#tailormade

Huffing and puffing wasn’t really going to get you anywhere, but it seemed to be all you could do. 

You stood in the front of the locked and empty rooms of the empty offices with your pinned clothes heavy in your hands. The fabric brushed against your arms, smooth and slippery, the deep red silk and gossamer catching the light with every small movement. It was luxurious but temperamental, a material that shows every flaw in your carefully thought out construction and left no room for error. It felt like it weighed more with every passing second you stood there, a physical and fiery manifestation of your frustration.

The dress you’d painstakingly pieced together was bold, maybe too bold. Its structured bodice was accented with dramatic, asymmetrical pleats that swept across the waist, creating an almost sculptural effect. The skirt fell in layers of sheer gossamer, each edge meticulously hand-cut to achieve a feathered look. A high slit ran up one slide, a daring choice that you were now second-guessing. The pink pins holding the seams in place glittered like stars against the dark fabric, mocking your hesitation. 

You look at them adorning the dark red cloth you were too scared to commit to sewing and lay it along the railing. The fabric shifted under your fingers, the pins catching faintly against the cold metal. Peeking over the railing, you spot a few lingering bodies below. 

Some students were laid drooling over their laptop while others were hunched over their own projects, sketching feverishly over a large canvas while others mixed colors on palette paper, their motions hypnotic in their repetitive intensity. 

The quiet hum of activity down there felt a world away from your current dilemma. With a deep sigh, you turn back toward the locked door. It was impractical to expect any professors to be available half past eleven, you knew that. But the weight of the project deadline pressed heavily on your chest, and with each passing minute, you felt less and less certain about your choices.  

But you did know who would be here. 

Kim Hongjoong. The name alone conjured up mixed emotions, a slurry of intimidation, exasperation, and maybe even a touch of admiration. He was infamous among the design students, and not just for his critiques, which could cut sharper than a rotary blade. He had a presence that made people twice, you among them. Short in stature but larger than life, he carried himself with a confidence that felt earned, his sharp cheekbones and ever-present black eyeliner giving him the air of an untouchable rockstar. 

His hair had been a slew of colors since you’d met him, but this winter, he’d settled on a jet black with red undertones, which despite the color, always remained slightly tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it all day.

His wardrobe only added to the mythos. He was able to conjure the most colorful of garments, decorated to sparkle and dazzle in the light of both the sun and the moon, but you don’t think you’d seen him in more than a neutral palette which was mostly comprised of blacks and grays. Always paired with his clothes were the chunky black boots that completed his ensemble, their thick soles giving him a boost of height.

You’d never seen him during the day without a scowl plastered on his face. You could still recall the infamous time he’d been forced to attend an early morning orientation for incoming freshmen. He’d slouched at the back of the studio, glaring daggers at the clock, the bags under his eyes visible even from where you were standing. 

You peek into the small workspace he’d claimed as his own, the door slightly ajar. The air inside was tinged with the faint smell of coffee and paper, and you could hear the faint scratch of a pen against a sketchpad. He sat hunched over his desk, his focus so intense he didn’t seem to notice your presence. A steaming mug of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge of the table, threatening to topple over with one careless motion.

At night, when the campus quieted and the studio lights buzzed softly, Hongjoong seemed to come alive. He became a force of nature, especially at night, when caffeine coursed through his veins like electricity when he ran up and down the design building, completing projects.  

“Have you put it on?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a needle pricking fabric. 

“What?” you blink, caught off guard.

“Have you put it on?” he repeats, finally looking up with one arched brow. He clicked his tongue when you didn’t answer immediately. “Don’t tell me you’ve come asking for help before you’ve even put it on. That’s the whole point of that assignment,” he says, gesturing with his pen matter-of-factly. 

You knew that, of course, you knew that. “Okay,” you drag out the syllables, trying to keep your irritation in check. “Well, I haven’t put it on yet, but I was hoping you could just take a quick look at the way the material drapes—”

“While it’s on a hanger?”” he interrupts with a sharp scoff. “Please, waste my time some more, why don’t you?”

Despite his words, he pushes back his chair with a dramatic scrape, the roll of your eyes so desperate for the movement, grabbing his coffee as if it were a lifeline. He takes a long sip before striding toward you with his usual caffeinated energy. His movements were quick and precise, almost jittery, as though his body could barely keep up with his thoughts. 

“Alright, let’s see this supposed masterpiece,” he says, motioning impatiently for you to hold up the garment. 

