Under His Supervision
Pairing: Executive_Assitant!Jung Hoseok x CEO!Reader Genre: CEO-Assistant AU, Strangers-to-lovers, Power Dynamics, Smut, Fluff, Mild Angst, Slow-burn power play, dominance, care-taking, workplace tension Word count: ~9k Rating: 18+ | Minors DNI Warnings: dom!Hoseok-sub!Reader, consensual power exchange, rough sex scenes [couch sex, desk sex, makeout in car, orgasm denial/edging, overstimulation, spanking, pussy slapping, oral (m & f receiving)], praise/degradation mix, mentions of punishments and rewards in dom-sub dynamic, jealousy, possessive behavior, aftercare king Hoseok, explicit dirty talk, unprotected sex [Refrain IRL] [MASTERLIST] Requested by @loverofallthingspurple
You built an empire from scratch when you had nothing but only hope and dream. At twenty-nine, you were the youngest self-made CEO in the Korean beauty industry. Your skincare line sold out in minutes. Forbes called you “the most youngest-successful businesswoman.”
Your employees called you “the best boss alive.”
Good amount of Paid leaves. Free health check ups. Mental health days. Therapy stipends. No emails after 7 p.m.
You meant every policy. You just never followed them yourself.
Three hospital visits in eighteen months... dehydration, exhaustion, stress-induced migraine—finally made your best friend and HR director, Ji-eun, put her foot down.
“You’re hiring an executive assistant,” she said in the hospital room, arms crossed. “Or I quit.”
You laughed, then winced. The IV tugged. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Exactly... Instead, you need a warden. A very strict warden.” She slid a folder across the blanket.
One resume on top.
Jung Hoseok. Thirty-two. Former chief of staff to a congresswoman. Spotless references. Calm under pressure. Discreet.
You stared at the professional headshot.
Warm eyes. Sharp jaw. Smile that looked like it knew secrets.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Interview him. If he’s annoying, I fire him on day one.”
Ji-eun smirked.
“I already did. He starts Monday.”
Monday morning, your corner office smelled like freshly brewed coffee and quiet authority. The city outside hummed softly, but inside, everything felt deliberately still… until Hoseok arrived.
8:55 a.m. sharp. Charcoal-Grey suit cut perfectly to his frame, hair parted neatly, carrying two takeout cups.
He placed one in front of you without a word.
Green tea. Two honeys. Exactly the way you liked it.
You raised an eyebrow, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest.
“How… how did you—”
“Ji-eun briefed me,” he said, voice low, warm, calm, like sunlight glinting on water. “Good morning, Director.”
He smiled softly, polite, eyes crinkling slightly, and for a second, you hated yourself for liking it.
He didn’t sit until you gestured, then opened a sleek tablet. Within seconds, he started reorganizing your day—cancelling two overlapping meetings, pushing a supplier call to tomorrow, blocking 1–2 p.m. for lunch.
You blinked at him. “Wait… I have a 1:30 with marketing.”
“Not anymore.” His tone was calm, firm, without apology. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday’s 3 p.m. protein bar. You’ll eat today.”
Your chest tightened. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t flinch. The gentle smile never left his face, but something darker, steadier, simmered behind his eyes.
“I’m here to manage your time,” he said, leaning just slightly forward, so close you felt the heat of him, “...including making sure you don’t collapse again.”
Something in your chest clenched... anger? Or maybe… anticipation?
Great, you thought. Strict Warden as Ji-eun said.
Oh, she needs discipline, he thought.
You decided to test him. Leaned back, crossed your legs, letting your voice go sharp. “I don’t need hand-holding, Mr. Jung. I built this company from nothing. I know how to manage my schedule.”
He didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.
Instead, he reached into his bag, pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and slid it across the desk toward you.
“Drink,” he said. Smooth. Calm. Steady.
You stared at the bottle, then at him. “I’m not thirsty.”
The smile didn’t fade, but the look in his eyes darkened just a fraction, steady and unyielding. “You will be if you keep skipping meals,” he said softly.
Heat flared in your chest. You tried to fight it, to scare him off. Picked up your phone, fingers flying across the screen, firing off emails.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then his hand was on your phone, lifting it from your grip and setting it face-down on the desk.
You froze.
He leaned in slightly, voice soft but firm, leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be managing your time,” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “Not the other way around.”
Your pulse jumped, heat spreading from your chest to everywhere else.
This… this was a red flag.
And god, it was hot.
You snatched your phone back, trying to sound commanding but faltering slightly. “We’ll see about that,” you said, voice sharper than you felt.
He smiled wider, warm, calm, dangerous in the way only someone who knew your every weakness could be.
“Yes, Director. We will.”
Slowly, over the weeks, Hoseok began reshaping your life. Not forcefully, not harshly… but in a way that made your chest tighten and your body respond whether you wanted it to or not.
He appeared at noon every day with lunch from your favorite spots, setting the containers on your desk and standing there until you took the first bite.
“Eat,” he’d say, calm, polite, almost teasing.
“I’m not hungry,” you’d protest, glaring at him.
“Not optional,” he replied softly, leaning just slightly closer than necessary.
Meetings were cut short.
He’d stride in mid-discussion with a crisp, “The Director has another commitment,” and gently but firmly usher everyone out before you could protest.
Late-night calls? Gone.
Hoseok calmly informed international partners of “new availability” while you shot daggers at him, fingers itching to grab the phone from his ears.
You pushed back every time... snapping, ignoring reminders, staying late on purpose just to prove a point or maybe just to mess with him.
He never raised his voice.
Never scolded. Not even once.
Instead, he just leaned closer and smiled calmly. Subtle power plays that left your pulse hammering and your body betraying you.
One night, 10 p.m., mid-email, fingers flying. He appeared behind you, hand sliding over your shoulder to take your phone.
“Give it back,” you demanded, spinning in your chair.
“No,” he said softly, almost smiling, his eyes calm but commanding.
Another afternoon, laptop balanced on your knees during a “quick break,” he simply closed the lid while you were still typing.
“You’re done for the day,” he said, tone gentle, eyes darkening ever so slightly.
