2muchtocount

Chapter 6

Your back arches off the mattress with a broken whine, torn between the sting of the blade and the heat of his mouth sealing the wound. The pain and pleasure twist together, making your breath come in ragged gasps as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you.

His fingers slide from your hair to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your flushed cheek with something tender - if tenderness could ever exist in his touch. The scalpel still glints between you, a cold contrast to the heat of his palm. "You take pain so well..." His voice is a low murmur, thick with dark affection as he watches your lips part on another trembling exhale. "Just like I knew you would."

You smile at him weakly, lips parted in a pout. "More. I can take it, I promise." Your fingers tremble as they trace over his bare chest, pulling him as close as you can get. "You can do anything you want to me, I swear." The words spill out between whimpers, your body writhing beneath him, desperate for his touch, his weight, his blade - anything he's willing to give. Your back arches as his hand tightens in your hair, the sting of the scalpel's edge making your breath hitch. But you don't pull away. Instead, you press into the pain, into him, your voice breaking as you beg for more.

His grip tightens, fingers flying to wrench your wrists away from his chest. With a sharp crack, he again slams them down above your head, pinning you impossibly tighter. The nightstand drawer scrapes open, and his other hand emerges with a gleaming bone saw, twirling it between his fingers like some twisted surgeon's toy.

"Let's upgrade that loyalty serum," he purrs, the cold steel of the saw pressing flat against your sternum. The blade drags upward, slow and deliberate, until it rests just below your throat, the metal clinking against your collar. His breath fans over your skin as he leans in, his voice a dark whisper. "Tell me you want this."

Your pulse thunders in your throat as the saw's edge bites into your skin. The cold metal sends a shiver through you, but you force yourself to still beneath him, your fingers flexing against the mattress where he's pinned you. "I... I trust you," you whisper, the words trembling but true. The memory of his promise lingers between you, yet never quite sure if he meant to keep it, and you cling to it like a lifeline, even as the blade traces higher. Your voice drops to a ragged murmur. "I want this... I want you."

His smile softens ever so slightly, his hand moving gently to trace the curve of your cheek, the bone saw resting dangerously close to your temple - just a flick of his wrist away from something far worse than pain. "So brave," he murmurs, "so willing to trust even when I'm doing things that scare my poor pet."

The saw vanishes with a sharp nick against your throat, the sting immediate and bright. You gasp, your back arching off the mattress as he trades the brutal instrument for the usual scalpel, its slender blade glinting under the dim light as it greets you again. The sight of it sends a shudder through you, your breath hitching as your body betrays you - moaning at the promise of what might come next.

Your body writhes beneath him, hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate attempt to chase his touch - any touch - but he keeps the blade hovering just above your skin, denying you. The cold metal teases without delivering, and the frustration coils tighter in your chest until it snaps.A broken whine tears from your throat before you lunge, arms wrapping around his bare torso and dragging yourself up to crash against his mouth. Your teeth graze his lower lip, biting down just enough to taste copper before you’re kissing him like you’re drowning, like he’s the only thing keeping you alive. His hands are in your hair, gripping hard, but you don’t care - you need this, need him, the scalpel forgotten for now as you cling to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

He lets you, for just a moment. Lets you kiss him like you’re starving, like you’re trying to crawl inside his skin. Then his fingers tighten, yanking your head back by the roots, and the blade presses flat against your clavicle again, cold and unyielding. Then - it slices through the air as he severs the seam of your sweater with surgical precision, fabric splitting open like skin, the cold air hitting your now bare chest. "Fiery pet," he rasps, pressing the flat of the blade to your thrashing throat, the metal biting just enough to still your movements. "Your reward comes after obedience."

The scalpel glints as he drags you up by your hair, the sharp pull sending a jolt through your scalp. Your knees hit the floor with a muffled thud, the bloodied scraps of your sweater clinging to your skin as you kneel before him. His free hand tangles in your hair, keeping your head tilted back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His other hand moves lazily, the scalpel tracing slow, taunting circles over the fabric of his own shirt - just above where you know the scars lie. A challenge. "Beg properly," he whispers, "or shall I stitch these pretty lips shut so they can't lie about loving me?"