You lift it carefully, letting the deep red silk and gossamer catch the light. The fabric ripples like liquid fire as it unfolds, the sharp contrast of the pink pins accentuating the bold pleats and dramatic silhouette. He circles you, his eyes narrowing as he takes in every detail, scrutinizing it as though searching for flaws to latch onto.

“It’s… loud,” he finally says, the words falling flat and unimpressed. “The color’s trying too hard. Red’s predictable, it’s like you’re screaming for attention without saying anything meaningful.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You blink, taken aback by his bluntness, but something inside you flares at the dismissal. 

“It’s not just red,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. “It’s crimson, and it’s deliberate. The color represents power and femininity. It’s bold because it’s supposed to be, because women and their bodies aren’t quiet or soft or something that should blend into the background.”

He pauses mid-stride, his gaze snapping back to you. He doesn’t say anything, but the slightest quirk of his eyebrow betrays that you’ve caught him off guard. Still, he recovers quickly, letting out a scoff as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“And the slit?” he counters, his tone dripping with skepticism. “What are you going for there? A wardrobe malfunction on the runway?”

“It’s intentional,” you fire back, the words coming faster now. “It’s about movement, fluidity. The female body is dynamic, not static. The slit isn’t just a detail, it’s part of the message. Restriction isn’t the goal here. Freedom is.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think you see something flicker in his sharp eyes. A glimmer of respect, maybe, or even admiration. But just as quickly, his expression hardens, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh as if this entire conversation is testing his patience. 

“Fine. You’ve got a thesis. Great. But a thesis doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t translate when someone’s wearing it,” he says, voice clipped. “Right now, all I see is fabric pinned to itself. You’ve got a lot of talk, but if you want me to believe it, you need to prove it, sweetheart.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. Fuck, he was attractive. The way he looks at you, half-annoyed and half-curious, makes you want to both jump him and prove him wrong. 

“Put it on,” he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gestures toward the dress with a tilt of his head. “Let’s see if your ‘power and freedom’ actually works when it’s on a body, or if it’s just pretty words.”

You narrow your eyes at him, biting back a retort as you grab the dress. His gaze lingers on your for a beat longer than necessary before he turns away, retreating back to his desk with a nonchalant air. But the slight tension in his shoulders gives him away. He’s curious, whether he admits it or not. 

As you head towards the changing room behind his studio space, your grip on the dress tightens. You’ll show him. You’ll make him see this isn’t just pinned fabric, that this is art, your art, with meaning. 

I’ll make him eat his words. 

You remove your clothes in a haste, slowing down to pull the open-pinned dress over your head. 

When you walk back into his studio, Hongjoong only sighs. 

“Tell me, is it meant to be wearing mismatched underwear or is that just your vision for it?” 

Okay, completely bare it was. Without breaking eye contact, you slip off your bra and through the open sleeves of the dress, throw it onto a rack of blank canvases. You struggle with your underwear a little but soon enough are able to pull it out through the slit in the skirt and toss it in the opposite direction. 

A stubborn expression graces your face, and you look at Hongjoong, waiting for him to put together his thoughts, almost as if he’s wasting your time. 

Hongjoong’s sharp eyes rove over the garment with an intensity that could make anyone squirm, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Standing there, completely exposed save for the patches of silk draping select sections of your body, you square your shoulders and tilt your chin up, daring him to find fault now that it’s on.

For a moment, he says nothing. His focus shifts from the sculpted bodice to the pleated waist, and then to the high slit. His gaze lingers on how the fabric clings to your frame, the deep crimson catching the light and cascading like molten lava with every slight movement. You feel the air shift, the weight of his silence thick with thoughts he hasn’t voiced yet.

“Well?” you challenge, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re speechless. I thought you had an opinion on everything.”

His lips twitch, almost forming a smirk, but he catches himself and crosses his arms instead, his fingers tapping against his bicep. “It’s better,” he concedes begrudgingly. “The structure works when it’s actually on. The bodice fits tighter than I expected—clean lines, good tension. The pleats don’t overwhelm as much as they did on the hanger.” He pauses, stepping closer to inspect the skirt.

“But,” he continues, his tone sharp enough to slice, “the slit still feels unresolved. It’s daring, sure, but right now, it looks more accidental than intentional. If you’re going for movement, then the fabric needs to tell that story. Right now, it’s just... there.”

You feel your jaw tighten, his critique grating against your nerves. “It does tell a story,” you snap. “The slit isn’t just for show. It’s about exposing what’s hidden—revealing strength and vulnerability at the same time. The asymmetry makes it human, imperfect. Isn’t that the point of art? Or would you prefer it to be sterile and safe?”