You hated the way your body reacted—heat pooling low, pulse racing, thighs pressing together. Every time he smiled calmly at your glaring.
You hated it. You craved it.
Your employees noticed. You laughed more in meetings. You actually slept. Color returned to your cheeks.
And yet… the tension between you and Hoseok crackled like static electricity. Every brush of fingers passing files. Every time he straightened your collar. Every low, deliberate, “Good girl” after you obeyed him without a word.
One morning, Ji-eun caught him in the hallway outside your office.
“You’re… relentless,” she said with a chuckle, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m doing my job,” Hoseok replied smoothly.
His eyes softened when he thought of you.
“You’re doing more than that,” Ji-eun said, smirking. “You’ve got her eating, sleeping… even smiling. I have to admit, I’m proud I hired the right person.”
Hoseok just tilted his head, polite, calm, but a flicker of pride shone in his eyes.
Later, you cornered Ji-eun in the lounge, arms crossed, eyes flashing.
“He… he…” you started, fuming. “Hoseok keeps ordering me around without even actually ordering. He... he moves my meetings, shuts down calls, takes my laptop! I’m the boss, Ji-eun! Not him!”
Ji-eun laughed, soft, knowing. “Oh, I know you’re annoyed.”
“I am!” you snapped, cheeks flushing.
“But… it's been weeks... if you really hated him, you would have asked me to fire him by now,” she teased, eyes sparkling. “Something tells me you find him… hot otherwise, hmm?”
You scowled, trying to glare at her, but felt your stomach tighten. She was right. You hated how much you hated… and wanted… everything about him.
A tropical storm warning had hit Seoul like a fist.
By 8 p.m. the sky was the color of a dark purple, lightning strobing across the glass tower every few seconds. The office emptied in a panicked rush. Ji-eun practically shoved the last intern into the elevator with a hissed “Go home before the trains stop!”.
You stayed. Of course you stayed.
New product was about to launch in 3 weeks and deadlines didn’t care about typhoons.
At 9:12 the lights flickered once, twice, then died completely. Emergency LEDs bled sickly across the open floor.
You kept working by the cold glow of your phone, jaw clenched, fingers flying.
The door opened with a soft, deliberate click. You didn’t look up until the scent of rain and his cologne hit you.
Hoseok.
White shirt soaked through, clinging to every line of his chest and stomach like it had been painted on. Hair pushed back, dripping. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing the tense flex of his forearms. Suit jacket nowhere to be seen.
He looked like a sin.
He crossed the floor without a word, footsteps echoing too loud in the dead building. Rainwater trailed from his hair, down his temple, over the sharp cut of his jaw.
He stopped in front of your desk.
You lifted your chin, defiant. “I’m almost done.”
He didn’t answer. Reached across the desk instead, slow enough that you could have stopped him.
You didn’t.
His fingers closed your laptop with deliberate slowness. Took your phone. Set it face-down.
You shot to your feet. “What the hell do you think you’re—”
He was already moving.
One step and his hand snapped around your wrist, pinning it to the desk beside the closed laptop. Not brutal, just absolute. His body followed, crowding you back until the edge of the desk bit into your thighs.
His eyes locked on yours.
Dark. Unforgiving.
Thunder cracked so hard the windows rattled in their frames. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the storm like a blade.
“Do you want me to ask nicely…” His thumb traced the frantic pulse in your wrist, slow, possessive circles. “…or do I have to make you listen?”
You lifted your chin, challenge blazing. “Make me.”
His smile was slow. Predatory. Beautiful.
He released your wrist only to slide his hand to the small of your back, guiding you... firmly, away from the desk and toward the couch.
“Sit.” The single word left no room for argument.
You sat.
He knelt in front of you, movements controlled, eyes never leaving yours. He unbuttoned your blazer slowly, slid it off your shoulders, folded it neatly over the armrest.
Then he reached for a bottle of water on nearby table.
Unscrewed the cap. Held it to your lips.
“Drink.”
You tried to take it from him. He moved it out of reach.
“I said drink.”
His voice was calm steel. You parted your lips. He tipped the bottle slowly, watching your throat work, watching every swallow like it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
When you tried to pull away, he tilted it higher. “More.”
You obeyed. When it was half-empty, he finally lowered it, thumb brushing a stray drop from your bottom lip.
“Good girl.” The praise hit low in your belly, molten.
He didn’t touch you anywhere else. No kiss... No caress... Nothing... Just that quiet, absolute control.
Making you sit.
Making you breathe—slow, guided breaths when he placed two fingers under your chin and said, “In… out.”
Making you drink while he watched, unblinking.
The lack of sexual touch drove you insane. Your skin burned where his gaze lingered. Your thighs pressed together under your pencil skirt. You wanted his hands everywhere.
He knew. Of course he knew... But he didn’t give in.
He set the bottle aside and stood.
He looked down at you like you were something he already owned and hadn’t decided how to ruin yet. He pulled you up, steadying you when your legs wobbled. Then he grabbed your blazer, held it for you to slip into, fingers brushing your collarbones as he adjusted the lapels.
“Car’s downstairs,” he said, voice perfectly even again. “We’re leaving.”
He extended one hand. You took it without thinking.
His fingers closed around yours... warm, steady, inescapable.
You followed him without a word. The storm raged outside.
But the real storm had just begun.
Two weeks later. Launch week.
You hadn’t slept properly in four days. Coffee had become oxygen. Adrenaline had become blood. Every time your eyes closed, you saw spreadsheets, mock-ups, investor decks.
You made it as far as the office couch before the world tilted and went black. When consciousness crept back, it came with low whispered voices.
“…she’s awake.” Jin-eun murmured.
“Leave us. I'll handle the rest.” Hoseok replied.
The door clicked shut with click.
You blinked against the dim light. Hoseok sat on the low coffee table beside the couch, elbows on his knees, watching you like you were a bomb he was deciding whether to defuse or let explode.
He looked as wrecked as you felt... shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled high, hair messy like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours. Shadows under his eyes sharp enough to cut.
He didn’t speak.
