He’s your family, but he doesn’t act like it.
❤︎ Synopsis. In his eyes, she was never just a daughter—she was a possession, a fragile masterpiece, he would destroy the world to keep as his alone.
♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Stepfather x Fem. Reader
♡ Novella. Paternal Privilege – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 5,879
♡ TW. dom + top yandere, incest, non-con, poverty, financial manipulation, psychological manipulation, mental conditioning, child abuse, slight voyeurism, non-con touching and kissing, toxic relationships, possessiveness, social isolation, dacryphilia, choking / breath play, grooming, lack of physical and relational boundaries, degradation, humiliation
It started with the first mistake. A small one, insignificant by any standard except his own. Your fingers had brushed against his wallet as you attempted to slip it free from his coat. He caught your wrist before you could blink, the pressure of his grip a cold promise of retribution. You had snarled at him then, like a feral thing backed into a corner, your teeth bared despite your thin, malnourished frame. There was no pity in his expression as he looked down at you, only calculation.
“Interesting,” he had murmured, his voice devoid of warmth, as though he were examining a broken artifact. And then, after a moment’s pause, “I think I’ll keep you.”
The words had meant nothing to you then. Just another cruel twist of fate in a life already riddled with suffering. But over the years, their weight became unbearable, a chain you could never break. He had dragged you out of the filth and into his world of cold luxury, and you had learned quickly that safety was not synonymous with kindness.
No, the world had beaten that out of him long before you were ever born. What he offered was an exchange: safety for obedience, education for diligence, and resources for loyalty. You were to be molded, not cherished. Shaped, not nurtured. Your position in his house was not as a daughter but as a contingency—a blade sharpened for a task he hoped he would never have to assign you. He had an heir, after all. A son, crafted in his image, though far too reckless to carry the weight of his empire. And you? You were insurance.
But even insurance had to earn its place.
He was precise in everything he did, including the way he broke you. His methods were not born of cruelty for cruelty’s sake—he considered himself above such baseless indulgence. Instead, every punishment was calculated, a lesson delivered with surgical precision. The sharp crack of his voice was worse than any physical blow, each word stripping you down until the fire in your eyes flickered weakly, struggling to remain alight.
If he was pleased, he could be almost generous. A dress for a gala. A rare moment of praise. But those instances were so fleeting that you learned quickly not to crave them. Craving led to disappointment, and disappointment bred weakness. You had no use for it.
It would have been easier if he had hated you. Hatred, at least, could be understood. But no, his disdain for you was something more insidious—a quiet, festering annoyance that had grown over time, fed by your stubborn resilience. He had molded his empire with ruthless efficiency, bending men and markets alike to his will. Yet you, a filthy stray he should have discarded, continued to resist in ways that set his teeth on edge.
Your “brother,” however, had no such struggles. He moved through the household with a veneer of charm that fooled everyone but you. Behind his polished facade was a predator, his words slick with venom and his hands far too comfortable in places they shouldn’t have been. Your stepfather seemed blind to it—or perhaps he didn’t care. After all, his heir was above reproach, even if that heir was a misogynistic bastard who treated women like disposable trinkets. His failures were excused, his indulgences overlooked. Meanwhile, you bore the brunt of every misstep, every perceived slight, every ounce of anger your stepfather refused to direct at his golden child.
You were an itch beneath his skin, a flaw in his otherwise perfect calculations. He told himself that was all you were: a contingency plan, a tool. A sharp blade, forged under his watchful eye, meant to protect what he had built. Nothing more. Nothing else.
But even tools could tempt.
────────────
He didn’t know when it began—the slow erosion of his detachment. Perhaps it was when you started to move with the grace he had demanded of you, each step deliberate, each word measured. Or perhaps it was when he saw the way others looked at you, their gazes lingering too long, their intentions transparent. He told himself it was annoyance, nothing more. A natural reaction to the idea that something he owned could be coveted by others.
He began watching you more closely, though his scrutiny was nothing new. He had always been a man of observation, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. But now, it was different. Now, it wasn’t just your mistakes he cataloged, but the way your lips parted when you spoke, the faint shiver that ran through you when his hand brushed yours during training, the fire in your eyes when you argued with him.
And, when his son cornered you in the study one evening, his hands grasping at what wasn’t his to take, the rage that burned in him was far from paternal. The sound of his cane striking the polished floor as he entered was enough to send the boy scurrying, but the fury in his eyes was directed not at his heir, but at you.
