#(possessive)

[1nf3rn0z]

Asking Puppy a question during sex but purposefully going faster so they can’t finish their words and just whine and stutter. But it’s okay, you don’t have to talk puppy, just sit there and be all dumb and pretty while I rearrange your guts

[witchyredneck]

That’s how I like it !

[floatyflowers]

Dark Percy Jackson x Mortal! Reader

Look, you didn't ask for a best friend whose dad is the god of the sea. You just wanted someone to share blue Jolly Ranchers with during Algebra II.

But here you are.

Being friends with Percy Jackson comes with a lot of hazards. Exploding toilets? Check. Gym teachers turning into monsters you cannot see? Standard Tuesday. But the biggest hazard, the one nobody warned you, is the summer.

Specifically, the part where he vanishes to Camp Half-Blood, and you stay in the mortal world.

For Percy, camp is supposed to be a safe haven. But this summer, the monsters aren't outside the borders; they’re in his head. Every time he tries to sleep in Cabin Three, listening to the fountain drip, his ADHD brain doesn't focus on quests or prophecies.

It hyper-fixates on you.

And more specifically, on the guys who get to sit next to you in the cafeteria while he’s off fighting harpies.

He tries to Iris Message you, but the connection is always misty. Once, he saw a guy’s arm draped over the back of your chair. Just a friendly gesture, right? Not to Percy.

To Percy, that arm looked like a hydra head that needed lopping off. He spent the rest of the summer slicing training dummies in half with a little too much enthusiasm, imagining they were wearing varsity jackets.

By the time August rolls around and he comes back to the city, the jealousy has crusted over his heart like barnacles on a hull.

The reunion is supposed to be sweet. You guys plan a trip to the beach, Montauk, obviously. It's his turf.

He wants to show off a little, maybe walk on water, maybe just hold your hand without worrying about a hellhound jumping him.

Then you invite Kyle.

Kyle is perfectly nice. He’s in your biology class. He has floppy hair and a laugh that sounds like a seal barking, and he brought a Frisbee. He is entirely, tragically mortal.

"I didn't know we were bringing guests," Percy says when he sees him.

His voice is casual, that easy-going tone he uses when he’s bluffing a god, but his eyes are stormy. Sea-green, darkening to a violent, deep-ocean gray.

"Kyle just wanted to tag along," you say, smiling, oblivious to the fact that the air pressure around you just dropped ten degrees. "Is that cool?"

Percy forces a crooked grin. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Totally cool."

The drive is excruciating. Kyle talks about lacrosse. Kyle talks about his dad’s boat. Percy grips the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks, listening to the way you laugh at Kyle’s terrible jokes. In Percy's mind, he's connecting dots that don't exist.

She likes him. She forgot about me. I saved Olympus, and I'm losing her to a guy who wears Axe body spray.

When you get to the beach, the ocean greets Percy like an old friend. The waves get choppy, slamming against the sand with a rhythm that matches his heartbeat.

"Let's get in!" Kyle yells, peeling off his shirt and sprinting for the surf.

You follow him, wading in up to your waist.

The water is cold, waking you up, salty and sharp. Percy stands back for a second, watching. He watches Kyle splash you. As he watches you shriek and splash back. He watches Kyle’s hand linger on your shoulder to steady himself against a wave.

That's the line.

Percy walks into the water. He doesn't shiver. The ocean doesn't make him cold; it energizes him. He feels the currents tugging at his ankles, waiting for a command. Being the Son of Poseidon isn't just about talking to horses or breathing underwater.

It's about control.

And right now, he feels like he’s losing control of everything, except the sea.

"Hey, Jackson!" Kyle calls out, treading water out past the break. "Bet you can't swim out this far!"

Percy smirks. It’s a dark, sad little look. "You would be surprised what I can do."

He dives.

Under the surface, it’s silent. Percy opens his eyes. The salt doesn't sting. He looks at Kyle’s legs kicking aimlessly above him. He feels a pang of guilt a small, mortal part of him that says this is wrong.

But then he remembers the way Kyle looked at you, and remembers the long, lonely nights at camp wondering if you were moving on.

The jealousy roars louder than his conscience.

Percy clenches his fist.

The water obeys instantly. It doesn't look like magic from the surface. It just looks like a freak current. A riptide.

Around Kyle, the water hardens. It shifts from fluid to a vice. You’re only ten feet away, laughing as you wipe water from your eyes, waiting for Percy to pop up. You don't see the way Kyle's expression shifts from joy to confusion, then to sheer panic.

He tries to swim up, but the ocean grabs his ankles. It’s not a wave crashing down; it’s the depths reaching up.

The water fills Kyle's mouth before he can scream. It drags him down, heavy and relentless.

Percy stays under, watching. He ensures the current pushes Kyle deep, tumbling him along the sandy bottom, far away from you.

Far away from anyone. The ocean is vast, and it keeps secrets better than anyone.

When Percy finally breaks the surface, he’s right next to you. His hair is wet and messy, his eyes bright and innocent.

"Where's Kyle?" you ask, looking around. The water is calm now. Suspiciously calm. "He was just here."

Percy looks around, feigning confusion perfectly. "I don't know. Maybe he went back to shore? Or maybe he swam out further?"

"Kyle!" you yell, spinning in the water. Panic starts to set in. "Kyle!"

Percy puts a hand on your arm. His grip is firm, grounding. "Hey, hey. Don't worry. I'm here."

He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you to keep you steady against the gentle bob of the waves.

You're trembling, scanning the horizon for a friend who is already miles deep and miles away, carried off by a current that answered to one master.

"I’m sure he’s fine," Percy lies, his voice smooth like velvet. He rests his chin on top of your head, looking out at the endless blue.

The sea feels satisfied.

He feels satisfied.

The competition is gone. The doubt is drowned.

"It's just you and me," he whispers into your hair, holding you tight as the tide rolls in. "Just you and me."

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Hours later, the moon is high and the house is quiet.

You are asleep inside the rented beach house, exhausted from hours of crying and talking to the Coast Guard.

While Percy is sitting on the porch railing, his legs dangling over the edge, staring at the dark horizon. He’s drinking a blue cherry Gatorade, looking for all the world like a guy who’s just bummed out about a tragic accident, not a guy who just orchestrated one.

The air smells like rain and ozone. Suddenly, the scent shifts. It smells like a sea breeze mixed with Old Spice and suntan lotion.

Percy doesn't even look up. "Hey, Dad."

Poseidon leans against the porch support beam. He’s dressed in his usual vacationing in Florida attire, khaki cargo shorts, leather sandals, and a Tommy Bahama shirt with parrots on it that seem to be actually moving. He looks relaxed, but his eyes, those same green eyes Percy has, are narrowed.

"Rough day at the beach," Poseidon says. His voice is deep, like the rumble of a wave hitting a cliff.

Percy swirls the Gatorade in the bottle. "Yeah. Current was strong. You know how it is."

"I do," Poseidon says. "I also know the difference between a natural riptide and a hydro-kinetic execution."

Percy finally looks at him. There’s no fear in his face. Usually, Percy gets nervous around the gods, worried about smiting or turning into a dolphin. But tonight, he looks hollowed out and hardened.

"He was touching her, Dad," Percy says. It’s not a whine; it’s a statement of fact. "He was loud, annoying, and he thought he had a chance."

"So you drowned him," Poseidon muses, stroking his beard. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds like he's reviewing a batting average.

"I removed an obstacle," Percy corrects. He sets the bottle down.

"I spend all year fighting giants and Titans. I hold up the sky. I save the world. I come back, and some mortal with a Frisbee thinks he can just take my place?" Percy shakes his head. "I didn't survive Tartarus to lose her to Kyle."

Percy waits for the lecture, waits for Poseidon to tell him that heroes don't kill mortals, that he's crossed a line, and that Zeus is going to have a field day with this.

Instead, Poseidon chuckles. It's a dry, salty sound.

"You really are my son," the god says, a strange sort of pride in his voice. He walks over and puts a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. "I was worried you were taking too much after your mother. Too soft. Too forgiving."

Percy blinks, surprised. "You're... not mad?"

"Mad?" Poseidon looks out at the ocean, watching the moonlight dance on the black water. "Percy, look at me. Do you know how many sailors I have dragged to the bottom just because they didn't pour enough wine overboard? Do you know what I did to Odysseus just because he blinded my son? I made him wander for ten years."

