kittenan2

[kittenan2]

Let's Interact!

Hey everyone! 💜 I wanted to ask you a quick question because I’ve been thinking about the kinds of fics I usually see and read on here!

There are usually two types of stories:

Smut with plot 🥰– there’s a story, feelings, angst or fluff, along with some spicy scenes.

Pure smut 🔥– just straight-up filth, no real storyline, just heat from the beginning to end.

I usually write smut with some plot/storyline because I like building emotions and tension... but I know a lot of people love short, dirty fics too!

So I wanted to ask:

Let me know in the replies or poll, so I can get a better idea of what you enjoy! 😉

I want to keep improving and experimenting with different styles based on what you guys love reading.

Thank you always for reading and supporting! 🥰💜

[kittenan2]

We Will See... Secretary Kim

Pairings:Yapper Secretary!Namjoon x Cold Doctor!Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, Soft Dom/Sub Dynamics, Forced Arrange Marriage(Arranged by you), Enemies(ish)-to-Lovers, Office Romance Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed sexual scenes, soft dom/sub/switch dynamics, Chaotic Wedding, Fluffy Smut, Domestic Softness, Mutual Pining, oral sex (both receiving), teasing, emotionally intense moments, forced marriage (arranged by you), alcohol mention

The ballroom sparkled like a jewellery store, with a huge chandelier hanging above that probably cost more than a house.

Glasses clinked, people laughed too loudly, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and champagne. You stood in a corner, holding a glass of sparkling water, wearing a sleek black dress that fit you perfectly. It screamed I’m here, but I’m not impressed. You scanned the room, bored out of your mind.

These parties were your dad’s thing—his way of showing off his business while calling it “networking.” You’d rather be home, reading patient files or eating ice cream straight from the tub.

And then you saw him.

Across the room, standing awkwardly by a wine bar, was a man who looked severely out of place. His black suit was decent, but clearly worn.

He was cute, though. Soft jawline. Full lips. Glasses perched on his nose like a finishing touch on a painting he didn’t know how to price. And those dimples—god, those dimples were trying to save him from the social hell he’d clearly been thrown into.

Too bad they weren’t working on the heiress currently pawing at his bicep.

She was some rich heiress—you didn’t care to remember her name—and she was all over him, touching his arm and slurring something about her yacht. He looked trapped, smiling nervously and nodding while she babbled on about her yacht and her father’s new casino in Macau.

You took another sip of your water. Pathetic.

Your heels clicked as you crossed the floor, your face as cold as ever. The heiress barely noticed you approaching—until your voice sliced through the air like a scalpel.

“Back off, princess,” you said coolly, “before you end up in the champagne fountain.”

The woman blinked at you, confusion battling with intoxication. “Excuse me—?”

“I said,” you added, stepping in beside the guy and placing a gentle but very possessive hand on his chest, “Trust me, it’s not as fun as it sounds.”

The guy made a startled noise. The heiress frowned, swaying slightly. “Ugh, whatever,” she muttered, stumbling away with her drink sloshing like a bad life choice.

You dropped your hand and looked up at the guy. He was blinking rapidly, mouth parted in surprise.

“Thanks,” he said, then in one breathless stream, “She said something about taking me on her yacht and introducing me to her Maltese and I—look, I’m scared of open water and I don’t even know how to swim that well, plus boats make me seasick.”

“And did you know this chandelier is from Prague? Which honestly is excessive, like—who needs that much crystal above their heads? What if it falls? Everyone here is acting like that thing isn’t one aggressive violin solo away from homicide—oh god, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

You tilted your head, looking at him. He was cute—messy dark hair, glasses slipping down his nose, and those dimples that wouldn’t quit.

But wow, he talked a lot. His words just kept coming, like he was trying to fill the quiet you left behind. He was interesting. Annoying. Cute.

“…You talk too much,” you said flatly.

His jaw clicked shut.

Your lips curved—just slightly—into the faintest smirk. You turned and walked away without another word, your dress sweeping behind you like the final stroke of a perfect mic drop.

He just stood there, blinking after you, still holding his untouched wine glass.

“…Wait, what’s your name?” he called, voice rising over the string quartet’s latest dramatic swell.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t turn. You simply melted into the glittering crowd, untouchable, unbothered, unforgettable.

Namjoon stood there in a daze, hand still awkwardly mid-air like he meant to offer it to you but forgot how hands work.

He was pretty sure his heart had done a weird jump thing. Like a hiccup. Or a seizure.

“Who was that?” one of the bartender asked, passing him a new glass.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon whispered, wide-eyed. “But I think I’m in danger.”

The next time Namjoon saw you, he nearly dropped his coffee mug. He’d been called to your father’s office, expecting a boring talk about schedules or contracts.

Instead, he walked in to find you perched on the edge of your father’s big wooden desk, legs crossed, sipping a black coffee like you owned the room. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and that same smirk from the party danced across your lips.

“You must be the secretary with opinions about chandeliers,” you said, your voice dry as you raised your cup in a mock toast.

Namjoon choked on air, his glasses fogging up a bit as he tried to figure out what was happening. “I—uh—what?”

Your father, a big guy with a laugh that could shake walls, chuckled from behind his desk. “Namjoon, meet my daughter. She’s... a handful.”

Namjoon’s brain stopped working. Daughter? The woman who’d saved him from a drunk heiress, who’d looked at him like he was an interesting puzzle, was his boss’s daughter?

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, looking like a confused fish.

You raised an eyebrow, still poker face, clearly enjoying his panic. “Close your mouth, Secretary Kim. You’ll catch flies.”

He snapped his jaw shut, his ears turning red. “I—I didn’t know. I mean, I’m sorry if I said anything weird at the party. I just—chandeliers, you know? They’re... shiny.”

Your father laughed again, clapping Namjoon on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to her. She’s cold as ice, but she’s got a good heart. Right, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee. “Don’t start again, Dad.”

The meeting was about a potential partnership between your father’s company and the hospital where you worked as a doctor.

They were discussing funding for a new research wing, and you were there to provide input on the medical side, scribbling notes about equipment costs and staffing needs.

Namjoon tried to focus on your father’s words, but his eyes kept drifting to you. You were writing furiously, your expression unreadable, but every now and then, you’d glance at him, and he’d feel like he was being studied. It was scary. It was... kind of exciting?

Later that week, your father called you into his office for one of his usual “talks.” You slumped into the chair across from him, already bracing for the lecture, but he had a playful glint in his eye.

“Okay, kiddo,” he started, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

“You’re 28, and I’m not getting any younger. I want to have grandkids someday, you know? Time to find a nice guy.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “Dad, I’m fine. Love’s a scam, and I’m too busy saving lives.”

He chuckled, wagging a finger at you. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that. You’re my brilliant, beautiful daughter, but you’re living like a grumpy cat lady. I’ve got a list of guys—good ones, not just my golf buddies’ boring sons. Pick one, or I’ll start playing matchmaker.”

You smirked, leaning forward. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he said, mimicking your smirk. “I’ve got a guy in mind already. He’s got a yacht.”

You gagged dramatically. “Gross. I’d rather marry a random stranger.”

He laughed, throwing his hands up. “Fine, find someone by the end of the month, or I’m setting you up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “You’re the worst, Dad.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” He turned to Namjoon, who’d been quietly sorting files in the corner, trying to blend into the wallpaper. “Namjoon! Back me up here. Tell her dating’s great!”

Namjoon froze, his eyes darting between you and your father. “Uh... I... dating is... nice?”

You shot him a look that could’ve frozen a volcano, but your lips twitched with amusement. “Wow, Secretary Kim. Thanks for advice.”

That afternoon, you cornered Namjoon in the break room. He was heating up a sad container of noodles, his tie a bit crooked, muttering to himself about work. You leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“Let’s get married,” you said, like you were asking him to grab you a coffee.

Namjoon dropped his noodles. The container hit the floor, splashing sauce on his shoes. “What?”

You didn’t even blink, your expression as cold as ice.

“You heard me. My dad’s on my case about finding a boyfriend, or he’ll set me up with some yacht-owning loser. I’d rather marry you. You’re cute, and you’re the only one who said ‘dating is nice’ in front of him, so this is your fault.”

Namjoon’s face turned bright red, his glasses slipping down his nose. “I—I—I’m your father’s secretary! I can’t just—marry you! And I didn’t mean to—dating is just—argh!”

You shrugged, sipping your coffee. “We’ll see.”

He stared at you, his mouth open, as you went out of the room, your smirk practically a weapon.

A week later, you struck again. Namjoon was in the company break room, nervously heating up another batch of noodles (someone needed to teach this man to cook).

You walked in, fresh from a hospital shift, still in your scrubs but looking like you’d stepped out of a drama. He froze, clutching his chopsticks like they’d protect him.

“Hey, Secretary Kim,” you said, your voice smooth and teasing. “Still thinking about my proposal?”

“Y-Yes? I mean, no!” he stammered, his glasses slipping further. “You’re not serious, right?”

You leaned against the counter, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Marry me. It’ll save me from my dad’s terrible taste in men. Plus, I bet you’d look cute in a tux.”

He choked, coughing as a noodle went down the wrong way. “WHAT?! No! I mean, no offense, you’re cool and beautiful and kind of scary, but no??? I’m not falling for this!”

You smirked, sipping your coffee. “We’ll see, noodle boy.”

Namjoon groaned, his face burning. “Noodle boy? Really?”

You winked. “It’s cute. Like you.” You left him standing there, muttering to himself about noodles and terrifying heiresses.

Later that night, he googled “can you accidentally agree to marriage in Korea by just existing near a rich heiress?” The internet was no help.

Next threat came few days later in elevator.

The elevator was a bad idea.

Namjoon should’ve taken the stairs, but he was late for a meeting, and you were already there, looking like a spy in a tailored blazer. He pressed the “close” button a dozen times, his hands shaking.

“I’ve been thinking about your... joke,” he said, his voice high-pitched. “You’re not serious about the marriage thing, right? Because marriage is a big deal, and you’re way out of my league, and—oh god, why am I still talking?”

You turned to him, your eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re saying you won’t marry me?”

He laughed nervously, adjusting his glasses. “No! Haha! I mean, no.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and teasing. “We’ll see, Secretary Kim. I’m very persuasive.”

Namjoon, in a panic, hit the emergency stop button, then froze when the elevator jolted to a halt. You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Uh... oops?” he said, his ears glowing red.

You leaned in, smirking. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered. Makes me want to marry you even more.”

He squeaked, pressing himself against the wall. “Please don’t!”

The third time was at another company party. You were there, looking like a goddess in a deep blue dress, winking at him from across the room as he tried to balance a tray of snacks. He spilled wine all over his shirt, his friends laughing as he muttered, “I think I’m getting married against my will.”

His friend Hoseok clapped him on the back. “To that scary hot heiress? Lucky you!”

Namjoon groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “She keeps saying ‘we’ll see’ like it’s a threat! And she called me noodle boy!”

Hoseok cackled. “Noodle boy? Oh, you’re so married.”

Namjoon stood at the altar clutching the bouquet like it had just whispered a threat.

Clad in a painfully well-fitted tux that he may or may not have been bribed into trying on with the promise of free pastries.

His glasses were fogged. His palms were sweating. His brain had long since left the building.

Namjoon was trying to calm his spiraling thoughts, but it wasn’t going well.

Breathe, Kim Namjoon. You’re smart. Logical. You don’t get manipulated by tall women in thousand-dollar heels with the emotional range of a paperclip and the eyes of a panther.

Wait.

His brain suddenly screeched to a halt.

“Did I… did I actually agree to this because she promised me free pastries?”

His inner voice answered way too quickly: Yes. Yes, you did.

“AND THEY WERE THE STRAWBERRY MOCHI CREAM ONES—MY WEAKNESS.”

He groaned under his breath, adjusting his glasses and muttering, “How am I this soft? How did I trade my freedom for a box of flaky, strawberry-filled lies? She even knew they were my favorite. She’s a tactical genius. A villainess in heels. I’m just a pastry-hungry peasant boy.”

How did I get here?

Now here he was, in front of 200 guests—half of them your dad’s business partners, half of them probably just here for the cake.

Your father, seated proudly in the front row with a silk handkerchief, sniffled into his champagne and whispered, “That’s my baby. She threatened him just like her mother threatened me.”

Namjoon’s gaze flicked across the crowd. Yoongi and Hoseok were in the back row. Yoongi looked like he was at a funeral. Hoseok was recording everything on his phone and whispering a live commentary.

“She really did it,” Hoseok whispered, eyes gleaming. “Is it legal?”

“She kidnapped him,” Yoongi replied flatly. “This is a hostage situation with floral arrangements.”

“She looks so hot doing it though—”

“Shut up, Hoseok.”

Namjoon’s eyes finally landed on you—and that’s when everything short-circuited.

You were walking toward him, designer gown cascading behind you like a fog of intimidation and expensive fabric. You weren’t smiling. Of course not. You were composed. Cold. Gorgeous. Looking like you were about to sell him into marriage and then short a billion-dollar stock.

He blinked rapidly. Did she just wink?

You did. He almost dropped the bouquet. She winked. She’s doing the “evil queen wink.”

Namjoon turned to the officiant. “I think I’m in the wrong venue.” The officiant chuckled. “No, you’re just in love.” “No, I’m being blackmailed,” Namjoon muttered to himself.

The ceremony started. You stood across from him, regal and composed, holding your vows like they were divorce papers you hadn’t decided to file yet. You cleared your throat.

“I vow…” Namjoon braced. “…to tolerate you yapping.” Rude. He pouted.

Namjoon blinked at you, caught off guard. You were being nice… in your own cold, "I might still kill you" kind of way.

Then it was his turn.

He panicked.

“I promise to… be, um… emotionally available? Even though I’m not sure how we got here. I think there was some light manipulation. Possibly blackmail. I’m still not convinced I’m not in a fever dream?”

You tilted your head slightly, as if debating whether to let that one slide.

“I—I mean, marriage is like… a well-organized filing system, right?” he stammered. “Also, your dad said I was perfect and threatened to disown me if I run away, so… yeah?”

You raised one elegant brow.

He cleared his throat and added, softer now, “You terrify me. But you also look hot doing that…” He winced. “That sounded better in my head.”

You blinked. Then smirked.

The officiant didn’t even ask. He just said, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Namjoon panicked again. “Wait, we didn’t—did we say ‘I do’? I didn’t hear it—was there a form?!” You grabbed his tie, pulled him down, and kissed him. Right on the lips. In front of the crowd. The cameras. His ancestors.

The bouquet hit the floor with a defeated thud. Hoseok cheered. Yoongi didn’t blink. Your father sobbed into his champagne, “Just like her mother.”

When you pulled back, Namjoon was redder than the bouquet roses.

“I—uh—do,” he wheezed. You smiled softly, for just a second, not even noticieble. “Took you long enough.”

Namjoon stood awkwardly in your shared apartment on your wedding night, still fully suited like he’d forgotten how clothes worked. His ears were practically on fire as he clutched a glass of water like it would protect his virtue.

“I just want to make it clear,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “don’t expect anything from this marriage, okay? This was... a situation. An emergency arrangement. A mutual understanding.”

You, reclined on the couch in a silk robe, hair messy and legs crossed like a queen waiting for someone to fan her with palm leaves, raised an eyebrow. “Noted, noodle boy.”

He blinked. “Noodle b—what—Stop calling me that.”

You turned back to your phone, completely unbothered. He stared a moment longer, then stomped off to the guest room muttering, “What did I sign up for?”

But Namjoon was the softest liar. He went full cinnamon-roll husband mode, doing the sweetest things like:

Organizing your closet by color and season, knowing your OCD would love the neat rows of blazers and scrubs. He even labeled the shelves with cute little tags that said things like “Scary Doctor Outfits” and “Ice Queen Essentials.”

Making your coffee every morning—black, one sugar, hot enough to burn a hole through the table. He’d hand it to you with a shy smile, muttering, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Filling your car’s gas tank without being asked, leaving a sticky note on the dashboard that said, “Drive safe, meanie.”

Driving you to the hospital every day, waiting until you were inside before leaving, sometimes waving like an overexcited puppy. Once, he accidentally honked the horn while trying to adjust his glasses, startling a group of nurses.

The kicker? Every lunchbox he packed had tiny kimbap with heart-shaped carrots. HEARTS. SHAPED. BY. HAND.

You’d open it, smirk, and mutter, “This is barely edible.”

He’d gasp dramatically. “I SLAVED OVER THOSE CARROTS. You know how hard it is to cut the carrots.”

You’d reach across the table and pat his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re dramatic.”

Namjoon.exe rebooted with hearts in his eyes.

One morning, you were in a rush, bolting out the door in a flurry of scrubs and coffee, forgetting a patient file you’d been studying at home.

Namjoon found it on the kitchen counter, next to your half-eaten toast and a smudge of strawberry jam. He cursed under his breath, clutching the file like it was a top-secret mission. “She’s gonna murder someone if she doesn’t have this..”

He drove to the hospital like he was auditioning for an action movie, dodging traffic and muttering pep talks to himself.

When he arrived, he spotted you in the hallway, deep in conversation with Kim Seokjin, the hospital’s unfairly handsome neurosurgeon. Seokjin was leaning close, his hand brushing your arm as he pointed at a chart, laughing at something you said.

Namjoon’s vision went red, his inner romantic jealous hero taking over. He marched over, grabbing your wrist with a dramatic flourish that would’ve made a K-drama director proud.

“Sweetheart,” he said, loud enough to make nearby nurses jump, “you forgot your super-important file at home. Lucky for you, your husband saved the day.”

Seokjin blinked.

You blinked, your face blank but your eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you okay? You’re sweating like you ran a marathon.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a possessive but still adorable growl. “You’re my wife. I’m jealous, okay? That guy’s too handsome to be trusted.”

For the first time, a real smile broke across your face, soft and a little shy, like the sun peeking through clouds, that stayed for more than one second. “You said not to expect anything, noodle boy. But I knew you didn’t mean it.”

His voice cracked. “I panicked. You were standing next to a Disney prince with a stethoscope.”

Seokjin, sensing he was third-wheeling a rom-com climax, raised his hands and backed away. “I’ll... uh, check on my patients. You two are cute.”

Namjoon’s ears were practically glowing. “I’m fine,” he muttered, shoving the file into your hands, then adjusting his glasses to hide his embarrassment. “Just... don’t flirt with hot doctors, okay?”

You tilted your head, your smile growing. “No promises. But you’re cuter when you’re jealous.”

He groaned, covering his face. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You patted his arm, smirking. “Good thing I’m a doctor, then.”

That night, the air in your apartment was thick with unspoken tension, a delicious electricity that made your skin hum.

Namjoon sat on a bed, glasses low on his nose, buried in a book titled How to Love Cold People Without Melting. It would've been adorable if your thighs weren’t already clenching just from watching his mouth shape each word.

You stood there in the doorway, arms folded, heart beating in a rhythm you didn’t recognize. You weren’t a woman who swooned—but hell if this man, this sweet idiot who made your coffee perfect every morning, didn’t make you burn in silence.

You padded over silently and shoved the book out of his hands. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

He blinked up at you, lips parted slightly. “Uh—?”

You didn’t answer.

You pushed him flat onto the bed, straddling him with a slow, possessive grace. His glasses slipped crooked on his face, his hands instinctively landing on your thighs before jerking back like he’d touched fire.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked, small and unsure. “What are you—?”

“Namjoon,” you purred, hands pinning his wrists above his head. “Wanna make this marriage… real?”

His pupils dilated like you’d injected something straight into his bloodstream.

“I—uh—what do you mean by real?”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a ghost of a kiss. “You know exactly what I mean, noodle boy.”

You kissed him then—hard, wet, no mercy. Tongue sliding against his with filthy, open-mouth hunger. His lips were so soft, already swollen as you bit into his lower one, dragging it between your teeth until he whimpered into your mouth.

You ground against him slowly, deliberately, letting him feel the heat radiating from you. He groaned, hips twitching under you, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re evil,” he breathed, voice ragged. “Fucking evil.”

“And you love it.”

He nodded like he was hypnotized. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The kiss grew hungrier, messier, your lips moving against his with a pace that made your head spin. You nipped at his lower lip, earning a soft whimper that sent a thrill through you.

“You’re too cute when you make those noises,” you murmured against his mouth, pulling back to see his flushed face.

“I’m not cute,” he protested, his voice breathy. “I’m... manly. Very manly.”

“Sure, noodle boy,” you said, smirking as you kissed him again, your hands tangling in his hair.

You yanked off his shirt, tossing it over your shoulder like it offended you. Your nails scraped down his chest, leaving faint red marks that had him gasping.

His fingers tightened in the sheets as you kissed down his throat—nipping, sucking, leaving purple bruises along the side of his neck with slow, claiming pleasure. “You’re mine,” you whispered against his pulse, licking over the bite. “Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” he gasped.

“Good boy.”

He whined. Actually whined. You could feel how hard he was through his boxers, the tip already dark and leaking, desperate.

You kissed him again, your mouths crashing. It was messy—tongues battling, teeth clashing, lips swollen and spit-slick. You let out a breathy moan into the kiss and he lost it, rutting up into you like he couldn't help it.

“Y/N, please…” His voice cracked, needy, almost fucked out already.

You slid down, slowly licking and kissing your way down his chest, teeth grazing his abs. When you reached the waistband of his boxers, you looked up.

“Don’t cum until I tell you to,” you warned.

He choked on air. “Fuck—o-okay—yes, ma’am.”

You pulled him out, his cock flushed and twitching in your grip. You licked the tip slowly, letting your spit drip down the shaft, watching him fall apart.

Then you took him fully into your mouth, deep and slow, your throat relaxing around him like a promise.

“Shit—oh my God,” Namjoon groaned, fisting the sheets. His thighs trembled as your head bobbed, your tongue swirling, lips stretched wide and obscene. You moaned around him just to hear the noise he made—high and broken and beautiful.

“Y/N—I’m gonna—I need to—fuck—”

You pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting you to his cock.

“Not yet,” you smirked. “You don’t get to cum until I say.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he whimpered.

You climbed back up, kissed him hard—making him taste himself on your tongue—and stripped out of your clothes slowly. His eyes never left you. His mouth parted in pure awe.

“You’re unreal,” he breathed, dragging his hands over your bare thighs like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You gripped his hair and shoved his face between your thighs.

“Make me cum and I’ll let you fuck me.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

Namjoon’s tongue was tentative at first, soft flicks and kisses—but your gasps spurred him on. He licked harder, deeper, his hands gripping your ass as he pulled you closer, burying himself in your heat. His moans vibrated through your core, your thighs tightening around his head.

You pulled his hair as your hips rolled against his mouth. “Fuck, yes—don’t stop, baby.”

He didn’t. He ate you like he owed you orgasms, tongue and lips relentless, eyes glazed with desperation.

You came hard on his mouth, hips bucking, body arching as you cried out his name.

And still—he licked until you were overstimulated and panting.

When you pushed him back, he looked wrecked. Lips swollen, chin soaked.

“Come here,” you whispered, climbing over him again.

You straddled his lap, teasing him with your soaked entrance. His hands trembled as he held your waist.

“Please,” he begged. “Please let me inside.”

You sank down slow, inch by inch, watching his face crumble into bliss. His head fell back, throat tight with a groan.

“You’re tight—shit—you feel so fucking good—”

You started riding him, slow at first, grinding your hips with control. His hands clung to you like a lifeline, like he was scared you’d vanish.

“Namjoon…” you moaned, rolling your hips deeper. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me.”

“Y/N—please—faster—I’m gonna lose it—”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.

“Be a good boy and make me cum again first.”

He came with a strangled cry the moment you clenched around him.

You gasped as you followed, the pleasure crashing over you in waves, your hips stuttering as you moaned into his mouth.

You collapsed on his chest, both of you sweaty, shaking, and utterly ruined.

He was still inside you, cock twitching weakly, hands stroking your back.

“You’re gonna have to marry me again after that,” he mumbled, wrecked and smiling.

You kissed his jaw, then his lips.

“We’ll see,” you whispered, smirking.

The room was still thick with the heat of Round One. Sweat-slick skin, bitten lips, trembling thighs—you lay half-sprawled across Namjoon’s chest, heartbeat slowly returning to normal as your fingers traced lazy circles over his ribs.

But the man beneath you? Was still hard.

Still twitching inside you.

Still very much not done.

You let out a soft breath, about to shift off him, when his arm locked around your waist and flipped you in one swift move. You landed on your back, startled, wide-eyed, staring up at your previously flustered husband.

His hair was a mess. His lips were red and wet. His chest heaved as he hovered over you, pupils blown wide with want. And oh—those glasses? Gone. Just dark, focused Namjoon.

“You said I was cute,” he growled, voice thick and low as he kissed your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse. “Said I was your good boy. But now…” His hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “…I wanna see how good you are at taking what you give.”

Your breath hitched. Heat exploded low in your belly.

“Namjoon—”

“Shh,” he muttered, biting your collarbone hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, sweetheart. No teasing. No smirking. Just you. Under me. Dripping. Begging.”

He reached down and shoved two fingers into you without warning—your soaked pussy greedily taking them with a wet squelch that made both of you moan.

“Still so wet for me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “God, you like it when I take control, huh? You wanna be ruined by the man you married out of spite?”

You whimpered, hips grinding down against his hand. “Y-Yes…”

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“Yes, fuck, yes—Namjoon please.”

“That’s better.”

He pulled his fingers out and dragged them up your stomach, watching the slick shine in the dim light. Then—he pushed the wet fingers past your lips.

“Suck.”

You obeyed instantly, moaning around them, eyes fluttering shut as you tasted yourself. Namjoon’s jaw flexed. His cock twitched against your thigh.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said, voice like velvet-wrapped sin. “Hard. And you’re not gonna run. Got it?”

You nodded, throat dry, lips parted. “Yes—please—I want it.”

He aligned himself at your entrance and slid in all at once—rough, deep, making you arch up with a cry. His hands grabbed your thighs, pushing them up, open, exposed.

He pulled out slowly, just the tip inside, then slammed back in so hard the bed creaked.

“Shit,” you cried out, nails digging into his arms.

“That’s right,” he grunted, hips snapping in a brutal rhythm. “You take it so well. All that attitude—where’s that cold little smirk now, baby?”

You whined, your voice breaking. “F-Fuck—so good—Namjoon—”

He slapped your thigh lightly. “What did I say about calling me cute?”

He gritted his teeth and thrust deeper, angling up until he hit that spot that made your legs shake. “This is what ‘cute’ gets you.”

Every thrust was filthy, punishing, perfect. Your moans echoed in the room, high and needy, body trembling as he fucked you into the mattress.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head again.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple. “All tied up and spread for your secretary husband?”

You nodded wildly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Say it,” he demanded, rolling his hips deeper. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Y-Yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Namjoon—fuck—please—I’m gonna—”

He kissed you hard and filthy, tongues clashing, teeth dragging across your lips as he pushed you over the edge with one final thrust.

You came with a scream, your body seizing under his, muscles clenching so hard around him he nearly came too.

He pulled out just before he could finish, panting hard.

“Turn over. Ass up.”

You blinked, still dazed, but obeyed.

“You think I’m done?” he muttered. “You made me lose my mind. Now I’m gonna make you forget your name.”

He spread your legs, dragging his cock through your folds before thrusting in again from behind, this time deeper, rougher. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could kiss your throat.

Your screams were muffled into the pillow. He pounded into you, cock so thick, so deep, you felt him everywhere. He reached around to rub your clit again, not even letting you recover.

“C’mon,” he rasped. “Give me another one. Be a good girl.”

And like a good girl—you did.

You came again, shaking, sobbing, back arching as the pleasure ripped through you.

Namjoon groaned your name, pulled out, and jerked himself quickly before painting your back and ass with thick ropes of cum, his hips stuttering as he collapsed over you.

You both lay there, tangled, sweaty, your breaths mixing in the silence.

He nuzzled against your shoulder, still dazed. “Holy shit…”

You giggled. “Still think you’re more cute!!”

He slapped your ass playfully. “Shut up.”

You turned to look at him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“I might need a Round Three.”

He groaned into your neck. “You’ll kill me, woman.”

You smirked. “Don't worry I am Doctor.”

Life with Namjoon settled into a strange, beautiful rhythm. He bragged about you to your child patients while handing them Marvel and Anime stickers, his eyes lighting up as he told them, “My wife is scary but brilliant. She’s the best doctor you’ll ever meet.”

The apartment was cozy, dimly lit with the warm glow of fairy lights strung along the curtain rod like you were too romantic to admit, and too lazy to take them down after your birthday.

You were curled up on the couch like a burrito in one of Namjoon’s oversized hoodies, legs tucked under you, a pint of ice cream in your lap. Namjoon was sprawled beside you, wearing his “husband cardigan” and gesturing wildly at the TV screen.

“I’m just saying,” he ranted, mouth full of stolen spoonfuls, “if the male lead had common sense, he would’ve known she was his long-lost childhood friend! I mean, how many people own that exact bunny keychain??”

You let your head drop against his thigh with a dramatic sigh. “You are far too emotionally invested in this drama.”

He sniffed, scooping more ice cream. “I’m just saying it’s bad writing.”

You smirked and leaned up to kiss his cheek mid-rant. It was soft. Quick. A little smug.

Namjoon froze.

“...What was that for?” he whispered, blinking like you’d just handed him a Nobel Peace Prize.

You shrugged, wiping ice cream off the corner of his lip with your thumb. “You looked cute. Like an angry literature professor.”

He blinked. And blinked again. Then his dimples made a slow, lovesick appearance like they were clocking in for duty.

“Sooooo...” he dragged out the word with a shit-eating grin, “do you love me?”

You stretched like a cat, placed the ice cream tub on the coffee table, and smirked. “We’ll see.”

He let out a scandalized, full-body gasp and dramatically flopped back on the couch like a man wounded in battle. “RUDE.”

“Adorable,” you corrected, climbing over him like a smug little gremlin and kissing his lips, slow and soft and sweet enough to make his brain melt.

“You always do that,” he mumbled against your mouth. “Kiss me to shut me up.”

“It works, doesn’t it?” you purred.

He narrowed his eyes, dimples threatening to take over again. “You’re impossible.”

You curled up on his chest, tugging his cardigan sleeve over your fingers like a menace. “But I married you.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping around you, dropping a kiss to your forehead. “Fair point.”

You both returned your attention to the terrible drama on screen. You took another bite of ice cream and wordlessly handed him the spoon.

He took it, then yapped again about how the second lead deserves rights and how justice for that dog subplot was non-negotiable.

You leaned over and kissed him again, just to shut him up.

“Do you ever plan to say it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Say what?” you murmured, pretending not to know.

“That you love me.”

You smiled, your heart full. “Eventually.”

He groaned, pulling you closer. “You’re impossible.”

And in that moment—soft, ridiculous, wrapped in sweater sleeves and spoon-sharing—you knew something you’d never say out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

“We’ll see.” was just your way of saying I love you.

A/n: I can listen to yapper Namjoon whole day. He is such a cutie.😭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Love on Call

Pairing: Doctor!Seokjin x New Intern!Reader Genre: Rom-Com | Fluff | Smut | Workplace Romance Tropes: One Night Stand, He Remembers/She Doesn’t, Forced Proximity, Medical Setting, Slow-Burn Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed and raw smut, workplace romance, mild angst, alcohol use, power dynamics (boss/intern), kinks (praise, light dominance, rough and deep intimacy), emotional depiction of patient death.

The neon glow of the bar buzzed against your skin, the air heavy with the scent of spilled beer and cheap perfume.

Graduation day was supposed to be your triumph, a glittering moment of celebration with your boyfriend of three years by your side.

Instead, you stood outside the bar, your phone still warm from the call that shattered your world.

“I’m leaving for my Ph.D. abroad,” he’d said, his voice flat. “This… us… Long Distance... it’s not gonna work.”

Three years, gone in a single sentence. He didn’t even have the guts to face you. The cheers of your classmates faded into a dull hum, and all you could feel was the hollow ache in your chest, the weight of betrayal sinking like a stone.

So, you did what any heartbroken 25-year-old would do: you stormed into the nearest bar, ordered a raspberry-pink cocktail that tasted like regret, and then another, and another, until the edges of your pain blurred into something softer, something reckless.

That’s when he walked in.

Kim Seokjin, a man in early 30s. Tall. Broad-shouldered.

He looked like trouble wrapped in a blazer, eyes sharp but kind, lips curved into something cocky yet curious. His dark hair was a little messy—like he'd run his hands through it between saving lives.

And when his gaze landed on you?

It felt like gravity shifted. Like something inside you remembered how to want again.

He sat next to you. Close. His knee brushed yours under the bar.

“Rough night?” he asked, sliding onto the stool beside you, his voice smooth as the whiskey in his glass, his knee brushing yours under the bar.

You laughed, too loud, the alcohol loosening your tongue and your inhibitions. “Rough? Try catastrophic. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—dumped me on my graduation day. Said he’s off to Europe for his Ph.D. Who the hell does that?”

Seokjin’s eyebrow arched. His smile faded. His jaw flexed.

“A coward, that’s who. A spineless idiot who doesn’t know what he’s throwing away.”

His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, lingering on the curve of your neck, the sequins catching the light. “A girl like you? He’s gonna regret that for the rest of his life.”

You snorted, sipping your drink, your head spinning from the alcohol and the heat in his gaze. “Yeah? And what’s a guy like you doing here, looking like you just stepped out of a cologne ad?”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “I'm a doctor. Just finished a 12-hour shift. Thought I’d treat myself to a drink before I crash. But then I saw you, and…” He paused, his eyes locking onto yours, dark and intense. “I’m not tired anymore.”

The banter flowed like the drinks, sharper, flirtier, your heartbreak dissolving with every laugh he coaxed from you.

He was witty, charming, and dangerously attentive, his fingers brushing yours when he reached for his glass, his thigh pressing against yours under the bar. By the fourth cocktail, you were both drunk, leaning into each other, the space between you nonexistent.

“So, what’s a freshly graduated like you gonna do now?” he asked, his voice dropping low, his lips so close you could feel his breath.

You grinned, all tipsy and the way his eyes devoured you. “I don’t know, Doc,” you teased, your voice slurring slightly as you poked his chest. “Maybe something stupid. Something… unforgettable. My ex should go to hell, right?”

His eyes darkened, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he leaned closer. “Oh, princess, you have no idea how much I’d love to help you with that.”

Before you knew it, you were stumbling out of the bar, his arm around your waist, your lips crashing into his in the back of a cab.

The cab ride to the hotel was a blur of heat and motion and breathless kisses that tasted like tears and tequila.

Your giggles filled the car like static, your fingers twisted in his hair.

“You’re trouble,” you whispered against his neck.

“So are you,” he breathed, his hands on your thighs. “But fuck, I like trouble.”

He pressed you against the wall, his lips frantic, like he had to consume every sound you made before it disappeared. Your dress slipped off your shoulders. His fingers fumbled, impatient, worshipful, undoing you piece by piece.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he growled. “And that idiot? He’ll spend the rest of his life regretting you.”

You moaned, your head thrown back, your fingers clawing at his shirt, buttons popping as you tore it open.

“Fuck him,” you slurred, your voice thick with alcohol and lust, your hands roaming his chest, nails scraping his skin. “Fuck that prick. You’re so much better, Doc—shit, so much better.”

He laughed, low and filthy, lifting you roughly and tossing you onto the bed, his eyes dark with hunger as he stripped you bare, your bra and panties gone in seconds.

“Damn right I am,” he growled, his lips trailing fire down your body, nipping at your collarbone, sucking hard on your nipples until you were writhing beneath him.

Your chest heaved. “I want to forget him.”

“Then let me help,” he whispered, kissing down your neck like a prayer.

And then he dropped to his knees.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget his name, princess.”

His mouth found your core, his tongue relentless, lapping at you like a man starved, his fingers digging into your thighs as he spread you wide.

You called him “Doc” again, your voice a drunken, desperate moan, your legs trembling around his head as he sucked your clit, his tongue flicking with ruthless precision.

“Scream for me,” he growled against you, his voice muffled, his fingers plunging into you, curling hard and fast. “Let the whole fucking hotel know who’s making you feel this good.”

“Doc—fuck, Doc!” you cried, your hands fisting the sheets, your body bucking as he pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you, leaving you shaking and gasping.

You were still panting when you yanked him up, your drunken giggles spilling out as you fumbled with his belt, freeing his cock—hard, thick, and leaking.

“Let’s call this my graduation gift.” you slurred, grinning wickedly as you took him in your mouth, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling, your giggles vibrating against him as he groaned your name.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, his hands tangling in your hair, his hips jerking as you took him deep, gagging slightly but pushing through, your eyes watering as you looked up at him. “You’re gonna fucking kill me, princess.”

He pulled you off with a rough tug, flipping you onto your stomach and yanking your hips up, his cock teasing your entrance. “You want this?” he growled, his voice raw, his hand smacking your ass lightly, making you moan. “Beg for it, baby. Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Fuck me, Doc,” you gasped, your voice needy, your hips pushing back against him. He slapped the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“Fuck me hard. Make me forget that bastard. I’m done being sweet. Ruin me instead.”

He didn’t hold back, thrusting into you with a single, brutal thrust that made you scream, his cock filling you so completely you could barely breathe.

“So fucking tight,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts rough and relentless, the bed creaking under the force.

“You’re mine tonight, princess. He was a fucking fool to let you go. I’d fuck you every night if I could.”

“I always wanted a doctor… you know, for stress relief.” You moaned.

You clung to the sheets, your moans loud and shameless, each thrust driving you higher, his filthy praises making your head spin. “Harder Doc... Fuck yes,” you gasped, and he obliged, fucking you so deep you felt him everywhere, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles that had you seeing stars.

“Guess I needed a real man to remind me what good feels like.”

He made you come again, your body convulsing, your walls clenching around him as you screamed louder, and he followed, his release hot and messy inside you, his groans raw as he held you tight.

You collapsed together, tangled in the sheets, your body warm and sated, your drunken mind empty of everything but him.

The next morning, you woke with a pounding headache and a body that ached in places you didn’t know could ache.

Your thighs burned with each step, sore from how tightly you’d wrapped them around him—how he’d spread you open like a secret meant only for him.

Your hips throbbed, bruised where his fingers had gripped too hard, and your core pulsed with a dull, sweet ache that screamed how deeply he’d filled you.

Your neck and chest was wearing a necklace of love bites and, marks that made you blush just looking at them.

You were a mess—hair tangled, makeup smeared, dress crumpled like last night’s memory on the hotel floor. Panic flared in your chest as your gaze flicked to the man in bed, face tucked into the pillow, his broad back rising and falling slowly.

You didn’t know his name. Didn't remember his face. Didn’t want to. This wasn’t love. It was chaos. A perfect, reckless mistake, where you were too drunk to remember anything after being sober.

You slipped out quietly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, leaving behind nothing but tangled sheets and the scent of your perfume.

Seokjin? He was wrecked.

Few minutes later, he reached out for you but his arms felt nothing.

Empty. His eyes opened fully, heart lurching.

Gone.

You were gone.

He sat up. Looked here and there. In hope of anything you left behind. His heart dropped through the mattress.

“Fuck…” he muttered, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “She left.”

You hadn’t even given him your name. Number. Anything.

But your face? He remembered it in crystal clarity.

No one had ever moaned the way you did—breathless, broken, desperate. No one had tasted like you, sweet and intoxicating, giggling with his cock in your throat like sin was your favorite flavor.

Since that night, he had been a man on mission. He went on countless blind dates in hoping to see you again.

Every date felt sparkless. Smiles forced. He laughed outside, but inside he was haunted—by the sound of your laugh, your giggles, your moans, the way you looked up at him with that mix of mischief and fire.

He’s touched himself in the shower more times than he’d admit, whispering “Princess” into the steam, chasing a ghost in cherry lip gloss who vanished before the sunrise.

Some nights he’d grip the edge of his sink, water dripping down his chest, head bowed as he tried—unsuccessfully—to scrub you off his skin. The way your lips had stretched around him, the way you whispered “Doc…” in his ears.

He wanted to hate you for leaving.

But mostly?

He just hoped—prayed—that one day, fate would put you back in his path.

Because one night wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

And now? He’s been searching every room, every face, for a spark that only ever existed with you. Three months later, he’s still chasing a ghost.

And he’d do anything to see you again.

Seokjin sat in the hospital cafeteria, picking at a sandwich while his colleagues teased him mercilessly.

“Don’t call me for dinner tonight,” he said, tossing a fry onto his plate. “I’ve got a blind date.”

The table erupted in laughter, his fellow doctors and nurses exchanging knowing glances. “What’s so funny?” Seokjin asked, feigning offense, though his lips twitched with a smile.

“Oh, come on, Jin,” Dr. Park, a cardiologist with a penchant for gossip, said, leaning forward. “We’re betting you’ll ditch this one by dessert. You’ve ghosted, what, five dates in the last two months?”

“Six,” Nurse Min corrected, smirking. “He’s chasing a ghost, that’s what it is. Some mystery girl from a few months back. You should see him when he thinks no one’s looking—staring off into space like he’s reliving the best night of his life.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, but his chest tightened. They weren’t wrong. No matter how many dates he went on, no one compared to you. He didn’t even have your name, just the memory of your face and the ache you’d left behind.

You adjusted your crisp white coat, your heart pounding as you stepped into the bustling ER of Seoul General, one of the most prestigious hospitals in the city.

Your first day as an intern was a whirlwind of anxiety and excitement, your stethoscope heavy around your neck, your clipboard clutched like a lifeline. You’d worked your ass off to get here, and you were determined to make a good impression.

The orientation room was packed with other interns, all wide-eyed and eager, but your attention was drawn to the man at the front of the room.

Dr. Kim Seokjin. Head of Emergency Medicine.

He was professional and commanding in his navy scrubs, but with a playful smirk that made your stomach flip. His broad shoulders filled out his lab coat perfectly, his dark hair swept back, and his eyes… God, his eyes were sharp and warm all at once, like he could see right through you.

“Good morning, interns,” he said, his voice smooth and authoritative, though there was a hint of mischief in his tone.

“Welcome to Seoul General. I’m Dr. Kim, and I’ll be overseeing your training. Buckle up—it’s gonna be a wild ride.”

You smiled, scribbling notes as he outlined the program, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was staring at you.

Every time you looked up, his eyes were on you, intense and unreadable, his lips twitching like he was holding back a secret. You brushed it off.

Meanwhile Seokjin was spiraling.

The moment you walked into orientation, all bright-eyed and confident in your crisp white coat, his entire world stopped.

It was you.

The girl he hadn’t stopped dreaming about for three months. The girl who left his bed before sunrise—and left him hard and haunted every damn day since.

And now you were here, standing in front of him like nothing ever happened. Like you hadn’t ridden him into the mattress whispering “Doc” in his ear, like you hadn’t disappeared without a name or number.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as he tried to keep his voice steady.

You’re here. Fuck, you’re really here… and you don’t even recognize me.

He screamed in his mind.

He dropped his pen. Fumbled the papers. Nearly knocked over the projector.

You tilted your head, confused but polite, watching him with innocent curiosity while he scrambled to collect himself.

Get it together, Jin, he thought, forcing a smile as he continued the orientation.

But every time you tucked your hair behind your ear, every time you bit your lip in concentration—he was back in that hotel room, your thighs squeezing his waist, your moans screaming into his soul.

She doesn’t remember. She really doesn’t fucking remember.

And it is driving me insane.

How am I supposed to teach her how to stitch a wound when all I can think about is her moaning in my ear?

He wanted to pull you aside, pin you to the wall, and demand answers—Why’d you leave? Why didn’t you stay? Did it mean nothing to you?

But instead, you raised your hand and asked a question about night shift schedules. Your voice calm, professional.

Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me? Just standing there, existing, looking like that?

He answered, somehow, though his grip on the clipboard was white-knuckled.

On the outside, he was Dr. Kim—cool, composed, in control. Inside, he was unraveling.

How the hell am I supposed to mentor her when all I can think about is how she tastes, how she sounds when she begs, how she felt wrapped around me like she was made for it?

He was screwed.

Entirely. Completely. And the worst part? You had no idea.

The weeks that followed were were a slow, delicious kind of torture.

Working under Seokjin was both exciting and infuriating. He was brilliant, patient with patients, and quick with a joke to lighten the mood during tense moments.

But with you? He was a menace, a total menace.

He’d lean too close during rounds, the brush of his shoulder against yours sending sparks down your spine. His voice would drop just enough to make your stomach flip as he murmured, “Careful, Dr. Y/N… don’t get too distracted.”

Your pen slipped. Your cheeks burned. And he smiled like he knew.

“Nice form,” he’d say with a smirk as you practiced stiching drills, his eyes lingering on your hands, his tone dripping with double meaning. “You’ve got a… steady grip.”

You’d glare, muttering, “Focus, Dr. Kim,” but your heart would race, and he’d chuckle, knowing exactly the effect he had on you.

And your coworkers weren’t subtle about it either.

“Girl, he’s so into you,” Mina whispered one afternoon in the lounge. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? How are you not seeing this?”

“He tripped over a supply cart yesterday,” Hana added, grinning. “Why? Because you were talking to the child patient in ER ward and he couldn’t look away from the way you were smiling while treating him.”

You choked on your coffee. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did,” Mina confirmed, laughing. “He’s whipped. You’re the main character, babe. Just jump in story already.”

You rolled your eyes, but truthfully? You felt it. In every subtle touch. Every darkened glance. Every time his hand lingered just a beat too long when he passed you a chart.

You were spinning.

One brutal overnight shift, the ER finally silent. Exhausted, you collapsed onto the break room couch, sipping vending machine coffee like it was life support. Seokjin joined you, thigh pressed to yours, the silence between you warm.

“You okay, rookie?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

You nodded, too tired to speak, and before you knew it, your head tipped onto his shoulder, your body sinking into his warmth.

You were half-asleep, your breathing slow and steady, and Seokjin froze, his heart pounding as he watched you. You were so close, your lips parted, your face peaceful, and he couldn’t help himself when you breath out a low tired whimper.

“You still moan the same when you sleep,” he whispered, barely audible, his voice thick with memory.

Your eyes snapped open, your body jerking upright. “What did you just say?”

He cursed under his breath, his face flushing as he scrambled for an excuse. “Nothing, I—uh, you were snoring. Loudly.”

You narrowed your eyes, your heart racing. “I don’t snore. And you said something about… moaning?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his usual confidence faltering. “Fuck it,” he muttered, his eyes locking onto yours. “You really don’t remember, do you? That night, three months ago. Graduation night. The hotel room. You and me.”

Your jaw dropped, your mind racing as fragments of that night came rushing back—the bar, the drinks, warm hands, the way you’d felt so safe, so wanted, tangled sheets, his voice rasping “princess” against your skin.

“That… that was you?”

He nodded, his expression a mix of hope and frustration. “I woke up and you were gone. No name, no number. Just… gone. I’ve been looking for you ever since, Y/N. Every date I’ve been on, hoping it would turn out to be you.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a mix of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and a flicker of fear. “I… I was drunk that night,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

“I barely remember anything. And after my ex… I’m scared, Dr. Kim. I don’t know if I can do this again. Relationships… they hurt. I don’t want to get burned like that again.”

His eyes softened, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something warm and steady.