“You provoke him,” he said coldly, his voice low and dangerous. “With your defiance. Your insolence.”
You didn’t respond, your silence a shield you had long since perfected. But he wasn’t fooled. He had always known what simmered beneath your stoic facade. That fire he had spent years trying to extinguish still burned, faint but persistent, waiting for the chance to consume him.
He should have been disgusted by the thought, but disgust required a level of humanity he no longer possessed. What he felt instead was something far darker, an obsession that sank its claws into him and refused to let go.
He knew every inch of you—not just as a father knows a child, but as a man knows a woman.
And he hated it.
He hated the way your presence stirred something in him that should have stayed buried, hated the way his control slipped in the quiet moments when you were near. He should have been disgusted, ashamed. But shame required a conscience, and he had abandoned that long ago. Instead, he leaned into his desire, rationalizing it as yet another form of control. You were his, after all. He had taken you from nothing and given you everything. Your brilliance, your strength, your very survival—none of it would exist without him. What right did you have to deny him?
────────────
The irritation began long before he realized it. It was insidious, threading itself into the fabric of his daily life, coloring every interaction with you until it became impossible to ignore. He would never admit it—not even to himself—but you had become a constant presence in his mind, a thorn he couldn’t remove no matter how deeply he buried the ache.
At first, he told himself it was logical. Practical. You were a tool, after all, and tools had to be maintained, watched, controlled. But over the years, his attention drifted from your utility to other things—smaller, infuriating details that gnawed at his composure. The way you carried yourself with an air of defiance, even when bowing your head in submission. The way your voice, sharp and cutting when you dared to speak back, lingered in his ears long after you’d been dismissed.
────────────
The bathhouse was a room built for indulgence, decadence dripping from every polished tile and gilded faucet. Steam curled lazily in the air, clinging to the pristine walls and diffusing the soft, golden light that bathed the space in an unnatural warmth. The water shimmered like liquid silk, its surface disturbed only by the faint ripples of your movements.
You sat at the edge of the pool, your back straight and your chin raised with that same deadpan defiance he had come to both loathe and crave. You didn’t look at him, though you knew he was there. He always was, leaning against the doorframe with the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a vice. His gaze was as sharp as it was cold, raking over your exposed skin with clinical precision that belied the storm brewing behind his steely eyes.
“Strip,” he had commanded earlier, his voice devoid of inflection, as though the order were as routine as breathing. And perhaps it was, by now. You hadn’t protested—there was no point. You simply stared at him with that infuriatingly neutral expression of yours before complying, peeling away the layers of fabric with a mechanical detachment that mirrored his own.
He told himself this was necessary. Routine. Logical. He needed to ensure you were in peak condition, free of scars or weaknesses that could jeopardize your role in his carefully constructed empire. After all, you were an investment—a tool he had polished and sharpened to perfection.
But as his eyes traced the curve of your collarbone, the delicate jut of your ribs, and the subtle swell of flesh that hinted at a beauty he had tried to ignore; for the first time, he felt the first stirrings of something far more dangerous than annoyance.
You were thin, still too pale, but no longer the skeletal shadow he had first dragged from the gutter. The malnourishment that had once defined you had given way to a wiry strength, and though you were far from perfect, there was a resilience in the set of your jaw and the glint of your eyes that made his teeth clench. He hated it—the way you had clawed your way back to something resembling vitality, despite everything he had done to strip you down to nothing.
But he hated himself more. For looking too long. For noticing the faint sheen of water on your skin, the way the droplets clung to you like a second layer of clothing before slipping away, exposing more of you with every languid movement.
His fingers twitched at his sides, and he curled them into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. He told himself it was irritation. Annoyance. That you were nothing more than a distraction—a necessary evil in a life that had no room for weakness. But the tightening in his chest, the heat pooling low in his abdomen, betrayed him.
“Bathe,” he ordered, his voice sharper than he intended. It cut through the silence like a blade, and you glanced at him for the briefest of moments before turning away, sliding into the water with a grace that made his stomach twist.
You didn’t speak as you began to wash, your movements efficient but unhurried. The water lapped at your skin, soft and inviting, and he hated the way it seemed to caress you in ways he could not. His eyes followed the path of your hands as they trailed over your arms, your neck, your shoulders—lingering on the places where flesh met bone, where softness gave way to strength.
