⁺ . ✦ now playing. track 2 of 5: right here in my arms - HIM ›› playlist: razorblade romance (yandere jjk series m.list)
⁺ . ✦ pairing. yandere doctor!yuta x f!reader
⁺ . ✦ sum. Dr. Yuta Okkotsu always takes you seriously, with a kind smile on his tired face. But what if he takes you too seriously? What if you aren’t as sick as you think you are?
⁺ . ✦ tags ── ♡ ˚⊹︰mdni (18+), AU- no powers, doctor!yuta, doctor/patient relationship, obsession, medplay, drugged sex, drugging, possessive!yuta, yuta drugs you so you'll visit him more, dubcon, unethical medicine, breeding kink, mating press, glove kink, medical kink, medical gloves, medical examination, reader is sick, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, piv, yandere!yuta, stalker!yuta, horrormance kinda, panty kink, panty sniffing, praise kink, no use of y/n
⁺ . ✦ wc. 6,464
⁺ . ✦ an. PHEW.
This song is track #2 of my Razorblade Romance series where yandere JJK boys are obsessed with you.
This song is themed after Right Here In My Arms - HIM. Honorable mention and my original theme song choice was Poison Girl - HIM.
I was also inspired by I Want Things to Be Beautiful [Slowed] - Fironn.
This story was originally supposed to be about stalker!Yuta who just watches from a distance and becomes more and more obsessed, following you to work and other places. But I felt that "plot" was weak. I saw a medplay tiktok (LMAO) with the song by Fironn and I was like “HOLY SHIT. THATS THE NEW PLOT.” And thus, obsessed doctor!Yuta was created. I wanted things to be a bit creepy, and I feel like I did a good enough job for a smut fic LMAO. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it! ♡
You haven’t been feeling well recently. It feels like you’re getting sicker and sicker, despite visiting the doctor often and taking medication for your mystery illnesses. You have hope that things will change soon, that maybe you just haven’t received the right treatment yet.
You walk through the clear glass doors of the medical office. Your doctor always takes you seriously, surely he will find out what’s wrong with you.
You check in with the receptionist and wait until you’re called back. You’re always a bit early to your appointments, and you scroll through your phone to pass the time.
The medical assistant takes your vitals and notes them in your chart. Nothing significant, you suppose. She leads you to a sterile exam room and informs you that the doctor will be there soon.
You don’t have time to get settled before a knock is at your door. He lets himself in, and smiles beneath a white mask.
His dark blue eyes are accentuated by deep, purple eye-bags. He looks tired, no doubt from seeing so many patients. But despite his weariness, you can sense his smile from his eyes alone. Deep ocean blue eyes smile at you, making you feel safe.
“How’s my favorite patient doing?” He asks, walking over to put some gloves on. His voice is cheery, sweet, and laced with an edge, like honey dripping off a sharp knife.
“I’m okay,” you say, frowning. You’re very much not okay. “The migraines are nearly every day now. They’re getting worse. And I’m always tired now.”
“I see… should we try a new medication then? And have you been taking care of yourself: drinking enough water, eating lots of fruits and veggies, and moving a little bit?”
You’ve been trying, but with how incessant and severe the migraines were, you didn’t want to do anything but lie in bed and sleep.
“I’ve been trying,” you say, meekly. You look away, suddenly shy, worried that he might realize you’re not taking care of yourself at all. “The migraines make me want to do nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s schedule some follow ups and switch the meds around. Do you think the painkillers are enough, or do you need something a bit… stronger?” He asks, concern written over his face.
You’re not sure. On one hand, it’s pain that is so unbearable, so debilitating, that you want to rip your head off; but on the other… what does he mean by stronger?
As if sensing your hesitation, he speaks up. “You don’t have to give me an answer now, you can always call and let us know later. Just think about it, okay? Now, have you had your yearly physical yet? I see on my charts that it’s due soon…”
“Okay, let’s get that done now so we can update your chart, accuracy is important for treatment,” he says, his eyes shining. “Do you do breast exams at home? To check for breast cancer? Adequate intervention and close monitoring can do a lot to keep you healthy.”
