Disclaimer: The following fics feature a consensual polyamorous relationship. If that’s not your cup of tea, feel free to skip! 💜
[Sinful Sounds - Rapline x Reader]
[No Subtitles in Bed - Jungkook x Reader x Namjoon]
[House Rules - Jungkook x Reader x Jin]
[Posses the Queen - Jimin x Reader x Jungkook]
[Kings of Ash and Desire - Yoongi x Reader x Namjoon]
[Caught in the Act - Yoongi x Reader x Jungkook]
[The Art of Seduction - Yoongi x Reader x Seokjin]
[Roadside Temptation - Yoongi x Reader x Hoseok]
You know what kind of notification on my blog makes me the happiest? Someone liking my Hobi fics 🥹💞
I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt like Hobi fics get less love and attention compared to the other members, and it’s not just my blog... It feels like that’s the case for Hobi fics overall, no matter who writes them.
And finding really good Hobi fics to read is honestly so hard 😩
That’s why I’m always grateful to the people who make Hobi fic recs for the rest of us.
Y’all are playing a huge part in the community... Love you all 🥹💞
Pairing: New_Neighbor!Hoseok x Reader
Genre: Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Lovers, Enemies-with-Benefits, Slow-Burn, Filthy oral smut (too much), competitiveness, petty banter, messy feelings, intense love, steamy love, more-smut-less-fluff
Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, lots of oral sex (m/f receiving), public place risk(parking lot, elevator, hallway), edging, overstimulation, rough sex, unprotected sex [refrain IRL], dom-sub-switch dynamic, jealousy, possessive behavior, strong language, emotional turmoil
Word Count: ~7k
Rating: 18+ | Minors DNI
[MASTERLIST]
The streetlamp flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the parking lot outside your apartment complex. It was 11:47 PM, your feet ached from a brutal shift, and all you wanted was to collapse into bed.
But there it was—his car.
A sleek, black Hyundai Genesis gleaming under the dim light. Sitting in your spot.
Your spot.
Your stomach dropped, then twisted into a knot of pure rage. You’d fought neighbors, snowstorms to defend that space for the past two years.
Everyone in the complex knew it was yours.
And yet here it was... stolen.
You slammed your door so hard it rattled, the sharp thunk echoing across the quiet lot. Your eyes locked on like a predator sighting prey.
“Who the hell…” you muttered, stomping toward it.
And then you saw him.
Jung Hoseok... The new guy.
He leaned casually against the hood like the car was his throne, arms folded, dark hoodie pulled low over his forehead. His posture was loose, almost lazy—but the smirk tugging at his lips was sharp enough to cut.
Like he’d been waiting just to see your reaction.
That same smirk you’d seen last week when he was carrying boxes upstairs, charming the landlord, laughing easily with the delivery guy.
Back then you thought he looked approachable.
Attractive, even.
Now? He was a menace... A total menace.
“Excuse me,” you snapped, forcing your voice steady even as irritation buzzed under your skin. “That’s my spot.”
Hoseok tilted his head, studying you like you were something entertaining. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but not enough to hide the deliberate spark of mischief there.
“Didn’t see your name on it,” he replied, voice smooth as honey but edged with challenge.
The way he said it... so calm, so unbothered... made heat crawl up your neck.
Not embarrassment. Rage. Just pure rage.
Your fists curled at your sides. “Everyone knows it’s mine. Move your car.”
He stepped closer, towering over you just enough to make your pulse spike. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.
His smirk widened, wolfish now. “Or what?” His voice dipped lower, teasing, daring you. “You gonna tow it yourself?”
The cockiness in his tone made your blood boil. You imagined smacking the smugness right off his stupidly handsome face. Instead, you spun on your heel, every step stomping against the asphalt.
“Fine,” you threw over your shoulder, jaw tight. “Game on.”
You didn’t sleep that night.
Every time you closed your eyes, his smirk flashed behind your eyelids. The smug tilt of his head.
The lazy way he’d said or what? as if you were nothing but a passing nuisance.
By 2 AM, your fury had fermented into reckless determination. You grabbed the kitchen knife, pulled on a hoodie, and crept down to the lot.
The Genesis gleamed like a taunt under the moonlight, perfectly polished, perfectly parked.
Perfectly infuriating.
You crouched, pressed the blade to the tire, and with one satisfying push, the rubber hissed in defeat. Your heart pounded so hard it nearly drowned out the sound.
One tire wasn’t enough.
You slashed the others too, adrenaline fizzing in your veins. By the time you slipped back under your covers, you felt electric, powerful and victorious.
Morning brought music sweeter than coffee... Hoseok’s frustrated shout, echoing through the complex.
You peeked out the blinds to see him pacing beside his car, hands fisted in his hair, mouth moving furiously.
You bit your lip to muffle the laugh clawing its way out.
He looked ready to combust, and it was beautiful. Then, he glanced up.
You crouched down, heart hammering.
He couldn’t know it was you. Could he?
It spiraled from there.
Every time he stole your spot, you retaliated.
Ketchup packets tucked beneath his wipers. A fake ticket scrawled with Learn to park, asshole.
But Hoseok didn’t just take it. He pushed back.
He parked diagonally across two spaces, grinning when you stormed past. He started singing obnoxiously loud in the stairwell at 7 AM.
And every time your paths crossed, he’d toss you a wink that made your stomach flip... annoyance, surely, not anything else.
The tension thickened, humming in the air whenever he was near. Hatred, you told yourself. Just hatred.
But deep down, you couldn’t deny the truth... This was war.
And it was starting to feel dangerously fun.
The cool night air bit at your skin as you crouched by his car, knife steady in your grip. You were focused, lips pursed, heart pounding with that familiar feeling of adrenaline.
One quick slash, one hiss of air leaving the tire, and you’d win again.
But before you could press the blade down, a shadow stretched across the pavement. A low voice slid over you.
“Gotcha.”
Your whole body jolted.
The knife nearly slipped from your fingers.
You turned slowly, pulse thundering, and found him standing there—Jung Hoseok, every line of him lit by the yellow streetlamp. His hoodie hung loose, his smirk razor sharp, but it was his eyes that froze you.
Dark. Glittering. Not just furious. Hungry.
He stepped closer, close enough that his body heat cut through the chill, close enough that your breath hitched without permission. “You’re a little psycho, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice threaded with amusement, like this was a game and you were the prize.
Your chin snapped up, stubborn defiance covering the tremor in your voice. “You stole my spot.” The words burned through clenched teeth. “You started this.”
A sharp laugh broke from him, too quick, too dangerous. It raked down your spine and left goosebumps.
“You slashed my tires. Four times.”
“You deserved it,” you hissed, taking a deliberate step forward into his space.
You refused to back down—even though your pulse was a spiking, even though being this close to him made your knees feel suspiciously weak.
The air between you thickened, like the entire lot was holding its breath.
Suddenly, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist.
Warm. Firm. Unyielding.
He stopped the knife in its tracks, and the simple strength of his grip sent a shockwave through you that settled hot and low in your belly.
His face inched closer, until his breath ghosted over your lips. “You’re gonna regret this,” he murmured, voice like a promise, like a threat.
“Try me,” you whispered, and you meant it.
Or maybe you didn’t.
Maybe you just couldn’t stand the way his eyes looked at you, like you were something worth burning for.
That was the spark.
He crashed into you, lips hard, bruising, furious.
His kiss tasted like smoke and gasoline, like every ounce of tension that had been building between you had finally snapped. His mouth demanded, devoured, and you matched him bite for bite, shoving at his chest.
He didn’t budge.
If anything, he pressed harder, slamming your wrists against the cool steel of his car.
The knife clattered to the ground, forgotten.
All that mattered was his tongue sweeping into your mouth, the desperate clash of teeth, the heat of his body crushing you against the metal.
“You’re infuriating,” he growled against your lips, but his hands betrayed him—one already dragging down your side, slipping beneath your skirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your thigh.
“Then stop kissing me,” you snapped, your voice breaking on a gasp as his fingertips pressed higher. But your hips arched toward him, betraying you completely.
He smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip, the sound of his low chuckle rumbling straight through your chest. “Make me.”
You didn’t.
Instead, you yanked at his hoodie, tugging him closer, devouring his mouth like you hated him for making you want this so badly.
And then... he dropped.
Just like that.
One moment he was pressing you into the car, the next his knees were on the ground, hoodie bunched, eyes locked up at you with something wild in them.
Your breath stuttered. “Hoseok—”
He looked up. “Tell me to stop—”
You didn't. You couldn't.
He didn’t wait.
Just hooked his fingers into your panties, yanking them to the side with a roughness that made your whole body jolt. The cold air against your bare skin stole your breath.
Then his mouth was there.
The first stroke of his tongue was deliberate—slow, firm, from base to tip. Your knees buckled. A choked moan slipped out before you could stop it.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.
His strands slid between your fingers, soft and thick, and you tugged when his tongue circled your clit. He groaned at the pull, the vibration rolling through you in waves, and your head fell back against the car with a hollow clunk.
He was relentless.
Flicking, sucking, swirling, alternating between playful teases and devastating precision. The wet sounds filled the quiet lot, obscene in the stillness, mixing with your ragged breaths.
He held your thighs wide, his grip iron, making you feel pinned, displayed, helpless.
“Look at you,” he rasped against your skin, voice vibrating straight through your core. “So fucking wet for someone you claim to hate.” His tongue plunged deeper, pushing inside you, and your moan cracked in the middle, loud, unrestrained, echoing off the empty cars.
Heat coiled tight in your belly, faster than you wanted to admit.
His mouth worked you with ruthless determination, his lips closing around your clit, sucking until your legs trembled violently. When he added two fingers—thick, curling just right—your world blurred at the edges.
You came undone with a cry, sharp and broken, body clamping around him as the pleasure ripped through you.
He didn’t stop.
His tongue kept moving, licking every aftershock, dragging out the bliss until you were trembling, tears pricking your eyes from overstimulation.
Finally, he pulled back, lips glistening, jaw wet, eyes dark with triumph. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
That infuriating smirk was back, but now it was dirtier.
Hungrier.
“Fuck… that was insane.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rough and unguarded. You swallowed hard, still catching your breath, eyes narrowed at him like you could take the words back.
“…in a good way,” you added, quieter, almost resentful. “And I hate that I’m saying it.”
His voice was low, rough, like he’d swallowed gravel. “We clearly hate each other.” He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “So let’s use it. No strings. Just this.”
Your breath came fast, chest heaving, body still quivering from what he’d just done. Your pride screamed to say no, to shove him away.
But your body? Your body already craved more.
You swallowed, glaring even as your pulse raced. “No dating. No feelings. Just this... Just oral...”
His smile widened, dangerous. “Deal.”
The way he said it made your stomach twist. Not just because of what it promised. But because deep down, you already knew you were in trouble.
The rules were simple.
Too simple.
Argue, fight, claw at each other until one of you broke, until someone ended up on their knees. But nothing about him—nothing about this—was ever simple.
One night, it started in the hallway.
It was 4 a.m. and his music was pounding through your walls, rattling your picture frames, drumming against your skull. You stormed down the hall, fist hammering on his door.
“Open up, you selfish asshole!”
The door swung wide, and there he was—Hoseok.
Shirtless, damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, sweatpants hanging indecently low on his hips. His smirk was immediate, sharp as a blade.
“Can’t sleep, princess?” he drawled.
You glared, refusing to look at his body, refusing to admit the heat that punched through you. “Turn it the fuck down.”
“Make me.” His voice dropped, daring you.
And that was it—you snapped.
You shoved past him into his apartment towards the music system to turn it off, chest heaving, fury blazing just as bright as something you refused to name. The door slammed shut behind you, and his hand caught your arm, spinning you.
The moment his eyes locked on yours, the fight shifted—anger melting into heat so fast it terrified you.
Before you could spit another insult, his mouth crushed against yours, hard and demanding.
