Janaina Medeiros
Cosmic Funnies
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titsay
if i look back, i am lost
Stranger Things
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
izzy's playlists!
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Kiana Khansmith
JBB: An Artblog!
we're not kids anymore.
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@lahbarsaglini
i might have what you want.
Use orange hearts to let me know you enjoy my work. 🧡
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⚓ ATEEZ ※ How he realizes he's into you (member x reader) ⁞ ROMANCE, FLUFF, SLIFE
🧭 STRAY KIDS ※ How he realizes he's into you (member x reader) ⁞ ROMANCE, FLUFF, SLIFE
⚓ ATEEZ ※ The Bottom Line (Wooyoung!idol x oc!corporate) ⁞ SMUT
🧭 STRAY KIDS ※ Runway Hearts (Hyunjin!model x oc!model x Felix!model) ⁞ SMUT
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dividers: @cafekitsune
👑 characters | ateez-ot8 (member x reader format)
💡 plot | a collection of short scenarios imagining how each member of ateez realizes they're falling for you. through small, intimate moments, each story captures the subtle shift from casual connection to something deeper and more personal.
💛 genre | romance, fluff, slice of life, idol AU, soft angst.
🔔 warnings | mild suggestive undertones (very light, mostly emotional), jealousy, possessive behavior (not extreme), emotional vulnerability.
hongjoong
you get in the middle of his work.
the studio table is covered in fabrics—silk folded carefully into neat squares, dark leather strips draped over the edge. sketch papers are scattered everywhere, each one filled with lines and silhouettes.
hongjoong sits hunched over the desk, his pencil tapping lightly against the page as he checks his design for the hundredth time.
he’s supposed to be working on a stage concept. something dramatic, because of course.
through the past few days, he’s been designing with the performance in mind, considering the amount of movement and how the fabric will react under stage spotlights.
but then, something shifts. his pencil moves again.
a long coat. fitted waist. structured shoulders.
then he pauses. his fingers slide over a piece of cloth nearby, rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully.
deep red.
not because it matches the concept.
because he thinks it’d look incredible on you.
he freezes for half a second. why did that thought come up?
still, the idea doesn’t disappear. if anything, it expands. he starts adjusting the design slightly. the neckline becomes softer, the sleeves longer. he adds a belt detail that would sit perfectly against someone’s waist.
your waist.
he exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair for a moment.
this is ridiculous.
but when he leans forward again, well, it's time for accessories now. a ring here, a necklace there. layered chains.
he imagines how it’d look when you move. the way it'd slide over your shoulders when you take it off.
hongjoong stops drawing because it hits him in a strange way.
he didn’t design a stage outfit, he designed something while thinking about how it’d look on you.
he lets out a small laugh under his breath.
yeah, that explains why he’s been paying attention to things he normally wouldn’t.
like the color you wear most often. the way certain textures look against your skin. if you prefer gold or silver.
he looks down at the sketch one more time.
the outfit would definitely make people turn their heads.
but now he knows the real reason he designed it.
because he wants people to know how gorgeous you look.
seonghwa
caring about you becomes automatic.
he's always been attentive. people around him are used to it—the way he notices when someone looks tired, when something small is out of place…
so at first, the way he looks after you doesn’t seem unusual. he asks simple things.
“did you eat today?”
you say yes, and he nods, satisfied. but a few seconds later he asks what you ate, just to make sure.
when it gets colder outside, he reminds you to bring a jacket. he’s not even with you, but will text you for a quick reminder.
when you leave somewhere late at night, he sends a message asking you to share your ride home.
uber link
you laugh a little before typing back.
u always this responsible?
he doesn't even hesitate.
someone has to be
seonghwa tells himself it’s just habit. just the way he is.
until one afternoon he’s walking through a showroom again for work. soft lights illuminate rows of clothes carefully arranged on racks. jackets and dresses hanging perfectly straight.
he’s there because of a new collab with Isabel Marant, listening politely while someone explains the collection and the translator does her job.
seonghwa nods, examining the details with genuine interest.
then he sees it.
a pair of heels displayed on a pedestal.
elegant. sharp. the kind that lengthens someone’s legs effortlessly.
he stops walking.
the thought appears instantly.
"those would look incredible on her."
he blinks.
he imagines it before he can stop himself—the way it’d make your legs look longer when you walk, your hamstrings when you pose for pictures would…
he clears his throat and looks away. he wasn’t thinking about fashion anymore.
later that evening, when he’s back at the hotel, the thought returns while he’s scrolling through his messages to you.
did you eat dinner yet?
how was work?
did you make it home safely?
the questions form in his mind automatically. it kills him not to know.
the pattern finally becomes obvious. it isn’t just politeness anymore. it’s not just habit.
somewhere along the way, making sure you’re okay started to matter more than he realized.
and now he can’t stop noticing it.
he texts his contact from the fashion house.
could i possibly get the heels wrapped in a pretty gift box?
yunho
you become the punchline to every joke he wants to tell.
yunho has always been the type of person that everyone likes, someone that can fill a room with laughter. it’s natural for him. easy. not that he tries too hard or something.
he notices funny things everywhere—awkward moments, stupid comments, the way people react when something unexpected happens. he just wants to be the reason people are smiling.
nothing feels different at first.
you’re just another person in the room.
and then, you say something under your breath.
it’s quiet. almost a throwaway comment about something mildly ridiculous happening nearby.
not everyone hears it, but yunho does.
he bursts out laughing.
not a polite chuckle. a real laugh, the kind that makes him lean forward, covering his mouth while he tries to calm down.
you glance at him, confused.
“what?”
he shakes his head, still smiling.
“nothing.”
but the truth is, that was a damn lie.
there’s something about the way your humor works. you don’t force it. you don’t try too much. your jokes come naturally, sliding into conversations like they belong there.
and they’re never cruel. never the kind of humor that puts someone else down just to get a reaction.
yunho starts noticing it more and more.
the way you deliver a comment with perfect timing.
the way you tilt your head when you realize someone else finally understood the joke.
soon, he catches himself doing something strange.
whenever he thinks of something funny, his eyes automatically search the room looking for you.
because if you laugh, oh, he knows the joke was gooooood.
one afternoon he says something just to lighten the mood. a few people smile.
but yunho isn’t watching them. he’s watching you. again.
for a moment, you just stare at him like you’re processing what he said. then your shoulders shake as you laugh.
he feels something warm spread through his chest.
pride, maybe. or something dangerously close to it.
back in the dorm, he’s thinking about the moment again. he thinks about how your laugh sounds, the way your eyes lit up when you realized the joke.
yunho leans back against the couch, staring at the ceiling with a smile forming on his face.
yeah, that explains it.
making you laugh became his favourite part of the day.
yeosang
your details start staying in his head.
trust me, people are aware that he has never been known for remembering things like this.
schedules? he forgets them.
important events? someone usually reminds him.
even when the members talk about travel plans, he sometimes asks again where they’re going.
it’s normal. everyone laughs about it. it annoys a member or two.
but with you, it's just weird, isn't it?
you’re sitting together when you casually mention something about your week.
“my sister’s birthday is this saturday,” you say, scrolling through your phone. “i still haven’t decided what to get her.”
he nods, listening quietly.
the conversation moves on almost immediately. nothing important about it.
except a few days later, when you see him again.
“got the gift yet?” he asks.
you’re puzzled.
“what gift?”
“for your sister.”
“you remembered that?”
yeosang tilts his head, confused by the surprise.
of course he did.
another time you mention an exam coming up. something you’re a little stressed about, but not making a big deal out of.
a week later, he asks how it went.
you stare at him.
“how do you remember these things?”
yeosang shrugs, like the answer is obvious.
he just…does.
it’s not until someone else forgets the same details that he starts noticing the difference.
your schedule, your little plans, things you mention once and never repeat.
they stay in his mind without an effort.
meanwhile, hongjoong reminds him about the fan sign happening tomorrow and he immediately forgets the time.
that’s when it clicks. not because he puts two and two together, but because wooyoung clocks him.
“ah, he just remembers her, right?”
when he sees you again, he’s sitting quiet while you talk about your upcoming week. you usually do that out loud, while you write on your planner. classes, errands, a family visit.
you stop mid-sentence.
“what?” he asks, resting his chin in his hand.
“you’re staring.”
“oh”.
he looks away for a second, then back at you.
“just listening.”
and he truly is.
he doesn’t exactly know how, but the small details of your life ended up becoming important enough for him to keep.
san
his body reacts before his mind does.
he doesn’t notice it at first.
he’s used to being close to people, laughing, moving around constantly—it’s normal for him. i mean, he surrounds himself with wooyoung.
so when you start appearing around him more often, nothing really feels out of place.
but then one day you’re standing next to him during a conversation.
not even particularly close. just close enough.
close enough that he notices the warmth of your presence beside him.
close enough that he can hear the subtle shifts in your voice when you speak.
san’s attention narrows without him trying.
people are talking around him, someone is explaining something, yunho and jongho are laughing at mingi, but his focus keeps drifting back to you.
you move your hands when you talk.
your shoulder brushes lightly against his when you turn to look at your co-worker.
the contact is small, barely there.
but his skin tingles where it happened.
san shifts his weight, pretending he didn’t notice. and then it happens again.
your arm touches his for a moment while you adjust your position.
the same warm sensation spreads across his chest.
he frowns, confused.
why is he suddenly so aware of you?
he tries to focus on whatever yeosang is telling him.
but then you laugh.
and something about the sound pulls his attention right back.
without thinking, his body leans just a little closer, not enough for anyone else to notice.
but now he can hear you better.
his entire body tingles.
then someone calls your name from across the room and you step away.
immediately, san notices the space you left behind. the warmth disappears. the subtle electricity that had been running through his nerves fades with it.
he looks at the spot where you were standing. that’s when it starts creeping in.
his mind hadn’t caught up, but his body had already figured it out.
it had learned how to recognize you.
and now, everytime you’re close, he feels it.
mingi
your attention starts feeling like something he has to earn.
mingi has never had to think too hard about being noticed.
c’mon, he’s loud when he wants to be, funny without trying too much (sometimes tho), naturally the kind of person people look at when he walks into a room. he’s tall as hell.
attention comes easily. so he never really questions it.
until you.
he tells a story, voice rising at the right moments. people laugh, hongjoong says he’s inventing stuff once again, and everyone is reacting exactly how he expects them to.
but mingi is more worried about you.
waiting.
there’s a second where you’re distracted, glancing down at your phone.
and oh boy, he feels it.
a small pause in his chest.
then you look up, just in time to catch the end of what he said, and laugh.
relief hits him instantly.
he relaxes, smiling like nothing happened.
but he notices it again.
you compliment him—something simple.
