#good boy x reader

[asmodaya]

Anytime

Yoon Dong-Ju x Fem!reader

Warnings: established relationship, sex in the workplace, creampie.

Words: 1.3

Request: "Hey, how’s it going? I saw you’re into writing stuff for Park Bo-Gum, and I’d really love a story where Young Dong Ju totally loses his mind over a photo the reader sent him. Like, he tries to keep it together but can’t, and ends up taking her somewhere in the office. Would you be up for that? Thanks so much!"

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be kind 💕

“Morning,” She said with an easy smile, lifting her head slightly as she passed one of the admin officers on the way to her desk.

The station was its usual late-morning hum, phones ringing, printers working overtime, someone laughing in the break room two doors down.

It felt routine. Ordinary.

Then, from the left, a door creaked open.

She barely had time to register it before a hand shot out, fast and firm around her wrist, yanking her into the narrow rest area. The world spun, door slammed and then she was up against it, breath caught in her throat.

“What the…”

Her words were cut off by lips crashing into hers, hot, open, desperate.

It wasn’t gentle. It was wild, like he hadn’t kissed her in years. For a split second, she panicked, struggled but then his hand cupped the back of her neck, and his scent hit her

Suddenly she knew.

 “Dong Ju!” she whispered against his mouth, exasperated, flushed.

But he didn’t stop. If anything, the sound of her voice made him kiss her harder. His other hand slid up under the hem of her shirt, warm palm splayed across her lower back like he needed to feel her skin or he’d die.

She gripped his shoulders, pushed at his chest “We´re at work” she hissed.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath coming fast. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He was already rocking his hips into hers “You really thought sending me that photo while I was stuck here was fair?” he said in low voice.

She smirked, tilting her head. “Fair? No. Effective? Absolutely.”

His jaw clenched. “I couldn’t even look at you this morning.”

“That’s why you were so twitchy in the meeting?” She laughed

“I didn’t hear a single word,” he muttered, like he hated himself for it. “I was hard the entire time… Couldn’t even stand up without…” he broke off, pressing his face to her neck. “Then you walked past me and smiled like nothing happened.”

She shivered, his lips were at her throat now, teeth grazing skin. “Because nothing did happen”

His hands dropped to her hips, gripping tight. “Stop tease me.”

She tilted her head, just enough to let him kiss lower, her breath catching despite herself. “Dong Ju! Not here.”

“But… I need you” he whispered, right against her pulse “I’ll be fast...” His hands slid down as his fingers twitched at her jeans button, and she slapped them away. “Don’t!”

He looked up, lips flushed, breathing hard, hair already falling into his eyes “ please baby”

She tensed, eyes narrowing. “You’re insane.”

“I won’t take long,” he promised, lips trailing lower. “… before anyone even notices.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.” “I mean it,” he said, nipping at her neck. “I thought you had self-control.”

 “Not when it comes to you.”

Their mouths collided again, teeth scraping, breath mingling. His hands moved fast, yanking at her jeans with the finesse of a man already falling apart. She tried to keep protesting, tried to keep the upper hand, but his lips were on her throat again, and her body was already responding.

 “You’re so needy,” she teased, biting her lip as he pulled himself free, cock heavy and twitching in his fist. “You're really gonna fuck me against the wall like a desperate teenager?”

“Yeah,” he said without hesitation, voice cracking. “I am.”

He slid the tip of his cock through her folds, and her breath caught.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, like it was some holy revelation.

A low, breathy moan slipped past her lips, she smirked against his mouth. “What can I say? You have that effect on me.”

 “Oh yeah?” he breathed, lining himself up, the swollen head of him dragging through the slick between her thighs. He eased in with a groan, just the tip at first, and her hands flew to his shoulders as the stretch hit.

“Oh…fuck.” A soft moan escaped his lips.

She pressed a finger lightly to them, smirking against his mouth. “Shhh… you’re going to get us caught.”

His eyes darkened, “I can’t help it.”

“Oh…” He eased in slowly and she clenched instinctively. “Feels so good.”

She swallowed the moan that wanted to slip free, biting her lip instead. “We need to keep it down,” she murmured, tilting her head so he could kiss her jaw softly.

“mhmmmmm you feel so fucking good” he dragged out. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”

He gave a shaky laugh, “Every second.”

His movements grew a little firmer. “Baby… you’re squeezing already, don’t do that…”

“What?” she whispered innocently, clenching again just to tease him.

He gasped, head thunking forward to rest on her shoulder. “You’re mean.”

Her grin widened, even as her breath faltered from the pressure of him slowly sinking all the way inside. He wasn’t gentle, he was too desperate for that. The thrust was hard and deep, and her back hit the door with a muted thud.

“You like it when I’m mean,” she whispered, letting her hands roam over his chest.

“God,” he moaned, rutting into her in short, needy thrusts.

She tightened around him savoring the way his body jerked at the sudden squeeze.

He yelped, “Stop … fuck, I’ll cum like that…”

“You’re such a mess,” she breathed, lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a slow, wicked kiss.

But her own body was burning, as she rocked her hips up into him, matching his pace, feeling the delicious friction.

His hand slid up her thigh, holding her open as he slammed in harder, faster, each thrust driving her closer to the edge.

Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. “Dong Ju…” she whispered.

He growled low in his throat, hips stuttering, “Tell me… tell me what you want.”

She bit her lip hard, nails digging into his back as waves of heat crashed over her. “More,” she breathed. “Harder. Don’t stop.”

His thrusts became brutal, wild but still careful enough not to make a sound, each movement filling her, pulling her tighter.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he hissed, voice strained, pupils dark and wild. “I’m gonna…”

“Not yet,”

He growled low, the sound vibrating through her chest, as his hands slid up to her waist, pulling her against him. “You’re driving me crazy”

He sank his teeth just barely into her skin, sending a sharp thrill down her spine. “You feel so good, God…” he rasped, voice thick with need.

She arched into him, breath hitching, her hands clutching at his shoulders as his hips slammed harder, deeper. “I can’t take it…please…” He groaned like it physically hurt, burying himself deep.

“Cum for me pretty boy” she breathed, voice barely more than a moan.

She felt the way his body seized, the way his cock twitched as he came, hot and thick, deep inside her. His hips kept moving in tiny, helpless thrusts, chasing the last wave of it, forehead pressed to hers, lips trembling.

Their breaths were loud in the tiny room. He didn’t move for a second, just held her, panting.

Then he brushed a shaky kiss to her forehead, “Thank you baby" His hands trembled slightly as they lingered on her waist, still holding her close. She smiled softly against his skin, fingers tracing lazy circles on his neck. “Anytime,” she whispered, breath still catching.

She shoved her jeans back up, cheeks flushed, but Dong Ju just stood there, shirt wrinkled, hair wrecked, belt hanging loose, dazed like he’d just been electrocuted.

“We’re never doing this again.” she muttered, yanking her shirt straight.

 “That’s what you said the last time.”

She froze in the doorway, half turning with narrowed eyes.

“…Shut up.”

But her smile gave her away.

TAG: @shakalakaboomboo @VOID @manakasaul @yaraaqua @iluhtoget2onn @orangejuiceloverr @Supfriendz @evanpeterslover485 @ashercorpse @Asher @bellahazz-blo @Bellahazz @herrypotterthings @sunsunoo77 @shadybanana-things @hornylittlesimp @jaehy97 @ @cautiouslycoldgenesi @romancetrashhone @jaylajones12 @totalramanoodles @aeriinthewild @zoeyyys-blog @summrprincess

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

HIII i love your fics smsmmsmsmsmsm and i was wondering if your requests are open

if they areeee could i request a yoon dong ju x reader fic with a lot of yearning??? I LOVE A MAN WHO YEARNS!!! butttt something in the lines of them being so oblivious about the other having a crush on them but being so obvious to others at the same time ykyk 😝😝 alsooooo like a lot of admiring from afar

finally - yoon dong-ju

yoon dong-ju x single mom!reader

this was so refreshing to write, thank you for the request!! hopefully u like this sort of scenario 💓

word count: 2,2k

requests are open!