He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, gentle and grounding. “Y/N, I’m not him,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’m not going anywhere. That night… it wasn’t just a fling for me. I felt something real, something I haven’t felt with anyone else.”

“And these past weeks, working with you, seeing your smile, your fire, the way you care about your patients—it’s only made me want you more. I don’t care if you were drunk. I don’t care if you don’t remember every detail. I remember enough for both of us. And I’ll wait, however long it takes, for you to trust me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. His words were soft, but they hit like a tidal wave, washing away the fear that had been holding you back.

“You’re too much, you know that?” you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the tension breaking. “Too much for you to handle? I doubt it, princess. You handled me just fine that night.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly, the warmth of his confession settling into your bones. “Shut up, Doc,” you muttered, but your voice was soft, your hand still in his, and for the first time in months, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could let yourself fall again.

The hospital never really rested. Never slept. Even after the world outside had gone quiet. But ever since Seokjin confessed that night—the hospital had changed for you. Not in its structure or sound, but in its soul.

Suddenly, the ER didn’t feel so cold. The corridors didn’t echo loneliness. Now, they echoed with something softer.

Him.

Late-night shifts with Seokjin became your favorite kind of quiet chaos.

In the rare moments you both weren’t elbow-deep in emergencies, you’d slip into the break room like two kids sneaking candy. The fluorescent lights hummed above, vending machines blinking tiredly in the corner.

You’d sit beside him on the small couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his fingers brushing your hair as he leaned in to whisper nonsense just to make you laugh.

“I swear the chocolate tastes better if you feed it to someone you like,” he’d murmur, breaking the bar in half with dramatic flair.

He'd press the bigger half between your lips, his eyes staring into yours, and smirk.

“You’re stealing my heart and my snacks, princess.”

You’d roll your eyes, but your heart couldn't ignore the feeling. Because it wasn’t about the chocolate. It was him choosing you in a thousand quiet ways. Again. And again.

One evening, you were scrubbing in for a surgery—heart racing, adrenaline rushing under your skin. Your coat was twisted, the collar popped awkwardly. You didn’t even notice until you felt warm fingers brushing your neck.

“Hold still,” Seokjin murmured behind you, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t just adjusting your coat—he was touching your soul. The way his fingers brushed the curve of your throat, lingered for half a second too long, made your knees threaten betrayal.

He leaned in, mouth so close to your ear his breath ghosted across your skin.

“What’s got you so flustered, rookie?” he teased, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve already seen you fully—every gorgeous inch.”

Your cheeks burned.

“Jin, we’re in the OR prep room!” you hissed, but you couldn’t help the way your lips twitched.

He just gave you that smug, devastating smirk, eyes full of sin and adoration.

“Just reminding you who you’re dealing with.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, fighting the grin that stretched your lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, already slipping on his gloves, but not before winking over his mask.

And God help you… you really did.

But not every moment was playful.

Some nights were harder than others. Some broke more than bones.

That night, a young boy was wheeled into the ER. Pale. Limp. Blood drying on his cheek like a whisper of something already fading. A car accident. Severe internal bleeding. You were assigned to his OT.

You’d done everything. Your hands steady as you worked to stabilize him, but his injuries were too severe. Despite your efforts, his vitals crashed, and you watched, helpless.

The heart monitor flatlined. The room fell silent, the weight of failure crushing you.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

You stepped back from the table like it burned you, your hands trembling as you ripped off your gloves. The little boy’s face stared back at you, empty. Innocent. Gone.

You stumbled out into the hallway. Cold. Quiet. Your back hit the wall. You slid down, buried your face in your palms, and tried to disappear.

You didn’t hear him approach.

But suddenly—warm arms wrapped around you. Strong. Steady. Familiar.

Seokjin didn’t say anything at first. He just held you. One arm around your waist, the other cradling your head as if shielding you from the weight of the world. His chin rested on top of your head. His chest rose and fell with each quiet breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice ragged and small. “I tried… I tried so hard, Jin.”

He pulled you tighter. His hand cupped the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with delicate care.

“I know you did,” he said, his voice low and full of a grief he knew too well. “I’ve been right where you are. My first year…When I started just like you, I lost a patient too. It tore me apart.”

You sobbed softly, and he didn’t flinch.

“We’re doctors,” he continued, his voice cracking, “but we’re not gods. We do everything we can—but sometimes, it’s still not enough. And it breaks you. But you did everything right, Y/N. Everything. He just… couldn’t hold on.”

You looked up at him then, eyes glassy and broken.

He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your tears with reverence.

“You’re enough,” he whispered. “More than enough. And I know it feels like the world stopped—but we keep going. For the next patient. For the ones we can save. And you don’t have to carry this alone. Not anymore.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded, leaning into his touch, the weight of his words grounding you.

He kissed your forehead. Soft. Anchoring.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered again, over and over, like a promise.

That night, you didn’t just fall apart. You fell into him. And he never let you go.

Weeks later, the tension between you had built to a breaking point, the stolen touches and teasing glances no longer enough.

The on-call room was dimly lit, the hum of the hospital fading into the background as Seokjin locked the door behind you. The air was thick with anticipation, your heart pounding as he turned to face you, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your knees weak.

“Tell me if you remember now.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just watching—like you were something sacred. His fingers brushed your cheek, trailing down your neck, so gentle it almost hurt.

“Seokjin…” you breathed, your voice trembling with need, your mind flashing with fragments of that first night—the way he’d fucked you raw, the way he’d made you scream.

He crashed his lips into yours, the kiss raw and desperate, all tongue and teeth, his hands yanking at your scrubs like they offended him.

“Fuck, I’ve been dying to get my hands on you again,” he groaned, his voice rough as he shoved your top up, his mouth hot on your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about you, princess. About fucking you until you can’t walk.”

You moaned, your hands clawing at his lab coat, ripping it open as you tugged at his shirt, buttons popping in your haste. “Then do it,” you challenged, your voice bold despite the heat pooling between your legs. “Fuck me like you did that night, Doc. Make me forget everything else.”

He grinned, that cocky smirk that set your nerves on fire, and shoved you onto the narrow hospital bed, his hands undressing your scrubs with ruthless efficiency.

“Oh, I’m gonna do more than that,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes raking over your body as he stripped you bare.

“You’re mine, Y/N. And this time, I am not letting you go anywhere.”

You gasped as his mouth found your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you were arching into him, your hands fisting in his hair.

“Fuck you are insane,” you panted, but your voice was needy, your hips bucking against him.

“Only for you,” he shot back, his fingers hooking into your panties and yanking them down, his breath hitching as he saw how soaked you were. “Fuck, look at this pussy. Dripping for me already? You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you demanded, your legs spreading for him, your core throbbing with need.

He laughed, low and filthy, and shoved his fingers into you, three at once, stretching you with a delicious burn that made you moan his name. “Bossy little thing,” he teased, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, his fingers curling hard and fast.

“Let’s see how loud you get before someone bangs on this door.”

You bit your lip, muffling a scream as he worked you, his fingers relentless, his eyes locked onto your face as you fell apart.

“Jin—fuck, you’re such an asshole,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“Asshole?” he said, mock-offended, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean with a groan that made your core clench. “I’m about to fuck you senseless, and that’s the thanks I get?” He unzipped his pants, freeing his cock—hard, thick, and leaking—and you moaned at the sight, your hand reaching for him, stroking him roughly.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his hips jerking into your touch. “Keep that up, and I’m gonna come all over your pretty little hand.”

“Then do it,” you teased, guiding him to your entrance, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Or are you all talk, Doc?”

He growled, shoving into you with a single, brutal thrust that made you scream, his cock filling you so completely you could barely breathe.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said, his voice rough as he fucked you hard, each thrust deep and punishing, the bed creaking beneath you. “So fucking tight, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, your body arching into his as he pounded into you, his filthy words driving you wild.

“Harder!!”

You gasped, your voice needy, and he obliged, his thrusts relentless, his hand fisting in your hair, tugging just enough to make you moan louder.

“Careful what you ask for, princess,” he panted, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you if you keep begging for harder. You’re mine—fuck, you’re so mine.”

You laughed breathlessly, your hands gripping his white coat, the fabric bunched in your fists. “Big talk, Doc. Prove it.”

He growled, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up and thrusting into you from behind, the new angle making you cry out.

“Like this?”

He asked, his voice rough as he fucked you deeper, his hand smacking your ass lightly, making you moan. “Gonna make sure you feel me for fucking days, baby.”

You came hard, your body convulsing, your walls clenching around him as you screamed his name, and he followed, his release spilling inside you, hot and messy, his groans raw as he held you tight.

He collapsed onto you, both of you breathless, his arms wrapping around you as he kissed your neck, soft and slow.

“From now on... Every time when I wake up,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours, “you’re staying wrapped around me.”

You laughed, turning to face him, your fingers tracing his jaw. “Deal,” you whispered, your heart full, your body still buzzing.

“So… dinner after this shift?” he asked, his voice soft, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “A proper real date?”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Only if it ends in dessert.”

He smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Princess, the dessert’s been between your thighs all along.”

Eight months later, you and Seokjin were the heart of Seoul General, the hospital’s beloved power couple. Your chemistry was undeniable, sparking smiles from patients and playful eye-rolls from colleagues who couldn’t escape your constant flirting.

He never let you live down that first day—when you stared blankly at him like he wasn’t the man who’d wrecked you in a hotel room. So, you got your revenge: by hiding his lab coat in the supply closet every time he got too cocky. Fair trade.

You wore his oversized hoodie during late-night shifts, the sleeves dangling past your hands, the fabric carrying his comforting sandalwood scent. He’d catch sight of you in it and pull you into an empty room for a stolen kiss—or more.

Patients adored your dynamic, charmed by your easy banter and the way you worked together seamlessly.

“You two are perfect together,” an elderly patient said one day, her eyes twinkling as she watched Seokjin adjust your stethoscope with that familiar, playful smirk. “Like a married couple already.”

You’d blush, and he’d chuckle, his hand lingering on your waist. “She’s the best partner I could ask for,” he’d say, his voice warm, his gaze holding yours with unspoken promises.

One quiet night after a hellish shift, Seokjin led you up to the hospital’s rooftop garden—city lights glowing, stars trying their best through the smog.

You thought he just wanted to vent or make out. Instead, he took your hands, suddenly all soft eyes and fidgety fingers.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, “From that wild bar night to now, you’ve ruined me. No one’s ever made me laugh this hard or love this deep.” He paused—dramatically, of course—then pulled out a tiny velvet box.

Your brain short-circuited.

He dropped to one knee.

“I want to spend every day with you—every shift, every snack break, every quiet moment. Will you marry me?”

You blinked. Then laughed. Then cried. “Yes, you ridiculous man. A thousand times yes.”

He slipped a delicate diamond ring onto your finger, the stone catching the moonlight, and stood to pull you into a deep, tender kiss, his hands cradling your face like you were his entire world.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and overwhelmed, you rested your forehead against his, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

“So,” you said, your voice light with teasing, “where should we go for our honeymoon? Somewhere tropical? A cozy cabin?”

He grinned, that cocky, devastating smirk returning, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Doesn’t matter, princess. We won’t be leaving the hotel room anyway.”

You blinked, tilting your head in mock confusion. “What? Why? What are we going to do inside all day?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and teasing. “Oh, you know exactly what we’ll be doing.”

"You really wanna make me say it, princess?"

Your cheeks flushed, and you swatted his chest, laughing as heat crept up your neck. “Yah, you pervert!”

He laughed, rich and warm, pulling you closer, his lips grazing your forehead. “Only for you, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice softening. “You’re my best mistake, and I’m never letting you go.”

You smiled, your heart full as you melted into his embrace, the city lights twinkling below. “And you’re mine, Doc.”

A/n: How come my mind come up with these weird plots, when it comes to Jin? 😂🤭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria . @bebabido

[kittenan2]

Burn the Legacy

Pairing: CEO!Jimin x CEO!Reader Rating: 18+ (Explicit) Warnings: Enemies to lovers, explicit sexual content (worship kink, praise kink, dominance reversal, oral sex, penetrative sex, light bondage), depictions of physical abuse (slapping, choking, impact injury by a family member), emotional trauma, misogyny, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention. Word Count: ~5k Genre: Enemies to lovers, CEO AU, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, protective Jimin, empowerment, secret dating, pregnancy.

The Seoul skyline glimmers like a crown of jagged glass through the floor-to-ceiling windows, all ambition and cold beauty. You stand near the edge of the gala crowd, a flute of champagne in one hand, the other gripping your clutch like it’s a weapon.

Your red wine dress fits like it was made for war—tight, elegant, intimidating. No one would guess the bruises hidden beneath your makeup, or the echo of your father’s words still rattling in your chest.

“Girls ruin legacies.”

You force your shoulders back, chin up, mouth curled into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’ve mastered the art of pretending. Tonight’s no different.

Then he walks in.

Park Jimin—CEO, media darling, and the one person who makes your blood boil in the most inconvenient ways. His suit is tailored within an inch of his life, charcoal grey and criminally flattering.

His silver-blonde hair gleams under the chandeliers. He moves like he owns the room, which pisses you off even more because he almost does.

And the moment his eyes find yours, he smiles like he’s already won.

“Well, well,” he says as he strides up, voice smooth and maddening. “Didn’t expect to see you standing after that stock drop. Tough week?”

You blink slow. Sip your champagne. Smile like sin. “Careful, Jimin. Keep greening, and I’ll have to remind you how I crushed your last campaign. What was it—six weeks at number one before I knocked you down?”

He chuckles, deep and low. “That fire in you... Oh, sweetheart, I love it when you fight back. Makes the victory sweeter when I win.”

You take a step closer, your voice quiet but cutting. “Then be careful of fire, sweetheart. It might burn you into ashes.”

His grin grows. You hate how much you love the way he looks at you—like he knows exactly how sharp you are, and still wants to play with the blade.

But then his gaze shifts. Lingers a second too long on the curve of your neck.

“Rough night?” he asks, tone still teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—concern, maybe. It makes you want to scream.

You laugh, short and sharp, moving into his space just to wipe that look off his face. “Just an Accident during late night strategy session. You know how it is—preparing to bury a company is exhausting.”

You don’t flinch when his eyes search yours. You don’t let him see how much you’re holding back.

“That’s what I love about you,” he murmurs. “You don’t scare easy. You’re the only one in this city who actually knows how to fight.”

Your heart stumbles for just a beat. You hate that he sees you like that—hate it more because it feels like the real you, the one even you forget about sometimes.

You turn, heels clicking against marble, voice steady over your shoulder. “Keep talking, Park. I plan on making your next quarter hell.”

He doesn't answer, but you can feel his eyes on you the whole way out—like a promise you don’t want but can’t ignore.

You step into your father’s mansion, the glitter of the gala still clinging to your skin like a lie. The moment the door shuts behind you, the warmth of the evening disappears, replaced by a cold dread that knots tight in your chest.

This house has never felt like home. It’s just walls and silence and the shadow of a man who’s never believed in you.

Your father is in his study. He always is. A half-empty glass of scotch dangles from his hand, his eyes locked on the fire like he’s willing it to burn something down.

“Y/N,” he says without looking at you, but his voice cuts straight through your spine. “Do you have any idea how much your recklessness has cost us?”

You take a slow breath, the bruise on your neck pulsing beneath layers of concealer. “Jimin’s launch hit us harder than expected, I know. But I’m already working on recovery. I always do.”

He stands too fast. His face is flushed with alcohol and anger. “Working on it?” he scoffs. “You let that smug bastard make a fool of you. Of me. You’ve humiliated this family.”

His hand cracks across your face before you can respond. The sting is immediate, sharp and humiliating. You stumble backward into a side table, forehead catching the edge with a sickening thud. Blood blurs your vision as you sway, but he’s already advancing.

His fingers wrap around your throat—not tight enough to choke, just enough to bruise. Enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“I should’ve never given you the company, but I had to because of your Grandfather,” he growls. “You’re not built for this. I should’ve handed it to your cousin. A man wouldn’t have let this happen.”

Your hands are shaking, but you force them into fists behind your back. You won’t let him see you break.

“I’ll fix it,” you whisper. Your voice trembles with fury, not fear. “I always do.”

He shoves you away like you’re nothing. “You better. Or I’ll find someone who can.”

Later, you’re curled on the balcony of your apartment, a first-aid kit in your lap and the city stretching out in front of you, beautiful and indifferent.

You dab at the cut on your brow with trembling fingers, flinching as the antiseptic bites. Blood streaks your cheek, and for a second, you just stare at ground.

You press a band-aid over the wound, blinking back the tears rising fast and hot. You can’t cry. You won’t cry.

But when the rain starts, soft and steady, it gives you permission. You stand, letting it soak through your dress, your hair, your bones. The tears come quiet—no sobs, just a slow unraveling.

Your shoulders quake under the weight of everything you can’t say. Your father’s words echo in your skull like a curse:

Girls ruin legacies.

You don’t see the black car parked across the street, engine humming. Inside, Jimin sits in the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, watching you through the rain-slicked windshield.

He hasn’t left since the gala. He saw the shift in your eyes, the flicker of pain behind your smile.

And now, he sees the truth.

Days later, the boardroom is tense with ambition and hidden agendas. You stand at the head of the table, presenting your marketing plan with confidence.

Your slides are flawless. Your voice is steady. But your hands—tucked neatly beneath the table—won’t stop trembling.

Your father is there, sitting across from you like a loaded gun. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, only at your cousin.

“He’s got real potential,” your father says, voice loud enough to echo, when your cousin suggest something. “The kind of mind we need. Not afraid to be ruthless.”

Then, as if twisting the knife, he adds, “Not everyone’s built for this. Park Jimin knows how to play the game. Maybe we should take notes from him, Y/n.”

You feel your chest tighten, air thinning. But you keep your smile in place. That’s what you’ve been trained to do.

Jimin watches from across the room, eyes narrowing. He catches the band-aid near your eyebrow. He sees the way your fingers curl into fists beneath the table. And something in him snaps.

After the meeting, he finds you alone in the hallway. No more smirks. No charm. Just steel.

“Another accident?” he asks, nodding toward your brow. His voice is low and laced with fury.

You force a scoff. “Clumsy me. Don’t worry, Park, I’m still sharp enough to beat you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You try to walk past him, but he catches your wrist. Gentle. Steady. Unyielding.

“Y/N,” he says, softer now. “Who did this to you?”

You pull your hand back like it burns. “Worry about your own company. I don’t need your pity.”

He lets you go, but he doesn’t stop watching.

He remembers the rain. The blood. The way you stood on that balcony like you were trying not to shatter. And now, he sees the truth in full.

Over the next few days, Jimin makes calls. Quiet ones. Old contacts. Discreet favors. He follows the trail—the bruises, the tension, the way your father’s praise always lands on someone else.

And what he finds makes his blood run cold—his misogyny, his belief that you’re a failure because you’re not a son.

Your father doesn’t just underestimate you. He breaks you. And still, you keep building. Still, you keep fighting.

Jimin doesn’t say a word. But behind the scenes, his anger becomes purpose.

He’s going to take your father down.

And when he does, he’s going to make sure you rise from the ashes.

Even if it kills him.

Your father summons you to a merger meeting with Park Enterprises, a desperate bid to stabilize his crumbling empire.

You arrive in a crimson power suit, defiance in every step, but the bruises—old and new—linger beneath your armor.

Jimin is already there when you walk in—legs crossed, arm draped lazily along the back of his chair, but his eyes are anything but casual. They track every movement you make. Not like prey. Like someone watching a storm roll in, equal parts awe and warning.

Your father starts, all false charm. “Jimin, this merger could make us untouchable. But Y/N…” He chuckles, dismissive.

“She’s been struggling. Girls aren’t built for this, you know. Any wins she’s had? Pure luck. Flukes. She’s no match for someone like you.”

Your nails bite into your palms under the table, the band-aid near your eyebrow itching under his words. He continues, each insult sharper. “She’s a liability. Always has been. If I had a son, or even my nephew, we wouldn’t be in this mess. She’s just… inadequate.”

You keep your head high, but the words cut deeper than any bruise. Jimin’s gaze flicks to you, then back to your father, his expression darkening with every word.

“She got lucky with that campaign last year,” your father says, waving a hand. “Even a broken clock’s shows right time twice a day. But she’ll never be you, Jimin.”

“Enough.” Jimin’s voice slices through the room, low and lethal, silencing everyone. He leans forward, eyes blazing as they lock on your father.

“You’re wrong about her. Y/N’s wins aren’t luck—they’re genius. She’s the only CEO in Seoul I’ve ever feared losing to. Her strategies are flawless, her vision unmatched. She’s not just worthy of your legacy—she is your legacy. And you’re too blind to see it.”

The room goes silent. Your father’s face twists in shock, his mouth opening to retort, but Jimin’s glare shuts him down. You stare at Jimin, his words sinking into the wounds your father’s carved, stitching them shut with something like hope.

Jimin stands, buttoning his jacket. “I’ll consider the merger. But only if Y/N leads it. She’s the one I trust.” He leaves, and you’re left breathless.

Your father’s face glares a you, twisted in something between disbelief and rage, but for once, it doesn’t crush you. For once, his words don't piss you off.

Because someone saw you.

And they chose you.

And maybe—just maybe—you can choose yourself too.

You follow Jimin in the parking garage, leaning against his black car, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

“What the hell was that?” you snap, storming toward him, fury masking the vulnerability his words stirred. “You don’t get to play savior, Park.”

He straightens, stepping into your space. “You think I did that for you? I did it for me. Because watching him tear you down makes me want to burn this city to ash.”

The air crackles, your breaths mingling. You’re too close, too raw, years of rivalry and unspoken desire crashing together. He grabs your wrist, pulling you into his car. The door slams, locking you in with him.

“Jimin—”

“Shhh...,” he growls, and his lips crash into yours, fierce and desperate. You kiss him back, just as hungry, hands fisting in his hair. It’s a collision of need and rage, tongues battling, teeth grazing. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and he groans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips.

He looks at you like you’re made of fire and glass—dangerous and breakable—and he’s willing to burn just to be near you.

You start to move, grinding down against the hard length straining in his trousers. A low moan rips from his throat, head tipping back, mouth parted, breath shaking. But he doesn't close his eyes—he watches you, drinking in the way you move, like he can’t stand to miss a single second.

“You’re in charge,” he says, voice hoarse. “Take what you need. Show me who the fuck you are. Show me you’re more than everything he said.”

The words hit like a crack in your ribs—right where your father’s voice still echoes, where the doubt lives. But Jimin says it like a prayer. Like he means it. Like he sees the parts of you you’ve tried to hide, and he wants them.

You lean in, unbuttoning his shirt one trembling button at a time, dragging your nails down his chest, biting and marking on his skin. He hisses, muscles flexing. “Fuck—do that again.”

So you do. Deeper this time. He lets you. Loves it. His body is yours to mark, to claim. For once, you’re not the one flinching.

His hands ghost under your skirt, brushing the lace between your thighs, but they stop—hovering. Waiting.

You nod.

He slides your underwear off with reverence, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His fingers find you—wet, aching—and he curses softly. “God,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

When his fingers slip inside, it’s slow, patient, his thumb circling your clit just enough to make your legs tremble. You gasp, forehead pressed to his, every breath shared. He moves in gentle thrusts, curling just right, drawing moans from your lips that sound more like confessions.

“Jimin,” you whisper, broken and desperate.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls his fingers free and lifts you with a strength that feels more like worship. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you up, settling you in a way, your wet folds over his mouth. The moment his tongue touches you, your vision goes white.

He eats you like he’s starving—like this is how he proves he believes in you. His hands grip your thighs, grounding you as you ride his face, thighs shaking, moans tangled in your teeth.

He doesn't stop. Not until you're falling apart above him, your cry lost in the night as everything you’ve held in finally breaks free.

When you collapse, breath ragged, he kisses your inner thigh like a vow. His lips are soaked. His eyes are bright.

“You taste like power,” he says, smiling through his panting. “Like you.”

You kiss him—deep, messy, desperate—tasting yourself on his tongue, tasting the need and the love and the rage you’ve both carried too long. You undo his belt with shaking fingers, pulling his cock free, thick and flushed and aching for you.

And when you sink down onto him, slowly, inch by inch, you both cry out—because it’s not just sex. It’s reclamation. It’s healing.

He holds your waist like you might slip away. But you won’t. Not tonight.

You ride him, hips rolling, pace building, every grind a declaration. His hands never force, never guide—they follow. His head falls back, eyes screwed shut, mouth whispering your name like it’s holy.

“You’re worth more than he’ll ever fucking understand,” he gasps, thrusting up into you. “You’re not broken. You’re brilliant. And you’re mine.”

You come with a sob, your body pulsing around him, every nerve lit with fire. He follows right after, crying out your name as he spills inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

After, he doesn’t pull away. He kisses the bruise on your neck—not with pity, but with gentleness. With a promise.

“He has no right on you,” he whispers. “Not anymore.”

And this time, for once, you believe it.

After that day, you’re dating in secret now. The world still sees you as enemies—two titans locked in a brutal dance of power and press releases.

In public, it’s sharp eyes and sharper words, but behind closed doors, when the cameras disappear and the masks drop, Jimin becomes your sanctuary.

He’s soft in a way no one else gets to see. Whenever he visits your Company, he leaves coffee on your desk with notes that read “Don’t fuck up today, rival” in his slanted scrawl—still smug, but you know better now.

You know he stays up watching the late market just to be the first to text “you did it” when your stocks spike.

He tucks a blanket over you when you fall asleep on his couch, kisses your forehead like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You’ve never been handled like this before. Not as a problem to fix or a weapon to wield—but as something precious. As someone worthy.

One night, he pulls you out onto his penthouse balcony. The city pulses below you, glittering like the battlefield it is.

“Look,” he whispers, arms sliding around your waist from behind. “You built half of this. Don’t let that bastard make you forget it.”

You lean back into him, eyes stinging. The world never gives you credit. But he sees you.

“God,” he murmurs, nose brushing your neck. “I’m so fucking whipped for you.”

You laugh softly, chest tight. You want to say me too, but you turn around and it comes out in a kiss—soft and lingering, full of everything you’re not ready to admit yet.

Later, in his bedroom, he closes the door behind you, and the silence hums thick and golden. You start to shrug off your blazer, but he stops you, fingers gently brushing yours.

“Let me see you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You hesitate.

He undresses you slowly.

One button at a time. One sleeve. Then the blouse slips off your shoulders. His mouth opens slightly—then shuts. His eyes track the bruises marring your skin.

One near your collarbone. Faint green-yellow on your wrist. A dark, old mark near your ribs. Another, barely faded, down the curve of your spine.

The room feels colder. Your breath catches.

You don't say it. But the words hang in the air between you:

Ugly. Ruined. Not worth loving beneath these power suits.

You look down, jaw clenched. “I’m not… this isn’t what people expect under a power suit,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I’m not… perfect.”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheek.

“God,” he breathes, like it hurts to look at you. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Do you have any idea how lucky I feel that you let me see you like this?”

You shiver. Your chest cracks open.

He undresses himself and kneels in front of you—not as a man who’s submitting, but as a man who’s honoring you. As a man who’s worshipping the goddess you don’t always remember you are.

“Tie me up,” he says, voice low but steady. There’s mischief in his eyes, yes—but underneath it? Devotion. Trust. “I want you to have me. No defenses. No control. Just… you.”

Your throat tightens. This man, this rival, this king of arrogance—offering himself to you completely.

“You’re mine tonight,” you whisper.

“I’ve been yours,” he says. “Since day one.”

You bind his wrists with slow, deliberate care, watching the way his breath stutters. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just lets you take him.

You push him back on the bed and climb over him, trailing kisses down his chest, your nails scraping gently along his sides. He shivers, eyes dark with need but full of something softer too. Something like awe.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, like it hurts to say.

His cock is hard, flushed, leaking against his stomach. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg.

Not yet.

You again trail kisses down his chest, biting gently at his nipple before licking the sting away. He twitches. Gasps. His head falls back.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Please, Y/N.”

You slide down between his thighs, licking a thick stripe up the length of him. His hips jerk, but your hands pin him down. You take him in slowly—inch by inch—feeling the way he falls apart with every second.

“Fuck me,” he cries out. “Oh god, I—fuck.”

“Didn't know you like giving up control, Park?” You tease.

He grins, breathless. “Only when it’s you.”

You again take him in your mouth—warm, wet, slow. Your tongue flattens along his shaft, your lips wrapped around the head, teasing him, bobbing gently, rhythm unhurried.

“Fuck—oh my god,” he moans, hands pulling at the tie binding him. “Please, baby…”

You tighten your grip on his thighs, holding him still. He twitches in your mouth, hips barely restrained.

“Please what?” you purr, licking up the underside slowly.

“Please let me come—please, please, I can’t—” His voice cracks, head thrown back, curls sticking to his forehead.

You pull off with a pop.

“Not yet.”

You hover over him, straddle him, take him in your hand, and line him up slowly sinking down inch by aching inch onto his cock.

Stretching around him. Claiming him.

He cries out—guttural, desperate.

“Holy shit—fuck, you feel so—” His hips jerk, but you plant your hands on his chest and grind down, slowly, deep and hard.

He throws his head back, a guttural moan torn from his throat, wrists tugging helplessly at the silk. But he doesn’t ask for control. He never does.

You ride him in slow, deep strokes, drawing out every sound, every shake, every whispered “fuck, yes.”

He’s wrecked. Eyes glossy. Skin flushed. But still gazing at you like you’re divinity on top of him.

“Tell me again,” you whisper, leaning in so close your lips ghost over his. “Who am I to you?”

His eyes open, wide and wrecked. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “My rival. My queen. My fucking world.”

You clench around him and he breaks.

His hips jerk up, finally snapping as he cums inside you with a sob of your name. Hot and thick. You ride him through it, chasing your own pleasure—until it crashes into you seconds later.

Your entire body trembles.

You collapse over him, foreheads touching, both of you gasping, tangled in sweat and silk and emotion.

Afterward, he wriggles free of the tie with a tired laugh and immediately pulls you into his chest. His skin is slick with sweat, his heartbeat pounding beneath your ear.

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your shoulder. Over and over like he’s trying to memorize every part of you.

“I’m keeping you forever.” he whispers, voice rough.

You laugh into his chest, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. But you’re not ashamed.

Because for the first time in years… you feel safe.

You feel wanted.

You feel loved.

The merger celebration is everything it’s supposed to be—glittering chandeliers, champagne flowing like victory.

But beneath it all, the air crackles with tension. Your bold move—pushing for merger terms that protect your company’s independence—has left your father seething. And tonight, he’s too proud to hide it.

You feel his stare burn through the crystal glass in your hand. He hasn’t spoken to you since the board approved your terms. You did it without him. Without his approval. And now, he wants blood.

His voice cuts across the dinner table, sharp and loud enough to silence silverware. “You’ve been slipping, Y/N. Taking liberties you haven’t earned. If you were a son, this company wouldn’t be on its knees.”

The entire table stills. Eyes dart between you and him, uncertainty crackling.

“You think you can make decisions without me?” he spits. “You think you can run this company on your own?” His voice is rising now, old anger surfacing. Humiliation, bitterness, loss of control.

You meet his eyes, jaw clenched. “I didn’t just think it. I did it. And it worked.”

He stands suddenly, chest heaving, and the chair groans beneath the force. He can't accept the fact that you just answered back to him like this.

His hand lifts—high, fast, familiar. A reflex you’ve come to know in silence.

Gasps echo. Some rise halfway from their seats. No one moves.

Except Jimin.

He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, body a blur, and when your father’s hand slices the air, it doesn’t meet skin. It meets Jimin’s grip—tight, unwavering, fingers clamped around his wrist with brutal precision.

“Touch her again,” Jimin growls, his voice low and vibrating with fury, “and I’ll destroy you.”

Not sue. Not ruin your reputation.

Destroy.

The silence is deafening. Your father stares at Jimin, stunned by the sheer audacity. But he doesn't pull back—he can’t. Because Jimin doesn’t just hold his wrist—he holds the room now.

And then Jimin looks at you. His voice softens, but his words still land like a bomb.

“You don’t get to hurt my soon to be wife.”

Time stops.

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t know whether it’s shock, fear, or something deeper blooming in your chest—but every part of you stills. Whispers ripple like waves across the room. Future wife.

He releases your father’s arm with a shove, stepping between you both, his arm wrapping around you with quiet finality. Protective. Possessive. Yours.

“The merger moves forward,” he announces, eyes scanning the room now, daring anyone to question him. “But Y/N leads it. She’s the reason we’re all here tonight. And she’s the only person I trust to take this forward.”

Your father doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s a statue of impotent rage, surrounded by people who have just watched him fall apart.

You, on the other hand, stand taller. Straighter. Like the weight that’s been crushing your chest for years is finally cracking off, piece by piece.

Jimin squeezes your hand under the table. He didn’t save you. He stood with you.

And when he said “soon to be wife,” something inside you—something long buried—believed it.

Jimin’s penthouse is quiet when he brings you home, the chaos of the evening fading behind the click of the door. He doesn’t say much—just leads you gently to the bathroom, where the tub is already filling, steam curling up in soft tendrils. The scent of lavender hangs in the air, calming, warm. A small, unspoken comfort.

He undresses you slowly, not with hunger, but with reverence. Every bruise. Every scar. Every place your father’s cruelty left its mark—Jimin touches each one like he’s trying to rewrite the pain with his lips.

“You’re untouchable,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just above your heart. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

He helps you into the water, the warmth enveloping you in seconds. You sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

He slides into the tub behind you, his chest pressed to your back, arms wrapping around your waist. “Relax,” he murmurs against your ear. “Just let me hold you for a while.”

He pours water over your shoulders, then lifts the sponge, lathering it with care. Every motion is unhurried, his fingers gliding over your skin like he’s memorizing you. Worshipping you.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, voice tight. “I should’ve stopped him earlier. I should’ve seen it.”

You open your eyes, reaching for him, turning around slightly. “You see me now,” you whisper, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours. “That’s enough.”

He smiles—just a little—and it’s shy in a way you’ve never seen on him. Not the cocky CEO or the public rival. Just Jimin. Your Jimin.

“What?” he teases softly when you laugh, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “Can’t I be soft for my fiancée?”

Your breath catches. “Fiancée, huh?” you murmur. “You’re getting bold, Park.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, his smile deepening as he leans in. “You make me bold.”

His lips brush yours—slow, tentative, like a question. You answer with a kiss, soft at first, then deeper, mouths moving in lazy sync as the water ripples around you. His hands rest on your thighs, not possessive—just grounding. Like he’s anchoring himself to you.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw. You moan into his mouth, not from lust—but from the feeling of being held, really held, for the first time in so long.

“You’re so good to me,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together.

He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. “Always will be,” he says quietly. “Always.”

You stay like that for a long time—limbs tangled in warm water, fingers exploring familiar skin, lips brushing and brushing again. Not needing more. Not tonight.

Afterward, he wraps you in a thick towel and lifts you into his arms with a playful grunt. “You’re heavier than you look.”

You swat him, laughing, head buried in his neck. He carries you to bed anyway, settling you into the sheets like you’re something sacred.

Before turning off the light, he leans over and kisses your nose, your cheek, your temple.

“I meant it,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re my future. Forever.”

And with his heartbeat steady underneath your ear, you finally fall asleep without fear.

Almost a year later, the city watches as you and Jimin stand side by side—co-CEOs, partners, Seoul’s power couple. Your tailored suits have turned looser lately, and the media’s in a frenzy—suspecting stress, scandal, or something else entirely. You give them nothing. Not yet.

A flash catches on the diamond on your finger. Not married. Not yet. But that’s never mattered. You’re already building something far stronger—a life, a future, a family.

Your hand grazes your lower stomach, instinctive and protective. Only you and Jimin know the truth: you’re pregnant. Three months along. Still secret to the world.

Seven weeks ago, in Jimin’s kitchen, you held up the positive test with shaking hands. “We’re not married yet,” you whispered.

He dropped the knife, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled you into his arms. “I don’t care,” he said, laughing through wet eyes. “We will be. Soon. Anyways.”

Today, a reporter smirks into the mic. “CEO Park, after marriage, hoping for a male heir in future to run your Empire?”

You tense—but Jimin doesn’t miss a beat. His hand rests gently on your back.

“Gender doesn't matter but I’m hoping for a daughter,” he says, calm and clear. “One who’ll outshine both her parents.”

Whispers erupt, cameras click, but Jimin just lifts your hand and kisses it. And you smile, private and knowing. Not yet. But soon.

Later, when the lights are low and the city glows beneath you, Jimin dims the rest of the world with a single gesture. Candles flicker in the living room, casting warm light across the walls. The windows are open, a soft breeze dancing through sheer curtains.

He pulls you into his lap on the couch, his arms cradling you from behind, palms resting tenderly over your belly.

“They’re dying to know,” he murmurs into your neck, his lips brushing your skin.

“We don’t even know yet,” you laugh.

Jimin presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, his voice hushed, reverent. “Boy or Girl, I don't care. They gonna change the world.”

You turn to face him, and you kiss him—slow, unhurried, full of love and quiet triumph—the city fades. All that matters is here, in this room. In this moment.

Your future. Your family.

Your freedom.

A/n: Angry Jimin is intimidating and also my weakness 🥵

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Royal Racer

Pairing: Prince!Hoseok × Racer!Reader Word Count: ~7k Tropes: Secret identity, enemies/rivals to lovers, forbidden romance, intense smut, angst, fluff Kinks: Car sex, garage sex, light bondage, dirty talk, hand on throat, masking/unmasking tension Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, dangerous driving, injury, emotional intensity, power dynamics

The ballroom glitters like a jewel, chandeliers sparkling overhead. You’re miserable, dragged to this fancy charity gala by your sponsor—a slimy guy with a fake grin—for “publicity.”

You’re an underground racer, not some polished princess. Your black dress clings tight, showing off your back, but you’d rather be in your leather jacket, burning up the track. Sipping flat champagne, you roll eyes at the rich crowd, hating every second.

You lean against a pillar, eyeing the monarchy. They’re everything you despise—spoiled, fake, useless. Especially him, Prince Jung Hoseok. He’s across the room, looking sharp in a wine colored suit, dark hair neat, smile polite but distant. You roll your eyes. Just a pretty puppet, probably never touched anything real in his life.

You turn to the bartender, who looks as bored as you. “Bet that prince can’t even ride a scooter, let alone handle a real car,” you say, smirking.

The bartender snickers. “Probably rides in a fancy carriage instead.”

You laugh, loud and sharp, not caring who hears. But Hoseok does. He’s with some stuffy nobles, but your voice cuts through—scooter, real car, fancy carriage.

His lips twitch, not with anger but with something hotter. He knows who you are. Whispers of the underground racing scene reach even the palace, and he’s heard of you—the fierce driver with a mouth as fast as your car.

Your fire, your defiance, the way you mock him without a second thought—it sets something alight in him. You’re a challenge, and he’s already hooked.

Hoseok’s no stranger to the racing world. By night, he has tried racing often, in disguise, tearing up the same tracks you rule. But never bothered to compete, he just came to relieve his Crown's weight.

He’s turned on—not just by your curves in that dress but by your nerve, your spark. He wants to prove you wrong, to show you he’s more than a “puppet.”

When he slips out of the gala, he’s already planning to meet you on the track, mask on, ready to make you eat your words.

Midnight hits, and the city pulses with neon and danger. The rooftop race track is your sanctuary—concrete, sharp turns, screaming engines.

You’re in your red car, a beast you built, ready to dominate. Leather jacket on, boots scuffed, you’re cocky and untouchable. Until he shows up.

A matte black car rolls in, sleek and dangerous. The driver steps out—black racing suit, gloves, and a mask hiding everything but his eyes and lips. No name, no greeting, just raw confidence.

You size him up, unimpressed. “Hope your car’s faster than that outfit, sweetheart,” you say, smirking.

He tilts his head, lips curling into a grin that’s pure trouble. “Careful, hotshot. My car’s not the only thing that’ll leave you in the dust.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Big talk for a guy hiding behind a mask. Scared to show your face?”

“Scared you’ll fall for it,” he fires back, voice smooth as sin. “Wouldn’t want to distract you before I wipe the floor with you.”

You laugh, sharp and competitive. “Keep dreaming, mystery boy.”

The race is wild. You and this masked guy go hard, tires screeching, cars nearly kissing at every turn. He’s good—too good. He matches your moves, teases with near-overtakes, then pulls back just enough to keep you hooked. You win, but you know he let you. It pisses you off.

You storm over as he leans against his car, all smug. “You went easy on me,” you snap, poking his chest. “Don’t play games with me.”

He grabs your finger, holding it gently but firm. “Games? Nah, I just like watching you squirm.” His eyes glint through the mask. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Cute?” You yank your hand back, cheeks hot. “I’ll show you cute when I smoke you next time.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, leaning closer. “Bet you’re even prettier when you lose.” His voice drops, teasing, almost dirty. “Or when you’re begging.”

Your breath catches, and you hate how your body reacts—heat pooling, thighs clenching. “In your dreams, asshole,” you mutter, turning away before he sees you blush.

You strode to a quiet corner of the lot, needing to cool down. Pulling a cigarette from your jacket, you light it, taking a long drag. The smoke curls in the air, calming your nerves. But then he’s there, stepping out of the shadows, plucking the cigarette from your fingers before you can react.

“Not good for your health, sweetheart,” he says, crushing it under his boot. His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s daring you to snap.

Your blood boils. “Who the hell do you think you are?” you hiss, stepping closer, fists clenched. “You don’t get to touch my stuff.”

He smirks, unfazed. “Just looking out for you. Need you in top shape to lose to me again.” He winks, and it’s infuriating, making your pulse race for all the wrong reasons. You storm off, his laugh echoing behind you, stoking the fire in your chest.

He’s everywhere now. Every race, every night, the masked racer is your shadow. You’re rivals, but it’s more than that—it’s a game, a dance, a fire you can’t put out.

He beats you, you beat him, and every time, he gets under your skin a little deeper. The garage becomes your battlefield, not just for racing but for something hotter, darker.

One night, after he edges you out again, you’re done playing. The garage is empty, smelling of gas and rubber, lit by a single flickering bulb.

You shove him against the wall, your hands fisting his racing suit. “Who the hell are you?” you growl, inches from his face. The mask taunts you, hiding him, but his eyes burn, and his lips—god, those lips—are too close. “Some rich kid playing bad boy? Take this damn thing off.”

He grabs your wrists, pulling you flush against him. Your breath hitches as his body presses into yours, hard and warm. You can feel every line of him—his chest, his thighs, the unmistakable hardness against your hip.

“You want the mask off?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. “Go ahead, princess. Rip it off. But you might not be ready for what’s underneath.” His gloved thumb brushes your hip, slipping just under your shirt, grazing bare skin. “Or maybe you’re just dying to find out how I’d fuck you with it on.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, heat flooding your core. You’re pissed, turned on, and way too close to ripping that mask off just to shut him up.

“You’re so full of shit,” you hiss, but your voice shakes. His hand slides higher, fingers splaying across your lower back, pulling you tighter. You can feel him—hard, ready—and it’s driving you insane.

“Full of shit?” He laughs, dark and velvety, his lips brushing your ear through the mask. “Says the girl who’s trembling in my hands.” He shifts, his thigh pressing between yours, sending a jolt through you. “Bet I could have you screaming my name right here, bent over your own car. Wanna test me?”

You shove him back, but it’s weak, your body betraying you. “Keep talking, mystery boy. All you’ve got is a mouth.”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot more than that,” he says, stepping closer again. His gloved finger traces down your arm, slow, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “And you’re gonna find out soon enough. Unless you’re scared to lose at this too.”

You’re trembling, not from fear but from the heat between you, the tension so thick it’s choking. You turn and walk away, but his laugh follows you, low and knowing. He’s got you, and you both know it.

Another race. Another loss. You’re still fuming from the race, the loss burning in your veins as you lean against your car in the empty lot, the city skyline a distant glow.

You’re about to light cigarette when his matte black car pulls up, a silent taunt. Before you can snap at him, he’s out, striding toward you with that infuriating confidence, yanking open his passenger door.

“Get in mine,” he says, voice low, commanding, leaving no room for argument. He catches the cigarette in your hand, plucking it from your fingers and tossing it to the ground.

“I’ll give you something else to get addicted to,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting through the mask, his voice dripping with promise.

Your blood spikes, a mix of anger and something hotter. You should tell him to fuck off. You should walk away. But your body’s betraying you, drawn to him like a magnet.

You slide into his car, the leather seat cool against your thighs, the scent of new leather and his cedar cologne filling your senses. He’s in the driver’s seat in a flash, mask still on. The air is heavy, charged with the adrenaline still buzzing from the race, your bodies slick with sweat, eyes wild.

“What’s this about?” you snap, but your voice trembles, betraying the heat pooling in your core.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gloved hand wraps around your thigh, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you across the center console, pulling you onto his lap with such ease it’s like you weigh nothing.

His muscles flex under the tight racing suit, the power in his grip sending a thrill through you. You’re straddling him now, thighs wrapping his, the hard press of him against your core unmistakable through the layers of fabric.

The seat’s pushed back, giving just enough room, but it’s tight, intimate, every movement amplified. The air is heavy, charged with the scent of new leather, his cedar cologne, and the sweat of the race, your bodies slick and wild-eyed.

“You talk too much,” he growls, his lips brushing your jaw, the mask grazing your cheek with a delicious roughness. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, the contrast of his warm breath and the cool leather igniting your nerves. “Let’s see if you can keep up off the track.”

Your hands fist in his suit, yanking him closer, the fabric taut under your fingers. “Shut up and do something about it,” you challenge, your voice low, daring him to cross the line.

He does. His mouth crashes into yours, a collision of teeth and heat, the kiss raw and hungry. The mask scrapes your skin, adding a thrilling edge, and you taste adrenaline, sweat, and something distinctly him—dark, intoxicating.

He removes glove from his one of the hands and slide it under your shirt, fingers digging into your waist, the leather cool against your heated skin. He grinds you down against him, and you feel him—hard, pulsing, ready—through the thin layers separating you.

A moan escapes you, swallowed by his kiss, as he deepens it, his tongue sweeping against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth.

“Princess like you needs taming,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. Other hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding—firm, possessive, the weight of his palm grounding you. “Bet you’ve been dreaming of this since I smoked you that first night.”

You want to snap back, but he’s right. You’ve been burning for him, hating him, wanting him. You grind down harder, the friction sending sparks through your body, and he groans, the sound raw and primal, shooting straight to your core.

His free hand tugs at the zipper of your racing suit, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate drag, exposing your chest to the cool air.

Your skin prickles, but his mouth is there instantly, hot and wet, sucking a bruising mark into your collarbone. The sensation is electric, his lips soft but demanding, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuck,” you hiss, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more. You reach for his mask, desperate to see him, to know him, but he grabs your wrist, pinning it to the headrest with a strength that makes your pulse race.

“Not yet,” he says, voice rough, eyes dark and burning through the mask’s slits. “You don’t get to know me until I’ve made you come undone.”

The words are filthy, and you’re drowning in them. His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already soaked through your underwear.

He doesn’t bother pulling your panties off—just pushes them aside with a smooth flick of his fingers. Two fingers slide inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, and you clench around him, a moan tearing from your throat. The stretch is perfect, his fingers adding a strange, delicious friction that makes your hips buck.

