𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

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

♡ Word Count. 1,659 words

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The heavy silence of the office was broken only by the rhythmic, clinical scratching of Dr. Ratio’s fountain pen.

You were slumped on the floor, your small, trembling frame a stark contrast to the vast, imposing geometry of his sanctuary. Between your thighs, the cold ache of his previous intrusion throbbed, a visceral reminder of your inadequacy.

He had given you ten minutes to clean the mahogany desk and yourself, but you hadn’t moved.

Your softhearted mind was caught in a recursive loop of paralysis; you stared at the spill of his seed on the dark wood, the fluid shimmering under the desk lamp like a brand of ownership.

You didn’t want to clean it. Every instinct in your helpless, masochistic soul screamed for the opposite—for the filth to remain, for the evidence of your degradation to sit there until it soured, inviting a secondary, more devastating wave of his wrath.

You wanted to be caught in your disobedience. You wanted the “corrections” he promised to be etched into your nervous system until you forgot your own name.

“Time is an objective constant,” Ratio’s voice sliced through your fog, cold and devoid of empathy. He didn’t look up from his ledger.

“You have exceeded your allotted window by four minutes and twelve seconds. Tell me, is your inability to perform a simple janitorial task a result of motor-function failure, or is it the same intellectual lethargy that rendered your dissertation a mockery of the scientific method?”

“I… I can’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking. You looked up at him, tiny and broken against the backdrop of his enormous, muscular presence. “I don’t want to wash you away, Master.”

The pen stopped.

The silence that followed was pressurized, the air turning thin and electric.

Ratio slowly set the pen aside and stood up.

He was a titan, his physical stature so immense that he seemed to compress the very walls of the room as he walked around the desk. He stopped in front of you, his boots inches from your shivering knees.

“You wish to remain in a state of squalor,” he mused, reaching down to grab your hair, forcing your head back until your spine arched painfully. His eyes were like marble, glowing with a sadistic, analytical fire.

“You find a perverse comfort in being marked. You think that by wallowing in your own shame, you can bypass the rigorous discipline I demand. You are not only a failure, you are a manipulative, hedonistic void.”

He hauled you up by your hair, your feet barely touching the floor. He dragged you back toward the desk, slamming you down onto the very mess you had refused to clean. The tacky fluid smeared across your back and buttocks, chilling your skin.

“Since you value the ‘mark’ so highly,” he hissed, his voice a jagged rasp against your ear, “I shall ensure the next one is indelible. If you cannot learn through logic, you will learn through the total dissolution of your ego.”

He didn’t bother with a second zipper. He simply ripped his trousers open, his member surging out—huge, pulsing, and terrifyingly thick.

He grabbed a heavy, metal bookend from the desk—a bust of a philosopher—and forced it into your hands.

“Hold this,” he commanded. “Above your head. If you drop it, if your arms so much as tremble, I will add another hour to your detention. You will maintain your focus while I perform the necessary adjustments to your character.”

You clutched the heavy metal, your small muscles already straining.

Ratio stepped between your legs, his hands manhandling your hips with a brutal, bruising force. He didn’t use any care. He didn’t give you a moment to breathe. He drove himself into you with a singular, devastating lunge that felt like it split your very pelvis.

A choked, strangled cry left your throat, but he immediately clamped a hand over your mouth, his fingers digging into your cheeks.

“Silence,” he growled. “I have a seminar to prepare for. I will not have my concentration disrupted by your animalistic whimpering.”

He began to fuck you with a mechanical, crushing rhythm. Every thrust was a tectonic shift, a violent intrusion that forced the air from your lungs in sharp, jagged bursts.

He was so large that every movement felt like it was rearranging your internal organs, pushing you to the absolute limit of physical endurance. Because you were so tiny compared to his enormous, hardened frame, your body was tossed back and forth on the desk like a ragdoll, your only anchor being the heavy metal bust you were forced to hold aloft.

The psychological depravation of the scene was suffocating. You were being violated on a desk covered in your own failures, forced to perform a task of physical strength while your body was being systematically broken.

Ratio wasn’t looking at you as a human being; he was looking at you as a defective equation he was solving through friction and force.

“Your arms are shaking,” he noted, his voice terrifyingly calm even as his hips slammed into you with enough power to make the heavy mahogany desk slide an inch across the floor.

“Concentrate. If you cannot maintain a simple physical posture, how can I ever expect you to maintain a complex logical framework? You are a disappointment on every conceivable level.”

He reached out and grabbed your throat with his free hand, his thumb pressing into your windpipe. The world began to dim at the edges, the lack of oxygen making your darkened mind spiral into a dark, velvet abyss.

In that darkness, the pain of his cock—the sheer, unyielding mass of it stretching you to the point of tearing—became the only truth in existence.

You felt a terrifying, shameful surge of euphoria.

This was the correction you craved: the total removal of your agency, the replacement of your thoughts with his demands.

“Tell me,” he hissed, his pace accelerating into a frantic, punishing blur. “Who owns your failure?”

“You,” you wheezed against his palm, the word a broken sob. “You… Master… Veritas…”

“I told you not to use my name!” He delivered a stinging, open-palmed slap to your face that sent your head snapping to the side.

The metal bust in your hands wavered, nearly slipping. “You are not my equal. You are a footnote. A variable to be erased. Say it!“

“I am… a footnote,” you cried out, your spirit breaking under the weight of his sadism. “I am nothing… please, just fuck me… fuck me stupid… make me forget…”

“With pleasure,” he snarled.

He let go of your throat only to grab the back of your neck, pinning your face down into the mess on the desk.

He increased his speed until he was a blur of golden light and crushing muscle. The sound was rhythmic and wet, a sickening tally of your degradation.

You felt your consciousness slipping, your brain unable to process the sheer scale of the stimulation. You were being hollowed out, your softhearted nature trampled by his rigidity, your internal world razed to the ground to make room for his monument.

He reached his climax with a sharp, guttural groan of conquest. He drove himself into you one final time, his entire weight crashing down on top of your small frame, pinning you to the desk. You felt the hot, pulsing surge of his seed filling you, a heavy, internal brand that made your vision swim.

You dropped the metal bust.

It hit the floor with a deafening thud that echoed through the empty office.

Ratio didn’t move for a long minute.

He stayed buried deep inside you, his heartbeat a drum against your spine. When he finally pulled out, the sensation was a hollow agony, a vacuum that made you feel more alone than you had ever been.

He stood up, looking down at you as you lay there, twitching and covered in his fluids, your arms bruised and your face stained with tears and ink.

He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t offer a word of comfort.

He simply walked back to his chair and picked up his pen.

“The bust has been damaged by the fall,” he said, his voice cold and professional. “That is an additional mark against your record. You will stay on that desk, in that position, until the fluids have dried. You will not move. You will not clean yourself. You will remain as a physical manifestation of your own incompetence while I finish my notes.”

He began to write, the scratching of the pen a rhythmic torture.

“And tomorrow,” he added, his eyes flicking to you for a fraction of a second, “we shall discuss the ethics of wasted potential. I expect you to be… more receptive to the material. Now, be silent. I have work to do, and you have finally found a position in which you are useful: as a silent, pathetic reminder of why I must be so strict.”

You lay there, the mahogany cold against your skin, the drying seed of your master tacky and stiffening on your thighs.

You were a creature of the mind, but as you watched him work, you realized that the mind was a lie. There was only the body, and the pain, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty that you would never be free of him.

You were his “correction,” and you would wait on that desk forever if it meant he would look at you with that same, murderous fire just one more time.

“Yes, Master,” you whispered into the dark wood, surrendering the last of your soul to the man who viewed your destruction as a work of art.