πPleasure in every strike, pain in every kiss.
β€οΈ Synopsis. In his eyes, she was never just a daughterβshe was a possession, a fragile masterpiece, he would destroy the world to keep as his alone.
β‘ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
β‘ Pairing. Yandere! Stepfather x Fem. Reader
β‘ Novella. Paternal Privilege – Part 2
β‘ Word Count. 5,670
β‘ TW. dom + top yandere, incest, non-con, rape, psychological manipulation, physical and mental conditioning, toxic relationships, possessiveness, social isolation, dacryphilia, choking / breath play, face slapping, slight physical assault and violence, mature language, daddy kink, grooming, DDLG, loss of virginity, objectification, slight blood play, bondage, BDSM, degradation, humiliation
He tested the boundaries carefully at first. A hand lingering too long on your shoulder. A whispered command delivered too close to your ear. You recoiled, of course, but you never defied him outright. You couldnβt. He had stripped you of that power long ago. And when the time came to debut you to high society as his daughter, his creation, he relished the way the eyes of strangers followed you. Not because they admired your beauty, but because it reminded you of the invisible shackles he had placed around your throat. You could dress the part of a princess, but you were still his. You always would be.
It happened one night after a gala, the air thick with the scent of champagne and power. You had been stunning, as always, your presence commanding even as your demeanor remained subdued. He had watched as men approached you, their intentions all too clear, and though you had rebuffed them with practiced grace, it wasnβt enough. He wanted them to know you were untouchable.
When the car ride home stretched into silence, the tension in the air became unbearable.
ββββββββββββ
You find yourself in the confining embrace of your stepfather’s luxury sedan, the leather seats cold against your bare thighs as the tempestuous rainstorm rages outside.
His hand, thick and calloused, clutches your hair in a vice-like grip, forcing you to face the storm of his lustful gaze.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, his breath hot and sour on your cheek, “and I’ll make sure you know it.”
His eyes, usually so dismissive and cold, burn with a fiery obsession that sends shivers down your spine. Your heart hammers in your chest, a caged bird desperate to escape the clutches of this monster masquerading as your protector.
With a jolt of terror-fueled strength, you shove at his chest with both hands.
The action surprises him, but his grip on your hair doesn’t loosen.
Instead, he chuckles darkly, the sound echoing in the small space. “So you want to play hard to get?” His voice is a taunting purr that sends bile rising in your throat.
You try to kick out at him, but the confines of the car limit your movements, turning your struggles into a macabre dance of helplessness.
“Stop struggling, slut,” he sneers, his words like a knife twisting in your soul.
Ignoring the pain, you manage to break his hold on your hair. You pull away, your eyes searching for any escape.
But the door handle is too far, his body too close.
He grabs your wrists with surprising speed, pinning them to the seat above your head, his weight pressing you down into the cold leather.
“Don’t fight me,” he says, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “You know you’ll just make it worse for yourself.”
His hips grind against you, his erection digging into your stomach. Your stomach turns at the unwelcome pressure, the reality of his intentions hitting you like a physical blow.
Tears stream down your cheeks as you thrash beneath him, your legs trying to find some purchase to push him off.
But he’s too strong, too heavy.
You’re no match for his brutal dominance.
He leans in closer, his teeth grazing your ear. “Be a good girl,” he whispers, his hot breath sending tremors through your body.
“Daddy’s going to show you what it means to be his.” With a growl, he shifts his grip, one hand moving to the hem of your dress.
You scream, a raw sound of defiance and despair, but he quickly muffles it with his mouth, his tongue forcing its way into yours once more.
His other hand tugs at your underwear, the fabric ripping as he exposes your vulnerable flesh to his touch.
You can feel the wetness between your thighs, a traitorous response to his rough handling.
But it’s not desireβit’s fear.
Fear that fuels your desperate attempts to escape, even though you know it’s futile.