“That’s it,” he says, his thumb circling your clit with agonizing precision, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through you.

“Ride me like you ride that car, princess.” His voice is a low growl, dripping with command, and his hand on your throat tightens just enough to make your head spin.

You do as he says, rocking against his hand, chasing the high. The car rocks slightly with your movements, the windows fogging up as your breaths come in short, desperate pants.

His fingers move faster, curling deeper, and his thumb presses harder, drawing you closer to the edge. You’re trembling, every nerve on fire, and he knows it. He leans forward, his lips brushing your ear, the mask grazing your skin.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice dark and sinful. “Show me how fast you can fall apart.”

The orgasm hits like a crash, a white-hot explosion that leaves you shaking in his lap. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out, the sound muffled against his neck.

He doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder, every whimper, until you’re oversensitive, gasping for breath. Only then does he pull his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean through the mask’s slit. The sight is obscene, his eyes locked on yours, and it sends another jolt through you.

You’re panting, wrecked, but you manage a smirk. “Your turn, asshole,” you say, voice hoarse, reaching for his zipper.

He grabs your hand, stopping you with that infuriating smirk. “Patience, princess,” he says, his tone teasing but firm. “You’ll get what you want when I say so.”

The words make your blood boil, frustration mixing with desire. He’s toying with you, playing hard and it’s driving you insane. You glare at him, the mask taunting you, and make a silent vow—next time, you’re ripping it off, no matter what.

You slide off his lap, fixing your clothes, and storm out, his low chuckle following you into the night.

The garage is your shared battleground now, a place where you fix cars and fight with him. Tonight, you’re both on edge, the latest race leaving you raw.

He beat you again, and his smug attitude is unbearable. The air smells of gasoline and metal, the flickering bulb casting shadows across your red car. You’re arguing, voices sharp, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” you snap, slamming a wrench onto the workbench. “Hiding behind that mask like a coward.”

He steps closer, too close, his masked face inches from yours. “Coward? I’m the one who’s been kicking your ass out there.” His voice is low, taunting. “Maybe you’re just mad you can’t keep up.”

You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back, laughing. “Fuck you,” you hiss, but the heat in your chest isn’t just anger. It’s desire, burning hotter with every word.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the garage wall. “Keep talking, princess,” he murmurs, his body pressed against yours, the mask grazing your cheek. “I like it when you fight me.”

You don’t think. You kiss him, hard and messy, teeth clashing, the mask a frustrating barrier. Your hands struggle against his grip, desperate to touch him, to claim him.

He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and releases your wrists, letting you tear at his racing suit. Fabric rips as you yank it down his shoulders, exposing tanned skin, lean muscle.

Your fingers find the edge of his mask, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. You rip it off, tossing it aside, and freeze.

It’s him. Hoseok. The prince. His sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and that damn smirk are unmistakable. “You,” you breathe, stunned, your heart pounding. Your mind races, piecing it together—the gala, the races, the way he always seemed to know you. “The prince? You’re… him?”

He smirks, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Surprised, princess? Thought I was just a puppet, huh?”

“You heard me,” you say, voice shaking, not sure if you’re angry or turned on or both. “At the gala. You heard every word.”

“Every fucking word,” he confirms, stepping closer, his hands on your hips. “And I’ve been dying to prove you wrong ever since.” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Still think I can’t handle a real machine?”

You swallow, your body betraying you as heat floods your core. “You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, but it’s weak, your hands already pulling him closer.

“Good,” he says, his lips brushing yours. “I like you mad.” He kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense, his tongue teasing yours, drawing a moan from you.

You push him back, needing control, and he lets you, a wicked glint in his eyes. “That scooter boy enough for you now, sweetheart?” he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery as he lifts you onto the hood of your car.

The metal is cool against your thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands as he rips at your clothes, exposing skin to the humid air.

“Shut up,” you snap, but your voice is breathy, your hands tearing at his suit, desperate to feel him. He kneels between your legs, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your thighs, until he’s teasing you through your underwear.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough, his fingers hooking into the fabric.

“I want you,” you gasp, and he rewards you by pulling your underwear aside, his fingers sliding inside you, slow and deliberate. The stretch is perfect, his knuckles brushing just right, and you arch against the hood, moaning.

He works you with a skill that makes your head spin, his thumb circling your clit, his lips kissing down your inner thigh, leaving marks that burn in the best way.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs, his voice reverent, his eyes locked on yours. “All for me, princess?”

“Stop dreaming,” you manage, but it’s a whimper, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin as he kisses lower, his tongue joining his fingers. You’re trembling, close to the edge, and he knows it, slowing down just to torture you.

“Say my name,” he demands, his fingers curling inside you, making you gasp.

“Hoseok,” you moan, and he rewards you with a flick of his tongue that sends you over the edge, your body shaking as you come undone. He doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder until you’re panting, oversensitive.

He stands, undoing his pants, and bends you over the hood, your palms bracing against the cool metal. He kisses down your spine, slow and deliberate, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he enters you from behind.

The stretch is intense, filling you completely, and you cry out, your reflection in the windshield showing you wild, wrecked, alive. He moves slow at first, letting you feel every inch, then faster, harder, until the garage echoes with the sound of your gasps and the slap of skin.

“You’re mine,” he growls, one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to your throat, holding you just tight enough to make you dizzy. He pulls out at the last second, his release hot and slick across your spine, marking you in a way that feels primal, possessive.

You collapse against the hood, breathless, his hands still on you, grounding you. “You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a tired, sated smile.

He chuckles, kissing the back of your neck. “And you’re still mine.”

The Inferno Run looms like a storm cloud, the biggest underground race of the year—dangerous, no rules, zero forgiveness. Even the drunken people can participate.

You’ve been dreaming of this win your whole life, the title that’ll make your name in the underground forever. Hoseok—now unmasked,—begs you to skip it.

You’re in his car, parked in a secluded lot, the air heavy with the weight of what’s coming. He’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his face raw with emotion, no trace of the smirking prince or the masked racer. Just Hoseok, stripped down, vulnerable, his dark eyes pleading.

“Don’t do this race,” he says, voice rough, like he’s been screaming inside. “It’s not worth it.”

You laugh, but it’s bitter, your heart twisting. “Not worth it? Hoseok, this is everything. This is my life. You won't get it.”

He steps closer, grabbing your hands, his grip tight, desperate. “I get it more than you think. I’ve raced it before. I saw someone crash—burn. They didn’t make it out.”

His voice cracks, his eyes glistening. “The Inferno Run isn’t a race to win. It’s a race to survive. They don’t race to win there. They race to survive.”

You pull your hands away, your chest aching. “I’m not scared. I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect.”

“I’m not protecting you!” he shouts, his voice breaking, raw with fear.

“I’m fucking terrified, okay? I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his hands shaking as he runs them through his hair. “I can’t watch you disappear in fire just to prove something. Not when I’ve just found you.”

Your breath catches, his words cutting deeper than any blade. “Why does it matter so much?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He looks at you, eyes wide, like you’ve ripped his heart out. “Because I love you,” he says, the words spilling out like they’ve been trapped too long.

“I love you, and I don’t know how to say it right. You cracked me open, broke every wall I had. You unmasked me—heart and all—before you ever touched that damn mask.”

“I’d give up everything—the races, the mask, the fucking crown, the whole damn world—if it meant you’d stay safe. I’ll drop out of racing with you. I’ll leave the palace. I’ll give up my title. Or I’ll make you queen of the entire fucking kingdom if you just stay alive.”

Your heart stops, his confession crashing over you like a wave. You’ve cracked his armor, unmasked him emotionally long before you ever touched that physical mask.

He’s choosing you over everything, and it terrifies him. You can see it—the fear that you’ll choose the race over him, that you’ll burn up and leave him behind.

“You think being fast is worth dying for?” he continues, his voice raw, breaking. “What about me? What am I supposed to do if you don’t make it back?”

You’re shaking, torn between the fire in your veins and the way his voice breaks. You want to scream, to run, to hold him. “I have to do this,” you say finally, your voice soft but firm, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t need a crown, Hoseok. I need that win.”

He steps back, his face crumpling, defeated. His eyes are wet, his hands clenched into fists.

“Then I’ll be there,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Watching. Praying you make it back. But if you don’t…” He chokes, unable to finish, and turns away, his shoulders shaking. He’s not gone—not really. He’s waiting, ready to fall apart if you crash.

The Inferno Run is a nightmare and the track is a death trap—narrow, twisting, lined with rusted guardrails and littered with debris.

Your car screams, pushed to its limits, every turn a gamble, every second a fight for control. You’re in the zone, heart pounding, adrenaline burning through you.

You catch a glimpse of Hoseok in the crowd, disguised again, his eyes locked on you, wide with fear. It’s enough to make your heart stutter, but you shove it down. You have to win.

Then it happens. A sabotaged tire, rigged to fail. A turn slick with oil, deliberately placed. Your car hits the patch, skids violently, and flips. Once. Twice. The world spins, metal screeching, glass shattering.

Pain explodes through you—your ribs crack, your head slams against the seat, your arm twists unnaturally. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline chokes you as the car settles, a crumpled wreck.

Blood trickles down your face, warm and sticky, pooling in your mouth, tasting of iron and fear. Your vision blurs, the world fading but you see him, running towards you.

Hoseok’s scream rips through the chaos, raw and guttural, like his soul is tearing apart. He’s running before anyone can stop him, shoving through the crowd, mask forgotten, his face exposed to the flashing cameras.

He reaches the wreckage, smoke curling around him, the heat of the twisted metal searing his skin. He tears at the door, hands shaking, bloodied from jagged edges, until he pulls you out.

Your body is limp, blood streaking your face, your racing suit torn. He cradles you in his arms, his screams for help hoarse, desperate, as he sinks to his knees on the asphalt.

“Don’t you dare,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as he holds you close, your blood smearing his hands, his face. “Don’t you fucking leave me.”

His tears fall, mixing with the dirt and blood on your cheek, his body trembling as he rocks you, praying, begging, while the world watches—Prince Jung Hoseok, unmasked, broken, holding the woman he loves in the wreckage of her dream.

You’re lying in a hospital bed, the world a blur of pain and darkness. Hoseok is there every damn second, a ghost of himself, his eyes red and hollow, his hands clasped tightly as he prays for you to wake up.

He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, just sits by your side, whispering promises, begging you to come back. His advisors try to pull him away, citing royal duties, but he snaps, his voice raw, telling them to fuck off.

He’s not a prince right now—he’s just a man, terrified of losing you. The news is everywhere—Prince Jung Hoseok, unmasked as an illegal racer, risking everything for you—but he doesn’t care about the headlines, only you.

Weeks pass, each day a knife in his heart, until you finally stir. Your eyes flutter open, the sterile hospital light stinging, your body aching like it’s been through a war.

Hoseok’s there, instantly, his face crumpling with relief, tears spilling as he takes your hand, his grip warm, trembling. “You’re awake,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re awake.”

“You idiot,” you croak, voice weak, throat dry. “You ruined your life for me.”

He laughs, a broken, watery sound, pressing his forehead to your hand. “You’re my life, you stubborn asshole.” His voice is raw, thick with emotion, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. “I thought I lost you. I sat here every day, praying, begging, promising anything if you’d just open your eyes.”

You want to argue, but you’re too tired, too sore, and his love is overwhelming, wrapping around you like a blanket.

He stays with you, every moment, fighting off his advisors, ignoring the world outside. He feeds you soup, his hands shaking as he holds the spoon, brushes your hair with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. You hate how much you love it, how much you need it.

“You drive like you’re not afraid to die,” he says one night, his voice breaking as he sits beside you, his hand never leaving yours. “I’ve never been more scared in my life than watching you do it without me.” He pauses, his thumb tracing the bandages on your wrist.

“I didn’t want to stop you from being brave. I just couldn’t stand the idea of being left behind.”

You squeeze his hand, weak but firm. “I’m here,” you whisper, and he breaks, pressing his lips to your knuckles, his tears warm against your skin. The love between you grows, raw and unshakable, binding you tighter with every touch, every word.

Weeks later, you’re recovering, bruises fading but ribs still tender. Hoseok’s there every day, his presence a steady warmth, helping you walk, stretching your legs with hands so gentle it makes your heart ache.

Tonight, the hospital room is quiet, the only sounds the hum of machines and your soft breaths. He’s kneeling beside your bed, his lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, soft and reverent, like he’s worshipping every inch of you that’s still here.

“God, I thought I lost you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared me more than any race ever could. I kept imagining a world without you, and it was fucking empty.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, your heart swelling at his vulnerability. “I’m here, Hoseok,” you murmur, your voice soft but firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses you, slow and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, the feel of your lips. His thumb brushes your bandaged waist, careful not to hurt you, but the touch is electric, grounding you in this moment.

“You’re such a sap,” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “What happened to the cocky asshole from the track?”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, his eyes crinkling with that familiar spark. “Oh, he’s still here, princess. Just taking a break to make sure my favorite rival doesn’t break my heart again.”

He leans in, nipping at your earlobe, his voice dropping to a playful growl. “Don’t get used to this soft shit. I’m still gonna kick your ass when you’re back on your feet.”

You laugh, the sound weak but genuine, and it feels like a victory. “Keep dreaming, scooter boy,” you retort, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair. “I’ll be smoking you again in no time.”

His grin widens, but his eyes soften, and he presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck, I love it when you talk like that,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of teasing and adoration. “But seriously… I need you close tonight. I need to know you’re real.”

Your heart skips, and you shift slightly, wincing at the pull in your ribs. “Then get up here,” you say, patting the narrow hospital bed beside you. “I want to feel your warmth. No funny business, though—I’m still sore as hell.”

He laughs, the sound bright and boyish, and carefully climbs into the bed, maneuvering so he’s lying beside you without jostling your injuries.

His body is warm, solid, a comforting weight against you, and you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent of cedar and faint motor oil. His arm drapes over you, light but protective, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re gonna milk this invalid thing, aren’t you?” he teases, his voice soft, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder. “Gonna make me play nurse forever?”

“Damn right,” you murmur, a smile playing on your lips as you close your eyes, savoring his closeness. “Spoon-feeding me soup for life sounds fair.”

He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest, and it’s the most comforting sound you’ve heard in weeks. “Deal, princess. But don’t expect me to go easy on you when you’re back on the track.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, and for a moment, the playful banter fades, replaced by something deeper, unspoken. “I’m not leaving you behind, Hoseok,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but heavy with promise. “Not ever.”

He swallows, his eyes glistening, and he kisses you again, soft and lingering. “Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Three months after the crash, you own the track again.

You cross the finish line, body humming, high on adrenaline, cheers blasting around you like music—and you barely get your helmet off before Hoseok is there, cutting through the crowd like a man possessed.

His eyes find yours—burning, wild—and he doesn’t ask.

He grabs your wrist, yanks you around the corner of the pit garage where your car’s parked, flings open the backseat door, and shoves you inside like he’s been waiting forever to ruin you.

The door slams shut. The air is thick. The silence? Carnal.

“You’re fucking insane,” he growls, already crawling in after you, slamming the lock shut. “And I’m so goddamn addicted to it.”

You barely get out a laugh before he’s on you, crushing your lips with his, teeth clashing, hands everywhere—yanking down your zipper, shoving your suit off your shoulders.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he mutters against your skin, dragging his mouth down your throat, biting hard enough to make you cry out. “The way you looked in that suit… knowing I’m the only one who gets to rip it off you.”

You wriggle under him, straddling his lap as he settles back on the seat. The space is tight, bodies pressed so close you can feel the shape of his hard cock straining against his pants. You grind down with a moan, and he growls low in his throat.

“You scared the shit out of me that day,” he hisses, undoing the last clasp on your gear. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, biting his lip. “But if you’re still scared… then I'll make you forget everything.”

He yanks your panties aside and slides two fingers into you without warning—deep, curling instantly. You scream into his mouth, nails clawing at his back.

“Already this wet?” he groans. “You really missed me wrecking you, didn’t you?”

You can barely answer, hips bucking into his hand, his thumb rubbing hard, fast circles against your clit. The slick sounds are obscene, filling the car with wet, messy music as your moans grow louder, higher, needier.

Then he pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean, eyes dark. “Get on the seat. Face down.”

You do it without hesitation—knees on the leather, hands braced on the window, breasts pressed against the fogging glass. You hear the sound of his zipper, then feel the thick, hot press of him at your entrance.

He doesn’t ease in. He slams into you.

You choke on a gasp, forehead dropping against the glass. “Holy fuck—”

“That’s right,” he growls, slamming into you again, again. “You don’t need a fucking finish line. This is where you belong.”

The car rocks violently with every thrust, creaking on its springs. Your moans are open-mouthed and desperate, loud in the small, enclosed space. His fingers wrap around your neck from behind, tugging your head back just enough.

“Look,” he pants, pointing to the side mirror. “Look at how fucked-out you look already.”

You glance—and whimper. Your face is flushed, hair a mess, mouth open as he rails you mercilessly. The mirror shakes with the rhythm of your bodies, fog curling along the windows like steam from hell itself.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarls, slapping your ass so hard it stings. “Come all over my cock like a good fucking girl?”

“Yes—yes, yes, yes—” you sob, grinding back against him, walls fluttering, body coiled so tight it hurts. “Hoseok, fuck— I’m—!”

You shatter.

You convulse around him, screaming into the window, whole body trembling as he fucks you through it—relentless, hips slamming, one hand tangled in your hair, the other still gripping your throat.

Then he flips you over, pins you down across the seat, and buries himself again—deep, hard, filthy.

He groans your name, kisses you roughly, bites your shoulder as he thrusts faster. “Gonna fill you up. Stuff you full till you’re leaking with me.”

“Do it,” you moan. “Mark me. Ruin me.”

He grabs your thighs, presses them back until you’re nearly folded, and with one final thrust—he spills inside you with a loud, broken curse, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning into you.

You lay there, panting, trembling, dripping, the windows fogged, the backseat wrecked, his cum warm inside you.

For a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, tangled together in sweat and victory and something dangerously close to love.

Then, softly— “Hoseok...” You caress his cheeks.

“That was my last race.”

He blinks down at you, stunned. “What?”

You reach up, brush his damp hair back, voice calm. “I’m done. I won. That’s enough. I want you. You were willing to give up everything for me. Now it’s my turn.”

He stares at you, lips parted, eyes wet. “Fuck… You’re serious?”

You smile. “I’m not leaving you behind, Hoseok. I love you.”

And then he kisses you—deep, dirty, tender. “Fuck, I don’t deserve you,” he whispers against your lips. “But I swear to god, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life proving I do.”

You and Hoseok stand hand in hand, facing the palace—not as a racer and a prince, but as a team. A little mismatched, a little chaotic, but so full of love it could melt stone.

His parents, the king and queen, are intimidating in every sense. His mother’s expression is polite, but cold. His father’s gaze flicks down to your grease-stained fingers with a barely hidden sigh.

But Hoseok holds your hand tighter. And when he speaks in that calm, steady voice, the one that always makes your heart flutter, he leaves no room for doubt.

“She’s not just a racer,” he says, like he’s declaring something sacred. “She’s my partner. My love. My heart. My favorite everything. I’ll give up the crown before I give up her.”

You glance at him, heart bursting, then lift your chin and say, gently but firmly, “I’m not here to take him away from you. I’m here to be by his side. For all the potholes and palace halls in the road ahead.”

His mother blinks. And something softens. A tiny flicker, like a stubborn cloud letting in a sliver of sunshine.

It’s not instant. There are weeks of stiff dinners and awkward silences. But you charm them slowly—with the quiet strength beneath your playful wit, the way you patch Hoseok’s bruised knuckles with band-aids shaped like stars, the way you steady him without dimming his light.

Eventually, they see it. The queen reaches for your hand one afternoon, her voice quiet. “You make him better,” she says, simply. The king grunts, nodding. “You’re tougher than you look. We approve.”

That night, you sob into Hoseok’s hoodie for a solid twenty minutes while he rubs your back and whispers, “Told you they’d love you. You’re irresistible.”

And with their blessing, you finally dive headfirst into your dream—your own automotive startup, funded by your racing prize money. You swap racetracks for workshops, high heels for tool belts.

You’re happiest elbow-deep in engine grease, music blaring, messy bun half-falling out, building machines that hum like dreams.

Sometimes, Hoseok visits between royal duties, tiptoeing into the workshop in shiny shoes, immediately ruining his look when he kisses your forehead and ends up with an oil smudge across his cheek. “My hotshot CEO,” he teases, spinning on your office chair like a child. “Will you marry me now, or after I steal your coffee?”

The wedding approaches—glorious, glittery, a little overwhelming. The palace is buzzing with plans. One old tradition says you can’t see your groom the night before the ceremony.

Which is cute. In theory. But you miss him. A lot.

So naturally, you decide rules are for cowards.

You sneak barefoot through the palace corridors, giggling every time you hide behind a curtain to avoid a guard. Your silk nightgown flutters around your legs, and your heart races with excitement, not fear.

When you finally tap on his chamber door, it creaks open—and there he is. Standing sleepy-eyed in just grey sweatpants and messy hair, looking at you like you are the sunrise.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispers, grinning like a little boy with a secret.

You shrug, stepping in and tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe my favorite royal dork missed me too?”

He scoops you up instantly, making you yelp as he spins you once, then carries you to the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“This is why I’m marrying you,” he murmurs, tucking a blanket around you. “You break into my room in designer sleepwear just to cuddle.”

You curl into his arms, resting your cheek on his chest, grinning so wide it hurts. “I just wanted one last night before the tiaras and titles and all that royal glitter. Just you. Just me.”

“And I figured if I’m about to marry a prince, I deserve one last cuddle as your girlfriend.”

His fingers start drawing gentle shapes on your back, and he kisses your forehead with a soft hum. “It’s always gonna be just us,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re wearing a crown and making scary palace decisions while I’m late because I was too busy to admire my wife even in dreams.”

You giggle, snuggling closer. “And I’ll still smell like engine oil at state dinners.”

“And I’ll still sneak into your workshop to ‘borrow a wrench’ and end up making out with my wife next to a half-built machines,” he teases, eyes twinkling.

You whisper and laugh through the night—about honeymoon plans, about adopting a dog and naming it Clutch, about building a secret racecourse behind the palace.

At one point, you whisper, “You’re gonna be the best king this kingdom’s ever had.”

And he kisses your temple, brushing your hair back like you’re the most precious thing in his world. “Only because you’re gonna be my queen, the coolest Queen of this kingdom.”

You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm and full of love, the kind that isn’t loud or grand—but steady, soul-deep, and forever.

A/n: Sorry for late updates, guys. Office is actually hectic nowadays. 😭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Arrest Me, Officer!!

Pairing: Cop!Reader x Cybersecurity Student!Jungkook Word Count: ~6k Rating: Explicit (18+) Genres: Romantic Comedy | Smut | Fluff | Noona Romance Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM elements (handcuffs, light dom/sub dynamics), dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), secondhand embarrassment, mentions of criminal activity (no violence), strong language.

You are transferred to a new city. Your new apartment building is modest but clean, tucked in a quiet corner of city. You’re hauling boxes up the stairs, sweat beading on your forehead, when you hear it: the unmistakable sound of someone trying way too hard.

“Hey, Noona, need a hand with those?” The voice is smooth, cocky, and dripping with intent. You turn to see a guy leaning against the railing, all tousled black hair, ripped jeans, and a leather jacket that screams I’m trouble but make it hot. His grin is wide, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You squint. “Noona? I don’t know you, kid.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Kid? Ouch. I’m Jeon Jungkook, your new neighbor. And you are…?” He steps closer, close enough for you to catch the faint cedarwood cologne clinging to him.

You set down a box labeled KITCHEN and wipe your brow. “Busy. That’s my name.”

His laugh is bright, boyish, and annoyingly charming. “C’mon, Noona. What do you do? Model? CEO? International spy?”

You take a long sip of your iced Americano, eyeing him over the rim. “I’m a cop.”

His grin falters for a split second before doubling in size. He leans in, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Arrest me, Officer.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You don’t blink. A dog across the street stops chewing its bone to stare.

Two guys standing ten steps away—his friends, you assume—freeze. One, with sharp cheekbones and a boxy grin, gasps so loudly and starts wheezing like he’s about to choke. The other, shorter with a mischievous glint, facepalms and pulls out his phone and starts filming.

“Jungkook,” the wheezing one gasps, “you did not just say that.”

The filming one cackles. “This is going viral, bro. Say it again for the algorithm.”

Jungkook’s ears turn red, but he doubles down, winking at you. “What? I’m a law-abiding citizen… mostly.”

You roll your eyes so hard your optic nerve files for retirement. “Stick to mostly, Jeon.” You grab your box and head inside, leaving him to drown in his friends’ laughter.

As you disappear into the building, the teasing outside escalates. Jimin, the shorter one with a grin that could charm a snake, slaps Jungkook’s shoulder. “Bro, ‘Arrest me, Officer’? Really? Did you borrow that from a bad rom-com”

Taehyung, still wheezing, wipes tears from his eyes. “I’m framing this moment. The dog’s face, man. Even it was embarrassed for you. I’m sending this to the group chat—title: Jungkook’s Dignity, RIP.”

Jungkook glares at them, crossing his arms. “Not my fault, okay? She looks so cool! Did you see her? All badass with that coffee and those boxes. I panicked!”

Jimin snorts, mimicking Jungkook’s sultry tone. “Oh, Officer, cuff me, I’m a bad boy.” He doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Kook, you’re done. She’s gonna tase you next time.”

Taehyung holds up his phone, zooming in on Jungkook’s flushed face. “Say it again for the fans, Romeo. ‘Arrest me, Officer.’ C’mon, give us an encore.”

Jungkook swats at the phone, growling. “Delete that, Tae, or I’m hacking your Netflix and making it recommend rom-coms for a year.”

“Worth it,” Taehyung says, still filming. “This is my masterpiece.”

You can hear their bickering through your apartment door as you set down your box, a reluctant smirk tugging at your lips. Idiots.

Inside your apartment, you unpack, trying to shake off the encounter. The place is small but functional: a cozy living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom with a view of the city skyline.

You’re here to start over, to leave behind the mess of your last precinct—office politics, a bad breakup, and a case that still haunts you. Seoul’s supposed to be a clean slate.

But Jungkook’s face keeps popping into your head. Those doe eyes, that cocky smirk, the way he called you Noona like it was a challenge.

You groan, tossing a pillow across the room. You’re a cop, for God’s sake. You’ve faced down armed suspects without flinching. One flirty college kid shouldn’t rattle you.

Yet, as you collapse onto your couch, you can’t help but wonder what kind of chaos Jeon Jungkook is about to bring into your life.

The next few weeks are a blur of settling in: new precinct, new cases, new routines. You’re not a traffic cop—your beat is investigations, missing persons, cybercrimes—but you swear the universe is conspiring against you.

Because Jeon Jungkook has made it his personal mission to be a menace, and he’s dialed the flirting up to eleven.

It starts small. You’re walking to your car when you spot him rumbling through a red light on a sleek Harley Davidson, the black beast of a bike roaring like it’s got a personal vendetta against silence.

His helmet’s skewed, hair poking out like he’s auditioning for a K-drama. He waves at you, grinning like a kid who stole candy. “Morning, Officer Noona! Wanna race me to the station?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “That’s a ticket, Jeon.”

“Only if you catch me, Noona!” He revs the engine, the Harley’s growl echoing down the street, and speeds off, nearly clipping a mailbox. He circles back, slowing to a crawl beside you, the bike purring under him. “C’mon, admit it. You love the chase.”

You glare, but he just winks, blowing you a kiss before peeling away. Your fingers itch for your handcuffs, but you’re off duty, so you settle for muttering curses under your breath.

The next day, he parks his Bike just over the line into a no-parking zone, the chrome gleaming like it’s mocking you.

You’re not on duty, but you slap a fake ticket (a Post-it note that says STOP IT, JEON).

By noon, you find a sticky note on your apartment door:

Caught you staring, Officer 😎. Taped to it is a lollipop shaped like a heart.

You crumple the note, but you keep the lollipop. It’s cherry. Your favorite. Damn him.

The sticky notes become a daily torment. Every morning, there’s a new one on your door, each more ridiculous than the last:

“Evidence of my love: Coffee on your doorstep 💗”—and sure enough, there’s a latte from the café down the street, still warm, with Noona scrawled on the cup in Sharpie. “Arrest me again, I’m begging. I look good in cuffs.” “Noona, your glare is hotter than my laptop after a 12-hour coding hackathons.” “Is it illegal to steal your heart? Asking for a friend.”

You’re not amused. Okay, maybe you snorted once. But you’ll not let it affect you so easily.

One afternoon, you’re grabbing lunch at a food truck near your building when Jungkook rolls up on his bike, the engine’s rumble announcing him before he’s even in sight.

He’s got a tiny toy siren duct-taped to the handlebars, wailing pathetically like a dying cat. He cuts the engine and stroll over, all swagger and stupidly tight jeans.

“Noona, you on a break?” he asks, leaning against the food truck counter like he owns it. “Or are you just hungry for some… justice?” He waggles his eyebrows.

You take a bite of your kimbap, unimpressed. “I’m hungry for you to stop talking.”

He gasps, hand over his heart. “Harsh, Officer. But I bet you’d miss me if I was gone. Who else is gonna brighten your day?”

“The sun,” you deadpan, pointing at the sky. “It’s free and doesn’t break traffic laws.”

He laughs, loud and unfiltered, drawing stares from passersby. “Okay, okay, point taken. But c’mon, Noona, let me buy you a coffee. Or a smoothie. Or my eternal devotion.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “You can’t afford my coffee, Jeon.”

“Bet I can afford to make you smile, though.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “One date, Officer. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You snort, brushing past him to toss your wrapper. “‘Best behavior’? You’d probably rob a bank just to get my attention.”

He jogs to keep up, grinning. “Would it work?”

You shoot him a look that says try me and find out, but he just laughs again, undeterred, and follows you all the way to your car, tossing out increasingly absurd pickup lines.

“Is your badge made of gold? ‘Cause you’re absolutely a treasure.” “Do you have a warrant? ‘Cause you’re searching my heart without permission.”

By the time you slam your car door shut, you’re fighting a grin. He’s infuriating, but he’s good at it.

One evening, you’re off duty, heading home in your civilian clothes—jeans, a black tank top, and a leather jacket that’s more practical than Jungkook’s fashion statement.

You spot him outside the building, still fiddling with that damn toy siren on his Harley. It’s now flashing red and blue, like he’s cosplaying a patrol car.

“What the hell is that?” you ask, stopping short.

He looks up, eyes lighting up like you’re Christmas morning. “My cop magnet! Figured it’d get your attention, Noona. Wanna be my partner in crime?”

He revs the engine, making the siren wail louder, and winks. “I mean, in stopping crime, obviously. Unless you’re into the other kind.”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “It’s getting you a noise complaint.”

“Worth it if you’re the one serving it.” He hops off the bike, stepping closer—too close, as always. You can see the mole under his lip, the way his hair falls into his eyes, and that damn cedarwood cologne hits you again.

“You know, Noona, you’re kinda hot when you’re mad.”

You step back, pointing a finger at him. “And you’re kinda annoying when you breathe.”

He clutches his chest like you’ve shot him. “Oof, straight to the heart. But I bet you’d give me CPR if I stop breathing, right? Mouth-to-mouth, Officer style?”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jeon, I swear, one more line and I’m confiscating that bike.”

He gasps, draping himself over the handlebars dramatically. “Not my baby! You’d break her heart. And mine. But mostly hers.”

He pats the bike like it’s a loyal dog, then looks up with a smirk. “Unless you wanna ride her instead. I’d let you steer, Noona.”

You turn on your heel, heading inside, but not before you hear him call after you, “I’ll keep the siren on ‘til you say yes!” The wail follows you up the stairs, and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and laughing your ass off.

The breaking point comes a week later. You’re on your way to the precinct when you see Jungkook blatantly run a stop sign, the bike’s roar cutting through the morning quiet.

He pulls over and waits, leaning against the bike, helmet off, hair mussed, grinning like he’s in a damn photoshoot. You are not a traffic cop but this time you are on duty.

You pull over, grab your cuffs from your bag, and march over. His eyes widen, then sparkle with delight as you slap the cuffs on his wrists.

“Jeon Jungkook, you’re under arrest for being a pain in my ass,” you deadpan.

“Oh, Noona, this is the best day of my life,” he says, grinning like a maniac as you shove him into the back of your car.

You drive him around the block, lecturing him about traffic laws while he stares at you like you’re his personal hero. “You know, Officer,” he says, voice teasing, “these cuffs are kinda tight. You practicing for something… else?”

You glance at him in the rearview mirror, eyes narrowing. “Keep talking, Jeon, and I’ll leave you cuffed to a lamppost.”

He gasps, mock-horrified. “Kinky, Noona. I’m into it.”

When you finally uncuff him and let him go, he rubs his wrists, pouting. “You could’ve kept those on longer. I was just getting comfy.”

“Get a grip, Jeon,” you say, but you’re fighting a smile.

He leans in, voice low, eyes glinting with mischief. “Please do that again. I’ll commit so many crimes. Jaywalking. Loitering. Stealing your heart.” He winks, dodging the swat you aim at his head.

Your cheeks are burning as you drive off, but you can still hear his laugh echoing in your ears.

Your latest case is a nightmare: a missing persons investigation with a digital trail that’s gone cold. The victim, a young woman, was last seen near a university campus. Her phone’s last ping was from an encrypted messaging app, and your team’s tech guy is out sick.

You’re at the precinct, staring at a screen full of gibberish, when your boss mentions a professor at well known university who consulted on a similar case. Desperate, you head to the campus.

You find the professor in his office, a wiry man with glasses who looks like he hasn’t slept since the ‘90s. He’s cagey, deflecting questions about his research, but mentions a student who’s “brilliant with encryption.” Guess who?

Jungkook strolls in, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking unfairly good in a black hoodie and ripped jeans. He sees you and lights up. “Noona! You here to arrest me again?”

The professor sighs. “Jungkook, behave.”

You explain the situation, keeping it professional. Jungkook listens, his flirty demeanor fading as he processes the stakes. “You need a hacker,” he says, not a question.

“It’s illegal,” you warn, crossing your arms.

He grins, but it’s softer, less cocky. “But you’re the law. And I’d do anything for Noona.”

You roll your eyes but lead him to a secure room with a laptop. He sits, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work. You watch, mesmerized, as his fingers fly over the keyboard.

Lines of code scroll by, his brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out slightly. He’s muttering to himself—“C’mon, you little shit, give it up”—and you’re hit with a wave of something you refuse to name.

Desire. Respect. A dangerous mix of both.

An hour later, he leans back, triumphant. “Got it. Decrypted the messages. Looks like your suspect’s been using a d@rk web forum to cover their tracks. I’ve got IPs, timestamps, the works.”

You stare at the screen, then at him. “How the hell…?”

He winks. “I’m good with my fingers, Noona.”

You throw a pen at him. It bounces off his chest, but you’re blushing, and he knows it.

“Was that hot?” he asks, leaning closer. “Did I just get you wet with my coding skills?”

You grab a pillow from the couch and chuck it at his head. “Focus, Jeon.”

But inside, something cracks. Your walls, your resolve, your ability to pretend he’s just an annoying kid. He’s brilliant, reckless, and so infuriatingly attractive and it’s crime.

That night, you’re both at the precinct, going over the data. It’s late, the building quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights. Jungkook’s sprawled in a chair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal tattooed forearms that you definitely don’t notice.

“You’re good at this,” you say, breaking the silence. It’s the closest you’ve come to a compliment.

He looks surprised, then smirks. “Careful, Noona. That sounded like you like me.”

“Don’t push it,” you mutter, but there’s no venom in it.

He stands, stretching, and walks over to your desk. “You know, you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

“Liar,” he says, voice low, and suddenly he’s too close again, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re into me. Admit it.”

Your heart pounds, but you hold his gaze. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

He grins, undeterred. “Every night, Officer Noona.”

The case breaks wide open thanks to Jungkook’s hack. You track down the suspect, make the arrest, and save the day.

Your boss is impressed, but all you can think about is the way Jungkook looked at you when he handed over the decrypted files—like he’d do anything for you, no questions asked.

You’re walking home together, the city alive with neon lights and late-night bustle. He’s quieter than usual, hands in his pockets, stealing glances at you.

“Thanks for the help,” you say finally. “Though you had right to deny.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to help. You’re worth it.”

Your chest tightens. You’re not used to this—someone seeing you, not just the badge. You stop outside your building, turning to face him. “You’re not as bad as I thought, Jeon.”

He steps closer, voice soft. “And you’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

The air crackles between you. You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re kissing, all heat and desperation, his hands in your hair, your fingers gripping his jacket.

You’re pressed against the wall of your building, his body warm and solid against yours, when a loud splat interrupts you.

You pull back, startled, to see Taehyung standing a few feet away, a strawberry milkshake splattered on the pavement at his feet, his jaw hanging open. “Holy shit,” he says, eyes wide. “Jungkook! Cop Noona! You’re—oh my God, I need to tell Jimin!”

“Tae, wait—” Jungkook starts, but Taehyung’s already sprinting toward their apartment, phone in hand, yelling, “Jimin! Code Red! Kook’s making out with the cop! I dropped my shake for this!”

You groan, pressing your forehead against Jungkook’s shoulder. “Your friends are a nightmare.”

He laughs, breathless, pulling you closer. “Yeah, but you’re into it.” He kisses you again, quick and teasing, before grabbing your hand. “Inside,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

Your apartment is dark, the only light from the city outside. You barely make it through the door before he’s kissing you again, hungry and urgent. You push him against the wall, hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under his shirt.

“Wait,” he gasps, eyes dark with want. “You got those handcuffs handy?”

You freeze, then smirk. “You’re trouble, Jeon.”

You grab the cuffs from your duty bag, the metal cool against your palm. He watches, pupils blown, as you dangle them in front of him. “Strip,” you order, voice low and commanding.

He obeys, peeling off his shirt to reveal a body that’s all lean muscle and ink, tattoos curling over his chest and arms like a map you want to explore.

His jeans hit the floor, leaving him in tight black briefs that do little to hide his arousal. You back him toward the bedroom, pushing him onto the bed.

He scoots up, hands above his head, wrists crossed against the headboard, his eyes locked on you with a mix of defiance and desperation.

“Arrest me, Officer,” he says, voice husky, teasing, but there’s a raw plea beneath it.

You snap the cuffs on, the click loud in the quiet room. He tugs against them, testing, and groans when they hold firm. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

You straddle his hips, still fully clothed, and his breath hitches as you lean down, your lips brushing his ear. “Let’s see how much trouble you can handle, Jeon.”

You start with your jacket, tossing it aside with a casual flick that makes his eyes widen. “You’re killing me already,” he mutters, tugging at the cuffs.

“Patience,” you tease, gripping the hem of your tank top. You pull it off slowly, inch by inch, revealing the black lace bra underneath. His gaze is heavy, hungry, tracking every movement. “Like what you see, bad boy?”

He groans, hips shifting under you. “Noona, you’re gonna make me lose it before you even touch me.”

You smirk, tossing the tank top at his face. It lands on his nose, and he shakes it off, glaring playfully. “Rude. Uncuff me and I’ll show you rude.”

“Not a chance,” you say, sliding off your jeans with deliberate slowness, letting them pool on the floor. His eyes rake over your matching lace panties, and he lets out a low curse, his voice rough with need. “Fuck, Noona, you’re a goddamn weapon.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs, your hands skimming his chest, tracing the lines of his tattoos. “Flattery won’t get you out of those cuffs,” you murmur, leaning down to nip at his collarbone. He arches into you, a soft whimper escaping his lips.

“Please,” he breathes, “touch me, Noona.”

You slide his briefs down, freeing his cock—hard, thick, and already leaking precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the slickness over his length.

He gasps, hips bucking, the cuffs rattling against the headboard. “Fuck—fuck, that’s—”

His words dissolve into a moan as you tighten your grip, moving your hand in a steady rhythm, teasing him with slow, deliberate strokes that linger on the sensitive head.

“Too much?” you ask, voice dripping with mock innocence. You drag your thumb over the slit, collecting more precum, and he curses again, his head tipping back, throat exposed, veins standing out against his flushed skin. You lean down, licking a stripe up his neck, tasting salt and heat, and he shudders under you.

“You’re evil,” he pants, eyes squeezed shut, his voice cracking as you twist your wrist, stroking him faster. Your other hand cups his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten under your touch.

His moans grow louder, more desperate, his body trembling as you bring him closer to the edge. You slow down just as his hips start to jerk erratically, earning a frustrated whine that’s half-brat, half-plea.

“Noona, please,” he begs, voice raw, his eyes opening to meet yours, dark and blown with lust. “I’m so close—”

“Not yet,” you say, releasing him completely. He groans, glaring at you with those needy eyes, his chest heaving. You stand, turning your back to him, and unhook your bra, letting it fall. You glance over your shoulder, catching his tortured expression. “Enjoying the show?”

“You’re gonna pay for this,” he growls, but there’s no bite to it, just pure desperation, his cock twitching against his stomach.

You slide your panties down, kicking them aside, and his breath catches, a low, broken sound escaping his throat.

You climb back onto the bed, straddling his hips, your slick folds brushing against his length. He groans, loud and shattered, as you roll your hips, teasing him with the heat of your core, coating his cock in your arousal without letting him inside.

“Fuck, Officer,” he gasps, tugging at the cuffs so hard the headboard creaks. “You’re killing me.”

You lean down, kissing him deeply, your tongue sliding against his, swallowing his moans. He kisses you back like he’s starving, all teeth and heat, his desperation pouring into every movement.

You pull back, breathless, and guide his cock to your entrance, sinking down slowly.

The stretch is delicious, and you both moan as you take him deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you, filling you perfectly.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, eyes locked on where your bodies join, his voice thick with awe. “You feel—fuck, so good.”

You ride him slowly at first, savoring the way he fills you, the way his hips strain to meet yours, the cuffs limiting his movement. “Be good,” you murmur, pinning his chest with your hands, your nails digging into his skin just enough to make him hiss. “My rules.”

He’s a brat, though, and he bucks harder, the cuffs rattling. “C’mon, Officer, interrogate me properly,” he says, voice rough with need, a smirk tugging at his lips despite his desperation.

You laugh, breathless, and pick up the pace, riding him hard, your hips snapping down with force, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust.

His moans are loud, uninhibited, mingling with your gasps as you chase your release. The neighbors are definitely hearing this, but you’re too far gone to care.

He’s chanting your name, “Noona, Noona,” like a prayer, his eyes burning into yours with something deeper than lust—adoration, need, maybe even love.

You uncuff one wrist, and he doesn’t hesitate. He surges up, wrapping his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he thrusts up into you, hard and relentless.

His pace is punishing, each thrust deep and deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The bed creaks under his force, his lips grazing your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, your body arching into his. He’s rough, unyielding, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that’s almost brutal, but it’s exactly what you need, the pleasure overwhelming.

“You like that, Officer Noona?” he growls, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, guiding your movements as he fucks you deeper. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet for me.”

You’re spiraling, the pleasure building to a crescendo, your walls clenching around him. “Don’t—don’t be irresponsible,” you pant, your voice teasing despite the haze of pleasure. “Come in my mouth, Jeon.”

His eyes widen, a low groan ripping from his throat. “Fuck, Noona, you can’t just say that—”

He pulls out suddenly, leaving you gasping at the loss, and you slide down the bed, taking him into your mouth without hesitation.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting yourself on him, then take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs. He’s trembling, his free hand fisting your hair as you suck him, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue teasing the underside of his cock.

You come first, your fingers slipping between your thighs to rub your clit, pushing yourself over the edge as you moan around him.

The vibration sends him spiraling, and he comes with a broken moan, spilling hot and thick into your mouth. You swallow every drop, licking him clean as he shudders above you, his breath hitching.

He collapses beside you, panting, the cuffs still dangling from one wrist. You’re both sweaty, tangled in the sheets, the air heavy with the scent of sex.

He reaches for you, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead in a gesture so soft it makes your chest ache.

But you’re not done.

You trail kisses down his chest, past the sharp lines of his abdomen, until you’re between his legs again. His cock is still half-hard, twitching from the aftershock.

“Noona—” he rasps, voice hoarse. “I can’t—fuck, please—I’m gonna come again—!”

“Then do it,” you whisper, licking a stripe along the underside of his shaft. “Come for me again, baby.”

He sobs—actually sobs—as your mouth closes around him, and he spills again, overstimulated and overwhelmed, his entire body shivering as you milk every drop from him.

Only when he’s completely boneless, cuffed and wrecked and whispering your name like a prayer, do you finally crawl up beside him, unlocking the cuff gently.

“You alive?” you whisper.

“Barely,” he croaks, burying his face into your neck. “Please tell me I get arrested again tomorrow.”

The next morning, you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet. Jungkook’s in your kitchen, shirtless, his hair a messy halo, flipping pancakes with a concentration that’s almost comical.

He’s got one of your aprons tied around his waist—pink, with little hearts, a gag gift from a coworker—and it’s so absurdly domestic you nearly choke on your own laughter.

“Morning, Noona,” he calls, not turning around, but you can hear the grin in his voice. “Made you breakfast. Figured I owe you after you, uh, detained me so thoroughly.”

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms, a smirk playing on your lips. “You’re gonna burn those pancakes if you keep flirting instead of flipping.”

He gasps, spinning to face you, spatula in hand like a weapon. “Slander! I’m a pancake master. Watch and learn.” He flips a pancake with a dramatic flourish, only for it to land half-off the pan, splattering batter across the stove.

He freezes, then turns to you with a sheepish grin. “Okay, maybe I’m more of a… pancake enthusiast.”

You laugh, loud and unguarded, and his eyes soften, like your laughter is the best thing he’s heard all week. “You’re hopeless, Jeon.”

“Hopelessly in love,” he shoots back, winking as he scrapes the ruined pancake into the trash. “Want some coffee? I wrote Noona on the mug, just for you.”

You roll your eyes but take the mug, the Sharpie-scrawled Noona making you smile despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrects, sliding a plate of slightly lopsided pancakes toward you. “Eat up, Officer. You need your strength to keep up with my criminal ways.”

Later, you find another sticky note on your door, courtesy of Taehyung:

Round of applause for the headboard symphony 👏. P.S.: Soundproof your walls, we’re begging.

You crumple it, cheeks burning, but Jungkook snatches it from your hand, cackling.

“Oh my God, Tae’s never letting this go,” he says, pinning the note to your fridge like it’s a trophy. “We’re legends, Noona.”

“We’re a noise complaint waiting to happen,” you mutter, but you’re laughing, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

Jungkook lands an internship in the police department’s cybercrime unit, thanks to a glowing recommendation from you (not that you’ll admit it).

He shows up to his first day wearing a tie that’s knotted so badly it looks like a noose, and you spend ten minutes fixing it, your fingers brushing his neck as he stares at you, all soft and smitten.

“You’re gonna get me fired with that look,” you warn, smoothing his collar.

“Good,” he says, grinning. “Then I can steal you away, and we’ll be partners with better tech and no crimes.”

