𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

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

♡ Word Count. 1,988 words

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The office was a shrine to the absolute; every scroll was aligned with obsessive geometric precision, the air sterilized by the faint, biting scent of cedar and high-grade incense.

Dr. Veritas Ratio sat behind his monolith of a desk, his silhouette casting an immense, suffocating shadow that seemed to swallow the room’s dim lighting.

He was a titan of intellect and muscle, a man who viewed the universe as a series of errors waiting to be corrected.

To your softhearted, fractured mind, he was the only source of gravity in a chaotic world.

Today, his anger was a palpable, ionizing force.

He had been reviewing the latest research submissions—a collection of “intellectual refuse,” as he called them—and your own failed dissertation sat at the top of the heap, defaced by his sharp, crimson ink.

His jaw was set, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he stared at the holographic display floating before him. He looked ready to dismantle the world stone by stone just to find one shred of competence.

You couldn’t stand it.

The sight of his frustration, the way his genius was being insulted by the mediocrity of your own brain, made your heart ache with a desperate, submissive need to soothe him. You wanted to be the sponge that absorbed his vitriol. You wanted to be the vessel for his rage so he wouldn’t have to carry it.

“Master,” you whispered, your voice barely a ripple in the heavy silence.

He didn’t look at you. “If you are about to offer a verbal defense for the logical fallacies on page forty-two, I suggest you swallow your tongue instead. It would be a more productive use of your anatomy.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you crawled across the plush carpet, feeling tiny and insignificant beneath the vastness of his presence. You reached the space between his spread legs.

He was an enormous man, his frame packed with dense, hard-won muscle that strained against the fine fabric of his trousers. You reached for his belt with trembling fingers, your intuition telling you that words were useless—only the raw, physical surrender of your dignity could satisfy a man who demanded perfection.

“What are you doing, you witless creature?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He didn’t stop you, but his hand came down to grip your hair, tilting your head back so you had to look up into the cold, golden fire of his eyes. “Do you think a momentary lapse into carnal instinct will absolve you of your intellectual bankruptcy?”

“No, Master,” you whimpered, your eyes welling with tears of shame and adoration. “I just… I want to make you feel better. I want to take the anger out of you.”

“You want to be a sedative,” he hissed, his grip tightening until your scalp stung. “How typical of your kind. Unable to meet me in the realm of the mind, you offer the only thing you possess of any marginal value: your capacity for degradation.” He leaned forward, his massive chest looming over you like a cliffside. “Very well. If you wish to be an instrument, then perform. But do not expect me to be gentle. I am in no mood for the illusions of romance.”

He unzipped, and his cock sprang free, a terrifying testament to his physical superiority. It was thick, heavy, and already pulsing with a dark, impatient heat. It looked far too large for your small frame, an invasive force that promised to tear through your inhibitions.

You took him into your hands, your small palms barely able to wrap around his girth. You leaned forward and began to lick the length of him, trying to be thorough, trying to show him with every flick of your tongue that you worshipped the very ground he walked on. You took the head into your mouth, your jaw stretching painfully, and began to suck with a desperate, rhythmic intensity.

“Deeper,” he commanded, his voice returning to that chilling, clinical calm as he turned back to his holographic display. The blue light of the screen reflected off his glasses, making him look like a machine. “If you are to be a tool, be an efficient one. I have a call with the IPC council in two minutes. You will not disrupt it.”

You whimpered around him, the sound muffled by his flesh. You pushed forward, forcing him down your throat until the base of his cock hit your lips. Your eyes watered, your gag reflex screaming in protest, but you clamped your eyes shut and swallowed him whole. You felt the thick, throbbing length of him sliding past your tonsils, a violation of your very biology.

The phone rang. Ratio tapped his earpiece.

“This is Dr. Ratio,” he said, his voice perfectly steady, even as his hand stayed buried in your hair, rhythmically shoving your face down onto him. “Yes, I’ve seen the quarterly projections. They are as optimistic as they are mathematically impossible. Who authorized the margin of error in sector seven?”

You were struggling to breathe, your nose pressed into the coarse hair of his groin, the scent of him—musk and sterile soap—overwhelming you.

Every time he spoke, you felt the vibrations of his voice through his cock, a direct line of communication from his mind to your throat.

He was using you like a piece of stress-relief equipment while he dismantled the financial strategies of an entire star system.

He wasn’t moving to help you; he was simply holding your head in place as he hammered his hips forward, a series of short, brutal thrusts that forced you to take more of him than your body was designed to hold.