It started with that silly little cat, the one that wedged itself under the vending machine near your son’s school and wouldn’t come out no matter how many times he crouched on the pavement and called. You weren’t there to see it, but your son came home glowing with the story of a man in a uniform who gave up his sandwich, used his jacket as bait, and crouched down next to him like they were a team. “He said I was his sidekick,” he told you between mouthfuls of cereal that evening, his grin so wide you almost forgot to be annoyed that he’d talked to a stranger. It was so random you brushed it off - until three days later there was a knock at your door and a tall officer stood there with your son’s forgotten backpack in his hands, rain caught in his hair and his voice gentle as he said, “He told me I had to bring this to you or else,” and smiled as if the whole errand had been the highlight of his day. Your son barreled into him, hugging his legs like he’d known him for years, and Dong-ju just knelt down, returned the backpack, and looked up at you like he was worried about overstepping, like the mere act of standing in your hallway might be too much.

He came around again the very next week - on patrol, he said, though he stopped at the school gates long enough to walk your son home. After that, he always seemed to be there when you needed him, without you even realizing you needed anyone at all. He learned where the loose tiles were on the steps up to your building and made sure your son never tripped on them. He fixed the door when it started sticking, using his pocketknife and a screwdriver while he listened to your boy narrate the entire plot of his favorite superhero movie. He made sure there was always a hand reaching out to steady the grocery bag that looked too heavy. He never asked for anything in return.

At first you told yourself it was his job - just kindness, nothing more, feeling sorry for a single mom - but as the months passed, his presence grew into something far less simple. You caught yourself noticing small things, like how he always sat sideways on your couch, knees drawn up slightly, as if he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Or the way his hands, so sure when holding a radio or writing a report, were careful and slow when tying your son’s shoelaces, when passing you a mug of tea, when replacing the batteries in the noisy dinosaur toy he claimed “haunted his dreams.”

It wasn’t just you who noticed. At the station, they teased him that his whole patrol route started and ended with your street. Whenever there was a school event, they traded shifts so he could be the one assigned to traffic there. When someone new at the station saw your son’s drawings taped inside his locker, they grinned and asked if he was proud of his kid, and Dong-ju just shook his head, smiling a little, but didn’t correct them fast enough for it not to sting.

The teasing didn’t stop him. If anything, it just made him more careful not to let you see the way he cared. Which, of course, you did anyway. You saw it every time he lingered outside the school gates even when he wasn’t supposed to be there. You saw it in the way his eyes softened when you thanked him for something simple. You saw it when he took time to sit on the floor, his uniform jacket folded neatly beside him, and built Lego spaceships like there was nothing more important in the world.

It became a rhythm, your days punctuated by his presence. He was there for your son’s first school fair, cheering louder than anyone when he spotted him in the sack race. He helped you repair the bookshelf when it collapsed under a mountain of toys, laughing as you both tried to hold the pieces steady. On winter mornings, he started showing up with hot packs for your son’s mittens, pressing one into your hand without a word before ducking his head so you wouldn’t see the way he was smiling.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You had to tell yourself that, because the alternative - that he might be looking at you with something that wasn’t just kindness - was too dangerous. You didn’t have the room in your life to make a mistake with someone like him, someone so good it hurt to imagine losing.

He told himself the same thing from the other side. That it wasn’t his place. That you needed stability, not a man who was gone at unpredictable hours, a man who couldn’t promise to be there for everything. So he buried it, every time, in small gestures. Fixing a door, carrying a heavy box, leaving a bag of groceries on your step with no note. It was easier to love you quietly, to keep himself at the edges, than risk being too much.

Of course, to everyone else, it was obvious. Especially to your son, who was tireless in his campaign to make sure you noticed what he noticed. “He looks at you all the time,” he told you one night, sitting on the counter while you packed his school lunch. “Like how I look at cake.” You blinked at him. “Cake?” “Like he wants to eat it.” Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled across the apartment, “She’s looking at you right now!” and you heard Dong-ju’s startled laugh from the hallway where he was fixing a loose hinge.

Your son wasn’t the only one. The other parents at school whispered about the handsome officer who seemed to orbit around you, the way his gaze always lingered a moment longer, like he was making sure you were safe even in a crowd. The neighbors noticed how often his boots were outside your door, how many times you walked in with grocery bags and came out with empty hands, leaving him to carry everything. Even his fellow officers had stopped bothering to ask where he was going when he signed himself up for every neighborhood shift in a three-block radius of your apartment.

If he ever realized people were talking, he didn’t let it show. He just kept doing what he’d always done, as if helping you and your son was the most natural and rewarding thing in the world.

The seasons turned. Spring came, and with it, a school field trip to the park. You weren’t surprised to find him there, leaning against a tree in his uniform, pretending he just happened to be assigned to that area, even as he subtly made sure your son’s group never strayed too far. You saw the way his eyes flicked toward you whenever you laughed at something one of the kids said, and it made something in your chest ache.

Then summer, hot and bright, and he was the one who taught your son to ride his bike, running alongside in the park for nearly an hour until he finally let go and watched him pedal away, breathless and grinning. When your son finally wobbled to a stop and ran back, throwing his arms around him, you had to look away for a moment because the tenderness on his face was too much to hold all at once.

Autumn came, and one evening you found him in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the stubborn marks off your stovetop while telling some story about the clumsiest rookie in his division. You leaned against the counter, arms folded, and thought about how easy it felt to have him there, like he belonged.

You were thinking the same thing a month later, on a chilly evening in late November, when he walked you both home after a school event. Your son had fallen asleep in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder, and he carried him all the way up the stairs without complaint, setting him gently in bed before you could even ask. You stood in the hallway, watching as he brushed a stray curl off your son’s forehead, something so unguarded in the gesture that it made your breath catch.

He straightened then, looking at you, and for a long moment neither of you spoke. The world outside the window was quiet, the city lights soft, and you realized with a sudden, aching clarity that there wasn’t anyone else you trusted with your life more than the man standing right in front of you.

“Dong-ju,” you said quietly, and the sound of his name in your mouth seemed to hold him still. After a moment, he slowly moved, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him as he faced you.

“Thank you.” you continued, reaching for his hand. His fingers were warm as he gently pressed yours to his chest, squeezing.

“Always.”

His eyes softened and your heart broke a little at the same time, but he didn’t say anything else. There wasn’t really anything left to say. The silence between you stretched, warm instead of awkward, and you realized his hand was still wrapped around yours, that you could feel his heartbeat galloping, that neither of you had even thought about letting go.

Your son shifted in bed behind the half-closed door, and you both froze like you’d been caught doing something forbidden. When he didn’t stir again, you exhaled, shoulders loosening just a little, and your gaze lifted back to his.

“Dong-ju,” you whispered again, quieter this time. There was a question in your voice that you weren’t sure how to ask, and maybe he heard it anyway, because he didn’t look away.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said. “But I still want to.”

For a moment it felt like standing on the edge of something, the kind of hesitation that lasts forever and only a second all at once. And then, very carefully, like he was afraid the whole world might shatter if he did it too fast, he bent his head.

It was barely a kiss at first - just the faintest press of his lips against yours, a question more than an answer. When you didn’t pull back, when you tilted your chin up the smallest fraction, the question disappeared. His free hand cupped your jaw, slow and steady, like he’d been waiting for months to be sure.

The sound that came from behind the door was so sudden you almost jumped: a muffled, delighted “HA! I KNEW IT!”

You both broke apart, startled and breathless, and the door swung wider to reveal your son standing there, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes squinting like he’d just woken up but was way too pleased with himself to care.

“Did you finally tell him?”

You froze. “Tell him what?”

“That you like him,” he said simply. “I already told everyone at school you were going to get married, so if you changed your mind, that’s kind of embarrassing for me.”

“Everyone at school?” you echoed, trying not to laugh.

“And Sergeant Kim from the station,” he continued blithely. “And that tall one who brings donuts. And the lady at the market.”