Your brain screamed don’t, but your body betrayed you instantly. You kissed him back, just as fierce, your hands curling into his damp hair, dragging him closer.
His lips were fire, his teeth scraping yours, his tongue staking its claim with brutal precision. He walked you back until your knees hit the couch, and you tumbled down, breathless.
“Gonna shut me up, huh?” His lips brushed yours as his hands tore at your shorts, tugging them down with rough efficiency. His eyes gleamed, full of triumph and hunger. “Let’s see how loud you really get.”
“Fuck you,” you hissed, but it came out shaky, your voice breaking because god, your chest was tight and your pulse was sprinting.
He smirked, sinking to his knees before you, his hands locking around your thighs like he owned them. “Gladly.”
Then his mouth was on you.
Your whole body jolted.
The first slow drag of his tongue felt like fire, like surrender, like every sharp word between you had been leading to this. He licked you open with deliberate care, savoring, cruel in how much he enjoyed your unraveling.
You grabbed fistfuls of the couch cushions, biting your lip to stop the sounds clawing their way up your throat. But then his lips closed around your clit, sucking—gentle at first, then harder—and the dam broke.
A ragged moan tore from you, loud, raw, humiliating in how desperate it sounded.
“So fucking sensitive,” he groaned against you, his breath hot, his tone almost reverent.
Almost. “Bet I can make you scream for me.”
“In your dreams,” you gasped, but the way your hips bucked into his face betrayed you, shame curling in your gut alongside the unbearable pleasure.
He chuckled, the vibration rattling through you, and then he devoured you.
Tongue relentless, fingers sliding in—two, then three—stretching, curling, hitting every spot that made your vision blur. Your body shook, tears pricking your eyes from how overwhelming it was, how much you hated that it was him doing this, how much you loved it anyway.
“Hoseok... oh god—” His name ripped from you in a scream you couldn’t hold back. Your thighs clamped around his head as you came, shaking, crying out, your body convulsing with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.
He didn’t stop.
He worked you through it, through the aftershocks, licking softer now, tender almost, until you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
You sagged against the couch, trembling, ruined.
When he finally stood, wiping his mouth, that fucking grin was back. He grabbed a whiteboard off the counter and scrawled with a squeak of marker...
Y/n: 0. Hoseok: 1.
You gawked, still breathless. “You’re keeping score?”
“Of course,” he said, holding the board up proudly, eyes dancing with wicked delight. “What’s the point of winning if no one remembers?”
Your chest tightened, your glare faltering under the weight of something softer—something dangerous. Because beneath all the smugness, you saw it... the gleam in his eyes wasn’t just victory.
It was hunger. Want.
A need just as reckless as yours.
You’d left that night with shaky legs, telling yourself it was just the game. Nothing more.
Three nights later, you were walking past his door when you noticed the usual noise was missing. No music. No laughter through the walls. Just silence.
You knocked once, more out of habit than concern.
The door opened slowly.
Hoseok stood therew, but the usual sharp glint in his eyes was gone. His shoulders were lower. His hair was messy in a way that didn’t look intentional.
“Long day at work?” you asked, not sure why you were still standing there.
He stared at you for a second, then stepped aside without a word. You walked in. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee.
He dropped onto the couch like his body was too heavy to keep upright. You hesitated, then sat on the opposite end, leaving a careful space between you.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Eventually he exhaled, long and quiet.
“Don’t make this weird.”
You kept your eyes on the dark television screen. “I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Exactly,” he muttered.
The silence returned, but it didn't feel awkward anymore.
After a minute, you noticed the blanket crumpled beside him. “You cold?”
“No.”
“You're literally wearing hoodie indoors.”
“It's fashion.”
“It's an ugly hoodie.”
His eyes narrowed lazily. “Get out.”
You smiled and pulled the blanket over his legs anyway. He looked down at it, then back at you.
A few minutes later, his head tipped back against the couch, eyes closing.
“You hungry?” you asked quietly.
A pause. “Maybe.”
You sighed. “Come on.”
You got up and walked into his kitchen. He followed without protest, dragging his feet behind you.
You found two bowls, filled a pot with water, and started making the ramen while he leaned against the counter, watching you through half-lidded eyes.
“You're terrible at being a guest,” he murmured.
“You're terrible at being a host.”
“Fair.”
When you handed him the bowl, your fingers brushed. He looked at you for a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks.” The word was quiet. Almost shy.
You shrugged, looking away. “Don't get used to it.”
You stayed until the quiet stopped feeling heavy. When you finally stood to leave, he didn’t stop you, but his eyes followed you to the door longer than usual.
You didn’t mention it the next time you saw him. Neither did he.
It was past midnight when you finally stumbled into the lobby.
You were still buzzing faintly from the club—hair a little messy, perfume clinging to your skin, the faint glitter of neon still on your clothes. Your heels clicked against the marble floor, announcing your late return.
The place was dead quiet, except for the one person you least wanted to see.
Hoseok was there.
Leaning against the wall near the elevator like he’d been carved into the spot, hoodie pulled up, hands buried in his pockets. His head snapped up the second you walked in, and though he tried to play it cool, you caught the quick flicker of relief in his eyes.
Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you here? Don’t tell me you suddenly enjoy standing around the lobby at this hour.”
He arched a brow, grin tugging at his mouth. “What, I can’t use my own building? Maybe I just got back from somewhere.”
“Funny. You don’t exactly look dressed for a night out,” you shot back, taking in his sweatpants and worn hoodie.
He shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe I went for a run. Maybe I was getting food. Maybe I just like the peace and quiet.” He pressed the elevator button casually, like he hadn’t been waiting for you at all for the past 1 hr.
You rolled your eyes. “Sure. Totally believable. Standing in the lobby past midnight isn’t creepy at all.”
“God, you’re paranoid,” he muttered, following you into the elevator once the doors slid open.
“Or maybe you’re just bad at lying.”
That earned you a sharp grin, his shoulders hitting the mirrored wall as he leaned back with deliberate ease. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he teased, voice dripping with amusement. “Weak comeback for someone who claims to hate me so much.”
You didn’t think. You lunged.
Shoving him hard against the mirror, you dropped to your knees, yanking his sweats open with enough force to make him grunt. His eyes widened, his smirk faltering for just a second.
“What are you—” His voice broke off into a guttural sound when you swallowed him down in one bold move, no hesitation, no warning. His cock hardened instantly, filling your mouth, stretching your lips.
“Fuck, Y/n,” he gasped, his head thudding back against the mirror, hands flying into your hair, tightening as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.
You pulled back slowly, your tongue swirling around his tip, tasting him, savoring the way his thighs trembled under your palms. You looked up, lips slick, eyes sharp.
“Thought you could outdo me?” you murmured, stroking him lazily, deliberately. “Let’s see how long you last.”
His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in ragged pulls. “You’re such a fucking brat,” he groaned, his voice shaking, but the way his hips jerked forward gave him away.
You smiled, a cruel, victorious little curve of your lips, and dragged your tongue up his length, slow, torturous. He cursed under his breath, knuckles white against your scalp, every muscle straining as if he was holding on by threads.
You teased him mercilessly, pulling off every time his breathing grew too shallow, every time his abs clenched like he was seconds away from breaking. His cock twitched in your hand, leaking, and finally, a sound slipped from him that shocked you both—broken, desperate.
“Please,” he whispered.
Not cocky. Not smug. Just raw. Needy.
The sound went straight to your core, and your smirk faltered for just a heartbeat.
Then you leaned in, licking the bead of precum from his tip with a languid flick of your tongue. “Begging already?” you teased, though your voice was softer now, almost trembling. “Thought you hated me.”
His eyes snapped open, glassy with lust, a storm of anger and want. “I do,” he rasped, tugging your hair tighter, pulling you closer like the contradiction itself might break him.
You alternated—deep pulls that had him choking on curses, then feather-light flicks that left him straining for more. His breathing grew uneven, thighs trembling under your palms. His pride kept him silent as long as it could—until it didn’t.
“Shit, Y/n, I’m—” he gasped, his whole body tight with need.
But the ding of your floor rang out, sharp and cruel.
With a wicked grin, you let him slip from your lips, wiping your mouth casually as you stood. His eyes widened in disbelief, anger and arousal warring in their dark depths, his cock still hard and dripping as he fumbled his sweatpants covering himself just before the doors slid open.
“You fucking tease,” he hissed, his voice low, raw, almost pleading, though he tried to make it sound like venom.
You smirked, stepping out with deliberate sway in your hips, your pulse hammering from the thrill. “Better luck next time,” you tossed over your shoulder, pretending your own knees weren’t weak.
But Hoseok wasn’t about to let it go.
In three strides, he had your wrist, spinning you back toward his apartment, his grip firm, his voice rough with need.
“You’re not walking away from me like that,” he growled, dragging you inside and slamming the door. His chest heaved, his eyes dark and wild.
“Finish what you fucking started.”
Your laugh came out shaky, half-defiant, half-breathless.
“What’s wrong, Hobi? Can’t handle a little edging?” you teased, even as your body lit up at the hunger radiating from him.
He pinned your wrists above your head in one strong hand, his other tugging at your shirt with rough desperation. His lips brushed your ear, his breath hot, his voice low enough to make your stomach flip.
“You think you can play me like that? Tease me, leave me hanging?” His mouth pressed harder against your skin, his words a filthy promise.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
“Big talk,” you gasped, though your voice trembled how his touch burned through you. “Still thinking about my mouth, huh?”
“Fuck yeah, I am,” he growled, before his lips crushed yours in a kiss that was messy, brutal, aching.
Not just lust, but frustration, hunger, something more dangerous bleeding through. His hands shook as he grabbed your waist, every movement rough, possessive, like he needed to prove something to himself.
“On your knees,” he demanded, breathless, shoving you down in front of him. “Now.”
You smirked even as you obeyed, sinking down, eyes locked on his like a dare. “Only because I want to watch you beg,” you murmured, your tongue flicking the sensitive tip before dragging slow and wet down his length.
His groan was raw, guttural, his hips jerking forward before he caught himself, his grip in your hair almost painful.
“Keep running your mouth, and I’ll fuck your throat until you can’t talk,” he panted, but his voice cracked, betraying how close he was to losing control.
You tormented him—long, slow strokes, sudden deep-throats that had him gasping your name, pulling off at the last second every time his body trembled.
He was shaking, sweating, wrecked.
“Fuck, Y/n, stop teasing,” he begged again, his voice broken, hoarse, desperation leaking through every syllable.
“You’re killing me.”
“Good,” you murmured against his cock, your tongue licking a deliberate stripe, your eyes gleaming with wicked triumph. “Payback’s a bitch, Hobi.”
He growled, snapping.
He grabbed you, shoving you back onto the couch, his weight caging you in, eyes dark with a mix of rage and need. “You think you’ve won?” he spat, though his voice was thick, almost shaky. “Let’s see how much you can take.”
But you flipped it, straddling him before he could move, pushing him down with surprising strength.
“Not so fast,” you purred, licking down his chest, tracing the lines of his abs, savoring every shudder of his breath. “I’m not done breaking you.”
You slid back down his body, devouring him again, this time merciless. Your lips, your tongue, your hand—working in tandem, relentless. His curses dissolved into whimpers, his hips thrusting helplessly, chasing your mouth as if his pride had already shattered.
“Fuck, Y/n, please,” he begged finally, his voice raw, almost pleading. His fingers dug into the couch cushions, his body trembling under your control.
You pulled back just enough, stroking him with a cruel slowness. “Say you’re sorry for trying to steal my win,” you whispered, voice soft, dangerous.
His head tipped back, his chest heaving.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his pride cracking open, the words spilling out desperate and unguarded. “Fuck, I’m sorry, just don’t stop.”
Your grin softened, wicked and satisfied, but there was a strange pull in your chest at hearing him break like that.