Just reached for the bottle of water on the table, unscrewed it, and held it to your lips. You drank because your throat was dry and because his hand was steady and you suddenly didn’t have the strength to fight.
When you tried to push up on your elbows, his palm landed flat between your collarbones... warm, heavy, immovable.
“Stay down.” The words were soft. The fury in them was not.
You swallowed. “I had to finish the...”
“No.” He cut you off, voice lethally quiet. “You had to not kill yourself. That was the only thing you had to do.”
His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat, right over your racing pulse. “You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s your body screaming at you. And you ignored it. Again.”
Your breath hitched. “The launch—”
“Can wait eight hours while its creative director doesn’t die of exhaustion.” His eyes searched yours, dark and unblinking. “I asked you to rest. I asked you three times this week.”
“I know.” Your voice came out in whisper.
“That wasn’t just a formal request.”
Silence stretched, thick and electric.
He reached into a paper bag beside him, pulled out a banana, peeled it with one hand. Broke off a small piece and held it to your lips.
“Open.” You opened. He fed it to you slowly, watching your mouth like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
Another piece.
You tried to take it from him.
He moved his hand out of reach. “I said open.”
You obeyed.
His thumb caught a stray bit of fruit at the corner of your mouth, wiped it across your lower lip, then pressed inside just enough for you to taste him—salt and skin.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He leaned closer, forearms caging you without touching. “You collapsed inside office. On my watch. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
Your heart stuttered. “Hoseok—”
“If I have to tie you to a bed to make you sleep...” he said, voice dropping to something raw and dangerous, “...don’t think for a second I won’t.”
The threat hung between you, hot and heavy.
Your pulse was hammering against his fingertips. He exhaled through his nose, like he was fighting himself.
“You’re my responsibility now,” he murmured, thumb stroking your throat again, feather-light. “Whether you asked for it or not. And you are spectacularly bad at taking care of yourself.”
Another piece of banana.
You took it from his fingers with your tongue this time.
His jaw flexed. “Keep doing that and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
You met his eyes. “Maybe I don’t want you to be.”
Something dark and hungry flashed across his face.
He stood abruptly, scooped you up... like you weighed nothing.
You gasped, arms instinctively looping around his neck.
“I’m taking you to your home,” he said against your temple. “You’re going to shower, eat something that isn’t caffeine, and sleep for twelve hours straight.”
“And if I argue?”
He started walking toward the elevator, your body cradled against his chest. “Then I’ll put you over my shoulder, carry you anyway.”
His voice was calm yet dangerous.
Your stomach flipped.
You rested your head against his shoulder, breathing him in—his cologne and something that felt dangerously like safety.
“I’m not arguing,” you whispered.
He pressed the elevator button with his elbow.
“Good,” he said, stepping inside as the doors slid open. “Because I’m done asking.”
The doors closed.
In the mirrored walls you caught your reflection... wrapped in his arms, face pale, eyes half-closed, lips swollen from biting them all week. And his reflection... jaw tight, eyes fierce, holding you like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.
You realized something terrifying as the elevator descended.
You didn’t want him to let go. Ever.
And that was what finally made your heart race hardest, more than any launch, more than the exhaustion, more than anything.
Launch day came and went in a blur of flashing cameras, champagne toasts, and record-breaking sales figures scrolling across every screen in the building.
You ran on pure adrenaline, smiling for investors, shaking hands until your palm went numb, pretending the light tightening around your skull was nothing.
By 9 p.m. the office almost emptied. Your migraine hit like a freight train... lights too bright, sounds too sharp, nausea rolling in waves.
You tried to hide it and slipped into your office, dimmed the lights, pressed your palms to your temples.
The door opened without a knock.
Hoseok stepped in, took one look at you, and flipped the lock.
His voice dropped to that dangerous register that made your stomach flip. “Get on the couch. Now.”
You opened your mouth to argue, “I’m fine, just need—”
He was on you in two strides, fingers gentle but firm under your chin, tilting your face up to the low light. His eyes searched yours, saw everything you were trying to bury.
“You hired me to take care of you,” he said softly, thumb stroking your jaw. “Every part of you. So let me handle you.”
Your knees actually buckled.
He caught you around the waist, guided you to the wide leather couch, laid you down like something precious and breakable. Then he knelt between your legs, knees spreading yours apart, hands sliding up your thighs under your skirt.
“Safe word?” he asked, voice low, serious.
“Red,” you whispered.
He smiled against your throat as he leaned in, lips brushing your pulse. “Good girl.”
He didn’t rush.
Buttons undone one by one, blouse parted slowly, bra pushed down just enough to expose your breasts. He kissed every new inch of skin he revealed... collarbone, sternum, the slope of one breast, then the other, tongue circling your nipple until it peaked hard and aching, then sucking until you whimpered.
“Already breathing so fast,” he murmured, lips trailing lower, over your stomach, pushing your skirt up to your waist. “Let’s see how wet my stubborn boss is.”
He hooked his fingers in your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them aside.
“Look at you,” he breathed, spreading your thighs wide with warm palms. “Already dripping for me. This pretty pussy knows who it belongs to, even when its owner is too proud to admit she needs taking care of.”
Two fingers slid inside you easily, curling slow and deep.
You arched off the couch with a broken moan.
He pumped once, twice, thumb circling your clit with devastating precision.
“Soaked,” he said, voice filthy. “Listen to that sound. You’re desperate for it.”
He built you up mercilessly... fingers curling against that spot, thumb rubbing tight circles, mouth returning to your breasts, sucking marks into the soft skin.
Your hips started rocking, breath coming in short gasps, pleasure coiling vicious and bright. “Hoseok—close... I'm... c-close....”
He stopped. Fingers stilled inside you, thumb lifting off your clit.
You sobbed, hips chasing his hand, trying to get the friction back. He let you struggle for a few humiliating seconds, watching you grind on nothing but his still fingers. Then he pulled them out slowly, deliberately, the wet sound obscene in the quiet office.
You whined, high and broken.
Before you could beg, his palm came down... sharp, stinging slap right on your soaked pussy.
The crack echoed.
