𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩

The cold steel beneath your back burns like ice, your skin prickling against the sterile surface. Artificial light hums overhead, sterile and clinical, casting sharp shadows that dissect the room into geometric fragments. You barely manage a breath before the restraints tighten, mechanical clamps locking your wrists and ankles into place.

Alhaitham stands above you, expression impassive, his turquoise eyes scanning your exposed form with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a test subject. No warmth. No indulgence. Only calculated precision, an intellect void of sentimentality.

“This is for research,” he states, adjusting the cuffs with a measured flick of his wrist. His voice is monotone, unfeeling, as if discussing a routine observation rather than the obscene violation that is about to unfold.

You struggle, muscles straining, but the bindings refuse to yield. He watches, patient, the corner of his mouth barely twitching as he waits for your resistance to wane. It does. It always does.

“Struggling is inefficient,” he remarks, almost bored. His gloved fingers trace the line of your abdomen, charting data points only he understands. “It only heightens muscle tension and impedes optimal results.”

A hiss of air escapes the machinery as something metallic lowers above you. Needles glint under the fluorescents—thin, gleaming things meant for precise insertions. You thrash, but Alhaitham simply presses a hand to your throat, restricting airflow just enough to induce lightheadedness.

“I will be recording your physiological responses,” he continues as if you are not gasping beneath him. “Heart rate. Reflexive contractions. Fluid production.” A pause. His thumb presses lightly against your jugular, feeling the frantic pulse beneath. “Pain thresholds.”

Your whimper is swallowed by the cold, clinical environment. There is no intimacy here, no perverse cruelty dressed in the mockery of affection—only methodical, deliberate defilement.

The first probe slips inside, foreign and intrusive. Your body recoils, a full-body shudder wracking through you, but the machine remains relentless. Alhaitham watches impassively, recording data on a sleek tablet as the cold instrument forces you open, stretching you past comfort and into something approaching agony.

“There is resistance,” he notes. “Not unexpected.”

You bite down a cry as the probe twists, pressing against a spot that sends sharp, unwilling pleasure coursing through your nerves. A reaction. Your shame blooms red-hot, but Alhaitham remains unmoved, merely adjusting the intensity as if fine-tuning an equation.

“Response time is within predicted range,” he murmurs. His fingers replace the device, skin-to-skin contact sending a fresh wave of revulsion through you. But he does not care. His grip is firm, practiced. Your body reacts despite your mind’s screams.

He exhales, slow and measured. “Now, let’s collect further data.”

He does not stop.

Not until he has every answer he desires.

Not until he has reduced you to nothing but empirical evidence.

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