seokustic

[seokustic]

➝ three months into working for min&kim, coming across the forged company audit is the last thing you’d want in your plate. and min yoongi isn’t convinced that you’d keep your mouth shut.

➝ yandere!ceo!yoongi x secretary!reader

➝ 2 242 words

➝ warnings: dub-con, blackmail, coercion, unprotected sex, stockholm syndrome

➝ author’s note: read the warnings. don’t proceed if those elements make you uncomfortable.

―

“please, i won’t tell anyone,” you can taste the fear on your tongue as you gaze into yoongi’s unbending eyes.

“i understand i’m not in any position to make demands but please let me go home and i’ll forget this ever happened,” words of desperation and submission leaves your lips faster than the ‘sorry’s you owe every possible colleague that works under you.

“self-aware. i like that,” he husks, tossing the sleek black blazer of his onto the couch as he begins to undo the buttons of the cuffs around his wrists, “no wonder namjoon’s eager to keep you to himself.”

at the mention of that name, a bleached blonde haired man with the kindest dimpled smile flashes at the back of your mind. you remember shooting up from your seat and bowing as he passed by you whilst words of “have a good evening, mr. kim,” leaves your pretty wine red coated lips.

‘will i be able to meet him again?’

the thought chills you to your bones.

‘why wouldn’t i meet namjoon again?’ you internally laugh. if it was an audible one, it would have sounded pathetic yet hopeful.

to think you’re worrying about the future when your present is shriveled with uncertainty.

you watch as the man he calls his brother and partner amble towards you with leisure but dominating steps. like a hunter sizing up his prey.

if yoongi was black leopard, you’d be a white little bunny who’s trapped between the recliner and the glass desk, unable to move even though you’d spot him in your line of sight.

“i-is it money you want?” the words slip past your lips before you can even register them.

when you’re mentally hitting yourself for asking the co-owner of the firm you’re working at if he wants what little savings you have in your account, yoongi is already chuckling. it sounds melodic for someone who looks like he’s about to eat you alive.

“you and i both know i’ve got more money on my wrist than you do in your account.” he stops in front of you, feet wedged between your heeled ones.

as if on cue, the rolex on his wrist glints. as if mocking you as he pulls open the top most drawer, pulling out a miniature tripod with a phone readily attached to it. all you can do is continue to watch as he unlocks the screen.

the sound of you sucking in a sharp breath is the only thing that fills the silence when you see yourself reflected in the square frame. the time played over your wide-eyed gaze begins at 00:00:01.

“oh, that? don’t mind that. i like to look back at the time we’re about to spend together and... reminisce.” he wears a smirk on his face and pushes the hem of your dress up with his hand.

yet the billion dollar smirk you’d be dying to see and would fawn over with krystal from afar now makes your stomach knot with disgust. your heart’s palpitating but the sweat trickling down the side of your face is cold.

“please,” your head shakes, as if that little gesture could touch his heart and make him stop what he’s doing.

the metallic sound of his belt clicking as he undoes it drums it your ears, “get on the desk, sweetheart.”

when silence and your disbelieving stare is all he gets as a response, yoongi’s voice rises higher than the usual smooth, husked tone you’re used as he passed you and bade you good morning these past three months since you started working and min&kim.

“fucking do it!”

you scamper to hoist yourself over the flat surface of the table. both your ass and palms feel ice cold against the glass material.

“spread your legs.”

the tip of your heels teeter on the edge of the desk as you force your legs apart, gaze thrown to the pen holder on the opposite side of where the camera phone is set to capture every angle of your disgraceful position.

a whimper escapes your mouth when you feel something touch you through your panties.

“i must say, i didn’t peg you for a lace girl, ___.” gone is the rage in his voice once you did what he asked and in its place, a deep, appreciative purr. as if it’s supposed to be a compliment.

“won’t you even look at me?” he sounds almost devastated, as if your silence and refusal physically hurts him.

“look at me!” he roars a second later, giving you no time to ponder nor prepare yourself for it.

you meet his gaze with furrowed brows and bitten lip, trying hard not to show how much they’re trembling.

“pretty,” he holds you by your jaw, turning your face to the left and then right, as if conducting some kind of observation, “if only i didn’t take rose as my secretary... we would’ve had so much fun, you and i.”

“i can ask to be transferred here! i’ll keep your secret. just please... don’t do this.” gaze boring into his with sheer disgust while you beg with desperation while the cold nips on your exposed legs.

at your words, his hand seems to stop just millimeters from your clit. as if he’s truly considering the offer. the heart that blooms with hope gets crushed in that same instant as a smile stretches across his face.

“you really think you’re in a position to be negotiating?”

nimble fingers pulls your panties to the side before you feel his digit teases you, “sweetheart, you’re dripping wet.”

as if only realizing the juices leaking down your ass and the full view he has, your legs start to close, only to be tightly gripped by his free hand. you wince. that’s going to leave a bruise.

but before you can think of what excuses you’d use to wear skirts longer than your usual mid-thigh ones, the sound of the zipper grazing as it gets pulled down - brushes your eardrums.

“no, please! i promise i’ll do anything! everything you want! just please! don’t!” s series of pleas pour out of your lips like a broken tap. you don’t realize you’re crying until yoongi’s tall, lean figure becomes blurred from the tears.

“shhh,” he coos, sweet as honey but pushes himself in to the hilt.

the sigh the leaves yoongi’s lips makes your stomach twist.

