TW: incest, unhealthy power dynamics, toxic relationship, spanking and slapping, emotional and psychological manipulation, social isolation, non-con kissing, physical assault and abuse
“Trapped in his obsession, your brother’s love is a cage—burning, possessive, and unyielding. Every kiss is a claim, every touch a warning. You’re his, and he’ll make sure the world knows it.”
Yandere! Older Brother : Sins of the Silent Heart – Part 1
Word Count: 6,815 words
The dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp painted long, jagged shadows across the walls, distorting the once-familiar room into a grotesque parody of safety. His room—a chaotic vortex of textbooks, rumpled sheets, and the faint scent of stale cologne—now felt like a predator’s den, with you caught squarely in its jaws. The door clicked shut behind you with an almost mocking finality, the latch’s soft groan a promise of no escape.
He stood near the bed, his back to you, shoulders tense as if bracing for an internal war. His silhouette was a study in contradiction—strong, protective lines now cast in a menacing, foreboding light. The distant hum of the world beyond the house seemed to mock the thick silence between you, punctuated only by the rasp of his uneven breathing.
“Why are you here?” His voice cut through the stillness like a blade, low and clipped, every syllable weighted with restraint.
nd,” you stammered, your voice barely audible.
“No, you wouldn’t,” he sneered, his hand shooting out to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in. “Because you’re pure. Untouched. You don’t know what it’s like to carry this…this sickness. To want something you can never fucking have.”
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the frantic pounding of your heart. His confession hung in the air like a noose, tightening around your throat.
“I tried,” he continued, his voice shaking now, the cracks in his facade spreading. “I tried to stay away. To forget. Do you know how many women I’ve fucked trying to scrub you out of my head? But it doesn’t work. It never fucking works.” His hand slid down the wall, his knuckles brushing against your shoulder. “You’re in here,” he said, tapping his temple, then his chest. “In here. Like a damn parasite.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Why are you saying this?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why now?”
“Because you’re here,” he said simply, his lips curling into a twisted smile. “Because you walked into my fucking room and looked at me like that. Like I’m still the hero you remember. Like I haven’t been corrupted.”
“You’re scaring me,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.
“Good,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with menace. “You should be scared. Because if you stay, I don’t know if I can stop myself.”
For a moment, neither of you moved, the room charged with a tension so thick it was suffocating. Then, with a suddenness that made you flinch, he stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. “Get out,” he growled, his voice rough and uneven. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. Your hands fumbled with the doorknob, your legs barely supporting you as you stumbled out of the room. As the door slammed shut behind you, the last thing you heard was the sound of his ragged breathing, a haunting symphony of longing and despair.
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It began in high school, with a joke. A harmless, stupid, throwaway line.
“Hey, your sister’s cute. Maybe I’ll ask her out when she’s older.”
You hadn’t been there to hear it. Maybe that was for the best. He’d laughed then, a sound so casual it might have fooled anyone listening. “Don’t even think about it,” he’d said, shoving his friend’s shoulder as if it were all a joke. But deep down, something had snapped into place.
It wasn’t anger, exactly—not yet. Just a quiet, simmering unease that he didn’t understand.
You were always close to him, always lingering just at the edge of his vision, a constant part of his life. He was your older brother; it was natural. He was protective—maybe a little too much so. But wasn’t that what older brothers were supposed to be? That’s what he told himself whenever he felt the strange, uncomfortable tightness in his chest.
It only became a problem the day he saw you with someone else.
It was late autumn, and the world was painted in muted tones of orange and gray. He’d been walking to the library to pick you up when he saw you standing beneath a streetlamp with a boy.
The sight froze him in place.
You were holding a notebook, pointing to something on the page, explaining something with that calm, patient expression you always wore. The boy leaned in, his eyes never leaving your face.
And that was when he felt it. That sick, twisting feeling in his gut. The way the boy looked at you—like he wanted something. Like he thought he deserved something.
His hands clenched into fists, the sharp bite of his nails grounding him just enough to keep him from storming over. He didn’t know what he’d say if he did. What excuse could he possibly give?