You yelped, thighs snapping together, but he forced them wide again with his shoulders.
“Pathetic,” he murmured, voice dark. “Look at you. Humping the air like a desperate little slut because I took my fingers away.”
Another slap... lighter this time, but directly on your clit. Your whole body jerked, tears pricking your eyes from the sharp mix of pain and pleasure.
“Count them,” he ordered.
“One,” you gasped.
He slapped again, harder, the wet sound filthy.
“Two—”
He leaned in, teeth grazing your inner thigh, then biting down... not gentle, marking. You cried out, fingers clawing at the couch. He soothed the bite with his tongue, then bit the other thigh, higher, closer to where you needed him.
“You think you deserve to come?” he asked against your skin, breath hot.
Another slap—three quick ones in succession, each one making your clit throb harder. You were sobbing now, hips twitching, trying to close your legs and rub them together for any relief.
He pinned one thigh down with his forearm.
“Greedy, spoiled little thing,” he said, almost fond, almost cruel. “This cunt doesn’t get to decide when it comes. I do.”
He bit your thigh again, hard enough to bruise, then licked a stripe up your folds, just once, teasing.
You screamed in frustration.
“No,” he said calmly, pulling back, kissing the inside of your knee like he hadn’t just ruined you. “Not yet. You don’t come until I say. And right now, you haven’t earned it.”
He started again, slower this time, dragging his fingers in and out, tongue flicking over your clit in light, teasing licks.
Every time you got close he pulled back, blowing cool air over your soaked folds until you were shaking, tears pricking your eyes.
“Please... Hoseok...” you whispered, voice cracking. “I-I need...”
“I know what you need.” He sucked your clit gently, then harder, fingers scissoring inside you. “But you ignored every warning your body gave you today. So now you wait.”
You were crying openly now, thighs trembling around his shoulders.
He added his mouth fully this time... tongue lashing your clit side-to-side, fingers pumping deep and fast, curling relentlessly. You were right there... so close... walls fluttering around his fingers.
He pulled away completely.
You screamed in frustration, hips bucking at air, tears streaming. “Please... Hoseok... please let me come, I’ll be good, I swear... I’ll rest, I’ll listen, please let me come—”
He licked his fingers clean, eyes locked on yours, savoring your taste.
“Next time you push yourself to collapse,” he said, voice steady and dark, “I’ll deny you for a week. You’ll walk around aching, dripping, remembering who decides when you get to come.”
Then he flipped you over the arm of the couch, skirt still bunched at your waist, ass exposed. His palm came down... firm, measured, the crack echoing in the quiet office.
You gasped.
Again. Harder.
Again.
Until your skin was hot and pink, every slap sending a jolt straight to your clit. Between spanks he soothed with his palm, then slapped your pussy lightly... sharp, wet smacks that made you jolt and moan louder.
“This cunt is mine to punish,” he growled, delivering another stinging slap directly to your clit. “Mine to edge. Mine to overstimulate until you’re crying.”
“Such a greedy little slut,” he growled, thumb rubbing rough circles over your swollen clit while his fingers spread you open. “Look at this messy cunt—dripping down your thighs because I spanked you. You love being punished, don’t you?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—” You were sobbing with need, pushing back against nothing.
Only then did he unzip, free himself, and line up. He entered you in one slow, punishing thrust.
You both groaned.
He didn’t give you time to adjust.
His hips snapped forward in a brutal pace, deep, hard, relentless, every stroke dragging over that devastating spot inside you, forcing broken moans from your throat. One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so your spine arched, throat exposed.
“This is what happens when you don’t listen,” he rasped against your ear, breath hot, voice dripping filth. “I fuck the stubborn out of you. I remind this greedy pussy who it belongs to—who owns every pathetic little clench.”
His free hand came down again, sharp spanks on your already-pink ass between thrusts, each one timed perfectly to make you tighten around him.
“You think you can run yourself into the ground?” Smack. “Ignore me when I tell you to rest?” Smack. “This cunt doesn’t get to decide anymore. I do.”
You sobbed his name, pushing back to meet every thrust, tears of overstimulation and need streaming down your face.
He leaned over you, teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder—hard enough to mark, to bruise—tongue soothing the sting as he bit down again, growling.
“Mine,” he snarled against your skin, hips grinding deep. “This body is mine to break and fix.”
His hand snaked around your hip, fingers finding your clit again... thumb rubbing rough, merciless circles while two fingers slapped lightly at your stretched entrance where he was buried inside you, then rubbed the slick mess up over your clit.
“So fucking wet,” he degraded, voice dark. “Leaking around my cock like a desperate little thing.”
“Please—Hoseok—I can’t—”
“You can,” he commanded, biting your shoulder again, harder, as his thumb pressed and circled faster. “And you will.”
The pleasure coiled vicious, overwhelming.
“Come,” he ordered, voice breaking with his own restraint. “Come all over my cock right now, you stubborn little brat. Show me who you belong to.”
You came so hard the world whited out, screaming his name, walls clamping down on him in violent pulses, slick gushing around his cock.
He didn’t stop.
Kept fucking you through it, fingers still on your clit, overstimulating you until you were shaking, crying, another orgasm building impossibly fast on the heels of the first.
“Too much... Hoseok—”
“Take it,” he snarled. “You can take everything I give you.”
The second orgasm tore through you even harder, body convulsing, vision sparking. He groaned your name, slammed deep, and came, hot, thick pulses filling you as his hips jerked through it.
When it was over, he pulled out slowly, carefully, both of you hissing at the loss. A trickle of warmth followed, and you felt it slide down your thigh.
He turned you gently in his arms, gathering you against his chest like you were made of glass. Your face pressed to the damp skin of his throat; you could hear his heart still thundering.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice rough but soft now, all the sharp edges filed away. One hand stroked down your spine, slow and grounding. “I’ve got you.”
He cleaned you with soft tissues from the desk drawer. You whimpered when the soft paper brushed your oversensitive skin.
“Shh... I know,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “I know it’s a lot. You took it so well, baby. So fucking well.”
He shrugged out his suit jacket and wrapped around you, rolled your ruined panties into his pocket with a dark little smile.
