#possesive love

[witchyredneck]

That’s how I like it !

[opiumfarmer]

Hot heavy obsessive possessive romantic passionate lustful love. If not, what’s the point.

[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

[dadddyghostface]

[auvielle]

Yandere! Crush x Reader

⤷ TW: Dark Romance, Yandere Themes, Extreme Obsession/Stalking, Invasion of Privacy, Possessive Behavior, Physical Restraint and Mentions of Sabotage/Academic Ruin.

Everyone at school knew you were completely, hopelessly in love with him. You were the girl who showed up thirty minutes early just to leave a carton of strawberry milk on his desk. You were the one who cheered the loudest from the bleachers, your face lighting up the exact second his tall figure walked into the hallway.

"Good morning, Kenji!" you’d chirp, skipping backward in front of him.

He wouldn't even slow down. He’d keep his hands buried deep in his pockets, staring straight ahead. "Get out of the way. You're annoying," he’d mutter.

But you would just laugh. "Okay! See you at lunch then!"

To everyone else, it was just a daily comedy routine. They pitied you, thinking you were chasing a guy without a heartbeat. They had no idea that behind his sharp words, his chest was actually burning. They didn't know that he kept every single empty carton of milk you ever gave him. He rinsed them, dried them, and kept them locked in his bedroom drawer like sacred relics.

Your obsession wasn't born out of a shallow crush on a handsome, brooding boy. It came from a day you never spoke about, a day that altered the entire trajectory of your life.

Two years ago, during your first term, your older brother had been involved in a devastating motorcycle accident. For weeks, your family lived in a blur of sterile hospital waiting rooms, mounting bills, and the suffocating terror of losing him. The stress had completely broken your mother, and your father was working triple shifts just to keep the lights on. You had to stay strong, putting on a brave face for everyone else, smiling through the agony because if you let a single tear slip, you felt like your entire world would collapse.

One rainy evening, the weight finally became too heavy. You couldn't go home to a silent, empty house, so you hid behind the old equipment shed near the school incinerator. You sank into the damp dirt, pulled your knees to your chest, and sobbed until your ribs ached, tearing at your own uniform out of pure panic. You were entirely alone in the dark.

Or so you thought.

Kenji had been walking past, a heavy trash bin in his hands. He didn't say a word when he saw you. He didn't offer a clumsy apology or ask you what was wrong. Instead, he simply set the bin down, walked over, and sat flat on the wet concrete right next to you. He didn't touch you. He just leaned his broad shoulder firmly against your trembling one, acting as a solid, immovable anchor in the middle of your storm. He stayed there for two hours in the freezing rain, letting you ruin his clean school blazer with your tears, serving as a silent shield between you and the rest of the world. When you finally calmed down, he stood up, wiped the dust off his trousers, and said, "Go home. The rain is stopping."

From that night on, you realized his coldness was just a shell. You promised yourself you’d spend every day filling his quiet world with warmth.

For two years, that was your routine. You became his shadow, and you learned the quiet language of his silence. You knew that when he clicked his pen twice, he was getting bored. You knew that if his shoulders dropped, his severe migraines were kicking in, and you’d secretly slide medicine onto his desk.

There were moments you thought you were actually breaking through the ice. Like the time you stayed late to help him carry heavy papers, and he reached out to adjust the slipping strap of your heavy backpack. Or the time you fell asleep at your desk, and you woke up with his thick school blazer draped over you, smelling like mint.

Whenever you thanked him, he’d look away and tell you to be quiet. But those tiny gestures kept you going. You truly believed that if you just kept smiling and giving him everything, the distance between you would disappear. You were willing to wait forever.

What you didn't know was that your warmth had completely ruined him. Kenji wasn't just tolerating you—he was entirely, dangerously addicted to you.

His real day didn't start at school; it started at his computer screen at 3:00 AM. His bedroom walls weren't normal. They were covered in rows and rows of printed photos of you. Some were screenshots from your social media—photos of you laughing with friends or posing on vacation—but most of them were shots he took himself when you weren't looking. Photos of you adjusting your hair at your locker, tilting your head during exams, or smiling at the sky while waiting for the bus.

