queer renaissance god.

Jimin, now thirty-nine weeks pregnant and gloriously swollen, wore a sleek, charcoal-gray gown with a side slit and stretch to spare. Her makeup was dewy, her hair was curled, and her stomach looked like a full moon under gallery lights. She glowed. She floated. She was the art.

People didn’t even pretend not to stare.

“She’s radiant,”  someone whispered.

“Did she model for the centerpiece?” another murmured.

“She’s the muse. Minjeong’s partner.”

Jimin heard every word and smirked.

She loved this part. The part where people realized the woman in the painting was real, and fucking the artist.

Minjeong hovered close the whole time— anxious, proud, half-terrified.

“You doing okay?” she whispered, handing Jimin a glass of sparkling water.

Jimin took a sip. “ I feel like a swollen fertility statue with ankle pain.”

“You’re glowing like a sacred relic.”

“I can’t tell if that’s sweet or a kink.”

Minjeong didn’t answer.

Because, to be fair, it was both.

---

The gallery swelled with guests. Art people. Critics. Photographers. The lighting was perfect. The press was kind. Minjeong gave two short speeches and only nearly cried during one of them.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened an hour into the show, right in front of the largest painting— the one of Jimin sitting naked on the edge of their bed, legs slightly apart, her hand resting on her swollen stomach and her eyes half-closed, like she’d just been kissed.

There was a cluster of collectors nearby, murmuring about brushwork.

Minjeong had just turned to answer a question when she heard the gasp.

Followed by:

“Babe?” Jimin said, oddly calm. “I think I just— uh…”

Minjeong turned and saw her frozen mid-step, hand on her belly.

Then looked down.

Puddle.

Large. Expanding. Absolutely unmistakable.

“Oh,” Jimin said, blinking. “That wasn’t pee.”

Someone screamed.

What followed could only be described as a cross between a disaster film and a divine comedy.

“Oh my god, her water just broke!” someone shrieked.

“This is performance art,” a man said excitedly, pulling out his phone. “Is this part of the show?”

“No,” Jimin hissed through clenched teeth. “This is my vagina trying to evict a tenant. ”

Minjeong went pale. “Okay. Okay. We planned for this. We had a bag. A plan. A playlist— where’s the playlist?”

“Fuck the playlist!” Jimin snapped, clutching her stomach as another contraction ripped through her. “You need to get me out of here before I give birth on your interpretation of female sacrifice.”

Minjeong snapped to attention. “Right. Yes. Exit strategy.”

Then froze again.

“Which way is the car?!”

It took seven minutes, one gallery assistant, a furious Jimin threatening to punch a rich woman who kept asking for a photo, and Minjeong physically carrying Jimin’s clutch, heels, and half her dress train, but they made it to the parking lot.

Minjeong shoved her into the passenger seat and started the engine with hands that were shaking like leaves.

Jimin exhaled. “Drive.”

Minjeong blinked. “Where?”

Jimin stared. “The hospital, Minjeong. Where else?! Starbucks?!”

“Oh god,” Minjeong whispered, and hit the gas so hard they peeled out of the lot sideways.

---

The drive was an experience.

Minjeong ran three red lights. Jimin cursed out loud for five straight minutes. At one point, she screamed, “GET OUT OF THE WAY, I’M CARRYING ART!” at a crosswalk full of confused tourists.

“I’m never forgiving you,” she growled through another contraction. “This is all your fault. You and that fucking tux. You looked too hot. I couldn’t not ride you last week.”

Minjeong whimpered. “I know.”

“You bred me in the middle of a thunderstorm, Minjeong. You whispered ‘take all of it’ and I did.”

“I’m sorry!”

“I loved it,” Jimin gasped, then immediately winced. “But now I’m going to push a child through my cervix, and if you say one more romantic thing, I will murder you in your tux.”

Minjeong wisely shut up and sped faster.

By the time they got to the hospital, Jimin could barely walk. Minjeong half-carried her, barking orders at nurses, hands still smeared faintly with blue paint from the gallery setup.

They made it into the room.

Then into chaos.

Jimin gripped Minjeong’s hand like she wanted to fuse their bones together.

“You’re doing amazing,” Minjeong whispered.

“SHUT UP!”

“Yes,  ma’am!”