“Wow,” Dong-ju said, ruffling his hair with the hand that wasn’t still holding yours, his voice rough from trying not to laugh. “You really like to plan ahead, don’t you?”

“I had to,” your son said gravely. “You two weren’t doing anything about it.”

Before you could come up with a response to that, he yawned so hard it seemed to swallow his whole face and stumbled back toward his bed, muttering, “Finally,” as he climbed under the covers. Within a minute he was asleep again, leaving the two of you in stunned, awkward silence.

When you turned back to Dong-ju, he was still looking at you, a little sheepish, a little dazed, but with that same quiet steadiness that had been there since the very first day. His thumb brushed over your hand again, and something unspoken passed between you, lighter this time, easier.

“Just so you know, he’s never going to let you leave.” you whispered, smiling up at him.

Dong‑ju tilted his head. “Do you want me to leave?”

The quiet hummed between you before you shook your head. “No. I think breakfast would be nice.”

And just like that, he relaxed - really relaxed - and the next thing you know, the two of you were in the kitchen the next morning, standing shoulder to shoulder, rummaging through cupboards for pancake mix, laughing too much for the early hour, as if this had been the plan all along.

[imhaechanshoe]

sound of silence

Pairing: Yoon Dong-ju x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, Trauma Healing

You were called a badminton prodigy with flawless footwork, explosive energy, and the kind of focus most athletes spent their whole lives chasing.

On the outside, you were graceful. Fast. Fierce.

But on the inside?

Silence.

Not the meditative kind. The heavy, suffocating one. The kind that follows grief when it’s never been spoken out loud. The kind that still wraps itself around your throat years later.

Because while the country celebrated your Olympic gold medal, your father bled out in a back alley, a victim of a senseless shooting you didn’t even know about until hours after the match.

You’ve hated applause ever since.

Now, you were an officer.

A quiet, obedient, overly competent one—exactly the kind the higher-ups liked to overlook. Which was probably why they placed you in the newly formed special force with a bunch of other ex-Olympians.

They thought your silence made you easier to manage.

They didn’t know silence was your rebellion.

Yoon Dong-ju noticed you before you said a single word.

He noticed the way you stood during briefings—hands behind your back, eyes low, feet never completely still.

He noticed how your answers were clipped and polite, but never cold.

How you only spoke when you had to. And when you did, your voice was gentle. Soft. Almost apologetic.

At first, he thought you didn’t like the team.

Then he realized: it wasn’t dislike.

It was grief.

One day, after a field simulation, the team sat down in the gym to decompress. Everyone laughed and teased each other, sweaty and loud.

You were off to the side, back turned, unwrapping tape from your wrist with slow, methodical movements.

Dong-ju walked over, towel around his neck.

“You’re really fast. Even in boots.”

You looked up, startled that he was speaking to you. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

“Badminton, right?” he continued, nodding to your stance. “Footwork like that doesn’t come from track or taekwondo.”

A pause.

Then, softly, your first words to him:

“Yeah.”

He gave a small smile.

“I was a boxer. You probably figured.”

Your eyes flickered to his hands—scarred, strong, calloused. Obvious.

“I saw.”

“You always that quiet?” he asked. Not mockingly. Just curious.

You looked down at your knee brace, tugging it tighter.

“Only when I’m awake,” you said dryly.

And that was the moment he decided you weren’t just quiet.

You were hurting.

Over the next few weeks, he didn’t press you.

He just sat near you. Handed you things before you had to ask. Matched your walking pace in the hallway. You barely noticed, at first. But you never moved away.

You weren’t friends. Not yet. But he was safe. And that was enough.

Until one night, everything cracked.

You’d just finished a long debrief. It was storming outside, hard and cold, and the sound of rain on the roof made something twist in your chest. You headed toward the locker room alone, fists clenched.

Dong-ju found you standing in front of your open locker, staring at your gold medal, which was tucked inside a sock in your bottom drawer.

“You bring that with you?” he asked from behind.

You didn’t turn around. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

Your throat tightened. “To remind myself… it wasn’t worth it.”

The room went quiet except for the hum of flickering lights.

He stepped closer, but didn’t reach out. Just waited.

“He died the day I won it,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “My dad. Got caught in something he shouldn’t’ve. I was busy smiling on TV.”

You turned to look at him, eyes wet but defiant.

“So, no. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like cheering. I don’t like being called a hero.”

Dong-ju didn’t say “I’m sorry.” You’d heard that enough.

Instead, he quietly said, “You know what I did the day I lost the gold medal match?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard.

“I punched a mirror,” he continued. “Got fifteen stitches. Coach said I embarrassed the country. But I didn’t care. I was already so full of hate, I couldn’t even see straight. And then… I got drafted into this team. Told I had to protect people when I couldn’t even protect myself.”

Your lips parted. Your shoulders lowered.

“I think we’re both here because we lost something,” he said, “and no one knew how to give it back.”

That night, you sat together on the rooftop, the rain now a light mist.

You gave him half your convenience store kimbap without saying a word.

He took it and smiled.

And in that quiet… something started to heal.

Weeks Later…

Dong-ju walked into the gym late, expecting it to be empty.

Instead, he found you standing at the net, badminton racket in hand, ponytail high, hoodie sleeves rolled up.

You looked over at him.

“Wanna learn how to serve?”

He blinked. “What?”

You tossed him a racket. “I may not talk much. But I can teach.”

He caught it.

Grinned.

“Only if you promise not to beat me too bad.”

You didn’t smile. But your eyes finally held light.

“No promises, boxer boy.”

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[longlostlibrary]

I have come to the unfortunate realization that my type in men is basically just Tom Blyth’s character in Paris Paloma’s new song—

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

difficult - kim jong-hyeon

kim jong-hyeon x reader

you can find the second part here, third part here

word count: 2,1k

i'm so obsessed with good boy but my obsession with lee sang yi has been strong since bloodhounds, always the second male lead, my shayla 🥹

requests are open!

You didn’t tell anyone. Not that you were sick, not that you hadn’t eaten in over a day due to the loss of your appetite and energy, not that your head felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton and your body ached like you’d been sparring for hours. 

It might have something to do with the recent streak of messages that you exchanged with your quiet, methodical, unreadable colleague with a stick in his ass - Kim Jong-hyeon. His messages were always short, never sentimental, but they still managed to drive you crazy. Don’t skip lunch today (that one time you’d been avoiding the canteen food because you had been punched in the gut on a mission so hard you felt for days as if you were going to throw up), Your caffeine intake is above normal this week. Drink water before 3 p.m.; Meeting got moved to 11:40. Bring actual notes this time, or maybe the worst of them that made you not speak to him for a week: Forecast says wind gusts over 20. Don’t wear the skirt you wore last Thursday. 

The last one said: Weather says 4° and raining. Don’t be stupid to wear that thin coat. 

Well, as a proof of your stubbornness, you decided to wear said coat and also said skirt, just to piss him off. But seeing his calm, indifferent expression was not worth laying on your couch while contemplating your life choices. 

You had worked with Jong-hyeon for just under a year in the inspection division of the auditor’s office - long enough to know he preferred actions to words, silence to sympathy, logic over anything that could be considered as warmth. You joked around him anyway, prodded him with sarcastic comments just to see if he would twitch. He rarely did. 

You had heard of his lost golden medal, the eye injury, the breakup between him and officer Ji Han-na. You once saw that he still had a picture of her in his wallet - smiling, radiant, the photograph worn in the edges. Such a heart-throb, you thought, breathing out loudly through your aching throat as you moved to your side, shivering even beneath the blankets. 

One thing that you could say about Kim Jong-Hyeon was that he was observant - which was probably the most dangerous thing about him. He noticed everything. 

Which is why, at exactly 2:13 p.m. on your second sick day - the second one you didn’t tell anyone about, didn’t put in the system, just disappeared without a word - someone rang your doorbell. Wearing socks that didn’t match and sweatpants that had become a second skin, you crawled out of the comfort of your living room, fully prepared to yell at a delivery guy for waking you up from your fever nap. 