“that was really good,” you say during another encounter, nodding after he finishes practicing a few lines of a new song.
mingi shrugs casually, like it doesn’t affect him.
“yeah? thanks.”
you know he’s almost dying inside.
he thinks about it again, the exact way you said it, the tone of your voice, the way you looked at him when you did.
and from that moment on, compliments from anyone else don’t feel quite the same.
he starts noticing something else too.
when you’re paying attention to someone else instead of him—he doesn’t like it.
not in a dramatic way, just a quiet, persistent irritation. you’re just interacting with yunho, anyways.
that’s his friend, he shouldn’t be jealous.
one time, you don’t laugh at one of his stories.
you’re busy, focused on something else entirely.
mingi leans back, arms crossing loosely as he watches you. then he exhales through his nose, looking away.
that’s when it clicks.
it’s not the room he’s trying to entertain anymore.
funny, he makes money out of entertaining people, hundreds, thousands of fans pay to see him, he’s right there and you’re not….
again, it’s you.
your attention became the one that matters the most.
wooyoung
teasing you stops feeling like a game.
we know how he is. playful, affectionate. a little too comfortable, a little too bold.
he flirts without thinking, throws teasing comments like they mean nothing, thrives off reactions.
it’s fun.
it’s always been fun.
and when it comes to you—it’s even better.
you react exactly the way he likes.
rolling your eyes, pushing his arm away, pretending to be annoyed while trying not to smile.
he notices it, for sure.
and just like that, you become his favorite target.
“why you’re always here?” he asks one day, leaning a little too close.
“i was here first.”
he hums, pretending to think about it.
“unfortunate.”
you scoff, giving him the look.
he grins. does it again the next day. and the day after that. the comments get smoother, more deliberate, you know? the kind that sound harmless until you think about them twice.
“you know,” he's glancing at you from the side, “you’d be kinda cute if you talked less.”
you laugh out loud.
“oh, you’re probably talking about yourself.”
his heart literally starts beating oh so fast after you clap back.
this is what he wanted.
your reactions become something he looks for without realizing it.
the way your expression changes, when you try to hide a smile, when you answer him back.
it’s entertaining.
addictive, even.
a few days later you’re talking to someone else. they’re leaning a little too close, smiling a little too much. saying things wooyoung would usually say first.
of course he watches, he’s curious.
then… still. too still.
the conversation drags on longer than he likes.
you laugh, but it’s not funny anymore.
wooyoung crosses his arms, jaw tightening.
the room feels different.
when you finally look at him, he shrugs like nothing’s wrong.
“go ahead,” he says, tone light but just a little off. “have fun with them.”
you frown.
“what?”
“nothing,” he replies quickly, looking away.
but the damage is done.
because for the first time, wooyoung isn’t enjoying the game.
he isn’t teasing. he isn’t laughing.
he’s watching you give someone else the attention he didn’t realize he’d been keeping for himself.
and lord, he’s climbing the walls with jealousy.
jongho
protecting you stops being a choice and becomes instinct.
this man is composed. doesn’t react impulsively, thinks before he speaks, measures situations carefully, keeps his emotions steady even when others don’t.
so when it happens, it surprises even him.
you’re standing nearby, half-listening to a dialogue happening in a small group.
someone makes a comment—careless, not particularly cruel, but just sharp enough to make you pause for a second.
it’s subtle, to be honest. most people don’t even notice.
but jongho does.
he watches the way your expression shifts, then you going quiet for longer than usual.
and before he can think about it—
“Hey. That wasn’t necessary.”
the room stills.
it’s not aggressive. he doesn’t raise his tone or escalate anything.
but it’s enough.
the person shrugs it off, the conversation moves on, and within seconds everything feels normal again.
except for him.
jongho stays quiet after that, listening but not really present.
because something about his reaction doesn’t sit right.
he didn’t think, he just… acted.
why did it bother him so much? it wasn’t a big deal. you didn’t even react strongly.
and yet, he noticed. not just the comment. you.
the way it affected you, even if only slightly.
it wasn’t about the situation, it was about you being uncomfortable. that’s what he couldn’t ignore.
he looks over at you without meaning to.
you’re talking again now, more relaxed.
something in his chest tightens quietly, because now he understands.
your comfort matters to him, more than it should.
hell, more than he expected.
and the fact that he didn’t even hesitate—that’s what gives him away.
👑 characters | skz-ot8 (member x reader format)
💡 plot | a collection of short scenarios where each member of stray kids realizes they're falling for you. these are the small turning points when friendship begins to blur into something deeper, and the heart perceives what it wants before the mind can fully catch up.
💛 genre | romance, fluff, slice of life, idol AU, soft angst.
🔔 warnings | slow burn, emotional vulnerability, a tiny bit of alcohol, very mild angst, implied romantic tension, overthinking/insecurity, mentions of idol lifestyle pressures and long-distance relationship concerns.
bang chan
it finds him between responsibilites, when his guard is lowest.
he’d killed the ceiling lights earlier, to let the studio settle into blue and purple. the colorful LED has always been one of his favourite things about his space whenever he was working by himself.
the track is looping, still unfinished, waiting for him to decide what comes next as he rolls his shoulders back, stretching in his chair. his phone is face-up beside the keyboard. he checks it without thinking.
seen.
no reply.
he knows why. you fall asleep like this often—mid-conversation, the warmth of your bed overtaking you before you can say goodnight. he knows because you always apologize in the morning, even when you don’t need to. he knows you’re tired, because you’ve been getting home later than usual because of work. he knows which days leave you the most drained. he knows you’ve been having trouble waking up even with the alarm on, and he has this sixth sense telling him that you’ve been skipping breakfast.
he knows too much now.
the little things. the patterns.
the way you soften when you’re tired. the way you pretend you’re not.
he types, deletes, types again.
his final decision is that he would never forgive himself if he woke you up because your notification sound was on.
so he lets you sleep. schedules the message instead.
good morning
hope you slept well
no apologies, okay? at least one of us is getting some sleep ㅠㅠ
don’t forget your breakfast
he stares at the screen longer than he should, guilt pressing into his chest.
this is the part where he’s supposed to stop.
he knows what this is becoming, and he knows he can’t let it grow.
it feels like crossing a line and drawing one at the same time.
there’s too much work. responsibility stacked on responsibility. seven people who trust him to stay steady, to stay focused.
so he chooses discipline.
but care still slips through the cracks.
lee know
he's always trusted hiw own rhythm, but it starts quietly syncing to yours.
he’s never thought twice about bending his life around anyone.
he does whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
until he starts following your schedule without noticing.
he’s in the middle of rehearsal one day and doesn’t complain when you text him last minute, saying you’ve got twenty minutes free for a quick bite.
he doesn’t mind eating standing up, doesn’t mind rushing, doesn’t mind both of you checking the time religiously because you have to be in a meeting soon or because he’ll be on a plane in an hour.
he notices it then—how natural it feels. how easy.
none of it bothers him the way it should.
over lunch, he watches you talk with your hands, and the way you wrinkle your nose when you think, honestly, just every detail.
he drops comments that sound casual but aren’t—mentions how he doesn’t like wasting time, how he prefers clarity, how he’s not the type to linger on maybes.
then he looks at you and says it simply, smooth:
“i’m leaving for a bit, because of the event in macao. think about it while i’m gone.”
when you ask "about what?", his mouth curves, just barely.
“when I get back, we’re going out.”
changbin
he's never needed approval, but he starts asking for it.
he’s always trusted himself. his own judgement, his instincts.
then suddenly, he wants your opinion.
if he comes off as intimidating. what he should learn how to cook first. whether he should keep something or throw it out.
he texts you a lot.
should i keep my hair short or do i let it grow?
should i bulk more for the next comeback?
he knows you don’t understand training schedules or muscle groups, but he asks anyway.
it’s not that he doesn’t trust himself anymore, he just uses it as an excuse to talk to you more often.
to turn something serious into something shared.
he shows you his routine, tries to explain things over a video, but it doesn’t work.
somehow, he finds a way to drag you to the gym with him.
as you are doing your own thing, he can’t help but glance your way more often than the mirror.
he can see you’re struggling a little, so he corrects your posture, hands always careful, but lingering for half a second too long.
he gets shy about it, laughs it off, looks away.
but inside, oh boy, he’s glowing.
you didn’t have to be there. he knows you don’t enjoy working out.
but you chose to.
it hits him while he’s dead lifting and he has to stop his rep to sneak one more look while you’re drinking water.
you’re sharing his space, his effort, his passion, even if clumsily.
that sincerity hits him deep.
for someone who’s always been proud of his strength, this feels different, stronger somehow.
not something to prove, but something to offer.
hyunjin
art has always been where he puts the things he can't name.
he only wanted a quiet night.
he texted his favourite florist as soon as his schedule was done.
the flowers were already waiting for him when he got home, fragrant and soft, filling the apartment.
he pours himself a glass of wine, lets that one song from yungblud fade into the background, and sets up his canvas.
his hands move freely. the sketch begins abstract, loose—until it isn’t.
the center of the flower curves into something unmistakable.
your eyes.
he freezes. doesn't know how it happened.
it felt instinctive, like something took over him.
looks over his shoulder to check if changbin isn’t at the door to see what he’s up to.
he laughs under his breath, takes another sip of the alcohol, tells himself it’s nothing.
but he adds the tilt of your gaze, the look you give him when he says something foolish.
leaves it unfinished. black and white.
not important, he tells himself.
jokes on him, he doesn’t sleep.
all night, memories surface without permission—the way the wind moves your hair, the way you tuck it behind your ear, the way you look at him when you’re listening, really listening.
at dawn, he goes back.
dips his brush into watercolor and fills in your exact shade, carefully.
he knows what this feeling is.
he just doesn’t know how to offer it to you without breaking something sacred.
han
it starts with a slip.
you’re fixing your mascara while looking at your phone’s camera, frustration written softly on your face.
without thinking, he says it—pretty.
in korean. out loud.
the silence after is deafening.
you smile. thank him. go back to what you were doing.
he forgets how to breathe.
he tells himself it’s fine. tomorrow will reset him.
well, it doesn’t, joe.
he grows awkward, overthinks his jokes, trips over his own confidence.
embarrasses himself during a game with your group of friends, feels stupid when you laugh—until later, when you pull him aside.