Instead, he stayed hidden in the shadows, watching as you finished your tutoring session. The boy lingered too long, said something that made you smile faintly, and then finally walked away.
You didn’t even notice him standing there. You just closed your notebook, adjusted the strap of your bag, and walked off as if nothing had happened.
He followed you home that day, keeping a careful distance.
After that, it was as though something inside him had cracked open.
He told himself it was normal to be worried. You were too trusting, too naive. You didn’t see the way people looked at you. You didn’t realize how vulnerable you were. Someone had to protect you—someone who knew you better than anyone else.
But it wasn’t just about protection anymore.
It was about possession.
He tried to ignore it at first. Tried to tell himself it was nothing. But every time he saw you leave to meet that boy, his anger simmered just a little hotter. It didn’t matter that you were only tutoring him. It didn’t matter that you weren’t interested. He could see the way the boy looked at you, the way he lingered when you weren’t paying attention.
He started watching you more closely after that. You didn’t notice—of course, you didn’t. You never seemed to notice anything when it came to him.
When you weren’t around, he buried himself in distractions. He went out with his friends, dated girls who were nothing like you, did anything he could to drown out the thoughts that haunted him. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.
Every laugh, every touch, every kiss felt wrong. None of them were you.
By the time you both started college, he’d perfected the art of keeping his distance. He didn’t want you to see the way he looked at you, didn’t want you to know the things he thought about late at night when he was alone.
But keeping his distance didn’t mean he stopped watching. He always knew where you were, who you were with, what you were doing.
You were his. Even if you didn’t know it.
One day, he caught you talking to someone else. Another boy. It didn’t matter that the conversation was casual, that you barely even smiled. All he could think about was how easily someone else could take you away from him.
When you came home that evening, he didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask why he was so quiet, why he avoided your gaze, why his knuckles were red and raw as if he’d been punching something—or someone.
You never asked questions like that.
Maybe you should have.
Now, standing in his room, he runs his hands through his hair, staring at the picture of you on his desk. It’s an innocent photo, one taken years ago during a family trip. But to him, it’s more than that.
It’s proof. Proof that you belong to him. Proof that no one else has the right to take you away.
He knows he can’t keep this up forever. He knows the truth will come out eventually.
But when it does?
You won’t have a choice.
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It began with distance. He thought it would fix things—make him normal again, make you normal again. He pulled back, growing cold and indifferent, watching you from a distance as you stumbled through life. You didn’t even notice, did you? How he deliberately stopped answering your questions with warmth, how he only gave you clipped, efficient replies. How he didn’t teach you the things he should have, the things that would have made you stronger.
You didn’t need friends. He made sure of that.
He liked it that way—your awkwardness, your inability to connect with others. It kept you safe. It kept you his.
But then…
Then, he saw the change.
You became distracted, eyes far away, your lips twitching into little half-smiles when you thought no one was looking. At first, he ignored it. Told himself it didn’t matter. But then he started noticing the way you doodled during your free time, how your handwriting softened, curling into childish hearts.
And then the name.
Daniel.
The rage that erupted in his chest was immediate, primal. He wasn’t proud of how quickly he found your diary, how thoroughly he read every naïve, saccharine line.
“Daniel held my book today! He smiled at me, I think! Maybe I’ll ask him to the dance? Would he say yes? It’s stupid, but I think we’d make a great match.”
You wrote about your future. About marriage. Little plans you hid in the margins of your notebook like some ridiculous fairytale.
Marriage, when you didn’t even know what it meant. When you’d never spared him, the one who’s protected you your entire life, that warm, shy smile.
He could’ve broken your door when he threw it open that night. You weren’t even there to hear the sound splinter through the silence, or see the way he stood there, shaking, fists clenched white-knuckled. He tore through your things after that—pictures, scraps of paper, clothes—he wanted to find anything, anything that might explain why you’d betrayed him like this.
You didn’t have the right to want someone else. You barely knew what you wanted! That boy didn’t even like you. Couldn’t you see it?
