𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

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

♡ Word Count. 1,785 words

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The office was a vacuum of oxygen, the atmosphere thick with the ionizing scent of Dr. Ratio’s intellectual arrogance and the heavy, musky musk of the sex he had just forced upon you. You were draped over his lap like a broken specimen, your tiny frame trembling against the vast, muscular expanse of his thighs.

He was already back to his screen, his fingers typing with a rhythmic, dismissive speed that made the bruises on your hips throb in time with the keys. His huge, calloused hand stayed heavy on the back of your neck, pinning you down as a casual weight, a living paperweight for his convenience.

Your heart, that softhearted, treacherous organ, was beating a frantic rhythm against his chest. Your intellectual mind, usually so adept at retreating into abstract silos, had finally crumbled under the weight of his absolute dominance. You felt a desperate, irrational need to find a soul behind the marble mask—to find a reason for the way your body sang under his cruelty.

“Master…” you whispered, your voice a wet, ragged rasp.

“If you are about to comment on the humidity of the room, spare me,” Ratio remarked, his voice a cool, baritone blade. He didn’t look down. “Your physiological reactions are a matter of public record at this point. They are as predictable as they are pathetic.”

“I… I love you,” you blurted out. The words felt like a hemorrhage, a final, total surrender of your remaining dignity.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and shining with a terrifying, submissive devotion. “I love you, Veritas. I know you’re doing this to help me… I know you care…”

The typing stopped.

The silence that followed was a physical blow.

Ratio slowly turned his head, his reddish eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

A sneer, slow and venomous, curled his lip. He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh—a sound of pure, unadulterated derision.

“Love?” he repeated, the word sounding like filth in his mouth.

“You speak of ‘love’ as if you are capable of comprehending a concept that requires even a modicum of emotional maturity. What you feel is not love, you vacuous child. It is a hormonal malfunction. It is the Stockholm syndrome of a mind too weak to process its own failure.”

He reached down, his fingers digging into your jaw to force your mouth open, peering inside as if inspecting a piece of faulty machinery. “You love the way I break you. You love the profound lack of responsibility that comes with being a tool. To call that ‘love’ is an insult to the very foundations of human logic. It is a linguistic catastrophe.”

“No,” you sobbed, the first hot tears spilling over your cheeks. “It’s more than that. I see you… I see how much you give to the world… please…”

“You see nothing!” he roared, his voice suddenly thunderous, making you flinch violently.

He grabbed your arms and hoisted you up, slamming you onto the desk so that your face was inches from his. “You see a projection of your own desperate need for a master. You are a soft, submissive void, and you have mistaken the hammer for the hand that holds it.”

He leaned in closer, his face a mask of clinical disgust, though deep behind his pupils, a dark, suffocating obsession flickered—a man’s possessive fire that he would never, ever allow you to see.

He loved you with a ferocity that bordered on the divine, but his controlling nature viewed that love as a flaw, a variable to be crushed and hidden beneath a mountain of degradation.

To admit he loved you would be to admit he was human, and Ratio only allowed himself to be a god.

“Look at yourself,” he sneered, gesturing to your small, trembling form, covered in the marks of his possession.

“You are bawling like an infant. You are a pathetic, sniveling mess of a girl who can’t even maintain her composure in the face of a simple truth. And you think a man like me—a man who seeks the absolute, the perfect, the transcendent—could ever find value in your ‘love’?”

He grabbed your chin, his thumb forcing more tears from your eyes. “I find your affection to be a nuisance. A smudge on the lens of my work. Your ‘love’ is just another way for you to avoid the rigorous intellectual growth I demand. You use it as a shield to hide your stupidity.”

You began to cry in earnest then, a deep, soul-shattering wail of rejection.

Your peaceful sanctuary was gone; there was nowhere left to hide.

The man you worshipped was trampling your heart into the dust with a smile on his face, mocking the very essence of your vulnerability.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly intimate hiss as he watched you break. “Cry. Let the tears wash away the last of your delusions. You are not a lover. You are not a partner. You are a failure who has been granted the singular privilege of being corrected by me.”