You shake your head. Honestly, the last thing on your mind is squishing your boobs and feeling for anything weird. And why is that the first thing his physical exam is concerned with. Surely there are other tests he needs to do.
“Then we’ll do that first,” he says. He’s glad he has a mask on, otherwise you might see the huge grin plastered on his face and reddened cheeks.
You lift your shirt for him.
“This will only take a moment. I’m sorry,” he says, trying to reassure you as his hands reach for your chest. “Please sit still, okay?”
The feeling of cool, sterile exam gloves rubs against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He squeezes and tugs, grabbing and groping your breasts. Surely this is all unnecessary, there’s no way he needs to be grabbing that much for a simple exam. But despite your concerns, you trust him. He’s the professional, after all.
His hands reluctantly move away, as if he didn’t want to stop. “All good,” he says. “Just a few more things to check and you’ll be on your way.”
You smile at him, and thank him. Whatever he needs to do, you’ll do it. Doctors know best, after all.
The rest of the day was uneventful. You were preparing for bed, taking your medicine and doing your skincare for the night.
You checked every lock on every door and every window of the house. Recently you’ve noticed windows left open or doors left unlocked. It’s probably nothing, as when you’re in so much pain you immediately rush to bed, trying to sleep off the migraine. Perhaps you’d just forgotten to closed something or lock up one too many times. Still, better safe than sorry.
Confident that your house was secure, you make your way to your room, turning off lights behind you. You slink into your bed, the heavy covers comforting you and lulling you to sleep.
You dream of sandy beaches and salty air, letting the warmth envelop you.
Your eyes shoot awake. A cold sweat trails along your spine. You hear something.
You shoot out of bed, and curse yourself for not having something prepared to defend yourself.
You look to the right side of your room, and notice the window slightly ajar. Damn locks are loose, you think. You secure the latch, and close the curtains.
Nestling back into bed, you drift off to sleep and dream of nothing this time.
It’s been a few weeks since your last visit with Dr. Okkotsu. The new medicine he prescribed isn’t helping, and you somehow feel even worse. Nearly every day was accompanied by a migraine. Every day you’ve had to sleep early, put ice packs on your head and eyes, and block out the sunlight.
You’re in the same exam room as last time.
He knocks on your door even sooner this time, as if he’s waiting just around the corner, anticipating you.
“How are you?” He asks, walking into the room. The bags under his eyes are somehow deeper and darker this time. Even so, he smiles as he looks at you, lighting up the room.
You groan. “Awful. It’s getting even worse. I don’t think the new meds are helping. In fact, I have one now,” you say, keeping your eyes shut. The lights hurt your eyes.
He sighs, worry etched all over his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. Let me get something for you to take next time it happens,” he says, flipping the lights off in the room as he walks out the door.
He returns a moment later. “Here,” he says, handing you a bottle of some medicine, “Take these next time.”
His other hand opens up, a small pill inside of it. “And this is for right now.” He leaves once again, grabbing you a cup of water.
“I hope that works. Let’s meet again, soon, okay?”
“Thank you, Dr. Okkotsu,” you say, leaving the room. Your follow up is a week from now.
A few days later, another migraine strikes. You reach for the bottle your doctor gave you.
You notice a small note written on the side.
Let me know if you need more. ♡ - Yuta
Why would he write his personal number on a pill bottle. And more importantly: why is there a fucking heart drawn on it?
You try not to think too much of it and take the medicine. You can worry about it later. Right now, you need the pain to stop.
You wake up early the next morning, and take your morning meds. Another day, another appointment to check on your migraines.
A cheery voice greets you once more. “How are the new meds working for you, dear?” He asks, getting straight to the point.
“The ones you gave me have been helping a bit, but I’ve run out.”