“Evidence,” he said quietly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Proof of how perfectly you fall apart for me.”
You managed a weak laugh, burying your face in his neck. “You’re keeping them?”
“Always.” He stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. “They’re mine. You’re mine.”
You didn’t protest. Couldn’t. Your limbs felt like liquid.
Then he carried you out of the office, down the elevator, into the car. You were half-asleep against his shoulder, boneless, wrecked, floating.
He noticed you looking and pressed a kiss to your temple.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded against his shoulder. “More than okay. I feel… safe.”
He exhaled, like the word undid something tight in his chest.
“Good,” he whispered. “That’s all I want. For you to feel safe enough to let go.”
“Let's go to my home now, baby,” he whispered. “And tomorrow you’re sleeping until noon. No arguments.”
You didn’t have the strength to argue.
For the first time in weeks, you didn’t want to.
Rules were established the morning after the last night, over coffee in his kitchen while you sat on the counter in one of his shirts, legs swinging, cheeks still flushed from the night before.
Hoseok leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, looking unfairly composed for a man who had wrecked you hours earlier.
“Mandatory lunch,” he said, ticking items off on his fingers. “Noon to one. No exceptions. No work past nine p.m. Bed by midnight.”
You arched a brow. “You’re giving your CEO a curfew?”
He stepped between your knees, hands settling on your bare thighs. “I’m giving the woman I’m responsible for a curfew. Yes.”
You opened your mouth to argue. He pressed a thumb to your bottom lip.
“Punishments vary... depending on how much you disobey,” he continued, voice dropping. “Soft ones: forced naps with your head in my lap while I work. My fingers on your thigh until you fall asleep.”
Your breath hitched.
“Hard ones…” His smile turned dark. “Orgasm denial until you’re crying and begging. Spanking until your pretty ass is red and you promise to behave. Or I sit you on my thigh in your office chair, make you ride me slow while I finish your schedule. You don’t come until I’m done.”
Heat pooled low in your belly.
“And rewards for obeying,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against your ear, “are devastating. I’ll let you sit on my face until I can’t breathe. Or I’ll fuck you so slow you feel every inch of me worshipping you. Praise every part of you until you’re shaking. Sometimes I’ll fall asleep buried inside you, just to wake up and do it all over again.”
He pulled back, eyes serious. “But I never let dominance overtake care. Never let you hurt. Hold you until you sleep. Always.”
You swallowed. “And if I break the rules?”
His grin was slow, predatory. “Then I remind you who you answer to when the office hours are over.”
Daytime at workplace was professional.
You in tailored suits, commanding boardrooms. Him at your side with tablets and schedules, voice calm, eyes sharp.
But under the table during long meetings, his hand would find your knee. Thumb stroking slow circles... Higher... Until your pen trembled and you had to clench your jaw to keep from gasping.
He passed notes on Post-its stuck to reports:
You’ve been good today. You’ll earn it tonight. Stop shifting in your seat. I can see how wet you are from here. You performed better than ever.
Your skin started glowing. Sleep finally regular. Decisions sharper than ever. The company was thriving—new contracts, soaring stock, employees buzzing with the energy radiating from the top floor.
Employees noticed the change... your improved mood. Whispers in the break room: “The boss is… different lately. Happier. Scarier, somehow.” No one dared comment directly.
Two weeks after the rules, you rebelled on purpose.
You’d recovered fully... sleep caught up, color back in your cheeks—and something reckless stirred. You wanted to push. Wanted to see if you could still make him snap.
You skipped lunch again. Stayed past ten reviewing projections. Sent him home at nine with a breezy. “Don't worry, I’ll leave in 10 min and I’ll be fine.”
He left without argument.
You thought you’d won.
Around 10:15 p.m., Hoseok called you only to find out you were still in office.
At 11:17 p.m., your office door opened quietly. Hoseok walked in—jacket hanging in his hand, sleeves rolled, face calm but eyes dark.
“I’m almost—” you started.
He rounded the desk, pull you from your chair, bent you over the desk in one swift move... chest to the mahogany, skirt flipped up, panties yanked down.
His palm cracked across your ass.
“You don’t listen until I ruin you, do you?” he murmured, fisting your hair, arching your back.
Another sharp spank. Then two more.
“CEO out there,” he said, voice low, “but in here you’re my needy brat who needs reminding who takes care of her.”
His fingers slid between your thighs. “Soaked already. Greedy girl.”
He spun you to face him, lifted you effortlessly, and laid you back across the wide mahogany surface—papers scattering, a pen clattering to the floor.
Your skirt was already flipped up, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, spreading you wide, stretching the muscles of your inner thigh until you felt deliciously exposed, open, vulnerable under his gaze.
He looked down at you like that for a long moment... chest heaving, eyes black with hunger... then reached for his belt. The clink of metal, the rasp of his zipper, and he freed himself... thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
He didn’t thrust in yet.
Instead, he gripped the base of his cock and slapped it against your soaked pussy—once, heavy and wet, the head dragging over your clit.
The sudden jolt of pleasure-pain ripped a sharp gasp from your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily off the desk as slick heat bloomed low in your belly.
“Fuck—Hobi—”
He didn’t stop. Twice, harder, the slap echoing sharp in the quiet office. The head of his cock catching right on your clit before sliding through your folds, the sting making your thighs tremble violently.
Three times, four, five—each one making your hips jerk, a desperate whine tearing from your throat.
“Hobi... please...”
“Please what?” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, slapping your clit again with the blunt tip until you were trembling. “Please stop? Or please fill this greedy little cunt?”
“Fill me... please... need you inside—”
Another slap, slower this time, dragging the length of him through your folds.
“Beg properly.”
“Please fuck me,” you sobbed, fingers scrabbling at the edge of the desk. “Need you so bad... please—”
He lined up and thrust in deep—one long, punishing stroke to the hilt.
You both groaned, the sound raw and wrecked.
He didn’t give you time to adjust.
He fucked you hard and precise, hips snapping forward, your leg still hooked high over his shoulder so every thrust stretched you deeper, hit impossibly perfect angles that made your vision spark white.