His hand slides up, his calloused fingers digging into your skin as he grabs hold of your neck, squeezing just enough to cut off your air.
“Stay still,” he commands, his eyes never leaving yours. “Stay still, and maybe I’ll make it quick.”
The promise in his voice is a lie, you know that now.
There’s no mercy here, only the cold, hard edge of his lust.
With a grunt of effort, you manage to pull your legs up and kick at him, as hard as you can without hesitation. One of your heels connects with his ribs, and he grunts in pain.
For a moment, his grip loosens, and you suck in a gasp of precious air.
But he recovers quickly, his hand tightening around your throat once more. “Fight all you want,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a dark amusement. “It just makes it more fun for me.”
His hand releases your neck, only to slide down and squeeze your breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak.
You whimper, trying to pull away from his touch, but he’s too strong.
“Please,” you choke out, your voice hoarse from his earlier assault. “Don’t do this.”
He laughs, the sound sending chills down your spine. “You think begging will save you?”
He leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. “It just makes me want you more.”
With a grim smile, he pushes your legs apart, his hand sliding down to grip your inner thigh, the pressure painful.
His other hand reaches for the button of his pants, and you know what’s coming next.
Panic wells up inside you, but you can’t let him see it. You won’t give him the satisfaction.
“You’re just a fucking whore,” he spits out, his face contorted with rage.
“Spread your legs wider, let me see what you’re hiding.” His fingers dig into your skin, leaving bruises that you know will bloom darkly tomorrow.
You grit your teeth and resist, but his strength overpowers you, and he forces your legs apart with a cruel ease that makes you feel like nothing more than a ragdoll in his grasp.
With trembling hands, he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants, freeing his erection.
The sight of it fills you with revulsion, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of what’s happening.
“Look at it,” he demands, slapping your cheek hard enough to make stars burst in your vision. “Look at what you’re going to take for me.”
You force your eyes open, staring at the monster above you, his arousal standing tall and unforgiving.
You try to shake your head, to scream, to do anything but acknowledge the obscene tool he’s using to claim you.
But his grip on your throat tightens, cutting off any sound, leaving you to gasp for air.
He takes advantage of your open mouth, plunging his tongue inside again, invading every part of you with his vile presence.
Your body betrays you, your fear giving way to a desperate need for air. Your legs instinctively part wider under his unrelenting grip, offering no more resistance.
He grins in triumph, his hand releasing your throat to guide his erection to your trembling folds.
You feel the cold metal of the car door against your bare back as he lines himself up with brutal precision.
His hand moves to your chin, tilting your head back so he can watch the horror play out across your tear-streaked face.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a snarl. “Look at your daddy while he takes you.”
You keep your eyes squeezed shut, willing the world to swallow you whole, to end this nightmare.
But his fingers dig into your chin, forcing you to look into the cold, empty pits of his eyes. You see nothing but possession, nothing but the hunger to dominate and conquer.
With a violent thrust, he enters you, the pain so sharp it feels like a blade slicing through your soul.
You scream, but it’s muffled by his hand, which has moved to cover your mouth again. You can taste the salt of your own tears, and the metallic tang of fear fills your mouth.
He doesn’t care about your pain; he doesn’t care about your pleas. He only cares about claiming you, about showing you who’s in control.
His rough, merciless thrust tears through your hymen, the pain so intense that it momentarily blots out the rest of the world.
You feel a warm gush of blood mingle with the slickness of your fear, coating his invading member as he ruts into you without remorse.
The sound of your muffled screams and the slap of skin on skin fill the car’s interior, a cacophony of violation that seems to resonate with the thunder outside.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his eyes alight with a sadistic glee as he feels your body’s final defense give way. “So tight, so perfect.” His voice is a harsh rasp that sends a shiver down your spine.
He withdraws slightly, giving you a brief respite from the agony before he slams back into you, harder and faster than before. Each thrust feels like a declaration of war against your very being, a brutal assertion of his dominance.