“Why didn’t you ask for more, then? I thought I wrote my contact info down for you,” he replies.
But that was exactly why you weren’t going to reach out. It was weird, to say the least. But on the other hand… would it really be so wrong to have someone personally care for you?
“I will, next time,” you answer him, looking sheepishly at him.
He smiles at you, beaming and full of warmth despite his sickly, tired look.
“I just want you to feel supported and validated. I know you’ve been feeling worse, and I just want you to know I take you very seriously.”
You blush, and look away. Why the hell were you embarrassed? He just cares about you, that’s all. You’re his patient, of course he would care.
“So, I’ll see you next week? And please let me know if anything changes or you need a special refill.” He smiles, and ushers you out the exam room, following behind.
To you, he’s being polite. For him, he’s waiting for you to rely on him more. He takes in the smell of your hair and perfume, making a mental note for later.
“See you next time,” he says, before walking off.
You’ve made a conscious effort to work out more and eat healthier, hoping it might help you recover sooner and lessen the severity or frequency of your migraines. But it doesn’t. Drinking water doesn’t help. Sleeping it off isn’t even helping anymore— you wake up with that incessant pounding every morning.
You’re worried. It’s getting worse. You decide you can’t take it anymore, and text Dr. Okkotsu, asking for an urgent refill of the medicine he gave you. It’s the only one that works, but he only gives you a few at a time, since they are so strong and likely to be abused.
You thought you’d have to pick it up from his office, but you hear a knock at the door, jolting your senses. You peer through the peephole, and see well-kept raven hair accompanied by dark under eye circles. He’s here, and really early. You texted him not even 20 minutes ago, and he’s already at your doorstep, meds in hands.
You open the door, and greet him. “Hi, I wasn’t expecting you to personally deliver them, but thank you. Come inside,” you gesture inside as you step to the side, giving him space to step inside.
“Sorry it’s a mess… I haven’t been feeling well this past week…” you say, turning your face away in embarrassment. Dishes piled high in the kitchen, and you’re pretty sure you’re wearing old clothes from your college days, just because everything else is dirty.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” he says, smiling at you.
“Do you want anything to drink?” You ask, trying to play the respectful hostess.
“Just water is fine,” he replies, sitting at your dining table. He watches you closely as you grab a cup and fill it with ice water. You can feel eyes on your back, watching every little movement.
“So…No patients today?” You ask, handing him the glass of water. What an awkward fucking question.
He chuckles. “I don’t work every day of my life, you know. It’s my day off, actually.” He takes a sip of the cold drink, and sets it on the table.
A sharp throb permeates your senses. You need the medicine, and now. “Sorry, it’s hurting again.” You pick up the pill bottle set in front of him, and open it up, taking a pill out and popping it in your mouth. You forgot to get yourself some water, and realizing your grave mistake, your eyes widen. Swallowing them dry really fucking sucks.
“Don’t want you to choke,” he says, pushing his glass towards you. Your cheeks flare in embarrassment. You take a sip and down your medicine, waiting for sweet relief.
“Here, take this too,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “This will stop the migraine sooner, and help you sleep it off.”
You thank him, and take the additional medicine. “You’re like my personal pharmacy,” you laugh. “What would I do without you?”
He shrugs. “Good thing I’m here, aren’t I?”
Yes, it’s a very good thing, indeed. “I almost forgot, how much do I owe you for this? I can’t let you leave without repaying you, especially when you drove all this way just for me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he starts. “Consider it my ‘community service engagement hours’ or whatever. I would never charge you, especially when I come to help on my day off.” He smiles at you, eyes warming at just the sight of you. He just wants to help you. Yuta would never make you pay; it’s his responsibility, his duty, to care for you. All of this is in pursuit of caring for you.
“Do you need help with anything else?” He asks, glancing around the disheveled room.
You avert his gaze, and blush. He’s talking about cleaning your house. That’s just too much. “It would be rude to have you clean up after me… please don’t.”