Every single night, he drove himself crazy in that room. He would sit in the dark, tracing the lines of your face on the paper, letting his mind spiral into dizzying, heavy fantasies about you. He imagined what it would feel like to finally lock his arms around you, to hear you whisper his name without anyone else around, to make you cry tears that were meant only for him. He would stare at your pictures until his chest ached from a wild, desperate hunger, utterly consumed by the fact that during the day, he had to pretend he didn't want to swallow you whole.

He heavily policed your life from the shadows. Whenever a guy tried to get close to you, Kenji handled it before you could even notice. Last month, a senior from the rugby team had made a crude bet with his friends about asking you out just to see how easily you would smile for him. Kenji had overheard it in the locker room.

The next day, that senior didn't show up to school. When he returned a week later, his arm was in a thick plaster cast, his eyes bloodshot and darting frantically around the corridors. He wouldn't even look at your side of the hallway. Kenji had simply sat at his desk that morning, calmly turning the pages of his English textbook, his knuckles slightly bruised beneath his uniform cuffs. He didn't want you to know about the filth of the world. He wanted you to stay bright, clean, and entirely focused on him.

You went about your days completely oblivious to the violence keeping your world peaceful. To you, life was simple, safe, and filled with the steady hope that Kenji was slowly softening up to you. You were still riding the high of those quiet moments—like waking up with his mint-scented blazer over your shoulders or the rare times his fingers would brush yours when taking the strawberry milk. You truly felt like you were finally standing on stable ground with him, completely unaware that the safety you felt was a carefully manufactured cage. You were so blinded by your own hope that you didn't see the storm brewing.

But a heart can only take so many hits before it breaks.

It happened on a Friday afternoon behind the old music room. You were carrying a stack of papers when you heard voices. Peeking around the brick corner, you saw Kenji. Standing in front of him was Miyoko, the elegant vice president of the student council. She was everything you weren't.

Miyoko held a beautifully bound notebook—their collaborative thesis for a competition. "I want to be the person who stands beside you, Kenji. Academically, and in life. I know I can match your pace."

As you watched, Kenji didn't walk away. He didn't tell her she was annoying. He actually reached out and took the notebook, his eyes locked onto hers in a heavy silence. To your heartbroken mind, it looked like respect. It was a look he had never, not once, given to you and your silly cartons of milk.

A sharp pain bloomed in your chest. I'm just a nuisance to him. She actually matches him. All your efforts over the past two years suddenly felt completely useless.

Your fingers shook, dropping a sheet of paper. The slight rustle made Kenji’s head snap toward the corner, but before he could see you, you turned and ran. You ran until your lungs burned, your bright smile finally shattering into bitter tears.

The change was sudden and absolute.

On Monday morning, Kenji walked his usual twelve paces behind you. He expected you to slow down, to turn around with that loud, bright smile and skip backward in front of him.

You didn't. You kept walking, your head low. When you reached the school gates, you didn't wait. You just slipped into the crowd, deliberately hiding among other students so he couldn't reach you.

When he got to his desk, there was no strawberry milk. The wood was cold and empty. Kenji stared at the bare surface for a full, agonizing minute, his jaw tightening until it clicked. A freezing, empty void opened up in his chest where your warmth used to be.

By Wednesday, you were actively treating him like a ghost.

During lunch, when he purposely walked past your usual spot, you instantly stood up and walked right past him without making eye contact. Your shoulder brushed his arm, but you didn't even flinch. You kept moving as if he were nothing.

The bright, bubbly girl who used to scream his name from the bleachers was completely gone. You still smiled, but only for other people. He had to sit at his desk and watch you laugh warmly with the guy sitting next to you, sharing notes and trading jokes, while treating him like absolute nothing.

It drove him completely, utterly insane.

The quiet control he prided himself on fractured within forty-eight hours. The silence in his head was deafening. He stopped sleeping entirely. He spent his nights standing directly underneath your apartment window, his face pale, his fists clenching until his knuckles bled against the rough brick wall. He even started going through your building's trash at night, frantic to find anything you touched—a discarded note, a wrapper—anything to stop the agonizing withdrawal of your attention. Why weren't you looking at him? What did he do wrong? He had rejected Miyoko the exact second you ran away that Friday, throwing her thesis right into the mud to chase after you, but he had lost you in the dark.