You bite down on his hand, trying to muffle the sounds of your suffering, your teeth sinking into his flesh.
He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that sends a chill through you. “That’s the spirit,” he says, his grip on your chin tightening until it feels like your bones might snap. “Take it, baby girl. Take your daddy’s cock like the whore you are.”
His words are a knife twisting in your gut, each syllable a fresh wound that makes you want to retch.
But you can’t, you’re trapped under his weight, his hand over your mouth, his cock deep inside you, stealing your innocence with every brutal thrust.
You feel your body start to give in, the pain giving way to a strange, sick numbness that spreads from your core to your fingertips.
His pace quickens, his breath hot and ragged in your ear as he nears his climax. His hips slam into yours, the leather seat creaking beneath the force of his movements.
The rain outside is a blur, a backdrop to the horror unfolding within the car’s confines.
As he reaches his peak, his grip on your throat tightens, cutting off your air once more. Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving as you struggle for breath, your body convulsing with the effort to survive.
He grunts in satisfaction, his seed spilling into you, marking you as irrevocably his.
The sensation is foreign, revolting, and you want to scream, to push him off, but you can’t.
You’re trapped in a prison of his making, your body used and discarded like a piece of trash.
Finally, he pulls out, the sound of his wetness leaving your body filling the car with a finality that makes you want to retch.
He releases your wrists, letting them fall to the seat with a thud. You cough, gasping for air, your eyes watering from the pain and fear.
He pulls his hand from your mouth, smearing your own blood across your face as he does.
“You’re a mess,” he says, his voice thick with pleasure. “But you always were.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. With a smirk, he wipes away the blood from his hand, then leans in and tenderly wipes the blood from your chin. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, his voice a mockery of concern.
He opens the car door, the cool air rushing in, bringing with it the scent of wet earth and rain.
You try to crawl away from him, but he grabs your ankle, yanking you back towards him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
You manage to spit out the words, “I hate you,” your voice hoarse and broken.
He chuckles, his eyes gleaming in the dim car light. “Oh, I know you do. But you’re going to learn to love me, little slut. You’re going to crave this.”
He releases your ankle, and you scramble away from him, trying to put as much distance between you as possible.
He watches you, his eyes raking over your trembling form with a sick fascination. “You’re going to crave this pain,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “You’re going to beg for it.”
You pull yourself into a sitting position, your back pressed against the opposite door, your knees drawn up to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.
Your eyes dart to the door handle, calculating the distance, the speed with which you can escape.
But his hand is there before you can move, grabbing your chin again and forcing you to look at him.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, his voice a warning growl. “You’re mine, and you’re not going anywhere.”
He reaches into the backseat, pulling out a bottle of water and a first aid kit.
With cold efficiency, he opens the bottle and pours it over your face, the cool liquid mixing with your tears and the blood from your bruised lip.
It’s a slap in the face, a cruel reminder of your helplessness.
Then, with the same hand, he grabs a wad of gauze from the kit and presses it against your mouth.
“Bite down,” he commands, his grip on your jaw unyielding. You do as he says, the gauze muffling your sobs as he wipes away the blood and the evidence of your pain.
Once he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he tosses the bloody gauze aside and takes a deep breath.
“Now, let’s get you dressed,” he says, his voice calm and even as if he’s discussing the weather.
You flinch as he reaches for the torn remnants of your underwear, pulling it away from your bruised thighs with a snarl.
He tosses it out of the car into the storm, the fabric disappearing into the dark. “Don’t bother,” he says when he sees you trying to cover yourself with your dress. “You won’t be needing it where we’re going.”
You watch in horror as he pulls out a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment, a tool of his twisted trade.
With swift, practiced movements, he tears off a piece and presses it over your mouth, silencing your protests. Your eyes widen with fear, but he merely smiles, patting your cheek.
