𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ Laboratory of Lust and Lament (Yandere! Video Game! Characters x Fem! Reader).

♡ Word Count. 1,621 words

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The office was a tomb of silence, save for the rhythmic, mechanical scratching of a fountain pen against parchment.

Dr. Veritas Ratio sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the very image of academic perfection.

You, however, were nothing more than a piece of furniture—a living footstool tucked beneath the knee-hole of his desk, forced into a cramped, humiliating curl. The scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, ozone-like smell of his marble bust filled your senses, suffocating your ability to think.

“Your cognitive functions are remarkably sluggish today,” Ratio remarked, his voice smooth and clinical, never once breaking his writing cadence.

“Though, I suppose it is difficult to maintain a coherent train of thought when one is being reduced to their base, animalistic components. An interesting experiment in sensory deprivation versus sensory overload.”

He didn’t ask for your consent when he reached down, his large, calloused hand tangling in your hair to drag you forward. There was no seduction, only the cold, hard logic of a man who viewed your body as his personal property.

He stood you up, your legs shaking, and shoved you facedown onto the edge of the desk. The transition was violent and swift.

He didn’t bother removing your clothes with care; he simply hiked your skirt and tore the lace of your underwear aside, exposing you to the chilled air of the office.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I have a conference call with the Intelligentsia Guild in precisely sixty seconds. If you make a sound—if you so much as whimper into the wood of this desk—the consequences for your transcript, and your physical well-being, will be catastrophic. Do you understand, you pathetic, little vacuum?”

“Y-Yes… Master,” you choked out, your cheek pressed against a stack of graded papers. The red ink of his ‘F’ grades felt like they were staining your skin.

You heard the click of his phone system.

Then, the sound of his zipper—a jagged, metallic rasp that signaled the end of your autonomy. He stepped behind you, his massive frame eclipsing the light. Without a hint of hesitation or a drop of lubricant, he forced himself into you.

The pain was a vertical line of fire, splitting your consciousness in two. You let out a muffled scream into the mahogany, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk.

He didn’t slow down.

He didn’t offer a moment for your body to adjust.

He drove into you with a rhythmic, devastating force, his hips hitting your backside with a dull, meaty thud that echoed in the quiet room.

“Greetings, Chancellor,” Ratio said into his headset, his voice perfectly level, devoid of any physical exertion. “Yes, I have reviewed the proposal for the new research wing. It is, as expected, riddled with logical fallacies and redundant variables.”

He shifted his weight, driving his length deeper, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made your vision swim with black spots.

You bit your lip until it bled, your body jerking with every thrust.

The psychological attack of it was suffocating—he was discussing high-level spatial physics while brutally violating you, treating your body like nothing more than a stress-relief toy he was absentmindedly playing with during a meeting.

“Article four, subsection B,” Ratio continued, his hand coming down in a sharp, stinging slap across your hip. The sound was loud enough to be a gunshot, yet his voice remained steady. “The energy requirements are grossly underestimated. It’s as if the architect failed basic thermodynamics. Much like the student currently failing under my tutelage.”

The degradation was absolute.

You were being fucked into the furniture while he dismantled a peer’s intellect.

You felt the tears streaming down your face, soaking into his precious manuscripts.

Your internal thinking, usually so loud and analytical, was being systematically dismantled. You couldn’t think about logic; you could only think about the way his thick, unyielding cock was stretching you to the point of tearing, the way his fingers were digging bruises into your waist, and the terrifying realization that you loved being this discarded.

He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more violent.

He was using you to vent his frustration with the world’s stupidity.

Every time he encountered a point in the conversation he disliked, he punished your insides, his thrusts becoming jagged and cruel.

“No, Chancellor, I will not be attending the gala,” Ratio said, his breath hitching only slightly as he hit a sensitive spot that made your toes curl.

“I find the company of ‘intellectuals‘ to be increasingly draining. I prefer the company of things that know their place. Things that don’t talk back.”

He reached down, his hand wrapping around your throat, not to choke you to death, but to remind you that he held the literal thread of your life in his grip.

He squeezed, cutting off your air just as he began to hammer into you with a frenzied, sadistic rhythm.

The lack of oxygen made the pleasure-pain transition blur.

You were drifting into a dissociative state, your mind retreating into a dark corner while your body became a twitching, sobbing mess of raw nerves.

“Your proposal is rejected,” Ratio said, his voice finally taking on a darker, more predatory edge. “Redo it. And this time, try to employ a shred of common sense. Goodbye.”

He clicked the call off and immediately let out a low, guttural growl, his composure finally fracturing. He grabbed both of your arms and pinned them behind your back, wrenching them upward until your chest was forced flat against the desk.

He was no longer a professor; he was a monster made of muscle and intellect, determined to hollow you out.

“Now,” he hissed into your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.

“Now that we are no longer interrupted by the mediocrity of others, I can focus entirely on your failure. Look at the mess you’ve made, you dripping, useless hole. You’re leaking all over my desk.”

He didn’t stop until you were begging, your voice a ruined, raspy mess.

You were fucked stupid in the most literal sense; your brain had shut down, unable to process the sheer scale of the violation and the accompanying, unwanted euphoria of your depraved suffering.

You were nothing but a collection of orifices for him to use, a vessel for his seed and his rage.

“Please… Veritas… please,” you whimpered, the use of his name a desperate attempt to find the man beneath the monster.

“I told you not to use my name,” he snarled, delivering a final, soul-crushing thrust that felt like it reached your lungs. He came with a violent shudder, his entire body tensing like a drawn bow. He filled you with a searing, thick heat, the sheer volume of his release making you feel bloated and ruined.

He didn’t pull out. He stayed inside you, his heavy weight pinning you to the desk, his heart beating a fast, triumphant rhythm against your back.

He waited until your shaking subsided into minor tremors before he finally withdrew, the sound of his exit a wet, humiliating squelch that made you sob fresh tears.

Ratio stood back, calmly zipping his trousers and adjusting his cuffs as if he had just finished a mild workout.

He looked down at you—limp, exposed, and covered in his mess—with a look of clinical detachedness.

“The desk will need to be sanitized,” he said, picking up his fountain pen again.

“And you will stay on the floor until you have memorized the first three chapters of the Advanced Logic textbook. If you fall asleep, if you stop reading, or if you dare to move from that spot before sunrise, I will ensure that today’s ‘lesson’ feels like a fond memory in comparison to what follows.”

He sat back in his chair, pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him, and began to write.

He didn’t offer you a tissue.

He didn’t offer you a blanket.

He treated you with the same importance as a discarded candy wrapper.

“Read,” he commanded, the tip of his pen scratching the paper once more. “And try to be less of a disappointment. Though, I suspect the vacuum in your head is far too vast for even my teachings to fill.”

You crawled off the desk, your legs failing you as you collapsed onto the carpet.

You reached for the textbook he had kicked toward you, your hands trembling so hard you could barely turn the pages.

You looked up at him, the man who had just destroyed your dignity and your body, and saw only the cold, reddish glow of his eyes as he watched you struggle.

The psychological harm wasn’t in the act itself; it was in the realization that you would be back tomorrow.

You would sit in his class, you would fail his tests, and you would crawl back into this office, because the cruel, sadistic logic of Veritas Ratio was the only thing that made sense in your fractured, pained world.

“Master,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Page one,” he replied, his voice like a closing cell door.

“Start now. Or I shall find a use for your mouth that has nothing to do with speech.”

You lowered your head and began to read, the scent of him still heavy in your lungs, a permanent prisoner of the man who viewed your very existence as an equation to be solved and discarded.