You shove him, but you’re smiling, and he catches your hand, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. “I’m keeping the cuffs, by the way,” he whispers, winking. “For professional reasons.”

You keep the handcuffs on your nightstand, and he keeps breaking minor rules—parking his bike a little too close to a hydrant, “accidentally” blasting his toy siren at 7 a.m.—just to see if you’ll cuff him again.

You do, sometimes, just to wipe that smug grin off his face. But most nights, you’re tangled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, his voice soft with something that feels dangerously like love.

“Noona,” he murmurs one night, curled against you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “You ever gonna let me arrest you?”

You kiss him, slow and sweet, your heart doing things you’re not ready to name. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

He pulls you closer, his laugh soft and sleepy. “Guess I’ll just have to keep dreaming, then. But you’re in all of ‘em, so I’m good.”

And as you drift off, his arms around you, the cuffs glinting on the nightstand, you know you’re caught—hook, line, and sinker—in the best possible way.

A/N: Did you guys remember something from title? 🤭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[kittenan2]

Loved this Idea 🤭

So, I came across this X post, should I try it out? 🤔🤔👀

Hoseok x Reader | Double Identity | Enemies to lovers | Hidden identity | Mystery boy trope | Car sex | Mask kink | Garage makeout | Reader as badass racer

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Spicy Fights and Sweeter Nights

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader Genre: Enemies-to-Lovers, Office Romance, Smut, Rom-Com, Fluff Rating: 18+ (Explicit) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, public teasing, light dom/sub dynamics, dirty talk, rough sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), semi-public sex, workplace romance, fake pregnancy misunderstanding, intense sexual tension, mild degradation, spanking, biting, scratching, edging, fingering, stroking, licking, unprotected sex (use protection, folks!), fluff, humor, chaotic team dynamics. Word Count: ~6k

The fluorescent lights of the sales and marketing department hum like a chorus of judgmental insects, casting a harsh glow over the chaos of your daily battlefield. Papers are scattered across desks, coffee cups wobble precariously, and your coworkers huddle behind monitors, whispering like they’re plotting a coup. You’re at your desk, glaring at your computer screen, trying to ignore the insufferable presence of Kim Seokjin three desks away.

Jin, with his stupidly perfect face and tailored blazer, is leaning back in his chair, tossing a stress ball with the nonchalance of a man who knows he’s the office heartthrob. He catches your eye and flashes that smug, “I’m-better-than-you” grin that makes your blood boil.

“Stop staring, Y/N,” he drawls, voice carrying over the cubicles. “I know I’m gorgeous, but we have a deadline.”

You grit your teeth, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “If you spent half as much time working as you do admiring yourself, we’d have launched this campaign last week.”

He tosses the ball higher, catching it without looking. “And if you didn’t micromanage every slide I make, we’d have a campaign worth launching.”

Lisa, sitting between you, sighs dramatically. “Here we go again.”

The team’s been planning a food truck event to promote the company’s new product: a trendy, protein-packed snack bar called “GlowBites.” You’re in charge of logistics; Jin’s handling customer engagement. Naturally, you’ve been at each other’s throats over every detail. Today’s team meeting is no exception.

In the conference room, you stand at the whiteboard, presenting your plan for the food truck layout. “We’ll position the truck near the park fountain for maximum foot traffic,” you say, pointing to your diagram. “Clean, efficient, accessible.”

Jin leans back, loosening his tie in frustration, the motion drawing your eye to the sliver of collarbone exposed as his shirt shifts. “A fountain? Really, Y/N? You want people to eat protein bars while dodging water spray? Genius.”

You tap your pen aggressively on the table, leaning forward, your faces inches apart across the conference table. “Jin’s idea to use influencers is lazy. We need grassroots engagement.”

Jin mirrors your stance, leaning in, his eyes locked on yours, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Grassroots? You mean handing out samples in a parking lot like a lemonade stand?”

The air crackles, your noses almost brushing. Lisa nudges Jungkook, whispering, “Ten bucks says they’re making out by next month.” Hobi, barely containing a grin, mutters, “They’re gonna jump each other on this table.”

You pull back, cheeks burning, and snap, “Maybe if you’d read the site map instead of flirting with the graphic designer, you’d know the fountain’s decorative, not a splash zone.”

Jin smirks, undeterred. “Flirting? Please. I was giving her constructive feedback. Unlike you, I know how to be professional.”

“Oh, professional? Like when you ‘accidentally’ spilled coffee on my presentation notes?”

“That was gravity’s fault, not mine.”

Hoseok claps his hands. “Alright, lovebirds, save it for the food truck. We’ve got a product to sell.”

You and Jin both snap, “We’re not lovebirds!”

Lisa mutters, “Best haters-to-lovers trope I’m ever gonna witness.”

Post-meeting, the team retreats to the break room, leaving you and Jin to stew. You’re at your desk when you notice a coffee cup on it, a Post-it stuck to the lid: “Drink this so you’re less grumpy. —J.” You scowl, recognizing Jin’s handwriting, but the coffee’s your exact order—black, two sugars. You scribble “Not your secretary to follow your orders” on the Post-it and slap it on his monitor, but you sip the coffee anyway, annoyed that it’s perfect.

In the break room, Lisa’s created a group chat called “Y/N + Jin: Hate or Fate?” Yoongi, sipping his black coffee, deadpans, “I’m betting they’re already hooking up and too dumb to admit it.” Jimin, grinning, shows a photoshopped wedding invite for you and Jin, complete with cartoon hearts and GlowBites as the wedding cake. The chat erupts, with Hobi adding, “I’m sending this to them at the worst possible moment.”

You catch wind of the group chat when Jimin “accidentally” leaves his phone open. You roll your eyes, but a tiny part of you wonders if they’re onto something. Then you shake it off. Jin’s the worst. Right?

The food truck event is in full swing, the park buzzing with families, students, and foodies. The neon-yellow GlowBites truck is parked near a decorative fountain, its gentle trickle drowned out by the crowd’s chatter. The air smells of grilled meat from nearby vendors and the faint sweetness of your snack bars. You’re inside the truck, prepping samples with surgical precision, arranging them in color-coded sections—green for matcha, red for berry, yellow for mango. Jin’s outside, charming every customer, his laughter ringing like he’s hosting a talk show.

You lean out the service window, holding a tray of bite-sized GlowBites. “Jin, stop overselling it. You’re gonna make us run out before noon.”

He turns, flashing that infuriating smile at a group of giggling college girls. “Relax, Y/N. I’m just giving the people what they want—my face and your snacks.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out. “Just pass out the samples and stop posing like you’re on a magazine cover.”

He saunters over, grabbing the tray, his fingers brushing yours for a split second. The contact sends a spark through you, and you hate how your breath catches. He notices, eyes glinting with mischief. “Careful, Y/N. You’re blushing.”

You nearly drop the tray. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Before he can answer, you’re both distracted by the tray arrangement. “Why are these so… organized?” Jin says, rearranging the samples into a chaotic pile. “It’s a food truck, not a museum.”

You snatch the tray back, your shoulder bumping his. “Stop messing with my system! Green, red, yellow—it’s efficient.”

He leans closer, smirking. “It’s neurotic. Loosen up, Y/N.” Your hands brush again as you fight over the tray, the tension crackling. A customer, an older woman, chuckles. “You two fight like an old married couple!”

Jin winks at you, whispering, “Hear that, wifey?” You elbow him, hard, but your cheeks burn.

The chaos escalates when Lisa and Jungkook start spreading a rumor to save the event. Your bickering is scaring off customers, so they take matters into their own hands. You catch them near the truck, Lisa spinning a tale to a line of people: “They’re married, and she’s pregnant. That’s why they’re so snappy—hormones! Please try the GlowBites to support them!” Jungkook nods, filming for “marketing content,” adding, “Yeah, she’s cranky because of the baby!” Hobi, holding a phone, uploads the clip to the company’s socials, captioning it “#GlowBitesLoveStory.”

Soon, customers are congratulating you left and right. A middle-aged woman with a kind smile approaches. “Congratulations, you two! Your friends told me you’re expecting!”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Excuse me?”

Jin, quick on his feet, turns on the charm. “Uh, thank you, ma’am! We’re… very excited.” He shoots you a look, daring you to play along.

The woman beams, taking a sample. “You’re working so hard for that little one. I’ll tell my book club about these GlowBites!”

As she walks away, you grab Jin’s arm, yanking him closer. “What was that?”

He shrugs, too amused. “I’m not correcting her. She’s buying ten boxes.”

The congratulations keep coming. A group of sorority girls gush over Jin’s “dad vibes,” asking for baby name suggestions. Jin suggests “GlowBite Jr.,” earning a glare from you as you mutter, “I’m not pregnant!” A dad offers Jin parenting advice: “My wife was like that when she was expecting—hormones!” You nearly chuck a sample at him, but Jin catches your wrist, smirking, “Easy, mama bear.” An old man pats Jin’s shoulder, saying, “Take care of her and the baby!” A teenager winks, “You guys are cute, even when you’re fighting.”

You corner Lisa during a lull. “Why is everyone acting like I’m pregnant?”

She chokes on her water. “Oh, uh… funny story. We told people you and Jin are married and expecting to get them to try the product. Your arguing wasn’t helping, so we blamed hormones. It’s working!”

You gasp. “You did WHAT?”

Jin, overhearing, laughs so hard he nearly drops a tray. “Oh, this is gold. Y/N, you’re my pregnant wife now. Should I call you ‘honey’?”

You shove a sample in his mouth. “I’m going to kill you all.”

The final straw is a sweet grandma with twinkling eyes. She hands you a bag of traditional red bean sweets. “For you, dear. These give energy during pregnancy. Stay strong for that baby.”

You stare at the bag, mortified. Jin bows deeply. “Thank you, ma’am. We’re so grateful.”

As she walks away, you hiss, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

He leans in, voice low. “What’s not to enjoy? You’re glowing, wifey.” His proximity makes your skin prickle, and you hate how your heart stutters.

“Keep talking, and I’ll shove these sweets where the sun doesn’t shine.”

He winks. “Kinky.”

The event is winding down, the park emptying as the sun dips low, casting a golden glow over the neon-yellow GlowBites truck. You and Jin are stuck cleaning up, the rest of the team conveniently “busy” elsewhere. The truck’s interior is a mess—crumbs everywhere, empty trays stacked haphazardly, the air thick with the sugary scent of GlowBites. You’re wiping the counter with aggressive swipes, muttering about your meddlesome team, when Jin tosses a rag at you, hitting your shoulder.

“Stop sulking, Y/N,” he says, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his blazer discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms you definitely shouldn’t be noticing. “It’s not my fault everyone thinks you’re carrying my child.”

You throw the rag back, smacking his chest. “You didn’t help, Mr. ‘Oh, we’re excited.’”

He steps closer, smirking. “Admit it. You like the idea of me as your baby daddy.”

Your pulse quickens, but you scoff, turning to scrub a nonexistent stain. “In your dreams, Mr. Kim.”

He moves behind you, so close you feel the heat of him, his breath ghosting over your neck. “You sure? Because the way you keep staring at me says otherwise.”

You spin around, ready to snap back, but he’s right there, towering over you, eyes dark with something beyond teasing. The air crackles, heavy with unspoken tension. You should push him away, tell him to fuck off, but your body betrays you, rooted to the spot, your gaze flicking to his lips.

“Back off,” you say, voice barely a whisper, lacking conviction.

He doesn’t. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice low and rough. “Make me.”

The challenge hangs there, and something snaps. You grab his collar, yanking him down, but pause, your noses brushing, breaths mingling. “Scared, Y/N?” he taunts, smirking, but his eyes are heavy with want. You close the gap, kissing him hard, a collision of frustration and need. His lips are soft but demanding, claiming yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak. You kiss back fiercely, teeth grazing his bottom lip, drawing a low groan that sends heat pooling in your belly.

He presses you against the counter, hands sliding to your hips, gripping tightly as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing yours, slow and deliberate, then urgent. You tug his hair, hard, and he hisses, breaking away to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck. You moan softly, head tipping back, and he takes advantage, sucking lightly, leaving a mark you’ll curse him for later.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You freeze for a split second, heart racing at the confession, but you can’t admit you feel the same—not yet. Instead, you pull him back to your lips, kissing him deeper, your nails scratching his neck as you pour every ounce of frustration into it. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine, then gripping your waist to pull you flush against him. You feel him, hard through his jeans, and your hips roll instinctively, making him groan, low and filthy.

“You keep doing that,” he growls, “and we’re not cleaning this truck.”

You bite his lip, smirking. “Good. You deserve to suffer.”

He spins you, pressing your front against the counter, his body flush against your back. His lips find your ear, whispering, “Oh, sweetheart, you’ll regret that.” His hands slide down, squeezing your thighs, making you squirm. He grinds against you, and you gasp, the truck creaking with the movement. You’re lost in it—kissing, touching, panting—until footsteps outside snap you back.

You shove him away, breathless, fixing your shirt. He’s disheveled, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes dark with unspent desire. “This isn’t over,” he says, voice a promise.

You glare, heart pounding. “It never started.”

He hands you a rag, fingers lingering on yours, the air thick. “You can’t run forever, Y/N.” You storm out, his chuckle following you, making your skin tingle.

A week later, the tension is unbearable. The fake pregnancy rumor has made every glance, every accidental touch feel like a lit fuse. You’re in the office storage room, arguing over product placement for the next campaign.

“You can’t put the GlowBites next to the energy drinks,” you say, arms crossed. “It’s a health snack, not a pre-workout.”

Jin rolls his eyes, stepping closer to grab a box from the shelf behind you. “And you can’t keep rearranging my displays because you’re obsessed with control.”

You shove him, a light push, but it’s enough. He grabs your waist, spinning you until your back hits the shelf, boxes rattling. His lips crash into yours, hungry and messy, all tongue and heat.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, lifting you onto a stack of promo boxes. Your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, feeling how much he wants you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You bite his lip, hard enough to make him hiss. “Good.”

He yanks your blouse open, buttons popping, and you don’t care. His hands cup your breasts, teasing your nipples through your bra. You arch into him, moaning as he grinds against you, the friction driving you wild.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Unless you want the whole office to know.”

You clamp a hand over your mouth as he slides your skirt up, fingers teasing through your slip. He’s relentless, stroking until you’re soaking, thighs trembling. He pushes your underwear aside, sliding two fingers inside, curling them just right. You bite his shoulder to muffle your cry.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans. “Been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer, too lost. He drops to his knees, pulling your panties down, his mouth on you, tongue lapping like he’s starving. You grip the shelf, moaning his name as he brings you to the edge. When you come, it’s explosive, your body shaking. He stands, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself.

You fumble with his belt, desperate, and he helps, chuckling. When you free him, he’s hard and thick, and you stroke him slowly, watching his face contort. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groans. You guide him to your entrance, and he pushes in, slow, then deep, filling you. You both moan, the boxes creaking as he thrusts hard, fast, his hands gripping your hips.

“Harder,” you demand, nails digging into his back.

He complies, slamming into you, leaving bruises. It’s rough, desperate, perfect. You come again, his name on your lips, and he follows, groaning, spilling inside you.

Panting, half-dressed, you’re surrounded by toppled boxes. He grins. “Best use of storage space ever.”

You laugh, shoving him. “You’re the worst.”

One afternoon, you’re both tasked with delivering campaign materials to the top floor. The elevator ride starts innocently, but Jin’s standing too close, his cologne filling the small space. You snap, “Personal space, Kim.” He smirks, leaning in. “You didn’t mind in the storage room.” Your cheeks burn, and you shove him blush, but he catches your wrist, his touch lingering. The elevator dings, but he doesn’t let go, his eyes daring you to make a move.

You’re alone again in the elevator the next day, delivering more materials. The doors close, and Jin hits the emergency stop button without warning.

“Jin, what the—”

He pins you against the wall, lips crashing into yours. “Five minutes,” he murmurs, hand sliding under your skirt. His fingers tease through your panties, and you gasp, fisting his shirt. You bite his neck, leaving a mark, and he groans, grinding against you.

“You think you’re in control?” you taunt, stroking him through his pants.

He smirks, slipping inside your panties. “Let’s find out.”

It’s frantic, his fingers working you, your hand stroking him, both racing against time. His lips suck a bruise on your neck, and you’re trembling, so close—

The elevator jolts, a voice crackling: “Is everything okay?”

You freeze, panting, skirt bunched, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Jin curses, fixing your clothes. “Yeah, just… stuck. We’re fine.”

The doors open, and you stumble out, lipstick smudged, hair a mess, Jin’s tie askew, lips red. Lisa, Jungkook, and Hobi are in the hallway, eyes wide.

Lisa’s jaw drops. “Oh my god, what happened to you two?”

Jungkook smirks, nudging Hobi. “Told you. They’re banging.”

Hobi laughs. “Y/N, your neck’s a war zone.”

You slap a hand over the hickey, mortified, while Jin adjusts his tie, grinning. “Mind your business,” he says, too smug.

Lisa whispers to Jungkook, “I’m doubling my bet. Married by next year.”

You glare, storming off, Jin’s chuckle following.

Jin’s teasing doesn’t stop—he “accidentally” drops a pen during a briefing, bending close to pick it up, his hand brushing your thigh. You retaliate by “forgetting” to CC him on an important email, making him storm to your desk, whispering, “Playing dirty, Y/N? I can play dirtier.” His voice is low, dangerous, and you hate how it makes your thighs clench.

The team’s gossip doesn’t help. Lisa leaves a parenting magazine on your desk “for research,” and Jungkook keeps humming “Baby Shark” when you pass. You’re ready to strangle them, but Jin’s smug grin every time someone mentions “the baby” makes it worse. At a team lunch, he slides you a slice of pizza, saying, “Eat up, wifey. Gotta keep your strength.” You kick him under the table, but his hand catches your ankle, holding it a second too long, his thumb brushing your skin.

By the end of the week, the tension’s a live wire. You’re both staying late to finish reports, the office empty except for the hum of the air conditioning. You’re at your desk, reviewing sales figures, when Jin approaches, tossing a file onto your desk. “Your numbers are off,” he says, leaning over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear.

“They’re not off,” you snap, shoving the file back. “Maybe check your own math.”

He grabs your chair, spinning you to face him. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re infuriating,” you retort, standing, your chest brushing his.

The argument spills into the hallway, and he backs you against the emergency exit door. The kiss is bruising, all teeth and desperation. He lifts your skirt, hand sliding between your thighs, teasing through your panties. “Already so wet,” he growls, biting your shoulder.

You smirk, stroking him through his pants, feeling him harden. “And you’re begging.”

He chuckles, dark and filthy, slipping your panties down. His fingers trace your inner thighs, barely brushing where you need him. “Shaking already?” he teases, smirking as you glare. He slides one finger inside, agonizingly slow, then stops, licking his fingers clean while you whine. “Patience,” he says, smug.

You retaliate, stroking him slowly, torturously, until he’s groaning. “Two can play this,” you whisper, twisting your wrist. He kneels, spreading your thighs, his tongue licking long, slow stripes, stopping just short of your climax. “Jin, don’t you dare,” you hiss.

He grins, standing to whisper, “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“I want you,” you gasp, pulling him into a desperate kiss, tongues clashing. He slides two fingers inside, curling, pumping, thumb teasing your clit, keeping you on edge without letting you come. You’re whimpering, begging, and he finally gives in, thrusting into you, deep and hard. The door rattles, your moans echoing. He’s relentless, one hand gripping your hip, the other pinching your nipple through your bra. You claw his back, leaving marks.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, biting your neck. You come, screaming his name, the sound bouncing off the concrete. He follows, groaning, spilling inside you.

You collapse onto the stairs, half-dressed, panting, laughing. He brushes hair from your face, kissing your forehead. “We’re so getting fired.”

“Not if I frame you first,” you reply, nuzzling into him. He chuckles.

Over the next few days, Jin’s bolder—slipping you a note during a meeting that says, “Wear that skirt again. You know why.” You wear it, just to mess with him, and catch him staring, jaw tight. At a team happy hour, he “accidentally” spills beer on your shirt, offering his jacket, his fingers lingering on your shoulders as he drapes it over you. You whisper, “You’re not slick,” but you keep the jacket on, his scent clinging to you.

It’s late on a Thursday, a week after the stairwell, and you’re both stuck in the office, finalizing a pitch. The team’s gone, and the quiet amplifies the tension. You’re at the printer, cursing a paper jam, when Jin appears, leaning against the wall, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Need help, wifey?” he teases, but his voice is softer, less cocky.

You glare, yanking at the paper. “I’ve got it, Mr. Kim.”

He steps closer, gently taking the paper from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. “You’re gonna break it,” he says, fixing the jam with infuriating ease. He doesn’t step back, his proximity making your pulse spike.

“Why do you always do that?” you snap, shoving the printer closed.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re better than me, then… do shit like this.” You gesture to the printer, the coffee he’s left on your desk, the way he’s always there when you need him.

He pauses, eyes searching yours. “Maybe because I don’t hate you as much as you think.”

You freeze, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He steps closer, voice low. “It means I’m tired of fighting, Y/N. I like you. More than I should. And I think you like me too.”

Your heart stutters, but you scoff, crossing your arms. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He leans in, close enough to kiss. “Then why do you keep letting me get this close?”

You want to argue, but the words stick. He’s right, and you hate it. Before you can stop yourself, you grab his tie, pulling him down for a kiss—soft at first, then desperate. He kisses back, hands cupping your face, and it feels different, like a surrender.

When you pull back, panting, he grins. “So, you wanna do this? For real?”

You bite your lip, heart pounding. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

He laughs, kissing you again. “My lips are sealed, secret girlfriend.”

By Friday night, you’re both working late again, the office dark and quiet. You’re arguing over who forgot to lock the office the night before, the fight spilling into the parking lot, the air cool, the lot empty except for Jin’s car.

“You’re so irresponsible,” you snap, poking his chest.

He grabs your wrist, pinning you against the hood of his car. “You’re one to talk,” he growls, kissing you fiercely, all teeth and heat. His hands slide under your skirt, teasing you until you’re trembling. “Fuck, Y/N, you drive me crazy.”

You smirk, dropping to your knees, unbuckling his belt. You take him in your mouth, teasing with slow licks, swirling your tongue until he’s gripping your hair, cursing. You stop just before he finishes, standing to whisper, “Not so fast.”

He flips you around, bending you over the hood, the metal cold against your thighs. He slides your panties down, thrusting into you, rough and filthy. “You like teasing me?” he whispers, voice dark with praise. It’s quick, desperate, the risk of security cameras making it hotter. You come hard, muffling your cry against your arm, and he follows, groaning.

You lean against the car, breathless, sharing a vape, laughing. “We’re so fucked,” he says.

You grin. “Worth it.”

Few months later, the team’s at a trendy Korean BBQ restaurant, celebrating the GlowBites launch. You and Jin are secretly dating, stealing touches under the table—his hand on your thigh, your foot nudging his calf. You share smirks over inside jokes, like when he whispers, “You’re glowing, wifey,” and you pinch his arm, hard.

The team’s still obsessed with the pregnancy rumor, tossing around baby names over soju shots. Jungkook’s got a betting pool going, and Lisa’s convinced you’re hiding a bump under your loose sweater. In the group chat “Y/N + Jin: Hate or Fate?,” Jimin’s posted a photoshopped wedding invite with you and Jin, GlowBites as the cake. Hobi’s latest contribution is a TikTok of you two arguing at the food truck, captioned “#GlowBitesBaby.” Jungkook brags about the video hitting 10k views, saying, “I’m basically a director now.”

Mid-dinner, you feel queasy—damn kimchi pancake, too spicy. You clutch your stomach, wincing, and rush to the restroom. Jin’s up in a second, half-panicked. “Hey—what’s wrong?” He paces outside, texting you, “You okay? Need me to barge in?”

You emerge, pale and sweaty, waving him off. “Just the pancake.” He orders you a ginger tea, sliding it over without a word, but his hand lingers on yours, earning a soft smile.

The team’s in chaos. Lisa gasps, “She’s throwing up!” Jungkook leans in, eyes wide. “Is it… the baby?” Hobi chokes on his soju. Jimin, dramatic, clutches his chest. “Did we manifest this? Did we speak the fake baby into existence?”

Lisa tells she will ask tailor to design a custom baby onesie, printed “For GlowBite Jr.!” You threaten to burn it, but the team roars, Yoongi muttering, “I’m not babysitting.”

The waiter brings sweet rice drink, and Lisa yells, “She can’t drink that! It’s too fermented for the baby!” You slam your head on the table, groaning. Hobi chants “Baby GlowBites!” until you throw a napkin at him.

Jin, fed up, slams his chopsticks down. “Stop it guys, we are careful every time, she is not pregnant.”

The table goes silent. You glare at Jin, eyes wide, hissing under your breath, “Are you serious? We’re supposed to keep this secret!” Your heart races, mortified that he’s just blown your cover.

Lisa bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her soju. “Oh, please, Y/N. We’ve known for weeks.”

Jungkook smirks, leaning back. “Yeah, you two aren’t exactly subtle. I saw you sneaking out of the stairwell looking like you fought a bear.”

Hobi grins, holding up his phone. “And that hickey in the elevator? Not your best cover-up.”

Jimin claps, delighted. “The group chat’s been tracking you since the food truck. ‘Hate or Fate’ was always gonna end in fate.”

Yoongi sips his drink, deadpan. “You’re both idiots, but at least you’re idiots together now.”

You bury your face in your hands, cheeks burning, while Jin laughs, squeezing your knee under the table. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, girlfriend.”

You swat his arm, but you’re smiling, the tension melting. “You’re the worst,” you mutter, but your voice is soft.

Lisa raises her glass. “To Y/N and Jin, the worst-kept secret in marketing!”

The team cheers, and you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. Jin leans in, whispering, “Are you really okay? Should we go see a doctor? What if it’s food poisoning?” His eyes are wide with worry, brows furrowed, and you feel a warmth spread through you at his concern.

You squeeze his hand, whispering back, “I’m fine, Jin. Just spicy food. But… thanks for caring.” You flash a small smile, and he relaxes, though his hand stays on yours.

Leaving the restaurant, Jin pulls you into a quiet alley, the neon sign casting a soft glow. He cups your face, kissing you gently, then pulls back, eyes searching yours. “Y/N, are you sure you don’t need a doctor? What if you’re… you know, pregnant?” His voice is soft, laced with worry, his hand tightening on yours.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I got my periods on time, Jin. It’s just the Spicy kimchi. Relax. You know I can't handle spicy unless it's you.”

He exhales and chuckles, visibly relieved, pulling you into a warm hug. “Okay, good. But no more spicy pancakes, deal?” He kisses your forehead, protective and teasing.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Deal, but only if you stop playing doctor.”

He grins, tugging you closer. “No promises. I’m keeping that onesie Lisa gonna gift us for when we’re ready.”

You swat him, but end up in his arms, walking under the city lights, laughing and bickering like always, but now with a love that’s no longer a secret. The team’s laughter fades behind you, but all you feel is Jin—his warmth, his worry, his love.

A/N: How would you feel if you get a Jin as your office colleague?😈

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[kittenan2]

A Namjoon fic requested by someone on main account. Please do check out. 💜

i’m loving all your contents but i hope you post a joon fic next (i’m sorry i’m just starved for a joon fic lately i’ve been reading the same fics every other day🫠)

Seduced and Saved

Pairing: Mafia's Right-Hand Namjoon x Kidnapped Reader Genre: Dark Romance | Mafia AU | Smut | Forbidden Lust | Rescue Mission | Seduction Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, violence, kidnapping, non-con elements (coercion), power dynamics, possessive behavior, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, oral sex, wall sex, desk sex, intense make-out sessions, angst, betrayal, gun violence, emotional manipulation, torture (graphic but non-excessive), aftercare. Word Count: ~9k

The world was a blur of chloroform and rough hands when you were taken. Now, the haze had cleared, leaving you in a suffocating underground suite, all velvet and gold but reeking of cigar smoke and bourbon.

Your wrists burned, bound behind your back with coarse rope, but you stood defiant, chin high, refusing to let fear seep into your bones.

Viktor Drae, the mafia lord who’d orchestrated your kidnapping, lounged on a chaise, his tailored suit a mockery of elegance. His eyes, dark and predatory, glinted under the chandelier as he twirled a dagger between his fingers. “On your knees, pet,” he purred, voice smooth as poison.

You spat at his polished shoes, the glob landing with a wet splat. “I’d rather choke.”

His laugh was sharp, a blade slicing the air. “Oh, I like you. You’ll be fun to break.” He waved a hand toward the shadowed corner. “Namjoon, keep an eye on her.”

A figure emerged from the darkness, broad shoulders cutting through the haze like a storm. Kim Namjoon, Viktor’s right-hand, was a paradox—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes colder than a winter grave.

His black suit hugged his frame, every movement precise, lethal. He didn’t spare you a glance, his expression carved from stone.

“Not my job,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, already turning toward the door.

Viktor’s smile faltered, a crack in his facade. “Don’t test me, Joon.”

Namjoon paused, jaw tight, his hand twitching toward the gun at his hip. Then, without a word, he strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You smirked despite the ropes cutting into your skin. If Viktor’s attack dog wasn’t interested, maybe you had a chance to claw your way out of this hell.

But deep down, you knew: Namjoon’s indifference was a lie. You’d seen the flicker in his eyes when Viktor called you pet. A spark of something—anger, maybe, or something darker. You filed it away, a weapon for later.

Days bled into nights, the opulent suite a suffocating cage of crimson velvet and gilded mirrors. Viktor’s obsession with you grew sharper, a blade honed with every defiance you threw at him.

He didn’t just want your body—he craved your submission, your spirit shattered at his feet. Each morning, he’d slink into your room, his cologne a sickly prelude to his games.

“You’ll beg for me, pet,” he’d murmur, his fingers bruising your wrists as he pinned you to the wall, his lips grazing your ear. When you spat in his face, he laughed, but his punishments were swift.

The first time, he locked you in a windowless closet for hours, the air stale, your screams swallowed by darkness.

The second, he forced you to kneel on rice grains scattered across the marble floor, your knees bleeding as he watched, sipping bourbon. “Pretty when you hurt,” he said, tilting your chin up with his dagger’s tip, a thin cut blooming on your jaw when you jerked away.

You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but your body trembled from the strain.

Later that night, you found a first aid kit on your bedside table—bandages, antiseptic, a small roll of gauze. No note, but you knew. Namjoon. His silent act of care, hidden from Viktor’s eyes, was a crack in his icy facade.

Namjoon was always there, a silent specter in the shadows. Unlike Viktor’s other “toys”—women who’d crumbled under his cruelty, their eyes vacant as they trailed him like broken dolls—Namjoon had never spared them a glance.

You’d overheard the guards whispering about it: how he’d walk past Viktor’s parade of captives, his face a mask of indifference, as if they were furniture. “Kim doesn’t care,” one guard sneered.

“He’s got no heart, just a brain for the boss’s dirty work.”

But with you, it was different. You noticed it first in the security room, where Namjoon monitored the feeds. His eyes lingered on you—not with the lustful hunger of Viktor’s men, but with a quiet intensity, like he was solving a puzzle.

When Viktor pinned you during one of his “lessons,” Namjoon’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around a glass until it shattered, blood dripping onto the floor. He didn’t flinch, just left, but you saw the storm in his eyes.

Why you? You pieced it together slowly. The other women had begged or bargained, their spirits snuffed out by fear.

But you fought—clawing, spitting, cursing Viktor even as he hurt you. Namjoon, a man who thrived on control, was drawn to your fire, the unyielding spark that refused to dim.

You caught him watching you in the dining hall, where you’d thrown a glass of wine at Viktor’s face, the red staining his shirt. Namjoon’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he turned away. It was your defiance, your refusal to break, that unraveled him—a challenge to the cold, calculated world he ruled.

You also learned his power by observing. Viktor was the face of the empire, but Namjoon was its spine. Guards straightened when he passed, their banter dying.

Once, you overheard a phone call through a cracked door—Namjoon barking orders in clipped tones, rerouting shipments, silencing a traitor with a single command.

“Without Kim, Drae’s just a loudmouth with a gun,” a guard muttered later, unaware you were listening. Namjoon held the keys to Viktor’s trafficking networks, his smuggling routes, his blackmail files. He wasn’t just the right-hand; he was the mind that kept the machine running.

Namjoon’s hidden anger at Viktor’s cruelty fueled your plan. You saw it in the way his fists balled when Viktor cut your jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you limped from the rice punishment.

He never intervened, but his silence screamed louder than words. He hated this—hated you being the target. That was your leverage. If you could break through his icy facade, you could use him to escape this hell.

One morning, Namjoon brought your breakfast tray, a rare task he’d taken from the guards. You decided to test him, leaning against the table, your voice low and teasing.

“You know, Joon, you’re not as scary as you think,” you purred, brushing your fingers lightly over his arm, your eyes locked on his. “Bet you’d be fun if you let that ice melt a little.”

His eyes narrowed, cold and unyielding, and he jerked his arm away, his voice sharp with disdain. “Don’t waste your breath. I don’t care about you or your games.”

His words cut, his rudeness a slap to your pride, and you hated him in that moment—his arrogance, his detachment, the way he made you feel small.

“Liar,” you snapped, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. “I know you put that med kit in my room every time Viktor hurts me. You’re not as heartless as you pretend.”

He froze, his jaw ticking, but his eyes remained glacial. “You’re delusional,” he muttered, turning away, but the slight hitch in his breath betrayed him.

You smirked, your hatred simmering, but you saw your opening. If he could lie to himself, you’d use that against him.

Later, you stood before the mirror, your hair damp from the shower, clad only in a thin robe.

When Namjoon returned to collect the tray, you let the robe slip, “accidentally” dropping it to the floor, revealing your bare skin.

His eyes widened, pupils swallowing the brown, his throat bobbing as he froze. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning sharply, but not before you saw the bulge straining his slacks.

He slammed the door behind him, but you smirked, heart racing. He was affected—deeply. Seduction was your weapon, and Namjoon was your target. You’d play his desire like a blade, cutting your way to freedom.

You needed to push harder, to chip away at Namjoon’s icy control until he shattered. One night, you faked a nightmare, sobbing loud enough for the guards to fetch him.

He stormed into your room, gun drawn, his shirt half-unbuttoned from being roused from sleep, revealing a sliver of toned chest.

His eyes scanned the room, then landed on you—curled on the bed, trembling in a sheer nightgown that clung to your curves, the fabric slipping to reveal the swell of your breast.

“Please… stay,” you whispered, eyes wide and pleading, a tear streaking down your cheek for effect. You sat up, letting the strap of your nightgown slide down your shoulder, your voice soft but teasing. “Unless you’re scared of a girl’s bad dreams, tough guy.”

He sighed, holstering his gun and dragging a chair to the bedside, his jaw tight. “Five minutes,” he grunted, sitting stiffly, his gaze fixed on the wall. But you saw his eyes flicker to your exposed skin, his fingers digging into his thighs.

You shifted, the nightgown riding up your thigh, and leaned closer, your breath warm against his ear. “You don’t strike me as the babysitting type, Namjoon,” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “What’s it take to get under that cold skin of yours? Or are you just Viktor’s robot?”

His eyes snapped to yours, a storm brewing in their depths. “Don’t play games with fire, girl,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel, but you caught the hitch in his breath, the way his gaze lingered on your lips.

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your hair fall seductively over one eye. “Fire? Oh, I think you’re the one burning, big guy. Your eyes are practically begging to touch me.” You stretched, arching your back just enough to make the nightgown strain against your chest. “Or are you afraid you’ll like it too much?”

His jaw ticked, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair. “You talk too much,” he muttered, but his voice was strained, and you saw the bulge in his slacks growing.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his earlobe as you whispered, “Then why are your pupils blown wide? Bet you’re imagining all the ways I could make you lose control.”

He shot to his feet, towering over you, his chest heaving. For a moment, you thought he’d snap—grab you, pin you, do something.

His eyes burned with a mix of anger and desire, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “You’re fucking trouble,” he snarled, adjusting his slacks with a curse, and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

You flopped back on the bed, grinning, your heart pounding. The ice wasn’t just cracking—it was melting. You’d seen the hunger in his eyes, the way his control frayed at your teasing.

Namjoon was yours to unravel, and with every taunt, you’d pull him closer to breaking. Soon, he’d be your key out of this cage.

You couldn’t wait anymore. Next night, Victor wasn't there. You slipped into Namjoon’s quarters, the door clicking shut behind you.

He was at his desk, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of toned chest, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes snapped to you, narrowing as you stepped into the dim light, your silk robe barely tied, the fabric clinging to your curves.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled, setting the glass down with a clink.

You stepped closer, hips swaying, letting the robe slip open to reveal lace panties and nothing else. “I can’t sleep,” you purred, voice low and sultry. “Thought you could… help.”

He stood, towering over you, and grabbed your throat, pinning you to the wall with a thud. His grip was firm but not cruel, his thumb brushing your racing pulse. “You want me to lose control?” he snarled, his breath hot on your lips. “Fine.”

His mouth crashed into yours, a bruising kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. You moaned, tugging his hair, and he growled, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth with fierce possession.

You bit his lip, drawing blood, and he hissed, pulling back to glare at you, his eyes black with desire, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his gaze raking over your body as he ripped your robe open, the silk tearing slightly under his urgency.

The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you bare except for the lace panties, your skin prickling under his intense stare.

He spun you, bending you over the desk, your chest pressing into the cold wood, the edge biting into your hips. You gasped as cold metal grazed your wrists—handcuffs clicking into place, securing your hands behind your back.

“No,” you snapped, twisting against the restraints, your voice sharp with panic, your heart racing. “I hate this thing. I’m not a toy, Namjoon. Don’t make me feel like one.”

His hands froze, his breath ragged, his body tense behind you. For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours over your shoulder, conflict raging in their depths.

“You’re different,” you whispered, voice softening but firm, your gaze pleading. “You’re not him. Don’t do this.”

He cursed under his breath, his fingers trembling as he unlocked the cuffs, tossing them aside with a clatter that echoed in the room.

The moment they fell, something shifted—his gaze softened, his touch gentler as he cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that stole your breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, and you both froze.

That apology, that vulnerability—it was more than lust. You meant something to him, and the realization hit you both like a tidal wave, raw and overwhelming.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less desperate, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that felt like he was trying to memorize you.

His hands slid to your hips, lifting you onto the desk with ease, the wood cool against your bare thighs. He slid your panties down, leaving them dangling around your thighs, and you felt his fingers tease your entrance, finding you soaked, your arousal coating his fingertips.

“Already dripping?” he taunted, circling your clit with agonizing slowness, his voice a low growl laced with dark amusement.

“Shut up and fuck me,” you snapped, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more, your core throbbing with need.

He chuckled, dark and dangerous, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and challenge. Then you felt him—thick, hot, stretching you as he thrust in with one brutal stroke, filling you so completely you cried out, your nails scraping the desk, the pain melting into pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to you.

Each thrust was punishing, the desk creaking violently, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic flurry. His pace was relentless, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow, like this was the last time he’d ever get to claim you like this.

His hips snapped against yours with a ferocity that made your breath hitch, each deep thrust hitting a spot inside you that sent sparks through your veins.

His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, his cock driving into you with a desperate urgency, as if he was afraid you’d slip away, as if he needed to mark you as his before the world tore you apart.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice raw, almost breaking, his breath hot against your ear. “No one else gets this—fuck, no one else ever will.”

You clenched around him, your walls fluttering, smirking despite the intensity, your voice taunting through gasps. “Harder, Namjoon.”

He snarled, a primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and obliged, slamming into you with a force that made you see stars, the desk shuddering beneath you, threatening to collapse.

His rhythm was merciless, each thrust deeper, harder, his cock stretching you to your limits, the pleasure bordering on pain. He fucked you like he was chasing something—redemption, oblivion, you—his hips pistoning with a desperation that made your heart race, your body trembling as you teetered on the edge.

His hand slid up your spine, fisting your hair to pull your head back, exposing your throat, his lips grazing your skin. “Look at you, taking me so fucking well,” he growled, his voice a intoxicating mix of degradation and awe, his breath ragged. “Perfect—made for me.”

The coil in your core tightened, your body quaking as the pleasure built, overwhelming, unstoppable. “Come for me,” he commanded, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that pushed you over the edge.

You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with a scream, your walls pulsing around him, milking him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, your vision blurring, your body shaking.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts erratic, his own release chasing yours. His grip on your hips tightened, bruising, as he pounded into you with a final, desperate frenzy, his cock throbbing inside you.

“Fuck, I’m—,” he groaned, his voice breaking, and he spilled inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering, his forehead pressed to your back as he rode out his climax, his breaths harsh and uneven. Each pulse of his release felt like a claim, a vow, his warmth filling you, grounding you in the moment.

For a moment, you both stilled, panting, the air heavy with the scent of sex, whiskey, and sweat. Then, he kissed your temple—a soft, reverent press of lips that made your heart stutter, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before.

He froze, as if realizing the tenderness of his action, and pulled away, his hands shaking as he helped you sit up, his touch now gentle, almost hesitant.

“Get out,” he muttered, voice hoarse, turning his back to you, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides.

You smirked, pulling your robe on, your legs still trembling, your core aching deliciously from his intensity. “You’ll beg for me again.”

He didn’t respond, but you saw the tension in his posture, the way his hands flexed, fighting the urge to reach for you. You’d cracked the beast, and there was no going back.

Namjoon avoided you for days, his presence a ghost in the halls. You didn’t let up. One evening, you snuck into his office, leaning against his desk in a tight skirt that rode up your thighs, revealing lace garters. When he walked in, his eyes darkened, his jaw tight, but he kept his distance, warring with himself.

“Did I feel like a mistake?” you purred, sliding closer, your fingers trailing along the desk’s edge. “Or are you just scared to admit you’re hooked, big guy?”

He growled, stepping closer but stopping short, his hands fisted at his sides. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, voice low, but his eyes betrayed him—hungry, conflicted, desperate to touch you but holding back.

You tilted your head, smirking, your voice teasing. “Dangerous? Oh, I think you like it. Why else do you keep staring like I’m your last meal?” You hopped onto the desk, crossing your legs slowly, letting the skirt ride higher. “Come on, admit it—you’re dying to taste me again.”

His breath hitched, but he turned his head, avoiding your lips, and the rejection stung more than it should have. You were using him, weren’t you? Just a means to escape.

So why did his refusal to kiss you hurt, a sharp ache in your chest? You pushed the feeling down, focusing on the game. “What’s wrong, Joon? Scared you’ll fall for me?” you taunted, poking his chest.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but careful. “Stop,” he snapped, but his voice was strained, his eyes flickering with torment. He wanted you—badly—but he was fighting it, and that hurt more than you cared to admit.

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive strength, pushing them apart with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath catch. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he growled, his voice rough, almost pleading, as he buried his face between your legs.

His lips found your core, hot and insistent, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, tasting your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your skin, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your spine.

You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively, but his hands held you firm, fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.

His tongue was relentless, swirling around your clit with precise, teasing flicks that made your toes curl, each movement calculated to drive you wild.

He sucked your clit gently at first, then harder, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud, pulling a cry from your throat as your head fell back, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard.

His moans hummed against you, deep and primal, like he was savoring every drop of you, drinking you in like a man starved for weeks.

His tongue dipped lower, plunging into your entrance, fucking you with slow, deep strokes that had you trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

He alternated between lapping at your folds and sucking your clit, his pace maddening, building you up only to slow down just as you neared the edge, making you whimper with need.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped against your core, his voice muffled, his breath hot and tickling your oversensitive skin. His lips grazed your inner thigh, nipping lightly before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit with a rhythm that felt like worship, each stroke sending sparks through your body.

Your thighs quaked, trying to close around his head, but he growled, prying them wider, his fingers bruising as he held you open, exposing every inch of you to his relentless assault.

He licked you like he was memorizing your taste, like he’d never get enough, his moans vibrating through you, amplifying every sensation until you were a writhing mess, your hips grinding against his face, chasing the release he kept teasing.

“Namjoon,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling until he groaned, the sound raw and hungry. He doubled down, sucking your clit with a pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes, his tongue flicking in tight, rapid circles, pushing you closer, closer.

Your body tensed, the coil in your core snapping as pleasure crashed over you, a keening cry ripping from your throat as you came, your thighs trembling, your hips bucking against his mouth.

He didn’t stop, lapping at you through your orgasm, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, whimpering, tugging his hair to pull him away.

He stood, wiping his glistening lips with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and wild, his chest heaving. He freed himself from his slacks, his cock hard and heavy, and fucked you slow, his hands gripping your waist, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re not just a game to me,” he whispered, his voice raw with confession. You both froze, the weight of his words hanging between you.

He avoided your lips, his forehead pressing to your shoulder instead, and the ache in your chest deepened. Why did you care? Why did you want his kiss, his heart, when all you needed was his help to escape?

He pulled out, tucking himself away, his hands shaking. “This can’t happen again,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

You smirked, adjusting your skirt, hiding the hurt. “Liar.”

Viktor’s suspicions festered, his touches growing bolder, his gaze dissecting. One night, he summoned you and Namjoon to his office, the air thick with cigar smoke and malice.

He leaned back in his chair, a cruel smile curling his lips as he beckoned you closer. “Come here, pet,” he purred, his voice dripping with possession.

You stiffened, your stomach churning, but you didn't move, every muscle tense. Viktor’s hand snaked around your waist, pulling you against his side, and he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering, wet and invasive.

You flinched, a shudder rippling through you, your skin crawling as you fought the urge to shove him away. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms, and you bit your lip hard, tasting blood to keep from gagging.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed under your breath, but Viktor only chuckled, his grip tightening, a silent threat.

Namjoon stood across the room, his posture rigid, but his reaction was a storm barely leashed. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked, veins pulsing in his forearms.

His jaw locked, a muscle twitching furiously, and his eyes—dark, lethal—burned with a rage that could’ve set the room ablaze. When Viktor’s lips lingered on your cheek, Namjoon’s hand jerked toward his gun, his fingers curling around the grip before he forced it away, his breath ragged.

His chest heaved, his gaze locked on you, not Viktor, as if memorizing every flinch, every tremble, every mark of your disgust. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the air around him vibrated with violence, a promise of retribution he couldn’t yet deliver.

Viktor released you, his eyes flicking to Namjoon, a taunting glint in them. “Loyalty test passed,” he said, waving you both out, but his smile was a blade, cutting deeper than his dagger ever could.

That night, Namjoon didn’t come to your room as a lover. Instead, he slipped in silently, his gun still holstered, and sank to the floor beside your bed, his back against the frame.

He didn’t speak at first, his head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but you felt his presence like a shield. “Why are you here?” you whispered, sitting up, your voice soft in the dark.

He didn’t look at you, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and guilt. “Because I can’t trust him tonight. Not with you.” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “One more day. Just give me one day more.”

His words were a vow, a cryptic promise. You’d overheard him earlier, arguing with a contact about “finalizing the files”—evidence of Viktor’s crimes, enough to bring him down.

One more day meant he was close to dismantling the empire, to freeing you, but he couldn’t risk Viktor’s wrath until then. Sleeping on the floor was his way of guarding you, of keeping you close while he wrestled with the fear of losing you and the love he couldn’t admit.