Poseidon looks back at Percy, his eyes twinkling with ancient, chaotic energy.

"We are the sea, Percy," he says softly. "The sea is beautiful, yes. But it is also jealous. It is possessive. It takes what it wants, and it does not give it back."

He squeezes Percy’s shoulder. "You saw something that belonged to you, and you made sure it stayed yours. I can’t exactly fault you for acting according to your nature."

Percy breathes out, a tension he didn't know he was holding releasing from his chest. "So, I'm good?"

"You're fine," Poseidon assures him. "The mortals will call it a tragedy, the police will find nothing and the ocean keeps its secrets." He pauses, fading slightly into mist, ready to return to Atlantis.

"Just...maybe keep the body count low, son. It makes the paperwork annoying."

"Thanks, Dad," Percy says.

"Don't mention it," Poseidon says, his form dissolving into sea spray. "And Percy? She's a catch. Don’t let anyone else cast a line."

"I won't," Percy whispers to the empty porch. He looks back toward the window where you’re sleeping. "Never again."

[sara-sushii]

Prank.

[Neteyam x Na'vi reader]

Warnings: Scenting, Marking, Established relationship.

Synopsis: Lo’ak, wanting to pull a prank on his brother, hugs you and leaves his scent all over you. How does your boyfriend react when he smells it?

Word Count: 917

“You want to prank Neteyam?” Lo’ak questioned, face lighting up with mischievous interest. A slow grin tugged at his mouth, the kind that told you he was definitely up to no good. “Oh, I have an idea.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “That sentence alone is concerning.”

He leaned closer anyway, lowering his voice. “Trust me. It’ll be harmless. For the most part,” he said, mumbling the last bit.

Reluctantly, you sighed and nodded. “Fine. But if he gets mad, I’m blaming you.”

Lo’ak laughed under his breath, clearly pleased, and before you could react, he reached forward and pulled you into a hug. It was sudden, but playful, his arms settling gently around your upper back. He was careful, and respectful with it, but he stayed a moment longer than necessary, chin resting atop your head, while his palms rubbed in circular motions against your back.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, hugging him back innocently, wondering what kind of prank he had planned.

“Just a hug? How’s that a prank?” you asked after pulling back, giggling and genuinely confused.

“You’ll see,” Lo’ak replied with a sly grin.

Unbeknownst to you, his scent clung to your skin afterward.

Later that day, the forest was bathed in the dim gold of the nearing eclipse when, from afar, you spotted Neteyam near the training grounds. He was focused, absorbed in the careful act of cleaning his knife, with a calm, relaxed aura surrounding him.

You called his name softly at first, then a little louder, jogging toward him with a smile that stretched across your entire face.

Hearing his name being called by a familiar voice, he looked up toward your approaching figure, and his expression softened the moment he saw you. Without hesitation, he set his knife and cloth aside, standing with open arms, followed by you crashing into him. His embrace was comforting and enveloping, his strong arms gentle around you, breath warm against the top of your head. Your cheek pressed softly against his chest, and your arms wrapped gently around his neck as you stood on your tiptoes.

Then, out of nowhere, his arms loosened from around you. You pulled back slightly, confused, and looked up at him just as his expression shifted. His brows were furrowed, eyes dark. Before you could ask what was wrong, his hands came up again, gripping your arms as he leaned down toward you.

And then, he inhaled, once, and then again shortly after, much to your confusion. Quickly, his nose traced the top of your head, following along your collarbone, then your neck, his breathing deepening with each inhale, as if he were trying to pinpoint the scent of someone familiar.

With the realization hitting him, Neteyam froze. He pulled back suddenly, eyes locking on you, jaw clenched, ears pinned slightly back in tension.

“Why,” he asked slowly, voice tight with jealousy, trying to compose himself, “do you smell like Lo’ak?”

You blinked, completely thrown off. Your mind went blank, scrambling to make sense of his sudden behavior and question.

Then, it came to you: the hug from Lo’ak earlier, that playful, innocent prank he had suggested, was playing out right now. Your confusion disappeared at the realization, and before you could stop yourself, a laugh slipped out, small and incredulous, as you looked up at his furious face.

Neteyam’s jaw tightened further. “This is funny to you? His scent is dripping off of you,” he said, with an irritated scowl on his face.

You quickly blinked up at him, cheeks warming. “I didn’t even notice! He just hugged me,” you stammered, laughing nervously.

Before you could clarify that it was a prank, without warning, his hands began moving almost instinctively, gliding over your body, sliding along your back, tracing the curve of your sides, holding you close as though he would never let go. He leaned down, pressing his cheek against the soft skin where your neck met your shoulder, and slowly dragged it up to the side of your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. Soft, involuntary sighs escaped your lips in response to his intimate touch.

Although you enjoyed his sudden affection, it left you confused. You slightly tilted your head away, and he followed immediately, matching your movements, and keeping you pressed close.

“Neteyam?” you whispered, heart racing from the contact.

He didn’t look up. His voice was gruff, breath hot against your flushed skin. “Mine,” he murmured, lips brushing over the pulse at your neck before latching on, sucking gently for a moment before pulling away. “I don’t want you smelling like him. You’re mine. You should smell like me.”

At his words, a soft whimper slipped from your lips, your knees going weak as your body melted further into his roaming touch, responding to the possessive marks and the raw jealousy lacing his voice.

He stayed pressed against you for a minute longer, inhaling his scent radiating from your neck, before pulling back just enough to take in your flustered expression, with a small, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

“Now,” he uttered, voice husky and low, “no one is coming near you, especially not my skxawng brother. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to skin him for touching my girl.”

Before you could protest, he strode off with purpose. You scrambled after him, calling out that it was just a prank, but it didn’t slow him down in the slightest. If anything, it only made him walk faster. Lo’ak really should’ve known better!

[vanillacici]

"what is it baby, nobody could make you feel like I did?"

make-up s-- with your possessive ex ❤︎

warnings: MDNI, pet names, rough unprotected p!v, slight degradation, teasing kink + a surprise!

smut, female reader - no names or y/n used

you knew how the night would end the second you saw his scowl of disapproval from across the bar. you'd been small-talking the guy who'd also been eyeing you all night, gaze struggling to stay focused on the man in front of you, drifting back ever so often to that dimly lit corner.

unconsciously licking your lips as you watch his thick fingers squeeze the delicate glass of his drink.

wait, what are you doing? you broke up with him. you shake your head at your momentary continuing lapses in judgment, remembering the unforgettable night that you confidently and resolutely demanding that you were really done.

telling yourself to get a grip, you tear your eyes away from his and straighten your spine. focusing your attention back on the man who hadn't even noticed you, really. forcing yourself to pretend to care about his finance jokes and football references.

whatever you did tonight, you swore that you would sooner end up underneath (or on top of) the boring man who proceeded to drone on about, who the hell knows, before you ended up underneath him.

...

"never again... right babe?" you close your eyes as your skin flickers and flares with embarrassment, rage and shame all in one at the sound of his cocky tone mocking your words from when you had ended things between the two of you.

you don't respond, you can't. not when his mouth is sucking that weak spot on your neck, when his hands know just where to pinch and graze to make you loose your mind.

he plays your body like an instrument, using very moan, shudder and groan he's ever pulled from you as a guide. in this moment, your body is more his then yours.

you aren't even sure when your clothes left your body, to engrossed in the moment to notice, riding the high of being back under his touch, relinquishing your brain from any conscious thought.

you turn your head into the pillow beside you to stifle the moan that leaves your throat at the feeling of his fingers spreading open your folds.

"look at that, she missed me didn't she?" he speaks, continuing to swirl your wetness around your bundle of nerves with his fingers in a practiced motion, slowing down and speeding up at just the right times.

you feel his tap on your inner thigh, eagerly taking the silent command to open your legs up more for him.

He stops the stimulation, halting his fingers the moment you spread your thighs. The action causes you to groan quietly and your hips involuntarily try to move up to his fingers.

Only for his large hand to press down on your stomach, covering a large expansion of your stomach as he forces you back down.

"Relax. you know'll take care of you...just lemme look at her first.

His thumbs graze either sides of your folds, spreading you apart. He groans at the sight before brining his head down to lick a stripe up from your opening, to your clit.

His name is stuttered on your tongue, the sensation overwhelming you.