“Good boy,” you murmured, before swallowing him whole, sucking hard until he came undone with a shattered moan.
His body arched, trembling violently, his release hot and desperate against your tongue as he clutched at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
When you pulled off, wiping your lips with a satisfied smirk, you stood, sauntering toward the whiteboard without a backward glance.
The sound of him panting, wrecked and ruined on the couch, only made your grin widen.
You scrawled it in bold letters: Y/n: 1. Hoseok: 1.
“Even now?” he panted, his voice hoarse, his body trembling as he looked up at you. The cocky grin was gone, replaced with something rawer—admiration, hunger, maybe even surrender.
“Yes,” you winked, leaving him sprawled and undone, the scoreboard glowing like a crown jewel.
But the truth you’d never admit?
His begging still echoed in your chest, dangerously sweet.
Months passed and the game escalated.
In your kitchen, he had you pinned to the counter, hands gripping your thighs as he dropped to his knees. His tongue teased, then turned ruthless—sucking your clit, fingers curling deep until you shattered, screaming his name.
“Taste so fucking good when you’re losing,” he taunted, eyes hungry.
“Shut up and keep licking,” you gasped, yanking his hair. He obeyed, devouring until you collapsed against the counter, wrecked.
Another time, in the hallway after another screaming match, you shoved him back and sank to your knees. This time, you took control—slow, wet licks, eyes locked on his as he cursed, groaned, hips jerking. You edged him mercilessly, pulling off whenever he trembled, until the cocky bastard was whimpering.
“I hate you,” he rasped—right before he broke, spilling into your mouth with a wrecked moan, ruined and undone by you.
And still, both of you knew: the scoreboard was never really about who won.
It was about how much you were both losing.
Losing your mind over each other.
The lines between hate and something far more dangerous blurred before either of you dared to name it.
Hoseok learned your weaknesses first, figured out them like secrets only he was allowed to hold. He discovered how your body betrayed you when overstimulated—the way your anger melted into raw, trembling need under his tongue.
And you weren’t innocent either.
You found his weakness in return. You stripped his armor with patience, with cruelty disguised as softness. He crumbled when edged—when you had him at the brink, when he couldn’t hide behind that cocky grin anymore.
The competition softened over time.
Smirks turned playful.
When he “won,” he doodled a smug little face on the scoreboard like a child. You retaliated with hearts scrawled next to your tallies, masking sincerity with pettiness. Banter that once burned now brushed against something warm, almost… tender.
Then came the night you stormed into his apartment, ready to yell about his overflowing trash bin.
Instead, you found him in the kitchen, stirring a pot of kimchi jjigae, the spicy, tangy aroma filling the air. He was in a loose t-shirt, hair mussed, humming softly to himself, and the domesticity of it caught you off guard.
He glanced over, smirking.
“Hungry, psycho?”
“Shut up,” you snapped automatically, but the heat in your stomach wasn’t anger.
It betrayed you with a loud rumble, and he laughed.
Not his usual sharp, teasing laugh—but something warmer. Something that reached into your chest and curled around your ribs until you couldn’t breathe right.
He scooped up a spoonful and blew on it, eyes flicking to yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Taste it. Tell me if it needs anything.” He murmured, holding the spoon steady.
You hesitated, but when you didn’t move fast enough, his fingers tilted your chin up, guiding you closer. Heat prickled your skin as his gaze followed every movement—your parted lips, the way the spoon slipped inside, the way you closed around it.
The broth hit your tongue—rich, tangy, spicy in a way that lingered like a kiss.
You swallowed, throat tight.
“It’s… good,” you admitted, voice softer than you intended.
His grin was faint, knowing.
He reached up, brushing the corner of your mouth with his thumb, slow and deliberate. “High praise from you,” he teased, bumping your shoulder lightly, and for once you didn’t shove back too hard.
You sat at his counter, eating straight from the pot, trading barbs about his cooking and your so-called lack of taste. But the words felt different now, lighter, carrying more laughter than venom.
After, you crashed on his couch, too full and comfortable to move.
He tossed you one of his jackets without meeting your eyes.
“You look cold,” he muttered, but you heard the care beneath it.
You pulled it over without thinking, the soft fabric clinging to you, smelling like him.
You drifted off to the sound of him in the kitchen, the quiet clinking of dishes and the low hum of a melody slipping from his lips.
It was steady, soothing.
Like he wasn’t just humming for himself, but for you.
Like every note was meant to cradle you closer to sleep.
And it worked.
He stood at the sink longer than he needed to, the warm water running over his hands as he scrubbed a dish clean. The apartment was quiet except for the soft splashing and the faint sound of his humming, something he hadn’t even realized he was doing until he caught himself glancing back at you.
You were curled up on the couch, eyes closed, lips parted slightly.
Peaceful in a way he didn’t see often.
He slowed his hands, careful not to wake you.
When the last dish was set on the rack, he dried his hands on the towel and crossed the room quietly. He thought about shaking you awake, sending you to your apartment.
But when he leaned down, and saw your peaceful face in sleep, the faint crease between your brows finally gone, he couldn’t do it.
Instead, he fetched a blanket from his room and draped it over you gently, brushing your hair out of your face with fingers that trembled more than they should have.
His chest ached with something he didn’t want to name.
He sat down on the floor beside the couch, just for a moment, just to make sure you didn’t stir.
And when you woke up, the apartment was dark.
The faint glow from the streetlights slanted through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the living room.
A blanket had been tucked over your body, warm and careful, the edges smoothed down as if someone had lingered too long to make sure you were comfortable.
Your eyes drifted downward, and there he was.
Hoseok.
Slumped against the side of the couch on the floor, head pillowed against the cushion right near you. His long lashes rested against his cheeks, lips parted just slightly as his chest rose and fell in the rhythm of sleep.
He was right there.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to reach.
And you couldn’t help but wonder—why here?
Why hadn’t he gone to his bed?
Why anchor himself to the floor beside you like he couldn’t bear to distance between you? Why take the time to cover you, only to leave himself with nothing? The blanket smelled faintly like him, proof enough that it was his doing.
For the first time, you didn’t want to move.
You didn’t even want to breathe too loudly, afraid the moment might slip away.
It was supposed to be nothing.
Just dinner to keep your parents quiet, a polite smile over bland conversation. The guy was nice enough, safe in the way that made you yawn inside. "Not my type", was your first thought the moment you met him.
And when he hugged you goodnight while dropping you outside your building, you didn’t think twice about it.
Except Hoseok was watching.
From his balcony, he’d seen every second—the polite bow, the smile you gave, and the hug he gave before leaving.
Something inside him snapped.
By the time you got upstairs, he was pounding on your door like he’d break it down. You barely opened it before he stormed in, eyes blazing, jaw so tight it looked painful.
“Who the fuck was that?” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of sharp that made your stomach flip.
You blinked, taken aback.
“A blind date. Why do you care?”
His laugh was harsh, humorless.
He stepped closer, caging you against the wall without touching you. His body radiated heat, his presence suffocating. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna… what? Replace me with some boring-ass guy in a fucking button-up?”
His voice cracked, just slightly, and that crack said more than the words. “You think he can give you what I do?”
Your chest tightened, but you forced steel into your voice. “You’re not my boyfriend. We have rules, Hoseok.”
Something in his expression twisted—anger, hurt, desperation all colliding at once.
“Fuck the rules,” he growled, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss wasn’t careful—it was messy, angry, desperate.
Like he was trying to pour every unsaid thing into you, to brand himself into your skin. His hands tugged at your clothes with frantic urgency, his teeth scraping your lip, and you responded in kind, clawing at his shirt, shoving him back against the wall just to feel him.
When his mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, the sound you made broke something in him.
“You think he could make you feel like this?” His voice was raw, almost breaking as his thumbs brushed your nipples through your shirt, pulling another gasp from you.
“Shut up,” you hissed, though your hands were already tearing at his belt, your fingers clumsy with need. “You don’t own me.”
His laugh was dark, low in your ear. “Wanna bet?”
Before you could answer, he spun you, pinning you to the wall, his chest crushing against your back. His hand slid into your jeans, tugging them down along with panties, and he swore under his breath.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction, his fingers teasing you, circling your clit with slow, torturous strokes that made you whimper.
“This for me or that loser?”
“You,” you admitted, your voice breaking, hating how easily he pulled the truth from you.
He smirked, his fingers dipping inside you, pumping slowly, teasingly, until you were trembling, your hips rocking against his hand.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice low and filthy.
He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan, his eyes never leaving yours. “Gonna make you forget he ever existed.”
He turned you again in front of him and dropped to his knees, his tongue flicking over you just once, a teasing swipe that made you moan, but he didn’t linger.
Instead, he stood, unzipping his jeans, his cock hard and ready.
He gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, and thrust into you without warning, hard and deep, filling you completely, breaking the rule of sticking to oral only.
You cried out, your hands gripping his shoulders as he set a merciless pace, each thrust slamming you against the wall, the sound of skin on skin echoing in your apartment.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough with need, his hips snapping harder, deeper, relentless.
His hands gripped your hips so tightly you knew you’d bruise, but you didn’t care—you wanted more.
“Say it.”
He growled against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes wild.
Your body betrayed you, legs wrapping tight around his waist, dragging him closer. “Fuck you,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
He slowed, grinding deep, dragging his cock against your walls with agonizing precision.
His eyes burned into yours.
“Say it,” he demanded again, softer now, almost pleading. “Say you’re mine...Please...”
He groaned, the sound raw and desperate, and he angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
“Please, Hoseok,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your body aching for more.
“Don’t stop, fuck, I need you.”
He grinned, wicked and triumphant, and picked up the pace, pounding into you with a rhythm that was brutal, unforgiving, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge.
“That’s it, beg for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Tell me how much you want this.”
“More,” you gasped, your hands clutching at him, your body shaking as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wall creaking under the force of his thrusts.
“Please, Hoseok, more, I need it, I need you.”
“Fuck, you sound so good while begging,” he groaned, his hands sliding to your ass, lifting you higher so he could hit deeper, his cock stretching you, filling you completely.
He leaned in, sucking another mark into your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.
“No one else gets this—no one else hears you like this. Just me. Just me, Y/n.”
You moaned, your head falling back, your body trembling as he pounded into you, relentless, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing hard, fast circles that made you scream.
“Hoseok, please, don’t stop, I’m so close,” you begged, your voice hoarse, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Not stopping,” he growled, his thrusts growing erratic, his own breathing ragged as he chased his release. “Come for me, Y/n, let me feel you.”
You did, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your body shaking, your vision blurring as you came around him, your walls clenching tight, pulling a guttural moan from his throat.
He kept going, fucking you through it, his thrusts merciless, drawing out every shudder, every cry, until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess, begging for more even as your body screamed for mercy.
“More Hoseok,” you whimpered, your voice raw, trembling.
“Harder, fuck me harder—I want to feel you tomorrow.”
He gave a low, throaty laugh, though it cracked in the middle like he couldn’t hold it steady.
“I can’t say no to you—you know that.” he muttered, but his thrusts grew sharper, like he couldn’t deny you even if it killed him.
Then he pulled you from the wall, lowering you to the floor without breaking rhythm. He hovered over you, his chest brushing yours, his body caging you in as though the thought of letting go made him ache.
The new angle had you gasping, his cock hitting deeper, harder, every snap of his hips making you cry out.
“Fuck, you feel too good,” he groaned, his face twisting with something more than lust—something that looked frighteningly close to need.
His hands clutched your hips like he was scared you’d slip away.
“Don’t stop begging me, Y/n. I swear I’ll never get tired of your voice.”
“Please, Hoseok,” you moaned, nails raking down his back, your body arching helplessly to meet him. “Don’t stop. OH God... you fuck me so good—I’ll beg forever if you want.”
That made him falter, his thrusts stuttering for a second.