There were no scars. No deformities. No imperfections to justify the intensity of his scrutiny. But he continued to watch, his expression a mask of indifference even as his thoughts spiraled into territory he refused to acknowledge.
You were beautiful. It was a truth he had avoided for as long as he could, but now, as the steam curled around you like a lover’s embrace, it was impossible to deny. The defiance in your eyes, the fire he had tried so desperately to extinguish, only made it worse. You were a contradiction—soft and hard, fragile and unyielding—and it made him want to tear you apart just to see what lay beneath.
His jaw tightened as he pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer to the edge of the bath. You didn’t look up, but he could see the way your shoulders tensed, the subtle shift in your posture that betrayed your awareness of his presence. It was a small victory, but it was enough to stoke the embers of his control.
“Raise your arms,” he said, his voice cold and clinical, though the command lingered in the air like a challenge. You obeyed without hesitation, lifting your arms above your head in a gesture that left you vulnerable, exposed.
He crouched beside the bath, his gloved hand brushing against your skin as he examined you with the precision of a craftsman inspecting his work. His touch was impersonal, detached, but the heat of your skin seeped through the thin layer of leather, setting his nerves alight. He traced the lines of your muscles, the curve of your spine, the delicate ridge of your ribs, searching for flaws that didn’t exist.
“You’ve improved,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “At least you’re not the walking corpse you once were.”
Your lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I aim to please,” you said, your tone as deadpan as your expression.
He hated that, too. The way you could needle him with so little effort, even when you were at his mercy. It made him want to crush you, to shatter the carefully constructed walls you hid behind and leave you trembling in his hands.
But instead, he stood abruptly, his movements sharp and decisive. “Finish quickly,” he snapped, turning on his heel. “I don’t have all night.”
As he walked away, his fists clenched at his sides, he told himself this was the last time. That he would not let you crawl under his skin again.
But he knew it was a lie.
────────────
You were a nuisance. A distraction.
He hated distractions.
He watched you more closely than he should have, his irritation mounting with every interaction. Your silence grated on him, as did the fire behind your eyes when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. You were ungrateful, insubordinate, stubborn to a fault—and yet, there was something about you that held his gaze longer than he liked.
It disgusted him, or so he claimed. But the disgust felt hollow, an excuse to mask the truth he didn’t want to face.
────────────
One evening, he found himself lingering in the doorway of the study, watching as you hunched over a stack of reports he’d ordered you to prepare. The soft glow of the lamp cast your features in sharp relief, highlighting the set of your jaw and the delicate curve of your neck. His irritation flared at the sight of you, so focused, so determined to meet his impossible standards.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
You startled, your pen slipping from your fingers, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction at the way your shoulders tensed.
“I’ll finish soon,” you replied, your voice steady but low. Controlled. Carefully devoid of emotion.
He hated that, too—the way you had learned to mask your feelings around him. It was a skill he’d forced upon you, and yet now it only served to irritate him further. He wanted to see you break, to hear your voice tremble with fear or anger or anything that betrayed the composure you clung to so desperately.
“Soon isn’t good enough,” he snapped, stepping into the room and letting the door close behind him. The click of the latch seemed louder in the silence, a reminder that you were alone with him now.
You didn’t look up, your hands clenching into fists on the desk. The tension in your posture was subtle but unmistakable, and it only fueled his annoyance.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his tone low and dangerous.
You hesitated, and that hesitation was enough to set his teeth on edge. When you finally raised your eyes to meet his, he saw the defiance flickering there, faint but still alive. He had tried so hard to extinguish it, to strip you of the stubborn fire that made you so infuriatingly difficult to control. But it remained, smoldering just beneath the surface, and it filled him with a rage he couldn’t fully explain.
“Do you enjoy testing me?” he asked, his voice softening into something almost conversational, though the edge of danger remained. “Is that what this is? A game to see how far you can push before I break you?”
You said nothing, but your silence was answer enough.
He crossed the room in three deliberate strides, his hand slamming down on the desk beside you. The force of the impact made you flinch, and for a moment, he savored the flicker of fear that crossed your face.
“You’re mine,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them. His voice was low, almost a growl, and the intensity of his own admission startled him. “Every breath you take, every thought in that insolent little head of yours—it all belongs to me.”