His hand fisted in your hair again, arching your back off the desk, lips brushing your ear.
“Taking me so perfectly on your own desk,” he rasped. “Brilliant woman, powerful boss—yet right now you’re just mine. My stubborn girl who needs to be fucked senseless to remember who takes care of her.”
His thumb found your clit, circling relentlessly, fingers occasionally slapping where you were stretched tight around him—wet, sharp sounds that made you clench harder.
All you could do was gag on broken words, pleasure so intense it stole your voice... half-formed pleas, his name fractured into gasps, incoherent moans spilling from your lips as he drove into you again and again.
“You’ll feel me every time you sit here tomorrow,” he promised, voice dark. “Every meeting, every signature—aching, full of me.”
He edged you ruthlessly—slowing when you got close, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in... once, twice... until you were crying, begging, tears streaking your temples.
“Admit it,” he demanded, thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Admit you need me to take care of you.”
“I need it,” you choked out, voice wrecked. “Need you... please—”
“Good girl.”
He slammed deep, thumb rubbing fast, perfect circles.
“Come. Now.”
You shattered... screaming into the desk, body convulsing, walls clamping down on him in violent pulses, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.
He groaned your name, hips stuttering, and followed, burying himself to the root, filling you with thick, hot pulses as he came.
After, he stayed inside a long moment, chest heaving against yours, stroking your back in slow, soothing lines, pressing soft kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth.
“Breathe, baby,” he whispered, voice gentle now. “I’ve got you. Always. You okay, baby?”
“Perfect,” you breathed.
He cleaned you gently, pulled your clothes back into place, wrapped you in his jacket, and carried you to the car.
That night, back in your penthouse, the city lights glittering far below like scattered diamonds, Hoseok ran the bath exactly how you liked it.
He undressed you slowly, fingers brushing every mark he’d left with something close to reverence. When you stood naked before him, skin still flushed and sensitive, he traced a fingertip over the faint hickeys on your collarbone.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, voice rough with leftover desire and something softer. “Every mark. Every sigh. All mine.”
He lifted you into the tub like you weighed nothing, settled behind you, and pulled you back against his chest. Warm water lapped at your skin as his hands moved with careful devotion... shampoo in your hair, fingertips massaging your scalp until your eyes fluttered shut, conditioner worked through the strands with gentle strokes.
You melted against him, head lolling on his shoulder.
He pressed a kiss to the damp skin behind your ear. “You were perfect tonight,” he murmured. “So strong. So brave. Letting me take everything and still giving me more.”
His arms tightened around you, almost imperceptibly. You felt the shift before he spoke—the way his heartbeat quickened against your spine.
“I need to tell you something,” he said quietly, voice barely louder than the water.
You turned your head, concerned. “What?”
“When Ji-eun hired me…” he began, voice low, almost hesitant, “she didn’t just hand me your schedule and a company handbook. She sat me down in her office, closed the door, and told me, ‘You’re going to have to be strict with her. Very strict. She won’t like it, but she needs it.’”
His fingers, which had been tracing gentle circles along your collarbone, stilled completely.
“I laughed at first,” he admitted, a rueful edge to his words. “Thought she was exaggerating. You’re the CEO—brilliant, untouchable. How hard could it be to keep one woman on a reasonable schedule?”
He shifted slightly behind you, pulling you closer so your back rested fully against his chest, his chin settling on your shoulder.
“Then I asked why. Why strict? And she didn’t say a word. Just slid a thick folder across the desk. Your medical file. Said, ‘Read the highlighted sections. Then you’ll understand.’”
You felt his throat move as he swallowed.
“I wasn’t supposed to read the whole thing. Just the summaries, the recent notes. But I did. Every page. Blood panels, ER visit reports, the cardiologist’s warning about chronic stress and risk of arrhythmia if you didn’t change your patterns. The nutritionist’s note that your iron was so low you were one bad month from hospitalization. The sleep study that said you didn’t even have 6 hours of sleep for ninety days straight.”
His voice cracked on the last part.
“I sat there for an hour after she left the room, reading and re-reading, feeling like someone had punched me in the chest. I didn’t even know you yet, and I was terrified for you. Angry at you. Proud of you. All of it at once.”
He turned you gently in the water so you faced him, knees on either side of his hips, hands cupping your face.
“Over the weeks,” he continued, eyes searching yours, “I started noticing everything. The way you’d rub your temples when you thought no one was looking. How you’d skip meals because a meeting ran long. How you smiled for the world but looked so damn tired when you thought you were alone.”
“And every day, I liked you more. Not just admired you—liked you. The real you. Who pushes herself until she breaks because she thinks she has to carry everything alone.”
His thumbs brushed your cheeks, catching tears you hadn’t realized were falling.
“I fell in love with you somewhere between the second and third time you ignored my texts telling you to eat,” he said, a soft, tired smile tugging at his lips.
“I love you so much it scares me,” he whispered. “Because I know exactly how fragile you can be under all that strength. And I can’t lose you to your own brilliance. I won’t.”
He leaned his forehead against yours.
“So I need you to promise me something. Not as your assistant. Not even as the man who dominates you in bed. But as the man who loves you more than anything.”
His voice dropped, raw and pleading. “Promise me you’ll never play with your health again. Not even as a joke. Not even when the world feels like it’s on your shoulders. Promise me you’ll let me carry some of it with you.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close until there was no space left between you.
“I promise,” you breathed against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Not when I finally have someone who sees me—all of me—and still wants to keep me safe.”
He exhaled again, but this time it sounded like relief, like years of worry melting away.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Thank you for letting me take care of you. For trusting me with the parts you hide from everyone else.”
You smiled against his lips and clung to him, face buried in his neck, letting the warmth of the water and his body seep into you. He held you until the water cooled, then lifted you out, wrapped you in the fluffiest towel, carried you to bed.
Tucked under fresh sheets, he pulled you against his chest, legs tangled.
“You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he whispered into your hair, lips brushing your temple. “But you don’t have to be strong alone anymore. Let me take care of you. Let me love you like this—fiercely, completely, every single day.”