“Don’t worry, my little fucktoy. You’ll get used to this.” He tapes your wrists together behind your back, the plastic biting into your skin. “Now, let’s go.”
He pulls you out of the car, the rain soaking your dress, plastering it to your body like a second skin. Your bare feet sink into the mud as he drags you across the grass, the cold seeping into your bones.
The mansion looms ahead, a prison of opulence that holds your nightmares.
You stumble and fall, but his grip is unrelenting, hauling you back to your feet.
He opens the door and shoves you inside, the warmth of the house a stark contrast to the coldness of his touch.
The grand foyer echoes with the sound of the door slamming shut, the chandeliers swaying slightly from the impact. He leads you down a hallway lined with family portraits, each frame holding a lie of happiness and normalcy.
You try to fight, to kick and scream, but the tape muffles your cries and his grip is like iron. You’re dragged into a dimly lit room that reeks of his cologne and something elseβsomething darker, something that makes your stomach churn.
He flicks on the lights, revealing a plush, velvet-covered chair in the center of the room. It’s a throne for his twisted games.
“Sit,” he orders, pushing you down into the chair.
You stumble, but manage to sit; the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into your wrists with the restraints on your ankles, as he fully secures you to the chair’s arms.
The cuffs are tight, the metal digging into your skin, a reminder that you’re his prisoner.
He paces around you, his eyes raking over your trembling body. “You’re going to learn to crave this,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress.
“You’re going to beg for my touch, my pain.” He reaches out and runs a finger along your jaw, his gaze lingering on your neck where his hand had been moments ago.
“You’re going to be mine in every way.”
You shrink back in the chair, trying to put as much space between you and him as the restraints will allow. The fear in your eyes only fuels his fire, making him grin wider.
He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, forcing you to look at him. “You’re so beautiful when you’re scared,” he says, his voice a sickening blend of admiration and possession.
He circles you, his eyes raking over your body, taking in every inch of your exposed skin with a hunger that makes you feel like prey.
Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat a painful reminder of your own vulnerability. “But you’re going to learn to be beautiful for me when you’re not,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.
“You’re going to learn to love the sound of my voice, the feel of my hands on you.” His hand traces a path from your shoulder to your bound wrists, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the cuffs.
Your mind races, desperately searching for a way out of this hell, but your body is frozen in fear.
You watch as he crosses the room and opens a large wooden armoire, revealing a collection of leather straps, whips, and chains.
He selects one of the straps, the sound of it cutting through the silence like a knife. He returns to you, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“We’re going to play a little game,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Every time you scream, I’ll add another strap. Do you understand?”
You nod frantically, the tape sticking to your skin as you move your head. The last thing you want is to be bound more than you already are, but the thought of enduring more pain makes bile rise in your throat.
He smirks, interpreting your nod as agreement, and begins to wrap the strap around your chest, pulling it tight. The material bites into your skin, and you try to hold back the whimpers that threaten to escape.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his tone sickeningly patronizing. “Just remember, the quieter you are, the easier this will be for you.”
He secures the strap, then moves to your ankles, looping another one around them, pulling your legs apart.
The chair’s cold metal presses into your bare skin, and you struggle, the restraints on your wrists and ankles sticking as you try to kick him away.
But he’s too fast, too strong.
He simply pins your legs in place with his own, his weight pressing you down into the chair. You can feel his erection against your thigh, and the realization makes your stomach churn.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice cold and hard. “Look at the man who owns you.“
Tears stream down your face as he secures the final strap, the leather biting into your skin.
He steps back, admiring his handiwork with a twisted smile. “Now, let’s begin,” he says, his eyes alight with a sadistic excitement.
He picks up a riding crop from the armoire, the leather tail slapping against his palm in a rhythm that makes your blood run cold.
He stands in front of you, his gaze never leaving yours as he traces the tip of the crop along your collarbone. You flinch, trying to pull away, but the chair holds you in place.