“thank you,” you say. “i had a horrible day. but you made me smile.”
that night, his heart didn’t calm down.
the next day, at rehearsal, he’s useless at hiding it.
someone comments on his smile. he doesn’t bother denying it.
he answers one of the boys with that line you love from your favorite TV show:
“we’re planning a june wedding.”
felix
he's always been careful with people's feelings. yours especially.
your phone buzzes while you’re away, lighting up again and again.
he glances, thinking it might be urgent. he doesn’t mean to read—but the words stick.
your best friend messages you multiple times:
i think this is getting out of hand, sweetie
ur a smart, gorgeous and incredible person
and i know you like him a lot
u clearly care about him in more ways than one
but he’s an idol
he goes out there in the world and meet new people everytime
im not saying he wouldn’t be loyal but-
could you ever do a long distance relationship? can you handle the hate his fans might throw at u if they figure it out?
what if it ruins your friendship? he’s a precious person to you
he understands everything in that moment. he doesn’t want to be the reason you get hurt.
doesn’t want his name, his face, his career to weigh on you like a burden.
so he softens. he’s more careful. chooses his words a little bit better. makes sure you eat, that you get home safe, is aware if you’re not smiling as often.
when you tell him that you need some space, that your exams are coming up (the perfect excuse), he smiles like he always does.
hits you with that:
“good luck ✨ i’ll always be here for you ❤️"
five days pass without a reply from you.
then he realizes—too late—how unfair the situation is for you.
probably thinks too much about it.
plus, his mom told him how easily warmth can be mistaken as something else.
goes over and over about how he feels about you.
does he feel the same?
and then he realizes how he misses you—the absence of your laughter, the way your fingers used to twist his rings when you were thinking...
he wants to be the one you come back to.
his phone lights up again after a week. he glances over without thinking, half-expecting a family call or something urgent because you’ve been silent.
but when he sees your name on the screen, he quickly grabs his phone and secretly prays that you still think of him as more than a friend.
seungmin
it begins with music, the way most things do with him.
he shows you his playlist casually, under the excuse of practice, pretending he just wants something new to rehearse.
he watches your face carefully as you scroll down, as if the songs might reveal something about him he’s not ready to say out loud.
when you hesitate, he nudges you gently. “Just tell me.”
you suggest a hozier track, “work song”, half-joking, unsure of yourself and if it would match his style.
he listens to it as soon as he get home, all the way through. you don’t have to know he rushed his driver thrice.
“very emotional song,” he texts you that night, and nothing else.
oh, but he spends the week rearranging it instead.
he’s busy testing harmonies, adjusting keys, wondering why this particular song won’t let him go anymore.
he records a version that feels like his, but also, somehow, like it’s meant for you.
well, you were the one to suggest the song after all.
right? “right, seungmin?” he asks himself.
when he sends you the file, he checks his phone obsessively and that’s something that chan clocks it.
he doesn’t give a shit if his band mates are making fun of him for keeping his eyes on the screen.
he knows you don’t understand music the way he does. he’s very much aware that you don’t know the first thing about technique, so your feedback won’t be precise.
still, he waits.
it’s not validation he’s craving, but connection.
your reaction, your thoughts.
and somewhere between checking the phone and replaying your voice in his head, he realizes:
he wants to know what you felt listening to him.
about the song, of course.
but, maybe… also about him?
i.n
he listens to you talk about your life—the ordinary parts, the parts he never had.
about deadlines and professors, about coworkers who frustrate you, about dreams that feel both close and impossibly far away.
your life sounds steady, grounded in ways his never was.
he’s been on the road since he was a kid—training rooms, stages, airports—always forward, always watched.
he admires how seriously you take your future, how you build something brick by brick while he’s been living in moments.
it inspires him more than he’s ready to admit.
he starts wondering what it would be like to exist beside you, not under lights, not as someone people point at.
just as himself. just as a man.
then doubt creeps in.
you’re incredible—driven, capable, whole.
he wonders what he could offer you beyond stories and absence. wonders if he’s grown in the right ways, or just the visible ones.
and that’s when he knows.
he wants to become someone who can walk at your pace.
he wants to become someone worthy of growing with you.
not ahead or behind you, of course—but together.
Want to be touched in the nastiest most possessive way and also don’t want to be touched at all
© ca._. | do not edit and/or crop logo
fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.
it's called fanfic because it's the fans who fix what canon can't
the bottom line
pairing: wooyoung!idol x oc!corporate
plot: Evelyn Min-hee Kang is a woman who dismantles corporate crises with a single phone call. Jung Wooyoung is one of the world’s most magnetic performers. They are the ultimate power couple, perfectly in sync. But after twenty days apart, the kitchen of her Seoul apartment isn't big enough for both her looming $5 million deadline and her boyfriend’s desperate need for attention.
warning: D/s relationship, dominant oc, submissive Wooyoung, bratting, power exchange, intimacy, praise/degradation, humiliation, man-shaming (don’t know if that’s a thing), restraint (leash and chains involved), sensation play (olfactory, visual and tactile stimulation), oral sex, cum eating, pet play, raw humping, impact play (slapping), forced orgasms, lace gag (underwear used).
Evelyn Kang lived her life in intervals of fifteen minutes.
As a Senior Associate for Aegis Global Strategy, her brain was a constant split-screen of data. On the left, the cold, hard metrics of South Korean trade law; on the right, the aggressive demands of European luxury conglomerates. Being mixed-race and female in the mahogany-row boardrooms of Seoul meant she didn't have the luxury of being "good."
She had to be undeniable.
It was a trait she inherited from her parents—a high-stakes Asian diplomat father and a British venture capitalist mother who’d raised her between London and Seoul. They hadn't just given her two names; they had given her two worlds, and the steel required to rule both.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the skyline of Seoul, casting long shadows across her minimalist apartment. It was a space of glass, concrete, and expensive silence, until the keypad on her front door chirped.
Min-hee didn’t look up from her laptop. She was currently drowning in a logistics nightmare. A massive shipment of exclusive launch products got held up in customs due to a regulatory filing error. If the products didn't clear out by Monday morning, the $5 million launch event in Shanghai and Seoul wouldn't have inventory.
"I’m home!"
The voice was like a burst of color in a grayscale room.
Jung Wooyoung entered with the kind of kinetic energy that only a world-class performer could possess. He had a black mask on and a cap pulled low to hide his distinctive features, but there was no hiding the way he moved. He was carrying two heavy bags of groceries, the scent of fresh scallions and premium beef trailing behind him.
"I got the Hanwoo¹ beef," he announced, kicking off his shoes and padding into the kitchen in his socks. "And the specific peppers you like, the ones that are actually spicy. The ajumma² at the market recognized me, I think, but I made a run for it."
"Mhm. Glad you made it safely," Min-hee murmured. Her fingers didn't stop moving across the keys. She was busy finding a legal loophole to bypass the delay.
Their relationship was an anomaly. They'd met thirteen months ago at a private gallery opening. Wooyoung, drawn to the woman who looked like she could buy and sell everyone in the room, had been the one to approach her. He’d expected a fan; he got a woman who asked him if his group’s touring model was scalable in the Southeast Asian market.
He’d fallen for her intellect first, but their dynamic had solidified the first time she looked at him over her glasses and told him to sit down and be quiet while she finished a report. He realized then that while the world bowed to him, he desperately wanted to bow to her. She provided the only thing his life lacked: a boundary he couldn't cross without permission.
For the past year, they had operated like two satellites in separate orbits that occasionally collided with spectacular heat. Because they were both obsessed with their crafts, they never fought about the idol or the corporate life. She didn't mind the months apart; he didn't mind that she sometimes took business calls during their rare dates.
They were equals in ambition, but in the silence of her apartment, they preferred a different geometry.
Wooyoung began unloading the groceries, moving with practiced grace. He looked over at her, his eyes softening. She was still in her work clothes—a black fitted shirt, hair up in a sharp bun, and her gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.
"I'm making the Bulgogi³ first," Wooyoung said, trying to catch her eye. "Then the stew. I want you to actually eat a full meal tonight, noona⁴. No protein bars or cold coffee."
"That sounds lovely, Wooyoung."
That was her 'work' voice—distracted, efficient, polite.
Wooyoung paused, his hand hovering over a bundle of green onions. He hated that voice. It was the voice she used for her juniors at Aegis. He wanted the woman who looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I'm starting now," he said, a little more pointedly. "The show starts in the kitchen. You might want to see me doing my thing."
Min-hee finally glanced up, but only for a second. A notification popped up on her screen—a red-flag alert from the Brussels office. "Just keep going, baby. I’m listening."