Hongjoong’s expression flickers, just for a second. There’s a brief moment where he looks almost stunned, like he wasn’t expecting that. 

Hongjoong, if nothing, was not safe or sterile in his approach. Ever. But he recovers quickly, letting out a derisive snort as if your words hadn’t fazed him.

“Again, strong words,” he says, stepping back and leaning against the desk with his ever-present air of annoyance. “But words aren’t enough. You’ve got to prove it in how it moves, how it lives on a body. Anyone can wax poetic about their choices, but that’s all you’ve been doing since you walked into my studio.” He gestures at you, his hand slicing through the air. 

“Walk. Show me.”

You blink, taken aback by his demand. “What?”

“Walk,” he repeats with a roll of his eyes, as if he’s bored by the back-and-forth. “Let me see how the fabric flows, how the slit actually works in motion. If you’re so confident in your ‘strength and vulnerability,’ then let the dress speak for itself.”

For a moment, you consider arguing, but the fire in his gaze dares you. So you take a step forward, feeling the silk brush against your legs. The high slit shifts with every movement, revealing flashes of your skin in a way that feels deliberate and powerful. The pleats ripple like waves, catching the light in a way that accentuates their sculptural form. You walk the length of the room and back, your movements growing more confident with each step.

When you stop in front of him, Hongjoong’s gaze lingers for a beat longer than necessary. His expression is carefully neutral, but the tight line of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows betray his thoughts. He’s impressed though you doubt he’ll ever admit it.

“Well,” he says finally, his voice deliberately flat. “It’s... better than I thought it would be. You’ve got something here, but it still needs refinement. The slit works when you walk, but what happens when you stand still? It loses some of its impact. And the pleats—”

“Oh my god,” you interrupt, throwing your hands up. “You’re impossible to please, you know that? You nitpick everything like it’s your life’s mission.”

“It is my mission,” he snaps back, his tone sharp and bordering on unkind. “Do you think anyone’s going to coddle you when you’re presenting at a runway show? They’ll tear you apart if it’s not perfect.” 

He walks over to his own collection of rolls of textiles, flicking through them, and finally, picking out one of a pale white glittering gossamer, not too dissimilar to yours. He strides towards you, the roll in hand, muttering something under his breath. 

His deft hands unravel the gossamer, too impatient to even cut it away from the rest of the roll as it tumbles away from him, and he swiftly wraps it around your waist, cinching it tight and pulling a gasp from you. His fingers graze your hips as he works, his touch firm and efficient. The thin fabric molds to your curves, creating a snug band that accentuates your waistline. 

Still behind you, he turns you to face a long mirror that’s propped up against a supply box. You can feel the heat of his body so close to yours, the scent of his cologne filling your senses.

"See? This creates a more defined waistline," he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. "It adds structure and draws the eye in." His fingers trace the edge of the gossamer, brushing against your skin. You shiver at the contact, a jolt of electricity shooting through you. 

Hongjoong steps back, surveying his handiwork with a critical eye. He adjusts the fabric, tugging it here and there until he's satisfied. "Much better," he declares, nodding approvingly. The sharp edges of his demeanor seem to dull, and the air between you grows into something more softer. He’s observing you now, not with his usual critique or irritation, but with something quieter. Almost… admiring.

“Wow, didn’t think you were capable of a compliment.” And just like that, the moment shatters, like a dropped pane of glass. 

Suddenly, Hongjoong’s expression hardens. His jaw clenches, and he unravels the gossamer from your waist and gathers it at your wrists, wrapping it tightly around your arms and binding them behind your back.

"What are you doing?" you gasp, a thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension coursing through you as he secures the makeshift bonds. At your voice, the grip of the gossamer only tightens. 

"Helping you see your design through a different lens," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as he finishes tying the fabric. "What’d you say you wanted to do? ‘Expose what’s hidden’, huh? Why don’t I help you with that?"

He spins you around to face him, his hands gripping your bound wrists as he presses you back against the wall. The silk and gossamer bunch between your bodies, creating a delicious friction that makes you gasp.

"Look at you," he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as they roam over your face. "I think you’d be surprised to know how much you’re actually lying to yourself, sweetheart."

His free hand trails down your body, skimming over your breasts and skimming over the bodice of your dress. He teases one stiff nipple through the thin fabric, rolling it between his fingers until you're writhing against him.

"Where’s that ‘strength’?" he asks, pinching the sensitive bud harder. "Where’s that ‘power’? Because, right now, all I see is this little girl who does a lot more barking than biting."

His touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You can feel the heat of his skin through the gossamer as he caresses your bound wrists, the silk whispering against itself with each slight movement.

The high slit in your dress allows his fingers to easily access the heat between your legs that feels like it’s burning, and he takes full advantage, tracing teasing patterns along your inner thighs before brushing against your sensitive clit. You gasp and buck your hips, craving more of his touch.

"Fuck, you're so wet already," he growls, his voice low and rough with desire. "You like being at my mercy, don't you? Like knowing I could do anything I want to you. All that talk from before, where’d it go, sweetheart?"

His fingers plunge deep inside you, filling you completely. You moan wantonly, the sound echoing through the empty studio. He starts to thrust, fucking you with his hand in a quick rhythm that has you seeing stars, leaning your body against him.

"Such a good girl, taking my fingers like this," he praises, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bud. "I bet you'd look even better on my cock, wouldn't you? Stretched wide and begging for more."

His dirty words only fuel your arousal, and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge with each thrust and touch. He must sense it too, because he suddenly pulls his hand away, leaving you aching and desperate.

He slips the dress down your shoulders, suddenly growing careful, making sure the pink pins don’t prick you. Once it’s off, his attitude briskly returns as he kicks it to the side and ties the uncut gossamer back tightly around your wrists. 

Standing completely bare in front him, even without the layer of the see-through gossamer on your dress, has you inexplicably submissive. In the reflection of the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself, and you look utterly pathetic. 

The guttural tone of Hongjoong’s voice brings your attention back to him. "On your knees," he commands, pushing you down with a firm hand on your shoulder. "I need to be in your mouth."

With shaking legs, you obey, sinking to the floor and looking up at him through hooded eyes. He unbuckles his belt and shoves down his pants and briefs, freeing his cock. He isn’t long, but fuck, he was thick, his pretty pink tip already glistening with precum. His dick bobs in front of your face, and eagerly, you look up at Hongjoong, eyes begging him to keep going as your pussy drips freely onto the floor of his studio.

"Fuck, well aren’t you treat,” he says, palming your warmed cheek, taking note of the pliant look in your eyes. “Open wide," he says, fisting his hand in your hair and guiding you towards his length. "Show me how much you appreciate my help, sweetheart."

You part your lips, letting him push the thick head of his cock past them and into the drooling heat of your mouth. He groans, the sound reverberating through his chest as he begins to thrust, fucking your face with long, deep strokes.

The gossamer around your wrists tightens as he pulls you closer, using it like a leash to control your movements. You can feel it biting into your skin, the slight itching pain mixing with the intense pleasure of having your mouth filled with his cock.

"That’s it, take all of me," he grunts, pushing deeper until you gag around him. "Fuck, I knew this pretty mouth would look good wrapped around my dick. Isn’t it so much better this way, sweetheart? No more ‘searching for power in your femininity’, just sucking me off like the good slut you are."

And all you do is moan around him, completely in agreement. The fire, the challenge, the need to prove him wrong have all disappeared, and maybe it was the sleep deprivation or maybe it was the stress of the upcoming deadline or maybe you just needed a good fuck, you think. At this point in time, you didn’t care.

He sets a cruelly quick pace, pistoning in and out of your throat without mercy, stopping every five or six thrusts to let you catch your breath. Tears have begun to stream down your cheeks as you struggle to breathe around his thickness, but your pussy only grows wetter with each thrust, the pool of your arousal growing on the studio floor. 

His degrading words just turn you on more, and to get some relief, you press your thighs together in an attempt to create any sort of friction.

Catching this, Hongjoong thrusts into you, letting his throbbing dick sit heavily in your throat, unmoving. "Look at you, choking on my cock like the desperate little whore you are," he taunts, one hand coming up to grip your jaw and force you to meet his gaze. "You love this, don't you? Love having your mouth used for my pleasure."

You can only whine in response, the sound muffled by the thick length resting over your tongue. He takes advantage of your silence, using it as an excuse to push even deeper, and you’re able to feel the heat of his heavy balls against your chin.

He tastes so good and you’re beyond gone, so in response to his words, you collect some saliva in your mouth and swallow around him messily. Hongjoong’s eyes flutter shut as he lets out a low fuck.

"Such a good little cock sleeve," he praises, his voice thick with lust. He thrusts into your throat deeply a few more times, cock twitching when you gag around him. "Bet this cunt of yours is getting nice and wet, isn't it? Getting all slick and ready for me to wreck."

His words send a jolt of pure need straight to your core, and you can feel yourself getting even wetter, if that was even possible at this point. Hongjoong must be able to feel it too, because he suddenly pulls out entirely, leaving you gasping and panting for air.