Except when you had cracked the door open, it was not a delivery guy. It was Jong-hyeon. 

In plain clothes, black hoodie, hands in his pockets like he had every right to be there and none of the intention to explain why. 

You blinked once, stupidly. 

He blinked back, then lifted a small white plastic bag in one hand and said, “You didn’t answer your phone.” 

You didn’t remember your phone ringing. 

You blinked again, slower this time, like your brain was buffering under fever and disbelief.

“You called me?” you rasped, voice barely hanging together, every syllable like gravel scraping your throat.

“I called twice,” he said, calm as ever. “And messaged. You read them but didn’t respond.”

You stared. Not because of what he said, but because he was here - on your doorstep, in casual clothes, carrying the plastic bag like it was just another checklist item. Like tracking down your half-dead, flu-ridden body on a Tuesday afternoon was standard procedure.

“You tracked me down,” you said slowly, your fingers tightening around the edge of the door. “Like I’m some kind of fugitive.”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he repeated flatly.

“Maybe I didn’t want to be found.”

His eyes narrowed behind his glasses - just slightly. A flicker, gone before it settled. “You didn’t want to be found,” he echoed, dryly. “While shivering, with a fever, probably half-delirious, and definitely stupid enough to skip three meals.”

“I had two oranges.”

“That’s not food.”

You sighed, gave up. Stepped aside.

He walked in without another word.

Your apartment wasn’t messy, just… uninhabited. Like you’d curled up in one corner of it and abandoned the rest. Jong-hyeon’s footsteps were quiet, but your awareness of them was loud, like your body remembered the sound of him even when your mind was still sluggish.

He made himself at home - not comfortably, not with ease, but with precision. Shoes by the door, hoodie sleeves rolled up, bag unpacked in a neat row on your kitchen counter. Medicine. Sports drink. Rice porridge in a sealed takeout bowl. A digital thermometer still in its box. A packet of heat patches. Your go-to coffee order with the right amount of milk, syrup and sugar. You had no idea how he had picked up on that. 

You watched him from the couch, cocooned in two blankets. Your throat ached, your joints ached, but your pride ached the most.

“So you just showed up. Because of a missed text?”

“Because you don’t miss texts,” he said, glancing up just once. “And you don’t skip work. And you don’t disappear for two days without a single complaint, unless something’s wrong.”

He placed the porridge on your coffee table. Didn’t look at you. “And because I told you not to wear that damn coat.”

You opened your mouth to respond - something cutting, probably, something to match the heat crawling up the back of your neck - but then he turned to you with a plastic spoon and said, “Eat while it’s still warm.”

You did.

You hated that it tasted good. That it soothed your throat. That your stomach, traitor that it was, grumbled in appreciation. You hated even more that he sat across from you in the armchair and didn’t speak, didn’t comment, didn’t pry. He just watched, calm and unreadable, and somehow it was that silence that cracked you open.

“Do you… do this for everyone?” you asked, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“No.”

“Right,” you croaked. “Just the sick, stupid ones who ignore dress code warnings.”

He didn’t look up from the notes he had started scribbling in the margins of a folded case file. “You make it very difficult to ignore you.”

There it was. Almost a compliment. Delivered like a reprimand. Wrapped in that clinical tone that tried so hard to be impersonal, and failed so spectacularly when he looked at you - really looked - and you felt it.

Noticed.

Registered.

Held in the kind of gaze that always made you feel a little like you were under a microscope and a little like you were falling.

You dozed off at some point. Fever dragged you under like a tide, and when you woke, the light had changed. Dimmed. Shadows stretched longer across the ceiling. The bowl was gone. Your blanket had been tucked higher over your shoulders and there was an unfamiliar hoodie in your lap. 

Jonghyeon was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, now only in his t-shirt, typing on his phone with one hand and sipping something from your mug with the other.

“My cup,” you said hoarsely.

“I washed it,” he replied.

“You don’t drink tea.”

“I do when there’s nothing else.”

You stared at the back of his head. His hair was still slightly damp from the rain - the fine strands curling at the nape of his neck. You could smell the faint, clean scent of whatever he used: something herbal, practical, expensive. You hated how well you knew it. Hated how you pulled the hoodie closer.

“You can go,” you said after a beat. “I’m alive. Crisis averted.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t glance at his watch. Didn’t sigh in annoyance or reach for the hoodie you were now clutching like it belonged to you. He just sat there, on your floor, absurdly calm for someone who broke into your sick day like a one-man intervention.

“I put a new bulb in your lamp, it was flickering.” he finally said, unbothered.

“Oh.” Oh. “Thank you.”

The silence stretched - long enough for you to feel it settle between your ribs, heavy and real.

“You’re staying?” you asked, quieter this time.

“For a while.”

You should’ve rolled your eyes. Thrown a pillow. Said something cutting and clever about how he was hovering like a ghost with control issues. But your head was too heavy, and the fever had softened your edges. You didn’t want him to go. Not when his presence was the only thing in your apartment not swaying with the fever.

“You’ll get sick,” you murmured, turning on your side to face him more fully.

“I won’t.”

“How do you know?”

He tapped his phone screen once, checking something - maybe his schedule, maybe a case, maybe the exact second he planned to return to pretending he didn’t care.

“I don’t get sick from people like you.”

You furrowed your brows. “What the hell does that mean?”

He looked up. Finally. His gaze was level, unreadable.

“You run yourself into the ground before asking for help. You’ll skip meals before asking anyone to check on you. If I didn’t come, you’d still be lying here with two oranges and a mild death wish. That’s not contagious. It’s just infuriating. And stupid.”

You blinked. And blinked again. “Is that… supposed to be concern?”

He stared at you for a beat. Then:

“Don’t fish for sentiment. I brought medicine, not flowers.”

You let out a broken laugh, too hoarse to be pretty. “Thank god. I’d be really worried if you showed up with tulips.”

Another silence. Softer this time.

You didn’t remember closing your eyes. Didn’t remember your hand moving, either - until your fingers were brushing the back of his head. Just a light touch. Unthinking. Fever-drunken instinct. His hair was soft, softer than you expected, still faintly damp, curling slightly at the ends.

He froze - not sharply, but like a system processing something unexpected. He didn’t stop you.

You carded your fingers through once, twice, and felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten fractionally. It was a small thing, a private betrayal of a man who prided himself on control. You smiled into the pillow.

“You really do smell nice,” you murmured.

He exhaled through his nose. “You’re delirious.”

“Mm,” you hummed, letting your hand drop. “Maybe.”

And still, he didn’t move. Even when your hand slipped off his shoulder and back into the folds of the blanket. Even when your breath slowed again and your body curled back into itself, comforted.

He stayed. Sitting on your floor, staring straight ahead.

You drifted again, half-asleep, but not quite gone. Somewhere between the heat of the room and the weight of the blankets and the quiet company of a man who refused to name the way he cared, you felt it. That subtle shift. Like gravity had pulled him closer.

“Why her?” you asked, voice rough, barely audible, unable to stifle your curiosity and maybe something else. “Why Ji Han-na?”

Another long pause.

Then, low: “She made sense. We were in the same place.”

You waited.

“But?” you prompted, eyes still closed.

“We just are not anymore. There’s nothing more to it.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I thought I wanted quiet,” he added. “Turns out I needed someone stubborn enough to ignore me. And sharp enough to know when I’m lying.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The ache in your chest wasn’t from the virus anymore.

“Do you still carry her photo?” you asked, almost childishly.

“No.”

A beat.

“I got rid of it last month.”

You opened your eyes.

“Why?”

He looked over his shoulder at you then - finally, fully - and for the first time all day, something in his expression cracked. The edges softened. The wall dropped an inch.

“I met someone more difficult.”

You let out a sound - half-scoff, half-wheeze. “That’s your type now? ‘Difficult’?”

He tilted his head. “Apparently.”

You turned your face into the pillow, cheeks hot for a reason that had nothing to do with fever. The hoodie he’d left on you still smelled like him.

“You can sleep,” he said, standing now, walking to the kitchen without ceremony.