The world saw you as the awkward, strange little thing you’d always been. And he liked it that way. It kept the wolves at bay. He kept the wolves at bay.
But this boy? This Daniel? He didn’t even look at you the way you thought he did. He didn’t deserve your thoughts, your shy little fantasies. He deserved nothing.
When you finally confessed to the boy, he was there.
He’d hidden in the shadows like a predator waiting for the right moment. Watching as you stood there, clutching that stupid notebook to your chest, stammering over your words.
Daniel’s rejection was inevitable. His awkward laugh, his half-hearted apology—it was all so predictably pathetic. But you didn’t stop there.
Even after being turned down, you followed him. Like a kitten, tail wagging, desperate for scraps of affection. The same way you used to follow him.
That night, he didn’t go home. He didn’t sleep.
His body ached, torn between the raw heat of his anger and the cold clarity of his realization.
You’d never shown interest in romance before. Never spared anyone those soft looks, those quiet smiles. Not until now. And the thought of you giving that warmth—his warmth—to someone else?
He didn’t just want to destroy Daniel. He wanted to destroy you.
You traitorous, ungrateful little bitch.
The next time he saw you, you didn’t notice anything was wrong. How could you?
“Hey,” you’d said softly, the same way you always did when you weren’t sure if you were bothering him. He didn’t reply.
Instead, he crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. You flinched when he cupped your face, his fingers rough against your skin.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” His voice was calm, too calm, each word slicing through the silence like a blade.
You blinked up at him, confused, your lips parting to stammer out a reply. But he didn’t let you.
“Do you think he could protect you the way I have? Do you think he even sees you? You’re so… stupid.” His grip tightened, just enough to make you gasp. “But I’ll fix that.”
That night, he showed you what it meant to belong to someone.
There was nothing gentle in the way he touched you. Nothing kind. It wasn’t love—not in the way you’d dreamed it would be.
It was sharp edges and whispered threats. The suffocating weight of his body pinning yours to the mattress, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured things too dark to repeat.
“I’ll make sure you never think of him again,” he growled, his voice low and venomous.
You cried. He didn’t stop.
Because you were his. And no one else deserved to have you—not even you.
The next morning, he watched as you sat silently at the table, your hands trembling as you picked at your breakfast.
You didn’t look at him.
Good.
He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a satisfied smile.
“You’ll thank me one day,” he said, his tone light and conversational, as if nothing had happened. “You’ll see.”
But in the dim light of the kitchen, his eyes glinted with something darker.
Something permanent.
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He hadn’t kissed you that night. He hadn’t touched you—not in the way he craved. That would come later.
Instead, he had punished you.
The memory played like a cracked film reel in his mind, skipping over the sound of your muffled cries, the way your body jolted with every strike of his hand. He’d treated it like a lesson, hadn’t he? A father disciplining a wayward child, nothing more.
Except it was so much more.
Each tear that slipped down your cheeks, each broken sob, fed something primal inside him. It made him feel strong, in control—your trembling figure draped across his lap, your protests falling to deaf ears.
“You need to understand,” he had murmured between blows, his voice calm, deliberate. “You don’t need anyone else. You don’t get to have anyone else.”
It wasn’t until your body went limp, your resolve shattered, that he finally stopped. His hand lingered against your flushed skin, his breathing uneven. He could feel the temptation coiling inside him, the desire to leave more than just a warning.
But he didn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Not yet.
You were still too young, too delicate, and he loved you too much to break you completely.
In the days that followed, you clung to him like you always had. The defiance in your eyes was gone, replaced by a docile obedience that filled him with both satisfaction and guilt.
It was better this way. No friends, no distractions. Just the two of you, the way it had always been.
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The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him alone in the suffocating quiet of his room.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as he exhaled sharply.
He could feel the cracks spreading, the fragile dam of restraint he’d built over the years threatening to shatter. You were older now—no longer the awkward, wide-eyed girl he’d once protected. You were beautiful, maddeningly so, and every time he looked at you, he could feel his self-control slipping.