“YOU OWE ME A C-SECTION AND A MASSAGE AND A GODDAMN SHINY ROCK!”

Minjeong cried a little.

Then cried more when the nurse said she was at nine centimeters.

“Oh fuck,” Minjeong whispered, voice cracking. “She’s almost ready.”

“I’M NOT!”

“You’ve got this,” Minjeong breathed. “You’re beautiful. You’re powerful. You’re the whole goddamn gallery—”

“ MINJEONG.”

“ Sorry!”

---

At 3:18 a.m., their daughter was born.

Tiny.

Screaming.

Beautiful.

Jimin cried. Minjeong sobbed. The nurses clapped. Someone said, “Look at all that hair!”

They named her Hana.

Kim Hana.

One breath. One start.

And when they were finally alone, hours later, Jimin curled into Minjeong’s arms and whispered, “Was it a good exhibit?”

Minjeong kissed her forehead and held her tighter.

“It was the best.

Chapter Text

They didn’t really talk about moving in.

It just… happened.

There was never a big conversation. No sit-down discussion or key exchange.

Minjeong simply stayed.

One night turned into a week. A week turned into the newborn blur. Then suddenly, her sketchbooks were stacked on the coffee table, her underwear was mixed in with the laundry, and she was restocking the fridge like she’d lived there for years.

And in a way—emotionally, spiritually, creatively—she always had.

Jimin’s small studio apartment had always been half hers. Even before the baby. Even before they were official. Her fingerprints were in the wall art, in the light bulbs she insisted be warm-toned, in the way Jimin kept jasmine tea stocked in the pantry even though she always drank coffee.

Now it was just official. Real.

Home.

The early weeks were a kind of beautiful hell.

They lived on takeout and toast, half-slept in shifts, and functioned entirely off love and hormonal fumes. Hana, tiny and dramatic from the start, cried like she was singing for a death metal band every three hours. Her favorite activities included pooping, breastfeeding, and screaming the second Minjeong started sketching anything.

Minjeong once fell asleep sitting up with a paintbrush in her hand and woke up with a green stripe across her cheek. Another night, Jimin nearly dropped her camera bag down the stairs because she hadn’t slept more than ninety minutes at a time since the week before the birth.

But still, they managed.

They had to.

And they were more than grateful to be so.

---

Jimin went back to work before she was ready.

A small shoot—low-key, local, a freelance gig she could walk to.

Minjeong watched her get dressed that morning with a lump in her throat.

“Are you sure you’re okay to go?” she asked, hair up, Hana asleep in her wrap against her chest.

Jimin gave her a soft smile and kissed the top of her head. “No. But I’m going.”

Minjeong looked down at the baby. “What if she explodes?”

“She will.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Yes.”

Jimin laughed, bent down, and pressed a long kiss to Minjeong’s lips. “You’ve got this. You’re terrifying when you need to be.”

Minjeong scowled. “I’m soft, babe. Mostly for you and our baby.”

“You’re a tiger disguised as a house cat.”

Minjeong watched her go. Then shut the door, looked down at Hana’s sleeping face, and whispered, “Guess it’s just you and me, kid.”

---

The day passed in a blur.

Hana slept for twenty minutes at a time, only to wake up with tiny fists flailing and milk leaking from her mouth like a drunk baby god. Minjeong tried to paint, but every time she dipped her brush in oil, Hana let out a squawk. She literally goes uwek-uwek and waaaaaaa and suddenly sleeps out of the blue.

She ended up finishing only one small canvas—abstract, smeared, more texture than form—but it was the first thing she’d completed since the birth.

She stared at it for a long time, then carefully wrote a title on the back:

“What She Left Behind for Me to Finish.”

She didn’t tell Jimin.

Just hung it on the far wall of their bedroom—where they could both see it, but only in quiet moments.

---

That night, Jimin came home exhausted and flushed from the spring air. Her feet hurt. Her shoulders ached. But the second she stepped through the door, she smiled.

Minjeong was in a robe, her hair in a lazy bun, paint smudged across her cheek again.

Hana was asleep, curled against her chest in a bundle of soft blankets.

Jimin dropped her camera bag, sitting right next to Minjeong. The painter gasped at her girlfriend before she whispered. “You look like a goddess.”

Jimin whispered back, “Minjeong, don't. I haven’t showered.”