“I already did.”

“Then sleep again. I’ll still be here.”

You blinked at the ceiling, voice low. “Why?”

He didn’t turn around.

But he said, simply:

“Because you didn’t ask me to stay.”

And then, in the quiet, you heard it - the sound of your kettle starting to boil.

You smiled.

Because for a man who never said what he meant, Kim Jong-hyeon had just said everything.

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

Hii absolutely love your work

Would you be able to write a Kim Jong-hyeon smut? Maybe where's he jealous about reader hanging out with Dong-ju? (If you're comfortable with that)

casual - kim jong-hyeon

kim jong-hyeon x reader

this is so completely different from anything i’ve ever written abt him but i still feel like it could be pretty accurate hahah, hope u enjoy it 🤭

word count: 2,5k

warnings: smut

You and Jong-hyeon had always been clear about what this was. No strings. No expectations. No late-night talks about feelings, no waking up tangled in sheets pretending it meant more than it did. Friends with benefits - blunt, transactional, safe in its own way. You wanted company, he wanted distraction, and both of you were too sharp to confuse one for the other.

That was why you didn’t think twice about leaning close to Dong-ju at the bar that night. The music was loud, the tables crowded, and every time you leaned toward him to hear what he was saying, your shoulders brushed, your laughter spilling together like it belonged there. He bought you a drink, slid it toward you with a grin, and you clinked glasses without a second thought.

It wasn’t until you caught sight of Jong-hyeon in the doorway that you realized how it might look. He stood there longer than he should have, coat still on, gaze fixed not on the group, not on the drinks lined up on the counter, but on you. Or rather, on the inches between you and Dong-ju that didn’t exist anymore.

You almost laughed - because Jong-hyeon wasn’t the type. He wasn’t the kind of man who let things show, who lingered in emotions like jealousy. He was composed, disciplined, always weighing his words. But his stare didn’t budge. Even when he finally moved across the bar, sliding into the seat across from you, his eyes returned to you every few seconds, as if cataloging every bump of your shoulder against Dong-ju’s, every lean-in, every smile.

And maybe because you weren’t used to that - to him being so visibly rattled - you pushed it further. You leaned closer, you laughed louder at Dong-ju’s stories, you let your hand brush his arm when you grabbed your drink. You could feel Jong-hyeon watching the entire time, jaw tight, silent as stone.

By the time most of the team filtered out, it was late, and you were ready to call it a night. But when you stood to leave, Jong-hyeon was already on his feet. “I’ll drive you,” he said, clipped, no room for argument.

You frowned. “It’s fine, I can-”

But he didn’t wait. His hand closed lightly around your wrist - not forceful, but not casual either - and before you could make sense of it, you were following him out into the cold night air, his car waiting at the curb.

“Jong-hyeon,” you said as he opened the passenger door. “What the hell is going on?”

He didn’t answer, not while you slid into the seat, not while he started the car and pulled into traffic. The silence pressed against you, heavy, until finally he spoke, low, like the words were dragged out of him.

“You and Dong-ju.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “Is there something I should know?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You were practically in his lap,” he said, still not looking at you. “Laughing, touching - do you fuck him too, or is that just reserved for me?”

The bluntness stole your breath. “You’re jealous?” you asked, half-amused, half-astonished.

He cut his eyes to you, sharp, dangerous. “Answer the question.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, stunned that calm, untouchable Jong-hyeon was unraveling like this. Then you laughed - soft, disbelieving. “No, Jong-hyeon. I don’t fuck Dong-ju. But it’s cute, really, watching you lose your mind like this.”

That was all it took. His hand slid from the wheel, caught your thigh hard enough to make you gasp. “Cute?” he echoed, voice darker now, thumb pressing into your skin. “That’s what you think this is?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled as his hand climbed higher, fingers brushing where you were already warm under your skirt. The car kept moving, city lights blurring past, but his attention was entirely on you now, jaw set, eyes burning.

“Jong-hyeon,” you whispered, heat curling low in your stomach.

His fingers teased the edge of your underwear, and you bit your lip to stifle a moan.

"You like this?" he asked, voice rough. "Like knowing I can't stand the thought of anyone else touching you?"

You whimpered, hips lifting slightly into his touch.

He smirked, slow. "Good."

The rest of the drive blurred. You half-expected him to pull over right then, but he didn’t - he just kept you on edge, one hand on the wheel, the other stroking you through fabric until your breath came sharp and unsteady. By the time he parked outside his apartment, your legs were weak, your body thrumming with frustration and want.

Inside, he closed the door behind you, finally pressing you back against it with his mouth against yours. The kiss was fierce but not unkind, heat sparking through every point of contact as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you close. You tasted the tension in him, the jealousy he hadn’t meant to let slip, and it ignited something deep inside you. His fingers dug into your hips, yanking you flush against him, letting you feel exactly how not unaffected he was.

You gasped against him, fingers fisting in his shirt as his mouth trailed to your jaw, your neck, leaving heat and marks in its wake. “You shouldn’t be jealous,” you whispered, though your tone betrayed how much you liked that he was.

“Maybe I can’t help it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, rougher than usual. His hands skimmed down your body, unhurried but claiming in a way you had never felt from him before. Not rough, not desperate - just enough to remind you who had you like this, who you came back to.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, eyes dragging over you as if to memorize. His thumb brushed the edge of your underwear, the same way he had teased you in the car, but this time he didn’t stop. His fingers slipped beneath, sliding against you, and you shivered under the weight of his gaze.

“Jong-hyeon—” The sound left you more like a plea than a protest.

He kissed you again, swallowing your gasp as his fingers worked you open with a patience that made your knees weak. “I don’t want to think about anyone else making you sound like this,” he breathed against your mouth.

Your reply broke into a moan as he pushed deeper, curling just right, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

"Look at you," he murmured, dragging his thumb over your clit, making you jerk. "All worked up because I finally stopped pretending I don't give a fuck who touches you."

You were close - so fucking close - but then his fingers were gone.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he silenced you with a kiss - deep, consuming - as his free hand worked open the buttons of his shirt. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, and you let your palms slide over the warm planes of his chest, fingers tracing the scars you knew by heart but had never dared to ask about.

You felt his hands slide under your thighs and suddenly he was carrying you across the apartment. The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, Jong-hyeon's hands were on you again - but this time, there was no teasing restraint. His fingers hooked into the hem of your top, dragging it up over your head in one swift motion before tossing it aside.

The cool air of the room hit your bare skin, but his gaze burned hotter, raking over the lace of your bra like he wanted to memorize the way it clung to you.

"You've been driving me insane all night," he murmured, voice rough. His thumb brushed over the swell of your breast, tracing the edge of the fabric before slipping beneath to tease your nipple. You arched into his touch, a gasp slipping past your lips as he pinched lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers.

"Jong-hyeon-"

"Tell me," he demanded, his other hand sliding around to unhook your bra with practiced ease. The straps slipped from your shoulders, and then his palms were on your bare skin, warm and possessive. "Tell me you knew what you were doing at that bar."

You swallowed, your breath hitching as his mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue flicking over your nipple before sucking it deep. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him closer as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "Maybe," you breathed.

He growled against your skin, teeth grazing the peak before pulling back to look at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want - and something else, something deeper that sent a thrill down your spine. "You wanted me to react."

It wasn’t a question.

You didn't deny it.

And even though this was never supposed to be more than casual - never supposed to bleed into feelings, into jealousy, into anything resembling possession - you didn’t stop him. You didn’t push him back.

Because maybe, deep down, you didn’t mind being his to lose control over.

With a curse, he yanked you against him, his mouth crashing down on yours in a kiss that was all heat and teeth and desperation. You could feel the way his hands trembled slightly as they skimmed down your back, over your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you moan.

Then he was walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You fell onto the mattress, and he followed, his body covering yours as he kissed down your neck, your chest, your stomach. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your skirt, dragging it down your legs along with your underwear, leaving you bare beneath him.

You reached for him, tugging at his belt with impatient hands. He let you, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as you undid the buckle, then the button of his pants, your fingers brushing against the hard length of him through the fabric.