Your lips parted as if to protest, but no sound came out. He leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, the scent of leather and smoke filling your senses.
“You think you can hide from me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Pretend to be obedient while plotting your escape. I know you, girl. I know what’s underneath that mask you wear. And I promise you, if you ever try to leave me, I will make sure you regret it.”
The threat hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. He straightened, his hand brushing against your cheek as he pulled back. The touch was brief, almost accidental, but it left a trail of heat in its wake that made your stomach churn.
“Finish your work,” he said coldly, turning away. “And don’t make me wait again.”
As he left the room, his irritation simmered beneath the surface, mingling with something darker. He told himself it was just annoyance, that you were nothing more than a tool—a disobedient, infuriating tool that he would one day bend to his will completely.
But deep down, he knew the truth. You were more than that. And it infuriated him.
────────────
The air in the university courtyard carried a deceptive warmth, laced with the chatter and laughter of students unwinding after a long day. He stood in the shadow of a column, his broad frame hidden by the angle of the building, his piercing gaze fixed on you. You were seated on the low stone ledge of a fountain, and for once, the frigid wall you carried in your demeanor seemed to have melted.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. The faint, almost imperceptible curve of your lips wasn’t the cold smirk of defiance he had grown used to, nor was it the bored, deadpan expression that often made him feel like you were barely holding onto existence. No, this was different. Your eyes, usually dulled with exhaustion or indifference, sparkled as if illuminated by a light he had never seen before. It was a look he had never managed to elicit from you—not through his cruelty, not through his control, not even through his calculated acts of kindness designed to bind you closer to him.
And the reason for it was standing in front of you. A young man, tall but wiry, with an unpolished charm that radiated in the way he spoke, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he recounted some inane story. You were listening, fully enraptured, even leaning in slightly as though you didn’t want to miss a single word. When he said something particularly idiotic, you laughed—a soft, almost breathless sound that struck him like a blow to the chest.
He could feel the storm brewing inside him, dark and consuming. The rage was almost chemical, rushing through his veins and clawing at his composure. You had never laughed like that for him. Not once. Even in your moments of forced obedience, your submission was mechanical, begrudging, and full of resistance. But here you were, glowing in the presence of someone who was nothing more than a pathetic shadow of a man—soft where he was hard, open where he was closed.
He couldn’t stand it.
He had already investigated the idiot, of course. A second-year student in your entrepreneurship program, the type to coast by on charm and mediocre effort, his assignments always late but forgiven by professors who couldn’t resist his charisma. He was everything that disgusted him: undisciplined, carefree, and lacking in the ruthlessness it took to truly succeed. And yet, somehow, this fool had managed to reach a part of you that he never could.
The realization cut deeper than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t just the jealousy—though it burned like acid in his throat—it was the sense of failure. He had spent years shaping you, breaking you, molding you into something that belonged to him and him alone. You were his creation, his possession, his daughter in name, though he could never see you as just that. He had taken everything from you—your freedom, your choices, your innocence—and yet, this man had managed to plant a seed of rebellion in you with nothing more than a few smiles and an open heart.
That night, he sat in his study, the light from the fireplace casting sharp shadows across his face. His fingers drummed against the edge of his desk, a restless, impatient rhythm that betrayed the turmoil within. He had always prided himself on his control, his ability to suppress the baser instincts that threatened to consume him. But this…this was different.
He hated the way his thoughts circled back to you, to the softness in your expression as you had listened to that fool, to the way your lips had parted in awe when he made some insignificant observation about life. It wasn’t the you he knew—the cold, detached creature who met his cruelty with deadpan defiance. No, this was someone he didn’t recognize. Someone he couldn’t control.
He clenched his jaw, the tension in his body coiling tighter and tighter until it felt like he might snap. The rage wasn’t enough to drown out the darker thoughts that lurked beneath it—the shameful, forbidden desires he had buried deep, convincing himself they didn’t exist. But now, as he replayed the scene in his mind, those thoughts clawed their way to the surface, insistent and unrelenting.
He told himself it was for your own good when he decided to tighten his hold on you. He would sever this connection before it could take root, crush whatever fragile feelings had begun to bloom in your chest, and remind you who you belonged to. You were his, whether you realized it or not.