She wasn't. And they both knew it.
[;]
The kitchen was a symphony of escalating noise.
Wooyoung wasn’t just cooking anymore; he was performing. He slammed the refrigerator door a little harder than necessary. He hummed the melody of the title track from a new album, his voice vibrating through the open-plan living room, intentionally loud and pitch-perfect.
At the dining table, Min-hee didn’t move. Her spine was in a very straight line.
“Klaus, if the Shanghai port authority doesn’t see that permit in the next hour, I’m pulling our investment from the Q3 launch,” she said into the mic, her English cold and flawless. “Do not tell me about the weekend. My time is more expensive than your excuses.”
Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. He usually found the 'Evelyn' side of her incredibly sexy—the cold, calculating brilliance was part of why he adored her—but tonight, he was greedy. He wanted Min-hee. He picked up a stainless steel bowl and set it down on the marble counter with a resonant clang.
“Oops,” he chirped, though there was no apology in his eyes. He leaned over the counter, peering at her over the top of his cutting board. “Did that disrupt the big, important deal, Min-hee-ah⁵? Maybe if you weren't so focused on China, you’d notice the kitchen is getting quite hot.”
Min-hee’s fingers paused. The use of -ah instead of noona was a deliberate strike, a lack of honorifics that signaled his transition into brat territory.
“I’m on a conference call,” she said, her voice dropping.
“And I’m on a date,” he shot back, walking toward the table and invading the sanctuary of her workspace. “I’ve been here for forty minutes. You’ve said exactly fourteen words to me. Is that the ROI you expected for tonight?”
He reached out, his fingers hovering over her laptop lid. She didn't flinch.
“Excuse me for a second,” she said into her earbud. She muted the call and removed the device from her ear, setting it slowly on the table.
The silence that followed was deafening. She adjusted her glasses, the gold frames catching the light as she looked up. Her eyes were two sharp, unreadable points of focus behind the lenses.
“You’re bored, Wooyoung?” she asked, her voice dangerously dragging the sentence.
“I’m neglected,” his hand had already dropped away from her laptop.
The weight of her gaze made his heart hammer.
“You’re being loud, disruptive, and frankly, quite irritating,” she said, crossing her legs. “I gave you the privilege of my company tonight. I allowed you to be here while I worked because I thought you were mature enough to handle shared silence. It seems I over-estimated you.”
She didn't stand up. She didn't even keep looking at him. Instead, Min-hee clicked the "unmute" button on her laptop, and slid her earbud back into place with a chillingly graceful movement.
"Klaus, I’m back. As I was saying, the liability falls on the carrier, not the client. Check the force majeure clause again," her voice returned to that crisp, professional language as if Wooyoung hadn't just been standing there, vibrating with defiance.
Wooyoung felt the air leave his lungs. He was left standing in the wake of her dismissal. The neglect he’d complained about had just been codified into a punishment. By not getting up, by not engaging in the fight he was trying to pick, she’d effectively rendered him invisible again, but with an added layer of ice.
He slunk back to the kitchen island. His heart was still hammering, but the rhythm had changed from bold to anxious.
He picked up the knife again, but he wasn't performing anymore. He sliced the scallions with surgical precision, the tap-tap-tap of the blade the only thing competing with her voice. He was desperate to make another noise, to drop a pan, to say something else that would make her look up, but the weight of her earlier words—loud, disruptive, irritating—clamped his jaw shut.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
The Bulgogi was searing in the pan, the sweet and savory aroma filling the room, but it felt like ash in his mouth. He looked over at her. She had her chin resting in one hand, her eyes scanning lines of text, her other hand occasionally clicking the mouse. She looked beautiful, untouchable, and completely indifferent to his presence.
He couldn't take the silence anymore. He needed to know if he was still in trouble or if he was simply... nothing right now.
He plated a small portion of the beef on a tasting dish. He walked over to the table, his steps soft and hesitant. He didn't speak. He just set the small plate down near her mouse pad, the steam rising between them.
Min-hee didn't look at the food, nor did she pause her reading.
"I didn't give you permission to approach the table again, Wooyoung," her voice sounded low, directed at the screen, though she was clearly speaking to him and not Klaus. Surely, her voice had to be on mute, right?
"I just wanted you to taste it," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "To make sure it’s right. For you."
"I'll decide if it's right when I'm ready to eat," she replied. She finally turned her head, her dark eyes pinning him to the floor. "The fact that you’re still hovering tells me you haven't processed a word I said. You’re still looking for a way to interrupt me."
"I'm not—"
"Go back to the stove," she commanded, cutting him off. "Finish the meal. Turn the burners off. And then, since you’re so eager to be 'seen,' you can stay right there, perfectly still, and watch me work until I'm finished. If I hear one more hum, one more clatter, or one more 'noona,' you won't be eating at this table tonight at all. Do you understand?"
Wooyoung felt a flush creep up his neck. The service part of him sparked—the part that lived to obey her—but the brat was still simmering underneath, pushed to the edge by her coldness.
"Yes," he murmured.
"Yes, what?"
He swallowed hard, his hands clenching at his sides. "Yes, Mistress."
"Good. Now get out of my sight and be useful."
He retreated. He finished the stew in a daze, his movements forced and robotic. When the last burner was clicked off, he did exactly as he was told. He stood by the counter, hands folded in front of him, and watched her.
He watched the way her eyes moved. He watched the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The more he watched Evelyn and the sheer, unyielding power of her mind, the more he felt that familiar, heavy ache in his chest. He wanted to crawl under that table and rest his head on her feet. He wanted her to stop being the damn senior associate and start being his owner.
He lasted exactly five minutes of standing still before his knee started to twitch.
He was an idol, a dancer; he was made of movement. The stillness was its own kind of torture.
Evelyn knew it. She could see him in her peripheral vision—his chest heaving slightly, his eyes locked on her with a mix of devotion and desperation. She let him simmer. She let him feel every second of her intentional silence until she finally reached the end of her document.
She typed one last sentence, hit “send”, reached for her glasses, took them off, and set them on top of the closed laptop.
"Wooyoung," she called for him, her voice now devoid of the corporate edge, replaced by something much more intimate and much more terrifying. "Go fetch your leash."
The command was quiet, but it filled the apartment. Wooyoung didn’t move for a heartbeat, his brain short-circuiting at the sudden, direct shift into the dynamic he had been begging for.
"Now.”
He winced, bowed his head in a silent apology, and hurried toward the bedroom.
In her room, he fumbled with the bottom drawer of her nightstand. His fingers were shaking. This was the ritual. The leather was heavy in his hand, the metal clip clinking softly. He took a second to breathe, his forehead resting against the cool wood of the dresser. He was an idol, a star, a man who performed for thousands, but here, the weight of a simple leather strap was enough to make him feel small and perfectly cared for.
He hurried back to the living room.
Min-hee was still sitting in her chair, her legs crossed, but she had turned it to face the center of the room. She was waiting.
Wooyung moved toward her with caution. Every step was a silent plea. When he reached the edge of the table, he didn't wait for her to tell him to drop. He sank to his knees on the floor, his hands resting on his thighs, his head bowed just enough to show her the vulnerable line of his neck.
The woman reached out and took the leash from his hands. She didn't put it on him yet. Instead, she used the end of the strap to tilt his chin up.
The kitchen was silent, save for the ticking of the old wall clock and the distant hum of the city.
"Do you know why I'm making you do this?"
"Because I was...," he whispered. "I was loud and I didn't wait."
"You were selfish," she corrected. "You decided your need for a kiss was more important than the five million dollars I was trying to save. You forgot that I am the one who decides when you get to be seen."
She leaned forward, her hand moving from the leash to his neck, thumb pressing firmly against his windpipe, just enough to make him focus entirely on her.
"You've been acting like a brat because you think my work is your competition. It's not. My work is what allows me to provide this incredible kitchen for you to cook for me. And your job," she leaned in until her lips brushed his ear, "is to be my peace. Not my headache."
She let go, the leash coiling in her lap, sitting back in her chair. She picked up the tasting plate he’d brought her earlier—the piece of Hanwoo beef that had been sitting there, growing cold, as a testament to his earlier impatience.
She picked up the silver chopsticks and took a slow, deliberate bite. She chewed thoughtfully, her eyes fixed on the top of his head.
"It's over-seasoned," she said simply.
Wooyoung’s shoulders slumped. A small, pained sound escaped his throat. "I’m sorry. I was... I was distracted."
"No, Wooyoung. No. You’re wrong again. You were emotional," she sat the dish back down with a sharp clink. "You were so desperate to be heard that you forgot the most basic rule of your service: your feelings do not dictate the quality of the work you do for me. If you’re cooking for me, I expect your best. Not a temper tantrum in a bowl."
Evelyn let go of the chopsticks loudly as a sign of her disappointment.
"Look at you," she murmured, hand gesturing toward him. "The great Jung Wooyoung. Thousands of people would give anything just to be in the same zip code as you, and here you are, pouting on my floor because I didn't clap when you chopped an onion."
"I just missed you," he whispered, his voice thick. "It's been so long, noona."
"Evelyn," she hissed, the name a reminder of the barrier he’d tried to break earlier. "The woman who pays the bills and closes the deals is the one you interrupted. You don't get to choose which version of me you get, Wooyoung. You get all of me, or you get nothing. And when I’m Evelyn, you are a ghost until I decide otherwise."
Wooyoung felt stripped bare. Under the sharp focus of her eyes, every desperate thought he’d had over the last hour—the need to be touched, the frustration of being ignored, the thrill of her coldness—felt exposed. He felt like one of her spreadsheets, a mess of data she was currently deconstructing with terrifying efficiency.
Without breaking eye contact, Min-hee reached for the tasting plate once again. She picked up a piece of the Hanwoo beef, but she didn’t offer it to him directly. Instead, she placed the glistening, over-salted meat right in the center of her palm.