By Thursday morning, he stopped hiding his madness. During the morning lecture, he didn't even pretend to look at the board. He turned his entire chair around, his unblinking, bloodshot eyes locked onto the side of your face for three hours straight. The entire classroom could feel the suffocating, terrifying tension radiating from his desk, but you stubbornly refused to look back.

When the bell rang, you tried to slip out to the restroom. The moment you stood up, Kenji stood up too, his massive frame shadowing your every step down the corridor. When a male classmate tried to hand you a stray pen you dropped, Kenji snatched it out of the boy's hand before it could touch your fingers, snapping the plastic right in half.

"Don't touch her things," Kenji whispered to the terrified boy, his voice a low, animalistic growl that made the entire hallway go dead silent.

You didn't even look back. You just hurried away, your heart pounding with pure exhaustion. You thought he was just angry because his favorite toy had stopped playing with him.

The final snapping point came that evening. The sky was bruising into a dark, stormy purple, and you had stayed late to finish classroom cleaning duties. You had deliberately dragged out the chores, waiting until the school was entirely empty because you wanted to make sure he was gone.

As you stepped out of the empty classroom into the dim corridor, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking your exit entirely.

It was Kenji. But he looked completely unhinged. His tie was missing, his collar was torn open at the throat, and his hair was a tangled ruin from his fingers clawing through it all day. His dark eyes were wide, bloodshot, and burning with a terrifying, predatory desperation.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, gripping the straps of your bag. You forced your voice to stay flat and empty. "Excuse me. I need to go home."

You tried to step past him, but Kenji moved with an explosive speed. He grabbed your shoulders, his massive hands trembling violently as he slammed you backward against the classroom door. The heavy thud echoed loudly down the empty hallway.

"Stop it," he choked out, his voice cracking, completely stripped of his usual icy armor. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving directly against yours as he pinned you to the wood. "Stop looking past me. Stop ignoring me. I'm losing my mind."

"Kenji, let go of me—"

"No!" he roared, his forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder, his long fingers digging into your blazer until the fabric groaned. He was shaking so hard you could feel the raw vibrations in his bones. "I can't breathe. I haven't slept in four days. My chest feels like it’s full of glass. Why are you doing this to me? Where is my milk? Why are you smiling at everyone else but won't even look at my face? I will tear this entire school apart if you don't look at me right now!"

"Why do you care?!" you finally snapped, the heartbreak and exhaustion pouring out of you in a sudden, angry sob. You pushed against his massive chest with all your might, your tears finally spilling over. "Go look at Miyoko! She matches you! She's smart, she's perfect, and she can actually stand beside you! I'm just an annoying nuisance, remember? You told me that every single day! I'm finally letting you go, Kenji! Isn't that what you wanted?!"

Kenji froze, his head snapping up. For a second, he just stared at your tear-stained face, the realization of your pain hitting him like a physical blow.

Then, a dark, completely unhinged laugh escaped his throat. It was a sound of pure, terrifying relief mixed with absolute madness.

"Miyoko?" he whispered, his hands sliding down from your shoulders to lock around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his with a bruising, inescapable grip. His face twisted into something raw, possessive, and entirely desperate. "You think I care about her? I don't even know what color her eyes are."

He leaned in closer, his hot breath fanning across your trembling lips, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a suffocating, heavy focus.

"I took that notebook because it had your name on the first page as a reference," he growled, his thumb pressing hard against your jawline, forcing you to look only at him, tilting your head up until you couldn't escape his gaze. "I spent the last three days destroying her family's business connections and ruining her academic standing so she would be forced to transfer schools. She will never come near my desk again. There is no one else, you idiot. There has never been anyone else. If you ever try to erase me from your head again, I will lock you in my room. I will show you the hundreds of photos of you on my walls, and I will make you look at me until you forget how to breathe. You made me like this. You filled my world with your light, and you don't get to leave me in the dark. You belong to me."

[gothgirllipstick]

Sex that starts off slow and sweet before turning into something more possessive and primal

[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.”