He brings the crop down hard across your chest, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through your body.
You scream into the gag, the sound muffled and pathetic. “Looks like we’re going to have to work on that,” he says with a sneer. “β¦ But I do love hearing you scream for me.”
He raises the crop again, and you brace yourself for another blow, your eyes squeezed shut. This time, the pain is more intense, the leather cutting into your skin as it makes contact.
“Open your eyes,” he barks, his voice a whip crack in the quiet room.
You obey, the fear in your gaze unmistakable. “Look at what I’m doing to you. Look at how much you’re enjoying it.” The crop strikes again, this time across your breasts.
You try to arch away from the pain, but the restraints hold you in place, forcing you to take every hit.
The stinging pain turns to a throbbing ache, and you can feel your body responding despite your mind’s screams of protest.
He notices the betrayal of your flesh and chuckles darkly. “See? You’re already learning.”
He steps closer, the crop now replaced by his hand. He squeezes your bruised flesh, watching with a twisted fascination as your eyes widen with pain. “You’re so responsive,” he murmurs. “It’s like your body knows who it truly belongs to.”
His other hand moves to the button of his pants, the sound of his zipper echoing in the room like a gunshot.
You try to jerk away, but the restraints hold you in place. He leans down, his breath hot against your neck as he whispers, “You’re going to take all of me, little slut.”
With a cruel twist, he yanks the chair forward, knocking your feet off the floor and leaving you dangling in mid-air.
Your bound wrists take the brunt of your weight, the pain making you gasp. He steps between your legs, positioning himself at your entrance, still slick with your own blood.
He takes a moment to admire the sight before him, the helplessness of your body, the stark terror in your eyes.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice a dark purr.
You shake your head frantically, the tape on your mouth fluttering with each movement.
He doesn’t wait for your consent, driving into you without preamble.
You feel your body stretch to accommodate his size, the pain a searing reminder of the violation you’ve just endured.
The chair squeaks and groans beneath your combined weight as he fucks you with a brutal rhythm.
Each thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a reaffirmation of his ownership.
You try to keep your eyes on him, to show your defiance, but the pain is too much, and they roll back in your head.
“Look at me,” he snarls, slapping you across the face, bringing you back to the present.
Your cheek burns, a fresh wave of pain crashing over you. You do as he says, staring up at him with a mix of hatred and despair.
He seems to feed off your pain, his eyes darkening with pleasure as he watches your struggle.
His hand moves to your throat again, squeezing gently at first, then tighter and tighter until you can feel your airway closing.
“You’re going to learn to enjoy this,” he says, his voice a sinister whisper. “You’re going to beg for it.”
He starts to move again, his hips pounding into yours, the chair’s legs scraping against the floor with each thrust. You can feel him getting closer to climax, his movements growing erratic.
The pain is unbearable, your body screaming for it to stop, but you know that’s what he wantsβto break you completely.
You refuse to give him the satisfaction, biting down on the tape to keep from crying out.
But your resolve wavers with each smack of his hand on your face, each painful thrust that feels like it’s tearing you apart, blood mixing with sweat and your release.
He leans down, his hot breath fanning your cheek as he whispers, “You’re going to come for me, little slut. You’re going to show me how much you love this.”
His hand moves to your clit, applying pressure, his fingers rough and unyielding.
You try to resist, but your body betrays you, a whimper escaping your throat as you feel an unwanted response building.
He notices, his eyes lighting up with triumph. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a dark symphony of victory. “Come for Daddy.”
The pain morphs into something elseβsomething darker, something that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back. You can’t fight it anymore; you’re going to come whether you want to or not.
Your body convulses around him, your orgasm a silent scream trapped by the tape across your mouth.
He laughs, a deep, dark sound that sends chills down your spine. “Look at you,” he says, his voice thick with arousal. “Already addicted to your daddy’s cock.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to recover, his thrusts growing more erratic as he chases his own release.