────────────
The next morning, when he came to fetch you from the university, his presence was a storm cloud that seemed to darken the air around him. Students parted like the Red Sea as he walked through the campus, his cold, predatory gaze fixed ahead. When he found you, standing once again with that insufferable idiot, the corners of your mouth lifting in what could almost be described as a smile, something inside him snapped.
“Get in the car,” he said, his voice low and even, though it carried a weight that made you falter. The warmth in your expression faded instantly, replaced by the detached indifference he had come to expect.
The young man—stupid, oblivious—had the audacity to laugh. “Wow, strict parent much?” he joked, oblivious to the way your guardian’s eyes narrowed, sharp enough to cut.
You didn’t look at him as you walked toward the car, your movements stiff and deliberate. But he saw the way your hands clenched at your sides, the way your shoulders tensed as if bracing for what was to come.
When you were alone in the car, the silence was suffocating. His hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, the tension radiating off him in waves.
“What was that?” he asked finally, his voice calm but deadly.
“What was what?” you replied, your tone as flat and detached as ever.
His jaw tightened, and he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t play dumb with me.”
You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed out the window as though you could will yourself to be anywhere but here.
That was when he reached over, his hand gripping your chin with a force that bordered on painful, forcing you to look at him. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch, and for the first time, you saw something unhinged lurking beneath the surface of his carefully constructed facade.
“You’re mine,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
You didn’t flinch, but the flicker of fear in your eyes was enough to stoke the flames of his control. He released you abruptly, his expression smoothing into a mask of cold detachment.
But the storm inside him raged on.
────────────
The car rolled to a halt in the shadow of the sprawling mansion, the silence that followed heavy and oppressive. The engine hummed faintly before he turned it off, his movements measured, deliberate, and yet brimming with barely contained fury. You sat beside him, your posture rigid, your hands resting lifelessly in your lap. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The seething heat radiating from his side of the car was palpable, and you knew what was coming.
He didn’t speak at first, letting the silence stretch and tighten around you like a noose. The interior of the car seemed smaller than usual, suffocating. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, sharp and dissecting, and you fought the urge to shift under it. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm.
But then he began.
“You’re a fool,” he said, his voice calm and steady, like a blade sliding effortlessly between your ribs. “Do you know that? A naïve, reckless little fool who doesn’t even understand the world she’s playing in.”
You didn’t respond. You never did. His words washed over you like acid rain, eating away at whatever feeble defenses you had managed to build, but you wouldn’t let him see it. Your face remained impassive, your gaze fixed on the dashboard.
“Do you even comprehend the danger you put yourself in?” he continued, his tone sharpening like the edge of a knife. “Do you have any idea what kind of people would love to take advantage of someone like you? Or are you so desperate for attention that you’ll throw yourself at the first imbecile who shows you a shred of interest?”
Your jaw tightened, the only sign that his words were cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. He noticed, of course. He noticed everything.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he pressed, leaning closer to you, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. “You crave validation so much that you’re willing to make a spectacle of yourself. Laughing, smiling—sparkling like some lovesick little girl. Do you have any idea how pathetic you looked?”
His words hit their mark, but you refused to let them sink in. You stared straight ahead, your expression a mask of indifference.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice cold and biting.
You didn’t move.
“I said, look at me.”
This time, his hand shot out, gripping your chin with bruising force and turning your head to face him. His eyes bore into yours, icy and unrelenting, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in their depths. Rage, yes, but something darker, something hungrier.
“You don’t get to ignore me,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Not after the display you put on today. Not after humiliating me with your stupidity.”
“I didn’t do anything,” you said, your voice flat, your tone carefully devoid of emotion.
“Exactly,” he snapped. “You did nothing to protect yourself. You did nothing to consider the consequences of your actions. You think that fool you’ve been wasting your time with sees you as anything more than a conquest? A challenge? Someone to use and discard the moment you’re no longer interesting?”
His words were harsh, cutting, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something raw and unspoken.
“You think I don’t know what he sees when he looks at you?” he continued, his grip on your chin tightening. “You think I don’t see it too?”
The admission hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, the mask of control he always wore seemed to crack. But then it was gone, replaced by the cold, calculated detachment that had always defined him.
“You disgust me,” he said finally, releasing your chin with a flick of his wrist as though even touching you was a burden. “And yet, here I am, cleaning up your mess, protecting you from your own stupidity. Do you know why that is?”
You didn’t answer.
“Because you’re mine,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And no one—least of all that idiotic boy—gets to take what’s mine.”