You leaned over the edge of the bed, your voice barely a breath, heavy with guilt. “Namjoon… I’m sorry. I seduced you to get out of here. I used you.”

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light, soft but piercing. “I know,” he said, his voice steady, no trace of anger or betrayal. “I’ve always known.”

The weight of his words hung between you, a quiet acknowledgment of your game and his choice to play it anyway. His gaze held yours, raw and unguarded, revealing a man who saw through your plan but couldn’t walk away.

You reached down, touching his hand. “I’m not afraid of him, when you are beside me,” you said, and for the first time, you meant it.

His fingers curled around yours, a fleeting squeeze, and he stayed there, silent, your protector in the dark.

A guard betrayed Namjoon, a hidden camera catching you slipping into Namjoon’s quarters. Viktor’s rage was apocalyptic, a tempest born of wounded pride and shattered control.

He never knew that the day he brought Namjoon into this hell, a boy barely out of his teens, was the day he began writing his own destruction. Namjoon had been a shadow then, sharp-minded and fiercely loyal, molded by a promise to his father to serve the man whose own father had saved their family from ruin.

But that loyalty was a chain, one that had stolen Namjoon’s childhood, his youth, every dream he might have had, chaining him to Viktor’s cruel empire. Namjoon despised it—the blood, the betrayal, the endless cycle of violence that defined Viktor’s world. Yet he stayed, bound by duty, his hatred simmering beneath a mask of obedience, waiting for the moment to break free.

Viktor dragged you both to a warehouse, the air thick with dust and gasoline, his men tying Namjoon to a chair, ropes biting into his wrists but leaving him largely unharmed—Viktor needed his mind intact, his right-hand functional.

Viktor knew Namjoon was indispensable; without him, the empire would crumble, a truth that made him untouchable, a fact Namjoon wielded like a blade.

You, however, were Viktor’s target, the focus of his wrath. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back with a vicious jerk, his nails scraping your scalp raw, making you cry out as pain seared through your skull.

“You think you can play me?” he snarled, backhanding you across the face. The slap was a bone-rattling crack, your cheek splitting open, blood streaming down your jaw, your vision swimming.

He tore the strap of your dress, the fabric ripping to expose your shoulder and neck, and pressed his knife to your throat, a shallow cut deepening, blood dripping to your collarbone, your body trembling from the pain.

Namjoon’s reaction was a storm unleashed, a raw, primal fury that shook the warehouse. His eyes widened with anguish, his body jerking against the ropes, the chair scraping the concrete as he roared, a guttural sound of pure, helpless rage.

His veins pulsed in his neck, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, and his eyes—black with fury, glistening with unshed tears—locked onto your bloodied face, every drop of your pain carving into his soul. His hands strained, ropes fraying under his strength, his breaths ragged, as if he could tear the world apart to reach you.

Viktor had never thought Namjoon would betray him, especially not for a woman. Namjoon, who’d never shown interest in any woman his entire life, who’d walked past Viktor’s broken “toys” without a glance, was now unraveling, his loyalty shattered by you—by your fire, your defiance, the way you’d claimed his heart without even trying.

“Since you’re so interested in her,” Viktor sneered, his voice dripping with malice, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement at Namjoon’s torment.

Namjoon’s eyes burned, but he forced his voice to a desperate lie, his voice cracking with the effort. “I don’t care about her. I’m not interested in her.”

His words hit you like a punch, betrayal slicing through your chest. You froze, your eyes locked on his, searching for the man who’d left med kits, who’d kissed your temple, who’d called you more than a game.

Your heart splintered, a silent sob choking you, but you bit it back, your bloodied lips trembling. The pain in your chest rivaled the sting of your wounds, a raw ache of abandonment, as if the fragile trust you’d built had crumbled under his cold denial.

You wanted to scream, to call him a liar again, but the knife at your throat kept you silent, your eyes pleading for the truth he’d buried.

Viktor’s laugh was sharp, cruel, his confidence unshaken.

“Is that so? Let me strip her in front of you. And let all other men enjoy the show too.” He yanked your dress harder, the fabric tearing further, exposing more of your skin, and gestured to his leering men, their eyes hungry, their laughter a sickening chorus that echoed in the warehouse.

Namjoon’s rage exploded, a primal roar ripping from his throat as he surged against the ropes, the chair splintering beneath him, wood cracking under his strength.

“Touch her again, and I’ll rip your fucking heart out!” His gaze locked on Viktor, promising death, then flicked to you, softening for a split second with guilt and desperation, as if begging you to forgive his lie.

His eyes screamed what his words couldn’t: you were everything, the reason he’d endured this hell, the spark that had ignited his rebellion.

Your eyes locked on Namjoon’s, silent, desperate, pleading. Tears welled but didn’t fall, your gaze screaming for him to stop this, to save you, to be the man you’d glimpsed in his tender touches.

Your lips trembled, your body shaking, but you didn’t speak, your eyes conveying every ounce of fear and trust you placed in him.

He snapped, his voice a deadly growl, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Untie me. Let’s see who survives.”

He knew exactly what he was doing, choosing words that stabbed at Viktor’s ego, knowing Viktor’s pride couldn’t resist a challenge to his power. Viktor, predictable in his arrogance, would take the bait, blind to the trap Namjoon was setting.

“You think you’re untouchable, Viktor? Cut these ropes and prove it. Or are you too weak to face me without your little games?”

Viktor’s ego couldn’t resist the challenge, his laughter taunting but his eyes betraying a flicker of unease.

He knew Namjoon’s power, knew that without him, he was nothing—a loudmouth with a gun, as the guards had whispered.

He cut the ropes, sneering as Namjoon lunged, grabbing a gun from the desk with lethal precision. Viktor aimed at you, his finger twitching on the trigger, but Namjoon pressed the barrel to his own temple, his hand steady, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“If she dies, I die with her,” he said, voice deadly calm, a vow that carried the weight of his entire existence. “You know what that means. Even if I die, I have enough ways to ruin you.”

Viktor’s face crumpled, panic flickering in his eyes. Namjoon was his mind, his shield, the architect of his empire.

Without him, Viktor was nothing but a hollow king, his power a facade. “Fine!” he screamed, lowering the gun, his voice shaking with fury and fear. “She walks free.”

You staggered to Namjoon, his arms crushing you to his chest, his heart pounding against yours despite his own minimal injuries. “You're mine now,” he growled, his voice low and fierce, his eyes locked on Viktor, a brazen claim that rang through the warehouse.

He knew Viktor wouldn’t touch him—couldn’t touch him—because Namjoon was the foundation of everything Viktor had built. With you in his arms, he stood taller, his claim a defiant proclamation to Viktor and his men, a vow that he’d burn it all down for you. “I don’t care if I burn the world.”

Viktor laughed, a hollow, bitter sound, his eyes dark with defeat. “You’ll regret this, Joon.”

Namjoon’s grip on you tightened, his voice a low, lethal promise. “Try me.”

After the warehouse showdown, Viktor’s grip on his crumbling empire tightened, his paranoia festering into desperation. In a final bid to keep Namjoon in line, Viktor summoned him to his office, the air thick with the stench of bourbon and cigar smoke.

His eyes, bloodshot and calculating, bore into Namjoon as he leaned back in his chair, twirling his dagger with a smirk that barely masked his fear. “I’ll let your little pet go,” Viktor said, his voice low, dripping with false magnanimity.

“She walks free from this hell, Joon, but only if you swear on your father’s grave you’ll never betray me. No exposing my operations, no playing hero. You keep my secrets buried, and she’s yours to take her away.”

Namjoon stood rigid, his face an unreadable mask, but his mind was a cold fire. He’d had enough of Viktor’s games—the blood-soaked deals, the broken lives, the endless cycle of cruelty that had chained him to this hell since he was a boy.

He’d already decided to expose Viktor, his plan set in motion weeks ago: files copied, evidence of Viktor’s trafficking and smuggling networks ready to leak to Interpol.

But he knew if Viktor even suspected his intentions, you’d be the one to pay—his wrath would hunt you down, no matter where he hid you.

Namjoon had already moved you to a secret safehouse, a quiet apartment he’d bought in the city’s underbelly for both of you, its walls bare but safe, a sanctuary he’d built to shield you from the chaos to come.

He met Viktor’s gaze, his eyes cold, unyielding, and lied with a curt nod. “I swear it,” he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the fire burning inside him.

Viktor’s smirk widened, believing he’d won, but Namjoon’s mind was already on you—safe, alive, waiting for him in the safehouse, your heart the only thing tethering him to this fight.

He left Viktor’s office, his jaw clenched, knowing every word was a step closer to dismantling the empire and keeping you out of Viktor’s reach forever.

Viktor had let you go, but Namjoon knew better than to trust him. Viktor’s pride was wounded, his empire threatened, and men like him didn’t forgive.

To protect you from his inevitable retaliation, Namjoon faked your death—a staged car explosion, a charred body too mangled to identify. The news spread, and Viktor’s men stopped hunting you.

He spent nights hacking Viktor’s files, exposing his trafficking and smuggling networks, his hands flying over the keyboard.

One night, after a close call with Viktor’s men, you found Namjoon in the safehouse’s tiny bathroom, blood and dirt smearing his face, his shirt torn.

You stripped bare, your clothes falling to the floor, and joined him under the shower’s spray, your heart aching at the sight of him—so strong, yet breaking under the weight of keeping you safe. “You’re a mess,” you whispered, grabbing a cloth to clean his wounds.

He caught your wrist, his eyes dark, raw. “I won’t let anything hurt you again,” he vowed, pulling you close. His lips crashed into yours, a desperate, hungry kiss that stole your breath. You moaned, your hands fisting his shirt, tugging it off as he backed you against the wall, the cold tiles biting your skin.

His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming every inch, his kisses fierce, unrelenting, like he was pouring every fear, every promise into you.

You bit his lip, drawing a growl from him, and he deepened the kiss, his hands roaming your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You felt him hard against your thigh, the evidence of his desire making you dizzy, but he kept it slow, deliberate, savoring every second.

You broke away, gasping, but he didn’t stop, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point.

“Namjoon,” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body arching into him. He groaned, his lips finding yours again, softer this time, but no less intense, each kiss a confession of everything he couldn’t say.

His hands slid over your wet skin, calloused fingers grazing your curves, sending shivers through you. He lifted you onto the shower ledge, stepping between your thighs, his kisses growing frantic, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, breaking. You kissed him back, matching his desperation, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

You lost track of time, lost in the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way his hands held you like you were his lifeline. He pulled back, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You cupped his face, kissing him softly, your lips lingering. “You won’t,” you promised, and he kissed you again, slow and deep, sealing the vow.

After, he wrapped you in a towel, cleaning your face with gentle hands, his touch soft. He kissed your forehead, pulling you to his chest, and you stayed there, listening to his heartbeat, knowing you’d face the world together.

Namjoon sent Viktor’s files to Interpol, every dirty secret laid bare. The final showdown came in a burning warehouse, Viktor’s empire crumbling around him. Flames licked the walls, smoke curling thick and black as Namjoon faced Viktor, gun in hand, his eyes cold, but his heart a furnace of obsession for you.

Viktor stood amidst the chaos, a gun trained on Namjoon, his smirk twisted. “You think you are something different from me, Namjoon. And you can claim one of my pets as yours.”

Namjoon’s grip on the gun tightened, his voice low, lethal, dripping with possessive fury. “She’s mine, Viktor. You touched what’s mine, and that was your first mistake.”

His eyes burned, every word laced with the weight of his devotion, his need to protect you, to claim you. “I’ve spent years cleaning up your messes, hiding your crimes. But you crossed a line when you hurt her.”

Viktor laughed, but it was shaky, his eyes darting to the flames. “You’re nothing without me. You need me as much as I need you.”

Namjoon stepped closer, his gun steady, his voice a growl. “I built your empire. I kept you alive. But I don’t need you anymore.” He glanced at you, standing behind him, your presence fueling his resolve. “She’s my reason now. You’ll never touch her again.”

Viktor’s smirk faltered. “You’re bluffing. You won’t kill me. You can’t.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his voice a whisper of finality. “You shouldn’t have touched her.” He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing as Viktor collapsed, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide with shock.

The warehouse burned, and you pulled Namjoon away, his hand tight in yours. “It’s over,” you whispered, your voice trembling with relief.

He looked at you, his face softening, his obsession laid bare in his gaze. “No. We’re just beginning.”

You and Namjoon had carved out a quiet life off-grid, in a cozy safehouse by the sea, the world felt softer, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting silver glows across the bedroom.

The ocean’s gentle waves whispered outside, a lullaby to your new beginning. You lay curled against Namjoon on the bed, your head nestled in the crook of his neck, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his breath steady, content, a far cry from the cold beast you’d first met.

You tilted your head, your lips brushing his jaw, your voice a soft murmur. “Thank you for freeing me from becoming his pet.”

Namjoon’s eyes sparkled with warmth, his hand sliding to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with reverence. “You’re not a pet. You’re my queen.” He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, his mouth soft and warm, tasting faintly of the peppermint tea you’d shared earlier. The kiss was a promise, a vow of forever, and you melted into it, your heart fluttering.

You pulled back, grinning, your fingers poking his chest playfully. “Queen, huh? So you’re my loyal knight now, ready to fetch my coffee and fluff my pillows?”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your toes curl, and he rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Knight? Baby, I’m your hopeless servant, but don’t ask me to cook something. I’d burn the house down trying.”

You giggled, swatting his shoulder, your eyes dancing with delight. “Hopeless is right. Last week, you broke the toaster trying to ‘fix’ it. My queenly standards are slipping with you around.”

“Slipping?” he gasped, feigning offense, his hands sliding to your waist, tickling you lightly until you squirmed, laughing breathlessly. “I’m a masterpiece, Your Majesty. Brains, brawn, and a knack for breaking appliances.”

“Masterpiece, my foot,” you teased, tugging at his shirt, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his chest. “Lucky I love you for your cuddles and not your handyman skills.”

“Cuddles?” he purred, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, my queen, I’m about to give you the royal treatment.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing yours in a slow, languid dance that made your heart race. His hands roamed, gentle but deliberate, slipping under your oversized sleep shirt—a stolen tee of his that smelled faintly of his cologne.

He tugged it off, revealing your bare skin, and his breath hitched, his eyes raking over you with adoration. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts.

You blushed, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, pulling his shirt off, your fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the faint scars that told stories of battles fought for you.

You leaned up, kissing his jaw, his neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe, earning a soft groan that made you grin. “Weak for me already?”

“Always,” he whispered, his lips finding yours, the kiss slow and sweet, each brush of his mouth a declaration of love. He trailed kisses down your throat, lingering at your pulse point, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, making you whimper.

His hands caressed your sides, sliding over your hips, your thighs, his touch reverent, like he was worshiping every inch of you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing your nipple, teasing it with a gentle suck that sent heat pooling between your legs.

You arched into him, your breath hitching, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Namjoon,” you sighed, your voice a soft plea, and he smiled against your skin, his hands guiding your legs around his waist.

He tugged off his sweatpants, revealing himself, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush, his movements deliberate, savoring the moment. He kissed his way back up, his lips finding yours, his tongue exploring your mouth with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself, his tip brushing your entrance, teasing you with agonizing slowness. “Tell me you want this, my queen.”

“Want you,” you gasped, your hips lifting, urging him closer. “Always, Joon.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with a delicious fullness that made you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breaths ragged as he moved, each thrust slow and deep, a connection that went beyond flesh. “God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion, his hands sliding to your hips, guiding you in a gentle rhythm.

You laughed softly, breathless, your lips brushing his. “Heaven? Thought you were the devil.”

“Only for you,” he teased, kissing you deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, sensual pace of his thrusts. Your bodies moved together, lazy and intimate, the heat building in soft waves, every touch laced with love.

His hands roamed, one sliding to cup your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer for a kiss that stole your breath.

“Joon,” you whimpered, your climax building, a warm, pulsing tide that made your toes curl. He sensed it, his movements steady but tender, his lips trailing to your ear, whispering, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shattered, your orgasm washing over you in a soft, shuddering wave, your moans muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him.

He followed, his release a low groan, his body trembling as he spilled inside you, his lips finding yours in a messy, perfect kiss. He stayed inside you, rolling you both to your sides, your legs tangled, his arms wrapping you tight against his chest.

You lay there, panting, his fingers tracing lazy hearts on your back, his lips brushing your forehead. “You’re stuck with me now, queen,” he murmured, his voice playful but thick with love.

“Good,” you whispered, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed to his heart. “But you’re doing the dishes tomorrow. Non-negotiable. And don't you dare to break them.”

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “Deal. But only if you keep stealing my shirts. You look too cute in them.”

You laughed, kissing him hard, your heart full. You’d both survived. You’d both sinned. And you’d do it all again, together.

A/n: Was planning to post it on another account but since I got this Namjoon fic request here, so posting on this main account.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[kittenan2]

This has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so here it is... Finally making my (main) account alive... 🤭

Meant to End, Made to Last

Pairing: Mafia Husband!Jin × Sweet Sunshine Wife!Reader Genre: Dark Mafia Romance | Smut | Angst | Slow-burn | Enemies to Lovers Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, dark themes (mentions of planned murder, mafia violence, blood), smut (power-play, emotional dom!Jin, praise/degradation, unhinged possessiveness, manhandling, soft choking, fingering, kitchen counter sex, slow worshipful sex, hair-pulling), heavy angst, emotional manipulation, intense love, fluff, domestic softness, swearing.

The mansion was a fortress of cold elegance—marble floors that echoed under your footsteps, chandeliers that glittered like frozen tears, and walls lined with art that cost more than your entire hometown.

It was beautiful, but it wasn’t home. Not yet. You were determined to make it one, though, for the man who’d brought you here. Kim Seokjin, your husband of three months, was an enigma wrapped in tailored suits and shadowed eyes.

You didn’t know much about him—his past, his work, the reasons behind the guarded tension in his gaze. But you’d married him anyway, not out of love or choice, but necessity.

Your family’s debts had piled up, a suffocating weight after your father’s disappearance years ago. When Jin’s proposal came through a distant family friend, it was a lifeline—his wealth could save your mother and siblings from ruin.

You’d said yes, trading your small-town life for a stranger’s world, hoping you could learn to love the man who’d offered you salvation, even if he seemed carved from ice.

You woke up at dawn, as you always did, slipping out of the massive bed where Jin slept on the far edge, his body turned away from you. The distance between you wasn’t just physical—it was a chasm of unspoken words, of secrets you sensed but couldn’t name. Still, you believed in small acts of love. You padded to the kitchen, tying an apron over your soft cotton dress, and started on breakfast.

The sizzle of bacon filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh coffee and pancakes you’d flipped with care. You hummed a tune from your childhood, arranging the food on a plate just the way you’d noticed Jin liked—crisp bacon on the side, pancakes stacked neatly, a drizzle of maple syrup.

You’d learned his preferences by watching him, memorizing the way he pushed eggs aside but lingered over toast, how he took his coffee black but never refused a second cup.

When he emerged from the bedroom, his hair damp from a shower, you beamed. “Good morning!” Your voice was too bright for the dim light filtering through the curtains, but you couldn’t help it. He looked like a god in his charcoal suit, sharp jawline catching the shadows. “I made breakfast. Sit!.”

Jin paused in the doorway, his dark eyes flicking over the spread on the table. For a moment, you thought you saw something soften in his gaze, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “I don’t have time,” he said, voice low and clipped. He grabbed his coat from the rack.

Your smile faltered, but you recovered. “At least take the coffee.” You held out a thermos you’d prepared, the one you’d noticed he carried to work. “It’s black, just how you like it.”

He stared at you, and for a heartbeat, you felt exposed, like he could see every naive hope in your chest. Then he took the thermos, his fingers brushing yours. The contact sent a spark up your arm, but he was already turning away. “Don’t wait up tonight,” he said over his shoulder, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there, alone in the vast kitchen, the warmth of the food fading. You didn’t know why he was so distant, but you told yourself it was stress. He was a busy man. Important. You’d keep trying.

Jin sat in the back of his black SUV, the thermos warm in his hand. He stared at it like it was a bomb. Why do you do this? he thought, jaw tight.

Every morning, you were there, smiling, cooking, acting like he was someone worth caring for. It made his chest burn with something he couldn’t name—anger, guilt, or something far more dangerous.

He’d married you to kill you. The order had been clear: get close, gain your trust, then eliminate you. You were a loose end, tied to a man who’d crossed Jin’s organization years ago.

Your father, a low-level informant, had betrayed Jin’s father and vanished, leaving you behind as collateral. The plan was simple. Marry you, make it look like a tragic accident, and move on. But three months in, you were still alive, and Jin was unraveling.

He opened the thermos and took a sip. The coffee was perfect—bitter, strong, exactly how he liked it. He hated that you knew that. Hated that you noticed the way he folded his ties, the brand of cologne he wore, the fact that he never ate eggs. Hated that you said “Welcome home” every night, even when he came back reeking of blood and lies.

He slammed the thermos down, startling his driver. “Speed up,” he barked. He needed to get to the warehouse, to the world he understood—violence, control, power. Not this suffocating warmth you kept wrapping around him like a noose.

That night, you waited as always. The clock ticked past midnight, but you didn’t eat. You never did until he was home. When the door finally opened, you jumped up, smoothing your dress. “Welcome home!” you called, softer this time, sensing the storm in his posture.

Jin didn’t look at you. His knuckles were bruised, his shirt splattered with something dark. You swallowed, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?” you asked, reaching for his hand.

He jerked away. “Don’t touch me.” His voice was a blade, but you didn’t flinch.

Instead, you grabbed a first-aid kit from the drawer. “At least let me clean those.” You pointed to his knuckles, your voice steady despite the fear flickering in your chest. “Please.”

He stared at you, chest heaving. No one in his world would dare approach him like this, not when he looked like death itself. But you—you just stood there, holding a band-aid like it could fix him. Against his better judgment, he sat at the counter, letting you take his hand.

Your touch was gentle, dabbing antiseptic on his cuts. “You need to be more careful,” you murmured, as if he’d scraped his hand fixing a car and not breaking someone’s face. You smoothed a band-aid over his skin, your fingers lingering. “There. All better.”

He wanted to laugh, to scream, to tell you nothing was better. Instead, he said, “Why do you do this?”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely—at the band-aid, the dinner waiting on the table, you. “Act like you care.”

Your lips curved into a small, sad smile. “Because I do.”

He pulled his hand away, standing abruptly. “You shouldn’t.” He stalked off to the bedroom, leaving you staring after him, heart sinking but not broken. Not yet.

Weeks passed, and Jin’s plan frayed at the edges. He told himself he was waiting for the right moment, but the truth was uglier. He didn’t want to kill you. Not anymore. Every day, you chipped away at the walls he’d built, and he hated how much he craved the warmth seeping through the cracks.

He started watching you more closely—not to find weaknesses, but to understand you. The way you hummed off-key while folding his shirts. The way you left sticky notes on the fridge: “Don’t forget your coffee thermos!” or “I made extra soup, it’s in the fridge <3”. The way you curled up on the couch with a book, oblivious to the world, your hair falling into your face.

He sent bodyguards to tail you when you went to the market, not because he suspected you, but because the thought of someone touching you made his blood boil.

One evening, at a dimly lit bar where deals were struck in whispers, Jin overheard a rival, Marco, a mid-level enforcer with more ambition than sense, mention your name. It wasn’t strategic—just a careless remark during a negotiation over territory.

“You know, Jin’s got that pretty little wife now,” Marco sneered, swirling his whiskey. “What’s her name? Y/N? Bet she’s a nice piece to keep him distracted while we move in.”

The room went silent, the air thick with tension. Jin’s men froze, eyes darting to him. He leaned back in his chair, a dangerous calm settling over him, his fingers drumming on the table. “What did you just say?” His voice was low, almost polite, but it carried a razor’s edge.

Marco, oblivious to the shift, chuckled. “Come on, Jin. Don’t tell me you’re soft for her. She’s just a means to an end, right? Or do you actually care about that small-town girl?”

Jin’s smile was cold, lethal. He stood, slow and deliberate, buttoning his suit jacket. “You don’t get to say her name,” he said, each word dripping with menace. “Not now. Not ever.”

Marco’s smirk faltered. “What, you gonna start a war over a woman? Don’t be stupid, Jin. She’s not worth—”

Jin moved faster than anyone expected, his hand grabbing Marco by the throat and slamming him against the wall. The glass in Marco’s hand shattered on the floor. “You don’t know what she’s worth,” Jin growled, his grip tightening. “You don’t know because you’ll never get close enough to find out.”

Marco clawed at Jin’s hand, gasping. “It was just talk, man! I didn’t mean—”

“You meant it enough to say it,” Jin cut him off, his voice a low snarl. “That’s enough for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from Marco’s. “You think you can mention her, put her in your filthy thoughts, and walk away? You’re already dead.”

Jin’s men didn’t need a signal. One of them stepped forward, pulling Marco from Jin’s grip and dragging him toward the back exit. Marco’s protests echoed, then faded into silence. Jin didn’t need to say it out loud—Marco wouldn’t be seen again.

Not because it was strategic, but because the mere thought of you being a target, even in passing, ignited a possessive fury in Jin that he couldn’t contain.

He sat back down, adjusting his cufflinks, his face a mask of calm. But inside, his heart pounded, not from the violence, but from the image of you—safe, unaware, waiting at home with dinner and that damn smile. He didn’t deserve you, but he’d burn the world down before letting anyone threaten you.

One night, he came home to find you asleep on the couch, a plate of dinner covered in foil on the table. You’d waited for him again. He stood over you, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

You looked so soft, so unguarded. He could end it now—quick, painless. But his hand shook as he reached out, not for a weapon, but to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You stirred, blinking up at him. “Jin?” Your voice was sleepy, warm. “You’re home.”

He clenched his jaw, stepping back. “Go to bed,” he said, rougher than he meant.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “Only if you eat first. I made your favorite—spicy kimchi fried rice.”

He wanted to snap at you, to tell you to stop, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he sat at the table, letting you serve him. You watched him eat, chin propped on your hand, smiling like he’d given you the moon. “Good?” you asked.

He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. It was too good. You were too good. And he was drowning in it.

The shift came slowly. You started sleeping closer in bed, your hand brushing his in the dark. He didn’t pull away.

One night, he woke from a nightmare—blood, screams, your face lifeless. He was sweating, heart pounding, and then your hand was on his cheek, your voice soft. “You’re safe, Jin. Whoever hurt you in dream isn’t here.”

He stared at you, chest tight. You thought he was the victim. You didn’t know he was the monster. He wanted to tell you, to push you away, but instead, he grabbed your wrist, holding it against his face. “Don’t say that,” he whispered. “You don’t know me.”

“Then tell me,” you said, eyes searching his. “I want to know you.”

He let go, turning away. “You wouldn’t like what you find.”

It happened a few days later from that nightmare. You were in the kitchen, barefoot, swaying to music only you could hear. You’d made dinner—kimchi stew, rice, banchan arranged in little bowls.

Jin came home early, his mood blacker than usual. He’d spent the day cleaning up a mess after a failed deal.

He found you stirring the stew, your dress clinging to your curves as you moved. Something snapped. He didn’t know if it was the sight of you—so soft, so alive—or the weight of his own betrayal, but he couldn’t stand it. He crossed the kitchen in three strides, grabbing your wrist and spinning you to face him.

You gasped, eyes wide. “Jin? What’s—”

“Stop it,” he growled, backing you against the wall. His hands gripped your waist, hard enough to bruise. “Stop acting like this is normal. Like I’m—” He broke off, breath ragged. “You don’t know what I am.”

Your chest heaved, but you didn’t push him away. “Then show me,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady. “Show me who you are.”

He crashed his lips against yours, the kiss bruising, desperate. It wasn’t love—it was hunger, guilt, need. You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned, lifting you onto the counter, dishes clattering to the floor. His hands roamed, tearing at your dress, exposing your skin to the cool air.

“Fuck,” he muttered, lips trailing down your neck. “You’re too good for this. Too good for me.” His teeth grazed your collarbone, and you arched into him, whimpering.

“Then be bad,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I don’t care.”

He froze, staring at you. Your eyes were dark, lips swollen, hair a mess. You looked like sin, like salvation, like everything he didn’t deserve. “Say you’re mine,” he demanded, voice rough. His hand slid up your throat, fingers curling lightly around it. Not choking, just holding, claiming.

“I’m yours,” you breathed, and something in him broke.

He yanked your panties down, tossing them aside. His fingers found your core, slick and warm, and he cursed under his breath. “So wet for me,” he growled, sliding two fingers inside you without warning. You cried out, head falling back against the cabinet. “Look at you, taking me so well. Such a good girl.”

You moaned his name, hips bucking against his hand. He pumped his fingers faster, thumb circling your clit, watching your face contort with pleasure. “Jin—please—”

“Please what?” he taunted, leaning in to bite your lip. “Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“Need you,” you whimpered, tears pricking your eyes. “Need you inside me.”

He lost it. He fumbled with his belt, freeing himself, and in one thrust, he was inside you, stretching you, filling you. You screamed, nails raking his back, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasped, thrusting hard, the counter shaking. “So tight, so perfect.”

You clung to him, moaning his name like a prayer, and he fucked you like he was trying to burn you out of his soul. His hand tightened on his throat, just enough to make you gasp, and he whispered, “You’re mine. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to see you like this.”

“Only you,” you choked out, and he came undone, spilling inside you with a guttural moan. You followed, clenching around him, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He held you after, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, voice raw.

You cupped his face, kissing him softly. “You have me anyway.”

Next day, Jin had faced his father in the old man’s opulent study, a room heavy with the weight of past decisions. The air was thick with cigar smoke, and his father sat behind a mahogany desk, his presence still commanding despite having handed the organization’s reins to Jin.

The botched smuggling deal had forced Jin to report in, but the conversation had veered to you—his father’s lingering obsession with tying up loose ends.

“You’ve had months, Seokjin,” his father said, voice low and gravelly, eyes narrowing. “Why is she still alive? Her father’s betrayal cost me men, money, years. You were supposed to end it.”

Jin’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He’d come here dreading this moment, knowing he could no longer dodge the truth. “I can’t do it,” he said, voice steady but laced with defiance. “I won’t kill her.”

His father leaned back, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “You’re weak, boy. Love’s made you soft. She’s a liability, you know that. Her father—”

“She doesn’t know anything,” Jin cut in, stepping forward, his voice rising. “She was a kid when her father pulled his stunt. She’s innocent, dad. You want revenge, find him. Not her.”

The older man’s eyes darkened, assessing Jin with a mix of disappointment and calculation. “Innocent or not, she’s a risk. You think our enemies care about her ignorance? Her name’s tied to his betrayal. That’s enough.”

Jin slammed his hands on the desk, leaning in, his voice a low growl. “I run this organization now. Not you. I decide what’s enough. And I’m telling you, she’s off-limits. I married her to follow your order, but I’m keeping her alive because she’s mine. You don’t get to touch her.”

The room fell silent, tension crackling like a live wire. His father stared at him, then let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “You’ve got your mother’s heart, not mine. Fine, keep your pet. But if she ever becomes a problem, it’s on you.” He waved a dismissive hand, as if washing his hands of the matter. “She’s your burden now.”

Jin didn’t flinch, but the words burned. He turned and left, the weight of his defiance heavy but resolute. You were no longer a target—not by his father’s hand, not by anyone’s. He’d make sure of it.

You found out by accident. You’d gone to the study to leave a note for Jin, but the door was ajar, and you heard voices—low, urgent. His men, talking about “the plan.” About you. “Boss was supposed to take her out months ago,” one said. “Why’s she still breathing?”

You froze, heart pounding. When they left, you slipped inside, hands shaking as you opened his desk drawer. There it was—a file with your name. Photos of you, your family, a timeline. The word “TERMINATE” in red ink.

You confronted him that night. He came home late, blood on his cufflinks. You stood in the living room, the file in your hands, tears streaming down your face. “What is this?” you demanded, voice breaking.

He went still, eyes darkening. “Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?” you shouted, throwing the file at his feet. “You were going to kill me, Jin! I tried to understand you, your likes, dislikes. I made you breakfast—and you made a plan to bury me!”

He flinched, like you’d slapped him. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, stepping toward you.

“Don’t!” You backed away, grabbing a vase and hurling it. It shattered against the wall. “Don’t lie to me!”

He stopped, hands raised. “I’m not lying. I was supposed to kill you. Your father—he betrayed my father, cost him everything. You were the price, a way to settle the score. My father ordered it before I took over. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t hurt you.”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “So you fucked me instead? Was that your consolation prize?”

He lunged, grabbing your arms, pinning you against the wall. “Don’t say that,” he growled. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to feel—” He stopped, chest heaving. “I married you to kill you, and now I’d die if I lost you.”

You stared at him, tears falling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m a coward,” he said, voice raw. “Because I didn’t want you to look at me like you’re looking at me now.”

You broke free, shoving him away. “I trusted you,” you whispered. “I loved you.”

He fell to his knees, head bowed. “I know. And I’ll spend my life earning the right to be forgiven. Or at least to die at your hands instead.”

You stood there, trembling, the weight of his betrayal crushing you. “I need time,” you said, voice barely audible. “I’m going home.” You grabbed your bag, already packed, and headed for the door.

Jin didn’t stop you. He stayed on his knees, watching you go, his face a mask of anguish. “Be safe,” he whispered, but you didn’t turn back.

You drove to your childhood home, hours away, tears blurring the road. You knew his men were tailing you—black SUVs keeping their distance, shadows in your rearview mirror. Jin’s protection, even now. It made your heart ache and your blood boil all at once.

Jin was a ghost without you. He barely ate, barely slept. His men noticed, but no one dared speak. He sat in the kitchen every night, staring at the empty chair where you used to sit, the thermos you’d filled still on the counter.

He knew you were safe—his men reported your every move, discreetly guarding your small-town home. You’d noticed them, he was sure, but you hadn’t sent them away. That gave him a flicker of hope, even as he drowned in guilt.

On the tenth day of your absence, you were in the garden of your childhood home, watering the roses your mother loved. The sun was low, casting golden light over the blooms, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

For the past hour, you’d noticed rustling in the bushes across the yard, the occasional glint of something—binoculars, maybe?—and poorly disguised whispers. Finally, you’d had enough.

“Jungkook, Taehyung, get out here,” you called, setting the watering can down and crossing your arms. “I’ve known you’ve been there for an hour. You’re terrible at this.”

Silence, then a sheepish rustle. Jungkook and Taehyung, Jin’s most trusted men, emerged from behind a bush, clutching clumps of fake grass they’d clearly grabbed from some craft store in a pathetic attempt at camouflage.

Their faces were flushed, lips pursed in identical pouts, looking like overgrown kids caught stealing cookies. Jungkook’s doe shaped eyes widened, and Taehyung’s usual swagger deflated as they shuffled forward, heads bowed.

“Sorry, Noona,” Jungkook mumbled, bowing deeply, the fake grass still dangling from his hand. Taehyung followed suit, bowing with a dramatic flourish, though his pout remained.

You raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed, fighting a smile at their ridiculousness. “Fake grass? Really? You two look like you’re auditioning for a bad spy movie.”

Taehyung’s pout deepened, his voice a low whine. “We were just following orders! Boss said to keep you safe, but, like, discreetly.”

Jungkook nodded, kicking at the dirt like a scolded puppy. “Yeah, we didn’t want to bother you. But you’re too sharp, Noona.”

You sighed, your stern facade cracking. Their pouting was absurdly endearing, and despite your anger at Jin, these two were hard to stay mad at.

“Okay, fine. Just—stop hiding in my bushes. You’re scaring the neighbors.” You paused, then softened, your heart tugging with worry. “How’s Jin?”

Their faces fell, the playful pouts replaced by genuine concern. Jungkook glanced at Taehyung, who took a deep breath before speaking. “He’s a mess, Noona. Barely eats—microwave noodles, if that. Doesn’t sleep either. Just sits in the kitchen staring at your chair, like he’s waiting for you to come back and yell at him for not eating properly.”

Taehyung nodded, his voice quieter. “He’s been like that since you left. And… he didn’t tell you, but before you found that file, he went to his father. Told him he wouldn’t kill you, no matter what. Said you didn’t know anything about your dad’s betrayal, that you’re innocent. His father backed off, called it his burden now. Jin’s been carrying that weight, trying to protect you.”

Jungkook’s eyes softened. “He loves you, Noona. More than we’ve ever seen him care about anything. He’s falling apart without you.”

You stood there, the watering can forgotten at your feet, your chest tightening. The image of Jin, hollowed out and staring at your empty chair, hit you like a punch.

And the fact that he’d faced his father—before you even knew the truth—made your anger waver. He’d chosen you, fought for you, even when you were unaware.

You swallowed hard, the roses blurring as tears pricked your eyes. “Thanks for telling me,” you said softly. “Go home. I’ll… I’ll take it from here.”

They bowed again, still pouting but with a flicker of hope in their eyes, and shuffled back to their SUV, fake grass and all. That night, you packed your bag, your heart heavy but resolute. Jin was a mess, but he was your mess. You’d go back—not to forgive him yet, but to make sure he didn’t starve himself into oblivion.

Two weeks later, you came back. Not for revenge, not for answers—just with groceries. You walked into the mansion, ignoring his stunned expression, and started unpacking. “You eat like shit without me,” you said, voice flat, setting a bag of rice on the counter.

He stood there, frozen. “You’re… back?”

“I don’t know what I am,” you admitted, turning to face him. Your lips pursed into a pout, your eyes narrowing like a sulky child’s, though the hurt in them was raw. “I’m still angry,” you said, crossing your arms and puffing out your cheeks, the gesture so soft it caught him off guard.

Jin’s lips twitched, a low chuckle escaping despite the weight in his chest. You looked so cute—this fierce, wounded woman pouting like a baby, glaring at him with all the fire you could muster.

“You’re laughing?” you huffed, stomping your foot lightly, which only made his chuckle deepen. “This isn’t funny, Jin! You—you betrayed me!”

“I know, baby,” he said, voice soft, stepping closer. His amusement faded, replaced by that aching guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.” He reached for you, hesitant, but you didn’t pull away this time.

You let him pull you into his arms, your pout still firmly in place as you mumbled against his chest, “I’m only here because you’re hopeless without me. And because I… I missed you.” Your voice cracked, and his heart broke all over again.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I don’t deserve you coming back.”

You nodded, still pouting, but your arms slipped around his waist. “You don’t. But I’m here. So don’t mess it up again.”

That night, you slept in the same bed, but it was different. He didn’t touch you, just watched you breathe, like he was afraid you’d vanish. When you woke, he was still there, eyes red, watching you like you were his entire world.

Things were fragile, but you stayed. Slowly, he started to earn you back. He cooked for you, burned the rice, laughed when you teased him for it. He held you when you cried, didn’t flinch when you screamed at him.

One night, you reached for him. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your hands hovering before settling on his shoulders. Your lips pursed again, that same adorable pout, and you huffed, “I’m still angry.” Your voice was softer now, playful but edged with truth, your eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and need. "But I need you."

Jin’s lips curved, his hands settling on your hips. “You’re too cute when you’re mad,” he murmured, eyes warm with amusement. “Makes it hard to take seriously.”

You glared, poking his chest. “Don’t you dare laugh, Kim Seokjin. You’re mine now, you hear me? Mine. No more secrets, no more lies. If anyone’s burying anyone, it’s gonna be me burying you for being an idiot.” Your possessiveness was fierce, your fingers gripping his shirt like you were staking a claim.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you, his hands sliding up your sides. “Yours,” he agreed, voice low and sincere. “I’m yours, baby. I’m sorry for ever making you doubt that.” His thumbs brushed your waist, grounding you, but his eyes held that haunted guilt. “I’ll never forgive myself for what I almost did.”

You softened, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing his jaw. “Then make it up to me,” you whispered, leaning in, your lips brushing his. “Show me you’re mine.”

He groaned, kissing you like he was starving, his hands pulling you closer. It was slow, reverent, a worshipful undoing. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, kissing your neck, your collarbone, peeling your dress off like he was unwrapping something sacred.

You tugged at his hair, a playful edge to your voice. “You’re damn right I am. So you better make this good, Jin.” Your nails scraped his scalp, possessive, and he chuckled against your skin, clearly delighted by your fire.

“Oh, I will,” he promised, voice husky. His lips trailed down your chest, kissing every inch, his hands mapping your body with a tenderness that felt like an apology.

He parted your thighs, his mouth finding your core, and you gasped, arching into him. His tongue was slow, deliberate, worshipping every part of you. “So perfect,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “My good girl, all mine.”

You pulled his hair harder, possessive and needy. “Say it again,” you demanded, voice breathy. “Who do I belong to?”

“Me,” he growled, nipping your thigh before returning to his task, his tongue driving you wild. “Only me. And I’m yours, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You came undone under his mouth, crying his name, your hands clutching him like he was your lifeline. He climbed back up, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

When he entered you, it was slow, deliberate, each thrust a vow. “I love you,” he whispered against your mouth, over and over, as you moved together, bodies entwined, hearts fractured but healing.

After, he held you close, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “Yours... I am all yours,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Always yours.”

Life wasn’t a fairy tale, but with you, it felt like one. Jin still ran his empire, but he kept its shadows far from you, a silent guardian of your light.

The mansion transformed into a home—your home—bursting with color and warmth. You filled it with potted plants that spilled over every windowsill, their leaves catching the sunlight.

You painted the walls soft pastels, hung fairy lights that twinkled like stars, and left little notes for Jin everywhere: “Don’t skip breakfast, silly!” on the fridge, “I stole your sweater, it’s mine now <3” on his pillow.

Every morning, you woke him with a kiss, giggling when he grumbled but pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck.

You’d drag him to the kitchen, where you’d bicker playfully over who made better coffee—yours was always better, you insisted, and he’d laugh, conceding with a kiss to your forehead.

He never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it again, not unless they threatened you. And every night, you curled up on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, his arms wrapped around you like you were his entire world.

Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, he’d whisper, “I married you to kill you, but now I'd die if I lost you.” You’d pretend to sleep, letting the words settle in your heart, a reminder of how far you’d come.

One evening, you sat on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching the sunset. Jin joined you, handing you a mug of hot chocolate—extra syrup, just how you liked it.

You leaned into him, smiling as he tucked the blanket tighter around you. “You’re gonna spoil me,” you teased, nudging his side.

“Good,” he said, kissing your temple, his voice soft and warm. “You deserve it, my love. You deserve everything.”

And in that moment, with the sky painted pink and gold, your hand in his, you knew you’d built something beautiful—a love that had survived blood and betrayal, a home filled with laughter and light. You’d chosen each other, and that was more than enough.

A/N: So I just checked and found out, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so I’m finally sharing it! Now that Tumblr has lifted the shadowban on this account, let’s bring it back to life.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria . @bebabido

[kittenan2]

Love at First Serve

Pairing: Tennis Player!J-Hope x Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy | Childhood Friends-to-Lovers | Fluff | Angst | Sweet Smut (18+) | Chaos & Healing Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content (detailed smut including praise kink, oral, missionary, hand-holding, slow intimate sex), depression/burnout mentions, strong emotions, mild language, chaotic humor, parental interruptions.

The air in Seoul smelled like childhood—sweet red bean buns from the corner shop, the faint tang of kimchi wafting from someone’s kitchen, and the earthy petrichor of a city that never stopped moving.

You stood outside your parents’ house, suitcase wheels stuck in a crack on the sidewalk, feeling like a stranger in your own skin. Ten years abroad—first for your dream university, then a soul-crushing corporate job—had left you burned out, depressed, and hollow.

You’d quit last month, packed your life into two bags, and flown back to Korea with no plan except survive.

Your parents were waiting at the door when you arrived. Your mom’s eyes welled up the moment she saw you, her arms pulling you into a hug that smelled like home—jasmine and rice.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You’re so thin. Why didn’t you tell us it was this bad?” She held you at arm’s length, scanning your face like she could read the last decade in your tired eyes.

Your dad, usually stoic, wrapped you in a hug so tight it squeezed the air from your lungs. “You did the right thing,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat. “That job was killing you. We’re proud of you for coming home.”

His words were simple, but the warmth in them felt like a lifeline. They didn’t pry, didn’t lecture—just filled the house with your favorite foods and promises to help you “find your spark again.”

The neighborhood hadn’t changed much. Same narrow streets, same nosy aunties peeking from windows.

You’d barely unpacked when Minji, your childhood best friend and the third musketeer of your trio, burst through the door. Her hair was shorter now, dyed golden, but her grin was bright.

“Y/N!” she squealed, tackling you onto the couch. “You’re back, and you didn’t even text me? Rude!” She flicked your forehead, then softened, studying you. “You look… tired. But we’re gonna fix that.”

You laughed, the sound foreign in your throat. “Fix me? I’m not a broken lamp, Minji.”

She smirked, tugging your arm. “Oh, you’re totally a flickering bulb. Lucky for you, I know just the thing. Sports club. Tomorrow. No arguments.”

“Sports?” You groaned, slumping back. “I haven’t touched a racket since high school.”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes glinting. “It’s time to feel alive again. Trust me.” You didn’t notice the way her smile turned sly, like she knew something you didn’t.

Minji had always been the schemer of your trio, and you should’ve suspected she had an ulterior motive—like, say, dragging you to a certain tennis court where a certain someone played.

The next day, Minji practically hauled you to the sports club, ignoring your protests. The sun was bright, the air crisp, and your too-tight tennis skirt made you feel like a fraud.

But then you saw him—Jung Hoseok, your other childhood best friend, neighbor, and the boy who used to let you steal his snacks.

He was leaning against the court fence, racket in hand, laughing with a kid. Taller now, leaner, with a jawline that could cut glass and a smile that still felt like sunshine.

His dark hair flopped over his eyes, and when he spotted you, his grin widened like you’d never left.

“Y/N?” he called, jogging over, racket swinging. “No way! Am I dreaming? When did you get back?”

You froze, heart tripping over itself. “Uh, 3 days ago,” you managed, suddenly hyper-aware of your messy ponytail. “Left the job and returned for good. Just… needed a change.”

He tilted his head, eyes softening. “You look good,” he said, and it sounded so genuine you almost believed him. “Wanna play a match? For old times’ sake?”

Minji coughed dramatically, muttering, “Old times, huh?” before winking at you. You shot her a glare, but Hoseok was already tossing you a spare racket, his enthusiasm infectious.

“Sure,” you said, shrugging off the nerves. “But don’t cry when I win.”

He laughed, bright and carefree. “Big talk for someone who hasn’t played in a decade. Bring it on. And don't forget I even won Bronze medal in Junior High School.”

You snorted, "That's because there were only 3 teams participating."

And just like that, you were back on the court, swinging your racket, laughing for the first time in months. You won, game after game, teasing him mercilessly as he “missed” shots. “Still slow, Hobi!” you shouted, twirling your racket. “That’s 3-0, loser!”

He grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re ruthless, Y/N. Give me a chance!”

“No way!” You stuck out your tongue, darting to the other side of the court. “You’re still worse than me, just like when we were kids!”

Hoseok chuckled, his eyes crinkling in that familiar way that made your heart skip—just for a second. You ignored it, too caught up in the thrill of winning.

After the match, you collapsed onto the bench beside Minji, gulping water and grinning. “I won every match!” you crowed, wiping your forehead. “Hobi’s still worse than me. Just like old times.”