Your voice cracks as the cool air hits your exposed skin, your body trembling as a desperate blush spreads across your cheeks. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you press your forehead against his stomach, your lips brushing the fabric of his shirt just below his navel."I love you, I'm not lying!" The words spill out in a broken sob, your fingers clutch at his thighs as you tilt your face up to press a trembling kiss against him. "Please, please just let me love you. Let me have you, just-"

A guttural sound vibrates through his chest as your lips graze against him, the heat of your breath seeping through the fabric. His fingers twist brutally in your hair, wrenching your head back until your throat is exposed in a trembling line. "Since you're so determined..." His voice is a growl as he drags the scalpel's edge upward, the blade catching on the hem of his shirt before lifting it just enough to reveal the skin beneath.

The steel glints as it hovers over the exact spot where your lips had just pressed, the cold metal a stark contrast against his fevered skin. Then - with a sudden, wet sound - the blade sinks into his own flesh, the sharp tip piercing through his abdomen. Blood wells instantly, thick and dark as it drips down onto your waiting tongue, the coppery scent filling your senses as he forces himself against your mouth. The warmth of it spreads across your lips, the metallic tang flooding your taste buds as he grinds himself against you.

"Here." His voice is rough, his fingers keeping you held in place. "Taste your devotion. It's the only truth you're allowed."

With your mouth still pressed against his skin you let out a muffled moan that vibrates against his flesh, the sensation sending a jolt through both of you. The sight of the blood welling from the wound he carved into himself ignites something primal in your core - a desperate, hungry heat that coils low. You don’t hesitate, not even for a breath, before sealing your lips around the fresh cut, your tongue darting out to catch every thick, coppery drop as it spills from his skin.

Your whimpers turn wet and needy as you work your mouth over the wound, your lips smearing the crimson liquid in messy streaks across your chin. The metallic tang floods your senses, making your head spin as you press closer, your hands gripping his hips so hard your nails dig into the fabric. The blood smears grotesquely across your lips, painting your face in dark, glistening streaks, but you don’t care - you need this.

The doctor's breath hitches above you. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sting, and when you glance up at him through your lashes, you see his expression twist into something dark and satisfied.

A feral grin splits his features, sharp and predatory as he watches his blood glisten on your lips. His thumb drags through the mess on your face, smearing the blood across your cheekbone in a deliberate streak, like war paint, like a claim. "Look at you," he purrs, his voice rough, yet wavering. His thumb presses against your lips, forcing them to part as he pushes the bloodied digit past your teeth. You moan around it, your tongue swirling obediently, and his eyes darken further. "My little pet... drinking straight from the source."The praise sends a jolt through you, your body trembling, hands clutching at his wrists. But then - with sudden, brutal quickness, he yanks you back up to your feet, his grip unrelenting as he drags you against the wall. The scalpel flashes in his palm, the blade glinting before it slams through the fabric of your headband, pinning it - and you - to the wall behind you. The needle-sharp tip nicks your skin as it pierces the fabric, a bright sting blooming where metal meets scalp. Blood beads instantly along the line of the cut, warm and wet, dripping down your temple as you gasp.

He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear, his body pressing you into the wall. The scalpel trembles where it’s embedded, the fabric of your headband taut against your forehead, the blood from the fresh cut trickling down your skin. "Now that sweet mouth of yours," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, "has such a perfect function."

You let out a muffled scream as the blood slowly drips down your forehead, but you make no real effort to remove yourself. Your breath hitches in your throat as you, surprisingly, let out a low moan and whisper his name like a secret. “Masacrik… please.” You smile softly, his own blood still smeared across your lips as you lick them.

His fingers tighten in your hair at your whispered plea, the pressure sending a sharp tingle across your scalp. "You're such a good pet," he murmurs. The scalpel slides free from your headband, leaving a bloody trail down the wall as he lets it drop carelessly to the floor. His hand shifts to cradle the back of your head, his palm warm and heavy against your nape.

Your lips tremble into a weak smile as you look up at him, your eyelids fluttering as your strength finally gives out. Your knees hit the carpet with a soft thud, your body sinking once again before his towering form. Your lips find that familiar spot where you'd kissed him before - now marked by a fresh wound still glistening. You press your mouth to the incision with reverent care, feeling the heat of his skin against your lips. Your tongue traces slowly along the cut, savoring the metallic tang as fresh blood wells against your taste buds.

His entire body trembles violently at the sensation of your kisses, his muscles tensing beneath your lips. His hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat to his hungry gaze. "You look so pretty like this," he growls, his voice rough and possessive as his eyes trace the crimson streaks painting your face, the way your lips glisten with his blood.

A violent shudder wracks your frame at his words, your entire being lighting up at the praise. A broken, needy moan spills from your throat, vibrating against his skin where your mouth is still pressed. The sound travels through him, making his breath hitch yet again.