His forehead pressed to yours, sweaty and desperate, his lips brushing yours with every ragged breath. “Fuck,” he whispered, and it sounded like a confession. “You don’t get it, do you? No one else. Just me. You’re mine.”
“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your eyes wet though you didn’t know if it was tears or sweat. “Only yours. I don’t want anyone else, just you—only you.”
He kissed you then, messy and aching, his tongue tangling with yours like he was trying to swallow the words you weren’t saying, the feelings spilling out between teeth and gasps.
His hips slammed harder, more frantic, as though he was trying to brand himself into you, to prove he wasn’t lying.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” His voice broke as his thrusts grew sloppy, his desperation overtaking rhythm.
You came again, shaking violently, sobbing into his mouth as your body convulsed around him. That undid him completely—he spilled inside you with a strangled moan, his whole body trembling like he’d been holding himself together for far too long.
He collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face buried in your neck. His voice was muffled when he finally spoke, but you could hear the tremor in it, the truth he didn’t dare say out loud. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured, almost broken.
You let out a weak laugh, but your arms tightened around him, holding him closer, like you weren’t ready to let go either.
Your fingers traced lazy circles on his damp skin, but your heart was hammering, the weight of what just passed between you sitting heavy in the silence.
Because it hadn’t just been fucking.
It had been something dangerously close to surrender.
Things changed after that.
He started lingering more—brewing you coffee in the mornings, fingers brushing yours as he handed you the mug with a lopsided grin.
You stopped rushing out, choosing instead to curl up on his couch, stealing his hoodies because they were soft and smelled like him.
The scoreboard on the fridge had stopped tracking wins long ago. Now it was covered in doodles—messy stars, uneven hearts, a tiny “Hobi” scribbled under your name, and the clumsy smiley face you’d drawn when he wasn’t looking.
One night, mid-banter over something, the laughter slipped from his lips. He just… stopped, his eyes softening in a way that made your breath catch.
“I don’t want you with anyone else,” he blurted, his voice quiet but firm, like he’d been holding it in too long.
You froze, heart racing, but the warmth in his eyes made it impossible to look away. “It was a blind date,” you admitted, stepping closer. “My parents forced me. I didn’t even like him. I told him no to a second date.”
His shoulders relaxed, and a small, shy smile tugged at his lips.
“I was jealous,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Felt like I was losing you.”
You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.
“You’re not losing me,” you said softly, and the way his eyes lit up made your chest ache in the best way.
He pulled you into his arms, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, each one softer, sweeter than the last.
“The spot’s yours,” he murmured, pressing his car keys into your hand, his fingers lingering. “But I’m not giving up my spot in your heart. Ever.”
You laughed, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in.
“Deal,” you whispered, and as he hugged you tighter, you knew the rules were gone.
It wasn’t just hate anymore... it was everything, messy and perfect, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Pairing: CEO!Jung Hoseok x Pottery_Instructor!Reader
Genre: Therapy (Pottery making), Overwhelm/Burnout Themes, Slice of life, Romance, Smut, Fluff, Strangers-to-Lovers, Slow-Burn
Rating: 18+ | Minors DNI
Warnings: Overwhelm/Burnout Themes, Explicit sexual content [messy make-outs, lots of kissing, clay play, shower sex, oral M receiving, unprotected sex (refrain IRL)], Body worship, emotional intimacy, emotional love making
Word Count: ~11.2k
A/n: IDK why I came up with this title. Maybe you will get it by the end of story but I am still confuse about my choice. So let me know what you guys think of it?
[MASTERLIST]
The penthouse office of Jung International towered over Seoul like crown. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering Han River and the endless sea of neon lights that never slept.
Inside, the only sound was the low hum of the air-conditioning and the occasional sharp click of a mouse.
Hoseok sat slumped in his massive black leather executive chair, tie loosened just enough to breathe, but still perfectly in place. His usually sharp, energetic eyes were dull with exhaustion. The clock on his sleek walnut desk glowed 09:47 PM in soft white digits.
Another 15-hour day.
He had lost count somewhere between the emergency board meeting and the last overseas conference call.
He rubbed his temples, feeling the steady throb of a tension headache building behind his eyes. His shoulders felt like they were carved from stone, tight and unyielding. For the first time in years, the golden, untouchable CEO of Jung International felt truly, deeply overwhelmed.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, the rare curse slipping out in the empty office.
He loosened his tie a little more, then opened his laptop again. Instead of another spreadsheet or email, he typed into the search bar: “stress relief activities for busy executives” and “how to relax when you have no time.”
The results loaded quickly.
He scrolled past the usual suggestions with a tired sigh.
Yoga… tried already.
Meditation… he’d tried, but his mind wouldn’t shut up.
Running… he already did that at 5 AM, and it barely helped anymore.
Then one line caught his attention:
“Pottery – Working with clay is proven to reduce cortisol levels and bring mindfulness through tactile focus. The hands-on, sensory experience helps disconnect from digital overload and reconnect with the present moment.”
Hoseok stared at the sentence for a long moment, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
Pottery?
It sounded almost ridiculous for a man who closed multi-million dollar deals before breakfast. But something about the idea of getting his hands dirty, of creating something with no spreadsheets or quarterly reports attached… it appealed to him in a strange way.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and read a few more lines from the article aloud to himself, voice low and thoughtful.
“Pottery forces complete presence of individual's mind. The feel of wet clay, the spin of the wheel, the unpredictability of the material… it’s therapeutic.”
He paused, then whispered, “Maybe that’s exactly what I need.”
Deciding quickly... as he always did, Hoseok picked up his phone. His personal assistant, Minji, answered on the second ring despite the late hour.
“Mr. Jung?” Her voice was alert, professional. “Is everything alright?”
“Minji, I need you to book something for me right now. A private pottery session. Tonight if possible.”
There was a short pause on the other end. “Pottery, sir?”
“Yes. Private. No other students. Just me and the instructor. Find the best discreet studio in the city—somewhere quiet, preferably in Hongdae or near Itaewon. Pay whatever they ask for exclusivity. And make sure it’s completely off the record. No press, no leaks, nothing.”
Minji didn’t question him further.
She had learned long ago that when Hoseok made up his mind, he moved fast. “Understood. I’ll call around immediately and get back to you within fifteen minutes. Should I arrange the car as well?”
“Yes. Tell the driver to be ready downstairs in thirty minutes max.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
Around 10 minutes later, Minji called back.
“Mr. Jung, I found a place. It’s called Moonlit Clay Studio in a quiet alley off Hongdae. The owner herself answered the phone. She was hesitant at first about a last-minute private booking this late at night—said all her staff had already gone home.”
Hoseok was about to decline but Minji continued.
“But when I mentioned the compensation and how important privacy is, she agreed to stay and instruct you personally. The studio is small and exclusive, perfect for discretion. No other clients, no photos allowed, nothing. She assured me everything will be completely private.”
Hoseok stood up, already grabbing his suit jacket. “Good. Send the address to my driver. I’m leaving now.”
“Safe drive, sir. And… try to enjoy it?”
A small, tired chuckle escaped him. “I’ll try.”
One hour later, the sleek black Mercedes pulled up silently outside a narrow, unassuming building in a tucked-away alley of Hongdae.
The neon signs of the main street were far enough away that the area felt almost peaceful. A small wooden sign with elegant handwriting read: “Moonlit Clay Studio ~ Handcrafted Moments”.
Only one warm light glowed softly through the frosted glass door.
Hoseok stepped out of the car, still dressed in his tailored charcoal three-piece suit. The jacket was buttoned, his navy tie perfectly knotted, cufflinks glinting under the streetlamp.
He ran a hand through his neatly styled hair and took a deep, steadying breath. This better actually help, he thought. I can’t keep going like this.
He pushed the door open.
A soft bell chimed above his head.
The studio smelled instantly of damp earth, fresh clay, and a faint hint of lavender. Wooden shelves lined the walls, displaying beautiful finished pieces—vases, bowls, abstract sculptures, all glowing under warm pendant lights.
In the center of the room stood a large wooden worktable with two pottery wheels.
And there you were... the owner.
You stood behind the main wheel, wearing a simple beige apron tied neatly over a white t-shirt and comfortable jeans. Your hands were lightly dusted with dry clay, and a small smear already decorated your left cheek.
You had stayed behind alone after sending your two part-time instructors home at 9 PM, planning to work on your own pieces. The late-night call from an insistent assistant had changed those plans.
You looked up as the door opened, your eyes widening slightly when you recognized the tall, strikingly handsome man who had just walked in.
Jung Hoseok... Looking every bit the powerful CEO even at this late hour.
You quickly composed yourself and offered a warm, professional yet welcoming smile as you stepped around the table.
“Good evening,” you said softly, your voice gentle but carrying a hint of warmth in the quiet studio. “You must be Mr. Jung. Welcome to Moonlit Clay Studio. I’m Y/N, the owner here. I’ll be instructing you personally tonight since it’s so late and my staff has already left.”
Hoseok closed the door behind him and gave you a small, polite nod, his famous charming smile appearing despite his exhaustion.
His eyes scanned you briefly... calm, capable, and unexpectedly pretty with that little clay smudge on your cheek. “Good evening, Ms. Y/N. Thank you for agreeing to this on such short notice. I know it was very late and inconvenient. My assistant mentioned you hesitated at first.”
You let out a soft, honest laugh as you wiped your hands on your apron.
“Honestly, yes, I did hesitate for a second. We usually close at 9, and everyone else had gone home. But when she explained how important complete privacy was and… well, the compensation was quite generous, I couldn’t say no. It’s not every day we get a request like this. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.”
Hoseok’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction at your candid tone.
He liked that you didn’t pretend it was nothing.
“I appreciate the honesty,” he said, voice low and smooth. “And I really do value the discretion. My life is… loud enough during the day. I needed somewhere quiet where I can just… switch off.”
You nodded understandingly and gestured toward the hook on the wall.
“I completely understand. That’s why many people come here... to slow down. You can hang your jacket there if you’d like. We’re definitely going to get messy with the clay tonight, so feel free to get comfortable.”
Hoseok nodded and began unbuttoning his suit jacket, sliding it off his broad shoulders with graceful efficiency. He hung it neatly on the hook.
As he did, you tried not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his crisp white shirt fit across his chest and arms.
“Would you like something to drink before we start?” you asked, moving to the side counter. “Water, herbal tea, or coffee? I have a chamomile-lavender blend that’s really good for winding down after a long day.”
Hoseok took a step closer, his presence filling the cozy studio. “Water would be perfect for now, thank you. Maybe the tea afterward if this actually works.”
You poured him a glass from the RO and handed it over. Your fingers brushed lightly against his as he took it.
“Here you go,” you said with a small smile. “And don’t worry... no pressure tonight. Pottery isn’t about being perfect. It’s about letting go. Have you ever tried it before?”
Hoseok took a sip, then set the glass down, his sharp eyes meeting yours with genuine curiosity mixed with exhaustion.
“Never,” he admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m a complete beginner. Probably hopeless at first. But I read that working with clay can help shut the brain off for a while, and right now… that sounds like heaven.”
You smiled warmly, already feeling a little more at ease with his honest vulnerability. “Then you’re in the right place, Mr. Jung. Or… would you prefer I call you Hoseok?”
He gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Hoseok is fine. Makes it feel less like a business meeting.”
“Alright, Hoseok,” you said, gesturing to the stool beside the pottery wheel. “Have a seat. Let’s start with the basics — kneading the clay so it’s ready for the wheel. I’ll guide you through every step. If you have any questions or if something feels uncomfortable, just tell me.”
Hoseok sat down, looking up at you with a tired but intrigued expression. “Perfect. Teach me, Y/N. I’m all yours tonight.”
Your cheeks warmed slightly at the way he said it, but you kept your professional smile and picked up a lump of clay.
“Perfect. Let’s start…”
The studio felt smaller now that Hoseok had removed his jacket.