The room spins around you, the leather of the chair sticking to your skin as sweat beads on your forehead.
You want to hate him, to despise him for what he’s doing to you, but the traitorous part of your body responds, making you feel dirty and used.
The pressure on your throat eases slightly as he starts to come, his hips jerking erratically as he empties himself inside you.
You feel his hot seed fill you, a final violation in this twisted ritual.
When he’s done and fixes your chairβs position, he pulls out with a wet, slopping sound, leaving you feeling even more violated and exposed.
He tucks himself away and adjusts his clothing, his expression calm as if he’s just returned from a casual evening stroll.
“Good girl,” he says, his voice a mockery of affection. “You’re learning so quickly.”
He leans in, peeling the tape from your mouth with a cruel slowness that makes you flinch. “But we’re not done yet.”
Your jaw aches from being held open so wide, your voice hoarse from the screams that never truly left your throat.
You try to spit out the taste of him, but your mouth is dry, the inside of your cheeks stinging from the tape’s removal.
“Wh-what do you want?” you rasp, your voice barely above a whisper.
He smiles, a cold, calculated expression that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I want you to know that this isn’t the end. This is just the beginning.”
He walks over to a table in the corner of the room, picking up a digital camera.
“We’re going to make some memories, you and I.” He clicks it on, the red light blinking like a demonic eye.
“And you’re going to wear this.” He holds up a collar with a ring attached to it. “It’s a symbol of our relationship.”
You stare at the collar in horror, shaking your head as much as the straps will allow. “No,” you manage to croak out, your voice raw from screaming.
He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, yes,” he says, his voice a dark promise.
“You’re going to wear it, and you’re going to love it.” He moves back to you, the camera in one hand, the collar in the other.
He reaches for your neck, and you try to flinch away, but he’s too fast, the leather circling your throat, the cold metal of the ring pressing into the soft skin beneath your jaw.
He secures it with a click, the sound echoing in your ears like the final nail in your coffin. “Look at yourself,” he says, holding up the camera to take a picture.
You stare at the reflection in the lens, tears streaming down your face, mixing with the rain and mud.
The collar around your neck is a stark reminder of your new realityβhis possession, his plaything. “Look how pretty you are,” he says, his voice sickeningly sweet. “My little pet.”
He snaps another picture, the flash blinding you for a moment.
He tugs on the ring, pulling your face closer to his crotch. “Now, lick it clean,” he orders, his voice a mix of arousal and malice.
You feel bile rise in your throat, but the fear of more pain overpowers your revulsion.
With trembling lips, you obey, your tongue tentatively touching his still-hard cock. The taste is bitter, a reminder of the horror you’ve endured.
He groans in pleasure, his grip on the camera tightening as he takes more photos, capturing your degradation.
“That’s it,” he praises, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Show me how much you love your daddy’s taste.”
His words are like acid, burning into your soul.
You try to focus on anything but the task at hand, but the smell of him, the feel of his skin, the way he’s watching youβit’s all-consuming. When he’s satisfied with the pictures, he sets the camera aside, his eyes never leaving you.
He reaches for your chin, tilting your face back up to look at him. The smugness in his expression makes you want to spit in his face, but the collar around your neck and the memory of his grip on your throat keeps you still.
“You’re going to be my little secret,” he says, his thumb tracing the ring on your collar. “No one can know about this. Do you understand?”
You nod, your eyes pleading. Anything to get out of this nightmare.
He smiles, a chilling sight that doesnβt reach his eyes. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand moving from your chin to stroke your cheek with a tenderness that feels like a lie.
“Now, let’s get you cleaned up. We wouldn’t want anyone to see you like this.” He reaches for a towel that’s been laid out on the table and gently wipes your face, the soft fabric stinging against the raw skin. “You’re going to keep this our little secret, right baby girl?”
You nod again, too scared to do anything else, as he unwraps your wrists from the chair, the leather straps leaving angry red marks in their wake.