But what was he supposed to do?
His parents had never cared, not about him, not about you. The only thing that mattered to them was the profit you both could generate. He doubted they’d even notice if he crossed the line.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
His gaze drifted to the doorway you’d just passed through, his chest tightening with something dark and suffocating.
He could take you now if he wanted to. No one would stop him. No one would care.
But he cared.
He loved you in a way that terrified him, a way that left him tangled in knots of lust and guilt and longing. He wanted you—to keep you, to claim you, to destroy anyone who dared look at you the wrong way. But more than that, he wanted you to love him the way he loved you.
And that’s where the conflict lay.
Would you still look at him with those soft, trusting eyes if you knew what he was thinking? Would you still cling to his arm, still smile at him, still call him brother if you knew the truth?
Or would you hate him?
The thought sent a shiver of rage and despair through him, his hands clenching into fists.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal.
What was the point of waiting?
Every moment he held back felt like agony, his need for you consuming him piece by piece. You were already his, in every way that mattered. You’d been his from the start, long before you even realized it.
He stopped in front of the mirror, his reflection glaring back at him—a predator barely leashed, a man fighting against the very instincts that defined him.
He exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a dark, humorless smile.
“As long as I don’t get caught, right?” he muttered, his voice dripping with bitter irony.
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
When he finally left the room, his mind was made up.
He’d wait, just a little longer. Long enough for you to grow even more dependent on him, long enough for you to forget whatever fleeting fantasies you’d once harbored about other men.
And when the time came, when there was no doubt in your mind that he was the only one who could ever love you, he’d take what was his.
Until then, he’d bide his time.
But God help anyone who got in the way.
You were his. And soon, you’d know it too.
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Classes had started like any other semester. Despite sharing a dorm, he and you had kept your distance—a mutual, unspoken agreement that suited both of you.
On the surface, things appeared normal.
He excelled as always, juggling academics, sports, and a parade of temporary girlfriends like it was nothing. You thrived in your own way, delving into the competitive grind of your entrepreneurship course with an unrelenting focus. To the outside world, you were two strangers, bound only by circumstance. No one would guess you were siblings, much less tied by anything deeper.
And that was fine by him.
As long as you stayed close—within reach—he could tolerate the cold distance between you.
It began as a flicker, a subtle shift in your demeanor that most would have missed.
You’d always been poised, calm, your expressions muted and unreadable, much like his own. But lately, there was something else—an irritation simmering beneath the surface, barely contained. You’d still wear that neutral, aloof mask, but he could see through it.
At first, he dismissed it. Maybe you were stressed. Maybe it was nothing.
But then he noticed the reason.
It was another guy.
The bastard was a thorn in your side, a so-called academic rival who had taken to hounding you relentlessly. He was obnoxious and petty, constantly goading you with thinly veiled insults and challenges.
Initially, he’d thought it might be a good thing—an opportunity for you to toughen up, to learn not to rely on him or anyone else.
How fucking naive he’d been.
The longer he watched, the more he understood.
The interloper didn’t even realize he liked you, not yet, but the signs were there. The way he hovered around you, the excuses he made to stay close, the looks that lingered too long—it was all obvious to him.
What infuriated him most was you.
You, who never cared about anyone. You, who had always kept your distance from people, brushing off their advances without a second thought.
You weren’t pushing the bastard away.
You tolerated him, even seemed to accept his presence, and that made his blood boil.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
No need to make a scene. No need to draw attention.
But it gnawed at him, day by day, that stupid fucker sticking to your side like a parasite. He could feel it building inside him, a storm of frustration and possessiveness he couldn’t fully suppress.
And then it happened.
You were late for dinner one evening, and his annoyance was already simmering by the time he went looking for you. He’d told himself he was only checking in because it was still his responsibility to take care of you.
That’s what he told himself.
He found you in an empty classroom.
And you weren’t alone.
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The moment he saw you with him, it was as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted.