“I insist, if only to lessen the stress. Stress can trigger migraines, so honestly, I think I should help.” There’s no flaw in that logic.
You sigh. “Then yes, please. I need to go lie down for a while. Make yourself comfortable, and you can leave when you’re done. I really appreciate you,” you say, before getting up from the table and making your way to the bedroom.
“Anything for you,” he mutters, under his breath. You can’t quite hear what he said, but it doesn’t really matter at this point.
You yawn and stretch your arms, making your way past the doorframe and onto your bed. Whatever he gave you really works, and it’s making you fucking tired.
You awaken, a few hours later, feeling completely refreshed, and most importantly— pain free. You walk out your room to find piles of neatly folded laundry sitting on the couch, waiting to be put away. The entire kitchen is clean, not a spot to behold or a dirty dish in sight.
Your stomach grumbles, and you open the fridge. There, exactly center, are a few containers of food you don’t remember making. A sticky note is stuck to the top container.
Please make sure to eat well and take care of yourself. ♡ - Yuta
Your heart skips a beat. He cooked for you? Just what kind of doctor cooks meals for their patients? But you’re not one to question generosity, so you reheat the food and eat in silence.
You’re tired still. It’s only when doing your skincare routine do you get a good look at yourself. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Jesus Christ, I look like shit.
You open the bottle of preventative medication that Dr. Okkotsu gave you, and take the horse-sized pill.
Sleep comes for you much faster tonight, and you dream of sterile white walls, disinfectant, and bright, white lights. The smell of bleach permeates your senses, nauseating you.
You’re thankful your job let you go on medical leave these past few weeks, otherwise you might have bigger problems than just the pain in your head.
It became a routine. Once a week, Yuta Okkotsu would visit you, bring medicine, food, and then clean and cook for you. You had no idea how it got to this point, now did you know how you’d ever repay his kindness.
Every time you tried to mention the topic of payment, he would always shut you down, quickly. There’s no way he’s this kind to all his patients, so there must be some ulterior motive.
Unfortunately for you, you were not privy to that elusive knowledge. He would never tell you why he was here, helping you. Every visit he was cheery, kind, and helpful. Yet every time he came over, he made more detailed mental notes of the layout of your home.
He knew all of the entrances and exits, every window that had a broken latch; hell, he knew every closet space like the back of his hand.
You were feeling better today, the medicine he gave you had helped. Despite your migraines still coming on frequently, it was like they were at bay when he was around. With him there, you never felt pain, you never felt nauseous, you never felt like shit. It was like he was the drug that healed you, not the bottles of pills he would personally deliver.
That night, you cooked for him. He kept insisting that you should take it easy, but you were tired of taking it easy, and for once, you felt like you could actually do something. It was the least you could do, to repay his kindness.
You dined and talked for hours. He had many stories of his experiences as an ER doctor. Curious, you asked him why he stopped working emergency medicine.
“I prefer the relatively chill aspects of neurology,” he replies. “Plus, if I still worked in the hospital, I would never have gotten to meet you,” he says, winking at you as he takes a sip of his wine. “You might have no relief if I wasn’t there to take care of you. No one else can help you in the way that I can.” He says, smiling, a bit too much. What does he mean by that?
“Well, thank you, Dr. Okkotsu. I’m glad we’ve met, even if our relationship is a bit… unconventional. Do you always personally deliver medicine and take care of your patients?” You ask, poking fun at him.
“Only the pretty ones,” he says, winking at you. You nearly spit out your wine. “You’re the first, and only patient I’ve personally taken care of. And please, call me Yuta.”
You blush. What the hell? Is he flirting with you?
You clear your throat, the awkwardness of your expression evident. Suddenly you remember you left your curling iron on, or something of that nature. “I’ll be right back,” you say, excusing yourself to go to the bathroom.
You practically ran to the bathroom, and locked it, trying to hide. Damn him and his flirting.