"Taste it.”
Wooyoung’s throat bobbed. He didn’t pick up the food; he knew better. He had to lean forward, bowing his head deeply until his face was hovering over her skin. It was an act of total supplication.
"Everything," she prompted, her fingers curling slightly as if to beckon him closer. "Don't leave a single grain of salt on my skin, Wooyoung. I want you to feel exactly how much you overcompensated."
He lowered his head further, his tongue darting out to take the meat from her hand. As she’d said, it was bitter—the salt was abrasive, a reminder of his frantic, emotional state while cooking. But as he chewed and swallowed, he didn't pull away.
He began to lick her palm. He was meticulous, his tongue swiping over the lines of her hand to clear away the remains of the sauce and the stray bits of pepper. He felt the power of the moment settle deep in his bones—the world-famous idol, kneeling on a kitchen floor, cleaning his mistress’s hand like a common hound.
Min-hee watched him, her thumb occasionally stroking the side of his cheek as he worked.
"Good,” she didn't pull her hand away immediately, but she let it rest against his lips for a second.
"The dinner is ruined for me now," she looked down at him. "My appetite for food is gone, but my appetite for a well-behaved submissive is very much present."
Her fingers closed around the leather strap she’d ordered him to fetch.
Wooyoung didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned into her space, his breath hitching as she brought the collar around his neck. She buckled it with practiced, efficient movements, pulling it just tight enough to be a reminder of who he belonged to.
"You wanted my attention," her thumb brushed over the pulse point now trapped beneath the leather. "Now you have it. All of it."
She wrapped the excess length of the lead around her hand, shortening the distance between them until he was forced to look up at her.
"Crawling is too good for you right now," she decided. "I think I’d like to see you struggle to keep up."
She got up, turned on her heel and began to walk.
She didn't look back to see if he was ready. She simply moved, the lead snapping taut. Wooyoung gasped, his hands flying to the floor to catch his balance as he was yanked forward. He had to scramble on his hands and knees, the polished marble floor slick beneath his palms as he struggled to maintain the pace.
Min-hee walked with the same confident stride she used in the halls of Aegis Global—purposeful and unyielding. The sound of her heels acted as a metronome for his humiliation.
"Keep up, pet.”
She led him through the hallway, past the expensive art and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city and the Han River. Wooyoung felt the slight burn of the leather against his throat, and the absolute, crushing weight of his own devotion. He was being dragged through his girlfriend’s apartment like a disobedient animal.
As they reached the door of the master bedroom, Min-hee finally slowed, but she didn't stop. She pulled the lead upward, forcing him to keep his head high even as his body remained low.
"In," she said, gesturing to the dim, sprawling room.
The bedroom was an extension of Min-hee herself: expensive, beautiful artwork, and navy blue decorations. The only light came from the city’s neon pulse reflecting against the dark glass in a way that made the room feel like a private sanctuary suspended above the world.
She walked to the center of the room, standing at the foot of the king-sized bed, and finally turned to look down at him.
"Sit.”
Wooyoung settled back on his heels. The pants he wore had protected his skin, but the heat of the friction still could be felt through the fabric. He looked up at her.
She looked like she’d just stepped out of a boardroom, and that was exactly what made the play⁶ so overwhelming for him.
"You’ve had a lot to say tonight, Wooyoung," she began. "You wanted to talk about ROI⁷. You wanted to talk about my time. So, let’s audit your performance."
She gave the leash a short, sharp tug, bringing his face inches from her knees.
"You’re a world-class idol. You’re trained to be perfect. To be precise. And yet, the moment you step into this apartment, you become this… messy, needy thing." She reached down, her fingers grazing the leather collar. "Do you think you’re special enough that I should drop a multi-million dollar deal just because you’re pouting in my kitchen?"
"No." he whispered, the word caught in his throat.
"Speak up. I can't hear you over the sound of your ego."
"No, Mistress," he said more clearly, his head bowing in shame.
"Correct. You aren't. In that world out there, you’re a star. But in here?" she stared into his soul. "In here, you are a distraction. A beautiful, disobedient distraction that I haven't decided if I want to keep around for the rest of the night."
She let go of the leash, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud.
"Strip," her tone sounded utterly bored. "Slowly. I want to see exactly what’s been making you so arrogant tonight. Every piece of clothing folded perfectly on the chair."
Wooyoung’s fingers flew to the hem of his hoodie. He worked with trembling precision, his eyes never leaving the floor. He felt the cool air of the room hit his skin, but the heat of her gaze kept him burning. He was being deconstructed, piece by piece, by the only person who knew that his greatest desire wasn't to be worshipped, but to be completely, utterly owned.
When he was down to his boxers, kneeling at her feet, Min-hee used the toe of her designer heel to tilt his chin up.
"Better," she murmured, analyzing him. "Now, tell me, Wooyoung. What are you?"
He stared up at her, the toe of her heel firm, forcing him into a posture of forced pride that clashed with the utter submission in his eyes.
"I'm nothing," he whispered, his voice cracking.
Min-hee’s eyes narrowed. She didn't look satisfied. "Wrong answer. I don't keep 'nothing' in my bedroom. Try again. What are you?"
Wooyoung swallowed hard. He knew what she wanted to hear. She wanted the truth that existed beneath the layers of his fame.
"I'm yours," he said, his voice gaining a desperate strength. "I'm a nuisance. I'm a pet who doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut when his owner is busy."
“A nuisance," she repeated, the word tasting like a good cold wine on her tongue. "A noisy, demanding little pet who thinks he’s the center of my life. You’re lucky I find you more entertaining than the Chinese maritime code, Wooyoung. Barely."
She retracted her foot, but before he could drop his head, she reached down and grabbed the leash again, coiling it around her hand until she was practically pulling his face into the fabric of her trousers. She smelled like the office—sharp, successful, and entirely out of his reach.
"You wanted my attention so badly that you were willing to break my rules for it," her voice vibrated against his forehead. "Well, you have it. And since you’re so fond of being loud, let’s see how well you can stay silent."
She sat on the edge of the bed with legs crossed.
"Boxers off. Fold them. Then, you're going to stay on your knees, eyes on the floor, while I finish my work. If you move, if you make a single sound, or if you even look at me without permission, I will put that collar back in the drawer and you will spend the night in the guest room."
Wooyoung stripped the final layer of his clothing, and did exactly as he was told. He returned to his position at her feet, his knees pressing into the plush rug, his forehead nearly touching her expensive shoes.
"Eyes down," she reminded him, her voice already regaining that distant, corporate chill.
She grabbed her phone on the nightstand, her thumb beginning to scroll through a small set of emails.
Wooyoung stayed perfectly still. The ache in his knees was nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of belonging. He was stripped, shamed, and ignored. He was at the feet of the only woman who didn't care about his fame—the only woman who was strong enough to make him be still.
Ten minutes passed and Min-hee didn't look at him once.
Finally, he heard the soft click of her phone being locked.
"Good boy," she whispered, the praise hitting him like a physical blow. Her cool fingers finally made contact with his bare shoulder, tracing the line of his collarbone with a possessive, slow touch.
"You did very well, pet. Now, I think it’s time I rewarded your silence."
A long, shuddering sigh of relief escaped Wooyoung’s lips. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment as his imagination began to run wild, painting vivid, desperate pictures of what was to come. He wanted this—needed this—so badly that he found himself nodding fervently, his head bobbing in a rapid affirmation of his compliance.
"Take off my pants," she commanded. "But leave the shoes on."
Wooyoung’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sense of wonder. There was a profound, aching joy he found in being useful to her. He lived for the moments where she demanded he perform tasks she was perfectly capable of doing herself.
His hands reached out, trembling slightly as they found the curve of her waist. He paused there for a few long seconds, allowing his fingertips to memorize the dip of her hips through the fabric. Slowly, he moved to the fastening of her slacks. Then, he unbuttoned them and eased the zipper down. She shifted, lifting her hips just enough for him to slide the garment down her legs and away, leaving her skin exposed.
As the fabric fell away, Wooyoung’s mouth parted in a silent "O" of adoration. To him, she possessed the most beautiful legs in the world. The sharp arch of her feet and the lean muscle of her calves were perfectly accentuated by the pointed-toe stilettos she still wore.
His gaze traveled upward again, drinking in the intoxicating sight: the sleek black Louboutins, her bare legs, the intricate pattern of her black lace underwear, and the way her long-sleeved blouse clung to her torso like a second skin. Even with her hair pinned back in a professional style, she looked like a masterpiece.
The sight was enough to make his throat go dry, and he instinctively licked his lips.
Evelyn watched him with an unreadable expression. She adjusted her wrist on the leash of his collar, and supported herself with her hands behind her back on the mattress. Slowly, she spread her legs.
“Closer.”
Wooyoung moved on his knees until he was positioned directly between her thighs, his eyes locked onto the delicate black lace. Evelyn didn’t make him wait long. With a firm tug on the leash, she pulled him forward.
"I said closer.”
Wooyoung gasped as his face was pulled flush against her. The tip of his nose got pressed into the heated center of her underwear. The sensation was overwhelming; the fabric was slightly rough against his skin, but the heat radiating from her was liquid and so inviting.
He took a deep, shaky breath, filling his lungs with her, feeling the intoxicating scent of her own arousal. The warmth of her breath fanned over the top of his head, and he felt a primal urge to bury himself deeper into her pussy.
As he knelt there, he perceived her hand sink into his hair.
It was a strange, beautiful contrast: the dominance of the collar and the command, paired with the softness of her touch. Wooyoung let out a whimpering sigh against the lace, his eyes fluttering shut as he surrendered entirely to her. He felt like a devotee at an altar.
"Good boy," her voice vibrated through his very bones. "Stay right there."
The tension in the room thickened as Min-hee’s fingers tightened their grip on his hair. She wasn't satisfied with mere proximity; she wanted total immersion. With a sudden, forceful downward pressure, she guided his head deeper, shoving his face firmly into the cradle of her thighs.