"I don't need that just need you, please?" You beg, as your body betrays your words, moving your hips against his mouth.

"miss me that bad huh?" his face leaves your center, bringing his face back up to yours so he can watch your reaction to his words. remembering the way you always pretended to hate the way he teased you, when really, nothing got you wet faster.

"what is it baby, nobody could make you feel like I did?" He says at the same time you feel his hard dripping tip poke up on your stomach.

You both look down to watch as he lines himself up with your opening, but doesn't push in.

"Come on doll, tell me how wrong i am g'head." the same smirk covers his face again, only this time, the overwhelming lust practically stains his face.

Your mind flashes back to the promise you had made to yourself in the bar, clinging to what little dignity you have left.

"you're lucky i even let you get this far. i don't need you like you think I do." You say as you force yourself to meet his daring gaze.

"Is that so?" He asks with a slight tilt of his head. You envy his confidence, everything he says is laced with finality, like anything you say to oppose him is just an obstacle on the way to whatever he wants.

With the fire of envy coursing through you, you fight the overwhelming desire to bring your hips up and just connect your bodies like you want need so badly.

"On second thought, if your not up for the job... i'm sure the nice man from the bar cou-" You don't even get to finish your sentence before he buries himself balls deep inside you with a strong, undeniable thrust.

Two strong arms brace either side of your head as he drags his length out, before pushing himself back inside you with just as much conviction as the first thrust. Leaving your mouth in an "O" shape.

"Come on keep talking. Give me another reason to split this cunt in half." His thrusts don't let up, infact, you're pretty sure they're intensifying.

He takes your lack of response as a sign to plant his mouth back on the weak spot on your neck. Increasing your pleasure while effectively minimizing your ability to think.

You try to rebuttal, honestly you really do. But the repeated stretching of your insides combined with the pressure on your neck renders your brain completely useless.

You soon come to realize that even if you could talk, it wouldn't do you much good. Considering the fact that he's right. Nobody has ever taken care of you like he has, never even come close actually.

He always puts your peak before his own, making sure you feel as good as possible. Memorizing what makes you scream, filing it in a corner of his mind for next time.

The thought makes you squeeze around him, pulling a groan from his lips that falls against the fragile marked skin of your neck.

"You're just so right aren't you," he pauses to press down on your stomach before thrusting even deeper inside of you. "Didn't --fuck-- didn't miss this dick at all, right baby?"

"I did, I really--ohhmy" you interrupt yourself with a loud moan that echoes off the walls when his fingers press against your clit once more, swirling in figure 8 motions.

"m'close soo so close" you ramble, feeling the wave build inside your lower belly.

just as your about to reach your peak, he stops. pulls himself out of you and removes his fingers from your soaked cunt.

it all goes by in a blur when he effortlessly lifting and flipping you, till your face is pressed into the pillow and your ass is flush against him.

This time when he pushes inside of you, it feels more intense then before. you feels your walls constrict every vein and ridge of his length, pulling him in while also pushing him out.

It's not long before your high is near again, but this time it's not just in your lower belly. It's in your toes, fluttering against your spine, flickering on your scalp, ringing in your ears. It's everywhere, he is everywhere.

That's not the only thing that's different. A familiar yet completely unfamiliar sensation sits right on the verge of release inside of you. Almost like you have to pee? but also not like that at all. It feels like something is pushing on the inside of you, threatening to release.

"You g-gotta, wait something--ohh fuckk--" your warnings are muffled by the pillow being pressed into your face with every rough thrust of his hips.

"It's okay l-let it out I got you , shit i-i'm right behind you" his demanding tone is gone now, taken over by a stuttered voice.

It's too late now anyways, you couldn't stop it if you tried. A clear liquid flushes out of you as your high takes you over completely. Your toes lock and your fingers do the same as you cry out into the pillow, utterly overtaken by the sensation of your orgasam.

There are only a few more stuttered thrusts of him fucking you through it before the intensity drags him along with you. He releases with a stream of curses and a moan you won't ever forget before falling beside you.

You're both quiet for a while after that, with only the sounds of your heavy breaths filling the room.

"Did you just, did I just make you-" His disbelieving tone breaks the quiet.

"I don't- I've never done...that before." Your voice matches his, equally shocked and intrigued.

Another wave of silence washes over the room before he breaks the silence yet again.

"Guess you really missed me huh?

taglist: @witchmoon10 @valesocute @sparrowwithaquill @rottenpxws @theirlgarfield

please comment to let me know what you think and reblog because it makes me write faster!

ps: sorry for the on and off caps but i'm absolutely not fixing it ❤︎

[y56n11]

A BOYFRIEND?

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ Michael Jackson 80s x Female!Reader

Warnings ཆི❤︎ཆྀ: Jealousy, Michael sneaking into reader’s room. Not much else?

Summary ཆི❤︎ཆྀ: After Michael sneaks into your bed, you accidentally rejects him in your sleep by claiming you have a boyfriend. Once a jealous and hurt Michael wakes you for an explanation, you reassures him it was just a dream and ask him to stay.

Tags ཆི❤︎ཆྀ: Fluff, Jealousy, Possessiveness,

The halls of Hayvenhurst were never truly silent. Even at three in the morning. There was the distant, rhythmic ticking of grandfather clocks, the faint rustle of the wind through the valley trees, and the occasional, soft vocalisation from the birds in the backyard.

Inside his private suite, Michael was wide awake. Michael found that sleep was the one thing he couldn’t command. He paced the length of his bedroom. He felt restless, buzzing energy beneath his skin. A deep, gnawing loneliness that fame only seemed to sharpen.

But tonight, the loneliness was tempered by a secret knowledge, you were only a few doors away.

You had been his closest friend for years, the one person who didn’t look at him like a monument. When things got loud, you were the quiet. When the world felt fake, you were the truth. Tonight, after a long evening of watching old Disney movies and eating popcorn on the floor. He had insisted you stay over. The drive back to your apartment was too long, and the hour was too late.

In reality, he just didn’t want you to leave.

He stopped his pacing in front of the door that connected his wing to the guest rooms. His heart gave a strange, fluttering thump against his ribs. Michael was a man of often intense, overwhelming emotions, and right now, that pull toward your room was like gravity. He wanted to talk more. He wanted to hear you laugh. He wanted to feel the simple, human comfort of being around someone who actually knew him.

His fingers trembled slightly at he turned the brass handle. The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow of recessed lights. He watched where he stepped, careful not to step on the creaking floorboards.

He lightly pushed your door open an inch, wincing when it creaked.

The room was bathed in the silver-blue light of the California moon, filtering through heavy drapes. He could see the silhouette of your form beneath the thick duvet. The rhythm of your breathing was slow and peaceful that instantly gave him a sense of calm.

He crossed the room, eyes adjusting to the dark. He watched the way your hair was fanned across the white pillowcase beneath your head. The soft curve of your shoulder visible where the blanket had slipped.

Carefully, with precision, he lifted the edge of the duvet. He slid into the bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his frame.

“Y/N?” He whispered, he had done this so many times, but he had always asked for permission just to be safe not to cross your boundaries.

You stirred. A small, soft groan escaped your lips. He expected you to realise it was him, and offer that sleepy, lopsided smile that he was dangerously obsessed with.

Instead your hand moved.

With the slow, movements of someone deep in the throes of a dream, you brought your hand up, pressing it firmly against his chest. It wasn’t a violent shove, but it was firm.

“Mmm… no,” you murmured, your voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “You can’t… stop.”

Michael blinked, a small, playful smile forming on his lips. “It’s just me,” he whispered, leaning closer, thinking you were just confused by the darkness.

But your next words hit him like a bucket of ice water, freezing the blood in his veins.

“You can’t do this,” you mumbled, your eyes still tightly shut, your head turning away from him on the pillow. “I… I have a boyfriend. I told you…”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Michael didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe. He felt a sharp, stinging sensation at the back of his throat, the warmth that had filled his chest moments ago evaporated.

A boyfriend?

The words looped in his brain, each repetition louder and harsher than the last. He searched his memory, frantic and desperate. You hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend. Not today. Not last week. Not in the months you had both spent inseparable. You went to dinners with him, sat in a studio for hours with him, you were the one he called at 2am.

How could there be someone else?

Michael pulled away a little, his back becoming as stiff as a board. His eyes wide as he stared at your sleeping form. The jealousy was immediate, a green, jagged thing that clawed at his insides.