Minji raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “Oh, honey,” she said softly, voice dripping with amusement. “He’s a state-level tennis player. Has been for five years.”

Your hand froze mid-sip. The world tilted. “What?”

She leaned back, folding her arms. “Yeah. He’s got trophies, medals, the works. Coaches kids on weekends. He’s good, Y/N.”

You stared at her, brain replaying every moment on the court: Hoseok’s easy smile when you scored. The way he’d clap for you, even when he “missed” an easy shot. The ball dropping, over and over, when he could’ve smashed it back. Your eyes widened, heart sinking like a stone.

Little did you know, he was never losing. He was just loving.

Minji sipped her drink, watching you process. “You really didn’t know? Hobi’s been obsessed with you since we were kids. Remember when he’d always save you the last ice cream? Or when he ‘accidentally’ let you win at tag?”

You blinked, memories flooding back. “That was… just him being nice.”

She snorted. “Nice? Y/N, he’d trip over his own feet to make you smile. That time you cried because you lost your favorite hairpin? He spent hours searching the park for it. Found it, too. And don’t get me started on how he’d blush every time you hugged him.”

Your cheeks burned. “He did not blush.”

“Oh, please,” Minji said, rolling her eyes. “He’d turn redder than a gochujang jar. Still does, by the way. Did you see how he looked at you today? Like you hung the moon.”

You shook your head, heart pounding. “Why didn’t he ever say anything?”

Minji’s expression softened. “You were always the dreamer, Y/N. Going to that fancy university, chasing your big career. He didn’t want to hold you back. Said you deserved to fly.”

Your throat tightened. You glanced across the court, where Hoseok was ruffling a kid’s hair, his laughter carrying on the breeze. He caught your eye, waved, and jogged over, plopping onto the bench beside you and Minji.

“Whew, those kids are gonna kill me,” he said, grinning. “What’re we talking about?”

Minji smirked. “Oh, just how Y/N’s still a menace on the court. Remember when she tripped you during tag and you cried for an hour?”

Hoseok laughed, nudging you. “I did not cry for an hour. Maybe ten minutes. And only because she stole my candy afterward!”

You gasped, shoving him playfully. “Liar! You gave me that candy because you felt bad for losing!”

“Felt bad?” Hoseok scoffed, eyes twinkling. “I let you win because you looked so sad when you lost. Couldn’t handle those puppy eyes.”

Minji cackled, kicking her feet. “Puppy eyes? Remember when you gave her your umbrella and got soaked because ‘ladies first’?”

You turned to him, mock-offended. “You got sick for a week because of that!”

“Worth it,” he said, winking, and your heart did a stupid flip. “Besides, you two ganged up on me all the time. Like that time you and Minji hid my bike and I thought it was stolen!”

You and Minji burst out laughing, high-fiving. “That was epic,” Minji said. “Your face when you found it in the tree!”

“You two were evil,” Hoseok groaned, but his grin was wide, eyes darting between you and Minji with the same warmth from childhood. “Still are.”

“Still stuck with us,” you teased, poking his side, and for a moment, it was like you were kids again, plotting chaos in the neighborhood, stealing snacks, and laughing until your sides hurt.

Your chest ached—not the heavy, depressive ache you’d grown used to, but something sharper, softer, and terrifyingly alive.

That evening, Hoseok’s mom insisted you come over for dinner. “It’s been too long, Y/N!” she said, pulling you into a hug that smelled like jasmine and home.

Your parents and his were neighbors, their houses mirror images of each other, balconies close enough for you and Hoseok to whisper secrets at midnight as kids.

You’d been back three days, but Hoseok hadn’t known—turns out, he’d been away at a tennis coaching camp in Busan, only returning the day you showed up at the sports club.

Dinner was loud, warm, and chaotic—both moms bickering over whose kimchi was spicier, your dad and Hoseok’s dad arguing about baseball. Hoseok sat across from you, stealing bites of your rice when you weren’t looking, grinning when you swatted his chopsticks.

After dessert, you nudged his mom. “Can I see Hobi’s trophies? Minji said he’s got a whole collection.” You were curious, still reeling from the revelation that he was a state-level player.

Hoseok groaned, cheeks pink. “Y/N, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” his mom scoffed, grabbing your arm. “Come on, I’ll show you. He’s too modest.”

She led you upstairs to his bedroom, a time capsule of blue walls, creaky floorboards, and memories. One wall gleamed with medals, trophies, and framed certificates—State Champion, Regional Finalist, Coach of the Year. A photo of him mid-serve, muscles taut, eyes fierce, hung above his desk. Your jaw dropped. “Hobi, this is incredible.”

He shuffled behind you, rubbing his neck. “It’s just… stuff.”

Your eyes drifted to the shelf above his bed, where childhood photos sat front and center: you and Hoseok at six, covered in mud after a rain fight; you, him, and Minji at ten, eating ice cream on his balcony; you at thirteen, grinning with braces as he tied your shoelaces. In every photo, you noticed something new—Hoseok’s eyes, always soft, always fixed on you, even when Minji was there, laughing or posing. His gaze held something deeper, warmer, for you than the playful friendship he shared with Minji.

Hoseok’s mom chuckled. “We tried moving those photos to storage once. Hobi threw a fit. Said they stay right there.”

Your throat tightened, emotions swirling—nostalgia, guilt, and something you couldn’t name. You turned to Hoseok, who was avoiding your gaze, cheeks flushed.

After dinner, you and Hoseok sat on his balcony, the summer air warm and heavy. The stars glittered above, but your heart was pounding too loud to notice. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered. “About the tennis. About… letting me win.”

He leaned back, eyes tracing the sky. “You were smiling today. Really smiling. I haven’t seen that in years.” His voice softened, raw. “You’ve been gone so long, Y/N. I didn’t know you were back because I was at a coaching camp. But when I saw you on that court… it was like no time had passed. I just wanted you to feel good again.”

Your eyes burned. “Hobi… did you—”

“I never stopped loving you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, like he was afraid the stars would hear. “When you got that scholarship, you were so happy, so alive. I couldn’t tell you how I felt. You were going to conquer the world, and I didn’t want to be the guy who held you back.” He turned to you, eyes glassy. “But every day you were gone, I missed you. Every. Single. Day.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “Hobi, I was so lost out there,” you choked out. “I thought I was chasing my dreams, but I was just… running. And now I’m back, and I’m broken, and you’re still—” Your voice cracked. “You’re still you.”

He reached out, thumb brushing your tears away, his touch so gentle it hurt. “You’re not broken,” he said fiercely. “You’re still the girl who pushed me into the mud and laughed. The girl who made me want to be better.” He leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours. “I love you, Y/N. I always have.”

You sobbed quietly, and he pulled you into his arms, his warmth wrapping around you like a promise. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, the boy who’d always been your sun, pulling you out of the dark.

Dating Hoseok was like living in a rom-com directed by a chaotic gremlin. You agreed to keep it secret—your parents were nosy, his parents were extra, and neither of you wanted the neighborhood aunties starting a group chat about your wedding plans.

So began the Secret Love Olympics, complete with sneaky hand-holding, stolen kisses, and near-death experiences.

One evening, you walked home from the sports club, Hoseok’s hand warm in yours. He was mid-story, laughing about a kid who’d tried to “serve” a tennis ball into a tree, when your dad appeared on the porch, trash bag in hand.

Your brain short-circuited. “HIDE!” you hissed, shoving Hoseok with all your might. He stumbled, tripped over a crack, and faceplanted into the gravel with a dramatic “OOF!”

“Y/N!” your dad roared, stomping over. “Are you trying to murder your friend? Pushing him into the dirt like that? What’s wrong with you?!” He turned to Hoseok, who was spitting out pebbles. “Hobi, you should unfriend her. She’s a menace!”

Hoseok, ever the saint, grinned up at him, gravel stuck to his cheek. “No, sir. It’s… tradition. Builds character.”

Your dad squinted, muttering, “You kids are lunatics,” before tossing the trash bag into the bin and storming inside, still grumbling about your “violent tendencies.”

You knelt beside Hoseok, face burning with embarrassment. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you muttered, brushing gravel off his cheeks with your fingers. “I didn’t mean to launch you into the ground.”

He chuckled, catching your wrist. “You owe me kisses now, you know. One for every pebble.” Before you could protest, he leaned in, stealing a quick peck, then another, his lips soft and teasing. “That’s two down,” he whispered, grinning against your mouth as he stole a third.

You swatted his chest, giggling. “Stop it, you opportunist! My dad might come back!”

“Worth the risk,” he said, winking, and you both dissolved into laughter, hearts racing.

Another time, you were kissing behind his car—his lips soft and teasing, hands warm on your waist—when his mom walked out with a laundry basket.

You yelped, pulling back, but it was too late. She froze, squinting at you both. “Why are your lips so swollen?” she asked, tilting her head. “And Hobi, why do your lips look like you’re wearing Y/N’s lip gloss?”

Your brain blanked. Hoseok’s eyes widened, and you both blurted out the worst excuse in history: “Mosquitoes!” you said in unison. “At the sports club! They, uh, bit our lips. Really aggressive ones.”

His mom stared, unimpressed. “Mosquitoes. On your lips. Both of you.” She shook her head, cackling. “You’re not fooling anyone. Go wash that gloss off, Hobi.” She walked away, muttering something to herself.

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “We’re so bad at this.”

Hoseok laughed, pulling you close. “At least we’re bad together.”

One evening, you and Hoseok sneaked into Minji’s backyard for a “private moment,” thinking her house was empty. You were mid-makeout, his hands in your hair, your lips locked in a heated kiss, when a flashlight beam hit you like a spotlight.

“If you guys are gonna make out, at least find somewhere else!” Minji’s voice rang out, exasperated. “Not in my backyard, please! My plants have some sanity, and they don’t need to see this!”

You screamed, stumbling backward into a rose bush, thorns snagging your shirt. Hoseok tripped over a garden gnome, flailing dramatically. Minji stood there, arms crossed, flashlight in hand, trying not to laugh. “You two are a walking disaster. Get a room!”

“Minji!” you whined, untangling yourself from the bush. “Why are you even home?”

“I live here!” she shot back, smirking. “And now I’m traumatized. My poor roses.”

Hoseok, recovering from his gnome encounter, grinned. “Sorry, Minji. We’ll… relocate.”

“You better,” she said, shooing you both out. “And Y/N, you owe me for the therapy my plants need now!”

You and Hoseok fled, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, promising to never use Minji’s backyard again.

Both sets of parents announced they were going on a weekend trip to Busan. “A little getaway,” your mom said, winking at your dad like they were newlyweds. You and Hoseok exchanged a look—freedom.

That Saturday, you went to his place. You cooked together, bickering over how much garlic went in the japchae. “You’re gonna scare me away with that breath,” he teased, dodging your playful swat. After dinner, you curled up on his couch, watching old cartoons, his arm around you. It felt so easy, so right.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, noticing the way you’d gone quiet.

You looked at him, eyes stinging. “I don’t feel broken when I’m with you.”

His gaze softened. He leaned in, kissing you—slow, tender, tasting like mint and home. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, heart racing. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your lips. “Always have been.”

You tugged at his shirt, and he chuckled, pulling it off, revealing the lean muscles you’d tried not to stare at on the tennis court. Your hands traced his chest, and he shivered, eyes darkening. “Your turn,” he whispered, fingers brushing the hem of your tee. You nodded, letting him lift it over your head, his gaze reverent as he took you in.

He kissed you again, deeper, guiding you to his bedroom. The air was thick with desire, but every touch was careful, like he was afraid you’d shatter. He laid you on the bed, lips trailing down your neck, collarbone, pausing to whisper, “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, and he smiled, kissing you like you were his whole world.

Hoseok’s lips moved lower, kissing the curve of your breast through your bra before unclasping it with trembling fingers. He took a moment, just looking at you, eyes full of awe. “You’re perfect,” he said, voice low, and you blushed, squirming under his gaze.

He kissed your nipple, slow and deliberate, tongue swirling in a way that made you gasp. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he lavished attention on your breasts, sucking gently, then harder when you arched into him. “Hobi,” you whined, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moved lower, kissing down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?” he asked, eyes searching yours. You nodded, heart pounding, and he slid them off, along with your panties, leaving you bare before him.

His breath hitched. “God, you’re so beautiful.” He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and teasing, working his way closer until you were trembling.

When his tongue finally flicked against your clit, you moaned, hips bucking. He held you down gently, licking long, slow strokes, savoring every sound you made. “You taste so good,” he murmured, voice vibrating against you, and you nearly came undone.

He worked you with his tongue, alternating between soft licks and gentle sucks, building you up until you were gasping, thighs shaking. “Hobi, please,” you begged, and he slid a finger inside you, curling it just right.

The pressure built, white-hot, and when he added a second finger, pumping slowly while his tongue circled your clit, you shattered, crying his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He kissed his way back up, lips glistening, grinning like he’d won the lottery. You pulled him close, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Your turn,” you whispered, reaching for his jeans, but he caught your hand.

“Tonight’s about you,” he said, kissing your palm. But you insisted, tugging his jeans down, and he laughed. “Okay, okay,” he said as you palmed him through his boxers. When you finally freed him, he was hard and heavy in your hand, and you stroked him slowly, watching his eyes flutter shut.

You guided him to the bed, straddling him, but he flipped you gently, pinning you beneath him. “Let me take care of you,” he said, grabbing a condom from his drawer. He rolled it on, then settled between your thighs, kissing you as he lined himself up. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nodded, and he pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, and he paused, forehead against yours, breathing hard. “You okay?” he whispered.

“Perfect,” you said, and he smiled, kissing you as he started to move—slow, deep thrusts that made you feel every inch of him. He held your hand, fingers laced, pinning it above your head as he rocked into you, his other hand gripping your hip. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice low and rough. “So perfect for me.”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he moaned, thrusting harder but still so careful, like you were his treasure. “I love you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, and you shattered again, clenching around him as he followed, groaning your name as he came.

You lay there, tangled in each other, giggling between kisses. “I’m never leaving this bed,” you mumbled, and he laughed, pulling you closer.

You woke up in Hoseok’s hoodie, his arm slung over your waist, sunlight streaming through his curtains. His soft snores filled the room, and you smiled, tracing the curve of his jaw. Last night had been perfect—until the front door slammed open downstairs.

“HOBI! WE’RE BACK EARLY!” his mom’s voice boomed, followed by the unmistakable clatter of luggage.

Your eyes widened. Hoseok bolted upright, hair a wild mess. “SHIT!” he yelped, nearly falling off the bed. “They weren’t supposed to be back until tonight!”

Chaos erupted. You scrambled for your clothes, but your bra was dangling from a potted plant like some avant-garde decoration. “Why is my bra on the plant?!” you hissed, lunging for it.

“I don’t know!” Hoseok whispered, tripping over his jeans and faceplanting into the mattress with a muffled “OOF!” His legs flailed as he tried to yank the pants up, only to get tangled in the bedsheets. “I’m stuck! Help!”

You stifled a laugh, grabbing his arm to pull him free.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs. “Hobi? You okay up there? Why are you not answering?” his mom called.

“FINE!” Hoseok shouted, voice cracking as he finally got his jeans on, only to realize they were backward. “Oh, come on!”

You grabbed his hoodie to cover yourself, but it barely reached your thighs. Your panties were somewhere under the bed, and you were not about to go spelunking.

The door swung open, you still sitting on bed, and there stood his mom, eyes wide, laundry basket in hand. Your mom appeared behind her, gasping so hard her purse hit the floor. Hoseok threw a blanket on you to cover your legs.

Your dad followed, spotting your clothes on floor. Hoseok’s dad, holding a bag of snacks, took one look, muttered, “Nope,” and bolted back downstairs.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” your dad roared, pointing at the clothes on floor and messy room like it was a murder scene.

“I CAN EXPLAIN!” you shrieked, flailing your arms like a deranged octopus, accidentally knocking over a lamp at bed's side drawer. It hit the floor with a crash, and Hoseok yelped, diving to catch it but missing spectacularly.

“Y/N, are you trying to destroy his room?!” your mom squealed, clutching her chest. “And why are you in his hoodie? Why are your pants on the floor?”

“It’s not what it looks like!” you lied, immediately regretting it as Hoseok’s mom raised an eyebrow, pointing at the bed’s rumpled sheets.

“Not what it looks like?” she said, smirking. “Hobi, you're shirtless, and Y/N’s got your hoodie. What, did you two have a sleepover to braid each other’s hair?”

Hoseok, still wrestling with his backward jeans, stammered, “We’re… uh… dating?”

Your dad’s eyes bugged out. “DATING? Since when? You’re neighbors! You’re supposed to fight over who gets the bigger half of the tteokbokki, not… THIS!”

Your mom started laughing, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, honey, they’ve been in love since they were six. Didn’t you see how he always gave her his snacks?”

“Snacks are not a marriage proposal!” your dad sputtered, then turned to Hoseok. “You! Explain yourself!”

Hoseok, still fixing his jeans, stood up straight, cheeks red but eyes steady. “I love her,” he said simply, reaching for your hand, standing next to you. His fingers laced with yours, warm and grounding, and your heart skipped despite the chaos. “I’ve always loved her.”

The room went quiet. Your mom sniffled, clutching his mom’s arm. “That’s so sweet,” she whispered.

Your dad’s eyes darted around the room, landing on a crumpled tissue in the corner of the bed. His face went from red to ghostly white as he realized it wasn’t just a tissue—it was a used condom.

“I need a drink,” he groaned, rubbing his temples furiously. “And a new pair of eyes.”

Your mom, trying to keep the peace, swatted his arm. “Oh, come on, honey, they’re adults!” she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement. “At least they’re not sneaking around in high school anymore.” You and Hoseok turned redder than lobster.

Hoseok’s mom cackled, scooping up your pants from the floor and tossing them to you with a flourish. “Responsible adults, too,” she teased, winking at the condom with a mischievous grin.

“Next time, lock the door properly, lovebirds, unless you want an audience.” She grabbed your parents’ arms, dragging them toward the door. “Come on, let’s give them a minute to… locate the rest of their wardrobe.”

As the door closed, you and Hoseok collapsed onto the bed, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “We’re dead,” you gasped, burying your face in his chest.

“Worth it,” he said, kissing your forehead, his arms wrapping around you. “You’re worth every disaster.”

Months later, you were happier than ever, back in therapy and rediscovering your passions. Hoseok was your rock, your sunshine, and—since a starry night two months ago when he got down on one knee with a ring hidden in a tennis ball.

The neighborhood aunties had already started planning your wedding, much to your horror, but you and Hoseok just laughed, too wrapped up in each other to care.

On a sunny afternoon, you faced him on the tennis court, racket in hand, determination in your eyes. “No more easy wins, fiancé,” you warned, tossing your hair dramatically. “I’m taking you down.”

He smirked, spinning his racket like the show-off he was. “Don’t cry when I destroy you, future Mrs. Jung. I did warn you.”

You scoffed, pointing your racket at him. “Big talk for a guy who proposed with a tennis ball. I’m gonna wipe that smug grin off your face!”

He served, and you missed spectacularly, the ball whizzing past you. “That’s one!” he called, grinning. Another serve, another miss.

By the end, you were 0-6, pouting dramatically as you flung your racket onto the bench. “YOU USED TO LOVE ME MORE!” you wailed, crossing your arms like a petulant child.

Hoseok doubled over laughing, jogging over to you. “I still do, you big baby!” he said, catching your wrist as you tried to storm off. “You’re just too cute when you pout.”

“Cute?!” you huffed, yanking your hand free and poking his chest. “I’m a fierce warrior, Jung Hoseok! I am not letting you sneak in my room from balcony, anymore. And if you do, then, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight!”

He gasped, clutching his heart. “The couch? When we’re already engaged? Have mercy, my love!” He dropped to his knees dramatically, grabbing your hands and planting sloppy kisses on your knuckles. “Forgive me, oh fierce warrior, or I’ll wither away without your cuddles!”

You tried to stay mad, but his puppy eyes and exaggerated pout broke you. You burst out laughing, pulling him up. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, but your heart was melting.

“Ridiculously in love,” he corrected, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you until you squealed. He set you down, kissing your nose. “How about a rematch? I’ll let you win one point. Just one. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

You narrowed your eyes, grabbing your racket. “Oh, it’s on, Hobi. And when I win, you’re allowed to sneak in my room!”

He laughed, dodging as you swatted at him. “Deal! But when I win, you’re wearing that tennis skirt, while waiting for me. You know, the one that makes me lose my mind.”

You blushed, smacking his arm. “Pervert!”

“Only for you,” he winked, running to the other side of the court. You chased after him, giggling, tripping over your own feet, and he caught you, just like always.

As you stood there, wrapped in his arms, the sun setting behind you, you knew you weren’t running from yourself anymore—you were running toward him, toward love, toward home.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d let him win in bed later.

A/N: Thanks for diving into this chaotic love rally! Like, comment, and reblog to keep the court buzzing with Hobi’s sunshine! 💛🎾

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Tell me guys, what to do? 🤔

Update 2.0

Guess what? After 3 whole months, Tumblr finally lifted the shadowban on my main account—she lives! 😂 In the meantime, I created a backup account @kittenan2 to continue posting my fanfics… and surprisingly, that one’s been doing pretty well too.

So now I’m in a little dilemma: Should I go back to posting from my main account, stick with the backup, or keep both just in case Tumblr decides to play games again? 😵‍💫

Also, a big thank you to everyone who followed me on both accounts and continued reading my fanfics—you’re the real MVPs. 💖

And I want to sincerely apologize to those of you I asked about joining my taglist. I wasn’t able to reply or add you because the message feature was removed from my account during the shadowban. I promise I wasn’t ignoring you! 🥺 I’ll do better now that things are slowly going back to normal.

Love you all lots! 💜 – Kitten 🐾

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse

[kittenan2]

Puppy Eyes vs. Thirsty Thighs

Paring: Teasing Wife!Reader x Himbo Husband!Jimin Genre: Chaotic Newlywed Rom-Com | Smut | Ovulation-Induced Rage | Misunderstandings | Scooter Fights | Revenge Seduction Rating: Explicit (18+), NSFW Word Count: ~5k Warnings: Explicit sexual content (spanking, oral sex, penetrative sex, dirty talk, light dominance, teasing, hair-pulling), bickering, ovulation-driven horniness, fluff, angst, intense emotions, brief public misunderstanding (chaotic), language.

You stare at your phone, jaw clenched, eyes burning holes into the screen. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to unleash a storm of emojis—skulls, knives, maybe a middle finger or two. But no. You’re a queen. A petty queen. And petty queens don’t lose their cool. They plot.

Four days. It’s been four days since you and your husband, Park Jimin, last tangled in the sheets. Four days since he had you gasping his name, clawing at his back, begging for more. And now?

Now you’re in the middle of your ovulation phase, your body a hormonal wildfire, every nerve screaming for his touch. You’ve shaved. Spritzed perfume in places that make you blush. Practiced your sultry moans in the mirror like a damn pop star. And what does your sinfully gorgeous husband do?

He talks about the fucking weather.

Your text, sent ten minutes ago in a moment of desperate thirst, glares back at you:

You: Baby, I’m wet 🥺

His reply, which arrived with the speed of a man who clearly doesn’t get it, is pure torture:

Jimin: Told you to bring an umbrella 🌂. It’s rainy season. You’ll catch cold 😤

You blink. Once. Twice. Your soul briefly exits your body, does a lap around the apartment, and returns to find you still staring at this blasphemy. An umbrella? A COLD? This man, who looks like he stepped out of a wet dream in his tight gray sweatpants and fitted black tee, thinks you’re talking about rain?

You fling your phone onto the couch, pacing the living room like a caged lioness. The apartment smells like the lavender candle you lit to “set the mood,” but the only mood now is rage. Ovulation rage. The kind that makes you want to climb him like a tree or throttle him with his own fluffy hoodie. Maybe both.

The front door clicks open, and there he is—Park Jimin, your husband of three months, the human equivalent of a cinnamon roll dipped in sin. His dark hair is damp from the drizzle outside, clinging to his forehead in that unfairly sexy way. His lips, plump and pink, curve into a soft smile as he kicks off his sneakers, holding a grocery bag in one hand.

“Jagi, I’m back!” he calls, voice like honey. “Got you some ginger tea for your cramps. Your period’s coming soon, right? You’ve been so moody lately.”

You freeze mid-pace. Moody? MOODY? Oh, this man is begging for war. You’re not PMSing. You’re P.M.S-ing—Please Mount Soon. And he’s out here diagnosing you like WebMD?

“Jimin,” you say, voice dangerously calm, “I’m not moody because of my period.”

He tilts his head, confused, looking like a lost puppy. “Then why’re you pouting? You didn’t answer my text about the umbrella.”

Your eye twitches. “I didn’t answer because I wasn’t talking about the rain, Park Jimin.”

He blinks, processing. You see the gears turning in his pretty head, but they’re stuck in cinnamon-roll mode. “Then… what were you talking about?”

You scream internally. This man. This beautiful, sculpted, clueless man. You march over, snatch the grocery bag from his hand, and slam it onto the counter. “Forget it. Just—go shower or something.”

He pouts, stepping closer, his cologne hitting you like a punch to the ovaries. “Jagi, don’t be mad. You’re so cute when you pout like that.”

You glare up at him, his face too close, his eyes too sparkly. “Cute? You think this is cute? I’m about to set this apartment on fire.”

He chuckles, ruffling your hair. “So dramatic. Drink the tea, okay? I’ll make dinner.”

You swat his hand away, stomping to the bedroom. Oh, it’s on. If he wants to play oblivious, you’ll play dirty. You’ll make him beg for mercy.

The next morning, it's saturday, you’re still simmering. Jimin, blissfully unaware, hums a tune while flipping pancakes in the kitchen, his back muscles flexing under his shirt. You sip your coffee, plotting. You’ve decided to give him the silent treatment, partly because you’re still mad, partly because watching him squirm is delicious.

“Jagi, we need groceries,” he says, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of you. “Wanna come with me? We can take the scooter.”

You stab a pancake, not looking at him. “Fine.”

He beams, oblivious to the storm brewing. “Yay! It’ll be fun. Like a little date.”

You roll your eyes but follow him out, slipping on your sneakers. Outside, the air is humid, the sky gray with the threat of rain. Jimin hands you a helmet, his fingers brushing yours, sending an unwanted spark through your traitorous body.

He climbs onto the scooter, patting the seat behind him. “Hop on, jagi~”

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “Why do I have to sit behind you? Maybe I wanna drive.”

He laughs, chewing gum like he’s in a drama. “You? Drive? Last time you tried, we almost ended up in a ditch.”

“That was one time,” you snap. “And you were distracting me!”

“By breathing?” he teases, smirking. “Come on, don’t be moody. Sit. I’ll buy you ice cream later.”

Your blood boils. Moody. There’s that word again. You’re about to unleash hell when a traffic cop strolls by, eyeing you both. Jimin doesn’t notice, still patting the seat like an idiot.

The cop stops, frowning. “Ma’am, is this man bothering you?”

Jimin laughs, waving a hand. “Haha, no, officer. We’re husband and wife. Right, jagi?”

You turn to the cop, a wicked smirk curling your lips. Jimin’s smile falters. He knows that look. You’re up to something, and he’s about to regret every life choice that led to this moment.

“Officer,” you say, voice dripping with fake distress, “I’ve never seen this man in my life.”

Jimin’s jaw drops. “JAGI?!”

The cop narrows his eyes, stepping toward Jimin. “Sir, step away from the lady.”

Jimin’s hands fly up, panic setting in. “Wait, wait, wait! Officer, she’s my wife! We’re married three months ago! She’s just—she’s joking!”

You fold your arms, watching him flounder. “I don’t know him,” you repeat, biting back a laugh. Jimin’s face is a masterpiece of betrayal—eyes wide, mouth open, like you just told him you’re divorcing him for a toaster.

“Ma’am,” the cop says, “if he’s harassing you, we can take him to the station.”

Jimin turns to you, pleading. “Jagi, tell him the truth! What if I get arrested? You’re gonna bail me out, right?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe. If I feel like it.”

The cop grabs Jimin’s arm, and that’s when you crack. You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Okay, okay, officer! I’m kidding. He’s my husband. He’s just… annoying.”

The cop sighs, muttering, “You kids are immature,” before walking away. Jimin slumps against the scooter, clutching his chest like he’s survived a war.

“What,” he wheezes, “was that?”

You shrug, climbing onto the scooter behind him. “Revenge. For the umbrella text.”

He turns, eyes wild. “REVENGE? I COULD’VE BEEN IN JAIL!”

You pat his cheek. “Maybe then you’d learn what I meant.”

He groans, starting the scooter. “You’re evil.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, smirking into his back. “And you love it.”

You ditch him at the grocery store, claiming you need “fresh air” and taking an Uber home like the dramatic queen you are. The driver gives you a knowing look as you sulk in the backseat, muttering about “stupid hot husband” and “umbrella betrayal.” You’re not sure if he’s judging or impressed, but you tip him generously anyway.

Back home, you storm into the apartment, kicking off your shoes, and flop onto the couch. Your body’s still buzzing with frustration—ovulation hormones raging, skin hypersensitive, every thought circling back to Jimin’s lips, his hands, those damn sweatpants. You grab a pillow and scream into it, muffling your existential crisis.

An hour later, the door opens. Jimin shuffles in, looking like a kicked puppy, holding the grocery bag. His hair’s damp from the rain, and his hoodie’s damp, clinging to his shoulders in a way that makes your mouth water. He sets the bag down and sighs.

“Jagi,” he says softly, “I got you the chocolate you like. The one with the caramel.”

You ignore him, hugging your pillow tighter. He frowns, sitting on the coffee table in front of you.

“Are you still mad about the scooter thing? Or… is it something else?”

You glare. “You’re so clueless, Jimin.”

He pouts, leaning closer. “Then tell me! I hate when you’re upset. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

You sit up, tossing the pillow aside. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the problem! You’re too sweet, too cute, too perfect. And you don’t even realize I’ve been throwing myself at you for days because I’m ovulating and you think I’m talking about the rain!”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he just stares. Then, slowly, a slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. “Oh… that’s what this is about?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Yes, Park Jimin. I texted you I was wet, and you told me to bring an umbrella. An UMBRELLA, Jimin!”

He bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “Jagi, I thought you were literally wet from the rain! You know I’m bad at reading between the lines.”

You grab another pillow and throw it at him. He catches it, laughing. “You’re such an idiot!”

He crawls onto the couch, hovering over you, his grin turning playful. “An idiot who loves you. And who’s about to make it up to you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, you think it’s that easy? You’re on probation, mister.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Probation, huh? Guess I’ll have to work extra hard to get out of it.”

Your breath hitches, but you push him away, standing up. “Not yet. I’m not done being mad.”

You storm to the bedroom, slamming the door for effect. But really? You’re already plotting phase two of your revenge: seduction. If he wants to play clueless, you’ll make him see.

You take your time in the bedroom, shedding your clothes and slipping into Jimin’s oversized T-shirt—the one he loves seeing you in. It’s soft, black, and smells like his cologne, hitting you mid-thigh and leaving your legs bare. No panties. No bra. Just pure, unfiltered chaos.

You check your reflection in the mirror. Hair tousled, lips glossy, eyes smoldering with intent. You’re a weapon, and Jimin’s about to be your target.

You saunter back to the living room, where Jimin’s sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He’s changed into those gray sweatpants—curse him—and a loose white tank top that shows off his toned arms. He doesn’t look up as you approach, which only fuels your fire.

You clear your throat dramatically. He glances up, and his phone nearly slips from his hand.

“Jagi…” he says, voice low, eyes raking over you. “What’s… that?”

You shrug, casual as hell, and crawl into his lap, straddling him. His hands instinctively settle on your hips, but he’s still confused, like a puppy trying to solve quantum physics.

“Aren’t you still mad?” he asks, brow furrowing.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Oh, I’m furious. But I’m also ovulating. And you’ve been starving me.”

His grip tightens, and you feel him tense beneath you. “Starving?” he repeats, voice husky now.

You nod, trailing a finger down his chest. “I lied earlier. I’m not PMSing. I’m desperate. And you’ve been ignoring me.”

His eyes darken, finally catching up. “Ignoring you? Baby, I didn’t know—”

You cut him off with a kiss, slow and teasing, pulling back just as he leans in for more. “You’re gonna make it up to me. Right?”

He nods, dazed. “Anything you want.”

You smirk, grinding your hips against him, feeling him harden beneath you. “Good. Because I want everything.”

The air in the living room crackles with tension, thick as the humid summer night outside. Jimin’s hands are on your hips, fingers digging into your bare skin where his T-shirt has ridden up.

You’re straddling him, feeling the hard length of him pressing against you through those cursed gray sweatpants. His eyes, usually soft and sparkly, are dark now, pupils blown wide with a hunger that makes your thighs clench.

The switch has flipped. The sweet, confused puppy you married is gone, replaced by a man who looks like he’s about to devour you whole. His lips curl into a dangerous smirk, and his voice drops an octave, sending shivers down your spine.

“You’ve been playing with me,” he murmurs, lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. His breath is hot, teasing, as he nips lightly at your pulse point. “Texting me at work, knowing I was in a meeting. Teasing me with that cop stunt. And now—” his hands slide up your thighs, squeezing possessively, “—wearing my shirt like this, no panties, dripping all over me.”

You shiver, loving the edge in his voice, the way he’s unraveling. “You deserved it,” you whisper, voice breathy but defiant. “For ignoring me. For that stupid umbrella text.”

He chuckles, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through your chest. “Oh, jagi. I’m so sorry for that.” His lips brush your ear, and you feel the sincerity in his apology, but it’s laced with a promise of retribution. “Let me make it up to you. No mercy tonight.”

In one swift motion, he yanks the T-shirt over your head, tossing it across the room. It lands somewhere near the coffee table, but you don’t care. You’re bare now, exposed under his ravenous gaze, your skin prickling as he drinks you in—flushed cheeks, hardened nipples, the slick sheen between your thighs. He groans, low and guttural, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands roaming your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips. “You’re so perfect it hurts.”

He manhandles you with ease, flipping you onto your stomach in a move so smooth it steals your breath. You’re face-down on the couch now, ass up, knees pressed into the cushions, completely at his mercy.

The cool leather against your heated skin makes you gasp, and you clutch the armrest, bracing yourself. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, squeezing your thighs, spreading you open. You’re dripping, the evidence of your arousal slick and undeniable, and you hear his sharp intake of breath.

“Baby,” he growls, voice rough with need, “you’re this wet for me? Even though I didn’t catch your hint?”

You nod, cheek pressed against the couch, unable to form words. Your body’s screaming for him, every nerve alight. Then you feel it—a sharp slap to your ass, the sting blooming hot and delicious. You moan, arching back, craving more.

“That’s for making me panic with that cop,” he says, his hand rubbing the spot he just spanked, soothing the burn before delivering another slap. “For thinking you could get away with it.”

Another spank, harder this time, and you whimper, thighs trembling. “And that’s for texting me during my meeting, knowing I couldn’t do anything about it.”

He grips your hair gently, pulling your head back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re molten, filled with a mix of lust and adoration that makes your heart stutter. “And this—” spank, the hardest yet, making you cry out, “—is for making me think you were mad when you were just needy for me.”

“Jimin,” you gasp, voice wrecked, “please…”

He pauses, kneeling behind you, his hands spreading you open. You’re exposed, vulnerable, and the way he groans—low, primal, like he’s starving—sends a fresh wave of arousal through you. “Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re dripping. All for me.”

You nod, desperate, and then his tongue is on you—flat, slow, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, deliberate lick. You cry out, legs shaking, as he dives in, eating you out like it’s his life’s mission.

His lips are soft but relentless, sucking your clit with just enough pressure to make you see stars. His tongue dips inside you, teasing, then circles back to your clit, flicking with maddening precision. The wet sounds of his mouth against you are obscene, mingling with your moans and the creak of the couch.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls against your skin, the vibration sending shocks through your core. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned as you squirm, overwhelmed by the intensity. He’s thorough, licking every inch, sucking gently, then harder, alternating between slow, torturous drags and quick, precise flicks that have you teetering on the edge.

“Jimin… oh god…” you whimper, nails digging into the couch.

He pauses, lips glistening, his breath hot against your thigh. “Not yet, baby. I made you wait four days. You can wait a little longer.”

You whine, pushing back against him, desperate for release. “You’re evil.”

He chuckles, nipping your thigh. “Says the woman who almost got me arrested.” He dives back in, doubling down on your clit, his tongue relentless. Your moans turn into sobs, your body trembling as he brings you to the brink again, only to pull back, kissing your inner thigh instead.

“Jimin!” you wail, tears pricking your eyes from the denied release. “Please, I need it.”

He smirks, looking up at you with those sinful eyes. “Say it. Say you’re sorry for making me panic in front of cop.”

You laugh, breathless, defiant. “No way. You’re the one who needs to apologize for the umbrella text.”

He raises a brow, amused but unyielding. “Oh, jagi. Wrong answer.” He spanks you again, the sting sharp and perfect, then dives back in, his tongue working you over until you’re screaming, right on the edge. He stops again, and you nearly sob from frustration.

“Okay, okay!” you gasp. “I’m sorry for teasing you!”

He grins, triumphant. “Good girl.” His lips wrap around your clit, sucking hard, and you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and blinding, your body convulsing as you scream his name. He doesn’t stop, licking you through every wave, drawing it out until you’re a trembling, oversensitive mess.

You collapse, panting, but he’s not done. He lifts you effortlessly, pulling you back into his lap, straddling him. You’re still buzzing, sensitive, but the sight of him—sweaty, flushed, rock-hard beneath those sweatpants—reignites your fire. You reach down, slipping your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around his length. He’s thick, hot, pulsing in your hand, and he hisses, hips bucking.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirk, stroking him slowly, teasing. “You said you’d make it up to me. So do it.”

He growls, pulling down his sweatpants in one swift motion, freeing himself. You line him up, sinking down slowly, savoring every inch as he fills you. His groans are loud, head falling back, hands gripping your waist like a lifeline. “So tight,” he gasps. “So perfect.”

You start slow, grinding, circling your hips to tease him, making him growl. Your nails rake down his chest, leaving faint red lines, and he shudders, thrusting up into you, taking control. “Where’s that attitude now?” he taunts, lips brushing yours. “All that fire, and now you’re just melting for me.”

You moan, nails digging into his shoulders. “Still… here.”

He laughs, flipping you onto your back, the couch creaking beneath you. He’s above you now, one leg hooked over his shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist. He’s deep, relentless, the angle hitting spots that make your vision blur. His lips find your neck, kissing, biting, whispering filth between thrusts.

“Wanted me to lose control?” he growls, his thumb circling your clit. “You got it, baby. I’m gonna ruin you.”

You’re a mess, moaning, clawing at his back, the couch shifting with every thrust. He’s relentless, each stroke deliberate, his thumb working your clit in time with his hips. You’re spiraling, the pleasure overwhelming, building toward another peak.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, voice rough, desperate. “Show me how much you needed this.”

You shatter again, your orgasm ripping through you, your walls clenching around him. He groans, thrusting through your release, chasing his own. His strokes grow erratic, desperate, and he cums with a deep, guttural moan, forehead pressed to yours, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer.

You’re both panting, sweaty, tangled together. He doesn’t pull away, staying inside you, his arms wrapping around you as he shifts to lie beside you on the couch.

The aftercare begins immediately—his lips brush your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, soft and reverent. He pulls a throw blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both, tucking it around your shoulders.

“You okay, jagi?” he murmurs, voice soft now, all traces of the dominant edge gone. He strokes your hair, fingers gentle, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Was that too much?”

You shake your head, nuzzling into his chest. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “I’m sorry about the umbrella thing. I’m such an idiot.”

You smile, kissing his collarbone. “My idiot.”

He grabs a water bottle from the coffee table, making you sip first, then takes a drink himself. He tucks you against him, ensuring you’re warm, comfortable, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I love you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Even when you’re trying to get me arrested.”

You laugh, the sound muffled against his chest. “I love you too. Even when you’re clueless.”

The living room is a mess—throw pillows scattered, the couch slightly askew, the lavender candle flickering weakly on the coffee table. But you don’t care. You’re curled in Jimin’s arms, still wrapped in the throw blanket, your bodies pressed together like you’re trying to merge into one. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek, his warmth seeping into you, grounding you after the storm of emotions and pleasure.

He’s playing with your fingers now, intertwining them with his, his thumb brushing over your wedding ring. His lips are pressed to your forehead, and every few seconds, he plants a soft kiss there, like he’s reminding himself you’re real. The air smells like him—cologne, sweat, and something uniquely Jimin, sweet and comforting.

“Jagi,” he murmurs, voice soft as a lullaby, “you’re glowing. Look at you.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes. They’re back to their usual sparkly, puppy-like state, filled with so much love it makes your chest ache. “That’s just sweat,” you tease, poking his side.

He gasps dramatically, clutching his heart. “Sweat? My wife, glowing like an angel, and she calls it sweat? I’m wounded.”

You giggle, swatting his chest. “You’re so dramatic.”

He catches your hand, kissing your knuckles one by one, his lips lingering on each finger. “Only for you,” he says, winking, but there’s a sincerity behind it that makes your heart flutter. He shifts, pulling you closer so you’re practically in his lap again, the blanket slipping slightly. He adjusts it immediately, tucking it around you like you’re a precious burrito.

“Seriously, though,” he says, his voice softening, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch on sooner. I hate thinking I made you feel ignored.” His fingers trace your jaw, gentle, reverent. “You’re my world, you know that?”

You melt, leaning into his touch. “I know. And I’m sorry for the cop thing. That was… a little unhinged.”

He laughs, the sound bright and boyish, filling the room with warmth. “A little? Jagi, I saw my life flash before my eyes. I was planning my prison breakout!”

You snort, burying your face in his neck. “You’d be the worst jailbird. You’d charm the guards with your puppy eyes and be out in a day.”

He grins, tilting your chin up to kiss you softly. It’s slow, sweet, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and your heart sigh. When he pulls back, his eyes are twinkling. “You’re probably right. But only because I’d have to get back to you.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “Cheesy.”

“Only for you,” he repeats, poking your nose. He reaches for the grocery bag he brought home, pulling out the caramel-filled chocolate bar you love. “Here. Peace offering.”

You gasp, snatching it from his hands. “You’re forgiven. For now.”

He laughs, watching as you tear open the wrapper and take a bite, moaning dramatically at the taste. He shakes his head, amused. “You’re so easy to please.”

“Only when there’s chocolate,” you say, offering him a piece. He takes it, but instead of eating it, he sets it aside, pulling you into another kiss. This one’s deeper, a little hungrier, and you taste the faintest hint of caramel on his lips when he pulls away.

“So,” he says, voice low, a playful glint in his eyes, “you said you’re ovulating. Does that mean we just…?”

You smirk, loving how his cheeks flush slightly, even after everything you just did. “Guess we’ll find out in a few weeks, huh?”

His eyes widen, and for a second, he looks genuinely panicked, like he’s mentally calculating baby names and diaper budgets. Then he sees your mischievous grin and groans, pulling you into a bear hug. “You’re gonna be the death of me, jagi.”

You laugh, squirming in his arms, but he holds you tighter, peppering your face with kisses—cheeks, nose, eyelids, everywhere. “Jimin!” you squeal, giggling uncontrollably. “Stop, you’re gonna smother me!”

“Never,” he declares, but he relents, settling for nuzzling his face into your neck. “I’m gonna love you forever. Even when you’re driving me crazy.”

You soften, running your fingers through his hair, still damp from the rain earlier. “I love you too,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “Even when you’re a clueless himbo.”

He pulls back, grinning. “Clueless? Me? I just made you scream my name like three times.”

You blush, swatting him again. “Shut up!”

He laughs, pulling you into his chest, and you both settle into the couch, tangled together, the chocolate forgotten. The rain patters softly against the windows, and the lavender candle casts a warm glow over the room. You’re home, in every sense of the word, with your chaotic, perfect husband.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur, half-asleep in his arms, “I’m texting ‘I’m dripping.’ Let’s see if you get it this time.”

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “Oh, jagi. I won’t even let you finish the sentence.”

A/N: This sweet, chaotic ride is for my readers craving Jimin’s charm and unhinged newlywed spice. Hope it left you giggling and swooning! 😘💖

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse

[kittenan2]

Worship Me Softly

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Genre: Friends to Lovers, Brother’s Best Friend, Smut, Fluff, Angst Rating: Explicit (18+) | Minors DNI Word Count: ~4k words Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, mild exhibitionism, unprotected sex (practice safe sex!), intense emotions, public humiliation, alcohol consumption, swearing, and lots of fluffy chaos.

The frat house pulses with chaotic energy—thumping bass, spilled drinks, and bodies crammed together. You stand by the kitchen counter, clutching a Solo cup of bitter liquid, feeling like an outsider in the tight black dress Mina forced you into. It clings to your curves, but you tug at the hem, wishing you could vanish. Your friends promised an “epic” night, but now they’re gone, leaving you to navigate the sweaty crowd alone.

Your eyes drift to Minho, your crush for months, leaning against the wall with effortless charm—sharp jawline, lazy smirk, surrounded by admirers. Your heart flutters, but approaching him feels like walking into a lion’s den.

Mina stumbles back, cheeks flushed, shoving another drink at you. “Y/N, loosen up! You look like you’re at a funeral.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, forcing a smile. “Just… not my scene.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re never gonna get Minho’s attention hiding here. Go talk to him!”

Your stomach twists. “I can’t just… walk up to him.”

“Yes, you can!” She spins you toward him, pushing you forward. “You’re hot, you’re sweet, and you’ve been pining forever. Tell him how you feel. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Her enthusiasm and the alcohol dull your nerves just enough. You weave through the crowd, heart pounding, until you’re in front of Minho. His eyes flicker to you, and for a moment, you think maybe this could work.

“Hey, Minho,” you say, voice barely audible over the music. You clear your throat, trying again. “Can I… talk to you for a sec?”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure, what’s up?”

The crowd quiets, their eyes on you, and you feel exposed. You take a deep breath, words spilling out. “I… I really like you. I have for a while. I just thought you should know.”

The air shifts. Minho’s smirk turns cruel, and he laughs—a sharp, cutting sound. “You like me? That’s cute.” He leans closer, voice loud enough for everyone. “But I don’t waste time on virgins.”

The words hit like a punch. Laughter erupts around you, his friends howling, strangers snickering. Your face burns, humiliation swallowing you whole. Minho’s eyes glint with amusement, and you realize he’s enjoying this—your pain is his entertainment.

You turn and run, shoving through the crowd, their laughter chasing you. The cold night air hits you as you stumble outside, and the sky opens, rain pouring down in heavy sheets. You don’t care. You keep walking, sobs mixing with the rain, until you’re soaked and shivering in the middle of the street, your heart in pieces.

Headlights pierce the rain, and you barely hear the car engine until it’s beside you. A door slams, and someone shouts your name.

“Y/N? What the hell—are you okay?”

You turn, blinking through the downpour, and see Hoseok running toward you, his jacket already off, his face etched with worry. He’s your brother’s best friend, a constant in your life since childhood—always teasing, always there with a warm smile. But now, there’s no smile, just raw concern in his dark eyes.