Wooyoung’s breath hitched as his nose sank into the black lace. He could feel the dampness beginning to seep through the panties, the undeniable evidence of her reaction to him, and the sensation made his blood roar in his ears.
His balance faltered under the weight of her hand and the intensity of the contact. Blindly, his hands scrambled across the sheets, palms landing on the mattress on either side of her hips, his fingers curling into the fabric as he braced himself. He needed the support to keep from collapsing entirely under the sheer sensory overload.
The more he tried to inhale, the more he was met with her against the tip of his nose and lips. Every time he exhaled, his own hot breath bounced off her skin and back onto his face.
Evelyn didn't let up. She kept his face pinned there, her palm heavy on the back of his head, forcing him to smell her panties.
"Don't move. Just breathe me in. I want you to know exactly who you belong to."
He let out a muffled, broken sound against her cunt—a plea or a thank you, he didn't even know which—as he squeezed the bedsheets tighter, his knuckles turning white as he surrendered.
To Wooyoung, the scent of her pussy was a drug, a potent and intoxicating nectar that he’d spent countless nights craving. Being allowed this close was both his greatest reward and his most delicious torture. He loved the way her strength felt.
Driven by hunger, he began to lose his composure. The barrier of the underwear wasn't enough; he wanted to dissolve into her, to crawl inside her warmth and never leave.
His head began to move, nuzzling and grinding his face against her, his movements clumsy and impatient as he tried to find a way to bridge the final millimeter of distance.
Suddenly, the comforting weight of her hand turned into a sharp, corrective force. Min-hee gripped his hair and yanked his head back and his neck snapped.
Then, the sharp crack of her palm meeting his cheek echoed through the room.
The sting was immediate and it shocked the air right out of his lungs. He stared up at her, dazed, his eyes wide and watering from the impact, his cheek already beginning to flush a deep crimson.
"I didn't tell you to move," her gaze dropped to the dampened lace he'd just been fumbling against.
"See? You’re being impatient again, pet. And since you're so eager to taste me, you can stay right there," Min-hee decided. "Lick it. Every inch of it. I want it soaked, but you’re not supposed to touch a single part of my skin. Got it?"
Wooyoung felt a shiver of pure ecstasy. His tongue flicked out, trembling as it made the first contact with the intricate webbing of the sexy underwear. It was rough against the sensitive muscle of his tongue, but he knew very well about the velvet heat of the skin laying just beneath. His mind narrowed down to the repetitive motion he was doing. He worked the fabric with devotion, tracing the floral patterns and the delicate mesh until the black threads began to darken and cling to her skin from the moisture.
Every time his tongue pressed a bit too hard, trying to feel her through the barrier, he remembered the sting on his cheek and checked himself. He was hyper-aware of her gaze on him, and the pressure of his own arousal was becoming a dull, thumping ache, but he didn't dare reach for it.
His reaction was one of total, pathetic surrender. A soft, broken whimper vibrated in his throat with every swipe of his tongue. He looked like a man possessed, his eyes rolled back slightly, lost in the ritual of his own debasement.
Evelyn watched him from above, her expression a mask of aristocratic boredom that hid a mounting flicker of satisfaction. She kept one hand buried in his hair, her fingers occasionally tightening or tugging his head to a different angle to ensure he didn't miss a single spot. Seeing him so reduced—so focused on the simple, humiliating act of soaking her underwear—pleased her deeply.
She liked the way his shoulders shook, the way he looked up at her through his lashes with absolute worship.
"Don't stop. I want to feel every wet stroke. Make it heavy, Wooyoung. Show me how much you missed eating this pussy.”
She shifted her hips slightly, pressing herself harder against his face, asserting her control and forcing him to work even harder to maintain his rhythm.
Minutes turned into an eternity. Wooyoung’s jaw began to ache, and his tongue felt raw from the constant friction, but he didn't falter. He couldn't. Never.
He was completely spent, his body trembling with a fatigue that was purely psychological. The sensory overload—the smell of her, the taste of the expensive underwear, and the muffled sounds of his own desperation—had pushed him to the brink of a trance. Tears of sheer overstimulation pricked at the corners of his eyes, trailing down his flushed cheeks and disappearing into the damp lace.
Evelyn could feel his heart racing through the pulse in his face. She had broken his composure entirely, leaving him raw and hollowed out, waiting for a mercy he didn't deserve.
Finally, she felt the fabric become heavy and soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin.
"Enough.”
He froze. Her hand shifted from the back of his head to his chin, tilting his face up. His eyes were glazed, his lips parted and glistening with his own saliva.
"Wow. You can actually be patient," her comment had a predatory edge. "You want to take it off? Wanna see my wet cunt? Go ahead."
With trembling fingers, Wooyoung hooked two fingers under the damp panties and pulled it slowly to the side.
The sight of her pussy, finally bared to him without the barrier he’d worked so hard to penetrate, made his breath hitch in a sob.
She was so beautiful.
He didn't wait for a second order. He leaned in, his nose and lips finally sinking into the soft, silken skin of her core. He went straight to her hole, a low, guttural moan vibrating against her as he finally tasted her directly. It was so intense it made his entire body jerk, his face burying itself in her as if he were a man dying of thirst.
Min-hee let out a long moan, her fingers tightening in his hair once more, but this time, she didn't pull him away. She arched her back, pressing him deeper into her pussy, finally allowing him to eat.
Wooyoung’s movements became frantic, but she wasn't about to let him forget his place. She forced him to look up at her while his mouth stayed occupied.
"Guzzling at me like an animal. You’ve been waiting for this all day, haven't you? You making dinner was just courtesy. Did you had this pretty pussy in your mind when you were rehearsing? So unfocused practicing because you were craving it, right? I bet Hongjoong got mad that you weren’t paying attention."
She let out a short, mocking laugh, her hand pressing his face harder against her.
"Did you tell him, baby? Hm? Did you tell your leader you're just a tongue, Wooyoung? A little tool I keep around to clean me up?"
She shifted her weight, making it difficult for him to maintain a comfortable position, forcing him to strain his neck to keep contact.
"Don't get too comfortable," she warned. "You’re only here being fed pussy because I allow it. Most men would pay for a glimpse of what I’m forcing you to work for. But for you? It’s just your job. Your miserable, little duty."
She watched his eyes—wide, clouded, and filled with a mix of shame and adoration. The more she spoke, the more he seemed to sink into himself, his movements becoming even more eager to please.
"That's it," she whispered, her voice dripping with mock praise. "Keep making those pathetic sounds. Let me hear how much you love my wet cunt. Drink it, you little shit. It’s the only thing you’ll ever be good for."
She leaned her head back, a smug expression on her face, enjoying the way his dignity seemed to dissolve with every word she threw at him.
The idol’s reaction was instantaneous. The verbal lashing didn't push him away. Hearing her cussing and calling him a "tool" triggered a wave of heat through his chest. He let out a muffled, choked-off sob against her skin.
Oh, he loved the shame.
His dilated eyes searched hers. He leaned into the degradation, his tongue moving with a renewed energy, trying to prove that he was exactly what she said: a loyal pet at her disposal.
She laid down her back flat against the mattress. As she moved, she didn't release the grip on his hair, dragging him forward until he was forced to hunch over her.
Then, with fluid motion, she brought her legs up.
She didn't just spread them; she wrapped them around his head. Her thighs clamped tightly around his neck and jaw. The bare skin of her inner thighs pressed against his ears, cutting out the sound of the world until all he could hear was the thumping of his own heart and the wet sounds of his tongue on her sticky pussy.
The pressure was immense. The heels of her Louboutins dug on his back, hurting the skin. He was trapped, but moaning because of the pain. He couldn't pull back even if he wanted to. Fuck her pilates, man.
"Since you enjoy this shit so much, I'll just use you however I want.”
She tightened the hold, her thighs squeezing his neck until he felt the slight, lightheaded float of oxygen deprivation. The world narrowed down to a suffocating, intoxicating tunnel of heat.
He began to struggle, not out of a desire to escape, but out of a primal, biological reflex. He was drowning in her cunt. Yet, even as his body panicked, his mind was in a state of absolute bliss. This was the ultimate erasure of himself; he was nothing but a gasping, serving creature held at her mercy.
"Don't you dare stop," Min-hee hissed, feeling the tension in his neck. "Use that tongue, Wooyoung. Earn your air."
The command galvanized him. Despite the lightheadedness and the crushing weight of her thighs, he redoubled his efforts. He worked with a feverish, desperate rhythm, his tongue sweeping over her. He was chasing her climax as if it were his own life-raft.
Evelyn’s composure finally began to fracture. The cool, calculated mask slipped as she felt the relentless heat wave. Her breath became jagged, her fingers moving from his hair to the headboard, gripping the wood until it groaned.
"Yeah.. just like that," she moaned, her hips rolling against his face. “You’re so good at this, baby boy. Born to eat pussy, so hungry for it.”
Her legs tightened one last time, nearly cutting off his breath entirely as she cummed hard. Wooyoung felt the sudden, violent tension in her muscles. She let out a loud moan, her body shaking.
For several long seconds, he was completely buried, feeling the aftershocks of her pleasure ripple through her body and into his very bones. He stayed perfectly still, even as his lungs screamed for oxygen, waiting for the unspoken permission to breathe again.
Finally, the weight of her thighs relented, but only to transition into a different kind of entrapment. His girlfriend’s fingers tangled in the collar of his leash to haul him upward. The artist, limp and dazed, collapsed onto her chest like a broken doll.
She let him lie there for a moment, his breath hot against her neck. Her hand moved to his face, her thumb tracing over his swollen, reddened lips—lips that were still glistening from his service.
"So pretty," she whispered to him. "Even when you're falling apart. You look like a mess, baby. My perfect, pathetic little mess."