[Next Page]

[skyamajor]

yandere patient x doctor! reader

Synopsis: You’re a doctor with a unique patient that’s full of personality and bruises. He shows up twice a week, bleeding from somewhere new every time. Won’t stop smiling at you like you’re his favorite person in the world. Today he tells you his heart hurts. You make the mistake of checking.

Dear Doctor ♡

"Hello, doctor! Happy to see you again~"

The familiar singsong voice calls out to you the moment you enter the examination room.

You don't even have to look to know who it is. Waiting for you obediently on the table. Like always.

"Can't say I feel the same," you sigh once your eyes land on him.

As expected, it’s him. And he's bleeding on the table, clutching one arm that looks terribly out of shape. It was purple, swollen, and most definitely hurts.

Yet even through all that, he still has a wide smile on his face, eyes crinkled, waving at you like you're old friends reuniting after a long time.

"Hey, stop waving with that purple looking arm! Wait, don't move at all actually."

You hurry to his side with the needed equipment. Gloves... Antiseptic... Sutures... The usual.

"And wipe that grin off your face! You think it's funny bleeding on my table twice a week like it's some routine?"

Your frown deepens as his smile does the opposite. Eyes crinkling adorably, looking way too innocent for the blood dripping down his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Miss doctor. But some jobs require a few injuries on the daily. Don't scold me too harshly now."

He whines. But the smile on his face betrays any act he had going on.

This guy isn't the slightest bit sorry.

You sigh for the third time today—all because of one person—and start working on the bleeding man more seriously.

If someone had told you becoming a doctor would earn you a clingy and dangerous patient, you would've called them crazy.

But here he was. Although much different compared to the first time you'd met.

*****

Five months ago.

The first time he showed up, you almost didn't let him in.

Blood dripping down his knuckles. He had one arm sliced open, split lip, and shirt soaked with blood. Should’ve gone to the ER, not some new physician!

He slumped into the waiting room chair like he owned the place, not even looking at you.

The first thing he said to you?

"Fix it." He didn’t ask or explain. Leaving you with these two words to work with.

Yep. That's how your first meeting went. A bleeding man ordering you around like he was the boss.

You were new here. Fresh out of residency, eager to prove yourself.

And the bleeding was bad enough you worried he wouldn’t make it to ER at this point. So you sighed, snapped on your gloves, and got to work.

He didn't thank you, didn’t even look at you the whole time. Just stared at the wall like he wanted to punch through it.

You figured you'd never see him again.

*****

Second visit.

New injuries. Same attitude.

"Back again?" you asked, already pulling out the antiseptic.

He grunted.

You worked in silence. He flinched once when you hit a deep cut on his ribs, but didn't make a sound otherwise.

"Someone's doing a number on you," you said quietly.

He didn't answer.

*****

Third visit.

Something shifted.

He walked in and his eyes found you immediately. Held for a second longer than before. Like he was checking that you were still there.

"You again," he said. Almost like a greeting.

"Me again," you echoed, already reaching for your kit. "You really need to stop getting into fights."

He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You counted that as a win.

*****

Fourth visit.

He spoke first.

"Long day?"

You blinked. "Yeah. Long week, actually."

He nodded without adding anything else.

But when you leaned in to clean a cut on his jaw, he didn't pull away like he used to.

He just... watched you.

"You're staring," you muttered.

"Am I?"

"Stop it."

"Make me."

You never expected him to be hiding such a big personality, not after the first impression he’d given you.

You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary. He didn't flinch, just grinned.

Jerk.

*****

Fifth. Sixth. Seventh...

He started coming every week. Sometimes twice.

You told yourself it was just bad luck. Some people are accident-prone. It's not your job to ask questions.

But you noticed things.

The way he relaxed when you touched him. The way his breathing slowed when you leaned close. The way his eyes followed your hands like he was memorizing the movement.

He started talking more. Little things. Compliments buried under sarcasm.

"Your bedside manner's getting softer, doc."

"You look tired. Someone not sleeping?"

"Those are new glasses. Cute."

You rolled your eyes every time, but you didn't tell him to stop. You knew he wouldn’t anyways.

*****

Two months in.

The injuries started getting stranger, you realized.

Not the kind you get from random fights. They were too precise. Too controlled.

A cut here… A bruise there... Nothing life-threatening or deep enough to leave any permanent damage. 