“I’m fine,” you choke out, but your voice breaks, and the lie is pathetic.

“You’re not fine,” he says softly, stepping closer. He drapes his jacket over your shoulders, shielding you from the rain, and pulls you into his arms. His warmth is immediate, grounding, and you collapse against his chest, sobbing harder. His arms tighten, one hand stroking your wet hair, his voice a soothing murmur. “Shh, I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay now.”

He doesn’t push for answers, just holds you there in the street, letting you cry until your sobs quiet. “Come on,” he says gently, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

The passenger seat is a haven, the heater blasting, and Hoseok slides in beside you, his eyes never leaving your face. “You’re soaked,” he says, his voice soft as he reaches into the backseat for a fluffy blanket. He wraps it around you, tucking it under your chin like you’re something precious, then grabs a towel and starts drying your hair, his touch careful and tender.

“You don’t have to do this,” you mumble, but he shakes his head, smiling softly.

“I want to. Let me take care of you, okay?”

He drives to his apartment, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your knee, a quiet reassurance. When you get inside, he leads you to the couch, wrapping you in another blanket before disappearing to grab one of his hoodies. It’s soft, oversized, and smells like him—warm, like cedar and sunshine.

“Put this on,” he says, handing it to you. “You’ll feel better.”

You change in the bathroom, the hoodie swallowing your frame, and when you return, he’s waiting with a mug of chamomile tea, steam curling from the surface. “Here,” he says, pressing it into your hands. “Drink.”

You curl up on the couch, the warmth of the mug seeping into your palms, and he sits beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. The silence is comfortable, but he’s watching you, waiting, and finally, you tell him everything—Minho’s words, the laughter, the humiliation. Your voice cracks, and Hoseok’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists.

“He had no right to say that to you,” he says, his voice low, controlled, but you can hear the anger simmering. “He’s a fucking asshole.”

You shrug, staring into your tea. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just… not enough.”

Hoseok’s head snaps up, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re more than enough. You’re fucking incredible, Y/N, and he’s too stupid to see it.”

You blink at him, tears welling up, but they’re different now—less about pain and more about the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. You set the mug down, scooting closer, and before you can overthink it, you whisper, “Then teach me. Please.”

He freezes, his breath catching. “Y/N…”

“I mean it,” you say, your voice trembling but determined. “I’m tired of feeling like this—like I’m not good enough. Teach me how to be… wanted.”

His eyes search yours, torn between desire and guilt. “You’re my best friend’s little sister,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.

But you lean closer, your hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart race. “Please, Hobi. I trust you.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re killing me.” But then he’s cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and he nods. “Okay. But we go slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Got it?”

You nod, your heart pounding, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like a promise.

Hoseok’s kiss is a revelation—slow, sweet, and so tender it makes your chest ache. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing your lips until you open for him. You whimper softly, and he hums, pleased, his warmth flooding your senses.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “You taste so sweet, baby.”

Your face heats, but you’re too lost in him to care. He kisses you again, slower, his free hand sliding to your waist, resting lightly, like he’s savoring every touch. “Relax,” he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw, then your neck, leaving a trail of warmth. “Just let me take care of you.”

His touches are gentle, reverent, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip over the hoodie, then slipping just under the hem to graze your skin. You shiver, your breath hitching, and he pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “Okay?” he asks, his voice low, and you nod, clutching his shirt tighter.

He smiles, kissing you again, and his hand slides higher, brushing the underside of your breast through your bra. You gasp, arching into him, and he pauses, watching your face. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he groans softly, his thumb brushing your nipple through the fabric, sending sparks through you. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He keeps his touches light, teasing, until you’re trembling, your body aching for more. Then he pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. “I want to see you,” he says softly, his hands tugging at the hoodie. “Can I?”

You nod, nervous but trusting, and he helps you pull it off, leaving you in your bra and leggings. His eyes darken, but his touch remains gentle, his fingers tracing your collarbone, then down your arms. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice almost a whisper, and you feel it in your bones—he means it.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and guides you to lie back on the couch, his body hovering over yours. His lips trail down your neck, your chest, kissing the swell of your breasts above your bra. “Can I take this off?” he asks, his fingers at the clasp, and you nod, your heart racing.

He unhooks it with care, sliding the straps down your arms, and when you’re bare beneath him, he just stares for a moment, his eyes soft. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your skin, his lips warm and reverent. He takes one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, and you moan, your hands gripping his hair.

“Hoseok,” you whimper, and he groans, the vibration sending shivers through you. He moves to the other side, his hands cupping your breasts, worshipping every inch of you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, and you believe him.

His hands slide to your leggings, pausing at the waistband. “Still okay?” he asks, and you nod, lifting your hips to help him slide them off, along with your underwear. You’re completely exposed now, but there’s no fear—only trust, only want.

He kneels between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours, and his fingers brush your inner thighs, teasing the edge of your core. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and you nod, too overwhelmed to speak.

His fingers slide through your folds, slow and deliberate, and you moan, your hips bucking. He’s gentle but precise, circling your clit with just the right pressure, his eyes never leaving your face. “Look at me, baby,” he says, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. “That’s it. Such a good girl.”

He slides a finger inside you, slow and careful, and you gasp, the stretch new but not painful. He adds another, curling them just right, and you’re trembling, your hands gripping the couch. “Hoseok,” you whimper, and he groans, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

He keeps going, his fingers working you expertly, his thumb brushing your clit until the pleasure builds to a peak. “You’re doing so well,” he praises, his voice a constant stream of adoration. “You’re perfect.”

When you come, it’s sudden and intense, your body shaking as you cry out his name. He holds you through it, his lips on your temple, whispering, “Good girl. You’re so beautiful like this.”

But he’s not done. He kisses his way down your body, his lips lingering on your stomach, your thighs, until he’s settled between them. “Can I taste you?” he asks, his voice rough, and you nod, your body buzzing with need.

His tongue flicks against your clit, and you moan, your hands gripping his hair. He’s relentless, licking and sucking, his hands holding your thighs apart as he worships you. “You taste so fucking like heaven,” he groans, and the vibration sends you spiraling. He makes you come again, your body trembling under him, and when he pulls back, his lips glistening, he looks at you like you’re his entire world.

He climbs back up, kissing you deeply, and you taste yourself on his lips. “You’re everything,” he murmurs, and you feel it—the shift from worship to need, the line between you blurring.

“I want you,” you whisper, your hands tugging at his shirt. “Please, Hobi.”

He groans, kissing you hard, and pulls back to strip off his clothes. His body is lean, muscled, and when he’s naked, you can’t help but stare—he’s gorgeous, hard and ready for you. He grabs a condom from his wallet, rolling it on, and settles between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, his voice strained, and you nod, gripping his shoulders. He pushes in slowly, just the tip, and you gasp, the stretch intense but bearable. “Okay?” he asks, and you nod, urging him on.

He goes deeper, inch by inch, pausing when he’s fully inside to let you adjust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead against yours. “You feel so good.”

You’re trembling, but you move your hips, testing it. “Move,” you whisper, and he does, starting slow, each thrust careful and deliberate. It feels good—better than you ever imagined—and when you moan his name, he loses control, his thrusts growing harder, faster.

“Such a good girl,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips. “Taking me so well.”

The pleasure builds, and when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you, you cry out, your nails digging into his back. “Hoseok, I’m—”

“Come for me, baby,” he growls, and you do, your orgasm crashing over you, your vision white-hot. He follows, his thrusts erratic, and when he comes, he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name.

You’re both panting, sweaty and spent, and Hoseok collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. “You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, and you nod, snuggling closer.

“More than okay,” you whisper, and he smiles, kissing your forehead.

He gets up, grabbing a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and cleans you gently, his touch reverent. Then he helps you into the bath he’s run, the water soothing your sore muscles. He sits on the edge, washing your back, his lips brushing your shoulder.

When you’re done, he wraps you in a towel, handing you another of his oversized shirts. “You look better in this than I do,” he grins, and you laugh, pulling it on.

In the kitchen, he makes you a plate of snacks—crackers, cheese, fruit—and you sit on the counter, eating while he stands between your legs, stealing bites and kissing you between them. Later, you’re curled up in his bed, his arms around you, his lips brushing your hair. “No one gets to make you feel small,” he murmurs. “You’re mine now.”

You smile, your heart full, and fall asleep to his heartbeat.

It’s been three days since that night, and you can’t stop thinking about Hoseok—his touch, his voice, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered. You’re at your apartment, trying to read, but your mind keeps drifting to his hands on your skin, his lips whispering praise. The ache between your thighs is unbearable, and you know you need him again.

You text him, fingers trembling: Can I come over?

His reply is instant: Get here now, baby.

You’re at his door in twenty minutes, heart racing. He opens it, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair messy, and the sight of him makes your mouth dry. “Hey,” he says, his smile soft but his eyes dark with want.

“Hey,” you whisper, and then you’re kissing him, desperate and hungry, your hands tugging at his shirt. He groans, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut.

“Missed me?” he teases, his lips brushing your ear, and you nod, breathless.

“So much.”

He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carries you to his bedroom, laying you down gently. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” he murmurs, stripping off his shirt. “Couldn’t stop.”

He kisses you, slow and deep, his hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up and off. His lips trail down your neck, your chest, worshipping every inch of you. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his voice rough, and you shiver, arching into him.

He takes his time, kissing your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, until you’re trembling with need. “Hoseok, please,” you whimper, and he groans, pulling off your jeans and underwear in one motion.

He settles between your thighs, his tongue flicking against your clit, and you moan, your hands gripping his hair. He’s relentless, licking and sucking, his fingers sliding inside you, curling just right. The pleasure builds fast, and you come hard, your body shaking as you cry out his name. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans, but he doesn’t stop, his tongue working you through the aftershocks until you’re trembling again.

“Hoseok,” you gasp, oversensitive but craving more, and he smirks, kissing his way back up your body. His fingers replace his tongue, circling your clit with expert precision, and you’re spiraling again, your second orgasm hitting before you can catch your breath. You’re shaking, moaning his name, and he’s whispering praise, his voice a low growl. “That’s it, baby. You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

He’s not done. He slides two fingers inside you, pumping slowly, his thumb brushing your clit, and you’re so sensitive it’s almost too much, but you don’t want him to stop. “One more,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. “Give me one more, baby.” His fingers curl, hitting that spot, and you’re gone, your third orgasm crashing over you, your vision blurring as you scream his name.

You’re panting, trembling, but he’s still touching you, his lips on your skin, his fingers teasing you gently. “You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “Please, Hobi.”

He groans, kicking off his sweatpants, and grabs a condom, rolling it on. He settles over you, his eyes locked on yours. “Sure?” he asks, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“Please, Hobi.”

He pushes in slowly, and you gasp, the stretch familiar but intense. “God, Y/N,” he groans, pausing when he’s fully inside. “You’re everything.”

He moves, slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, and you’re moaning, your nails digging into his back. The sensitivity from your orgasms makes every movement electric, and when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you, you’re trembling again. “Hoseok, I’m—”

“Come for me, baby,” he growls, his thrusts harder, faster, and you do, your fourth orgasm hitting like a tidal wave, your body shaking uncontrollably. He’s relentless, fucking you through it, and you’re gasping, your body so sensitive you’re not sure you can take more.

But he keeps going, his hands gripping your hips, his lips on your neck. “One more,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You can do it, baby.” His fingers find your clit, circling gently, and you’re crying out, your fifth orgasm building impossibly fast. It’s overwhelming, your body trembling as you come again, your vision white-hot, your voice hoarse from moaning his name.

He follows, his thrusts erratic, and collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. “Fuck, Y/N,” he pants, kissing your forehead. “You’re unreal.”

You’re both panting, and he holds you close, his voice soft. “You’re mine, you know that?”

You smile, snuggling closer. “Yeah. And you’re mine.”

You wake to Hoseok’s fingers tracing patterns over your bare back, the morning light streaming through his window, golden and soft. You’re tangled in his sheets, one leg hooked over his, your cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath you.

He’s awake, propped on one elbow, watching you with a sleepy smile. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Good morning, pretty girl.”

Your face heats, and you bury it against his skin, mumbling, “Morning…”

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “How do you feel?”

“Warm. Sore. Embarrassed?” you admit, and he laughs, the sound warm and bright.

“Embarrassed? After last night?” He tilts your chin up, his eyes sparkling. “Don’t be. Last night was… everything.”

You bite your lip, your heart thudding. “It was.”

There’s a quiet moment, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with possibility. You shift, propping yourself up, and ask, “You don’t regret it, right?”

His eyes widen, and he sits up, pulling you with him. “Never,” he says firmly. “I just don’t want this to be a one-time or two-time thing only.”

Your heart stutters, hope blooming. “Me either.”

His smile is blinding, relief washing over his face. “Good.” He leans in, brushing his lips over yours, slow and sweet. “Let me take you on a proper date,” he murmurs. “Breakfast first. Somewhere nice. And later… we’ll talk about telling your brother.”

You blink, pulling back. “Wait—you actually want to tell him?”

He laughs, nuzzling your cheek. “Eventually. Not today. Let’s enjoy this part first.”

You grin, your heart lighter than it’s been in days. “Okay.”

Weeks later, you and Hoseok are a mess of giggles and stolen kisses, your relationship a secret bubble of joy. You’re at his apartment, sprawled on his couch, fighting over the last slice of pizza like it’s a matter of life and death.

“It’s mine!” you declare, holding the slice above your head, out of his reach.

Hoseok grins, tackling you gently, his hands tickling your sides. “Oh, you think you can win this, baby? Think again!”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, the pizza forgotten as he pins you to the couch, his face hovering over yours. “Surrender,” he teases, his nose brushing yours.

“Never!” you gasp, but then he’s kissing you, slow and silly, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Fine,” you mumble against his lips. “You can have the pizza.”

He pulls back, grinning. “Knew you’d see reason.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, your heart so full it hurts. Later, you’re curled up under a blanket, watching a cheesy rom-com, his arm around you, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from your brother, Jae.

Jae: You and Hoseok are disgustingly cute. When were you gonna tell me?

You freeze, showing Hoseok the screen. He reads it, then bursts out laughing, pulling you closer. “Guess we are caught already,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

“You’re not freaked out?” you ask, surprised.

“Nah,” he says, kissing your temple. “Jae’ll get over it. Besides, I’m too busy being obsessed with you.”

You blush, hiding your face in his chest, but he tilts your chin up, kissing you softly. “You’re stuck with me now, you know,” he murmurs.

“Good,” you whisper, and as he pulls you closer, you know you’re exactly where you belong—wrapped in his warmth, his chaos, his love.

A/n: I want Hobi too... 😭😭 Thanks for reading. Like, comment, reblog. 💜💜

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

[kittenan2]

Five Autumns with You

Pairing: Husband!Seokjin x Wife!Reader (posthumous return) Genre: Emotional angst | Romantic smut | Supernatural drama | Family-centric | Bittersweet Word Count: ~6k words Warnings: 18+ explicit content (detailed smut with kinks: kitchen counter sex, shower sex with emotional conversation, light dom/sub dynamics, body worship, oral sex, emotional intimacy; make-out and cuddles for some scenes), character death (postpartum hemorrhage), grief, supernatural elements, single parenting, heavy angst, child illness, bittersweet ending. Summary: You died giving birth to your daughter, Ha-eun, leaving Jin shattered. A divine miracle grants you five years to return to them, to love, guide, and prepare them for a future without you. With letters, whispers, and fleeting moments, you teach Jin how to raise your daughter through every milestone—while time slips away.

The hospital room hums with quiet chaos. Your hands tremble as you cradle Ha-eun, your newborn daughter, against your chest. Her tiny face, pink and perfect, steals your breath. Her first cry is a melody, and you sob with joy, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Jin’s hand grips yours, his eyes glistening with love and awe. “She’s ours,” he whispers, brushing a kiss across your sweaty forehead. “You did so well, Y/N.”

But the joy fractures. The nurses’ voices grow sharp, urgent. You feel it—a warm, relentless gush between your legs that won’t stop.

The monitors scream, their beeps erratic. Your strength drains, your arms weakening around Ha-eun. “Jin,” you gasp, clutching her tighter. His face pales, his eyes darting to the blood-soaked sheets.

“Stay with me,” he begs, his voice cracking as he presses your hand to his lips. “Please, Y/N, don’t leave us.” The nurses rush in, prying Ha-eun from your arms.

You try to protest, but your voice is a whisper. Jin’s sobs echo, raw and desperate, as he’s pushed back by the medical team. “Save her!” he shouts, his voice breaking. “Please, save her!”

You want to reach for him, to tell him you love him, but your body betrays you. The world grows cold, distant. Your last thought is of Ha-eun’s tiny hand, Jin’s trembling smile. Then, darkness.

You’re gone.

Seven days later, Jin is a shadow in your shared apartment. Ha-eun’s crib sits in the corner, her soft whimpers piercing the silence. Your scarf still drapes over the coat rack, your lavender lotion bottle untouched on the dresser.

Jin hasn’t slept. He barely eats. He rocks Ha-eun mechanically, whispering, “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t know how to do this without Eomma.” His eyes are hollow, staring at the wall where your wedding photo hangs, your smile frozen in time.

Then, a breeze stirs the air, carrying your lavender scent. The room glows faintly, and you appear in the doorway, ethereal yet real, your eyes brimming with tears. “Jin,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He stumbles to his feet, Ha-eun in his arms. “Y/N?” His voice cracks, raw with disbelief. “Is this… real?”

You nod, stepping closer. “I begged God. He gave me five years. To love you. To help you raise her.”

Jin collapses into your arms, careful not to crush Ha-eun. His sobs shake his broad shoulders, and you hold him, your warmth a fragile miracle. “I thought I lost you,” he chokes out, burying his face in your neck. You stroke his hair, tears falling.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “For now.”

That night, Ha-eun sleeps in her crib, her soft breaths a quiet rhythm. Jin hasn’t let go of you since you returned, his hands tracing your face, your arms, as if you might vanish.

You’re in your shared bedroom, the moonlight spilling over the bed. He pulls you close, his lips brushing yours, tentative at first, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears. His kiss deepens, slow and desperate, tasting of salt and longing. You melt into him, your hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. He groans softly, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands roaming your back, pressing you to his chest. You kiss him harder, your tongues brushing, a quiet moan escaping you.

It’s not rushed—it’s a savoring, a memorizing of every taste, every sensation. His hands slip under your nightgown, tracing your waist, but he pauses, pulling back to look at you.

“I want to feel everything,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “But… I’m scared. I need you here, with me, to raise her.”

You nod, tears falling. “I’m here, Jin. Let’s just… hold each other.”

He pulls you onto the bed, your bodies curling together. His lips find your forehead, your cheeks, your neck, leaving soft, lingering kisses. You tangle your legs with his, your hands clasped over his heart.

“Five years,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “We’ll make every second count.”

You fall asleep in his arms, his breath warm against your hair, the weight of borrowed time heavy but precious.

The apartment is alive again. Ha-eun’s giggles echo as you chase her wobbly steps across the living room. Jin watches, his smile soft but shadowed—he knows this is temporary. You leave notes everywhere:

“Boil the bottles for 5 minutes,” “She loves mashed sweet potato,” “Sing her calm songs when she won’t sleep.”

You’ve started a keepsake box under the bed, filled with letters for Ha-eun’s future.

One evening, you’re in the kitchen, stirring jjigae, when Jin sneaks up, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re cheating,” he teases, kissing your neck. “You’re supposed to let me learn this.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “You’ll burn the house down, Kim Seokjin.”

Ha-eun babbles from her high chair, smacking her spoon. You lean down, brushing her dark curls. “Be good to Appa when I’m not here,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm. Jin’s smile falters, but he hides it, kissing your temple.

It’s late, Ha-eun’s asleep in her crib, the apartment cloaked in quiet. The kitchen is a battlefield—flour dusts the counter like snow, a half-eaten pancake sits abandoned on a plate, and a smear of batter decorates the fridge handle.

You and Jin were attempting to make baby-friendly snacks for Ha-eun, but it devolved into a flour fight, your laughter echoing through the small space. Now, you’re breathless, wiping flour from Jin’s cheek, your fingers lingering on his warm skin. His eyes darken, a playful glint shifting to something deeper, hungrier.

“You’re a menace,” he growls, his voice low and teasing, but laced with a raw edge that sends heat pooling in your core. He lifts you effortlessly onto the counter, the cold granite a shock against your thighs.

Your legs part instinctively, and he steps between them, his broad frame filling the space, his hands sliding up your thighs with deliberate slowness, leaving trails of fire.

“Me? You started it,” you retort, your voice catching as his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer. His lips crash into yours, slow and deep, tasting of sugar and the faintest hint of pancake batter.

The kiss is a dance—teasing, then consuming, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl. His hands slip under your shirt, calloused fingertips grazing the sensitive skin above your bra, sending shivers down your spine.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot, “we’ll wake her.” His lips trail to your jaw, nipping softly, then down your neck, where he sucks gently, drawing a quiet whimper from you.

You bite your lip, stifling the sound, your hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He pulls back just enough to let you yank the fabric over his head, revealing his broad chest, the faint scars from years of love and life. Your fingers trace the lines, memorizing him, and he groans low, the sound vibrating against your palm.

His hands move to your jeans, unbuttoning them with agonizing precision, his eyes locked on yours, dark with desire and something deeper—fear, maybe, of time slipping away.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispers, his voice rough as he tugs your jeans down, leaving you in your panties. His fingers brush over the damp fabric, and he smirks, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“So wet already, jagi?” His thumb circles your clit through the cotton, slow and torturous, drawing a gasp from you.

“Jin,” you plead, your voice trembling, your hips bucking against his hand. He chuckles, low and teasing, but obliges, pushing your panties aside.

His fingers slip inside you, one, then two, curling just right, stretching you with a delicious burn. He moves slowly, watching your face, savoring every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your ear, his free hand cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple through your bra.

You’re unraveling, your nails digging into his shoulders, but you need more. You fumble with his belt, your hands shaky with want, and he helps, his erection springing free, thick and heavy.

You stroke him, slow and firm, and he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath ragged. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, but there’s a smile in his voice, a spark of the Jin who loves to tease.

He guides himself to your entrance, pausing, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers, his voice raw, a plea wrapped in desire. You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “Always, Jin.”

He pushes into you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely, the stretch exquisite, grounding you in this moment. You gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The counter creaks under his rhythm, fast and playful at first, his hands gripping your hips to keep you steady. “Quiet,” he teases, but his own groan is loud when you clench around him, your walls pulsing with need.

His pace shifts, deeper, more deliberate, each thrust hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. His lips find yours again, swallowing your moans, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips.

Your hands roam his back, nails scraping lightly, urging him on. He whispers praises against your skin—“So perfect,” “I love you,” “Please!!! Don’t ever leave me”—each word a knife and a balm, cutting through the haze of pleasure. The tension builds, a coil tightening in your core, and you’re close, so close, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants.

Ha-eun stirs in her crib, her faint giggle echoing through the baby monitor on the counter. You both freeze, eyes wide, hearts racing, the absurdity of the moment crashing over you.

Jin’s lips twitch, and you burst into muffled laughter, your foreheads pressed together, your bodies still joined. “Bad timing, princess,” he whispers, his voice thick with amusement and love.

He kisses you softly, his movements slowing, turning tender. “We’re not done,” he murmurs, his hips rocking gently, building you back up. His hand slips between you, his thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure, and you’re trembling, your moans stifled against his shoulder.

You come together, your climax crashing over you like a wave, your walls clenching around him as he spills inside you, his groan low and raw. You cling to each other, panting, sweat and flour mixing on your skin, the kitchen a chaotic testament to your love.

He pulls back, his eyes soft, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re a mess,” he teases, but his voice is thick with emotion.

You laugh, kissing him, your heart full. “Your fault,” you whisper, and he grins, helping you down, your legs wobbly. You clean up quietly, stealing kisses, the flour-dusted counter a memory you’ll cherish.

Ha-eun is two, a whirlwind of curls and stubborn tantrums. You’re meticulous, preparing Jin for every stage of her life. You sit at the dining table late at night, a lamp casting soft light over your notebook, writing letters for Ha-eun’s future.

You’ve taught Jin practical things: how to braid her hair, though his fingers fumble, making you laugh through tears. “She’ll need this,” you say, guiding his hands, your voice thick. “When I’m not here.”

You show him how to pick the right shampoo for her sensitive scalp, how to pack a lunchbox with her dishes. You practice conversations: “When she asks why her friends have mommies, tell her I’m her angel. Don’t let her feel alone.”

Jin nods, his jaw tight, but his eyes betray his fear. He practices tying her shoelaces, muttering, “I’m hopeless,” when they come undone. You kiss his cheek, whispering, “You’re perfect.”

One afternoon, Ha-eun falls at the park, scraping her knee. Jin panics, but you kneel, wiping her tears, showing him how to clean the wound and distract her with a silly song. “See?” you say, meeting his eyes. “You’ll be her hero.”

You write letters for Ha-eun, some for her to read years from now, tucked into the keepsake box:

Letter for Ha-eun, Age 10: My darling Ha-eun, Your Appa is the strongest man I know, but he’ll need you sometimes. When he’s quiet, make him laugh with your silly dances. When he’s tired, hug him tight. Be his support, like I know you can. I’m so proud of you. Love, Eomma.

Letter for Ha-eun, Age 16: Sweet girl, You’re growing so fast. Your Appa might seem strict, but it’s because he loves you fiercely. If he’s sad, remind him of our picnic days. Tell him stories about me, but don’t let him dwell. You’re his light now. Be good to him, always. Forever, Eomma.

Letter for Ha-eun’s Wedding Day: My Ha-eun, Today, you’re a woman. Your Appa’s walking you down the aisle, but I’m there too, in your heart. He’s given you everything I wished for. Take care of him when he’s old, when he misses me most. You’re his strength, my love. Always, Eomma.

One night, you’re brushing Ha-eun’s hair, whispering, “Be good to Appa when I’m not here.” She mimics you, her tiny voice echoing, “Good to Appa.”

Jin overhears from the doorway, his face crumpling. He waits until she’s asleep, then pulls you into his arms, his voice breaking. “I hate this,” he whispers. “I hate that you’re preparing me to lose you again.”

You hold him, tears falling. “I’m preparing you to live, Jin. For her.”

The bathroom is steamy, the shower running hot. Ha-eun’s finally asleep after a tantrum, and you’re both exhausted. Jin pulls you into the shower, his hands gentle as he washes your hair, but his eyes are distant, shadowed by what he overheard.

“You told her to be good to me,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost accusing. “Like you’re already gone.”

You turn, meeting his gaze under the spray. “Jin, I have to prepare her. You know why.”

He shakes his head, his hands sliding to your shoulders, gripping tightly. “I hate this temporary thing. I want you forever.” His voice cracks, and he kisses you, hard and desperate, his lips trembling against yours. You moan softly, your hands roaming his wet chest, feeling the tension in his muscles.

“I’m here now,” you whisper, but he pulls you closer, his kisses deepening, a mix of anger and need. He lifts you, pinning you against the tiled wall, your legs wrapping around his waist.

His hands worship your body, tracing your curves, his lips trailing down your neck. “I can’t stand it,” he says, his voice hoarse as he kisses your collarbone. “Knowing you’ll leave us.”

You guide his face back to yours, kissing him. “Then love me now,” you beg. He nods, his fingers sliding between your thighs, teasing your core until you’re gasping. He enters you slowly, the stretch exquisite, his movements deliberate, each thrust a silent protest against time’s cruelty.

“Tell me you’ll stay,” he whispers, his hips rocking against yours, the water amplifying every sensation. You shake your head, tears mixing with the spray. “I can’t lie, Jin. But I love you. I love you.”

He groans, his pace quickening, his hands gripping your hips as he drives you both to climax. You come with a soft cry, clinging to him, and he follows, his forehead pressed to yours, his body trembling.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he says, his voice raw. You hold each other, the water cooling, the weight of his words heavy.

It's been 3 years and one day, Ha-eun, wakes with a fever that won’t break. Her cheeks are flushed, her tiny body trembling under blankets, her breaths shallow and raspy. Jin’s voice shakes as he calls the pediatrician, his hands fumbling with the thermometer.

“It’s 103.5°F,” he says, his eyes wide with panic. You stay calm, stroking Ha-eun’s damp curls, but your heart races. She clings to you, whimpering, “Eomma, make it stop.”

You guide Jin through the steps: cool cloths on her forehead, lukewarm baths, sips of electrolyte water. He follows you like a soldier, but his hands shake as he bathes her, his voice cracking as he sings her favorite lullaby, “Hush, Little Baby,” to soothe her.

Her fever spikes higher, and the pediatrician urges you to the hospital. The diagnosis is pneumonia, caught early but serious. Ha-eun’s hooked to an IV in a sterile room, her small hand gripping yours, her eyes fluttering with exhaustion. Jin paces, muttering, “I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve known.”

You pull him into the hallway, cupping his face. “You’re doing everything right, Jin. She’s strong because of you.” He nods, but his tears fall, hot and silent. “What if I can’t do this without you?” he whispers. You kiss him, soft and fierce. “You will. I trust you.”

Ha-eun spends five days in the hospital, her condition stabilizing slowly. You and Jin take turns sleeping in the chair beside her bed, your hand never leaving hers. One night, when she’s finally asleep, her breathing easier, you sit in the dim room, recording videos on your phone for the keepsake box:

Video for Ha-eun’s 13th Birthday: You sit by the hospital window, your voice soft. “My sweet girl, you’re thirteen today. You’re becoming a woman, and I’m so proud. Your Appa might be nervous when you start wanting more freedom. Let him fuss—it’s how he loves you. If you’re angry or sad, talk to him. He’ll listen, even if he doesn’t know it yet. And if you miss me, look at the stars. I’m there, always.”

Video for When She Fights with Jin: You smile, though tears brim. “Ha-eun, if you’re watching this, you and Appa had a fight. Maybe you slammed your door or yelled. It’s okay to be mad, but don’t stay that way. Your Appa’s trying so hard. He loves you more than anything. Hug him, even if it feels awkward. Tell him you love him. He needs to hear it, especially when I’m not there.”

Video for Her First Heartbreak: Your voice trembles. “My baby, if someone broke your heart. I wish I could hold you now. Let Appa make you tea and listen to you cry. He’ll want to fix it, but just let him be there. You’re strong, Ha-eun, stronger than you know. Love will come again, and I’ll be cheering for you from above.”

You hide the phone in the keepsake box, your hands shaking. A whisper echoes in your mind: Time doesn’t pause. You push it away, focusing on Ha-eun’s recovery. She returns home, her laughter weak but growing stronger.

Jin’s nightmares intensify, waking him gasping, reaching for you, his eyes wild with fear.

It’s 3 a.m., and Jin jolts awake, sweat-soaked, his chest heaving. “You were gone,” he chokes out, his voice raw with terror. He pulls you into his lap, his hands trembling as he cups your face, his lips crashing against yours.

The kiss is desperate, a tangle of fear and need, his breath hot and uneven. You kiss him back, slow and deep, your hands stroking his back, grounding him in your warmth.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. He groans, his hands sliding under your shirt, his fingers tracing your spine with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

His kisses soften, moving to your cheeks, your eyelids, each one a silent plea. “I saw you fade,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t reach you.”

You pull back, meeting his eyes, your hands cupping his face. “I’m right here, Jin. Feel me.” You guide his hand to your heart, letting him feel its steady beat. He exhales, his forehead pressed to yours, his kisses turning tender, lingering on your lips. Your tongues brush, a quiet moan escaping you, and he pulls you closer, his body trembling against yours.

“I’m so scared,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “Of failing her. Of losing you.” His hands roam your back, not seeking more but anchoring himself in your presence. You kiss him again, slow and deliberate, pouring every ounce of love into it.

“You won’t fail her,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re her Appa. You’re enough.” You shift, curling into his lap, your head resting against his chest.

His arms wrap around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. He kisses your temple, his breath steadying, but his hold remains tight, as if letting go might make you vanish.

You fall asleep tangled in each other, his heartbeat a lullaby, the weight of his fear lingering but softened by your closeness.

You plan a trip to Jeju Island, a final memory etched in salt air and starlight. You rent a tent by the beach, where the waves whisper and the horizon stretches endless. Ha-eun, now turning five soon, runs along the shore, chasing seagulls, her laughter mingling with the wind.

You and Jin watch, hand in hand, your heart heavy with the knowledge that you’re fading. Your skin feels thinner, your steps lighter, as if the world is pulling you away. Jin notices, his touches lingering, his eyes searching yours for reassurance you can’t fully give.

You build sandcastles with Ha-eun, her tiny hands patting the wet sand, her giggles warming your soul. At night, you roast marshmallows, Jin pretending to burn his to make her laugh.

But his smiles are fleeting, his hand tightening around yours when Ha-eun isn’t looking. One evening, she falls asleep early, curled in her sleeping bag, her face peaceful. You and Jin sit by the tent, watching the stars, the weight of goodbye pressing down.

The tent glows softly, the ocean a quiet hum. Ha-eun sleeps inside, her breaths even. You sit in Jin’s lap, his arms wrapped around you, his fingers gently caressing your hair.

The night is warm, the stars bright above. His voice is soft, tinged with fear. “What if I mess this up?” he asks, his lips brushing your temple. “What if I’m a terrible dad without you?”

You turn, meeting his eyes, your hands resting on his chest. “You won’t be,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You’re already her hero, Jin. You’ll keep being that.”

He sighs, his fingers tracing your scalp, his touch grounding. “Tell me what to do. When she… grows up. I don’t know how to handle it all.” His voice cracks, and you lean closer, kissing his cheek softly.

“When she gets her period,” you begin, your voice low, “be calm. Buy her pads, the ones with wings. Make her hot chocolate, and don’t ask too many questions. Just be there, let her come to you.”

He nods, his eyes focused, memorizing your words. “When she’s a teenager, she’ll push you away, sometimes. Let her, but don’t let her fall. Check in, even if she rolls her eyes. She’ll need you more than she admits.”

Jin’s hand pauses in your hair, his voice trembling. “And when she finds someone? The love of her life?” His eyes glisten, and you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Trust her,” you say. “Teach her what respect looks like. If he hurts her, listen, don’t fix. If she’s happy, celebrate with her. Tell her about us, so she knows what love can be.” Your voice breaks, and Jin pulls you closer, his lips pressing to your forehead.

“I’m so scared of failing her,” he whispers, his voice raw. “Of not being enough.”

“You’re enough,” you say, cupping his face, your thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You love her. That’s all she needs.” You kiss him softly, a promise sealed under the stars. He holds you tighter, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky.

Unbeknownst to you, Ha-eun is awake, her small form curled in the sleeping bag, her eyes open in the dark. She listens, her heart heavy for her five years, understanding more than she should.

Silent tears stream down her cheeks as she hears your words, Jin’s fears. She clutches her stuffed bunny, whispering to herself, “take care of Appa.” Her resolve is fierce, mature beyond her age, a vow she carries in her tiny heart.

You and Jin talk until dawn, your voices soft, weaving plans for Ha-eun’s future. The stars fade, and you rest in his arms, the bittersweet weight of your borrowed time settling deeper.

Your final week is a delicate dance of love and farewell. The autumn leaves fall in crimson and gold, a quiet reminder of time’s passage. You move through the apartment with purpose, your hands lingering on every surface, as if to imprint your presence.

You label Ha-eun’s school supplies with her name in careful script, pack her favorite snacks—strawberry gummies and star-shaped crackers—in her lunchbox.

You fold her tiny sweaters, tucking lavender sachets between them, hoping your scent will linger. Each task is a love letter, a silent promise to Jin and Ha-eun that you’ve left nothing undone.

Ha-eun, now five, senses the shift. Her dark eyes follow you, quiet and knowing. She clings to you more, her small hand slipping into yours during walks to the park, her laughter softer, as if she’s afraid to break the fragile air.

One evening, you sit on the living room floor, building a tower of colorful blocks. She knocks it down with a giggle, but then crawls into your lap, her arms tight around your neck.

“Eomma, stay,” she whispers, her voice small but heavy. You kiss her forehead, your heart splintering, and lie, “I’m right here, my love.”

Jin watches from the couch, his smile strained, his hands clenched to hide their trembling. He’s memorized your every move this week—the way you hum while cooking, the curve of your smile when Ha-eun draws you a picture.

He’s terrified of forgetting, of waking to a world where your warmth is only a memory. At night, he holds you closer, his lips lingering on your skin, his whispers of “I love you” a mantra against the inevitable.

You spend your final days teaching Ha-eun small things: how to tie her hair into a messy ponytail, how to water the tiny succulent on her windowsill. You read her one last bedtime story, The Little Prince, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

She falls asleep in your lap, her head nestled against you, and you whisper, “Don't trouble your Appa, when I’m not here. Be his support.” Her tiny hand clutches yours, even in sleep.

On your last night, you leave a final note, tucked into the keepsake box under the bed. It’s written on your favorite lavender stationery, your handwriting careful but trembling:

My loves, If you’re reading this, I’m gone... again. Jin, you’re the heart of our family, the strongest man I know. You’ve learned everything I could teach, and Ha-eun will grow beautifully because of you. Don’t be afraid to cry, but don’t let grief steal your laughter. Ha-eun, my brave girl, you’re Appa’s light. Love him fiercely, make him smile, hold his hand when he’s lost. I’m not far—just look at the stars, and I’ll be there, loving you both forever. Your Eomma, Y/N.

You slip the note into the box, beside the letters and videos, your fingers brushing the worn wood. Jin finds you on the balcony later, staring at the falling leaves.

He pulls you into his lap, his lips grazing your neck, his arms a fortress against the world. “You did so well,” you murmur, kissing his palm, your voice thick with tears. He doesn’t speak, just holds you, his breath shaky, memorizing the weight of you.

Your final moment comes at dawn. You’re in bed, Ha-eun nestled between you, her small body warm against yours. Jin’s arm drapes over you both, his hand clasped around yours. The room is soft with morning light, the air heavy with unspoken goodbyes.

You feel the pull, a gentle but insistent tug, like a tide drawing you away. You turn, kissing Ha-eun’s forehead, then Jin’s lips, soft and silent.

Your eyes meet his, and he nods, tears falling, understanding. “I love you,” you whisper, your voice a breath. Then, like a sigh, you’re gone.

Jin doesn’t move for hours. He lies still, Ha-eun in his arms, staring at the empty space where you were. The bed feels colder, the room too quiet, your lavender scent fading like a dream. Grief crashes over him, sharp and suffocating, but he doesn’t cry—not yet.

He presses his face to Ha-eun’s hair, drawing strength from her steady breaths. “We’ll be okay,” he whispers, though his voice breaks, a promise to you as much as to himself.

Ha-eun wakes hours later, her eyes searching for you. “Eomma?” she calls, her voice small and confused. Jin’s heart shatters, but he pulls her close, kissing her forehead. “Eomma’s watching us, princess,” he says, his voice thick.

“She’s our star now.” Ha-eun’s lip trembles, but she nods, her small hand gripping his shirt. She sob a little, but her resolve fierce, echoing the promise she made on Jeju Island.

“I won't trouble you, Appa,” she whispers, her voice steady despite her age. Jin’s tears fall then, silent and hot, and he holds her tighter, their shared grief a fragile bridge.

They balance each other in the days that follow. Jin buries his pain in routine—making Ha-eun’s breakfast, braiding her hair (still clumsy but better), reading her stories.

But at night, when she’s asleep, he sits by the balcony, clutching your scarf, whispering to the stars, “I miss you.” Ha-eun, wise beyond her years, senses his quiet sorrow.

She draws him pictures of you—an angel with wings, smiling under a starry sky—and slips them under his pillow. She hugs him when he’s distant, her small arms a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of despair.

One evening, Jin finds the keepsake box while cleaning. His hands tremble as he opens it, finding your final note. He reads it alone, his sobs muffled against his sleeve, your words a balm and a wound.

Ha-eun creeps in, seeing him cry, and climbs into his lap. “Is that from Eomma?” she asks, her voice soft. He nods, unable to speak, and reads it to her, his voice breaking.

Ha-eun’s tears fall, but she smiles, touching the paper. “Eomma’s with the stars,” she says, and Jin pulls her close, their hearts entwined in your love.

Years pass, each one a tapestry of love and loss, woven with your guidance. Jin raises Ha-eun with your letters and videos, your voice a constant presence in their lives.

She grows into a woman of strength and kindness, her dark curls and warm smile a mirror of you. Their bond deepens through shared moments, your legacy a thread binding them.

Through it all, Ha-eun keeps her promise from Jeju Island. She’s Jin’s support, making him laugh with her silly dances, hugging him when he stares at your photo too long.

She leaves notes in his lunchbox, mimicking your habit: “Eat well, Appa!” Jin, in turn, is her rock, cheering at her school plays, teaching her to drive, celebrating her university acceptance. He wears your locket, your picture inside, a quiet reminder of you.

On her wedding day, Ha-eun is radiant, her white dress glowing under the sun. Jin walks her down the aisle, his heart full and breaking, the locket against his chest.

Her groom is kind, his eyes warm, and Jin trusts him, guided by your words to “celebrate her happiness.” At the reception, Ha-eun plays your final video, your face filling the screen: “If you’re watching this,” your smile warm, “your Appa raised you perfectly.”

The room weeps, guests dabbing their eyes. Ha-eun meets Jin’s gaze, her smile trembling, and whispers, “Eomma said, ‘I have to be your support.’” Jin nods, tears falling, his hand squeezing hers. She’s kept her vow, her love for him unwavering, a mirror of your fierce devotion.

Later, they dance, father and daughter, under fairy lights. Ha-eun rests her head on his shoulder, whispering, “I love you, Appa. Eomma’s proud of us.” Jin’s voice breaks as he replies, “She’s always with us, princess.” They sway, your presence a soft glow, your love eternal.

You are, somewhere, forever.

A/n: I was feeling pretty low when I wrote this, so it turned into a sad one-shot. Sorry for making you cry, my loves! Drop a comment to share your feels—I promise to post rom com fics soon! 💜

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido

[kittenan2]

Objection!! Your Honor... He is too soft!!

Pairing: Actor!Kim Seokjin x Lawyer!Reader Genre: Sweet slow-burn romance, emotional rom-com, respectful smut Themes: Courtroom drama, mistaken reputation, slow-burn tension, consent-centered love, sleepy affection, shy-flirty banter, late-night intimacy Word Count: ~6k words Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed intimate scenes, teasing, playful dominance, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining Rating: 18+ | Explicit | Minors DNI

The fluorescent lights of your law firm’s conference room buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow on the mahogany table. You’re flipping through a case file thicker than a novel, your jaw tight.

Kim Seokjin. The name alone makes your eyes roll. A celebrity case. The kind that comes with paparazzi swarms, tabloid vultures, and an ego the size of Seoul. Accused of harassment by some influencer during a promotional shoot. The media’s already hung him in the court of public opinion, and your firm wants this buried—fast.

You adjust your blazer, mentally preparing for the diva you’re about to meet. Sunglasses indoors, probably. A designer suit worth your monthly rent. An attitude that screams I’m above this. You’ve dealt with his type before. Actors. Musicians. Trust-fund brats. All the same. Liars with charm and too much money.

The door creaks open. You don’t look up immediately, letting him stew in the silence. Power move. You’re in charge here. Finally, you glance up, ready to lay down the law.

And… he’s not what you expected.

Kim Seokjin sits across from you, slouched slightly in a gray hoodie, the hood pulled low over his forehead. No sunglasses. No designer anything.

Just a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his broad shoulders hunched, hands folded tightly in his lap. His eyes—dark, wide, and almost too soft—flick up to meet yours for a split second before dropping back to the table.

You clear your throat, tossing the file down with a deliberate thud. “Mr. Kim. Let’s make this quick. I’m your lawyer. You’re accused of harassment. The evidence is shaky, but the media’s eating it up."

"If you’re lying to me, I’ll know. And if you’re lying, I’ll kill you in that courtroom myself. Understood?” His head snaps up. For the first time, you get a good look at him.

Full lips, sharp jawline, eyes that seem to carry a quiet storm. He’s stupidly handsome, even in that ratty hoodie. But it’s not his face that throws you—it’s the way he smiles. A small, almost sad curve of his lips, like he’s not surprised by your threat but still hopes you’ll hear him out.

“I don’t lie,” he says softly, voice low and steady. “Especially not about something like this.” He leans forward slightly, hands still clasped, his gaze locking onto yours. “If I touch a woman, it’s never without consent. Even if it’s just a scene on camera.”

You blink, thrown. You were expecting a tantrum, a scoff, maybe a “Do you know who I am?” Instead, he’s… calm. Respectful. Desperate to be understood. It’s disarming, and you don’t like being disarmed.

“Bold words for someone in your position,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “The influencer—Lina Park—says you made her uncomfortable on set. Inappropriate comments, unwanted touches. Her story’s got holes, but she’s loud, and loud sells. So, convince me. Why should I believe you?”

He exhales, running a hand through his dark hair, mussing it further. “I don’t know what she’s claiming, exactly. I barely spoke to her. It was a one-day shoot. I was polite, kept my distance. I always do.” His voice cracks slightly, and he looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t… I don’t touch people unless I’m sure it’s okay. I’m not that guy.”

You lean back, arms crossed, studying him. He’s not begging. Not groveling. Just stating facts, like he’s laying his soul bare and hoping you don’t stomp on it.

It’s unsettling how sincere he seems. You’re used to clients who spin stories, who charm or deflect. But Jin? He’s just… sitting there, waiting for you to decide if he’s worth believing.

“Fine,” you say, voice clipped. “I’ll dig into this. But if I find out you’re not telling me everything, we’re done. No second chances.”

He nods, eyes flickering with something like gratitude. “Thank you. For listening.”

You wave him off, already turning back to the file. “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.”

But as he leaves, you catch yourself watching him go. The way he moves—careful, almost too aware of the space he takes up—sticks with you. For the first time, a tiny voice in your head whispers: Maybe he’s telling the truth.

The next week is a blur of interviews, footage, and caffeine. You dive into Jin’s world, expecting to uncover red flags. Instead, you find a pattern that makes your stomach twist.

You start with his co-stars. Park Ji-yeon, a veteran actress from his last drama, leans back in her chair, sipping tea as she laughs. “Seokjin? Harass someone? That boy’s so shy he apologized to me for brushing my arm during a scene. Asked me three times if I was okay. I had to tell him to chill.”

You record her statement, her voice clear and firm, and ask if she’d be willing to testify in court. She nods without hesitation. “For Jin? Absolutely. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Next, you meet his stylist, Min-soo, a no-nonsense woman who snorts when you bring up the allegations. “Jin’s the kind of guy who asks permission to adjust his own collar if it means touching my hand. He’s awkward as hell. Sweet, though. Too sweet for his own good.”

You press the record button on your phone, capturing every word, and ask if she’d stand as a witness. “Hell yeah,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’ll tell the judge myself.”

You track down a script supervisor, Lee Hana, who worked on Jin’s latest film. She adjusts her glasses, frowning as she recalls, “He was always checking with everyone—actors, crew, even the lighting team—if they were comfortable with his blocking. Once, he stopped a scene because he thought the actress looked uneasy. Turned out she was just tired, but he insisted on a break anyway.”

