He remembers the look in your eyes.
Even now—years later, long after he’s broken your mind in far more creative ways—he remembers the exact way your pupils quivered when you found your rabbit’s body on the porch. Not torn apart. Not bloodied. Just… limp. Neatly posed like a doll on display, glassy eyes staring at nothing.
Like you.
You had stared too long.
You always did. Quiet. Cold. Pretending you were above it. Pretending you didn’t cry after he slammed you into lockers or snatched your notebooks just to hold them out of reach with that infuriating grin. Pretending his laughter didn’t burn. Pretending you weren’t just another boring little toy waiting to crack.
But he knew better. And your rabbit was only the start.
It wasn’t even hard. You trusted him.
Even now, the memory tastes sweet.
He’d stroked its fur while you weren’t looking. Whispered to it, watching the way it trembled in his hands, and then—
“Why’re you crying?” he’d asked, mock-tilting his head when you stumbled outside, breath shattering like cracked porcelain.
You couldn’t speak.
He smiled wider.
He made sure the cat was next. You adored that one more. The way you whispered to it. Let it sleep in your bed. Dumb thing didn’t even resist when he snapped its spine.
He placed it on your windowsill that time. Thoughtfully. Almost artfully. He watched from the shadows when you screamed.
You had cried. Finally.
And then you stopped talking altogether.
That’s when he knew he’d won.
✦✧✦✧
He runs his tongue along your shoulder now, slow and condescending, savoring the salt of your sweat like it’s wine.
You taste exactly how he remembers.
Exactly how you should.
“I liked the way you used to cry,” he murmurs against your ear, one hand forcing your spine into a cruel arch, the other gripping your jaw with bruising force. “But this is better. You’re so much better now. Not pretending anymore, are you?”
Your throat jerks. The noise you make isn’t even a word—just a choked, ruined sound. He likes that.
Likes it too much.
You’re trembling.
Still quiet. Still too proud to beg.
But that’s fine. That’s perfect. Because you do break. Eventually. Always. And nothing makes his cock twitch more than watching you try to act like you’ve still got some dignity to protect. Some boundaries he hasn’t already carved through.
He leans closer. You flinch. He licks the edge of your tears.
“Do you remember what you said to me?” he whispers, voice poison-sweet. “Back then. When you found the dog?”
You shudder hard.
Good girl.
“I hate you.” He mocks your tiny voice. “You’re a monster. You’re not human.”
A cruel smile cracks across his face.
“Wasn’t that cute?”
His hand slides down your throat to your chest, then lower. Your hips twitch violently when his fingers brush between your legs.
You’re wet. Of course you are. He’s trained you to be.
“What would your little pets think of you now?” he breathes. “Bent over like this. Obedient. Leaking.”
You shake your head, and he laughs.
“That’s right,” he croons. “You don’t get to pretend anymore. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. Even back then.”
He forces your wrists against the bedframe. You jolt under him, but there’s nowhere to run, and he doesn’t let go.
“Do you know why I did it?” he whispers, his cock rutting hard against your thigh.
“I wanted you to hurt.”
You twist. Cry out. Still trying to fight.
“Shhh.” He bites your neck, hard enough to bruise. “You liked the pain, didn’t you?”
You shake your head again.
But he saw it. Saw how you kept coming back. Saw the way your breath hitched when he touched you—even back then, when his hands were only bruises and humiliation and taunts whispered between desks.
He thrusts into you with no warning. Not even the pretense of care.
You scream.
God, he loves that sound.
His pace is brutal. Unforgiving. Designed to humiliate. Designed to remind you.
Every inch of you belonged to him before you even understood what that meant.
“You remember now, don’t you?” he pants. “How you used to look at me. How you hated me.”
His grip tightens around your throat. Your eyes widen.
He watches them roll.
“Say it,” he demands.
“…I—I hated you.”
“Liar.” He fucks you harder.
“I—”
He squeezes again, forcing the words from your mouth.
“Say what you really felt.”
“…scared…”
He growls low in his chest.
“And now?”
You choke on air, lips trembling. You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Your body is too honest.
He can feel it. The way you squeeze around him. The way your thighs tremble.
He breaks you with every thrust.
“You love me now.”
Silence.
He slaps your ass hard. You jolt.
“I said—”
“…I love you.”
He cums inside you with a broken groan, burying himself deep, not even giving you the dignity of a warning. You jolt. Squirm. But he doesn’t stop until he’s sure you’re full of him.
When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Deliberate.
You’re still shaking.
He brushes the hair from your face.
“You’ll always be mine,” he murmurs.
Then he kisses your temple.
Like he didn’t just break you all over again.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 