“You smell like home. I like your smell.”

They kissed gently, like they hadn’t kissed in years.

Jimin exhaled against her neck. “I missed you.”

“I was here the whole time.”

“I still missed you.”

---

Nights were harder.

At 2:37 a.m., Minjeong sat on the edge of the bed with Hana in her lap, bouncing gently and humming something wordless under her breath. Jimin stirred, eyes barely open. “You want me to take her?”

“No,” Minjeong whispered. “I’ve got her.”

“You’re gonna burn out.”

Minjeong smiled tiredly. “I’ve never held anything more important than this.”

Jimin rolled over and watched them—mother and child—silhouetted by moonlight.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

---

By the third week, they had a system.

Jimin shot portraits during the day—tiny sessions, two hours max. She edited in the kitchen while breastfeeding. She stopped accepting full-day shoots, no matter how well-paid. Minjeong stayed home with Hana, painting in bursts. Sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for an hour, if the baby slept on her chest. She worked standing up now, one foot rocking the bassinet while her brush moved in slow, loving strokes.

Their apartment was always messy. Dishes in the sink. Bottles drying by the window. Diapers on the table. But the air was filled with warmth. Milk. Paint. Camera shutter clicks. Baby coos. Breathless laughter. Late-night kisses over microwave rice.

And always, always the sound of belonging.

They had no idea what they were doing.

They just kept doing it anyway.

Together.

---

Later, as they curled together under the covers, Jimin pressed a kiss to Minjeong’s jaw.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispered.

Minjeong nodded. “We already are.”

Jimin didn’t feel sexy. Not really.

She felt... soft. Stretched. A little creaky. Definitely like her joints were plotting against her, and her boobs could start leaking at any second if someone so much as looked at them emotionally. She hadn’t shaved in two weeks. Her maternity tank had milk stains. Her belly still bore the battle scars of carrying Hana.

But when Minjeong looked at her that night—her gaze lingering across her bare thighs, her heavier breasts, her warm, milk-fed body—Jimin didn’t feel like a mess.

She felt like art.

And that was dangerous.

Because Minjeong had a cock, and restraint the size of a thimble.

They hadn’t had sex since the birth.

Six weeks and two days, to be precise.

Not because they didn’t want to. But because between nipple blisters, pelvic soreness, and Hana’s God-given ability to cry the moment anyone even thought about intimacy, sex had become this weird, suspended idea. A memory from another universe.

Until that night.

Until the baby finally went down. Until the silence between them stretched into something weighty. Until Minjeong looked up from her sketchbook and said, softly:

“You’re staring at me like you want to fight me and fuck me at the same time.”

Jimin blinked. “You have a very punchable face.”

“And a very fuckable cock," Minjeong grin cockily.

They stared at each other. Then Minjeong stood up.

“Do you want to?” she asked.

Jimin looked down at herself. Her tank was rumpled. Her stomach is soft. Her nipples were puffy and definitely threatening to leak. “I don’t feel like a goddess right now,” she said honestly.

Minjeong knelt beside her on the bed. “You just gave birth to our daughter,” she whispered. “I’d worship the floor under your leaky boobs.”

Jimin snorted. “Wow. Very poetry.”

“I’m an artist, not a writer.”

They smiled.

And then kissed.

---

The sex wasn’t smooth.

There was lube involved. Two awkward stops for baby monitor adjustments. At one point, Jimin gasped and said, “Wait—my hip,” and they had to readjust. But it was good. So good.

Minjeong took her time, guiding her cock slowly into Jimin with reverent hands and a prayer barely muttered under her breath.

“You’re so tight,” she whispered, voice raw. “So fucking warm.”

“Don’t you dare stop,” Jimin panted, her legs trembling as Minjeong bottomed out.

Minjeong didn’t.

She rocked into her slowly, each thrust drawing out a moan, a gasp, a whispered curse from Jimin’s mouth.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t performative.

It was the kind of sex people never talk about but never forget.

The kind where someone sees all of you and still can’t get enough.

When Jimin came, she bit down on Minjeong’s shoulder and sobbed.

It wasn’t just the orgasm.

It was everything.

The way her body opened up again. The way she felt wanted. The way she still felt like home.

