𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

A sugar daddy arrangement spirals into a twisted nightmare as a calculating, sadistic older man grows dangerously possessive. Luxury becomes a gilded cage, and love is warped by jealousy, manipulation, and obsession. Can you escape his grasp, or will his dark devotion consume you?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy : Bye, Bye, Bye – Part 4

Word Count: 1,541 words

The air around you felt too thick to breathe, suffocating and sharp with the metallic tang of blood and the faint acrid scent of gunpowder. Your back was pressed against the cold, unyielding wall, the rough texture biting into your exposed skin as his hand curled around your throat like a vice.

His breath was hot against your face, sharp and uneven, tinged with fury that you could almost taste. His grip tightened—not enough to cut off air, but enough to make you acutely aware of how easily he could crush your windpipe. The weight of the gun pressed into your throat, the muzzle cold and unfeeling against your racing pulse.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, each syllable soaked in malice. “That little tremor in your body? That’s fear, isn’t it?”

Your lips parted to respond, but his thumb dug into your jaw, forcing your head back until the wall scraped against your scalp.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, his tone suddenly sharp, his eyes burning with something unholy. “I can feel it. Your heart is practically clawing its way out of your chest.”

Your gaze met his, defiant despite the trembling in your limbs. You refused to cower, refused to let him see the cracks forming beneath the surface. But his dark, predatory smirk told you he saw everything.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, almost reverent. “So fragile. Like a bird with clipped wings.”

The words were deceptively soft, but the hand around your throat betrayed his true intent. He wasn’t admiring you. He was reveling in your vulnerability, in the knowledge that he could break you with a flick of his wrist.

His lips crashed against yours without warning, a violent collision of teeth and desperation. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a battle, raw and brutal and all-consuming. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, sharp enough to draw blood, and he tasted it with a low, guttural groan.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, his voice rough, his breath fanning over your lips.

You didn’t obey immediately, and his fingers tightened around your throat in response, the warning clear.

“Don’t test me,” he hissed, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve already pushed me too far tonight.”

Reluctantly, you parted your lips, and he claimed your mouth with a ferocity that left no room for resistance. His tongue invaded, demanding submission, and you had no choice but to comply.

The kiss was suffocating, a storm of rage and desire that left you lightheaded. You felt his other hand grip your waist, the force bruising, as he pulled you closer, his body pressing into yours with a terrifying intensity.

“You taste like sin,” he murmured against your lips, his voice dripping with mockery. “Do you let them kiss you like this? Do they touch you the way I do?”

His words were a knife, twisting in your chest, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“You don’t get to stay silent,” he snapped, his teeth grazing your jaw as he bit down, hard enough to leave a mark. “You owe me answers.”

His hands roamed over your body, possessive and unrelenting, as if he could erase the memory of anyone else who had dared to touch you. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving bruises in their wake, and his grip on your waist tightened to the point of pain.

“You think you can keep playing these games,” he growled, his voice a dangerous snarl. “But you’re mine. Do you understand that?”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, menacing whisper.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you’re mine.”

You hesitated, your silence a fragile act of rebellion, and his patience snapped.

The gun shifted against your throat, the barrel pressing against the delicate hollow just below your chin. His thumb trailed along your jaw, deceptively gentle, before tilting your head back to meet his gaze.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned, his tone deadly calm. “Say it, or I’ll carve the words into your skin.”

The tension between you was unbearable, a suffocating weight that pressed down on your chest. The line between fear and desire blurred, the darkness in his eyes drawing you in even as it terrified you.

His lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if savoring the moment. But the intensity was still there, a burning need to consume, to claim, to destroy.

“You’ll break,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a dark promise. “It’s only a matter of time.”

And in that moment, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he had every piece of you—until there was nothing left but the shattered remnants of who you once were.

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His lips crushed against yours, bruising and desperate, his kiss a consuming fire that burned hotter with every second. He didn’t care if you flinched, if you tried to pull back—he couldn’t let you go. His hands gripped you like a vice, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your arms, leaving crescent-shaped marks that would bloom purple by morning.

Jealousy roared through him, a living, breathing beast clawing at his insides. He hated it—hated how it twisted his thoughts, how it poisoned his logic and made his grip tighten until your skin broke beneath his nails. He could feel the wet warmth of your blood against his palm, but he didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, it made him squeeze harder, needing to leave a mark, a piece of himself etched onto your body.

Pathetic. That’s what this was. A pathetic, irrational mess of emotions he couldn’t name, wouldn’t dare name.

But fuck, it didn’t matter. He’d seen you with him—that man. That bastard’s hands on you, his lips devouring yours like he had a right to touch you, to claim you. The memory seared itself into his mind, every detail a blade twisting in his chest.

He remembered the way your head tilted, the way you leaned into the kiss, your arms curling around the man’s neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if you weren’t his.

You were supposed to be his.

“This was a business arrangement,” he snarled against your lips, his voice low and ragged, his breath hot as it mingled with yours. “An open fucking relationship, wasn’t it? But you… you just had to make it more than that, didn’t you?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. He kissed you again, harder this time, biting down on your bottom lip until he tasted blood. His tongue swept over the wound, savoring the copper tang, and he growled deep in his throat, the sound more animal than human.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your jaw. “Do you hear me? You don’t get to spread your legs for anyone else. Not him, not anyone.”

His hands roamed over your body, rough and unforgiving, as if he could erase the memory of every other touch you’d ever known. His fingers dug into your hips, his grip so tight you whimpered, but he didn’t care. He needed to make you feel it, needed you to understand.

“You think I’ll let this slide?” he continued, his voice dripping with venom, each word a dagger meant to wound. “You think I’ll just forget the way you let him touch you?”

He yanked you closer, grinding against you with a force that made your breath hitch. The pressure, the heat, the overwhelming presence of him was suffocating.

“Say it,” he demanded, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Say you’re mine. Say it, or I swear I’ll tear you apart.”

His heart pounded in his chest, every beat a hammer driving home the truth he refused to acknowledge. He wasn’t just angry—he was jealous. Burning, seething jealousy that turned his blood to molten lava and his thoughts to ash.

And he hated it.

He hated how much power you had over him, hated how your indifference cut deeper than any betrayal. This was supposed to be easy, simple—a contract, an arrangement. But you’d slipped through his fingers like smoke, and now he was clawing desperately to hold on, to keep you tethered to him by any means necessary.

“You’re a traitorous fucking slut,” he spat, his voice shaking with barely contained rage. “But you’re my traitorous slut. Do you understand?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He kissed you again, his mouth savage and unyielding, his hands roaming with a possessiveness that bordered on violence. He was going to mark you, to claim you, to make sure no one else ever dared to touch you again.

Because no matter how much he hated it, no matter how much it tore him apart inside, you were his. And he wasn’t letting go.