Min-hee noted the way he still trembled against her. Her eyes dropped lower, tracing his hard cock pressing against her. She let out a soft, mocking hum.
"Eager boy. After I've used you until you're breathless?" She pinched his lower lip between her fingers. "You really love getting fucked up, hm? No dignity left at all."
She gripped his shoulders and rolled him, straddling him, pinning his hips down with her weight. Before he could even register the shift, she reached for the headboard.
Right on top of the bedframe, there were two ornaments shaped like silver circles. Discreet, but not to them. When she pulled, two heavy, polished steel chains showed up, each one ending in a sturdy carabiner.
"Open your arms.”
Wooyoung obeyed instantly. The sound of metal on metal echoed through the room as she snapped the chains onto his wrists and then checked the iron rings, making sure everything was perfect.
She pulled the chains taut until his arms were stretched wide, his chest arched upward, and his body completely exposed and vulnerable beneath her.
"Now," she breathed, her hands sliding down his bare chest. "Let’s see just how much more you can handle."
Unadulterated adrenaline rushed through his veins. Being immobilized changed the game. He tested pulling the metal and the resulting clatter of the links against the headboard was the most humiliating—and erotic—sound he’d ever heard.
There was no shield, no way to hide his reactions, and no way to pull away from her touch. He looked to the side, at his own shackled hand, then back at her.
"The best part about having you like this," her fingers trailed slowly down his stomach. "Is that you can't even try to please me anymore. You can only endure whatever I decide to do to you. Don’t you like that, my pretty hound?"
She reached for a small, leather-bound kit she kept inside her bedside table. From it, she took a long, slender peacock feather and a small, heavy violet glass bottle.
She uncorked the bottle, and the sharp, cooling scent of peppermint oil filled the air. She dipped the tip of the feather into the oil and then leaned over him.
"You've been so focused on me, Wooyoung. But now that you've got my attention, I think we need to start with a little sensory correction, don’t you think?"
She began to brush the oil-soaked feather over his neck and collarbones. It was a delicious contrast—the soft, tickling touch of the feather paired with the intense, icy-hot sting of the peppermint oil. Every time he flinched or tried to curl his body away from the feeling, the chains jerked him back.
"Don't squirm," she scolded, amused. "I want you to feel everything. I want you so, so sensitive for me. You know cumming feels better when you’re like that, you can’t shut up, your body keeps shaking… It’s fucking hot."
She moved the feather lower, tracing the lines of his abdominal muscles, while her free hand reached for his penis. She didn’t touch it too much, just a simple, single caress that made the poor man under her buck his hips.
Evelyn set the feather aside and reached into another drawer, pulling out a heavy, weighted blindfold and a blue wand vibrator.
"You’re watching me too closely," she remarked. "Trying to anticipate me. We know I can’t have that."
She pressed her chest against his as she tied the blindfold securely around his eyes. Absolute darkness crashed over him. Now, he wasn’t only physically bound but sensory-deprived.
"Now you're just a body," she said against his ear, her teeth grazing his lobe. "A body for me to play with."
She took the wand, clicked it onto its highest setting, and didn't place it on him. Instead, she let it hover just millimeters away from his skin, near his inner thighs, his lower stomach, the sensitive curve of his hip. The low hum of the motor vibrated through the air, and Wooyoung’s muscles jumped in anticipation, his body arching toward the source of the sound.
"Body begging for a machine?” she laughed. "How many times did you practice being a man today? How many people looked at you and thought you were important? If only they could see you now, chained like a dog, blind and shaking because you're waiting for a toy to touch your leaking cock…"
She finally pressed the vibrator against the sensitive skin of his tip, making him let out a strangled cry.
"Shhh," she hushed him, though there was no warmth in it. "A good doggy doesn't make so much noise. You're losing your value, Wooyoung. Maybe I should just leave you here like this for a few hours. Let the oil dry, let the chains bite into your skin, and let you wonder if I’m even still in the room…"
She moved the vibrator up and down his cock, while her other hand began to slap his inner thigh—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to leave stinging, red reminders of her.
"You feel that?" she asked, her voice coming from his left, then his right, disorienting him further. "The sting, the cold, the vibration... it’s all you are now, my plaything.”
The darkness behind the blindfold made everything a thousand times more intense. Wooyoung’s body bucked against the mattress, the chains rattling violently.
"You're so desperate. Your dick is twitching sooo fucking much, leaking with just a toy."
Without warning, she pressed the vibrating wand directly against his tip again.
The shock of it made Wooyoung’s entire body lock into a rigid arch. A loud moan tore from his throat. It was too much.
"Don't you dare close your legs," she commanded, her voice cutting through his haze. She shoved his knees further apart, ensuring he was completely open for her.
He was climbing, the pressure behind his eyes building into a blinding white light. His breath came in short, high-pitched gasps as he spiraled toward the edge. He reached that peak of bliss, his body shuddering as he began to cum, a long, keening moan escaping his lips while the white sperm started to drip.
But his owner had no intention of letting him rest.
As his climax peaked, she didn't pull the device away. She pressed it harder, keeping the vibration pinned against him even as his body remained in that hypersensitive, post-orgasmic state.
"I didn't tell you that you were done.”
Wooyoung’s moan turned into a sob of pure overstimulation. His nerves were screaming, the pleasure turning into something sharp and overwhelming. His legs kicked weakly against the sheets, and the chains at his wrists clanged as he tried to pull away from the sensation that was now far too much to bear.
"Jebal⁸—" he gasped, the word barely audible.
"Please what, Wooyoung? Please keep going? Please keep using you? Making you cum real hard?" She didn't let up for a second. She watched his skin flush a deep, mottled red as she forced his body to climb his orgasm a second time before he’d even climbed down from the first.
His brain was a static-filled void. He was being dragged through an even more violent wave of pleasure. He was no longer a man; he was a slave to the blue machine and the woman who held it. When he cummed again, it was an explosion that left him limp and sobbing into the mattress, his head lolling to the side.
Evelyn finally clicked the device off. She leaned over his trembling, ruined form, her lips brushing against the edge of his blindfold.
"Good boy. That's exactly how I want you. Broken."
She retrieved the black lace underwear—now cold with the evidence of his earlier devotion.
The delicate fabric was used to wipe his cock, cleaning him with the very garment he’d worshipped. Once she was satisfied, she bunched the damp lace into a ball and pressed it firmly against his lips.
"Open."
Wooyoung parted his lips, and she stuffed the panties into his mouth, allowing him to taste his own service mixed with her wetness. He let out a whimper against the improvised gag.
"Keep it there.”
She straddled his hips again, opening her pussy lips and adjusting it to hug his cock. Min-hee leaned her torso forward until her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands pinning his shoulders down as she began to hump him.
The friction was absolutely fucking perfect, her pussy sliding on his bare dick, using his own sperm as lube for her cunt. Because he was still in that raw, hypersensitive state following his forced climax, every time she grinded felt like a lightning strike against him. He wasn't even inside of her.
Even though he was exhausted, his hips bucked upward to meet hers, a desperate reflex. He had to please her.
Evelyn let out a low, guttural growl of satisfaction, her nails digging into him as she increased the pace.
As her movements became more aggressive, her pussy slided faster. She could feel him beneath her—his dick gushing with a helpless release that he couldn't control. He was far beyond his limit, yet his body continued to react to her like a machine she'd successfully overclocked.
The sight of his total unraveling seemed to spark a darker fire in her. Between the grinding thrusts of her hips, she began to strike him. Her palm met his cheek and shoulders with stinging slaps that echoed over the clattering of the chains.
"Look at this pretty idol," she hissed, leaning down so her breath hot and sharp hit his ear, ignoring the fact that he was blindfolded. "You’re absolutely fucking pathetic. Dick leaking, gushing like a fountain just because I’m using you to make myself cum. You aren't even a man anymore, Wooyoung. You're just a mess on my sheets."
She reached to the sides and grabbed the chains, pulling them taut until his arms were strained to the point of a dull ache, forcing his arched chest even closer to her.
"You don't get to stop," she growled, her voice breaking with the onset of her own climax. "You stay right here. You take every bit of this. You're nothing but a dick for me to hump.”
The friction of his wet skin against hers, combined with his muffled sobs coming from behind the lace gag, pushed her over the edge. She felt the heat rising in her own core.
As she cummed, she didn't soften her touch. She struck him one last time, before she threw her head back and let out a long, loud moan. Her body shuddered violently, her muscles clamping down on him as she rode out the waves of her climax.
Wooyoung was a ruined landscape beneath her. He was shaking uncontrollably, his skin a roadmap of red marks and peppermint-cooled sweat, his mouth full of the lace that tasted of his own sperm. He’d been used, beaten, and drained, and as Evelyn slowly slumped against him, her heart hammering against his, he knew he’d never belonged to anyone more than he belonged to her in this moment.
The room fell into silence, broken only by the sound of Wooyoung’s breathing through the gag. She slowly pushed herself up, and as she looked at him, her gaze softened just a fraction.
She reached out and peeled the blindfold away. Wooyoung’s eyes were bloodshot and glazed, tears running down his face as he blinked rapidly to focus on her face. She pulled out the damp underwear, casting it onto the floor.
"Hi, baby. Come back to me. How are you feeling?" she murmured, her voice a low, smooth velvet, so different from when she was taking away his soul. "You look absolutely ruined."
He couldn't even find his voice; he simply let out a weak sound that was half-whimper, half-sigh.
Her lips brushed against his ear. "I was thinking... you look so perfect like this. So still. So quiet. You did so well, baby. I’m so proud of you.”
Wooyoung’s arms dropped heavily to the mattress when she released him, his muscles cramping as blood rushed back into his hands. He groaned, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball.
She reached for the bedside lamp, clicking it onto its lowest setting. The amber glow revealed the true extent of her handiwork.