He stood near the pottery wheel in his crisp white shirt. His fingers moved with deliberate grace as he loosened the navy tie completely, pulling the silk free in one smooth motion and setting it aside on the hook beside his jacket.
Next came the sleeves... he rolled them up to his forearms with practiced efficiency, revealing the corded muscles and prominent veins that stood out under the warm golden studio lights.
His shoulders looked broad and strong even through the thin material, the subtle shift of fabric hinting at the toned physique beneath. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry.
Focus. He’s just a client. A very attractive client. Nothing more.
But as Hoseok sat down on the stool and leaned forward slightly, the way his shirt stretched taut across his chest and the subtle flex of his forearms when he placed his hands tentatively on the edge of the wheel… you didn’t realize your lips had parted slightly.
You snapped out of it, quickly wiping the corner of your mouth and clearing your throat a little too loudly.
“Okay, let’s begin,” you said, forcing your voice to sound steady and professional. “First, we need to knead the clay to remove any air bubbles. It’s important so the piece doesn’t explode in the furnacing later.”
Hoseok glanced up at you, his sharp eyes catching the faint flush creeping across your cheeks.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips internally. Interesting.
He tilted his head slightly, voice low and smooth. “Kneading? Sounds technical. Show me how it’s done, Y/N. I don’t want to ruin your clay on the first try.”
You picked up a lump of cool, damp clay and demonstrated on the table beside him, kneading it firmly with the heels of your hands in a steady rhythm.
“Like this... push, fold, and rotate. It’s almost like kneading dough, but with more pressure. Here, you try.” You placed a fresh lump in front of him.
When he reached for it, your fingers brushed against his briefly warm skin against warm skin. The contact sent a small spark up your arm, but you ignored it.
Hoseok pressed his palms into the clay, copying your motion, but his movements were a little too hesitant at first.
“Am I doing this right?” he asked, looking up at you with a hint of genuine uncertainty mixed with that effortless charm. “It feels… squishier than I expected. And messier.”
You smiled softly, stepping a little closer. “You’re doing fine for a first attempt. Put more weight into it — use your body, not just your arms. Here, let me show you the pressure.”
You leaned in, placing your hand gently over his on the clay, guiding the firm push and fold. Your fingers overlapped his, feeling the strength in his hands and the warmth radiating from his skin.
“Feel that? Steady and rhythmic. Don’t fight the clay... work with it.”
Hoseok’s cologne, mixed with the earthy scent of the damp clay. It was intoxicating up close.
Your heart stuttered.
“Like this?” he murmured, his voice dropping lower as he followed your guidance. His breath brushed near your cheek.
You nodded, trying to keep your focus. “Yes… exactly. Now, once it’s wedged, we center it on the wheel. That’s the tricky part for beginners.”
You moved the prepared clay to the wheel and sat on the stool opposite him for demonstration, but when he tried it himself, the lump wobbled wildly as the wheel spun.
Hoseok let out a low, frustrated chuckle. “It’s fighting me. See? Hopeless, just like I said.”
You stood up and moved behind him without thinking, leaning in close so you could reach around. Your chest brushed lightly against his side as you placed your hand over his again on the clay, the other gently steadying the wheel speed with the pedal.
“Feel the spin,” you murmured near his ear, your voice softer than intended. “Breathe with it. Don’t force it, guide it. Let your hands listen to the clay.”
Hoseok’s skin was warm against yours.
The muscles in his forearms tensed and relaxed under your touch as the wheel hummed. For a moment, the only sounds were the gentle whir of the wheel and your combined breathing.
He turned his head just slightly, his voice low and teasing. “You make it sound almost… intimate. Is this how you teach all your private students?”
Your breath caught.
The tension in the air thickened instantly.
You pulled back a fraction, cheeks burning hotter. “Only the ones who need extra guidance on their first atempt. And you’re… doing better than most beginners.”
Hoseok’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile as he kept his hands on the clay. “Good to know I’m special then.”
You swallowed again, quickly moving to adjust his grip once more, your fingers lingering a second longer than necessary on the back of his hand.
“Try centering it now. Keep the pressure even… yes, like that.”
He managed to center it, not perfectly, but close enough for a first try. The cylinder that slowly rose under your combined guidance was slightly wobbly, uneven at the top, but undeniably a small victory.
As the wheel slowed to a stop, Hoseok sat back, flexing his clay-covered fingers. He looked noticeably lighter, the exhaustion in his eyes softened by a spark of satisfaction.
“Not bad for someone who’s never touched clay before,” he said, glancing at you with a warm, appreciative look. “I feel… quieter already. My mind actually stopped racing for a few minutes there.”
You smiled, genuinely pleased, though your pulse was still racing for entirely different reasons. “That’s the magic of it. The clay doesn’t care about schedules or deals, it just demands your full attention.”
Hoseok washed his hands at the small sink in the corner, the water running over his strong forearms. He dried them slowly, then turned back to you.
“I’ll book another session,” he said, his tone decisive but laced with something warmer. “Same time next week. Still private. Just us.”
You nodded, trying not to let your smile grow too wide or too obvious. “I’ll be here. The studio is yours whenever you need it.”
As he took his jacket back from the hook, leaving the sleeves rolled up and the tie loose around his neck, you caught yourself staring at his retreating back, the way those rolled sleeves still revealed the strong lines of his forearms.
Get it together, Y/N. He’s a client. Just a client.
But as the door closed softly behind him and the bell chimed, you touched the corner of your mouth again, remembering that near-drool moment, and let out a shaky breath.
The tension had already begun, quiet, electric, and impossible to ignore on the very first night.
The second lesson turned into the third, then the fourth...
More than three months had passed since that first late-night session. What began as a single desperate booking had quietly become a ritual.
Every Friday and Saturday at 10 PM, the studio belonged only to Jung Hoseok and you. The rest of the world faded the moment the door closed and the soft bell chimed.
Each time Hoseok arrived, he followed the same ritual that never failed to make your pulse stutter... jacket off, hung neatly on the hook, tie loosened with one smooth tug until it hung carelessly around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing those strong veins and the subtle flex of muscle as he moved.
Each time you tried desperately not to stare, but you failed every single time.
You’d catch yourself literally drooling... lips parted, eyes tracing the graceful line of his neck, the sharp collarbones that peeked out when the top buttons of his shirt came undone, the way his biceps shifted under the thin fabric when he pressed his hands into the clay.
And every single time, Hoseok noticed.
He never called you out directly, but that small, knowing smirk would tug at the corner of his lips internally, growing wider with each passing lesson.
Tonight, Hoseok sat at the wheel, his shirt sleeves already rolled high, a fresh lump of clay spinning between his capable hands. The studio was warm, lit only by the soft pendant lights and the faint glow from the street outside.
The air smelled of wet earth and the faint smell of his cologne.
You stood close behind him, guiding his movements as the cylinder slowly took shape.
“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured, your voice softer than usual. “You’re still carrying the whole company on them.”
Hoseok let out a low chuckle, the sound rich and tired. “You noticed that the very first night, didn’t you? My mind was so loud back then… I could barely hear myself think. That’s why I searched for pottery in the middle of the night. I needed something that would shut it all up.”
You smiled gently, your hand resting longer than necessary over his on the clay, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of the wheel.
“I remember,” you said quietly.
“You looked so exhausted when you walked in. Like the weight of Seoul was sitting on your chest. But look at you now… your pieces are getting better, and your eyes are lighter. Has it really helped that much?”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the spinning clay but his attention clearly divided. “More than I expected. The first few weeks, my mind still raced even while I was here. But somewhere around the second month… it started to quiet down. It’s therapeutic in a way nothing else has been.”
You moved around to face him better, leaning in as you adjusted the pressure of his fingers.
“It is therapeutic,” you agreed, voice intimate in the quiet studio.
“That’s exactly why I opened Moonlit Clay Studio three years ago. I used to work in a very loud corporate job, marketing for a big firm. Long hours, constant pressure, endless meetings. My mind was never quiet either. I was burnt out and one day I took a random pottery class just to try something new, and… it saved me.”
Hoseok looked up at you then, his gaze warm and searching, the wheel slowing to a stop.
You continued... “The feel of the clay, the way it forces you to be present — it reminded me I was more than my job, more than the stress. So I saved up, quit, and opened this place. I wanted to give others that same quiet space.”
“You’re different from everyone in my world, Y/N,” he said softly, no teasing in his tone this time, just honest emotion.
“In my business, people want something from me — deals, connections, money. But you… you understand how overwhelmed I was that first night without me having to explain it in numbers or reports. You just… see it. And you give me this space without expecting anything back.”
Your cheeks warmed under his sincere words.
You bit your lip lightly, trying to hide how much they affected you.
“I do understand,” you replied, your hand still resting on his.
“Because I’ve been there. The exhaustion that sits in your bones. The way your mind won’t stop even when your body is screaming for rest. But here… here we can just be. No titles. No schedules. Just clay and conversation.”
The touch lingered.
Your fingers traced a small adjustment on his grip, but neither of you pulled away. The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken tension and something warmer, deeper.
Hoseok’s voice dropped lower, a teasing lilt creeping back in as he tilted his head. “So tell me, studio owner… do you give all your private students these deep, soul-soothing talks? Or am I getting special treatment because I pay well?”
You laughed softly, the sound light but a little breathless.
“Special treatment? Maybe. Because you are the only private student I ever had. Or maybe it’s because you actually listen when I talk. Most people come here, make small talk about the weather, and leave. You ask real questions.”
He smirked, eyes sparkling with mischief as he deliberately brushed the back of your hand with his thumb.
“Real questions deserve real answers,” he said, voice husky. “Like… what do you do when you’re not saving overwhelmed CEOs from their own minds? Is there something else you love as much as clay?”
You felt the heat rise in your face but answered honestly, enjoying the way he made you feel seen.
“I paint sometimes. Read a lot. And I love late-night walks when the city finally quiets down. It reminds me why I chose this quiet life. What about you, Hoseok? When you’re not being the perfect CEO… what does the real Jung Hoseok enjoy?”
He leaned forward slightly, the space between you shrinking. “Honestly? I’m still figuring that out. But these nights with you… they’re becoming my favorite part of the week. The clay helps. Talking to you helps more.”
Your breath hitched at the admission.
The flirting was no longer subtle.
Before you could respond, a small streak of wet clay flicked from his fingers onto your lower lip as he adjusted his grip.
“You have clay on your lips,” Hoseok said, his voice dropping into that low, intimate tone that always made your stomach flutter.
He wiped his hands with cloth and reached up slowly, his thumb gently wiping the clay away from the corner of your mouth. The touch lingered far longer than necessary, his thumb brushing softly across your lip once, twice.
Your heart hammered. “Th-thank you…”
He didn’t pull his hand away immediately. His eyes darkened with something warmer than mischief as he smiled, slow and knowing.
“Anytime,” he murmured, the word heavy with promise. “In fact… I think I might start looking for excuses to get clay on you more often.”
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension crackling between you like electricity.
“Hoseok…” you whispered, half-warning, half-invitation.
He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your skin, eyes locked on yours. “Yes, Y/N?”
The space between you vanished.
Hoseok’s free hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb still resting lightly on your lower lip. For one heartbeat, everything stilled... the wheel silent, the studio holding its breath.
Then he closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprised you both. Clay-dusted fingers cupped your cheek as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slowly, savoring the moment that had been building for months.
His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of the herbal tea you’d shared earlier mixed with something uniquely him.
You sighed softly into the kiss, your hand instinctively rising to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the thin shirt.
The tension that had simmered for weeks finally ignited — tender yet charged with all the unspoken longing, the late-night conversations, the lingering touches.
Hoseok pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing a little heavier, his voice a low whisper against your lips.
“I’ve wanted to do that for longer than I should admit,” he confessed, a small, breathless smile curving his mouth. “Every time you leaned in to guide me… every time you looked at me like I was more than just the CEO.”
Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt, heart racing. “Then don’t stop now.”
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you, before capturing your lips again, this time with a little more hunger, a little more certainty, the kiss turning deeper, slower, more intimate in the quiet glow of the studio.
When you finally parted, both of you slightly flushed and smiling, Hoseok brushed a stray smear of clay from your cheek with his thumb, eyes shining with a mix of affection and teasing warmth.
“Careful, Y/N,” he murmured, voice husky. “If we keep this up, I might never want to leave this studio.”
You laughed breathlessly, the air still thick with electricity and the promise of more. “Maybe that’s the point.”
The forgotten wheel caught your attention again.
The clay that had been forming into a neat cylinder had completely lost its shape during the distraction. It now sat collapsed and lopsided on the wheel a weird, squished blob that looked like a melted mushroom, leaning dramatically to one side with uneven ridges and collapsed walls.
You both noticed it at the same moment.
Hoseok’s eyes widened slightly before a low, genuine laugh escaped him. “Oh no… look what we did to it. That was supposed to be a vase. Now it looks like… I don’t even know. Modern art gone wrong?”
You couldn’t help it, a bright giggle bubbled up from your chest as you stared at the ridiculous, deformed lump. “It’s… unique. Maybe we can call it ‘Distraction No. 1.’ Or ‘The Kiss That Killed the Cylinder.’”
Hoseok joined in, his laughter warm and full, shoulders shaking as he leaned back on the stool. “It’s hideous. But honestly? Worth it.”
The shared giggles lightened the air, turning the charged moment into something even sweeter, playful, intimate, and undeniably closer.
The wheel remained forgotten once more, the weirdly shaped pottery sitting there as silent proof of how far the evening and your feelings had shifted.
Two months later, you and Hoseok were unofficially dating.
The connection that began with that heated kiss in the studio had quietly deepened into something real. Though you hadn’t made it official to the outside world yet, the two of you had been seeing each other in secret... sharing soft kisses, late-night talks, and many more nights filled with laughter and intimacy.
It was a quiet Thursday night, well past 11 PM.
The studio was supposed to be closed, but you had stayed late to finish a personal piece. The wheel hummed softly under your hands, clay spinning steadily as you worked alone in the warm glow of the pendant lights.
Your apron was already speckled with dried and wet clay.
The soft chime of the bell made you look up.
Hoseok stepped inside, not in his usual tailored suit but in casual clothes... a simple black hoodie and dark jeans. His hair was slightly tousled, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
You began to slow the wheel, but Hoseok said quickly, voice low and gentle, “Wait... don’t stop. Keep going. Please.”
You nodded, letting the wheel continue at a slower pace, your hands staying lightly on the clay.
“Hoseok?” you asked, warmth and surprise in your tone. “You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight. It’s not your session day.”
He closed the door, giving you a tired smile. “You mentioned this morning you’d stay late. I just wanted to see you. Hope it's okay.”
You searched his eyes, heart melting at the raw exhaustion mixed with longing. “Of course it’s okay. You look really exhausted… rough day?”
He sighed heavily and walked behind you. “The roughest. My mind wouldn’t stop. I needed you.”
Without another word, Hoseok wrapped his arms around your waist from behind in a tight hug, burying his face in your neck. He pressed soft, lingering kisses there, nuzzling gently while your hands remained on the slowly spinning wheel.
“Hoseok…” you whispered breathily as his lips brushed below your ear. “You’re so tired.”
“So tired,” he murmured against your skin, tightening his hold. “But you make everything quiet. I missed this. Missed you.”
You leaned back into him, hands still guiding the clay. “I missed you too.”
After a few minutes of his warm kisses and nuzzles, you said softly, “Do you want to join me? We can shape it together.”
“Yeah… let me help.”
He extended his arms, placing his hands over yours on the wet clay. His fingers intertwined with yours, chest pressed firmly to your back. The wheel spun under your joined touch.
At first it was gentle, but playfulness quickly sparked.
Hoseok’s fingers deliberately slid through the slick clay, pressing a little too hard so a soft splatter flicked onto your forearm.
“Oops,” he teased, voice husky near your ear. “Didn’t mean to get you messy.”
You laughed, retaliating by guiding his hand to smear a streak of mud across the back of his own wrist. “Liar. You’re doing it on purpose.”
He chuckled and flicked his fingers suddenly, sending a thick streak of wet clay across your cheek.
Before you could respond, the cool mud landed with a soft smack.
You gasped, laughing in surprise. “Hey!”
Without hesitation, you retaliated, using your hand to smear a big swipe of mud across his jaw and down his neck.
Hoseok’s eyes lit up with playful fire despite his tiredness. “Oh, it’s on now.”
What started as gentle guidance exploded into pure chaotic fun.
Hoseok suddenly scooped a large handful of slippery clay from the wheel and flicked it at you like a playful weapon. It landed on your shoulder and chest with a wet splat, sliding down your apron in thick gray streaks.
You squealed and grabbed an even bigger clump, chasing him around the work table as he dodged with a bright laugh.
“Get back here!” you yelled, giggling wildly as you hurled the clay at his back. It exploded across his hoodie in a messy burst, leaving dripping trails down his spine.
Hoseok spun around, eyes sparkling with mischief, and retaliated by scooping two handfuls.
“You asked for it!” He lunged, smearing one handful straight down your arm and the other across your collarbone, the cool, slick mud sliding under the edge of your apron and making you shiver.
You both darted around the table like kids, clay flying in every direction.
A glob hit the wall with a slap.
Another landed on a shelf, knocking over a small dried bowl.
You slipped on a puddle of spilled clay on the floor, nearly falling, but Hoseok caught your wrist and pulled you upright only to immediately smear more mud across your forehead and nose with his thumb, laughing triumphantly.
“Look at you... you’re a disaster!” he teased, breathing hard.
“You’re worse!” you shot back, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
You reached up into his hair, ruffling it until messy gray streaks stuck up in every direction. He growled playfully and grabbed your waist, spinning you around while his hands left perfect muddy handprints all over your hips and lower back.
Clay was everywhere... on the floor, the table, the walls, your clothes, his hoodie, your faces, your necks.
The once-neat studio looked like a battlefield of wet earth.
Your apron was utterly ruined, heavy with clinging mud. His black hoodie clung to his chest where the clay had soaked through, outlining every line of muscle.
You tried to escape again, but he caught you properly this time, arms wrapping tightly around your waist from behind and pulling your back flush against his chest. Both of you were breathing hard, laughing between gasps, bodies pressed together.
Your hands, thick with mud, slid up his arms, leaving long, slippery streaks. His hands gripped your hips firmly, pressing perfect clay handprints into your jeans and the sides of your apron.
The laughter slowly faded as the chaos settled, leaving only the sound of your heavy breathing and racing hearts.
You were still in his arms, back to his chest, but you turned your head to the side so you could look up at him over your shoulder. Your faces were now very close, clay-streaked cheeks almost touching.
Hoseok’s gaze darkened with clear want, his eyes dropping to your lips before returning to yours, thumbs stroking your hips through the slick mud.
“You know… this really does help with stress,” he said, voice low and rough. “But there’s another reason I keep coming back.”
Your heart pounded. “What’s that?”
His breath brushed warm against your ear and cheek.
“You.”
The playful chaos had shifted into something far more intense, intimate, and heated, the glorious mess only amplifying the electricity crackling between you.
You slowly turned around inside his embrace until you were facing him, your clay-covered chest pressing against his.
Hoseok’s eyes darkened instantly, his gaze dropping to your lips.
Before either of you could speak, he cupped your muddy face with both hands and crashed his mouth onto yours in a deep, hungry kiss.
The kiss was instantly messy and wet.
Clay smeared between your lips as you kissed, the slick mud making every movement slippery and sensual. Hoseok kissed you like he had been starving for you for months... deep, open-mouthed kisses that left wet sounds echoing softly in the studio.
His tongue slid against yours, tasting the faint earthiness of clay mixed with the sweetness of you. You moaned into his mouth, your mud-covered fingers threading into his already messy hair, pulling him closer.
“Mmm… Hoseok,” you gasped between kisses, lips barely parting. “You’re so… addictive.”
He groaned, kissing you harder, his tongue exploring your mouth with slow, sensual strokes. “God, you taste good even covered in this mess,” he murmured against your lips before diving back in, sucking gently on your lower lip, then biting it playfully.
Your hands roamed greedily over his shoulders and chest, leaving fresh gray handprints all over his hoodie. His hands slid down your back, gripping your waist and pulling you impossibly closer, smearing more mud across your apron and the curve of your ass.
The kiss grew more frantic, wetter, more desperate.
You could feel the cool clay squelching between your bodies as you pressed against each other. Hoseok tilted his head, deepening the angle, his tongue stroking yours in long, languid movements that made your knees weak.
“You have no idea how much I want this every damn time I see you,” he panted against your mouth, stealing another messy kiss. “Every lesson… every time you touch my hands… I want to pull you close and kiss you senseless.”
You smiled breathlessly into the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip. “Then stop talking and keep kissing me.”
He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating into your mouth, before obeying. He pinned you gently but firmly backward against the edge of the large wooden work table, his body crowding yours.
With one smooth motion, he lifted you just enough to sit you on the table’s edge. Hoseok stood between your spread legs, hands gripping your thighs and leaving bold muddy handprints on your jeans.
He kissed you deeply again, tongues tangling wetly, saliva and clay mixing in a sensual slide. You wrapped your legs loosely around his hips, pulling him closer as your fingers tugged at the hem of his hoodie.
Half the clothes were already coming off in the frenzy.
You pushed his hoodie up, your muddy hands sliding over his toned stomach and chest, leaving perfect gray streaks across his bare skin. He broke the kiss just long enough to yank the hoodie off completely, tossing it somewhere on the floor, before diving back to your mouth.
Your own apron was pushed up and half untied, hanging loosely around your waist. Hoseok’s hands slipped under your t-shirt and skirt, palms gliding over your thighs and waist, spreading cool clay everywhere he touched.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned between kisses, his mouth trailing to your jaw, then your neck, sucking and licking the clay-streaked skin before returning to your lips. “So soft… so messy… I can’t get enough.”
You moaned loudly, arching into him as you kissed him back with equal hunger. Your hands explored his bare chest, fingers tracing every muscle and leaving muddy trails.
“Hoseok… you’re driving me crazy,” you whispered with giggle against his mouth. “Kiss me harder.”
He did exactly that... a long, wet, sensual kiss that left both of you breathless and covered in even more clay. Tongues danced, lips slid, soft moans and gasps filled the air.
Muddy handprints decorated your neck, his shoulders, your thighs, his chest, everywhere your hands had wandered during the heated makeout.
After what felt like an eternity of deep, messy kissing, Hoseok finally pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you were panting, lips swollen and glistening with a mix of saliva and clay, faces and bodies streaked with gray-brown mud.
“Fuck…” he breathed, a breathless laugh escaping him as he looked at the absolute mess you’d both become. “We are such a mess right now… but I want more of you tonight. So much more.”
You smiled, still catching your breath, your fingers tracing lazy muddy patterns on his bare chest.
“I want more too,” you whispered. “There’s a small bathroom in the back with a shower. It's small but we can continue there… get cleaned up… or not.”
Hoseok’s eyes darkened again with fresh desire.
He leaned in and gave you one last slow, deep kiss, tongues sliding sensually before he pulled away with a smirk. “Lead the way, baby. I’m not done with you yet.”
“Then take me,” you whispered against his lips. “All of me.”
He smiled into the kiss, then pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His hands moved to the hem of your t-shirt, fingers sliding underneath despite the mud.
“Can I?” he asked gently, voice full of affection.
You nodded, lifting your arms.
Hoseok peeled the muddy t-shirt off you slowly, revealing your bra. He tossed the t-shirt aside and immediately leaned in to press a soft kiss to your collarbone, right over a streak of clay.