He stands still observing you again, and in the idle moments, your eyes flicker over the mirror. If you looked pathetic before, you looked like a total slut now. Yet, you didn’t find yourself minding at all, awaiting Hongjoong’s next order.

He tugs on the gossamer, hauling you up and dragging you to the nearest flat surface, which just happens to be where he was working prior to your coming in. 

He pushes you over the worktable, bending you roughly at the waist and forcing your sensitive nipples to press against the surface. The fabric of the gossamer bites into your wrists, but you barely notice, too focused on the feeling of his thick cock pressing against your ass.

"Look at that pretty cunt," he growls, one hand coming down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "So wet and ready for me. You want this, don't you sweetheart? Want me to fuck you hard and raw like the little slut you are?"

He reaches around to tease your clit, fingers sliding easily through your soaked folds. You moan wantonly, pushing your hips back against him in a desperate attempt to get more friction.

"That's it, beg for my cock," he commands, rubbing slow circles around your aching nub. "Tell me how much you need it."

"I need it," you whimper, voice shaking with desperation. "Please, I need your cock. I need you to fuck me and make me forget about everything else. Please, Hongjoong."

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. Where’d all that fire go?" he murmurs, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance. "Where had it gone before when I was fucking your throat, hmm?"

You hear the sound of a condom wrapper tearing open, then the blunt head of his cock is nudging against your entrance. He teases you with shallow thrusts, never quite entering you fully, just brushing against your opening and making you beg for more.

"Please," you whimper, arching your back in a desperate attempt to take him deeper.

"I think you can beg some more, sweetheart. I’m not feeling so… convinced yet," he laughs lowly behind you, one hand coming down on your ass with a sharp smack. "Beg me to ruin this tight little cunt."

"I'm begging you!" you cry out, pressing your hips back against him. "Please fuck me hard, fill me up with your big cock. I want you to use me, claim me, make me yours."

He snarls something that might be a curse or a prayer, then eases into you with one slow thrust. You sigh, quietly gasping at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the table as he starts to pound into you at a relentless pace.

"Shit, so fucking tight," he grunts, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Like this greedy little hole was made for my cock."

He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting deeper than the last until you swear you can feel him in your throat. Your tits bounce with every impact, the raw peaks scraping against the cool table and making you gasp.

"That's it, fucking take it," he snarls, angling his hips to hit that special gummy spot inside you with every stroke. His grip on the gossamer tightens, and with his other hand, Hongjoong wraps his fingers around your throat, forcing your head upwards. 

You see the crazed look in his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. Some of his eyeliner is smudged, but you’re not faring any better. 

He smirks down at you in the mirror, taking in the sight of your tear-stained face and the way your pussy is still clenching around his cock. "Look at you, all messy and fucked out," he says, his voice low and rough with satisfaction. "You're so much prettier when you aren’t talking back, sweetheart. All desperate and needy, listening to my every word."

His words send a thrill of possession through you, and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. The degrading talk only fuels your arousal, making your walls clench around his thickness.

He lets go and you fall back down onto the worktable with a whine, body unable to hold itself up without Hongjoong’s hands. He looms over you, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of your naked form, sprawled out before him.

"Nu-uh, I'm not done with you yet," he growls, his voice low and rough with desire. "I want to see you come apart on me, sweetheart. I want to feel this tight little pussy clench around me as you scream my name."

He parts your legs, settling between your thighs and running his fingers through your slick folds. You moan at the contact, your hips bucking up towards his touch as he circles your clit with expert precision.

"That’s it, cum for me you little slut," he says, increasing the pressure on your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. Your moans grow louder, your body arching off the worktable as the pleasure builds inside you.

He growls low in his throat, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. Then he's coming with a grunt, slamming into you one final time before stilling, buried to the hilt inside you, twitching as his thick cock fills up the condom.

The feel of his cum painting your insides sends you careening over the edge, and you come with a scream of his name, your cunt clamping down on him like a vice.

Hongjoong leans down, his thick cock still inside you as his body pressed firmly into your back, and whispers, “From this point forward, I don’t want you going to any of the other TA’s besides me, understood sweetheart?”

Author's Note II: I feel like a nervous wreck as I'm in preparation for my interview tomorrow, but the recruiters DID say I was the benchmark for the rest of their first interviews, so that's a good sign, I guess??? 🤪 Anyways, I would really appreciate you leaving your thoughts in the form of comments and/or reblogs! It really helps me out and keeps me motivated to write more, so thank you in advance to those who do! Much love <3