You pressed a kiss over his heart.
“I will,” you promised again, softer this time. “Because surrendering to you… it doesn’t make me weaker. It makes me feel like I can finally breathe.”
He smiled against your forehead, arms tightening.
“That’s all I’ll ever ask.”
And with his heartbeat steady under your cheek, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, you fell asleep... safe, cherished, and truly at peace.
The industry gala was a glittering under the crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking, and deals were whispered.
You wore emerald silk that hugged every curve, slit high enough to turn heads, neckline low enough to command silence when you entered the room.
Untouchable.
The CEO everyone wanted to impress, fear, or seduce.
Hoseok was at your side all night... black tux tailored to perfection, smile polite and distant, the ideal executive assistant. Professional. Hands never lingering, eyes never straying.
Until Kim Namjoon approached. The CEO of competitor Skincare brand though he had always been friendly and polite.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dimples flashing as he extended a hand. “May I have a dance with this beautiful lady?”
You glanced at Hoseok for a fraction of a second. His expression didn’t change, but you saw the muscle jump in his jaw.
You smiled at Namjoon. “I’d be honored.”
The orchestra played something slow and elegant.
Namjoon’s hand was warm at your waist, conversation easy... market trends, shared investors, light laughter, last product launch. He was charming, respectful, the perfect gentleman.
But every time he spun you, your eyes found Hoseok at the bar.
He hadn’t moved.
One hand inside his pocket and another tight around a glass of whiskey he hadn’t sipped, knuckles white. Dark eyes tracking every step, every touch that wasn’t his.
When the song ended and Namjoon returned you with a courteous bow, you felt the weight of Hoseok’s stare.
You slid back into your seat beside him at the table.
Under the linen cloth, his hand found your thigh immediately, fingers splayed wide, possessive, a single warning squeeze just above the slit of your dress.
You inhaled sharply.
He leaned in, lips barely moving, voice so low only you could hear.
“Careful, baby,” he murmured. “You’re playing with fire in front of the entire industry.”
Your pulse raced. “It was just a dance.”
His thumb pressed harder, a slow drag up your skin. “I watched his hand on your waist. Watched you smile at him.” Another squeeze, closer to where you were already aching. “Remember who you belong to.”
You pressed your thighs together, heat flooding you.
The rest of the evening passed in a haze of small talk and forced smiles.
When you finally escaped to the private car in the underground basement, the door had barely closed before he pulled out of the lot and onto a secluded service road, tires humming over empty asphalt.
He didn’t speak.
Just found a shadowed spot beneath an overpass, cut the engine, and pushed his seat back with a mechanical whir.
The silence was thick, charged.
You opened your mouth, “Hobi—”
He turned, eyes blazing in the low dashboard light. “Quiet.”
One word, rough with restraint.
He reached across the console, gripped your waist, and pulled you over into his lap... straddling him, silk dress rucked up to your hips.
His mouth crashed into yours, hard, punishing, perfect. Teeth nipping your bottom lip until you gasped, then soothing with his tongue. He bit down again, marking, claiming.
You moaned into him, hands fisting his lapels.
He pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot against your swollen lips.
“You’re my boss in the office,” he growled, one hand sliding up your thigh, fingers digging in. “You give orders, you run the world, and I stand behind you like a good little assistant.”
His other hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. He dragged his mouth down the column, sucking a bruise just below your jaw.
“But after hours?” His voice dropped to something feral. “You’re mine. This mouth, this body, every fucking thought in that brilliant head is mine.”
You whimpered, grinding down on the hard line of him straining against his trousers. He bit your earlobe, hard enough to sting.
“You smiled at him. Let him hold you. Let him think, for three minutes, that he could have you.”
Your heart twisted. “Hobi... I didn’t—”
“I know,” he cut in, softer now, thumb brushing your cheek even as his grip tightened in your hair. “I know it was nothing. But I hated it. Hated watching him touch you. Hated pretending I didn’t want to drag you out of there and remind everyone who you go home with.”
His hand slipped between your legs, finding you soaked through the lace.
“Feel this?” He pressed two fingers against your clit through the fabric. “This is mine. Dripping for me because I’m jealous... because I watched another man touch what belongs to me.”
You nodded frantically, chasing his hand.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Only yours... always—”
He groaned, low and satisfied, and kissed you again... deep, devouring, until you were dizzy. Then he pulled back, reclined his seat to make space, eyes dark and commanding.
“On your knees.”
The space was tight, but you moved willingly, eagerly... sliding down between his legs, knees on the carpeted floor, hands already reaching for his belt.
He watched you the entire time, chest rising fast.
You freed him... thick, hard, leaking at the tip. You leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste him.
He hissed, hand sliding into your hair—not guiding yet, just holding.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice gravel-rough.
You met his eyes as you took him into your mouth... slow, deliberate, sinking down until he hit the back of your throat.
His head fell back against the seat for a second, a broken “Fuck...” escaping him.
Then his gaze locked on you again, intense, possessive.
“Want to see whose cock you’re choking on,” he rasped. “While you think about dancing with someone else. Want you to remember exactly who makes you fall apart.”
You moaned around him, the deep vibration humming straight through his cock, making his hips jerk involuntarily upward, pushing him even deeper into your throat.
“Fuck... Yes... just like that...” he hissed, fingers tightening in your hair, holding you steady. “That mouth… made to take me, isn’t it? Moan again, baby. Let me feel how much you love choking on my cock.”
You did... another low, desperate moan that vibrated around his length as you took him deeper, relaxing your throat, letting him slide past your gag reflex until your nose brushed the tight skin of his abdomen.
He groaned, loud and wrecked. “That’s it… all the way down. Good girl—fuck—taking every inch like you’re starving for it.”
You gagged softly when he hit the back of your throat, the wet, choking sound filling the confined space of the car, tears springing to your eyes from the stretch.
Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin, but you didn’t pull back—instead you hollowed your cheeks harder, sucking, hand twisting and stroking the base your mouth couldn’t reach.