Who was he?

He started running through a list of everyone you know. That photographer from vogue? The guy that works at that art gallery you like?

The thought of you with someone else, laughing at their jokes, holding their hand, sleeping in their bed, the thought made Michael’s stomach twist in a knot of pure misery. He felt a sudden, childish urge to wake you up and demand an explanation. He wanted to shake you and ask, why? Why had you kept this a secret?

But Michael was nothing if not controlled. He sat there in the dark, his jaw tight, his eyes shimmering with a mixture of hurt and rising possessiveness. He looked at the door, thinking he should leave. Go back to his room, lock the door, and never come out.

But he couldn’t leave. He was anchored to the spot by a need to know more.

“Who?” He whispered, his voice trembling with a rare edge of sharpness. “Y/N, who is it?”

You shifted again, your brows furrowing in your sleep. You didn’t answer the question. Instead you pulled the blanket tighter around you, retreating further into sleep.

He stayed there for what felt like hours, a silent sentinel of resentment. Every time you let out a soft sigh, a new jab of jealousy stabbed through him. That’s why she was on the phone for so long on Tuesday, he thought to himself. That’s why she didn’t want to stay late on Friday.

He imagined you whispering the same soft words of affection to a faceless man that you usually only reserved for him.

Not able to take it anymore. He reached out and shook your shoulder. “Wake up.”

You gasped, your eyes snapping open. The room was dark, but you could see the silhouette of a figure hovering over you.

“Michael?” You croaked, squinting. “What… what’s wrong?”

“Who is he?” Michael demanded. His voice uncharacteristically sharp.

You blinked rubbing your eyes, trying to process the sight of Michael sitting on the edge of your bed at three in the morning looking like he was about to cry. “Who is who? What happened?”

“A boyfriend?” He snapped. “You just told me. You told me not to because you have a boyfriend?”

You stared at him, completely bewildered. The fog of sleep was still thick in your brain. “I… what? Michael, I don’t have a boyfriend. What are you talking about?”

You sat up, the realisation finally hitting you. You remembered the heavy sensation of a dream. Something about being at a crowded party, someone being too pushy, a faceless stranger trying to grab your arm.

“Michael," you said softly, reaching out for his hand. He flinched slightly but didn't pull away. "I was dreaming. I was literally half asleep. I didn't even know it was you."

Michael stared at you, quietly contemplating. Hesitating before speaking again, “are you sure?”

“Yes,” you insisted, leaning closer so you could see his face. "Michael, look at me. When do I have time for a boyfriend? I’m always with you. If I had a boyfriend, don’t you think you’d be the first person to know? Or, more likely, the person I’d be complaining to about him?"

His expression was a mix of hurt and desperate hope. “You aren’t just saying that because I’m upset?”

"I am 100% sure that I am single, lonely, and currently being interrogated in the middle of the night," you said, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. "It was a dream, Mike. A weird, nonsensical dream where some guy was bothering me. In real life, if you crawl into my bed, I’m not exactly going to complain."

The tension in his shoulders melted away, let out a deep long sigh. He slumped forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

“You scared me.” He murmured.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” You teased gently, running your fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

He let out a weak, sheepish laugh. “I don’t like secrets. Especially not from you.”

“No secrets, I promise.” You said. You felt him relax completely, his weight leaning more heavily against you. “Since you’ve already ruined my sleep and accused me of leading a double life, the least you can do is stay.”

Michael lifted his head, his eyes searching yours. “You want me to stay?”

As an answer to his question, you lay back down, pulling the duvet up, and opened your arms in an invitation. Michael didn’t hesitate. He slid back under the covers, laying beside you he tucked his head under your chin, his breathing finally evening into a slow steady rhythm.

"I don't have a boyfriend, Michael," you whispered one last time reassuring him.

"Good," he mumbled, his voice thick with returning sleep. "Because he wouldn't know how to take care of you anyway."

You smiled, closing your eyes and pulling him closer. Outside, the owls hooted in the trees, but inside the room, everything was finally still.

Tag list: @darkgreengrl

[crazykinkrottenkiwi]

Money Talks | Twisted Oneshots

Pairing: Yandere!CEO Yuta Okkotsu x Captive F!Reader (MODERN AU)

Genre: Dark fiction, Psychological horror, Yandere, Power imbalance, Manipulation, Forced proximity

Word count: 10.6k

Warnings:

Dark content, non-con/dub-con implications, coercion, captivity, manipulation, abuse of power, forced marriage, psychological trauma, emotional dependency, surveillance/control, isolation, financial control, gaslighting, possessive behavior, violence, blood, restraint, intimidation, Stockholm syndrome themes, horror elements.

Please DO NOT read if you’re sensitive to these topics.

AN: This piece explores deeply unsettling themes centered around control, obsession, and psychological manipulation. The relationship portrayed is intentionally toxic and imbalanced, focusing on a yandere dynamic where power, dependency, and coercion blur the lines of consent. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

This piece was written as a commission. The core idea and dynamics were requested by the client, and I expanded on it with my own interpretation. Thank you for commissioning me<3

Masterlist

The office sat high above the city, glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling, swallowing the skyline of Taipei in muted reflections. Night had already settled in, but the lights below pulsed endlessly—neon bleeding into the room in soft, fractured hues.

Behind the desk, Yuta leaned back in his chair—sleek, black, expensive. One arm rested lazily against the armrest, fingers tapping once against the polished leather before going still again. His posture was relaxed, almost careless.

Almost.

A knock broke the silence.

He didn’t look up immediately.

“Come in.”

The door opened with a quiet click. An employee stepped inside, posture straight, though the tension in his shoulders was hard to miss.

“Sir,” he began, voice measured. “I’ve compiled the latest reports. All divisions are operating within expected margins. The cybercrime interception rates have increased by—”

Yuta’s gaze lifted then, slow, deliberate.

The man faltered for half a second before continuing.

“—by approximately eighteen percent this quarter. Most of the branches are maintaining efficiency levels.”

Silence stretched.

Yuta tilted his head slightly, as if considering it, though his expression barely shifted.

“Everything is going well, then,” he said, voice calm, smooth. “What’s the problem?”

The employee hesitated. It was subtle—but noticeable.

“…There have been complaints,” he admitted carefully. “From multiple branches. They’re reporting excessive workload. Some are requesting extended leave.”

A pause.

Then—barely perceptible—Yuta exhaled through his nose, something almost like amusement ghosting across his features.

His head shook once, slow.

“Increase their salaries,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Double it.”

The employee blinked.

“They won’t have anything to say after that.” There was no arrogance in his tone.

Just certainty.

“…Yes, sir.” The man nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face before he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Silence returned.

For a moment, Yuta didn’t move, his broad frame still and commanding in the dim light of the room, the air thick with the scent of arousal and submission. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat—straightening just slightly, his piercing gaze lowering under the table—to where you knelt trapped between his muscular thighs, the powerful cords of muscle flexing subtly as they caged you in place.

The zipper of his pants hung open, exposing his thick cock, still throbbing with unspent need, the veined shaft glistening with your saliva and a bead of precum leaking from the flushed tip after you had pulled your mouth away, gasping for breath, your lips swollen and slick.

The ease in his expression didn’t change, that calm, predatory serenity holding steady. But his voice did—quieter, colder, laced with an unyielding authority that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Who said you could stop… Y/N?”

His hand moved then, fingers tangling firmly in your hair, guiding your head back down without mercy, pressing your mouth against the hot, pulsing length of him. You parted your lips obediently, taking him in again, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head before sliding down, sucking with renewed fervor as his cock filled your mouth, stretching your jaw.

He groaned low, the sound vibrating through you, his thighs tightening around your shoulders to hold you steady. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice a cool thread of praise amid the command, his hips bucking shallowly to push deeper into the wet heat of your throat. “You’ve learned to do your job better, hmm… Keep going, just like that—suck harder, take every inch until I say otherwise.”

Your cheeks hollowed as you worked him, bobbing your head with desperate rhythm, the salty taste of him flooding your senses while his grip urged you on, unrelenting and possessive.