But enough to bleed.

Enough to need you.

*****

Three months in.

A small scene you didn't think much of at the time.

You were at the nurse's station, charting. One of the younger nurses—Lisa, friendly, always smiling—leaned over your shoulder.

"Hey, doc. That guy who's always in here. The one with the sliced arm?"

You smirked at the nickname, it stuck with the staff after his first visit here. 

"What about him?" You glanced up.

Lisa lowered her voice. "He gives me the creeps."

That made you laugh. "He gives everyone the creeps."

"No, I mean..." She hesitated. "He asked about you last week. When you weren't here."

Your pen stopped moving, a little more curious now.

"What did he ask?"

"Just... what time you get in. If you work weekends. If anyone walks you to your car." Lisa shivered. "He was smiling the whole time. Like it was a normal conversation."

You didn't know what to say. So you said nothing.

Lisa shrugged it off. "Anyway. Just thought you should know."

She walked away.

You stared at the chart in your hands for a long time.

*****

The next time he came in.

You watched him differently.

The way his eyes followed you across the room. The way he knew where the antiseptic was before you reached for it. The way he'd already rolled up his sleeve before you asked.

"Something wrong, doc?" he asked, catching your stare.

"No."

"You're looking at me funny."

"I always look at you funny. You're always bleeding on my table."

He laughed. That low, warm sound that used to mean nothing and now meant something.

"You're deflecting."

"I'm working."

He let it go, his smile didn't fade.

And when you leaned in to clean a cut near his collarbone, he whispered:

"I like it when you worry about me."

Your hands paused.

"I'm a doctor. I worry about all my patients." You emphasized, trying to ignore the way his brows furrowed at your statement.

"No, you don't."

He said it so simply. So sure.

You didn't argue.

*****

Present.

You've finally finished cleaning him up. Stitched the deep tissue and bandaged him as well as you could.

You step back a bit to survey your work. Then let out a long sigh.

It hasn't even been a week, yet he’s already back so bloody.

"Alright. I think we're all done... unless there are some other injuries I missed."

He doesn't answer right away.

He's looking at you. Softly. Like you're the only light in a dark room.

Then his hand drifts up to the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.

"Doctor..." He feigns pain, voice dipping low. Less playful now. "I think I'm hurt here."

You frown. "Where? Let me see."

He points. You lean forward, squinting at his chest. Trying to find a wound you must have missed.

"There's nothing—"

"Every time you look at me," he says, "my chest gets tight."

Your hands freeze.

"Every time you touch me, my heart forgets how to beat right."

He's not looking at your hands anymore. He's looking at your eyes.

"You're the only doctor who can fix this."

You swallow. "That's not... that's not a real injury."

"No?"

"No."

He smiles slowly, sweetly. 

"Then why does it hurt so much when you're not around?"

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Ugh, wait, it’s starting to hurt more!” He suddenly doubles down, hand hovering over his chest again, and face contorting dramatically in pain.

You believe him for a moment—that was your biggest mistake—and go lean closer to his chest, trying to find an invisible injury.

“What? Where exactly I can’t see anything—“ 

And that's when he moves.

He leans over your head, and you feel something soft land on the middle of your eyebrows.

A quick peck, right on your forehead. Over before you can process it.

You jerk back so fast you nearly fall off your stool. Your hand flies to your forehead like you've been burned. 

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again—trying to articulate a sentence. Nothing comes out except a strangled sputter.

He's already off the table, grinning like he just won a prize.

"Thank you for your hard work, doctor~"

You find your voice. "You—you can't just—"

He's backing toward the door. Still smiling. Still watching you with those lovesick eyes.

"Now don't go flirting with any nurses while I'm gone!"

He pauses at the door to tilt his head.

His smile doesn't change, but his eyes do.

"I don't wanna come back more bloody next time~"

The door swings shut behind him.

You're left standing there. Hand still on your forehead and heart pounding.

He never said he was joking.

Your eyes drift to the empty doorway.

And for some reason, you think of Lisa.

The way she shivered when she talked about him.

The way she doesn't lean over your shoulder anymore.

The way she transferred to the morning shift last week without ever saying goodbye.

You never asked why.

Maybe you never wanted to know.