With one hand he grabbed your wandering hands by the wrists and held them together above your head while his other hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, before gripping your thigh and yanking it over his. The sudden friction drew a gasp from you - his length dragging against your wetness, hot and maddening but not enough.

Jong-hyeon smirked, dark and satisfied. "Look at you," he breathed rolling his hips just enough to make you whimper. "All that confidence at the bar, and now you're shaking."

You arched against him, but he held you down, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me you wanted this."

You could've lied. Could've played it off like always.

But the way he looked at you - like he'd burn the world down if it meant keeping you here - wrecked you.

"Yes."

The word shattered whatever last shred of control he had left.

In one fluid motion, he lined himself up and pushed in, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that vibrated through your chest. The stretch burned, delicious and overwhelming.

Jong-hyeon didn't move. Just braced himself above you, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. "Fuck," he gritted out. "You feel-"

He didn't finish. Couldn't.

Because then you shifted, tightening around him, and he cursed, his hips snapping forward in response.

That was all it took.

The rhythm was punishing, perfect - deep, rolling thrusts that had you seeing stars. Every drag of him inside you, every choked noise he tried to swallow, every time his grip on your wrists tightened just a fraction too much - it all coiled tighter and tighter in your stomach until you were gasping, pleading, moaning his name like a prayer.

You could feel him everywhere - the heat of his skin pressed against yours, the sweat-slicked grip of his hands holding you down, the ragged breaths against your neck that betrayed his usual control.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice raw.

You forced your eyes open to meet his - dark, hungry, and something terrifyingly close to vulnerable. In that moment, you saw the cracks in his carefully constructed detachment, the way his jaw trembled slightly with each thrust, how his pupils were blown wide with more than just lust.

The realization hit you like a physical blow - this wasn't just about possession. This was Jong-hyeon coming undone.

The coil in your stomach snapped. Your back arched off the bed as pleasure ripped through you, your thighs clamping around his hips as you clenched around him. Jong-hyeon swore, his thrusts turning erratic, before he buried himself deep and stilled, his groan hot against your neck as he spilled inside you.

Your wrists tingled as his grip loosened, and you let your arms fall back to the bed, muscles trembling from the intensity. Jong-hyeon stayed above you, breathing hard, his forehead still pressed to yours. His weight was solid, grounding, and for once he didn’t immediately pull away like he usually did after sex.

You swallowed, your chest heaving. “You okay?” you asked softly, though the answer was obvious in the ragged rise and fall of his chest.

His eyes opened - dark, heavy-lidded, but softer now, stripped of that sharp edge that had driven him through the night. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brushed his thumb over the inside of your wrist, slow and careful, like he was trying to erase the marks his own hands had left.

“I don’t do this,” he said finally, voice low, almost hoarse. “I don’t… get like that.”

You gave a breathless laugh, not mocking, just stunned. “No shit.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t like it,” he admitted. “Seeing you with him. With anyone.” His gaze flicked down to where your bodies were still joined before meeting your eyes again. “And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Something in your chest ached at the raw honesty, at how different this was from the unspoken rules you’d both lived by until now. Friends with benefits wasn’t supposed to look like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You reached up, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Then don’t overthink it tonight,” you murmured. “I can just… stay.”

For a second, he hesitated - the old Jong-hyeon, calculating, weighing, ready to retreat back behind his walls. But then his body relaxed against yours, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you close as he eased onto his side and kept you with him.

It wasn’t tenderness, not really. He wasn’t built for that. But the way his arm stayed heavy around you, the way his breath evened out against your shoulder, the way his thumb kept brushing slow, unconscious circles into your skin - it felt like something dangerously close.

And as your eyes drifted shut, tangled in sheets you swore you’d never linger in, you realized maybe you didn’t mind.

Maybe you never had.

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

Omg you are literally a genius when it comes to writing

I love all your works and i have re read them more than thrice

If you are taking requests can you do one where Kim Jong-hyeon is an absolute softie for the reader and he doesnt even know he has feelings for her unless dong ju spells it out for him when he patches her up after on the fights. He is just an absolute oblivious cutie

kiss it better - kim jong-hyeon

kim jong-hyeon x reader

word count: 2k

warnings: blood

hiii thank u sm for your kind words and for requesting!! so sorry for the delay, hopefully u like this one as much as i do :)

requests are open!

The precinct had its own rhythm, a sharp, clipped sort of music that filled every morning with phones ringing, keyboards clattering, and voices raised just a little too high to be polite. It was the sound of people too busy to notice one another, except you always noticed him.

Kim Jong-hyeon was already at his desk when you walked in, posture straight, eyes focused on the file in front of him, face carefully blank in that way that made him unreadable to almost everyone. He rarely spoke unless he had to, never entertained the idle chatter that filled the room, and when a colleague passed his desk with a casual joke, he only gave the smallest tilt of his head before returning to his work.

But when his eyes lifted and landed on you, something shifted, so subtle you might have thought you were imagining it. The hardness in his gaze softened, his shoulders seemed to lose a fraction of their tension, and he said quietly, almost gently, “You’re late.” It wasn’t scolding, not really. Not the way it would have sounded if he had said it to anyone else.

You muttered something about traffic, about your alarm, about coffee. It didn’t matter - he listened, and you hated that you could feel his attention like a hand at your back. He didn’t look at anyone else that way. He didn’t speak with that patience, that faint amusement, to anyone else. It was just you. And it confused you, because if he cared - if this softness meant anything - then why had he never done anything about it? Why was he still just your colleague, your sparring partner, your friend, when you already loved him so much it made your chest ache?

Later, when you asked him to teach you self-defense, you tried to sound casual, leaning on the excuse of practicality - we’re in this line of work, it’s better if I can handle myself - but you saw the way his brow furrowed, the way he hesitated for a moment before agreeing. He didn’t hesitate because he didn’t want to; he hesitated because he worried. That was just the way he was with you, careful, as though saying yes too easily might open something neither of you were ready to name.

The precinct gym was empty that night, only the hum of the air vents and the faint slap of your sneakers against mats filling the space. He stood across from you, one hand lifting to demonstrate the proper stance, and though his movements were precise, economical, practiced from years of fencing and training, he never barked orders, never let his voice go sharp. Instead, he guided you with patience, repeating things as many times as you needed, never once rolling his eyes or sighing in frustration the way you knew he might with anyone else. His hand brushed your shoulder as he corrected your posture, light and brief, but enough to make your breath catch.

“Again,” he said, and the word came out softer than it should have, softer than he sounded with anyone else.

You lunged, clumsy but determined, and of course he caught you easily, turning your momentum into nothing. His arm circled your waist before you hit the mat, his strength keeping you steady even as his eyes searched yours to make sure you were unhurt. He did that every time, and every time it left you wondering if you were reading too much into the way he looked at you, the way he held you like you were something fragile and precious.

You joked, because that was the only way to hide the way your heart was racing. “What, enjoying throwing me around?”

His mouth tugged at the corner, but he didn’t deny it. “I’d rather you didn’t fall,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

And it was in that moment, as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face without even seeming to notice he’d done it, that you realized: to everyone else, Kim Jong-hyeon was cool and distant, a man too disciplined and too reserved to waste words or warmth. But to you, he was something entirely different. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

You went through the motions, training together for an hour longer than necessary, laughter echoing off the mats, your hands occasionally brushing, the casual contact sending sparks up your arms that you tried to ignore. And then it happened. One of your moves - a poorly aimed punch meant to test his reflexes - caught him off guard. His block was precise, but his knuckle grazed your lip. A sudden, sharp sting shot across your face, and you tasted blood.

“Fuck-” his voice cracked in a way you had never heard, so human, so panicked, that it made you pause mid-breath. “I- I didn’t- are you okay?”

Your fingers went to your lip and came away slick with red. You tried to laugh, tried to brush it off, but your heart was pounding in a way you couldn’t pretend. “It’s nothing,” you said, though you winced.