“Let me see you, baby. I need to check you, let me do it,” she gently took his wrists in her hands, turning them over to inspect the deep, angry red rings left by the cuffs. "A bit of bruising here," her thumb brushed over the sensitive skin. "And on your ribs. I think I scratched you at some point.”
Wooyoung finally was able to open his eyes, looking sideways at his owner, his pretty girl, giving her a half smile to show everything was alright.
“Going to get some balm and water for you, okay? I’m gonna come right back for you,” she pressed her forehead against his a little bit to ground him. “I could never leave you, you know that.”
He nodded, happier than ever.
She stood up briefly, returning with a glass of cool water and a small tin of soothing salve. She sat back down, pressing the glass to his lips. Her boyfriend took small, slow sips.
Once he was hydrated, she began to apply the ointment to the marks on his wrists and the artwork she’d done on his chest with her nails.
"You really were spectacular tonight," her voice sounded like a warm caress that made his skin prickle. "I’ve never seen you taking that much and staying so focused on me. You have such a high capacity for pain, baby. It’s a beautiful gift."
She pressed a soft kiss to one of the bruised wrists, then to the corner of his mouth. "Your lips are so pretty when they're swollen like this. And the way you looked at me when the chains went taut... I think that was my favorite part. You looked so beautifully hollowed out."
Wooyoung let out a shaky, contented breath, his eyes half-closing as her praise washed over him. The degradation from earlier made these compliments feel like gold. He felt cherished, not as a man, but as her most prized possession.
Evelyn stood up and walked toward the bathroom. "I’ll start the shower," she called out over her shoulder. "We need to get that oil and... everything else... off of you."
"No," he raised his head a little bit, to be able to look at her. "Don't. I don't want a shower."
She paused at the door, one hand on the frame, looking at him with an arched eyebrow.
"I want to stay like this," he confessed, his face flushing. "I want to sleep like this. Want to wake up with your scent. Want to feel what you did to me all night."
Evelyn stared at him, seeing the absolute sincerity in his exhausted expression. She walked back to the bed and sat on the edge, running a hand through his damp hair.
"You want to sleep in your own filth just to remember me?"
He nodded once, leaning his head into her palm.
"Stay still them," she finally slid under the duvet next to him, covering them both. She pulled his head onto her chest, her fingers weaving through his hair in that slow, rhythmic way he loved. "Sleep now. I’ll keep you exactly like this until the sun comes up. And you’ll have all my attention tomorrow as well. You love breakfast in bed, I’ll make it for you. How does that sound?"
He didn’t answer. Instead, he curled into her, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep held firmly in her arms.
...
[GLOSSARY]
Hanwoo¹ — Premium, traditional Korean beef. It's highly prized for its flavor, often compared to Japanese Wagyu, and is considered a luxury ingredient in Korea.
Ajumma² — A respectful yet casual Korean term for a middle-aged or married woman. It literally means "aunt”.
Bulgogi³ — A classic Korean dish consisting of thin, marinated slices of beef (or sometimes pork) grilled or stir-fried. The marinade is typically a sweet and savory mix of soy sauce, sugar, and sesame oil.
Noona⁴ — A term used by a younger male to address an older sister/relative or an older female friend. It translates to "older sister”.
Min-hee-ah⁵ — A casual way of calling someone named "Min-hee." Adding "-ah" (or "-ya") to the end of a name is a Korean honorific used between close friends or when an older person addresses someone younger. In this particular case, Wooyoung was disrespectful, as he called Min-hee like that. She's older than him.
Play⁶ — In BDSM, "play" is a broad, umbrella term for any of the consensual "kinky" activities, practices, or scenarios that participants engage in. It covers a wide spectrum of physical and psychological interactions that explore power dynamics, sensation, and role-playing, all within an agreed-upon framework of consent and safety.
ROI⁷ — Stands for Return on Investment. It is a performance measure used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or compare the efficiency of several different investments.
Jebal⁸ — A Korean word meaning "Please"—but used specifically when pleading or Desperately requesting something (similar to "I beg of you").
the bottom line
pairing: wooyoung!idol x oc!corporate
plot: Evelyn Min-hee Kang is a woman who dismantles corporate crises with a single phone call. Jung Wooyoung is one of the world’s most magnetic performers. They are the ultimate power couple, perfectly in sync. But after twenty days apart, the kitchen of her Seoul apartment isn't big enough for both her looming $5 million deadline and her boyfriend’s desperate need for attention.
warning: p*rn with plot, D/s relationship, dominant oc, submissive Wooyoung, bratting, power exchange, intimacy, praise/degradation, humiliation, man-shaming (don’t know if that’s a thing), restraint (leash and chains involved), sensation play (olfactory, visual and tactile stimulation), oral sex, cum eating, raw humping, impact play (slapping), forced orgasms, lace gag (underwear used).
important note: if you're not into plays and scenes with this type of content, i advise you to keep scrolling. this is another big one-chapter that i've prepared and i hope my beautiful nasty people enjoy. if you want to be tagged, let me know. get a preview down there.
"I didn't give you permission to approach the table again, Wooyoung," her voice sounded low, directed at the screen, though she was clearly speaking to him and not Klaus. Surely, her voice had to be on mute, right?
"I just wanted you to taste it," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "To make sure it’s right. For you."
"I'll decide if it's right when I'm ready to eat," she replied. She finally turned her head, her dark eyes pinning him to the floor. "The fact that you’re still hovering tells me you haven't processed a word I said. You’re still looking for a way to interrupt me."
"I'm not—"
"Go back to the stove," she commanded, cutting him off. "Finish the meal. Turn the burners off. And then, since you’re so eager to be 'seen,' you can stay right there, perfectly still, and watch me work until I'm finished. If I hear one more hum, one more clatter, or one more 'noona,' you won't be eating at this table tonight at all. Do you understand?"
Wooyoung felt a flush creep up his neck. The service part of him sparked—the part that lived to obey her—but the brat was still simmering underneath, pushed to the edge by her coldness.
"Yes," he murmured.
"Yes, what?"
He swallowed hard, his hands clenching at his sides. "Yes, Mistress."
"Good. Now get out of my sight and be useful."
He retreated. He finished the stew in a daze, his movements forced and robotic. When the last burner was clicked off, he did exactly as he was told. He stood by the counter, hands folded in front of him, and watched her.
He watched the way her eyes moved. He watched the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The more he watched Evelyn and the sheer, unyielding power of her mind, the more he felt that familiar, heavy ache in his chest. He wanted to crawl under that table and rest his head on her feet. He wanted her to stop being the damn senior associate and start being his owner.
He lasted exactly five minutes of standing still before his knee started to twitch.
He was an idol, a dancer; he was made of movement. The stillness was its own kind of torture.
Evelyn knew it. She could see him in her peripheral vision—his chest heaving slightly, his eyes locked on her with a mix of devotion and desperation. She let him simmer. She let him feel every second of her intentional silence until she finally reached the end of her document.
She typed one last sentence, hit “send”, reached for her glasses, took them off, and set them on top of the closed laptop.
"Wooyoung," she said, her voice now devoid of the corporate edge, replaced by something much more intimate and much more terrifying. "Go fetch your leash."
this pic is insane
oh okay
👁️🫦👁️
ATEEZ Woosan for beloved @sanbignaturals
hiii! just wanted to say i LOVE runway hearts and it deserves more recognition, it’s so good!! was going to ask if you’ve ever considered making a part 2? no pressure ofc!💗🫶
Hi, beautiful!
Let me start this by telling you how much I appreciate your feedback. I've recently started to post my stories and it means a lot that Runway Hearts has been well-received.
To be honest with you, during the period that I was writing RH, I've never considered adding anything else to it. I knew that I wanted to showcase the flirting, the dirty talk and the foreplay, but never going "all the way", if you know what I mean. Mainly because - I have no idea which side of this freaking platform I'm on - people usually write stuff skipping all the way to piv part. That's boring and not very real to me. Thank goodness we do have some great writers around that can save us all.
I'm a long-form writer. Most of the projects that I write are multiple chapter, over 20k words, books 1-2-3, you know? But again, being very honest with you, I'm not quite sure if that's what people want to read anymore. Everywhere I look I see people posting short-form scenarios, smut without plot....
I held Runway Hearts for a year on my files before posting because I was afraid that no one would read because it's too fucking long. And I didn't plan anything else for that same reason. I doubted that anyone would want to keep reading more long chapters of the same story. Besides, I create ocs for the pairings, because "y/n" turns me off soooo bad. I don't know if people are okay with that either.
I was also feeling kinda iffy about it because English isn't my first language. I'm fluent, but completely terrified of posting something with grammar errors. But then I was like "suck it up" and posted. Another fanfic of mine was well-received a while ago and I missed the feeling of sharing a good story. I seriously need someone to read my stories beforehand and tell me if it sucks.
A few people came to me and asked for a part two for Runway Hearts and Private Set. So, here's my answer:
I'll probably write a part two for Runway Hearts, yes. But right now, I'm working on another piece for another fandom. I intend to publish a smut with a member of ATEEZ soon, maybe early January. Then I have another project for Stray Kids, but for a different member, not Hyunjin or Felix.
I take my time when I'm writing and I like to build plots, even if it's a single chapter thingy, so I don't wanna make any promises about when will I post. Although, I've been writing faster because I've been very happy about people enjoying RH. I mean, I'm almost done with the ATEEZ project.
Thank you so much for talking to me. Hope we can find a way for me to identify you whenever you show up. Can't wait to see you around here again, anon.
love, L.
so I've just reached 100 followers and I'm like
"hm, excuse me, did yo- 100 people enjoy what I write???"
absolutely insane. all the love to my beautiful readers.
you're awesome. hope you all have a very glittery day. ✨️
this is genuinely how it feels to use any app on light mode
if i was a dancer and looked at what ten can do i would feel amazing knowing how far this art form can go but i would also quit
as a professional dancer, i fully agree