The sloppy, wet sounds of your throat working him mixed with your muffled whimpers and the occasional gag when he thrust deeply into your mouth.
“Listen to you,” he rasped, voice dark and strained, hips rolling up to meet you. “Gagging on me like a desperate little slut. You love this, don’t you? Love choking on the cock that owns you while you remember how it felt dancing with someone else.”
You whimpered around him, the sound choked and needy, eyes watering as you looked up... tears streaking your mascara, lips stretched wide around his thickness.
He cursed under his breath, grip tightening until your scalp tingled. “Eyes on me. Want to watch you cry on my dick. Want to see you ruin that pretty makeup while you apologize with this perfect fucking mouth.”
Another deep thrust—he held you down for a second longer than comfortable, your throat convulsing around him, a wet, strangled gag escaping before he let you up for air.
You pulled back gasping, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening cock, coughing once before diving back in eagerly, taking him deep again, gagging deliberately this time, the obscene sound making him groan loud enough to fog the windows.
“God, yes... just like that,” he praised, voice breaking. “Choke on it. Show me how sorry you are. Show me no one else will ever get this—ever get you on your knees, drooling and crying for their cock.”
You lost yourself completely... the salty taste of him, the heavy weight on your tongue, the way his thighs tensed and trembled under your palms, the filthy gasps of praise and possession spilling from his lips.
When he came, it was sudden and devastating... hips bucking, hand fisting your hair to hold you down as he spilled hot and thick down your throat with a hoarse, reverent growl of your name.
“Mine... fuck... all mine—”
You swallowed every drop, throat working around him through the aftershocks, only pulling off when he loosened his grip, gasping, lips swollen and shiny, tears drying on your cheeks.
He pulled you up immediately, into his lap again, kissing you slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue.
You were shaking, aching, empty and desperate.
He tucked you against his chest, one hand stroking your hair, the other wrapped around your waist.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your temple. “And you’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.”
You nodded, burying your face in his neck.
“I won’t,” you breathed. “I’m yours. Always.”
He held you there in the dark, engine off, city distant, until your breathing synced and the jealousy cooled into something warm and unbreakable.
Then he drove home... one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, a silent promise that the night wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Months later.
You woke in his bed... your bed now, officially, after you’d quietly moved the last of your things in your new shared apartment.
Sunlight filtered through the half-open curtains, and the warm skin of his arm locked possessively around your waist.
His breath was steady against the back of your neck, but you felt the moment he stirred—the subtle tightening of his hold, the gentle press of his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
“Good morning, my stubborn boss,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep, a smile audible in every syllable.
You stretched lazily, smiling into the pillow. “Good morning, my strict warden.”
He hummed, low and pleased, the sound vibrating against your spine. His hand slid slowly down your stomach, fingertips tracing idle patterns before slipping between your thighs with familiar confidence.
“Ready for your morning reward?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, fingers already finding you warm and responsive.
You arched into his touch, breathless. “Always.”
Because under his supervision—strict, loving, unwavering, you had finally learned how to breathe... How to rest... How to let someone else carry part of the weight.
And how to burn bright, fierce, beautifully, without turning to ash.
Later, after slow, worshipful morning sex that left you both laughing and gasping into each other’s mouths, you arrived at the office together.
The lobby was already busy... early staff grabbing coffee, security nodding good morning. You stepped out of the private elevator first, heels clicking on the marble, looking every inch the untouchable CEO in a tailored ivory suit.
Hoseok followed one respectful step behind, tablet in hand, the picture of perfect professionalism.
But as you approached the glass doors to the executive floor, you slowed.
He noticed immediately, pausing mid-stride.
You turned, reached back, and took his hand in yours... fingers sliding between his, intertwining deliberately. Then you stepped forward again, pulling him gently until he was no longer behind you, but beside you.
Side by side.
His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. “Baby...” he started, voice low, glancing toward the open-plan floor where employees were already settling at desks. “People will see.”
You squeezed his hand, continuing to walk... slow, steady, unhurried, your joined hands visible to anyone who cared to look.
“Let them,” you said quietly, but with absolute certainty. “I’m tired of pretending the best thing in my life as a secret.”
His breath caught. For a moment he was speechless, thumb stroking over your knuckles in disbelief.
Then a slow, radiant smile broke across his face—dimples deep, eyes shining with something that looked a lot like forever. He lifted your joined hands, pressed a soft kiss to your fingers right there in the hallway, and matched your stride perfectly.
By the time you reached your office, half the floor had noticed. Whispers followed you like a gentle wave, but no one dared stare too long.
Ji-eun was waiting by your door with a stack of reports and a knowing grin that threatened to split her face.
She took one look at your intertwined hands—Hoseok still holding yours as he reached to open the door for you, and let out a dramatic gasp.
“Well, well,” she said, leaning against the frame. “Someone finally grew courage. Or should I say—the boss finally admitted her assistant is the real one in charge?”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide your smile. “Mind your business, Ji-eun.”
“Oh, I will,” she said, handing you the reports with a wink. “But the group chat is about to explode. Half the company’s been betting on when you two would stop pretending you’re not disgustingly in love.”
Hoseok laughed quietly beside you, squeezing your hand once more before letting go—only to slide his palm to the small of your back as you walked into the office.
Ji-eun called after you, teasing, “Congratulations on going public, lovebirds! HR’s going to need a new policy manual!”
The door closed behind you both.
Inside, Hoseok set his tablet down, turned to you, and backed you gently against the desk, hands on your waist, forehead resting against yours.
“You sure?” he asked softly, searching your eyes. “Once it’s out, it’s out. The press, the board—”
“I’m sure,” you said, cupping his face. “I want everyone to know I’m yours. And that you’re mine. No more hiding.”
His smile was soft, devastating, full of everything he rarely said out loud.
“Then let them talk,” he whispered, kissing you slow and deep. “As long as I get to keep taking care of you... publicly or privately... I’m the luckiest man alive.”
You kissed him back, heart full, finally unafraid to show the world the man who had taught you how to breathe.
And how to burn.
Beautifully.
A/n: Did Namjoon successfully take Converse High revenge? 🤭
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