“It’s not nothing,” His hands were suddenly everywhere - searching for the first aid kit, crouching beside you, brushing your hair back, tilting your face gently toward him as if he feared the world would break if you moved. “I should’ve been more careful. I… I wasn’t thinking. Are you hurt?”

You were stunned by the intensity of his care, the meticulousness in every motion, the way his sharp eyes softened, his body leaning toward you without hesitation. “I’m fine,” you tried to say, though your knees trembled.

“No, you’re not.” His thumb brushed your jaw as he dabbed at the cut, antiseptic making the sting worse, and you could barely breathe because you were too aware of the proximity of his face, the quiet panic in his voice, the warmth in his hands. “I can’t believe I- God, I wasn’t paying attention. I shouldn’t have-”

You laughed, weak and breathless, because that was all you could do. “You’re treating me like porcelain.”

His lips twitched. “If I didn’t, I’d be an idiot.” And just like that, the words hung in the air, heavier than anything he’d ever said to anyone else.

He stayed by your side even after your lip had stopped bleeding, offering ice, fussing over you like you were more fragile than you felt. You hated him for it and loved him for it all at once - hated him for the way he didn’t realize what he was doing to your heart, loved him because it was him. Only him. Always him.

“You really should be more careful,” you murmured as he cleaned up the supplies, voice tinged with exasperation. “One more slip, and I’m blaming you for everything.”

His brow furrowed, hands still gentle. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” His voice was calm again, but in his eyes there was a storm of worry, a carefulness he reserved for no one else.

Behind the glass of the gym, someone shifted - Dong-ju. There was a pleased and knowing grin written all over his face and you averted your eyes as soon as possible, trying to avoid embarrassing yourself any further while blood crept into your cheeks. That only made his grin bigger as he gestured to Jong-hyeon to come after him into the hall. Jong-hyeon got up with a sigh, looking at you twice as he walked towards the door as if checking if you were still alive and breathing.

The teasing started immediately after the door clicked shut. “You know, most people don’t cradle their coworkers’ faces like that unless they’re in looooove,” Dong-ju sang, and Jong-hyeon was already done with him.

“I’m not having this talk right now. Especially not with you.” The coldness in his voice was a stark contrast with the softness of his words a minute ago. 

“Well, who could blame me for being actually interested in this? You don’t do that for anyone else. When I scrape my hand, you hand me a towel and tell me to go bleed elsewhere. When she bleeds, you act like the world is ending. Think about that, idiot.” Dong-ju’s eyes turned into a puppy-like gaze, his lips pouting. 

“I said I’m not-” Jong-hyeon’s voice dropped, even colder this time, sharp enough to slice through Dong-ju’s teasing, but he still didn’t meet his friend’s eyes fully.

“Not in love. Right.” Dong-ju shook his head, smirk widening. “I get it, Mr. Stoic. You only reserve your… delicate, careful, soft side for her. I see it, I watch it, and I’m a little hurt, not gonna lie. You could be slightly less dramatic about everyone else and save it for me, you know?”

Jong-hyeon’s lips twitched, half in irritation, half in embarrassment. “Shut up.”

Dong-ju stepped back with a mock sigh, grinning. “Fine, fine. Go back in there before she decides you’re too oblivious to notice her or something. And seriously, don’t screw this up.”

Jong-hyeon stood there, heart thudding, cheeks warm, a whirlwind of thoughts in his head. He hated that Dong-ju had called him out, and yet… the words had stirred something undeniable. Something he couldn’t ignore any longer.

He walked back toward the gym slowly, deliberately, almost afraid of what he might feel when he saw you again, the soft, fragile way you had looked at him, the warmth lingering even after the panic had faded.

He paused at the doorway, watching you gather your bag, your movements casual, but every small gesture somehow amplified in his mind. The briefest brush of your hair over your shoulder, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled - it all pressed against his chest like a weight he had no choice but to carry.

“I will walk you to your car,” he said finally, voice low, hesitant, almost unsure of itself. His hand hovered near the doorframe as if seeking permission to step closer.

You looked up at him, startled for only a moment before grinning. “Really? You’re offering your services as my personal bodyguard now?”

He didn’t smile, not fully, but there was a faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. “Only for you,” he said, deliberately careful. “No more injuries tonight. Even though I might just make it worse.”

You laughed softly, feeling your heart thump in a way that had nothing to do with the fight earlier. “I appreciate the caution, but I think I can handle you just fine.”

He followed you down the quiet street, walking close enough that your shoulders brushed with every step. The night air was cool, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic, but the warmth radiating from him kept the chill at bay.

“You really didn’t have to come all the way,” you said softly, glancing up at him as you approached your car.

“I wanted to,” he replied, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on yours.

You stopped in front of your car, fumbling for the keys, and he waited, close, hands tucked in his pockets, but his presence pressed against you like a shield. 

“Why?” you finally found the courage to look him in the eyes, hoping for something, anything. 

“I like you. That’s why.” 

And then he leaned in, pressing his lips gently to the grazed spot on your bottom lip, soft and tender, lingering just enough to make your chest tighten. It was careful, protective and full of warmth. When he pulled back just slightly, his forehead rested against yours, and his gaze searched yours like he was trying to read your heart. 

“There,” he said softly, almost shyly. “Better?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, a mix of joy and disbelief. “Much better,” you murmured, heart still hammering, unable to stop the foolish smile from growing on your face, even as it reopened the wound - for him, it was worth it.

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

Hi, I hope you are well! This is my first time ever making a request on tumblr. I loved your story difficult! Please can you write some more good boy stories especially about Kim Jong-hyeon. A part 2 for difficult would also be great. Hope that’s not too much to ask. ❤️❤️

difficult II - kim jong-hyeon

kim jong-hyeon x reader

you can find the first part here, third part here

hiii! thank u so much, of course it's not too much to ask, i had so much fun continuing this story and i'll deff move onto other oneshots about him too (if anyone has any ideas for the plot, let me know) hope u like this!

word count: 2,1k

requests are open!

You thought it might have been a dream. 

You had stirred sometime past three, cocooned in the heavy warmth of two blankets and the smell of him faint on the hoodie you were now somehow wearing - clean, expensive, totally attractive. Your body ached less than before, but your head still throbbed softly, your throat dry and scratchy, and your thoughts half-slurred from the fever’s remnants. 

That was when you saw him. Asleep in your armchair. 

He didn’t look comfortable - his neck tilted at an angle no spine should tolerate, arms folded across his chest like a soldier on standby. The case files he had probably been carding through had fallen to the floor, open to a page with your sticky notes messily tucked inside, and one of your throw pillows was beneath his elbow like it had migrated there by accident. 

You’d stared for a while. Just… looked. Let your eyes take in the unfamiliar softness in his face, the looseness of his jaw, the way a lock of dark hair had fallen across his brow and shifted every time he exhaled. His glasses were laying on the ground next to him. He looked younger like that - less guarded. The version of him that nobody at the office got to see. 

Your chest ached, but in a different way than the virus had made it - deeper, warmer, and harder to name. 

You didn’t remember falling asleep again. Just the way his outline had blurred, dimmed, until you drifted back into fever-heavy darkness. 

When you woke up the next time, the light had changed. Your apartment was bright with the kind of dull, wintry sun that made everything look a little blue around the edges. You sat up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulder, and the first thing that you noticed was that he was gone. 

Not like he’d never been there. No, his presence lingered. 

Your cup sat on the table, now filled with warm lemon tea, steam still rising faintly from the surface. There was a thermos standing next to it. A tray in front of you held buttered a toast and a soft-boiled egg, peeled, just the way you liked it. A new tissue box was set by your elbow. The thermometer had been left out, your medicine lined up in order of time and dosage. 

And beside it all, tucked between a packet of lozenges and your, now fully charged, phone, was a note scribbled in his blocky, utilitarian handwriting: 

Had to run some errands, be back by 12:40. Don’t be difficult.