Her statement’s recorded, and when you ask about testifying, she agrees instantly. “Jin’s a good guy. I’ll do whatever helps.”

Finally, you interview a production assistant, Choi Min-jun, who worked on the promotional shoot where the alleged incident occurred.

“I was there the whole day,” he says, scratching his head. “Jin kept to himself, mostly. He was polite to Lina, but they barely interacted. She was more focused on her phone than the shoot.”

You record his account, and he shrugs when you ask about court. “Sure, I’ll testify. Sounds like she’s making it up.”

Each interview paints the same picture: Jin is shy, polite, almost obsessively careful. The consistency is staggering. You’re starting to believe him, not just because of the evidence but because of him.

Late at night, alone in your office, you scroll through behind-the-scenes footage of his movies and dramas on X and YouTube. In one clip, Jin’s supposed to hold his co-star’s hand for a romantic scene.

He hesitates, visibly nervous, asking the director, “Should I ask her first? I don’t want to assume.” The actress laughs, grabs his hand, and says, “It’s fine, Jin. It’s acting.” He still looks unsure, his fingers barely curling around hers.

Then there’s the interview that hits you hard. It’s from a variety show, years old, Jin’s face younger but just as earnest. The host asks about his most embarrassing on-set moment.

He laughs, cheeks pink, and says, “I once rehearsed a hug scene forty-seven times. Forty-seven! I was so worried I’d make her uncomfortable. I kept asking, ‘Is this okay? Too tight? Too loose?’ She was so patient, but I think I drove her crazy.”

You pause the video, your heart doing something unfamiliar. It’s not just that he’s innocent—it’s that he’s good. Kind. Thoughtful. The way he blushes, the way he laughs at himself… it’s endearing.

You catch yourself smiling, your chest warm, and realize with a jolt that you’re developing a crush. It’s unprofessional, dangerous, but undeniable. You close your laptop, shaking your head. Focus. He’s your client.

Your second meeting with Jin is different. He’s waiting in your office, still in a hoodie (navy this time), but he’s brought coffee—two cups, one for you.

The gesture catches you off guard, and you mutter a thanks as you take it, your fingers brushing his. He pulls back quickly, like he’s worried he’s overstepped, and you almost smile at how careful he is.

You set up a recorder, explaining you’ll need his formal statement. He nods, sitting straighter, but his eyes keep flicking to you, nervous and hopeful. You walk him through the allegations, asking for his side in detail.

His voice is steady, recounting the shoot with precision—where he stood, what he said, how he avoided Lina unless absolutely necessary. It matches Choi Min-jun’s account perfectly.

When the recorder’s off, you lean back, studying him. “I’ve talked to your co-stars, your stylist, a script supervisor, a PA. They all say the same thing: you’re careful. Respectful. Almost to a fault.”

You pause, letting that sink in. “We’re going to win this, Jin. I’m building a case that’s airtight. The court date set for next month, is still far off, so I’m leaving no stone unturned to ensure we secure justice for you. I promise to close this as soon as possible. Don’t worry.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like he might cry. Then he smiles, soft and genuine, and says, “That’s why I chose you.”

You freeze, caught off guard. “What?”

“I did my research,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “When this started, I looked up lawyers. Your name kept coming up. Fierce. Smart. Unbeatable. I knew you’d fight for me.” His voice drops, almost a whisper. “I just didn’t know you’d make me feel… safe.”

Your heart stutters. The air feels too warm, too close. You clear your throat, trying to stay professional. “Well, that’s my job. And I’m good at it.” But your voice is softer than you mean it to be, and when he looks at you—really looks at you—you feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

You wrap up the meeting with plans for the next steps, but as he leaves, he pauses at the door. “Thanks,” he says, “for believing in me.” He’s gone before you can respond, but the words linger, warming your office long after he’s left.

The case becomes your world, a whirlwind of late nights and early mornings, your office a chaotic haven of scattered files, empty coffee cups, and sticky notes in Jin’s neat handwriting.

He’s there almost every evening now, showing up with takeout or homemade snacks, each one accompanied by a little note.

“Eat. You scare me when you skip lunch.” “This is kimchi fried rice. My mom’s recipe. Don’t hate it.” “You’re working too hard. Take a nap (but not on the files, they’ll crinkle).”

You don’t hate the food. You don’t hate him. In fact, you’re starting to look forward to his visits, the way he fills your stark office with warmth. It’s dangerous, this softening in your chest, but you can’t stop it. Every note, every shy smile, chips away at your defenses.

One evening, you’re both hunched over a table littered with witness statements, the city lights twinkling through your window. Jin hands you a container of homemade cookies, a sticky note on top: “Made these. Hope they’re not terrible.” You take a bite, and they’re perfect—soft, chewy, with just the right amount of chocolate.

“These are amazing,” you say, mouth full, and he beams, his ears turning pink.

“Really? I was worried they’d be too sweet. I’m not great at baking.” He’s fidgeting, nervous, and it’s so endearing you can’t help but tease.

“Jin, you’re a movie star. You could’ve just bought cookies. Why go through the trouble?”

He shrugs, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know. Felt more… personal. You’re doing so much for me. I wanted to do something for you.”

Your heart does a little flip, and you cover it with a smirk. “Careful, my soft little client. You’re gonna spoil me.”

He blushes, but this time, he doesn’t look away. “Maybe I want to,” he says, voice quiet but playful, a spark in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

The banter starts small, tentative, like he’s testing the waters. One night, as you’re both sorting through deposition transcripts, you catch him staring—not at the papers, but at you.

His gaze is soft, almost reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, cheeks flushing. “Just… you’re really focused. It’s cute.”

You snort, trying to hide the warmth spreading through you. “Cute? I’m terrifying, Jin. Get it right.”

He grins, leaning closer. “Terrifyingly cute, then. Is that better?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he knows it. The teasing becomes a ritual, a gentle push-and-pull that makes the long hours feel lighter. He starts walking you to your car every night, always keeping a respectful distance, though you notice he lingers a little longer each time, like he’s reluctant to leave.

One night, he hands you a thermos of soup with a note: “It’s cold out. Stay warm.” You tease him mercilessly. “Soup, Jin? What am I, your grandma?”

He laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. “Hey, my grandma loves my soup. You’re lucky to get it.”

“Lucky, huh?” you say, nudging his arm. “Careful, I might start expecting this every day.”

He looks at you, his smile softening into something deeper. “Would that be so bad?”

You don’t answer, but your heart races as you climb into your car, his gaze lingering on you through the window.

The first physical moment comes unexpectedly. You’re burning the midnight oil, your head resting on a stack of files, when you drift off. You wake to the soft weight of his jacket over your shoulders, the faint scent of his cologne—clean, warm, comforting—enveloping you.

You sit up, blinking, and find him across the room, pretending to organize papers, his cheeks flushed.

“Thanks,” you murmur, pulling the jacket tighter around you.

He jumps, like he didn’t expect you to wake up. “Oh. Uh. You’d get cold. I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t watching you sleep or anything. That’d be… weird.” His hands flail, and he’s so flustered you can’t help but laugh.

“Relax, Jin. I know you’re not a creep.”

He grins, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not. I’m just… you know. Trying to take care of you.”

The words hit you harder than they should, and you feel a warmth you can’t quite name. You start to notice the way he looks at you—soft, longing, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. It’s disarming, the way his gaze lingers, full of quiet adoration.

The flirting grows, but it’s never bold, always wrapped in his self-deprecating charm. One night, as you’re both sipping coffee he brought, he blurts, “You’re really smart. Like, scary smart. It’s… kind of amazing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Kind of?”

He winces, laughing. “Okay, really amazing. I’m bad at this, aren’t I?”

“You’re doing fine,” you say, softening. “Better than fine.”

You test the waters, teasing him more. One evening, as he hands you a neatly packed container of fruit (“You need vitamins, not just coffee”), you smirk and say, “Thanks, my soft little client.”

His eyes widen, and he blushes so hard you think he might combust. But then he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Only for you, counselor. Don’t tell the tabloids.”

It’s the first time he’s flirted back so directly, and the spark it ignites is warm, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

The trial is a whirlwind. You’re a force in the courtroom, dismantling Lina Park’s story with surgical precision. Her testimony is shaky, her timeline inconsistent.

You present the footage, the interviews, the pattern of Jin’s behavior—his hesitance, his respect, his paranoia about boundaries. Ji-yeon, Min-soo, Hana, and Min-jun all testify, their statements unwavering.

During cross-examination, you uncover Lina’s motive. Under pressure, she admits she was frustrated during the shoot—Jin’s reserved demeanor made her feel ignored, and she saw an opportunity to boost her own visibility.

“He was so distant,” she snaps, “like I wasn’t even there. I thought… if I made a scene, people would notice me.” Her words unravel her case, revealing a calculated move for attention, not a genuine grievance. The jury’s faces harden, and you know you’ve won.

Before closing, you address the court with a final, pointed argument. “Your Honor, my client, Kim Seokjin, has not only been falsely accused but has suffered significant professional harm. Due to these baseless allegations, he has lost two major film projects and a lucrative endorsement deal, opportunities that would have furthered his career."

" These are tangible losses caused by Ms. Park’s defamatory claims. We request that the court impose a fine on Ms. Park for defamation to compensate for the damage inflicted on my client’s reputation and livelihood.”

Lina’s face pales, and she pleads from the stand, voice trembling. “Please, I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I was just… upset. I’m sorry.” Her eyes dart to Jin, but he looks away, jaw tight.

You step closer to her, voice low so only she can hear. “Be thankful, Ms. Park. My client is too soft to push for imprisonment charges. He settled for a fine. You’re lucky he’s kinder than you deserve.” She flinches, tears welling, but you turn away, your focus back on the judge.

Jin watches you like you’re a superhero. Every sharp question, every pointed objection—it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. His eyes, those soft, stormy eyes, follow you everywhere. You feel them even when you’re focused, a quiet heat that makes your skin prickle.

On the final day, the jury deliberates for three hours. When they return with a not guilty verdict, the courtroom erupts. Jin’s team cheers, but he just sits there, staring at you, his expression unreadable. Relief, yes, but something deeper. Something that makes your heart skip.

You catch his eye, giving him a small nod. He exhales, shoulders slumping, like he’s finally allowed to breathe. After the courtroom clears, you pull out your phone and text him: Meet me at my office tonight. We need to debrief. He responds within seconds: Okay. Thank you.

That evening, your office is quiet, the city’s skyline glittering through the window. You’re at your desk, organizing files, when Jin knocks softly.

He’s still in the suit he wore to court, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed. He looks exhausted but lighter, like a weight’s been lifted.

“Hey,” you say, standing. “Come in. Sit.”

He does, sinking into the chair across from you, his hands clasped tightly. “Is this… about the case?”

“Partly,” you admit, leaning against your desk. “You’re free, Jin. The verdict’s final. Lina’s credibility is shot, and the media’s already shifting. You’re clear.”

He nods, but his eyes are distant. “I don’t know how to feel. Relieved, I guess. But… it’s a lot.”

You soften, moving to sit beside him. “You held it together better than most. Why didn’t you lose your mind during all this?”

He looks at you, his gaze raw. “Because you were fighting for me. I’ve never had that before. Not like this.”

The air shifts, heavy with unspoken things. You study him—the way his lips part slightly, the way his eyes flicker with something more than gratitude. “You’re stronger than you think,” you say quietly. “And you deserve to move on from this.”

He swallows, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Can I… ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

He hesitates, his cheeks flushing. “I don’t know if this is okay to say, but… I’ve been thinking about you. A lot. Not just as my lawyer. And I—” He stops, eyes wide, like he’s terrified he’s crossed a line. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Jin,” you interrupt, your voice gentle but firm. You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s bracing for rejection. He’s so careful, so scared of overstepping, and it makes your heart ache. You lean closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him. “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about you too.”

His breath catches, and he stares at you, disbelief and hope warring on his face. “You have?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not just my soft little client, you know.”

He laughs, soft and nervous, but his eyes are locked on yours, searching. He leans forward slightly, then stops, his hands trembling. “I want to kiss you,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “But I’m… I’m scared. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens at his vulnerability, the way he’s laying himself bare. You close the distance, cupping his face gently, your thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You won’t,” you murmur, and before he can second-guess himself, you pull him into a kiss.

It’s soft at first, tentative, his lips warm and hesitant against yours. He’s holding back, like he’s afraid to push too far, but when you deepen the kiss, he melts, a quiet groan escaping him.

His hands find your waist, hovering until you nod, and then he pulls you closer, gentle but firm, like you’re something precious. The kiss lingers, slow and sweet, until you both pull back, breathless, foreheads resting together.

“Was that… okay?” he asks, voice shaky, his eyes searching yours.

You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “More than okay.”

He smiles, shy but radiant, and you both sit there for a moment, the tension shifting to something warm and hopeful. “So,” you say, teasing, “what now, Mr. Not Guilty?”

He blushes, his ears red, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe… we could try this? Us? If you want.”

You nod, your heart racing. “I want.”

The next few weeks are a delicate dance of stolen moments, your dates carefully chosen to avoid the media’s prying eyes. Jin’s still a public figure, and the scandal’s aftershocks linger, so you stick to secluded places, each encounter brimming with quiet intimacy and unspoken desire.

Your first date is at a tiny, hidden café in a back alley, its windows frosted to keep out curious gazes. Jin picks a corner booth, his hoodie pulled low, but his eyes are bright, fixed on you.

He fumbles with his napkin, spilling a bit of latte on his hoodie, and curses under his breath. “Great start,” he mutters, dabbing at the stain, but you laugh, leaning across the table to help, your fingers brushing his.

“You’re cute when you’re clumsy,” you tease, and he flushes, muttering something about “trying to impress you.” The air crackles with tension, his knee brushing yours under the table, neither of you pulling away.

When he reaches for your hand, his touch is hesitant, but you lace your fingers with his, and the shy smile he gives you sends a jolt through your chest.

The second date is a late-night walk along a secluded stretch of the Han River, far from the usual crowds. Jin brings a thermos of hot chocolate—“better than soup,” he says with a grin—and you share it, your shoulders brushing as you walk.

The city lights reflect on the water, and when a cool breeze hits, he drapes his scarf around your neck, his fingers lingering at your collar, grazing your skin. “Can’t have you catching a cold,” he murmurs, voice soft, and the closeness of his body, the warmth of his breath, makes your skin tingle with want. You lean into him, just a little, and his hand finds yours, the contact electric, a silent promise of more.

Your third date is a small pottery class, one Jin booked exclusively for the two of you to avoid any onlookers. The studio is cozy, lit by soft lamps, the air thick with the earthy scent of clay.

You’re both terrible at it, clay splattering everywhere as you try to shape mugs. Jin’s attempt collapses into a lopsided mess, and he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m better at acting,” he admits, and you smirk, smearing clay on his cheek.

“You are right,” you tease, and he retaliates, swiping clay across your nose. The laughter dies down as he steps closer, his body brushing yours, the air heavy with tension. “You’ve got clay all over you,” he says, voice low, and guides you to a sink to rinse it off.

His hands cover yours under the warm water, his fingers sliding slowly between yours, washing the clay away with deliberate care. “You’re a mess, counselor,” he teases, his voice a soft rumble, his chest pressed lightly against your back.

“Speak for yourself, movie star,” you retort, tilting your head to glance at him, your lips dangerously close to his. “You’ve also got clay in your hair now.”

He grins, his thumbs tracing teasing circles on your palms. “Guess you’ll have to clean me up too, huh?” His breath is warm on your neck, and the playful banter only heightens the heat between you, his hips brushing yours as he leans closer.

“Careful, Jin,” you murmur, smirking. “Keep this up, and I might drag you into the clay pile again.”

“Objection, your Honor” he whispers, his lips hovering near your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’d rather drag you somewhere… softer.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark with intent, but he steps away, leaving you breathless, the moment simmering with unfulfilled desire.

Each date builds something steady—trust, affection, a quiet intimacy laced with sexual tension. You catch him staring at your lips, his hands hovering before pulling back, like he’s fighting the urge to touch you more. You’re falling for him, and from the way he looks at you—like you’re the only person in the world—you know he’s falling too.

It’s almost three months after the trial, after weeks of dating, when you invite Jin to your apartment for dinner. You cook together, bickering over how much garlic is too much, the kitchen filled with laughter and the scent of simmering sauce.

After dinner, you end up on your couch, wine glasses in hand, a soft jazz playlist humming in the background. The conversation turns quiet, intimate, and when he sets his glass down, his eyes are intense, searching.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he admits, voice low. “Every day, really.”

You smile, setting your glass aside. “Good thoughts, I hope.”

“The best,” he says, leaning closer, his hand hovering near yours. “Can I… kiss you again?”

You nod, and this time, the kiss is different—deeper, hungrier, like he’s been holding back for weeks. Your hands tangle in his hair, and he groans softly, pulling you onto his lap.

His touches are careful but edged with desperation, his fingers grazing your waist, your thighs, sending sparks through you. You pull back, breathless, and guide him to your bedroom, the air thick with anticipation.

The room is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting a warm glow. Jin stands at the edge of your bed, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his eyes wide and nervous. “Is this okay?” he asks, fingers pausing at your blouse.

“More than okay,” you say, but you notice his hesitation, the way his hands tremble. “Jin, we don’t have to—”

“No, I want to,” he interrupts, blushing. “It’s just… I’ve never done this before.” He looks away, embarrassed. “I mean, I’ve kissed people, on camera, but… not this. Not all the way.”

Your eyes widen, and you feel a flutter of nerves yourself. “Me neither,” you admit, voice soft. “This would be my first time too.”

His gaze snaps to yours, surprised but relieved. “Really?”

You nod, smiling. “So we’re figuring this out together. Just… don’t ask so many questions, okay? Let’s just feel it.”

He laughs, the sound nervous but warm. “Deal. But you’ll tell me if I mess up, right?”

“Promise,” you say, pulling him closer.

The kisses start slow, exploratory, but grow heated, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, tugging his shirt off to reveal smooth, toned skin. He’s tentative, peeling your blouse off with reverence, his fingers brushing your skin like you’re fragile. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and you blush, teasing to cover your shyness.

“Flattery won’t get you everywhere, Mr. Handsome,” you say, nipping his ear. He grins, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

His hands fumble at your bra clasp, and he laughs, sheepish. “Uh… how does this work?” You giggle, guiding his hands.

“Like this, rookie,” you tease, and he kisses you to distract from his nerves, his lips hungry, tongue teasing yours. When you’re both down to your underwear, you straddle him, feeling his arousal through the fabric. He groans, head tipping back, and you smirk. “Already losing it?”

“Objection, counselor,” he gasps, hands gripping your hips. “You’re too distracting.”

“Sustained,” you murmur, kissing down his neck, savoring his soft moans. His hands wander, tentative but bolder, tracing your curves, squeezing your thighs. You guide him, showing him where to touch, how to press, and he’s a quick learner, his fingers finding spots that make you gasp.

You grind against him, the friction delicious, and he groans, eyes dark with want. “You’re killing me,” he mutters, and you laugh, nipping his collarbone.

“Good. Consider it my closing argument.”

His hands slide to your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples through the fabric, and you arch into him, moaning. “God, Jin,” you breathe, and he smirks, gaining confidence.

“Like that, counselor?” he teases, pinching lightly, and you retaliate, dragging your nails down his chest, leaving faint red lines. He hisses, but his eyes are wild, loving it.

“You’re too gentle,” you challenge, grinding harder, and he groans, flipping you onto your back with surprising strength.

“Objection. I’m just thorough,” he says, voice rough, kissing down your stomach, teeth grazing your hip. You tug at his hair, urging him lower, and he pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and he slides your panties off, his breath warm against your inner thigh. His tongue traces slow, deliberate patterns, and you’re trembling, hands gripping the sheets. He’s thorough, maddeningly so, bringing you to the edge, then pausing to kiss your thighs, teasing.

“Jin,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-desperate. “Stop teasing.”

He grins, boyish but wicked. “Patience, counselor. I’m building my case.” His fingers join his tongue, curling inside you, and you cry out, hips bucking. He holds you down, his free hand firm on your hip, and you’re soaring, pleasure coiling tight.

When you come undone, it’s with his name on your lips, and he kisses his way back up, smug but shy. “Verdict?” he murmurs, and you laugh, pulling him close.

“Guilty of being too good,” you say, stroking him through his boxers. He groans, head dropping to your shoulder, and you guide him out, marveling at him. “Ready?”

He nods, but hesitates. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you breathe, guiding him to your entrance. He pushes in slowly, both of you gasping at the stretch, the intimacy. It’s intense, a little overwhelming, but you hold each other, moving together, finding a rhythm. His thrusts are soft at first, careful, but you dig your nails into his back, urging him on.

“More,” you moan, and he groans, pace quickening. “Objection, my client is still holding back. You are too soft, Jin.”

His eyes flash, and he smirks, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Overruled. You’ll get rough.” He pulls back, slamming into you harder, and you cry out, pleasure spiking.

He’s relentless now, hips snapping with precision, hands pinning your wrists above your head. Every thrust sends you higher, his strength, his control, driving you wild.

“Like this?” he growls, nipping your ear, and you can only moan, lost in the rhythm, the heat. He shifts, angling deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and you’re trembling, begging.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, and he laughs, low and fierce, kissing you hard, all teeth and tongue. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you’re unraveling, pleasure crashing over you like a storm. He follows, his release a desperate groan, and you cling to each other, laughing, panting, tangled in the sheets.

After, you both lie there, breathless, bodies pressed close, the reality of your first time sinking in. Jin’s arms wrap around you, his lips brushing your temple, and you feel a mix of vulnerability and warmth, like you’ve shared something sacred. “You okay?” he whispers, voice soft, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

You nod, nuzzling into his chest. “More than okay. It was… perfect. A little scary at beginning, but perfect.” You pause, smiling against his skin. “You?”

He exhales, a shaky laugh. “I’m… wow. I didn’t know it could feel like that. I was so nervous, but with you, it just… felt right.” He tightens his hold, voice dropping. “I’m glad it was you.”

Your heart swells, and you kiss his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. “Me too, Jin.”

The next morning, you wake to sunlight streaming through your curtains, Jin’s arm still draped over you.

He’s awake, watching you with a soft, sleepy smile, his hair adorably mussed. “Morning, counselor,” he murmurs, voice husky, and you laugh, poking his cheek.

“Morning, movie star. Sleep okay?” You ruffled his hair.

“Best sleep of my life,” he says, pulling you closer, but there’s a shy edge to his grin. “So… last night. We did that, huh?”

You blush, but tease, “Yup. And you weren’t half bad for a rookie.”

He gasps, mock-offended, tickling your side. “Objection! I was phenomenal.”

You squeal, squirming, and he pins you gently, kissing your nose. “But seriously… no regrets?”

“None,” you say, meeting his eyes, your smile softening. “You?”

“Zero,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and sweet, like he’s savoring every second.

The kiss lingers, and you both laugh, tangled in the sheets, basking in the new closeness, the quiet joy of your shared first.

“Cloud nine?” he teases, kissing your nose, forehead, cheeks, soft and sweet again.

“Orbiting ten,” you murmur, and he grins, pulling you close, your bodies entwined as you laying in his arms, his heartbeat your lullaby.

Six months later, the scandal’s a memory, and you and Jin are inseparable. He’s still shy about going public, but you’ve both been planning to reveal your relationship to his agency and the media, discussing the perfect timing over late-night calls and quiet dinners.

You agreed to wait a little longer, to prepare a joint statement, but Jin’s been quietly scheming, his excitement barely contained.

One day, he surprises you. You’re at a cozy café, sharing a latte, when he posts a photo on X—a candid of you laughing, his hand brushing yours, captioned: “Found my forever counsel. Not guilty of anything but loving her.”

The internet erupts, fans gushing, tabloids scrambling. You swat his arm, cheeks burning. “Jin! No warning? We were supposed to tell your agency first!”

He grins, unrepentant, eyes sparkling with mischief. “They already know. Had to make it official, counselor. I couldn’t wait another second—you’re mine now.”

“Objection,” you tease, pouting. “Sappy.”

“Sustained,” he murmurs, kissing you softly, ignoring the café’s glances. “But I’m guilty of it.”

His voice lowers, a shy confession slipping out. “You know… I fell for you that first day. When you threatened to kill me in the courtroom if I lied.” He chuckles, cheeks pink. “You were so fierce, so ready to fight for me. I was a goner.”

Your heart melts, and you cup his face, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, but your kiss is tender, full of love for the man who he is too soft and gentle for this harsh world.

Life’s a tapestry of fluff. He packs your lunches, notes sappier:

“Missed you whole day at shoot.” “Wish you could be here on the sets.” “You’re prettier than any judge.”

You bicker over dumplings—who gets the last?—ending in giggles and kisses. One night, on your couch, you’re scrolling X, reading fan comments about your relationship.

“They call you the ‘softest boyfriend ever,’” you smirk, straddling him. “Think you can live up to it?”

He tickles your sides, making you squeal. “Objection. I’m tough as nails.”

“Overruled,” you giggle, pinning his wrists. “You’re my softie, and I’ve got proof.”

He laughs, pulling you into a kiss, hands sneaking under your shirt to tickle you. “Careful, counselor. Might need to cross-examine you in bed.”

“Bring it,” you challenge, and he scoops you up, carrying you to the bedroom, both of you giggling. In bed, you tease—“Objection, your honor. My client’s too handsome.”

“Sustained,” he smirks, kissing your neck. “Motion for more kisses.”

“Granted,” you moan, melting into him, banter turning heated. He blushes at your flirty banter, touches you like you’re priceless, and you melt, every time.

A/n: My softie Jin 😭😭 He is too cute to handle, you know!! 😍 Like, Comment and Reblog, if you like the story.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido

[kittenan2]

Troubleshoot My Heart

Trope: IT Helpdesk Chaos Pairing: Grumpy Genius IT Guy!Yoongi × Bored, Unhinged Newbie!Reader Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, office romance, age gap (~10 years), smut, forbidden romance, workplace chaos Word Count: ~5k Rating: 18+ | Explicit | Minors DNI Some viruses come from shady websites. Others wear glasses and a smirk.

The office is a prison of beige and buzzwords. At 22, you’re a fresh graduate, drowning in Excel spreadsheets and shared calendars that multiply like roaches. Your cubicle is a purgatory of motivational posters and recycled air, and the 4 PM quarterly update call is sucking the last dregs of your soul. The presenter’s voice drones on about “synergy” and “KPIs,” and you’re half-asleep, chin propped on your hand, when boredom—your old, reckless friend—whispers in your ear.

Just one click. For the thrill.

You know better. You do. But the corporate firewall is a challenge, and you’re restless. So you type a shady URL (NSFW) into the browser, something you overheard in a freshers' group chat about “exclusive content.” It’s blocked, of course—big red warning, “Access Denied.” But not before something slips through. Your laptop stutters, screen flickering, then freezes entirely. A pop-up screams: “CRITICAL ERROR: SYSTEM COMPROMISED.”

Panic claws at your chest. You mash keys, but nothing works. The IT helpdesk form is your only salvation, a digital confessional for your sins. You type, hands shaking: “System acting weird. Might’ve clicked something. Send help (preferably cute help).” You hit submit and pray.

Ten minutes later, he arrives.

Min Yoongi, head of IT support, is a walking paradox: hoodie under a blazer, dark hair falling into sharper eyes, and a voice so low it should be illegal. At 32, he’s a legend in the office—not for charm, but for fixing disasters with minimal words and maximum disdain. He doesn’t look at you as he drops into your chair, his fingers flying over your keyboard.

“Did you accidentally download six trojans,” he says, not asking, “or was that part of your productivity strategy?”

You lean against the cubicle wall, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just… clicked a link.”

He glances at you, one brow raised, and you feel it—a spark, like static from a bad outlet. His glasses slide down his nose as he mutters, “Idiots who think VPNs make them invincible.” But he’s already working, pulling up diagnostics, his hands moving with a precision that makes your throat dry.

The screen stabilizes. He stands, brushing past you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of coffee and cedar. “Don’t do it again,” he says, and he’s gone.

But you’re already hooked.

By Wednesday, the office is a hamster wheel of monotony, and Yoongi’s dry wit is your only lifeline. You decide to make a game of it: How far can I push the grumpy IT guy before he cracks? It’s not just boredom driving you—it’s the way his eyes linger a fraction too long, the way his voice dips when he’s annoyed. You want to unravel him.

Your first move is small but deliberate. You submit a ticket: “Mouse not working. Urgent.” He shows up, slouching into your cubicle, glasses catching the fluorescent light. “Urgent,” he repeats, voice flat as he picks up the mouse. It’s unplugged. His eyes flick to you, narrowing. “Really?”

You bat your lashes, all innocence. “It just… stopped. Maybe it’s shy?”

He snorts, plugging it back in with a flick of his wrist. “Shy. Right. Next time, check the cable before you waste my time.” But he’s lingering, leaning closer as he tests the mouse, his arm brushing yours. You catch a hint of his cologne—cedar, sharp—and your pulse spikes.

“Waste your time?” you say, tilting your head. “I thought you liked visiting me.”

His fingers pause on the mouse. He looks at you, and there’s a glint in his eyes—half irritation, half something else. “You’re gonna be trouble,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move away.

By Thursday, you’re bolder. You spill a splash of coffee on your desk—nowhere near your laptop, but close enough to justify a ticket: “Coffee incident. Laptop at risk. Save me.” Yoongi arrives, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your brain short-circuit. He scans the desk, sees the tiny puddle, and sighs, long and suffering. “This is what you call a crisis?”

You lean forward, letting your blouse gape just enough to draw his eye. “Could’ve been. Better safe than sorry, right?”

He grabs a tissue, wiping the desk with exaggerated care, his movements slow, deliberate. “You know,” he says, voice low, “if you keep crying wolf, one day I might not come.”

You pout, twirling a strand of hair. “Oh, Yoongi, you’d miss me too much.”

He freezes, just for a second, then tosses the tissue in the trash. “Keep dreaming, princess.” But his voice is rougher, and when he leans over to check your laptop, his shoulder brushes yours, lingering a beat too long.

Friday, you go for broke. Ticket: “Desktop icons too aggressive. Hostile work environment.” He shows up, arms crossed, leaning against your cubicle like he’s bracing for a storm. “Aggressive icons,” he deadpans. “Care to explain?”

You point at the screen, where your perfectly normal icons sit innocently. “They’re glaring at me. It’s intimidating.”

He stares at you, then at the screen, then back at you. “You’re unbelievable.” He slides into your chair, closer than necessary, his knee brushing your thigh as he pretends to inspect the screen. “Maybe they’re just mad you keep breaking shit.”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Language, Min Yoongi. What would HR say?”

He smirks, typing something pointless. “HR would say you’re a menace who needs constant supervision.” His fingers brush yours as he slides the laptop back, and the contact sends a jolt through you. “Or maybe just a leash.”

Your breath catches, but you recover fast, leaning in until your lips are inches from his ear. “Only if you’re the one holding it.”

He stiffens, glasses slipping down his nose. For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far, but then he updates your ticket with a note:

Try restarting. If that doesn’t work, I’m available. For troubleshooting. Or kissing. Whichever works first.

You choke on your smoothie, heart hammering. He’s already walking away, but you catch the smirk on his lips. Game on.

The flirting is a full-blown war now. You’re addicted to the way Yoongi’s jaw tightens when you push his buttons, the way his eyes darken when you get too close. You call him for every minor issue, each ticket a thinly veiled excuse to see him. He knows it, and he’s playing along, showing up in person even when he could resolve things remotely or send someone else. His sarcasm is sharper, but so is the heat in his gaze.

Monday morning, you’re chewing a pen cap, voice deliberately breathy as you call him. “Yoongi, I think I clicked something bad again…” You’re perched on your desk, skirt riding up just enough to be dangerous.

He arrives, tie loose, hair slightly mussed, looking like he’s already had three coffees and zero patience. He leans against your cubicle, arms crossed, glasses glinting. “Clicked something bad,” he repeats, voice dripping with skepticism. “What was it this time? Another ‘productivity’ site?”

You twirl the pen, letting it slip between your lips before answering. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted your expertise.”

He steps closer, crowding your space, his voice dropping to a low growl. “My expertise? Or my attention?”

Your pulse spikes, but you hold his gaze, smirking. “Can’t it be both?”

He chuckles, dark and low, and slides into your chair, his knee brushing your thigh as he checks your laptop. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he mutters, but his fingers linger on the keyboard, brushing yours. “Keep this up, and I’ll start charging you for house calls.”

You lean in, close enough to smell his cologne. “What’s the price? Coffee? Dinner? Or… something else?”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, you think he might kiss you right there, cubicle walls be damned. But he pulls back, adjusting his glasses. “You couldn’t afford me, princess.”

Tuesday, you up the ante. You wear a tighter blouse, top button undone, and submit a ticket: “Laptop lagging. Need urgent assistance.” He shows up, visibly fighting to keep his eyes on the screen. “Lagging,” he says, voice flat. “Or are you just fishing for compliments in that shirt?”

You gasp, mock-scandalized. “Min Yoongi, are you objectifying me?”

He leans closer, voice a dangerous whisper. “If I was, you’d know.” His fingers brush your wrist as he types, and you swear the air crackles. “Fixed. Try not to break it again by lunch.”

Wednesday, it’s a fake email issue. He’s at your desk in minutes, looking like he’s one ticket away from throttling you. “Your email’s fine,” he says, not even touching the keyboard. “What’s the real problem?”

You lean back, crossing your arms, pushing your chest out slightly. “Maybe I just missed you.”

He stares, jaw tight, then mutters, “You’re gonna be the death of me.” But he doesn’t leave. He lingers, pretending to check settings, his hand brushing yours again. “Stop looking at me like that,” he says, voice low.

“Like what?” you ask, all innocence, batting your lashes.

“Like you’re begging for something you can’t handle.”

Your breath hitches, but you recover, whispering, “Try me.”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes burn, and you know you’re winning.

Then comes the fire drill, means everyone needs to evacuate building for around 30-40 minutes.

It’s the third one this month, alarms blaring, everyone groaning. You’re halfway to the exit when Yoongi grabs your arm, pulling you toward the server room. “Need to check something,” he says, voice clipped, but his grip is firm, possessive. You follow, heart racing, the chaos of the drill fading behind you.

The server room is a claustrophobic box of humming machinery, blinking lights, and stifling heat. The door clicks shut, auto-locking. It’s tiny, fans roaring, air heavy with static. You’re both sweating, your blouse clinging to your skin, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He leans against a rack, glasses fogging slightly, and growls, “You really don’t care about fire safety, huh? Following me in here like it’s nothing.”

You step closer, bold, reckless. “Maybe I just like tight spaces. Especially with you.”

His eyes darken, pupils blown. “You’re trouble,” he says, voice rough. “And you know it.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “And you’re not? Dragging me in here, all alone, no witnesses?”

He steps forward, closing the gap, his breath hot against your cheek. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll give you something to complain about besides your laptop.”

Your stomach flips, but you hold your ground, whispering, “Promise?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The air in the server room is thick, charged. You’re inches apart, and you can’t resist pushing him. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?” you tease, voice low. “Fixing my laptop so fast, showing up every time I call, even when you can do it remotely or can send someone else from your team. You’re obsessed.”

He snaps. “You think I’m obsessed?” His voice is rough, dangerous. “You’ve been downloading viruses, calling me for fake crashes, bending over your desk like it’s part of your job description.”

Your breath catches. He steps forward, crowding you against the server rack. The metal is warm against your back, cables brushing your arm. His hand grazes your waist, then slides under your skirt, fingers skimming the edge of your panties. “You want chaos?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll give you chaos.”

You gasp as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding you already wet. He groans, low and feral, and you’re done for. His mouth crashes against yours, all heat and desperation, tasting of coffee and something darker—need. You tug at his belt, fumbling, and he chuckles against your lips, dark and teasing. “Impatient.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, yanking his shirt free. His hands are everywhere—under your skirt, gripping your thighs, lifting you slightly so you’re perched on the edge of a rack.

The machinery hums, vibrating through you, amplifying every touch. He pushes your panties aside, fingers sliding inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right. You moan, loud, and his free hand clamps over your mouth.

“Quiet,” he growls, but his eyes are wild, pupils blown. “Unless you want the whole office to know you’re getting fucked in here.”

You bite his palm, and he curses, thrusting his fingers deeper. Your nails dig into his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s hard against you, straining through his slacks, and you grind against him, desperate for more. He undoes his belt one-handed, freeing himself, and you nearly whimper at the sight—thick, flushed, and all for you.

He doesn’t wait. He pushes inside you, slow at first, letting you feel every inch. The stretch is exquisite, and you arch against the rack, cables tangling in your hair. He thrusts harder, deeper, the rhythm relentless, each movement sending sparks through your core. The fans drown out your gasps, but not the slick, obscene sounds of him moving inside you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, voice wrecked. His hands grip your hips, bruising, pulling you onto him with every thrust. You’re close, so close, and he knows it, angling just right to hit that spot that makes you see stars. Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you, and you clench around him, trembling.

He’s not far behind. His thrusts grow erratic, and he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name as he spills inside you. You’re both panting, sweat-slicked, clinging to each other in the humming dark.

Then you shift, still dazed, and your elbow bumps the emergency restart button on the rack.

A low hum dies. Lights flicker. The servers reboot with a whine.

You freeze. Yoongi’s eyes widen. “Did you just—”

“Oops,” you whisper.

Monday morning is chaos. Emails flood in:

“Why did the servers reboot?” “We lost six hours of sales data.” “Also, someone left a bra in the server room.”

Yoongi’s inbox is a warzone, but he’s calm, typing responses with that infuriating deadpan.

You’re avoiding IT helpdesk department now, because the office is buzzing. Whispers follow you—your tickets get resolved suspiciously fast, and someone saw you leaving the helpdesk department, blouse misbuttoned.

It’s early afternoon, and you’ve locked yourself out of your laptop again—right before a client presentation, a bad habit of not remembering the password. You could’ve go to helpdesk, but you’re avoiding the department after the server room fiasco, terrified someone saw you. Instead, you text Yoongi directly on his personal contact:

“Locked out my laptop. Conference room. Help. Have client presentation in 1 hour.”

He storms in, tie askew, glasses slipping, looking like he’s ready to strangle you. “You forgot your password?” he snaps, slamming his admin laptop onto the conference table. “Again?”

You’re leaning against the table, blouse tight, top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of lace. “No,” you say, voice dripping with mischief. “I just wanted to see your face.”

His jaw clenches, but his eyes betray him, flicking to your chest before he catches himself. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, typing override commands with aggressive precision. You slide closer, letting your hip brush his, and murmur, “You know, no one uses this room until after 2.”

He freezes, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice low, but he doesn’t move away. You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Good thing I like danger.”

That’s his breaking point. He spins, grabbing your waist, and pulls you under the table, out of sight of the glass walls. The projector hums to life, casting the company logo across the room, but you’re already on your knees, hands working his belt.

His breath hitches as you free him, stroking slowly, teasing the tip with your thumb. He’s thick, hard, and you can’t resist tasting him, tongue swirling around the head before taking him deep.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice barely a whisper, his hand fisting your hair. You move slowly at first, lips sliding along his length, savoring the way he twitches against your tongue. The projector light dances across your face, the hum masking your soft moans.

His hips jerk, pushing deeper, and you hollow your cheeks, taking him to the back of your throat. His grip tightens, guiding you, and you can feel him unraveling, his breaths ragged.

He pulls you up, voice wrecked. “Get up here.” He spins you, bending you over the table, your skirt hiked up, panties shoved aside. His fingers find you soaked, and he groans, teasing your entrance before sliding two fingers inside, curling them just right. You gasp, gripping the table’s edge, the wood cool against your heated skin. “Yoongi,” you whimper, and he chuckles, dark and low.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers to replace them with his cock. He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch, the stretch making your thighs tremble. He grips your hips, thrusting hard, the table creaking with every movement.

The projector flickers, casting distorted light across your back as he fucks you, relentless, each thrust hitting that spot that makes you see stars. His hand slides up, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can whisper in your ear. “You feel so fucking good.”

You’re close, the pressure building, and he knows it, angling his hips to hit deeper. Your orgasm crashes through you, and you clench around him, gasping his name. He follows, pulling out just in time to spill across your thighs, his breaths heavy against your neck.

He zips up, adjusting his glasses. “Next time you lock yourself out,” he pants, “I’m locking you in instead.”

You’ve been avoiding the IT department like the plague, terrified of the rumors swirling after the server room incident. But your laptop’s battery is genuinely overheating now, the fan screaming like it’s possessed.

You try to fix it yourself, but every troubleshooting guide fails, and you’re forced to face the inevitable: you need Yoongi. Emailing him feels too risky—too many eyes on the network—so you swallow your fear and head to IT, clutching your laptop like a shield.

The department is quiet, most of the team out for lunch. Yoongi’s at his desk, headphones on, typing furiously. You hesitate, heart pounding, but you need this fixed before your afternoon meeting. You clear your throat, and he looks up, eyebrows raising behind his glasses. “You,” he says, pulling off his headphones. “Thought you were avoiding me.”

You blush, setting the laptop down. “Battery’s overheating. It’s real this time.”

He smirks, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Real, huh? Not just another excuse to get me alone?”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse races. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stands, locking the office door with a casual flick of his wrist. “Break hours,” he says, pointing to a handwritten sign taped to the door: “IT Lunch Break: 12-1 PM.”

“Can’t have anyone walking in on us troubleshooting.”

Your stomach flips, but you play it cool, perching on the edge of his desk. “So, you gonna fix it or just stare at me?”

He steps closer, crowding your space, his voice dropping. “You mean you’re overheating.” His fingers brush your knee, and you shiver, skirt riding up as you shift. He’s right—you’re burning up, even more than your laptop.

You grab his tie, pulling him closer, and kiss him hard. He groans, hands sliding to your waist, lifting you onto his lap as he sits back in the chair. The blinds are half-open, light chatter drifting from the hall, but the locked door gives you courage. Your skirt hikes up, and his hands find your thighs, squeezing as you grind against him, feeling him harden beneath you.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, lips trailing down your neck. You fumble with his belt, freeing him, and he’s already tugging your panties aside. His fingers tease you, circling your clit before sliding inside, slow and deliberate. You gasp, rocking against his hand, and he smirks, voice low. “Keep making those sounds, and the whole department’s gonna need help.”

You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet as you sink onto him, the stretch making your head spin. He’s thick, filling you completely, and you rock your hips, slow at first, savoring the way he grips your waist.

He’s on a call now, headset on, voice infuriatingly calm as he says, “Yeah… just another quick fix. Shouldn’t take long.” You clench around him, and he stifles a groan, pretending to adjust his headset.

You lean forward, whispering in his ear, “Liar.” He thrusts up hard, making you gasp, and you ride him faster, the chair creaking under you. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding you, and you’re both teetering on the edge. The blinds cast slatted shadows across your bodies, the risk of being caught only heightening the thrill.

You come first, trembling, biting his shoulder to muffle your moan, and he follows, thrusting deep, spilling inside you as he mutters, “Fixed,” into the mic.

You collapse against him, panting, and he kisses your temple, voice soft. “You’re gonna get us both fired.”

The rumors hit critical mass by Wednesday. Your tickets are resolved before anyone else’s, and the whispers are deafening. Someone saw you adjusting your skirt outside helpdesk department again.

HR calls you both in, and you’re sweating, heart pounding as you sit across from the stern-faced manager. Your job—your first real job, the start of your career—feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. You’re 22, barely out of college, and the thought of being fired for “unprofessional conduct” makes your stomach churn.

The manager peers over her glasses. “Is there a reason her tickets are prioritized, Yoongi?”

He leans back, glasses glinting, voice calm as ever. “She breaks things a lot. I’m just thorough.”

You nod, throat tight, barely breathing. The manager’s eyes flick to you, and you force a smile, but your hands are trembling in your lap. “We’ve noticed… irregularities,” she says.

Your heart stops. Yoongi’s knee brushes yours under the table, a small anchor, but it’s not enough. You’re spiraling, imagining unemployment, blacklisted from every corporate job, your career dead before it started.

After the meeting, you’re a wreck, avoiding Yoongi’s gaze as you hurry to your cubicle. He catches up to you in the hall, pulling you into an empty stairwell. His hands are on your shoulders, firm but gentle, and his voice is low, urgent. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do, eyes stinging. “I can’t lose this job, Yoongi. I just started. I—”

“You’re not losing anything,” he says, voice steady. “I’ve been through this—corporate bullshit, getting blamed for things that aren’t your fault. I won’t let that happen to you.” His thumbs brush your arms, grounding you. “We need to cool it at the office. No more server rooms, no more conference tables. Not because I want to stop, but because I won’t let you go through what I did. Your career’s just starting. I’m not gonna fuck that up for you.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “But… what about us?”

He softens, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “My place. After hours. I do repairs there too.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “And I’m not letting you go, princess. Not now, not ever.”

It’s Friday night, and you’re at Yoongi’s apartment, a small, cozy space with exposed brick and mismatched furniture, a stark contrast to the sterile office. He’s cooking—actual cooking, not just microwaving ramen.

The kitchen smells of garlic and sesame oil, and he’s stirring a pan of japchae, sleeves rolled up, glasses fogging from the steam. You’re perched on the counter, swinging your legs, watching him move with quiet precision.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, not looking up. “You’re distracting me.”

You grin, stealing a noodle from the pan. “Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re domestic.”

He snorts, but his cheeks pink slightly, and you feel a warmth that has nothing to do with the stove. He plates the food, handing you a bowl, and insists on feeding you the first bite, chopsticks hovering at your lips.

“Open,” he says, voice soft, and you do, letting the flavors burst on your tongue. His eyes are on you, warm, unguarded, and you realize this is a side of him the office never sees.

You eat in comfortable silence, sitting cross-legged on his couch, a soft lo-fi playlist humming in the background. When the dishes are cleared, he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. It’s quiet, intimate, and you feel the weight of something unspoken.

“Yoongi,” you say, tracing circles on his wrist. “Why are you so… cold at work? I know it’s not the real you.”

He tenses, then sighs, his breath warm against your neck. “Ten years ago, I was a cybersecurity hotshot at a big tech firm. Thought I was untouchable. Then a system crashed—major project, millions lost. Wasn’t my fault, but they needed a scapegoat."

" I got dragged through the mud, humiliated, fired. Landed here to lay low, avoid the corporate bullshit. I hate the politics, the small talk, the way people treat you like a machine. So I shut down. Keep my distance. It’s easier.”

You turn, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “But you’re not distant with me.”

He looks at you, eyes soft, vulnerable. “You’re different. You’re reckless, restless, like I was back then. You don’t treat me like a tool—you tease, you challenge, you see me. First time in years I didn’t feel like I was rusting away.” His voice cracks slightly, and he pulls you closer, forehead against yours. “You bring color to my life, princess. I didn’t know I needed that until you.”

Your heart aches, and you kiss him, slow and sweet, tasting salt and warmth. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, and he smiles, real and unguarded, pulling you against his chest.

“You better not,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Because I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

A/n: Well recently I raised a ticket regarding my email's not working and somehow this idea popped in my mind. But why my office IT Helpdesk doesn't have Min Yoongi? 😩

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