That’s when you notice it, out of the corner of your eye. A bottle of pills you don’t remember setting there. You usually leave it on your nightstand for easy access, not in the bathroom. On a corner of the label, almost too small to detect, is a heart scribbled in black ink, similar to the ones Yuta would sign his notes to you with.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence. You’ve seen the pharmacy sign off of meds before on the bottle. Perhaps it’s just that.
You search your medicine cabinet for every bottle, full and empty, that Yuta has given you. They all have hearts on them. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it? Until you realize the medicine coming from the pharmacy, the ones he had no way of writing on, also had a black heart on the edge of the label.
The medication he prescribed you to prevent migraines… somehow he has tampered with them as well.
You feel dizzy with the revelation that something sinister is going on right under your nose. The room is spinning. Was it too much alcohol? Was it something more?
A faint knock on the door plunges you back into reality. “Everything okay? You’ve been in there a while,” he asks, his soft voice carrying through the door.
You’re not okay, in fact, you’re far from okay. You feel faint, like you might pass out any second. The edges of your vision are filled with black tendrils rapidly creeping over your vision. Your ears ring, a sound so deafening you can’t think.
For a split second— you cannot see anything. Your eyes are open, and you can’t fucking see.
You collapse on the floor. Bright colors and impossible shapes cloud your vision. Your head hurts, and that damn ringing is still present. It feels like an eternity of flashing lights, colors, shapes, and patterns accompanied by the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your life. Eventually you regain your hearing, and you gasp awake.
Your head pounds with pain that rivals oblivion as blood rushes back to your head. You struggle to breathe as your eyes register sensory input.
You’re in a bed. Your bed. You can barely move, barely force air to fill your lungs as you struggle to inhale. You feel a presence to your left. Yuta.
He looks at you, not with care, but with a darkness you can’t describe. It doesn’t last long as he shifts his demeanor back to that trustworthy, caring doctor you know and love.
“You scared me for a second. Don’t do that again,” he says, chuckling, as if to ease the tension.“Drink some water, you need it right now,” he says, handing you a glass.
You take a few sips, and set it down.
“Please. Drink it. All of it,” he says, the kindness in his voice masking the command.
Not one to provoke others, you comply. Despite his odd behavior, you feel safe with him around.
“Good girl,” he coos at you, stroking your hair. You relax under his touch, as if your body itself knows he’s safe. “How are you feeling now?”
You’re not sure you can speak right now. You try to nod your head as if saying “yes, I’m okay”.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. I want to stay and watch you closely though, just in case it happens again. Is that okay?”
You nod once more. His body shifts closer to yours. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest as you lay your head on his shoulder. “Try to sleep, your body needs it.”
The world is silent as you fall asleep cuddled next to Yuta. You dream of drowning underwater as you sink deeper into a never-ending abyss. Your leg is chained to something heavy, something that only pulls you deeper and deeper.
He watches you for hours. He’s never been this close, for this long. He’s never been in your bed. He’s only seen it. He’s never watched you sleep while next to you, only from across the room.
He’s surprised you fainted tonight. The dosage needs to be adjusted— perhaps he gave you a bit too much. You weren’t supposed to pass out, you were just supposed to be very very tired and woozy. His plan failed, and he needs to try again. Regardless, he’s glad he gets to take care of you more.
He pets you as you sleep. His soft hand strokes your hair, and he brings a lock to his face, inhaling your scent. It’s fucking amazing.
Seeing you lie there, completely still, defenseless, and innocent riles him up. Seeing your perfect features rest as you sleep is exhilarating. And the fact that you completely trust him enough to sleep next to him? It has him thanking his maker for allowing him to experience this moment.
He’d do anything to have you rely on him more. As long as you come to him to fix things, as long as you trust him to take care of you… he wouldn’t stop at anything.
He can’t fucking take it anymore. His pants feel tight. Not wanting to disturb you, he tiptoes to your bathroom, not without making a pit stop to your dirty laundry basket and snatching a cute pair of panties.