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint ticking of the car’s cooling engine. You wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at him, but you did none of those things. Instead, you stared out the window, your expression blank, your heart pounding in your chest.
────────────
The weight of his control lingered in the suffocating air as you reached for the car door handle, desperate to escape the storm of his presence. But you barely had time to process the thought before his hand shot out, knotting itself in your hair with a cruel precision. His grip was tight, the sting of his fingers digging into your scalp sharp enough to draw a gasp from your lips—a sound he drank in greedily as his other hand yanked you back toward him.
Then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t a kiss in any romantic sense. No tenderness, no warmth. Just heat and fury, the brutal claim of a man too far gone in his own obsession. His lips crushed against yours with a ferocity that made you jerk back instinctively, but he followed, his grip tightening as he tangled his fingers further into your hair, forcing you to remain where he wanted. His teeth caught your lower lip, dragging, biting hard enough that the copper tang of blood burst across your tongue. You choked on the sensation, on the taste, on him.
Your resistance, fragile as it had been, shattered entirely. The rigid mask you’d held together cracked beneath his onslaught, leaving you vulnerable, raw. The disgust, the anger, the helpless rage—all of it spilled out, written across your features in a way you couldn’t hide. And he reveled in it.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips with a savage dominance, exploring, claiming every inch of you like a conqueror. There was no room to breathe, no room to think. His free hand found your jaw, holding you in place as his lips bruised yours, as his tongue tasted the fear and hatred you didn’t dare voice. You clawed at his arm, your nails raking against his skin, desperate to make him stop, to push him away. But it was like trying to move a mountain.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
The metallic taste of blood mingled with the faint sweetness of your own breath, a combination that set something alight in him. You could feel it in the way he pressed closer, caging you against the car seat, his body a fortress of unrelenting heat and muscle. He was consuming you, branding you in ways that no one else ever would. Because he wouldn’t allow it.
This was your first kiss. And he made sure it would be unforgettable—for all the wrong reasons.
When he finally pulled back, his movements were deliberate, controlled, like a predator savoring the aftermath of the hunt. But he didn’t move far. His forehead almost brushed yours, his lips still ghosting over your trembling mouth, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath, could see the faint smirk curving his bloodstained lips.
You were a wreck—wide-eyed, your cheeks flushed a traitorous red, your chest heaving as you tried to catch the air he’d stolen. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared at him, as his expression remained infuriatingly composed.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost tender if not for the cruel edge that laced every word. “Pathetic. So easy to break. So easy to ruin.”
You turned your head away, but his hand caught your chin again, forcing you back to face him. The movement made the raw sting at your scalp flare, but you didn’t have the energy to fight.
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t look away from me. You wanted to act like a fool, and now you’ll deal with the consequences.”
His thumb traced your jaw, deceptively gentle, before he tilted your face toward him, studying you like you were some fragile, precious thing. But his eyes… there was nothing gentle in them. Just that icy hunger that terrified you more than his words ever could.
“This is a lesson,” he said, his tone clinical, as if he were dissecting the very essence of you. “You need to understand the danger of men. Of what they’ll do when you’re so oblivious, so unguarded. But they won’t get to you. Do you know why?”
You shook your head weakly, your voice stolen.
“Because they’ll never have the chance,” he continued, his lips brushing the shell of your ear now, his voice dropping to a cold whisper. “You belong to me. Do you understand? You’re mine. Your smiles, your tears, your body—everything. And I will kill anyone who dares to take what’s mine.”
The words were a promise, spoken with the kind of chilling finality that left no room for argument.
And then, just as abruptly as he’d started, he released you.
“Get out,” he said finally, his voice cold and dismissive.
The sudden absence of his touch was almost as jarring as the assault of it had been, leaving you scrambling to recover, to collect the fragments of yourself he’d shattered. You pushed the car door open, stumbling out into the cold night air. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, your heart a panicked drumbeat in your chest as you ran toward the mansion without looking back.
But even as you fled, you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unrelenting. You didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare turn around.
From the car, he watched you, his expression a mask of cool detachment. But inside, he was burning, the lingering taste of you on his lips like gasoline to a fire. He let himself admire the way you moved—unsteady, vulnerable, utterly his. And he smiled, a dark, satisfied thing.
Fear suited you. Fear made you his.
────────────
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, Shoto 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
────────────
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 