At first, it was confusion—a fleeting, disorienting moment where he didn’t fully understand what he was looking at. The interloper, leaning closer, his expression soft and open, the kind of look reserved for someone you cherished. You.
You, standing there, not moving, not rejecting him. Your hand was still, almost brushing against his, your lips parted as if you might speak—or worse, respond.
The air turned molten in his lungs, searing him from the inside out.
The first spike of jealousy hit him like a blade.
Not the dull ache of annoyance he’d felt when you first started tolerating this bastard’s presence. No, this was different. This was visceral. It clawed at him, shredding through his carefully constructed self-control until all that remained was raw, unfiltered rage.
His pulse roared in his ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out reason. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He could feel the metallic tang of it on his tongue, sharp and bitter, mixing with the bile rising in his throat.
He’d always prided himself on being in control. He wasn’t some reckless animal, driven by instinct or emotion. He was better than that. Smarter than that.
But watching that bastard lean closer to you—watching you let him—it unraveled something inside him.
This wasn’t just anger. This wasn’t just possessiveness.
This was a deep, gnawing sickness, a jealousy so consuming it felt like his very soul was being eaten alive.
He couldn’t stand the way the interloper looked at you, like you were something pure and delicate. Like you were a prize to be won.
That was his.
You were his.
The thought burned through him, scorching and absolute.
He’d spent years keeping you close, making sure no one else could reach you, molding your world so that he was at the center of it. And yet, here you were, letting this pathetic excuse of a man step into the space that only he should occupy.
It was a betrayal.
And you—oh, you—were just as much to blame.
You, who never cared for anyone. You, who always kept your distance, your heart locked away. You, who had followed him like a shadow for so long, who had looked at him with that shy, adoring gaze that made him feel untouchable.
Now you were looking at someone else.
And it wasn’t just the look—it was your body language, the way you leaned ever so slightly into the interloper’s space. The way your eyes softened, your lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.
He wanted to rip that expression off your face.
Not because it didn’t suit you—it did. It was beautiful. It made his heart ache.
But because it wasn’t for him.
The jealousy twisted, dark and monstrous, until it became something else entirely.
He didn’t just want to destroy the interloper.
He wanted to destroy you.
Not completely—no, never completely. You were his, after all. But he wanted to shatter this version of you, the one who dared to look at someone else with warmth. The one who dared to let someone else get close.
He wanted to strip you down to nothing and rebuild you in his image, piece by trembling piece, until there was no room for anyone else.
And then the bastard leaned in closer, and the room seemed to tilt.
The distance between you shrank, his lips hovering just above yours. The sheer audacity of it made his vision blur, made his hands twitch with the urge to grab and pull and destroy.
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You were letting it happen.
Something inside him snapped.
Before he realized it, he was moving. The door slammed open with a deafening crash, and the interloper jerked back, startled, his face paling when he saw the storm etched into his expression.
“Hey, man—”
The words barely left the bastard’s lips before his fist collided with his jaw, the sickening crunch of bone echoing in the empty room. The impact sent the other man sprawling, blood pooling from his broken nose as he groaned in shock and pain.
“Stay. Away.” His voice was low, lethal, the kind of tone that promised far worse if the warning wasn’t heeded.
The room was silent except for the ragged breathing of the crumpled figure at his feet.
He turned to you then, his chest heaving, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
You stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, your lips parted in disbelief.
“Get up,” he barked, his tone sharp, brooking no argument. “We’re leaving.”
You didn’t move, still staring at the man on the floor, and something in him snapped again.
He crossed the distance between you in two strides, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him with enough force to make you stumble.
“I said, we’re leaving.” His voice was quieter this time, but the edge of danger was unmistakable.
Your gaze finally shifted to him, your eyes searching his face for something—an explanation, a reassurance, anything.
But all you found was rage.
As he dragged you out of the room, his grip unyielding, his mind raced.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.
You had betrayed him. Again.
And this time, he wasn’t sure he could let it slide.
No one else gets to have you. No one.