He closes the door, silently. Confident you are still asleep, he hastily unbuckles his belt and pulls his black pants off. He rips his boxers off, and his cock springs free. He moans at the simple act of taking it out.
His hand grips his cock as he lifts the cotton panties to his nose. He takes a deep, long inhale, and holds it in. His heart skips a beat, as his hand strokes his throbbing member. Precum oozes out of the angry head with every stroke of his hand. Yuta whimpers as he takes another inhale of your panties, promising to commit this scent to memory.
His hips buck into his closed fist, imagining he was fucking into you. He wraps your panties around his cock and strokes faster, wishing he was stuffing you so full you couldn’t walk for days.
He’s breathing heavily now, panting as he gets closer to release. The soft fabric only coaxes him along, and before he realizes it, his body is shuddering as he cums. Your name rolls off his tongue like a prayer. His cock throbs with every shot of cum, making a mess of your panties.
He catches his breath, and quickly cleans up, before making his way to your bed once more. He falls asleep easily that night.
The next morning, a note is stuck to the dining table, alongside some fluffy pancakes and other breakfast foods.
Got called in. I’ll see you later tonight. Please take care of yourself. ♡ - Yuta
A warm, fuzzy feeling envelops your body as you smile to yourself. Why put so much effort into taking care of you? You ignore that line of questioning, and serve yourself some food.
You go to take your medicine once again, and hesitate. Didn’t he switch them out? You check each and every pill bottle— there is no black heart scribble to be found. You’re sure you’re just hallucinating things, making them up. You were definitely not of sound mind last night, and it’s very plausible you had just imagined it. But you were so sure of yourself…
Whatever. He takes care of you. There’s no way he would be actively harming you… right?
You sigh, and pinch the bridge of your nose. Wispy shapes and colors flood your vision. It’s as if you were looking through an infrared camera, with the way these shapes flickered across your vision. You know this as a sign your migraine is about to come on, a sign that pain is sure to follow.
He finds you snuggled in your bed, the curtains pulled closed, and the fan on high. He wakes you up, handing you a pill to take. When did he get here? And how did he get in?
“You forgot to lock the front door, silly,” he says, as if sensing your unease. “Take this. You’ll feel better.”
And you do. You’d do anything he says at this point if it meant the pain would stop.
You sit up and stick the pill in your mouth. He helps tilt a glass of water so that you can drink. It’s messy, water is dribbling along the corners of your mouth, down your neck, and down your shirt. But it tastes amazing, you feel as parched and dry as a desert when the sun is the highest.
Every sip of water feels like your life force replenishing. You finish the glass, and tilt your head away.
“Good girl,” he says, taking the cup away. Your heart skips a beat at his praise. You want to hear more.
“It’ll start working in about 20 minutes. Just take it easy until then, okay?” He caresses your cheek, looking at your eyes, staring deep into your soul.
You nod, and subconsciously lean into his touch.
His cheeks flare, and he gets out of your bed, standing up. “Let me go put this away, I’ll be right back,” he says, excusing himself.
He’s gone for what feels like an eternity, and you fall back asleep.
You wake with a startle. You feel fucking hot. You’re burning up. Your nightgown feels like a prison despite the soft, breathable material. It’s not a normal type of heat, it’s actually quite cold in your room. But you feel achy, like you need something. You need him.
He still hasn’t come back into your room, he’s probably cleaning or cooking for you.
“Yuta…” you call out to him, your voice drawn out. You need his help. You need him to fix you, to figure out why you feel so fucking hot all of a sudden.
Not even 30 seconds later, he’s in the doorway of your room. Your chest heaves with every rise and fall of your breath. You’re panting.
“It’s hot…” you say, practically moaning as you speak.You fan your face as the strap of your nightgown slips down your shoulder, and his eyes immediately flick to the movement.
“Help me… please, Yuta,” you whine.
For a brief moment, a smile overtakes his soft features. It’s gone just as fast as it came, though, as he reaches into his pockets, searching for gloves.