Your mouth worked him relentlessly, lips sealed tight around the girth of Yuta's cock as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper with each pass, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your tongue. Saliva dripped from the corners of your stretched lips, mixing with the steady leak of his precum that coated your throat, making every swallow a slick, desperate effort. His fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding now but holding you firm, his hips thrusting up in controlled, insistent rolls that forced more of his length past your gag reflex, the head bumping the back of your throat until tears pricked at your eyes.

“That's it,” he rasped, his voice a low growl edged with that icy command, his free hand gripping the armrest as his thighs clamped harder around you, muscles bulging like iron vices. “Feel how hard you make me? You're mine to use, and you're doing so fucking well.” The praise sent a twisted heat pooling in your core, your body betraying you with a fresh wave of wetness between your legs, even as the ache in your jaw deepened.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, your tongue flicking relentlessly over the sensitive slit at his tip, drawing out a sharp hiss from him. His breaths came quicker, ragged now, the calm facade cracking as his cock swelled impossibly thicker in your mouth, twitching with the building pressure.

“Don't you dare pull away,” he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, his grip yanking your head down until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base, his balls tight and heavy against your chin. You gagged softly, but held there, throat convulsing around him, milking him with involuntary spasms that only spurred him on. His thrusts grew erratic, hips snapping up faster, fucking your face with raw possession, the wet sounds of your mouth filling the room—slurps and gasps mingling with his deepening groans.

“Fuck, yes—take it all, every goddamn inch. You're going to swallow everything I give you, aren't you? Good girl, just like that.” The tension coiled in him like a spring, his body tensing, abs clenching under his shirt as he chased release. Then, with a guttural curse, he came—hot spurts flooding your mouth, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat, salty and bitter as you struggled to gulp it down.

“Swallow it all,” he ordered through gritted teeth, holding you in place as his cock jerked, pulse after pulse emptying into you. You tried, swallowing frantically around him, but the volume overwhelmed, a few pearly drops escaping the seal of your lips, trailing down your chin and splattering onto the front of your blouse, soaking the fabric in warm, sticky evidence of your submission. He finally released your hair, pulling back just enough to watch, his chest heaving as the last shudders faded.

A smirk curled his lips, dark and satisfied, as he took in the mess—your flushed face, smeared lips, the damp spots blooming on your clothes. “Still a messy eater,” he drawled, thumb brushing a stray drop from your chin only to smear it further across your skin, his eyes gleaming with possessive amusement.

“Well, you look better this way—exactly how I like you.” The intensity lingered in the air, his cock softening but still heavy against your tongue, the taste of him lingering as you panted, body trembling from the ordeal.

Slowly, you pulled back fully, wiping your face with the back of your hand, smearing the remnants across your cheek before rising unsteadily from between his thighs, legs shaky as you straightened your disheveled clothes, the wet patches clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

Yuta's gaze never wavered as he watched you, his dark eyes hooded with lingering satisfaction while he casually tucked his softening cock back into his pants, zipping up with unhurried precision. The air in the office hung thick with the musky scent of your encounter, a reminder of the power he wielded so effortlessly.

You fumbled for the tissues on his desk, hands trembling slightly as you dabbed at the sticky patches on your blouse, the fabric clinging damply to your skin where his cum had seeped through. Each swipe only spread the warmth further, a humiliating brand that made your cheeks burn hotter than before. You could feel his stare like a physical touch, tracing the curve of your neck, the flush creeping down your throat, making you hyper-aware of every shaky breath you took.

A low, amused hum rumbled from his chest, drawing your eyes up just enough to catch the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, one finger tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the desk—a deliberate, taunting cadence that echoed in the quiet room.

“We go shopping tonight,” he said finally, his voice smooth and commanding, laced with that casual authority that brooked no argument. “Be ready to leave by six.”

“But before that…”

He paused, the words hanging in the air like a threat wrapped in silk. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his palm toward you, fingers splayed open in silent expectation. You knew exactly what he wanted—had known it for months now, the ritual ingrained like a scar.

You forced a smile, chill and practiced, though it felt brittle on your lips, like it might crack under the weight of resentment. Your hand dipped into the pocket, fingers closing around the cool metal of your phone. Hesitation gripped you for a beat—long enough to imagine smashing it against the desk, walking out, ending this—but reality crashed back in, heavy and unyielding. No choice. Not with what he held over you. With a steadying breath, you placed the device in his waiting hand, your skin brushing his just long enough to send a shiver racing up your arm.

Yuta's fingers danced across the screen, unlocking it with the passcode he'd long since memorized, scrolling through your messages, your photos, your digital footprint with the ease of someone who owned it all. A smile tugged at his lips, genuine this time, though no less predatory. “Improvements, I see,” he murmured, his tone almost approving as he flicked through whatever evidence of your 'progress' he deemed fit to inspect. Then, his eyes lifted to meet yours, piercing and unblinking. “But I'd rather like if you could look at me more lovingly, you know?”

“.......”

“I'll try,” You whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. It wasn't what you wanted to say—not even close—but defiance was a luxury you couldn't afford. Not here, not with him.

He hummed again, a sound of lazy contentment, as if your capitulation was the most natural thing in the world. Satisfied, he slid the phone back across the desk toward you, his finger tapping once more in that infuriating rhythm. “That's my girl. Now, get out of here. I have work to do.”

“......” You snatched up her phone and turned on unsteady legs, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that released the breath you'd been holding. The hallway outside felt like freedom by comparison. Because that man... Yuta... he'd been blackmailing you for what felt like an eternity now…

—

It started the day you moved here. In Taiwan.

After countless applications, interviews that blurred into one another, and polite rejections that all sounded the same—you were finally selected. It had felt… earned. Deserved.

The first few months were exactly what you had imagined.

Structured. Productive. Yours.

You moved through your days with quiet precision—waking early, maintaining your routines, balancing work with discipline. Office hours were clean and efficient, your performance consistent. Even outside of it, your life held a certain rhythm—work, home, workouts, occasional evenings spent in the quiet comfort of a library or a café.

That says…

There was a café not far from your office—small, warm lighting, the kind of place that didn’t try too hard. You found yourself there often during your free time, seated by the window with a book or your laptop, exchanging small, familiar conversations with the staff, sometimes even other regulars. Nothing deep. Nothing personal.

Just enough to feel… at ease.

Like everything was going well.

---

Until it wasn’t.

The shift was subtle at first. Then obvious.

You were accused of something you didn’t do.

No clear explanation. No solid proof. Just… implication. A quiet suggestion passed around just loud enough to be heard, just vague enough to stick. You knew how these things worked. You also knew you weren’t imagining it.

There were people who didn’t like you. Maybe it was because you were new. Maybe it was because you didn’t try to fit in. Or maybe—because you were simply doing too well.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The result was the same. Your impression dropped.

Conversations grew shorter. Glances lingered a second too long before looking away. People who once acknowledged you began to avoid you altogether.

You noticed. You just didn’t react. It didn’t affect your work, and that was all that mattered.

---

Then came the call.

A transfer.

Not just anywhere—but to the CEO’s direct division.

You had stared at the notification longer than necessary, reading it twice, then a third time, as if the meaning might change.

It didn’t.

Even now, you weren’t entirely sure how it had happened. Others, however, had opinions. They didn’t like it.

You could feel it in the shift of the room, the tension beneath forced politeness. Working under the CEO—directly—meant better exposure, better pay, better opportunities. More profitable.

You understood why they resented it. And yet—You believed you had earned it. Your work spoke for itself. That had to be it. But in reality…

You were fooled.

—

The first few days in the new division were… normal.

Quiet. Professional. Nothing out of place. Which was exactly why the change didn’t sit right.

“Ms. Y/N.”

You looked up from your desk as the manager approached, a file already in hand before you even registered the movement.

“Yes?”

“I need you to take these to the CEO’s office.”

Your fingers paused over your keyboard. Then, slowly, you leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him.

“…Is there an issue?” you asked, tone even. “Something I need to be aware of?”

After what had happened before, you weren’t careless.

The manager blinked, almost caught off guard by the question. “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing like that.”

Your gaze didn’t shift.

He cleared his throat. “The boss wants to see his new employee.”

A pause settled between you.

You didn’t respond immediately. You weren’t entirely convinced. It was too sudden. Too direct. But there was nothing you could question without sounding… defensive.

A small nod followed, controlled, minimal. “I see.”

You reached for the file, fingers brushing over the neatly stacked papers before lifting it from the desk. Curiosity lingered, quiet but present. After all—This was the CEO.