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The door to your shared dorm slammed shut behind you with a bone-jarring finality. The echo reverberated in the small space, amplifying the oppressive silence that followed. You winced, clutching your throbbing wrist where his grip had bruised it. But before you could pull away, his hand was on you again, relentless and unyielding.
“Let go,” you hissed, yanking your arm back, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound resolute. The command only seemed to enrage him further.
His response was immediate, a blur of motion and a sting that burned like fire across your cheek. The force sent you staggering, your knees hitting the cold floor as your vision swam. Pain blossomed, sharp and unrelenting, and you tasted copper on your tongue.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” His voice, usually so measured, so cold, was now raw and trembling with fury. He loomed over you, a monolith of rage, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see? Wouldn’t know?”
You pressed a trembling hand to your face, the sting of his slap radiating through your skull. You glared up at him, defiance flickering like a dying ember in your tear-filled eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” you spat, your voice quaking as you pushed yourself up. “I didn’t do anything!”
The words barely left your mouth before his hand shot out, tangling viciously in your hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to meet his wild, unhinged gaze.
“Didn’t do anything?” he snarled, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His lips twisted into a cruel smile that sent chills racing down your spine. “You let him touch you. You let him. Are you that desperate? That much of a pathetic little whore?”
You choked on a gasp as he tightened his grip, pulling hard enough to send a bolt of pain down your neck. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “I saw it. You didn’t push him away. You didn’t stop him.”
“You’re insane,” you bit out, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “You’re imagining things that aren’t there—”
Another slap cut your words short, sharper this time, enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You crumpled again, your cheek pressed against the floor, and before you could recover, his hand was back, dragging you up like a ragdoll.
“Do you spread your legs for anyone who pays attention to you?” he hissed, his voice venomous, laced with a dangerous kind of desperation. “Are you really that easy? That desperate for it?”
You glared at him through the haze of pain and tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. But he wasn’t looking for defiance. He was looking for submission. For proof that you were his, and his alone.
His free hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. His expression was a terrifying mix of fury and something else—something far darker, far more possessive.
“Say it,” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Say you’re mine. Say it, or so help me, I’ll make sure no one ever looks at you again.”
You opened your mouth to retort, to scream, but the words caught in your throat as his grip tightened, cutting off your air.
“Say. It.”
The room spun, your vision blurring as the oxygen left your lungs. Panic set in, and your resolve began to crumble. You clawed at his arm, your body trembling with the effort to stay conscious.
“Yours,” you gasped, barely audible, but it was enough.
His grip loosened just enough to let you breathe, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.
“Good girl.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, a sickening mix of relief and terror. His grip in your hair eased, but only to drag you closer, his arms encircling you in a cage of muscle and iron will.
“Don’t make me do this again,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less threatening. “I don’t like hurting you. But I will if that’s what it takes to keep you.”
You stayed silent, too shaken to respond, your body trembling in his grasp. Deep down, you knew this wasn’t over. This was only the beginning of the storm.
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Without another word, his lips slammed onto yours, a bruising, punishing kiss that stole what little breath you had left. Your eyes widened in shock, and you squirmed, thrashing against his iron hold, but it only seemed to fuel him further. His teeth bit down hard on your lower lip, drawing blood, and his tongue invaded your mouth with an almost feral desperation.
Every movement was a claim, a declaration, his hands gripping you like you might vanish if he let go. He growled against your lips, his voice a low, guttural snarl as he pressed you against the wall, his body pinning yours effortlessly.
“Since you’re so eager to spread your legs for any man who looks your way,” he hissed, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, “why not for me? Your own older brother. Or does that only make you more of a filthy little slut?”
You shook your head vehemently, tears spilling down your cheeks, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want your consent; he wanted your submission. Your humiliation. His lips crashed against yours again, his teeth marking you, biting and bruising as though he could etch himself into your very being.
His hips pressed against yours, the weight of him inescapable as he ground against you with a possessive growl. Every word that left his mouth was venomous, dripping with jealousy and rage.