He didn’t sign it. He never did. But your lips curved anyway, the first smile in days that didn’t come from delirium or stubborness. And then, despite yourself, you shrugged his hoodie tighter around your body, already missing the strange steadiness of his presence. You slipped the sleeves over your hands, folded your legs beneath you on the couch, and ate like someone who hadn’t been half-dead twenty-four hours ago. 

You didn’t even notice the time passing. 

When the door opened again at exactly 12:42, you turned your head, fully expecting him to be unreadable, sharp, annoyingly punctual. 

Instead, he looked like hell. 

Jong-hyeon stood in your doorway in a black jacket, wind-whipped and pale, hair wet again from what looked like sleet, his ears flushed from the cold. Those damned glasses were back on. His voice, when he spoke, was rougher than usual and slightly hoarse. 

“You’re awake,” he said, stepping inside the apartment without fanfare, exchanging the unbearable cold for unbearable warmth. He took off his jacket, hung it by the door like he wasn’t two seconds away from keeling over, and walked toward the kitchen without meeting your gaze.

You stood too fast and regretted it immediately, swaying slightly. 

“Where did you go?” you asked, hugging the hoodie tighter, cringing on the inside from the way those words sounded out loud. Pathetic. Small. Embarassing. 

“Picked up lunch and dinner,” he said, voice quiet. “Rearranged your meetings for the week.”

When he saw in the corner of his eye how you stiffened, he added: “I moved your Thursday meeting to Monday. You’re not going in until next week.” 

You leaned back on the couch, staring. “You hacked my calendar?”

“I requested it. You’d already missed the deadline.”

“You requested it.”

“I filled out the form. On your behalf.”

Your jaw dropped, anger flushing your cheeks. “You forged my signature.”

“I copied it,” he corrected. 

You answered with an incredulous sigh, sitting back down on the couch, choosing to ignore how annoying he was. 

“And your case files are re-assigned for now. I told them your immune system’s taking a sabbatical.” 

“I’d fight you on that,” you said, “but I think I actually like the idea of being a plague rat.” 

He finally looked at you and you saw the muscles in his jaw tense as he took in the picture of you wearing his hoodie, too big for your frame. But he knew you would tease him endlessly if he commented on it, so he just let it slide with a sigh, trying to ignore the smirk forcing its way onto your lips. Instead, he paused to roll up his sleeves like he always did before thinking or doing something annoying, but the gesture was slower today. Stiffer. 

“You’re sick,” you said flatly. 

“I’m not sick.”

“You’re sniffing.”

“That’s atmospheric discomfort.”

“You’re flushed.”

“That’s indignation.” 

You raised your brows. “At what?”

“At your dramatics.”

You rolled your eyes in answer, crossing your arms on your chest. 

He moved like he was made of stone - stiff, deliberate, and trying not to show it. You watched him open the takeout he brought on the table in front of you, laying down the cutlery next to it. He poured tea into your mug again, set down a new pack of lozenges beside it, and then wavered on his feet like the ground had nudged him sideways. 

“Okay,” you said, patting the space next to you on the couch. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit down or I’ll drag you.” 

That got him. Jong-hyeon gave you a look - half exasperated, half impressed - and sat down on the couch without another word, looking like someone who’d rather be anywhere else and yet didn’t argue. That alone was telling. 

You shifted closer. Not touching, but close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. And then, before he could deflect or dodge, you raised one hand and pressed it gently to his forehead. 

He froze. 

Your palm was cool against his skin, which was definitely too warm. His brows twitched, just slightly. 

“Admit it,” you said, smirking. “You caught it from me.” 

“You’re a biohazard.” 

“And you’re an idiot for staying.” 

“You didn’t tell me to leave.” You didn’t have an answer to that so you just stayed silent. 

You hadn’t meant for it to happen.

Not like this - him flushed from a low-grade fever, you still bundled in blankets, both of you operating at half-strength and with too many unsaid things hanging between you. But there was something about the way he looked at you then, after your hand found his cheek and your fingers brushed the faint scar above his left eye - that old mark from a time he never talked about, a wound carried not just on his skin but in the way he sometimes moved, sometimes hesitated, sometimes deflected.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all.

Just stayed perfectly still, eyes locked to yours, like the air had gone taut between you - heavy with something that had been building for far too long. His hand came up, slow, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you, and hovered for a second before resting at your wrist, as if anchoring himself there.

You felt it then; the shift. The moment between maybe and yes.

And somehow, you were already leaning forward, hand clutching the collar of his shirt. 

You weren’t even sure who moved first. It didn’t matter.

Your nose brushed his first - soft, unsure - and you felt his breath catch, like he was holding it, like he didn’t trust himself to let it go. Your hand was still on his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of that scar, his skin warm under your palm. He didn’t close his eyes. Not right away. He just watched you - gaze dark, searching, something vulnerable tugging at the edges of his expression.

And then finally, your mouth met his.

The kiss was barely more than a whisper at first - soft, exploratory, the kind of careful pressure that spoke of two people too proud and too afraid to admit how long they’d wanted it. He was still for a second, still as a held breath, and then he kissed you back.

Not roughly. Not greedily.

Just… fully.

His hand moved from your wrist to your jaw, his thumb sliding just beneath your ear. You tilted your head instinctively, let your lips move against his like they already knew what to do, and a warmth bloomed in your chest so sudden and sharp it made your eyes sting.

You’d kissed people before. You weren’t new to this.

But something about the way he kissed - restrained and slow and burning beneath the surface - felt different. Like he was letting something fall apart in him. Like the careful wall of discipline he’d built so neatly around himself had finally started to crack under your fingertips.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips barely grazing his, and your noses brushed again, unintentionally intimate.

His hand hadn’t moved. Yours hadn’t either.

“You’re definitely sick now,” you murmured, like an apology, like an excuse to explain the way your hand trembled slightly.

“You’re impossible,” he replied, voice barely there.

And still, neither of you moved away.

Your fingers slid into his hair - soft, damp still from the sleet, the strands curling slightly where they met your skin - and he let out a slow breath that sounded almost like surrender. Like maybe he was tired of pretending he didn’t care.

You kissed him again, slower this time. Less uncertain. Let yourself lean in, let the moment stretch long enough to feel real; the quiet press of his mouth against yours, the steadying weight of his hand at the base of your neck, the heat rising between you that had nothing to do with fevers and everything to do with finally.

When you pulled back this time, he didn’t open his eyes immediately.

And you didn’t speak.

But your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, and when he finally did look at you, there was something softer in his gaze; something cracked open that hadn’t been there before.

You swallowed. Licked your lips.

“Just so we’re clear,” you whispered, voice slightly uneven. “You started it.”

He opened his eyes — barely. “You ambushed me.”

“You sat on my couch.”

“You forced me.”

“You showed up.”

He huffed something that could’ve been a laugh. You plucked his phone from the armrest beside him, unlocked it by angling the screen towards his face, and opened his schedule.

“What are you doing?”

“Returning the favor.” You scrolled, then tapped three times. “You’re now officially off duty.”

He blinked. “You canceled my afternoon?”

“And tomorrow.”

“You’re terrifying.”

You beamed. “I know.”

You tossed the phone aside and threw the blanket over both of you in one practiced motion, scooting close enough that your thigh pressed against his, shoulders bumping into each other. He didn’t move away. He just sighed, like he couldn’t believe you’d won - but wasn’t surprised.

He leaned his head against the back of the couch and turned his face toward yours.

“You’re still wearing my hoodie.”

“I got cold,” you said sweetly. “And abandoned.”

“It looks good on you.”

You stared. Then: “You just say that because you’re delirious.”

“Possibly.”

“Still counts.”

He leaned in again, brushed your temple with his nose. You let your head drop onto his shoulder.

“You’re a terrible patient,” you murmured.

“And you’re a smug nurse.”

You grinned. “Sit still. We’re watching bad TV now.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t move. And when the credits rolled an hour later and your breathing had evened out again beside him, he let his eyes close too.

Neither of you had a name for what this was yet.

But for now, under one blanket, wearing his hoodie, sharing a sick day neither of you would admit meant anything — it was enough.

Outside, the snow started falling, but here, something else had finally thawed.