He helps you to stand, his grip on your arm firm, as if afraid you might run.
ββββββββββββ
The room spins around you, and you lean heavily against him for a moment, feeling his warmth and strengthβand hating yourself for it.
He leads you to a large, ornate bathtub filled with steaming water and scented bubbles.
“In you go,” he says, his voice deceptively gentle. You step in, the hot water soothing the bruises he’s left on your skin, but doing nothing to wash away the filth you feel inside.
He stands beside the tub, his eyes never leaving you as he pours a bottle of something that smells faintly of lavender into the water.
“This will help with the pain,” he says, his voice almost kind.
But you know better.
You know that every kindness is a trap, a means to make you more pliant, more accepting of his twisted games.
He picks up a soft washcloth and begins to scrub away the evidence of his abuse, his movements clinical and detached.
You try to flinch away, but he holds your arm firmly, his gaze never leaving yours. “You don’t have to fight me,” he whispers.
“You can never win.“
As the water turns pink with your blood, you feel a strange sense of detachment.
Like you’re watching someone else’s life unfold.
It’s the only way to survive thisβto convince yourself that this isn’t really happening to you.
But the pain is all too real as he cleans the wounds on your wrists and the ache between your legs.
His touch is gentle, almost tender, but you know it’s just a facade.
A mask to make you believe he cares.
“Look at me,” he says again, his eyes searching yours.
You force yourself to meet his gaze, trying to hide the fear and disgust that you know is written across your face.
“You’re mine now. You’ll always be mine.” He says it with such certainty that you almost believe it.
Almost.
But deep down, you know there’s a part of you that will never truly belong to himβa spark of defiance that refuses to be extinguished.
He helps you out of the tub, the water sluicing off your body and leaving you cold and trembling.
He wraps a towel around you, his hands lingering on your shoulders a moment too long, his thumbs brushing the bare skin at the base of your neck where the collar sits.
It feels like a brand, a mark of his ownership that you’ll never be able to escape.
He leads you to a vanity, the lights above casting a harsh glow on your tear-stained face.
You catch a glimpse of the collar in the mirror, and a fresh wave of revulsion hits you.
You hate him for doing this to you, for making you feel like this.
“Look at yourself,” he says, his voice a soft hiss.
“This is who you are now.” He takes a step back, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he surveys you.
“You’re mine, to do with as I please. And if you’re a good girl,” he leans in, his breath hot against your ear,
“I might just let you keep some of your dignity.”
His words are a lie wrapped in a promise, and you know it, but there’s a part of you that clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he won’t hurt you as badly next time.
ββββββββββββ
List of Fandoms and Characters
Ace Attorney: Barok van Zieks
Blue Lock: Jinpachi Ego, Michael Kaiser, Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi
Boku no Hero Academia: Dabi, Endeavor, Shouto Todoroki
Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: N/A
Death Note: Light Yagami
Demon Slayer: Muzan Kibutsuji
Dishonored Series: Anton Sokolov, Daud
Genshin Impact: Dainsleif, Zhongli (Rex Lapis / Morax)
Haikyuu!!: Kei Tsukishima, Wakatoshi Ushijima
Honkai Star Rail: Blade, Sunday
How to Live as an Illegal Healer: N/A
Hunter x Hunter: Illumi Zoldyck
I’m Not That Kind of Talent: Duke Illuster Starbe, Nemeseus
Jujutsu Kaisen: Kenjaku, Ryomen Sukuna
Kill The Hero: Park Yong-Wan, Se Jun-Lee
Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: Aamon
Naruto Shippuden: Madara Uchiha
One Punch Man: Boros
Reverend Insanity: Fang Yuan
TOUCHSTARVED: N/A
Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Error! Sans, Ink! Sans, Nightmare! Sans
Wuthering Waves: Geshu Lin
Your Throne: Eros Orna Vasilios
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