Someone who handled far more than what was visible on the surface. Power, influence, decisions that shifted entire systems. You wondered what kind of person he was.

Without another word, you stood, smoothing out the fabric of your dress instinctively before stepping away from your desk.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

You stepped inside. Pressed the button. And waited. As the doors closed, your reflection stared back at you—composed, unreadable.

---

Once inside, the first thing you noticed was him.

Seated behind the wide desk, posture relaxed yet composed, phone pressed lightly against his ear as he spoke to someone on the other end. His voice was low—controlled, measured—but carried a quiet authority that didn’t need volume to be felt.

He didn’t look at you. Not even once.

You stepped forward anyway, heels muted against the polished floor, placing the file neatly on the desk—just within his reach, not too close, not too far. Precise. Intentional.

Then you stepped back. Far enough to maintain distance. Close enough to remain professional. And waited.

“…Handle it.”

That was all he said before the call ended.

The phone was set aside without a second glance, his attention shifting seamlessly as his fingers moved to the file you had brought. He flipped it open, scanning the contents briefly.

You didn’t waste time.

“Sir, the report includes the latest breach analysis from the eastern sector,” you began, voice steady, efficient. “The anomalies were traced back to—”

“Name?” The word cut through your explanation, quiet but firm.

You paused. A second, no more.

“…Y/N.”

A soft hum left him, almost absent-minded.

“Y/N…”

He repeated it—not as a question, not quite as acknowledgment either. Just… testing it.

“I heard you were accused of something in your previous division.” The statement was casual. Too casual.

Your fingers tightened slightly around nothing, though your tone remained even. “I didn’t do anything.”

He nodded. Slowly. Then, for the first time since you entered, he looked up. Directly at you. It wasn’t a long look. But it was enough.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “You did nothing.” A pause followed—brief, deliberate.

“It happens,” he continued, gaze steady. “Especially when you’re… an outsider.” The word lingered, though his tone didn’t change.

“But don’t worry,” he added, almost lightly. “You won’t be accused here.” Another pause. Subtle. Measured.

“Unless…” He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

His attention shifted back to the file, conversation dismissed as easily as it had begun.

The silence stretched.

You remained where you were for a moment longer, standing still, processing—not the words themselves, but what lay beneath them.

Then it clicked. You were done here.

Without another word, you turned, heels sharp against the floor this time as you made your way out, the door closing softly behind you.

The interaction lingered for a moment. Then faded. At least—that’s what you thought.

The first encounter wasn’t anything significant. Nothing overt. Nothing that stood out. Not at the time.

The changes began quietly. Subtly. Within a week, your salary increased.

You had double-checked it yourself, brows knitting slightly before you approached your manager.

“There’s been an update to my compensation,” you said. “Is that correct?”

He nodded without hesitation. “For your performance.” That was all.

—

It should have been satisfying. And it was. At first. Then you started working more.

Staying later. Pushing just a little further each time. It wasn’t forced. It didn’t feel like pressure. Just a simple thought, repeating itself—The more you do, the more you get.

—

Days blurred into evenings. Evenings into nights. And somewhere in between—You began to notice him.

He would pass by your desk before leaving. Not every day. But enough.

“When are you leaving?”

The first time, you glanced at the clock.

7:55 p.m.

“I’ll be staying,” you replied. “Overtime.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at you. For a moment longer than necessary. Then he left.

—

The next time—

“Tonight as well?”

You gave a small nod. “Yes.”

A brief pause followed before you added, almost out of habit—

“Good night, sir.”

He didn’t return it.

—

Another evening.

You were midway through a data project, focus fixed, fingers moving steadily across your keyboard when his presence registered beside you.

“Would you like to have dinner?”

The question caught you off guard. Not because of what it was—But because of who it came from.

You hesitated. Only for a second. But it was enough. There were things you had learned the hard way.

Assumptions. Appearances. The way people watched, the way situations twisted into something they weren’t. You weren’t careless anymore.

“…I’m sorry, sir,” you said politely, eyes returning to your screen. “I’m working—”

“Overtime.” He cut in, voice quiet.

“I know.”

Silence followed.

Then, just as simply as he had appeared—He left.

You exhaled slowly, fingers pausing over the keyboard. A faint unease settled in your chest, subtle but persistent.

Maybe you shouldn’t have refused. Maybe it didn’t matter.

—

You told yourself it was nothing.

Things happened. For a reason. For the better. But this time—It didn’t feel like it.

Because the next call from him wasn’t what you expected it to be.

You had assumed it would be about work—perhaps the project you’d been handling, or even your refusal the other night. Either way, you prepared yourself before stepping into his office, posture straight, expression composed.

The door closed softly behind you.

For a moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at you. Not a glance. Not a passing acknowledgment. An assessment—slow, deliberate, as if he were taking in details you hadn’t offered.

You held his gaze, steady. Waiting.

“I would say…” he began at last, voice low, measured, “you’re very dedicated to your work.”

It took you a second. A small pause, followed by a quiet—

“…Thank you, sir.” Your tone was polite. Controlled.

“And also…” he continued, the faintest shift in his posture as his head tilted slightly, one brow lifting just enough to be noticed, “…a little obsessed with money. Hmm?”

The words settled between you. Not accusatory. Not entirely light either.

You blinked once. Twice. Then answered.

“…Who isn’t?”

For a fraction of a second—barely there—he seemed taken aback. Not by the content. But by the ease of it.

Then something shifted in his expression. Subtle. Amused. A quiet smile, not quite reaching his lips, but present in his eyes.

“Mm.” A soft hum.

“You’re exactly as I imagined.”

Silence followed. Longer this time.

Uncomfortable—not because of anything obvious, but because he wasn’t dismissing you. Wasn’t continuing either. Just… letting the moment stretch, keeping you there under his attention.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for something on his desk.

A black card. Sleek. Minimal. Expensive.

He slid it across the surface toward you, the motion slow, deliberate—the soft sound of it against the table louder than it should have been.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

Your thoughts stalled. Just for a second.

“What…?”

The word didn’t leave your lips, but it lingered in your mind all the same.

Was he serious?

You looked at the card. Then back at him. Careful. Measured.

“…May I ask,” you said, choosing your words deliberately, “why you want to have dinner with me?”

A quiet hum left him. His fingers tapped lightly against the card—once, twice—before stilling.

“Would you prefer a direct answer?”

You didn’t respond. But you didn’t look away either.“Well…” he continued, tone unchanged, “it’s because I’m interested in you.”

A slight pause.

“Hm?” His gaze held yours, unwavering now.

“So,” he added, almost lightly, “I’m looking for a ‘yes’ from you… Ms. Y/N.”

“.......”

---

The dinner, in itself, wasn’t anything unusual.

At least—not on the surface.

The restaurant was exactly the kind you would have chosen on your own—dim lighting, quiet ambiance, the kind of place where conversations stayed private and the staff knew when not to interrupt. You had barely glanced at the menu before realizing… you didn’t need to.

He already had.

Dishes arrived—one after another—each aligning a little too well with your preferences. The flavors, the presentation, even the smaller details you hadn’t thought anyone noticed.

You didn’t question it. Not out loud.

“You should try this.” His voice had been calm as he nudged a plate slightly toward you, gaze steady, expectant without forcing it.

You did. And it was good.

The conversation stayed light. Controlled. Nothing intrusive. Nothing that crossed a line you couldn’t step back from.

If anything—It felt easy.

—

He dropped you off afterward.

The car slowed to a stop just outside your place, the city quieter now, the night settling in.

“Be on time tomorrow.”

That was all he said. No elaboration. No softness. Just expectation.

And then it continued.

The next day.

And the day after that.

Dinners became routine. Not every night at first. Then almost every night.

He would take you out without asking much anymore—as if the answer had already been decided. Different places, different settings, but always the same controlled atmosphere. Always the same attention.

“You have a good sense of style.”

The comment came one evening as his gaze lingered briefly—not intrusive, but deliberate—taking in your outfit, your shoes, the way everything sat just right.

And, the next day, something new would appear.

A box. A bag. Another pair of shoes. A dress. Jewelry.

Expensive. Thoughtfully chosen. And always—Just slightly different from what you usually wore.

The cuts were a little bolder. The fabric a little softer. The designs… more revealing than what you preferred.

Subtle. But intentional. And yet—You never wore them in front of him.