You felt the room spinning, the lack of oxygen making your thoughts fracture into kaleidoscopic shards. You were being fucked stupid by his mouth, your intellect receding until you were nothing but a pulsing, wet throat and a pair of weeping eyes.

“The lack of foresight is staggering,” Ratio continued into the call, his thumb digging into the soft skin behind your ear, a silent threat to keep still. “I suggest you recalibrate your expectations before I decide to withdraw my endorsement entirely.”

He ended the call with a sharp tap. The silence that followed was even more terrifying.

He stood up abruptly, dragging you up with him by your hair. You stumbled, your legs weak, a string of saliva and pre-cum trailing from your chin.

“Your technique is as sloppy as your footnotes,” he growled, but there was a dark, heavy weight in his eyes now—a sign that your efforts had at least sparked his predatory interest. “But since you are so intent on being a vessel for my frustration, let us see how much of me you can truly contain before you break.”

He swept the contents of his desk to the floor in one violent motion. He didn’t care about the priceless artifacts; he only cared about the placement of your body.

He slammed you face-down onto the mahogany, your small frame looking like a broken doll against the dark wood. He didn’t use a condom. He didn’t use any oil. He simply spread your cheeks and drove himself into your tight, unprepared heat with the full force of his massive weight.

A scream tore from your lungs, sharp and jagged, but he immediately muffled it by grabbing your face and forcing your mouth against the wood.

“Quiet,” he hissed, his breath hot against your neck. “A failure has no right to a voice. You asked for this. You begged to be my remedy. Now, take it.”

The pain was a vertical, white-hot spike that seemed to go all the way up to your ribs. He was so large, so unyielding, that it felt as if he were physically rewriting your anatomy. He began to fuck you with a mechanical, sadistic rhythm, his hips hitting yours with a sound like wet leather striking stone.

Every thrust was a lecture in your own inadequacy. He was colonizing you, filling every empty space in your body with his overwhelming presence.

“You love this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a low, vibrating snarl. “To be reduced to a biological function. To have all that useless, over-analytical noise in your head silenced by the sheer reality of my weight inside you.”

“Yes… Master… please,” you sobbed into the desk, your fingers clawing at the wood, leaving faint scratches in the finish.

The psychological terror was the most intoxicating part. You knew that to him, this wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust in the traditional sense. It was the exercise of power.

He was an intellectual who believed he was doing you a favor by breaking you—that by crushing your submissive, softhearted nature, he was somehow ‘correcting’ you. He was a philosopher of the absolute; he didn’t want your heart, he wanted your total, shattered obedience.

He increased the violence of his movements, his large hands reaching around to grip your breasts, his thumbs bruising your nipples. He was treating you like a piece of raw material, something to be hammered and shaped.

You felt your mind slipping away, your need for privacy and internal sanctuary being invaded and destroyed by his relentless assault. There was no ‘you’ left, only the sensation of him, the smell of the desk, and the agonizing, beautiful pain of being filled.

“I am the only thing that matters,” he whispered, leaning down to bite the sensitive skin of your shoulder. “Not your thoughts. Not your dreams. Only my will. Only my seed.”

He reached his breaking point with a sudden, violent tension. He grabbed your throat, squeezing just enough to make your pulse thrum against his palm, and drove himself into you as deep as he could go, his cock hitting your cervix with a blunt, jarring force.

He groaned—a sound of pure, unadulterated dominance—as he came, the sheer volume of his release making you feel like you were being flooded from the inside out. He stayed buried in you for a long time, his heavy, muscular chest heaving against your back.

You were shaking, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. The room smelled of sex and salt and the cold, metallic scent of his genius.

Finally, he withdrew, the sound of his exit a wet, humiliating reminder of your state.

He didn’t help you up. He walked back to his chair, adjusted his trousers, and sat down as if nothing had happened. He picked up his pen and returned to his work, the scratching of the nib on paper the only sound in the room.

“You have ten minutes to clean the desk and yourself,” he said, not looking up. “Then you will sit on the floor and begin the corrections on your dissertation. If I see a single tear on the parchment, I will start the lesson over from the beginning. And next time, I shall not be so ‘lenient‘ with your throat.”

You lay there on the desk, a ruined, leaking mess of a girl, and felt a terrifying surge of gratitude. You looked at his broad shoulders, at the back of his head, and knew that you belonged to him in a way that defied logic.

You were his failure, his footstool, his toy.

And as you began to crawl toward the floor to start your work, you realized with a shudder of dark, masochistic ecstasy that you would do anything to keep it that way.

“Thank you, Master,” you whispered, your voice a ruined rasp.

Ratio didn’t answer.

He simply kept writing, the master of your world, already calculating the next way to break you.