“Move the covers. Let me check you,” he orders, crossing the threshold and standing at the side of the bed.
He checks your forehead first. You don’t feel hot to the touch, yet you’re sweating. His gloved hand trails toward your neck, checking your pulse. It’s fast, but not alarmingly fast.
His hand moves toward your chest, timing your breaths. You’re panting, like you need air.
His hand grazes your breast, and a breath hitches in your throat. You whine under his touch, the cool, gloved hand a stark contrast to your feverishly hot skin.
“You seem to be healthy… but I need to take a closer look,” he says, whispering into your ear. His warm breath tickles you, sending shivers through your entire body. It feels like he’s speaking directly into your fucking brain with how close he is. You never knew just whispering would have you practically quivering under his touch.
“Does it feel good, hm?” He purrs, this time leaving little kisses along your earlobe. Every sensation is like daggers of ice shooting down your spine, directly to your throbbing core. Every syllable a promise of undoing, every kiss a sign of devotion.
You whine as his hand makes its way down your midriff, skirting past your hips, before resting on the inside of your thigh. He hikes the edge of your nightgown up with his other hand, and resumes his light caresses. Every touch only pushes you closer, only serves to make you needier.
You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s unethical. He shouldn’t be doing this. You’re his patient. But that only makes the thrill of it more exciting, more exhilarating, more sinful.
Oh no! A hot doctor wants to personally take care of you! What do you do??? You think to yourself, sarcasm in every word. You would be stupid to reject him, to turn him down, despite everything.
You look to where his hand grips your thigh, leaving marks. There’s something so interesting, so intriguing, so naughty about him wearing gloves yet touching you in this way. Something about the subversion…where you’re sandwiched between the dichotomy of sterile, cleanliness and sinful perversion that just excites you.
His hand glides over the waistband of your panties. “Mmm, don’t you know you’re supposed to completely strip before the doctor examines you? This just won’t do,” he says, snapping the thin fabric until it tears apart. He pulls them off, tossing them on the floor somewhere. “Such a shame… those were very cute. Guess I’ll have to get you more.”
Your voice whines as he drags his finger ever so slowly, taking his time, before it slips between your thighs. “So wet already… you want this that bad, huh?”
His cold, gloved finger slips past your folds, searching for your entrance. “Just gotta make sure everything’s fine down here…” he says, smirking at you. He gingerly inserts a finger, watching as your greedy cunt swallows it whole.
You moan as he inserts his finger, the sudden feeling of fullness overwhelming you. “You’re doing so good… such a good girl for me,” he says, watching your every reaction.
He would never admit that everything he’s done has been for this moment. He would never admit that he would intentionally make you more sick just so you’d be dependent upon him, just so you’d visit him more often. He would never admit to breaking in, swapping your meds, and playing the kind doctor that cares for you. He’d never admit it, but his actions betray his words. Everything he’s done has been for you.
He adds another finger, stretching you out even more. “Yuta…” you begin.
But it’s like something changed in him. “Do you always address your doctors by their first name?” He scolds you. Even though he told you to call him his first name, it seems in this moment, the doctor/patient fantasy is the primary focus of his mind.
You squirm beneath his touch. He brings another gloved hand to your cunt, this time searching for that sensitive little spot. Next time, he tells himself, next time he will really touch you.
His nimble finger finds that sweet spot. In another life, he might be a surgeon with how steady his hands are. But in this life… in this life, he wants nothing more than to be your doctor.
He sucks air in between his teeth, as if touching you requires the utmost concentration and the most delicate care. He knows how fragile you are, how delicate you are. He would never do anything to hurt you, he would never try to break you; he only wants to make you feel better.
You whimper as his skilled finger rubs circles around that sensitive nub. His other hand continues fucking into you with a slow, rhythmic pace. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and Yuta intends to be the winner. His fingers scissor into you, stretching you wider. He needs to train your tight cunt, or else it might hurt when you take him.