‘how can he enjoy this?’

your palms clasp over your face and eyes as tears wet your skin. your back is cold as you lose all energy to hold yourself up. your body shifts upwards with every thrust.

but it’s the way he slides right into you that burns you with self-loathe. the way the discomfort you felt in the beginning gradually morphs into flames of wonton as you taste blood in your mouth, biting on your lower lip as hard as you can to not make a sound.

because you’re not sure if it’s a plea for him to stop or a plea for him to fuck you harder that will come out.

and you silently sniffle as yoongi turns you on your side, bent over to hold your body that’s wrecked with sobs and pleasure. the groans that brush your ear sickens you to your stomach but makes you clench around him harder as you near your climax.

“don’t be shy, moan for me, sweetheart,” he says grunts, tugging on your wrist as if trying to get you to stop covering your face.

as if he wants to see you break. see the tears cascading down your cheeks. see the shamelessly pleasured face you’re making as your heart beat to the staccato of his thrusts.

“stop...” you whimper, “stop, please, don’t- stop- ah! oh!”

“what’s that? don’t stop?” he laughs, “i’m not wearing a condom though. you sure you want me to but a baby inside you?”

“fuck, just like that. yeah- yoongi-ah right there- oh!”

you should’ve kept your mouth shut. because once the moans pour out of your lips like an open floodgate, there’s no stopping the salacious sounds from filling the room.

you don’t even realize yoongi pushed you to lay on your back again. don’t even realize how your legs clench around his waist whilst your ankles lock together on his lower back as he fucks you raw like he’s never fucked a woman in a long time.

you don’t even realize your lipstick smudging that area on his shoulder as you bite into his flesh, unable to take the surge of ecstasy coursing through your veins before a scream scratches your throat, your back arching as you see stars behind your eyes.

the warmth of his cum spreads through your lower belly as you lay limply on the desk, muscles still twitching from the sparks of electricity of your after orgasm. your legs dangle off the edge of the desk, still parted and in full view of the cum that pours out of you and onto the carpeted floor.

it takes you what feels like hours to push yourself up. gather your broken pieces, put your panties back on and pat down your skirt, feeling the warm, sticky cum drip down your legs and soils your skirt.

the heat of yoongi’s gaze digs into your pores. even when you’re all dressed up like the way you first walked in and saw the open email of the files of the unaudited expenditure of the firm’s income and the forged one. underneath the email, signed victoria song, the head accountant.

“come on, i’ll drop you home.” he says, the blazer he tossed now draped over his arm.

it’s as if he didn’t just smirk as he rewatched the first few seconds of the video. the sound of your desperate pleading commanding the silence while you laid like a lifeless corpse on the desk, trying to make sense of what just happened.

he’s acting as if nothing happened.

“i’ll take catch a cab,” you send your thanks to the gods for venom in your voice and the glare in your gaze.

“i said,” his husks, ever so gently with a threat that he will have no problems executing, “i’ll take you home.”

the whole ride is silent save for the sound of your sniffles yoongi pretends not to hear.

how gentleman-ly of him.

when the car rolls to a stop in front of your apartment building, you meet his gaze with round, terrified eyes. heart palpitating uncontrollably as he smiles like he’s dropping off his girlfriend after a date.

“how do you know where i live?”

you were too busy wiping away stray tears and gazing out the window to worry about giving him directions.

supposed he doesn’t need it after all.

yoongi doesn’t answer. he dodges it as smoothly as he dives in for a kiss. you recoil, pushing yourself up against the door and as far away from him before realization hits you like a pang of ice cold water in winter.

the glint in yoongi’s eyes is telling enough that he isn’t pleased with the trick you just pulled.

even if it was no trick at all. even if you truly only want to leave.

but there’s a video of you in a phone stored inside his desk 20 minutes from here. and you’d be a fool to think he didn’t airdrop it to his personal phone when he was rewatching the video after that.

who knows how long it’ll take for it to hit the internet if you so much as piss him off more than you do now.

the answer is a no brainer.

in a matter of seconds, min yoongi could ruin your life and rebrand you as a licentious woman who sleeps her way to the top.

those pleas for him to stop?

easily overridden by the way you clung onto him like you don’t want to let go.

“sorry, i was just... surprised,” you blink back the tears, lips curling into one of your professional smiles, heart thumping at the way his expression lightens into a pleased one at your own change of expression.

with a trembling hand, you touch his cheek. it feels soft under your fingertip. you wonder how it’ll look if you’d graze it with your fingernails.

your lips brush his and your stomach knots in discomfort. he deepens the kiss, pulling you by your hair, tongue slipping past your lips, tasting the fear that lingers like an unspoken truth on your tongue.

but it’s the way your arms involuntarily wrap around yoongi’s shoulders, kissing him back without even a word of command - that’s what makes you want to hurl your insides out.

it’s the moan that slips past your lips that makes you push him away. eyes wide. you look at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“i-i’ll see you tomorrow.” it’s almost as if waiting for his reaction has become an instinct to you too fast and too soon.

“yeah, see you tomorrow,” when yoongi reaches out his hand and wipes away the corner of your mouth that might’ve been lipstick that got smudged from the kiss, you grope for the door handle.

and you slip out of the car and walk to the entrance of your apartment building, not looking up even when you hear the amicable “good evening, miss ___, working late, are we?” from the security.

you keep walking until you’re inside the elevator.

and only then do you let out a breath you didn’t know you’ve been holding. then the sob wrecks through your cold body.

funny how being trapped inside a metal box gives you more security than any human could provide.

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