If he noticed, he didn’t say it. But the way his gaze lingered sometimes… told you enough. Let him think. Let him imagine.

Well, It didn’t stop there.

At some point, it extended into your routines. Appointments you hadn’t booked—but somehow existed.

A message waiting for you. A confirmation already handled.

Spa treatments. Hair appointments. Makeup sessions curated down to the smallest detail. And the next day—

He would look at you.

Not briefly. Not casually. But with that same quiet, assessing attention.

“You look beautiful.”

You weren’t unaware. You understood exactly what this was.

The way he looked at you—quiet, observant, taking in more than he ever voiced. The way he would sometimes reach out absentmindedly, brushing a loose strand of your hair back into place while speaking, leaning just a little too close without ever making it obvious.

It wasn’t accidental.

At some point, he had even offered—

“No need to arrange transport,” he said one evening, sliding a set of keys across the table. “Take one of mine.”

You had looked at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then taken it anyway.

You knew what he wanted. Even if he never said it out loud. And you—

You chose not to acknowledge it. Not directly. Instead, you let it play out. Slowly. Carefully.

Pushing just enough to see how far it would go. Because if you were being honest—You didn’t mind.

Not the attention. Not the luxury. Not the way he spent on you without hesitation.

You understood the exchange. Even if it remained unspoken. And for now—You were content to play along. Just to see how long he would keep going.

---

Yet things took a turn you couldn’t quite place.

Not sudden. Not obvious. But enough to unsettle the balance you had carefully maintained.

You had known—at some point—that he would become more direct.

You just hadn’t expected it to be… today.

---

“Y/N.”

The call had been simple. No context. No explanation. Just that.

Now, you stood in his office once again.

The same space. The same quiet. The same controlled atmosphere that seemed to close in just a little more each time you stepped inside. This time—He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit.”

You did. Hands resting neatly on your lap, posture straight, composed as ever. He didn’t sit.

Instead, he remained standing, a faint smile playing on his lips—calm, almost casual. Too calm. Then, slowly—He moved.

Circling around your chair. Unhurried. Measured.

Each step deliberate as he came to stand just behind you, his presence settling in before his voice did.

“I wonder what I’m doing wrong…” A pause.

“Could you tell me?”

Your fingers pressed lightly together in your lap. “I… don’t understand what you mean by that, sir.”

A soft hum left him. You could almost feel it before you heard it.

“You do.” Another step. Closer.

“You’re just playing with me.” There was a shift in his tone then. Subtle. Lower. Not louder—but heavier.

“I liked it though… your act.” A brief pause followed, as if he were considering something.

“Well…” His voice dipped just slightly. “I’m getting a little impatient now.”

Silence pressed in around you.

“You don’t have any… business outside, do you?” The question came suddenly. Casual on the surface. But it wasn’t. Not really.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. A small movement. Controlled. “I don’t,” you said. Then, after a pause—

“…but what if I did?”

The air shifted. Barely. But enough.

“Then there’d be consequences.”

The words were simple. Spoken just as evenly as everything else. And yet—They landed differently.

You stilled for a second, caught slightly off guard by the response.

A quiet chuckle followed. Light. Almost dismissive.

“Well… I’m glad to hear that you don’t.”

He moved again, stepping around to stand in front of you now. Close. Not too close. Just enough.

“And misunderstandings happen in every relationship,” he continued, tone returning to that same calm ease, as if nothing had shifted at all. “So there’s nothing to worry about, hmm?”

His hand lifted. Familiar now. Fingers brushing lightly through a strand of your hair, smoothing it back into place.

A gesture you had, somehow, gotten used to. You looked at him. Directly this time.

“What relationship…?” The question was genuine. Unfiltered.

He stilled. Just for a moment.

His gaze settled on you—steady, unreadable—as if weighing the question rather than answering it immediately.

Seconds passed. Quiet. Heavy.

“Our relationship.”

Silence.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t explain further. As if that alone was enough—

“That said…” He continued. A slight pause.

“To make sure…” His voice lowered just a fraction.

“May I kiss you… respectfully?”

The question came too suddenly. Too directly.

Your breath caught—just slightly—as confusion flickered across your expression, your body shifting in your seat, not quite pulling away, not quite leaning in.

He noticed. “If not…” He leaned forward. Slowly. Carefully.

Closing the distance just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath—close, controlled, intentional.

“Then you kiss me.”

You stared at him for a brief second—long enough for your thoughts to scatter, not long enough to gather them properly.

There were too many questions.

If you agreed—then what? And if you didn’t… then what?

Either way, it felt like a decision that wouldn’t stay contained to just this moment. Something that could follow you back to your desk, into your work, into everything that had already started to blur together.

Would it affect your job? Would it not? You couldn’t tell. A hesitation settled in your chest, quiet but firm.

“…Not here.” The words came out softer than you intended, but they were enough. An exit. At least for now.

He watched you. For a moment longer than necessary. Then—He smiled.

“Ah…” A quiet breath of amusement slipped into his tone.

“I didn’t know you were this bold.”

“....?” Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap.

“Well then,” he continued smoothly, straightening just a little, that same calm composure returning as if nothing had shifted at all, “be ready to leave by nine.”

A small pause.

“I have a few things to finish.”

The smile remained. Unchanged. And it was clear—There wasn’t really an option to refuse. Not without consequence.

You gave a small nod. Nothing more. Then stood, smoothing your dress instinctively before turning toward the door.

As you stepped out, the air felt… different. Heavier.

‘Am I making this worse?’ The thought lingered as you walked down the hallway, heels echoing softly against the floor. But then another followed, quieter—more rational.

‘If he fires me… I’ll find another job. It wasn’t the end of anything. It couldn’t be.’

Right?

By seven-thirty, your shift ended as it always did. Routine. Predictable. You packed your things, movements precise, controlled—like every other day.

On your way out, you noticed your manager still at his desk. Later than usual.

“Y/N.” His voice stopped you mid-step.

You turned slightly. “Yes?”

“Already?”

There was a brief pause before you answered. “…Yes.” A small tilt of your head. “It’s my usual time to clock out.”

“I see.” That was all he said.

But his gaze lingered a second too long as you turned and walked away.

Usually, Yuta would drop you home. It had become… routine. But today—You were alone. And somehow—The walk felt longer. The same streets. The same turns. The same distance.

Yet what usually took twenty minutes stretched into something heavier. Slower. Each step just slightly more reluctant than the last.

Almost as if—Your body was resisting. Sensing something your mind hadn’t fully caught up to yet.

And when you reached your apartment—You understood why.

He was there.

—

Yuta stood just outside, near his car, the faint glow of a cigar between his fingers, smoke curling into the night air in slow, deliberate spirals.

You stopped on the steps. For a second—Just to make sure.

It was really him. And by the time the confirmation settled—It was too late to turn back.

He had already seen you.

The cigar dropped to the ground, crushed beneath his shoe without a second thought as he began walking toward you. Unhurried. Certain.

Step by step until he stood in front of you. Close. Too close to pretend this was coincidence.

“I think someone didn’t hear me properly…”

His voice was calm. But something beneath it had shifted.

“You were supposed to wait, no?”

Your throat tightened slightly. A quiet swallow as you searched for something to say—Anything that made sense.

But he didn’t give you the chance.

“Ha…” A soft sigh left him, head tilting just slightly as if in mild frustration.

“I really hate it when I don’t understand…”

He leaned back just enough to give you space. Not out of consideration. But control.

“That’s why I keep asking you,” he continued, gaze settling on you once more, steady, unrelenting.

“Tell me…” A brief pause.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“......."

Well… you didn’t have an answer either. Not a clear one.

It wasn’t that you hated him—Or even the attention he gave you. If anything, you had accepted it… adapted to it, in your own way. But still—

Something about him didn’t sit right.

Maybe it was his presence. The way he carried himself—too controlled, too aware. Or maybe—It was just your instincts.

A quiet, persistent feeling somewhere beneath everything else, telling you to step back. To be careful. Even if you couldn’t explain why.

You exhaled slowly, trying to gather your thoughts into something that made sense.

“I’m just… not sure,” you began, voice measured, choosing each word carefully. “I’ve been trying to focus on my work, and I don’t really—” You didn’t get to finish.

The sharp sound of a lighter clicking echoed in the quiet space. He had already taken out another cigar.