“You’re beautiful even like this,” he murmured, hands gliding down your sides, leaving fresh handprints.
You reached for his jeans next, your fingers working the button and zipper with playful care. “Your turn,” you teased lightly, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. “These jeans are ruined anyway.”
Hoseok chuckled, helping you push the denim down his hips.
You slid them off completely, leaving him in just his black boxers. The clay had soaked through in places, making the fabric cling to him.
He returned the favor, his hands sliding under your skirt, palms warm and muddy against your thighs. “May I?” he asked again, ever gentle even in the middle of the chaos.
“Yes,” you breathed.
He unzipped and tugged your skirt down, letting it pool on the table.
Now you sat there in only your bra and panties, body decorated with his handprints and random clay smears. He stood between your legs in just his boxers, both of you half-naked, messy, and smiling at each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Look at us,” you said with a soft giggle, tracing a heart shape in the clay on his chest with your finger. “We look like we survived a pottery war.”
Hoseok laughed warmly, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss, even though it was covered in mud. “Best war I’ve ever been in. Because I get to have you at the end.”
He leaned in and kissed you again... slower this time, full of emotion. Then, without breaking the kiss, he slid his hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly.
You wrapped your legs around his torso, arms around his neck, as he carried you toward the small bathroom at the back of the studio.
The bathroom was tiny, just enough space for a shower stall, a sink, and a mirror. The moment you stepped inside, the air felt even more intimate, the clay scent mixing with the warm steam that would soon fill the room.
Hoseok set you down gently on the cool tile floor but kept you close, his hands never leaving your body. He turned on the shower, warm water cascading down immediately.
“Come here,” he whispered, pulling you under the spray with him.
The water hit you both, turning the dry clay into slippery mud that ran down your bodies. You tilted your head up and kissed him again under the falling water... a deep, wet, emotional kiss.
Tongues moved slowly, sensually, tasting each other as water washed over your faces.
While kissing, your hands reached behind you and unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the shower floor with a wet slap. Hoseok’s hands immediately cupped your breasts tenderly, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he groaned softly into your mouth.
“So perfect,” he whispered against your lips. “Every part of you.”
You slid your hands down his torso and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. “Can I take these off?” you asked softly, eyes searching his with a mix of desire and tenderness.
Hoseok’s breath hitched.
He nodded, resting his forehead gently against yours, water cascading between your faces. “Only if I can take yours off too,” he whispered, voice low and full of affection. “I want to feel all of you… without any barriers.”
You both smiled softly, the moment intimate and sweet despite the mess. Your fingers slowly tugged his boxers down his hips, letting them slide to the shower floor with a wet slap.
At the same time, Hoseok’s hands slipped into the sides of your panties, peeling them down your thighs with deliberate care. His palms brushed over your skin as he did, leaving faint clay trails that the water quickly washed away.
Now completely bare, bodies pressed flush together under the warm spray, the last bits of clay still streaking your skin in soft gray trails.
Hoseok didn’t pull away.
Instead, his hands moved upward, cupping your breasts tenderly. His thumbs circled your nipples slowly, rubbing them with gentle pressure as he watched your face.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Even covered in all this clay… you take my breath away.”
You gasped softly at his touch, arching into his hands.
One of your hands slid down between your bodies, wrapping around his length. You stroked him slowly, lovingly, thumb brushing over the tip as the water made everything slick.
“Hoseok…” you whispered, eyes half-lidded. “You feel so good. I love feeling how hard you are for me.”
He groaned quietly, forehead still pressed to yours.
His free hand trailed lower, fingers teasingly brushing over your folds, parting them gently without rushing. He circled your clit with feather-light touches, then slid a finger along your entrance, teasing but not entering yet.
“And I love feeling how wet you are for me,” he breathed against your lips. “Not just from the shower… from us. From this.”
You moaned softly, your strokes on him becoming a little firmer, slower, matching the rhythm of his teasing fingers. “Keep touching me like that,” you pleaded in a whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I want your hands everywhere tonight.”
Hoseok smiled tenderly, rubbing your breasts with one hand while his fingers continued their gentle exploration between your legs. “I will, baby. Every inch of you. I’ve waited so long to touch you like this… to show you how much you mean to me.”
He leaned in and captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss, tongues sliding sensually as the warm water poured over your bare, clay-streaked bodies.
You dropped to your knees on the wet tile, looking up at him with soft, loving eyes. The water streamed down your face as you took him into your mouth gently, lovingly.
Hoseok gasped, one hand gently threading into your wet hair, the other bracing against the tile wall.
“Y/N… baby…” he moaned softly, voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to— mhmm… that feels so good. You look so beautiful like this.”
You hummed around him, taking your time, moving with slow, sensual care. Your hands rested on his thighs, thumbs stroking gently as you worked him with your mouth.
After a moment, you pulled back just enough to whisper, “I want to. I want to make you feel loved, Hoseok. Let me take care of you tonight.”
Hoseok’s eyes softened, filled with something deep and tender.
His fingers tightened slightly in your hair, not pushing, just holding you with affection. “God… you’re too good to me,” he breathed, voice shaky with pleasure and emotion.
“No one has ever made me feel this wanted… this cared for. You have no idea what you do to my heart, Y/N.”
You smiled softly before taking him back into your mouth, sucking gently while your tongue swirled around him. You pulled back again for a second, lips brushing against his tip as you looked up at him.
“I do it because I adore you. Every tired smile you give me, every late-night talk… I’ve been falling for you for months. This is me showing you how much.”
Hoseok let out a soft, emotional groan, his thumb tenderly stroking your cheek even as water poured over both of you. “I’m falling too… so hard. You make me feel safe. You make me feel seen. Keep going, baby… just like that. You’re perfect.”
You hummed again in response, continuing with slow, loving movements, your hands gently caressing his thighs and hips.
Hoseok’s breathing grew heavier, his voice dropping to a whisper full of warmth. “You’re not just pleasuring me… you’re loving me. And I feel it. Every single touch.”
Hoseok’s eyes softened even more, filled with deep tenderness.
He gently pulled you back up after a few minutes, kissing you passionately under the water.
“My turn to take care of you,” he murmured, voice warm and full of affection.
He gently pinned you so your back was against the cool tile wall.
The contrast of the cold surface and his warm, wet body made you shiver deliciously. Hoseok lifted one of your legs, wrapping it securely around his waist, and slowly, gently entered you, inch by inch, never rushing.
Both of you moaned at the same time, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in an intimate gaze.
“Oh god… Hoseok,” you breathed, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. “You feel so good… so right inside me. Like you belong there.”
He moved slowly at first, deep, intimate thrusts that made your breath hitch with every roll of his hips. One hand cradled the back of your head protectively, the other gripping your hip with gentle strength, thumb stroking your skin.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered against your lips between soft kisses. “Not just your body… you. Your heart. The way you see the real me when the whole world only sees the CEO.”
You smiled through the pleasure, tears of emotion mixing with the shower water on your cheeks as you kissed him deeply.
“I see you, Hoseok,” you whispered back, voice trembling with feeling. “The tired man who walked in exhausted that first night… the sweet, playful one who covers me in clay and still makes me laugh. I’m falling for you. Hard.”
He groaned softly, his hips moving with a little more purpose while still staying full of care and love. “Then I won't complain, baby. Because I have already fallen for you.”
He teased lightly, nipping at your bottom lip. “Though I have to admit… I didn’t expect to confess while buried inside you in a tiny shower. Very romantic of me, right?”
You let out a breathy laugh that turned into a moan as he hit a particularly deep spot.
“Very romantic,” you teased back, nails gently digging into his shoulders. “Covered in clay and water… my dream confession.”
Hoseok chuckled warmly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
“Hey, at least it’s memorable. No boring dinner dates for us.” He kissed you again, slower and deeper this time. “But seriously… I like you so much. More than like. I want to date you properly. Not just secret pottery nights and hidden moments.”
You moaned softly as he thrust deeper, your walls clenching around him. “We already are… aren’t we?” you whispered playfully against his mouth.
He smiled, eyes sparkling with affection even through the pleasure. “No, not like this. I mean officially. Without hiding from the world. I want mornings with you, lazy breakfasts, quiet evenings where I can hold you without worrying about anyone seeing. I want everything with you, Y/N.”
Your heart swelled even more than the pleasure building in your body. You cupped his face, kissing him tenderly. “Yes… yes, If you are okay with that then I want that too,” you gasped, voice breaking into a soft moan. “I want to be yours, Hoseok. Just yours. No more hiding.”
He groaned, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Good. Because I’m already yours.”
He teased gently, slowing his thrusts for a moment just to drag it out. “Though I should warn you… dating a clumsy pottery student like me might involve a lot more mess.”
You laughed breathlessly, legs tightening around his waist. “I love the mess. Especially when it’s with you.”
Hoseok’s movements grew a little faster, deeper, but never rough, always grounded in emotion and connection.
Every thrust was slow and meaningful.
Every kiss was full of whispered words and soft, loving moans.
“I’m so glad I walked into this studio that night,” he whispered against your neck, lips brushing your wet skin. “You saved me from burning out… and you stole my heart without even trying. Sneaky girl.”
You smiled through the building pleasure, cupping his face and pulling him into another deep, emotional kiss.
“And you made me believe in love again,” you replied softly, voice full of warmth. “Right here, in all this beautiful, ridiculous mess. Who knew pottery could lead to this?”
He chuckled softly, then moaned as your bodies moved together perfectly. “Best stress relief ever. Way better than any article suggested.”
You both chased release together... eyes locked, breathing shared, hearts wide open. When the climax finally washed over you, it was intense yet incredibly tender, waves of pleasure mixed with overwhelming love and affection.
You clung to each other under the shower, trembling, kissing through every pulse of pleasure, soft whispers of each other’s names filling the small space.
Afterwards, Hoseok held you close, forehead resting against yours, water still cascading gently over your bodies.
“I meant every word,” he whispered, voice raw and sincere. “I want to date you, properly, Y/n. Not only when we’re together in this studio, we’ve been doing that for the last two months already, but it's not officially. I want it like without hiding from the world. For real. Will you be mine?”
You smiled, heart completely full, and kissed him softly, lingeringly.
“Yes, Hoseok. I’m already yours.”
He grinned brightly, pressing one last gentle kiss to your lips before reaching for the soap with a playful glint in his eyes.
“Then let’s get a little cleaner… so we can get messy again later.”
After the long, emotional, and incredibly intimate shower, both of you finally stepped out, bodies clean but minds still floating in that soft, glowing haze.
You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded to the small storage closet at the back of the studio where you kept spare clothes for late-night work sessions.
“I always keep extra pairs here,” you told Hoseok with a shy smile as you pulled out a simple oversized t-shirt and soft cotton shorts. “Never thought I’d need them because of… this kind of mess.”
Hoseok stood there with just a towel around his waist, hair still damp and messy, watching you with fond amusement. “Smart girl. Meanwhile, I have nothing but my very ruined hoodie and jeans.”
You laughed and tossed him the studio’s spare white bathrobe. “Here. Wear this for now. You look surprisingly good in anything… even a bathrobe that says ‘Moonlit Clay Studio’ on the pocket.”
He caught it and slipped it on, tying the belt loosely.
The robe was a little short on his tall frame, exposing his calves. He looked down at himself and burst out laughing. “I went from powerful CEO to spa-day uncle in under ten minutes. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” you teased, pulling your t-shirt over your head. “You’re the one who started the clay war, Mr. Jung.”
“Guilty,” he admitted, stepping closer to pull you into a quick, sweet kiss. “And I’d do it again.”
Once you were both somewhat decent, you walked back into the main studio area hand-in-hand.
The moment you stepped inside, both of you froze.
The studio looked like a crime scene.
Clay was smeared across the work table, splattered on the walls, pooled on the floor in sticky puddles, and even decorated the shelves. Your poor pottery wheel sat sadly with a completely collapsed, unrecognizable blob still on it.