Minjeong came a minute later, cock twitching deep inside her, filling her with warmth and a cry that sounded almost like surrender.

They collapsed together.

Sweaty. Breathing hard.

Skin sticking. Lube drying. The distant hum of the baby monitor crackling softly beside them.

And then Minjeong said it.

“Okay but like—hear me out,” she gasped, still half inside her.

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “This should be good.”

“We should get married.”

Jimin blinked.

“Right now?”

“No—no, not literally now. I mean, not in the middle of you being full of my cum, although this is a powerfully romantic position.”

Jimin stared.

Minjeong swallowed. “I mean. We live together. We have a baby. I’ve painted your tits six different times. You’ve cried into my mouth. You still let me put my dick inside you despite having just birthed a person.”

Jimin blinked again.

“And—” Minjeong added, now on a roll, “—we’re already fighting like wives. You told me to go fuck myself over a laundry basket last week and then gave me a blowjob twenty minutes later.”

“That was postpartum rage,” Jimin argue, slightly moaning.

“Still counts.”

Jimin stared up at the ceiling. “So this is your big romantic proposal?”

Minjeong leaned in closer. “Will you marry me, or do I need to draw it in Sharpie on your belly?”

Jimin snorted. Then laughed.

Laughed so hard her chest shook, and Minjeong’s cock slipped halfway out of her with a slick sound that made both of them crack up harder.

“You’re the stupidest person I’ve ever wanted to marry,” Jimin said, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Like legally?”

“Yes, Minjeong.”

Minjeong let out a sound between a cheer and a gasp of relief. “Holy shit, I’m going to be your wife.”

Jimin kissed her.

“You already are. But now we’ll have paperwork.”

“Sexy,” Minjeong whispered.

Jimin tightened her legs around her hips.

“Now shut up and finish what you started, fiancée.”

Minjeong groaned. “Yes, ma’am.”

And fucked her slow and deep until the sun started to rise.

---

No one plans a wedding like this.

Then again, nothing about them had ever been planned.

They hadn’t planned to meet—Jimin had just needed a last-minute replacement model after hers bailed and Minjeong walked in like a mistake the universe kept grinning about.

They hadn’t planned to fall in love—Jimin was supposed to be a one-time muse. A strange, gorgeous woman with crazy photography skills and too much sarcasm. Minjeong was supposed to be a nerd with brushed and stained fingers with paints, not the one slowly make Jimin losing her breath every time Minjeong stared too long between painting.

They hadn’t planned the sex to be that good. Or that frequent. Or that dangerous. But Jimin had gotten addicted to it—Minjeong’s slow smirk, the press of her hips, her cock pushing into her like she was meant to live there. Like Jimin’s body was hers before they even said it out loud.

They definitely hadn’t planned a baby.

But here they were.

They got married in their studio.

Because where else?

They’d made everything here. Photographs, paintings, messes, confessions. They’d lived in each other’s orbits for so long, the space had stopped being walls and furniture and started being theirs.

The window was propped open with a stool. Strings of fairy lights ran from light stand to pipe. Their secondhand couch had been pushed into a corner, and the entire room now looked like a chaotic queer art collective had decided to throw a wedding with ten minutes' notice and twenty years of love.

Hana was in Jimin’s arms.

Minjeong was adjusting her collar for the fifth time and already sweating under her black button-up and loose-cut slacks.

There was no aisle.

Just two women, one baby, and a room full of friends and families who all looked a little too emotionally unstable to handle this without sobbing.

They wrote their vows separately.

Because, of course, they did.

But when they stood across from each other, holding hands—Minjeong’s thumb tracing over Jimin’s fingers, Jimin balancing their daughter on her hip while her eyes shimmered—it felt like they’d been writing these words for years.

Minjeong went first.

Her voice was shaking, and her hands trembled more when she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded, crumpled sheet of paper with a sketch on one side and hastily scrawled vows on the other.

“I still remember the first time I saw you before that washroom encounter,” she began, voice quiet but clear. “At that art event, one year ago. You had your hair tied up in a messy bun. You were in a rush. You were annoyed.”

Some soft laughter rippled through the crowd.

“I was holding a cup of orange juice when I bumped into you. Your beige dress became orange too. You said, and I quote, ‘I swear to god, I will throw my light stand at you.’”