“Doctor—” you start, playing into his your fantasy. “Will this make me feel better?” You ask, moans littering every other syllable.
“Of course, everything I do is to make you feel better.” He grins at you, eyes full of lust and desire.
“Please don’t stop,” you say, feeling yourself get closer to that little death. His fingers pick up the pace, rubbing against your clit in just the perfect way.
You grip the sheets of your bed and feel yourself unwind at his touch. You cum so hard you think you might die. But at least you have a medical professional here to take care of you. Your body tenses as you ride waves through your orgasm.
His fingers are replaced with the soft, wet sensation of his tongue. Somewhere in the middle of your orgasm, he switched to licking your clit and lapping up your juices. He doesn’t give you a chance to recover, instead opting to overstimulate you until you really do think you might die.
His tongue is perfect. It’s so soft, so wet, and flicks against you in just the right way. Wet sounds permeate the air, marking it with sin.
It feels almost painful— the second crashing of your orgasm. You didn’t think it was possible to cum again while still riding through your first. Your body spasms and shakes, as your hand reaches for his raven hair and grips it for stability.
You writhe beneath him, feeling like you’ve died and one to the afterlife.
Sapphire eyes look up at you, taking in your crumbling form. “You did well,” he says. “Everything is as it should be.” He moves to get up, but not without leaving little kisses around your swollen sex. He smirks and pulls away, unbuckling his belt.
You’re catching your breath on the bed as he snuffles around you. You’re not sure if you’re even conscious right now.
You realize Yuta is between your legs, lining himself up with you. He pushes your legs against your body, pressing you against the bed as he slowly pushes himself into your throbbing cunt.
“Be a good girl for me and take all of it,” he groans, pushing his cock deeper into you until there’s nothing left. Even with him warming you up, the pain is still present as he stretches you past anything you’ve taken before.
Tears streak down your face, and he kisses them away. “You’re doing so well for me, I promise to take care of you after, okay? You’re mine. Fuck. All mine.”
One hand grips both of your wrists above your head, pinning them against the bed. He starts moving, and the stinging intensifies.
You yelp as he finds a slow rhythm, slowly pulling his cock all the way out, then slamming it back in. You whine with every thrust, but it’s only music to his ears.
He picks up pace, desire clouding his judgment. He’s fucking into you harder now, searching for his own release. “Fuck, you’re still so tight, can’t believe you’re taking it all in—“ he says, his breath hitching as he feels you squeeze around him.
“Yuta—“ you whine, feeling yourself tumble closer to your own orgasm just from his praise.
He whimpers as you moan his name, and something overtakes him. He slams into you harder now, wanting to stuff you so full of his cum you have no choice but to bear his children.
His lips hungrily search for yours, wanting to taste you as he stuffs you full. He tugs at your lip and bites, eliciting a sharp mewl from you.
A hand reaches for your used cunt, a finger searching for your abused clit. The pad of his gloved finger rubs your sensitive nub so perfectly you see stars. You shake beneath his touch, wishing you could move your arms but thoroughly enjoying being pinned against the bed instead.
You tumble towards pleasure, catapulting off the edge of consciousness as a coil inside compresses into nothing and everything all at once. You almost scream in pleasure— his finger and the full feeling of his cock stretching you creating a perfect storm.
A thread inside him snaps. He’s gasping for air as his cock spews thick cum inside your cunt and you can feel it throb with every pulse.
He lets go of your hands and kisses you once more, lovingly this time. “You’re perfect,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”
He caresses your cheek and plants more kisses along your jaw before pulling out of you. He quickly hops up to grab you a towel.
He cleans you up to the best of his abilities, before suggesting you two take a shower together.
As you’re winding down for the night, he asks you to grab his phone from his coat pocket— he needs to check tomorrow’s schedule.
He didn’t tell you which pocket to search. You reach into the deep pocket, and find a bottle of pills. Your name is on the label. And in the corner— a scribble of black ink. A heart. ♡
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