Handprints... some innocent, some very suggestive were everywhere.
You and Hoseok stared at the disaster in silence for three full seconds.
Then you turned to look at each other at the same time.
“…Zero regrets,” you both said at the exact same time, then immediately started laughing.
Hoseok shook his head, still chuckling. “We are never living this down.”
He suddenly bent down, scooped you up bridal-style without warning, making you squeak in surprise.
“Hoseok!” you laughed, arms automatically wrapping around his neck. “What are you doing?”
“You should rest,” he said firmly, carrying you toward the small couch in the corner of the studio. “You’ve been up all night because of me. I’ll clean this mess.”
He gently laid you down on the couch, tucking a cushion under your head.
You immediately tried to sit up. “No way. I’m helping you. This is my studio, and half this mess is my fault too—”
He shut you up with a soft, lingering kiss, his hand cupping your cheek. When he pulled back, he tucked a stray strand of damp hair behind your ear and smiled tenderly.
“No. You rest. It won’t take much time. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor,” you protested with a pout.
“CEO privileges. I can be whatever I want right now,” he teased, booping your nose. “Especially when my girlfriend looks this cute when she’s tired.”
You opened your mouth to argue again, but he was already walking away, grabbing cleaning supplies with dramatic flair.
It was already 4:17 AM.
By 5:30 AM, you had given up on resting and joined him anyway. The two of you worked side by side, wiping walls, mopping floors, and scrubbing handprints while constantly teasing each other.
“You missed a spot,” you pointed out, giggling as you flicked a tiny bit of dried clay at his bathrobe.
Hoseok narrowed his eyes playfully. “Keep that up and I’ll put you back on that couch by force.”
Around 6.30 AM, Hoseok finally pulled out his phone with a sigh. “I have an important client meeting at 9. I need to look like a respectable CEO again.”
He dialed quickly. “Minji? Yeah, it’s me. I need you to bring me a fresh suit, shirt, and tie to the studio... Yes, the pottery studio... And shoes. Don’t ask questions... Just come fast.”
Forty minutes later, Minji arrived carrying a garment bag and a small duffel.
The moment she stepped inside and saw the half-cleaned chaos, plus you and Hoseok, still in a bathrobe wiping the last of the clay off the table, her eyes widened comically.
“OMG… what the hell happened here?!” she exclaimed, mouth falling open.
You straightened up quickly, offering an awkward smile and a little wave with your cleaning cloth. “Hi… you must be Minji, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Before Minji could respond, Hoseok walked over casually, still wearing the slightly ridiculous bathrobe, and placed a hand on your lower back.
“Minji,” he said smoothly, without any warning, “this is Y/N. My girlfriend.”
Minji blinked once. Twice.
Hoseok continued with a mischievous grin, gesturing at the mess around them. “Now you can probably understand what the hell happened here.”
Minji made a choking sound, her face turning bright red as realization hit her. “Sir... I... oh my god—”
You swatted Hoseok’s shoulder, mortified.
“Hoseok! Don’t say it like that!” You turned to Minji immediately, bowing your head slightly. “I’m so sorry. He has no filter sometimes. Please ignore him.”
Minji waved her hands rapidly, still coughing a little.
“No, no, no need to apologize! Really! I’m… I’m actually really happy for you both.” She looked at Hoseok with genuine warmth.
“Especially you, sir. You’ve looked so much happier and relaxed these past few weeks. I kept wondering what changed. I thought it was really just the pottery classes… but now I know it wasn’t just pottery.”
Hoseok laughed softly, pulling you closer to his side. “Caught red-handed. Or should I say… clay-handed.”
You groaned, hiding your face against his arm in embarrassment. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Minji smiled brightly, clearly trying to hold back her own laughter. “Anyway, the client meeting is at 9 sharp. You should probably get changed soon, sir. I brought everything you asked for.”
She handed over the garment bag, then gave you a small, kind nod. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N. Officially.”
“Nice meeting you too, Minji,” you replied, still a little flushed.
As Minji turned to leave, she paused at the door and looked back with a playful glint in her eyes. “Try not to destroy the studio again like a crime scene.”
Hoseok grinned. “No promises.”
Once the door closed behind her, you turned and swatted his chest again.
“You’re impossible!” you laughed.
Hoseok caught your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles with a soft, mischievous smile. “But I’m your impossible now.”
Weeks had passed since that chaotic, clay-covered night that changed everything.
You and Hoseok were now officially dating, still keeping things relatively private, but no longer hiding from the people closest to you.
Today was a special day.
For the first time, Hoseok had invited you to visit him at Jung International headquarters.
You stood outside the towering glass building in the heart of Seoul’s business district, feeling a little nervous. The skyscraper looked impossibly grand and intimidating. You hesitated at the entrance, clutching your purse nervously.
They’re probably not going to let me in just like that, you thought. It’s a huge company. I’ll need Hoseok or Minji to come down and confirm.
Taking a deep breath, you walked toward the security gate.
To your surprise, both guards immediately straightened up and bowed respectfully the moment they saw you.
“Good afternoon, Miss Y/N,” one of them said with a warm smile. “Mr. Jung informed us you would be visiting today. Please, go right in. Have a pleasant day.”
You blinked, stunned. “Oh… thank you?”
They opened the gate without asking for ID or making a single call. You walked through feeling completely dazed.
When you reached the elegant marble reception desk on the ground floor, the receptionist, a polished young woman in a neat uniform — looked up and her face instantly lit up with excitement.
“Miss Y/N! You’re here!” she exclaimed happily, almost bouncing in her seat. “Mr. Jung told us to expect you. His office is on the 42nd floor. Private elevator on the right, it’s already programmed to take you straight up. No need to stop anywhere else.”
You stared at her, mouth slightly open. “You… you know who I am?”
“Of course!” she said with a bright grin. “We were all told to welcome you warmly. Mr. Jung was very specific. Would you like me to escort you up?”
“N-no, it’s okay,” you managed, still in shock. “Thank you so much.”
You stepped into the private elevator, heart fluttering the entire ride up.
When the doors opened on the 42nd floor, you stepped into a sleek, modern office wing that felt more like a luxury lounge than a workplace.
At the end of the corridor stood Hoseok’s office.
The door was slightly ajar.
You pushed it open gently and stepped inside.
Hoseok was standing by the floor-to-ceiling mirror windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the stunning city skyline.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, but the moment he heard you enter, he turned around with the brightest, softest smile you had ever seen.
“There you are,” he said warmly, crossing the room in a few strides and pulling you into his arms. “My favorite visitor.”
You melted into his hug, breathing in his familiar scent. “Hoseok… Everyone here knows me. The security guards bowed and let me in without any question. The receptionist greeted me like I was a VIP. How…?”
Hoseok chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Because you are a VIP, baby. I told them my girlfriend was coming today and that they should treat you like royalty. I wanted you to feel welcome from the second you arrived.”
He pulled back slightly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Did it make you nervous?”
“A little!” you admitted, laughing.
“I was ready to stand at the gate and wait for Minji to come rescue me!” you laughed, still a little flustered. “I thought they’d ask for ID or call someone. Instead, they bowed and smiled like I was the boss’s wife or something.”
Hoseok’s eyes sparkled with amusement and affection. “Well… you kind of are. At least in my heart.”
You swatted his chest playfully. “Stop being so smooth. My heart can’t handle it.”
He chuckled but you continued, “What if I wasn’t dressed nicely enough?”
He looked you up and down with an exaggerated appreciative gaze. “Baby, you could show up in clay-covered overalls and they’d still roll out the red carpet. Though… I wouldn’t mind seeing you in those overalls again. Brings back memories.”
You swatted his chest playfully. “Behave. This is your serious CEO office, not the studio.”
“Exactly,” he grinned, tugging you closer. “Which means I get to kiss my girlfriend in my serious CEO office.”
He leaned in and gave you a sweet, lingering kiss that made your toes curl.
When you finally pulled away, your eyes wandered around the elegant space... minimalist furniture, awards on the shelves, and that breathtaking view.
Then something in the corner of his large oak desk caught your attention.
Your breath hitched.
There, displayed proudly on a small wooden stand, was the shapeless vase from that unforgettable night, the collapsed, ridiculous blob that had formed when you two shared your first kiss months ago.
It had been beautifully glazed in soft matte white with delicate gold accents, turning the “ruined” piece into a charming, abstract little sculpture.
Tears instantly welled up in your eyes.
“Hoseok…” you whispered, walking closer. “You kept it? You actually had it fired and glazed?”
Hoseok came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Of course I kept it,” he said softly, voice full of warmth. “That night was the beginning of everything for me. When we kissed, when I realized I couldn’t stop thinking about you… that silly piece became “peace” for me, my favorite thing in this entire office.”
You turned in his arms, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I told you it was worthless! I said, ‘What will you even do with this shapeless disaster?’ And you still took it home that night.”
Hoseok smiled tenderly, gently wiping your tears with his thumbs.
“And I told you it wasn’t a disaster. It was perfect. Because it was made the night I started falling in love with you.” He kissed your forehead.
“Every time I feel stressed or overwhelmed, I look at it and remember you laughing, your smile, your voice. It reminds me of you. And it brings me a different kind of peace.”
You let out a watery laugh and hugged him tightly. “You’re going to make me cry all over your expensive suit.”
“Good,” he teased, rocking you gently. “Then I’ll have an excuse to take it off and change into something more comfortable… like that ridiculous bathrobe from the studio.”
You pulled back, giggling. “Oh no. Not the bathrobe again. You looked ridiculous in that thing.”
Hoseok gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “Excuse me? I looked incredibly sexy in that bathrobe. Minji also approved.”
“Minji was just being polite because you’re her boss!” you laughed, poking his chest. “I still have the photo I secretly took that morning. Blackmail material for life.”
His eyes widened in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me, Mr. CEO,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.
Hoseok suddenly scooped you up in his arms, making you squeal as he carried you toward the couch in the corner of his office.
“Put me down!” you protested through laughter.
“Nope. Girlfriend privileges revoked for threatening blackmail,” he declared, sitting down with you on his lap. He nuzzled into your neck, placing playful kisses there. “Now you have to stay here and keep me company while I pretend to work.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, smiling softly. “Fine. But only if you promise to take me out for dinner after your meetings. Somewhere normal, not too fancy.”
“Deal,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Though I reserve the right to get you a little messy with dessert.”
You laughed and rested your forehead against his. “I love you, you know that?”
Hoseok’s expression softened into something incredibly tender. “I love you too. More than anything.”
In the quiet luxury of his office, with the city sparkling below and your precious, shapeless memory sitting proudly on his desk, everything felt perfectly, beautifully right.
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? 🤭
"Welcome to my little fic corner! Here’s a organized collection of my fics. I’ll keep updating this as I post more!"
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Disclaimer: All works on this blog are purely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. They do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or relationships of the individuals mentioned.
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(last updated: [08/08/2026])
Latest Work: [Mission Failed Successfully]
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Guys... this Jung fucking Hoseok is messing with my brain so bad. Giving so many Cold Rich CEO POVs that I can't even put it into words. 😩
But let me share one random one -
POV: Your billionaire ex walks into the charity gala like he owns the entire damn city.
You know he wasn't invited. You checked the guest list yourself. Twice. Yet there he is—tailored suit, black sunglasses, watch catching the light like it costs more than most people’s houses.
Every head turns.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
He doesn't look for you. He doesn't acknowledge you. He doesn't even glance in your direction. To everyone else, he’s ice. Untouchable. Completely unaffected. The man who’s already moved on.
What they don't know is that he spent weeks convincing his father to secure him an invitation after hearing you might attend. What they don’t know is that he’s been replaying every second of your last night together for months. What they don’t know is that the second his eyes found you across the ballroom, his chest actually fucking ached.
And after months of missing you, the first thing he does when he finally sees you again?
Pretends he doesn't.