Jimin covered her mouth, laughing softly.

“I never thought about falling in love with you at that moment,” Minjeong went on, “But after that washroom encounter, you've shown me a beauty you are, and I wanted you so badly to be my lifetime art. And I’d never wanted to be seen until that moment. I was just a body with a cock and a few too many bad ideas. You made me feel like more.”

Jimin blinked hard.

Minjeong kept going.

“You showed me what it means to be held without being softened. You let me be messy. Loud. Quiet. Mine. And still yours. You made me a partner. A parent. A wife.”

She reached over and gently ran her fingers along Hana’s head.

“And now… you’ve made me a family.”

Her voice cracked.

“I want to keep painting you forever. To be my mise for eternity. Not just on canvas, but in the little things. Toast crumbs. Baby socks. That stupid bra you left on the doorknob. You’re my favourite subject. You always will be.”

Minjeong folded the paper and looked at her.

“So yes. I’m saying yes. I will say it every day, with every brushstroke, with every photo you take, with every time Hana throws mashed bananas in my hair and you laugh too hard to help me.”

The crowd burst into sniffles.

Jimin was already crying.

And then it was her turn.

Jimin didn’t have paper. She held Hana a little tighter, kissed her forehead, and started.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you,” she said. “You were annoying at first. You stained my dress. You caught me unclothed. You did not even want to close the door ASAP.”

Minjeong looked deeply proud.

“But then when you tried to find me so desperately, talking about painting shit and how a goddess I am, you smiled.”

Jimin swallowed.

“And I knew, right then, that you were going to ruin me.”

Minjeong reached up and touched her cheek gently.

“You did,” Jimin whispered. “And I liked it.”

Soft laughter broke through the emotion.

“You came into my studio and left your sketchbook open on my kitchen table like it belonged there. You came inside me and didn’t leave, and suddenly I wanted you everywhere. I wanted your paint in my sheets and your breath in my mouth. You bred me and cried harder than I did in the hospital.”

Minjeong was blushing furiously now.

“You cried when I waddled. You cried when Hana held your finger. You cried when I kissed your forehead while you had spit-up on your shirt.”

The whole room was weeping and laughing now.

“But through all of that, through the chaos, through postpartum hell and sleepless nights and losing our minds over teething and laundry and what is probably dried poop, you’ve been my safest place. My girlfriend. My person. My wife.”

Jimin looked down at their daughter.

“You gave me her.”

Then back at Minjeong.

“But first—you gave me you. And now I want to give you everything. Again. Every night. Every fight. Every year. Every art show and every quiet morning and every time we get interrupted mid-makeout by our baby screaming bloody murder.”

Minjeong let out a watery laugh.

“So yeah,” Jimin said. “Let’s make it official. Even though it already was. Because if this isn’t marriage, I don’t know what is.”

They kissed before anyone even told them to.

And the second their lips touched, Hana let out a loud wail.

Everyone laughed.

Minjeong picked her up and kissed her forehead too.

Then whispered, “We did it, kiddo. Your moms are married. God help the world.”

---

They danced in the gallery to a song no one else knew. Jimin barefoot, Minjeong with her pants rolled up to her ankles, Hana passed between friends and family while they moved together slowly under the fairy lights.

It wasn’t perfect.

The cake melted a little. The music glitched. Someone spilled soda on a canvas.

But none of that mattered.

Because they were here.

Together.

Paint-streaked. Camera-drunk. Sleep-deprived.

Married.

Forever.

And when the party died down and the guests went home and they were alone again in their messy studio, lying on the futon with Hana curled against Minjeong’s chest, Jimin pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder and whispered:

“Still saying yes?”

Minjeong smiled, even half-asleep.

“Always.”

When Hana suddenly woke up from her sleep in a crying mess, her mumbling mouth suddenly uttered a word.

"Maaaaaa.....Maaaa....."

Now both of them gaze to one another, clueless, surprised, confused.

"Okay, so who's Mama?" Jimin's brows furrowed.

"Definitely not me. I want mine to be Mom."

"Not me either. I want mine Eomma."

After a deep talk about who's mama is while Jimin pats Hana back to sleep, they finally decided Mama is one of the paintings Minjeong hung in her exhibition.

Titled; "Mamacita Naega Aiyayayaya".

THE END