He didn’t stop there.

He reached for your hair, winding it around his fist and jerking your head back so hard you let out a sharp cry of pain. He used his other hand to rip your legs apart, exposing your ruined, weeping heat to the harsh light of the office.

“If you are so filled with ‘love,’” he growled, “then demonstrate your devotion. Prove that you are willing to be destroyed by the object of your affection. Because I have no use for your heart, but I have a great deal of use for the way your body breaks when I take it without your leave.”

He didn’t wait.

He drove into you with a sudden, brutal violence that lacked any of the rhythm of their previous encounters. It was a raw, jagged assault, a physical manifestation of his need to punish you for making him feel anything at all. He hammered into you, his massive body crushing you into the mahogany, his hips striking yours with a sound of brutal finality.

“Is this your love?” he mocked, his thrusts becoming faster, more punishing. “Does it feel like affection when I stretch you to the point of tearing? Does it feel like care when I treat you like a communal latrine?”

You couldn’t answer.

You could only sob, your breath coming in hiccupping gasps, your hands clawing at the desk as he fucked you stupid. The psychological degradation of his words was worse than the physical violation—the way he took your most sacred confession and turned it into a weapon to degrade you further.

He was hollowing you out, turning your love into a source of shame, a dirty secret that only served to fuel his sadism.

“Answer me!” he commanded, his hand coming down in a sharp, stinging slap across your face.

“It… it hurts…” you wailed, your vision blurring with tears. “Master, please… why are you so mean… I love you…”

“Because you are beneath me!” he growled out, his eyes narrowed with a manic, terrifying brilliance. He was drowning in his own hidden passion, expressing it the only way he knew how: through total, sadistic conquest.

“You are a tiny, insignificant speck of dust in the shadow of my intellect. You will take this pain, and you will thank me for it, because it is the only thing of value I will ever give you.”

He flipped you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees, his huge hands gripping your waist so hard he left permanent finger-marks in your flesh. He entered you from behind with a blunt force that made you retch, his cock hitting your cervix with the weight of a falling star.

He didn’t care that you were crying; he didn’t care that you were begging for a shred of kindness. He only cared about the way your body spasmed around him, the way your submissive spirit buckled under his absolute, unyielding will.

“You are nothing but a vessel,” he hissed into your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. “A repository for my seed and my contempt. Remember this moment every time you think you feel ‘love.’ Remember that you are currently being used like an animal by the man you adore.”

He reached his climax with a growl of pure, dark triumph, his seed hitting your insides with a force that felt like an explosion. He stayed inside you, his heavy frame pinning you to the floor as you collapsed, your face buried in the carpet, your body racked with hysterical, broken sobs.

He didn’t hold you. He didn’t whisper that it was over. He simply withdrew, the sound of his departure a final, wet insult. He stood over you, looking down at your broken, weeping form with a sneer that hid a heart screaming with a possessiveness so dark it would have killed you if he ever let it out.

“Clean up this mess,” he said, his voice returning to its calm, clinical baritone. He walked back to his desk and sat down, picking up his pen as if he hadn’t just shattered your soul. “And don’t bother confessing again. It is a waste of my time and your breath. From now on, you will speak only when you are answering a question on the curriculum. Do I make myself clear?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You only lay there in the dark, the scent of him and the sting of his rejection a permanent part of your identity now.

You were an idealist, an intellectual, a thinker—but Dr. Veritas Ratio had taught you the ultimate lesson: that in the face of a god who hates you, thinking is the greatest sin of all.

“Answer me,” he snapped, the pen hovering over the paper.

“Yes… Master,” you whispered into the carpet, your heart a cold, dead thing in your chest.

“Good. Now, begin the revisions on chapter four. And if I see a single tear on the desk, I shall find a much more… public… way to remind you of your place.”

He began to write, the rhythmic scritch-scritch of the pen the only sound in the tomb of your dignity.

You were his.

You were broken.

And in the dark, secret corners of his brilliant, twisted mind, Veritas Ratio smiled, knowing that you would never, ever be able to leave him now.