“Do you know how sick you make me?” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “How fucking jealous I get every time I see someone else looking at you? Touching you? You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
Your protests were muffled, your struggles weakening under the sheer force of his assault. His hands roamed your body with an almost methodical cruelty, every touch a reminder that you belonged to him and no one else. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy with his dominance, his possessive need swallowing you whole.
“No one else gets to have you,” he growled against your ear, his voice a deadly promise. “No one.”
His lips crashed against yours again, bruising, punishing, and suffocating. There was no gentleness, no hesitation—only raw desperation and rage poured into every motion. His teeth scraped against your lips, a deliberate, cutting edge to the kiss that made you whimper, the taste of blood sharp and metallic as it spread across your tongue. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was claiming you, forcing his presence into every corner of your being.
When you tried to pull back, his hand was there, tangling in your hair with a bruising grip, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Every gasp you took was his to steal, every sound you made swallowed by his insistent, devouring mouth.
His tongue pressed into you, hot and invasive, tasting, consuming, as though he could erase any trace of anyone else with sheer force alone. The kiss deepened with every passing moment, turning darker, hungrier, as his free hand gripped your waist hard enough to leave marks, pressing your body against the wall with an unrelenting pressure.
The sharp pain of his bite pulled a gasp from your lips, and he seized the moment, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that felt almost mocking. It wasn’t enough for him to take; he wanted you to feel it—to feel the way he dominated every inch of you, every sound, every breath.
“You taste like lies,” he growled against your lips, the words vibrating through your chest as his teeth grazed your bottom lip again, threatening another sharp bite. His breath was hot and ragged, mingling with yours, and the fury in his eyes hadn’t dimmed—it had only sharpened, focused entirely on you. “Do you think I’d ever let anyone else have this? Have you?”
Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but it was like trying to move stone. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that sent chills racing down your spine. “Pathetic,” he sneered, the word dripping with venom. “Look at you. Fighting when you know you’ll lose. You always lose.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, his teeth sinking into your lip just enough to sting before he licked the blood away with a slow, deliberate motion. “Mine,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and possessive. “Every inch of you. Every breath you take. Don’t forget it.”
He shifted slightly, his hips pressing against yours, trapping you further as his mouth moved with calculated cruelty. Each kiss was an invasion, each touch a brand, his lips trailing down to your jawline and then to the curve of your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, sending a jolt through your body that you couldn’t suppress.
“You think they could kiss you like this?” he hissed, his voice rough and filled with bitter jealousy. His lips latched onto the base of your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise as his hands roamed your sides with deliberate possessiveness. “Think again.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face inches from yours, his breath fanning against your swollen lips. His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender, before he pressed it against the raw bite mark he’d left. You flinched, and he smirked, leaning in to whisper against your ear.
“You’ll remember who you belong to. Every time you see these marks, every time you feel them—” His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. “—you’ll remember me.”
Then his lips found yours again, relentless, brutal, as though he couldn’t get enough. His fingers dug into your waist, his nails biting into your skin, and every movement was a reminder of the storm raging beneath his skin.
“You make me like this,” he growled between kisses, his voice thick with fury and something darker. “You make me crazy. You make me want to ruin you, just so no one else can even look at you.”
His words blurred with the heat of his kiss, the tension between you a heady mix of fear, pain, and something far more twisted. And in that moment, you knew there was no escape—not from him, not from this, and certainly not from the obsession that burned in his eyes every time they met yours.
“You’re a such a fucking cheating bitch. But, you’re my cheating bitch.”
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List of Characters
- Blue Lock: Isagi Yoichi, Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi
- Boku no Hero Academia: Dabi
- Demon Slayer: Sanemi
- Genshin Impact: Ayato Kamisato, Childe, Xiao
- Haikyuu!!: Kageyama Tobio, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Hajime Iwaizumi, Miya Atsumu
- Honkai Star Rail: Boothill
- Hunter x Hunter: Chrollo Lucilfer, Illumi Zoldyck
- Jujutsu Kaisen: Suguru Geto
- Wuthering Waves: Calcharo, Scar
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𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 