A slow drag. Smoke curled between the two of you, thick, deliberate, as if filling the silence you hadn’t been allowed to complete.

“So you’re telling me…” His voice cut through, lower than before. Colder. Stripped of that usual calm ease you had grown used to.

“…I was patient for nothing?”

You stilled.

He exhaled, the smoke drifting past you as his gaze settled—direct, unyielding.

“After everything…” A brief pause.

“You’re still hesitant?” There was something sharper now. Not loud. But present.

“For what?”

Your fingers tightened slightly at your sides.

“I thought we were doing just fine.”

That was the closest you had ever heard him to losing that composure. Not fully. But enough.

—

He moved suddenly.

“Get in the car. You’re coming with me.”

The words came out sharp. Serious. Not a trace of that calm, composed tone he usually carried.

You blinked, taken aback. “…What?”

A small step back, your brows drawing together in a frown. “No.” The refusal was immediate. Instinctive.

A quiet sigh left him. Slow. Controlled.

“I don’t really like creating a scene in public,” he said, almost casually, though the weight behind his words didn’t match the tone. “Especially this late.”

A pause.

Then his gaze locked onto yours. Direct. Unmoving. Smoke slipped past his lips as he spoke again—

“Remember I told you before…” Another step closer. “That you won’t get accused here unless…” A faint tilt of his head.

“You disrespect me.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“Well,” he continued, voice even, almost thoughtful, “I’m feeling very disrespected right now, Ms. Y/N.”

A pause.

“I suppose this isn’t how you treat your boss.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. Tight. For a moment, you just stared at him—Trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you had been dealing with all this time. The one who smiled calmly. Who spoke softly. Who—Wasn’t this.

“You…” your voice came out lower now, controlled but firm, “also shouldn’t treat your colleagues this way.”

He blinked. Once. As if your response had genuinely caught his attention. Then—His head tilted slightly. A slow, almost curious motion.

“Oh…” A quiet breath of amusement followed.

“No.” His lips curved into something faintly resembling a smile.

“You’re not my colleague anymore.” A pause.

“You’re…” He stopped himself. Deliberately.

“…Well,” he added lightly, though the look in his eyes didn’t match, “I don’t think it would be appropriate to say it here, don’t you think?”

The smile lingered. Mischievous. Mocking. Something about it made your chest tighten.

Your heartbeat picking up—not from anything obvious, but from the unease settling deeper under your skin.

Your gaze flickered briefly past him—toward your building, the entrance just a few steps away. So close. If you could just walk past him—Get inside—End this—Resign tomorrow. Be done with it. The thoughts rushed through your mind all at once. Fast. Unsteady.

“Y/N…” His voice stopped you before you could move.

“I’ve been standing here for an hour now,” he said, tone quieter this time, but no less firm. “Not for you to just walk past, yeah?”

A pause settled between you. Then—A shift. Subtle.

“But you know what…” He exhaled lightly, almost amused again. “I don’t want to force you.”

Another pause. Deliberate.

“Well…” A slight tilt of his head.

“I don’t have to.” The words lingered.

“Do you know why?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned closer. Slowly. Closing the space between you just enough for his presence to feel overwhelming without touching.

“Because…” His voice dropped. Lower. Certain.

“You’ll come crawling to me on your own.” The confidence in it—Unshaken. Absolute.

For a split second—Your body reacted before your mind did. A flicker of heat. Weakness. Something you didn’t like—something you didn’t trust.

And that was enough.

You pushed him back. Not hard. But enough to create space. “I’m resigning.”

The words came out sharp. Final.

Before he could respond—You turned.

Heels striking hard against the ground as you walked past him, straight toward your apartment, not stopping, not looking back.

Leaving him behind.

---

You were ready to face the consequences.

That’s what you had told yourself.

If it meant getting kicked out of the company—fine. If it meant another stain on your image—fine. You had been through that before.

You would deal with it. Get over it. Find something new.Start again.

That’s what you thought it would be. But the next day—Everything shattered.

The accusation wasn’t small. It wasn’t something you could brush off.

You were reported.

For stealing. Company data. Confidential information. And worse—

Money. Large amounts. Gone. And you—Were the one who “ran away” with it.

It didn’t even make sense. Not to you. Not in the way it unfolded.

You were arrested before you could even process it.

Hands gripping your arms. Questions thrown at you before you could answer the first. Your voice lost somewhere between denial and disbelief.

Your bank accounts were frozen. Your passport. Your visa.

Every document that tied you to the life you were building—Gone. Locked. Restricted.

—

Three days.

Three days of interrogation. Of repeating the same words over and over again—

“I didn’t do anything.”

But words weren’t enough. They never were.

“Do you have proof?”

Silence.

Because how do you prove something you never did?

This wasn’t what you had planned. Not even close. You had come here to build something.

A future. To settle. To grow. Not—This.

Your family… your relatives… everyone you had—They were in another country. Far. Out of reach.

You didn’t even know if they had heard. If they knew. If they believed it. And here—You had no one. No one to stand up for you. No one to help you. No one—

Except the one who had done this. Yuta.

You were sure of it. There was no doubt left in your mind. And now—You were sitting across from him.

—

The interrogation room felt smaller than it should have.

Cold. Closed. Suffocating.

A metal table between you. Harsh lighting above. Walls that seemed to absorb every sound and give nothing back.

The officer kept asking questions. One after another. Sharp. Repetitive.

“Where did you transfer the data?”

“Who were you working with?”

“Where is the money now?”

But you—You didn’t answer. Not anymore.

Your eyes stayed on him. Only him. Hatred. Clear. Unhidden.

He noticed. Of course he did. And it amused him.

A faint shift in his expression—barely there, but enough. Then—A soft tap of his finger against the table. Once. Twice.

“Enough.”

The officer fell silent immediately.

“I’d like to speak with her… in private.”

There was a brief hesitation. Then—

“…Ah, yes. Of course.”

The officer stepped back, glancing at the others in the room. A silent exchange. A nod.

Yuta hummed quietly, as if satisfied.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigar. Turning it slightly between his fingers before bringing it up.

“It’s okay to smoke here, right?”

The word ‘right’—It wasn’t directed at them. It was directed at you. But before you could respond—

“Of course, sir. Of course.”

The officer stepped in quickly, almost too quickly. A lighter placed neatly on the table in front of him.

“…Here.” The eagerness was obvious. Almost uncomfortable.

Yuta didn’t react to it. Not directly.

The officers left soon after. The door shutting behind them with a soft, final click. Silence settled. Heavy.

He placed the cigar between his lips, lighting it with ease, the flame flickering briefly before fading.

A slow inhale. Then—Without looking at you—

“Come here.”

Your body moved before your mind fully caught up. You stood from your chair. Took a step forward—

“Mm…”

You froze.

His gaze lifted slowly to meet yours. Calm. Unhurried.

“On your knees.”

With a silence that felt like torture to yourself—You bent. Slowly. Reluctantly. And then—You moved.

Crawling toward him. Just like he had said you would.

Each movement felt heavier than the last. Your palms pressing against the cold floor, your breath uneven, your thoughts loud—too loud—but none of it stopping you.

Because what choice did you have?

When you finally reached him—Close enough—He exhaled a slow puff of smoke, watching it drift between you before his hand moved.

A paper. He held it out to you.

Your fingers hesitated before taking it. Your eyes dropped to the page. And then—They stilled.

‘Marriage registry.’

You looked up at him instantly—disbelief written clearly across your face.

He only smirked.

“I can’t risk you running away right after getting out of here, you know…” His tone was calm. Casual. As if this—this situation—was something completely reasonable.

“So it’s better if we seal the bond.”

Your mind felt blank. Empty. Nothing was processing the way it should. You stared at the paper again. Then at him. Then back.

Nothing made sense.

He leaned down slightly, closer to your bent form, his presence closing in around you as his voice dropped near your ear—

“Come on…” A pause.

“You don’t want to stay here forever, do you?”

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t understand why you’re doing this…” your voice came out uneven now, the composure you held for so long slipping just enough. “Is it… because of the money?”

A shaky breath. “I—I promise I’ll pay you back… someday… I will… so please…”

He shook his head. Slowly. Another drag of the cigar before he spoke again. “I have enough of that.” A pause. His gaze steady.

“I’m not interested in money.” A slight tilt of his head.

“But you.”

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