The sensation sends a jolt through his entire body, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his free hand moves to the buttons of his shirt, fingers working deftly to undo each one. The fabric parts slowly, revealing more of his torso inch by inch - the taut planes of his stomach, the sharp lines of his hips, the faint scars you've never seen before. The shirt falls open completely, baring his entire upper body to your hungry mouth.

The raw, needy sounds spilling from his throat ignite something primal in your chest, and when his fingers work open that last button - when the shirt falls away to reveal all that warm, scarred skin just for you - your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers dig into his hips like claws, nails biting into flesh as you finally get to taste him properly. Your mouth moves with desperate reverence, kissing every new inch of exposed skin, your tongue dragging slow, wet paths over the ridges of his stomach, the dip of his navel, the sharp lines of his hips. You can’t get enough - can’t stop the whimpers vibrating against him as you memorize the salt and iron of his skin.

His chest heaves with every gasp you pull from him, his fingers twisting in your hair to hold you flush against his body. The sound he makes when your teeth graze the wound at his navel is something between a groan and a curse, his hips jerking forward into your touch.

"Keep going... you're doing so well..." he rasps out, the words barely escaping him in between moans.

The way his body yields to you - how his breath hitches, how his muscles tense and tremble beneath your mouth - it sends a thrill straight through you. You redouble your efforts, teeth sinking into the taut muscle just above his navel with sharp little nips, each one followed by a slow, wet kiss to soothe the sting. His name spills from your lips between kisses, a broken litany of worship as your hands pull his hips flush against you, fingers digging into his flesh like you could fuse yourselves together.

His control fractures with every bite, every touch - his hands abandon your hair to roam over your shoulders, your back, gripping and squeezing like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. "You're... so good... so good for me..." The words are ragged and barely coherent. Then, without warning, he yanks you back up off your knees, your body colliding with his as he shoves you against the nearest wall. The impact drives the breath from your lungs, your back hitting the bloodstained surface with a dull thud. His hips pin you in place, his body pressing into yours as his mouth crashes into yours in a violent kiss.

Your cry is swallowed by his mouth, pleasure bleeding into every gasp as you kiss him back with the same wild abandon. Your hips arch up into his, seeking friction, needing more of him - all of him. One hand tangles in his hair, fingers twisting in the red strands to hold him closer, while the other presses against the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over his pulse, feeling the way it thunders beneath your touch.

The sound he makes - a gasping, guttural moan - vibrates against your lips as your hips roll against his, the pressure sending a jolt through him. His body tightens, muscles coiling as he pins you harder against the wall, his knee forcing its way between your legs, spreading you open. His free hand slides down to your back, fingers splaying possessively over your spine as he pulls you flush against him. "So eager..." he growls against your mouth, the words a dark promise, his kiss bruising.

You grind yourself down against his knee pinning you to the wall, shuddering and moaning loudly against him with every movement as your mind spins wildly. Your grip on the side of his neck tightens as nails dig into skin. "Yours, Masacrik-" Another desperate moan. "I'm all yours."

Growling against your lips, eyes dark with possessive hunger, his hand yanks the remaining torn shreds of your sweater off your body with a quick motion. The last bloody scraps of fabric fall to the floor as he captures your mouth in a rough kiss, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. "That's right - mine..." he growls, his knee pressing harder between your thighs. "And you're not going to forget.”

Your cry is raw and desperate as his knee presses deeper between your thighs, the friction sending electric sparks through your entire body. You grind down against him with increasing urgency, your movements growing more frantic as pleasure coils tighter in your gut. Every roll of your hips drags another broken moan from your throat, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The sounds you're making are shameless and needy, each one vibrating through both of your bodies.

Your fingers dig into his neck with bruising force, your nails breaking skin as you try to pull him impossibly closer. Small crimson beads well up beneath your fingertips, marking him as yours just as surely as he's marking you. The coppery scent of blood mixes with the heavy musk of arousal in the air between you. Your grip is almost painful, but he doesn't pull away - if anything, he presses harder into your touch, his own breath hitching at the sting.

He grinds his knee up against your most sensitive spot, the rough fabric of his pants creating delicious friction that makes your vision blur. His hand slides down to grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you down harder against his thigh, trapping you completely between his body and the wall. The pressure is exquisite, overwhelming - you can't escape it even if you wanted to.

His lips find your ear, teeth grazing the delicate shell before he speaks, his voice rough with lust and raw need. "You're so desperate for my touch..." The words are a growl, vibrating against your skin. His breath is hot against your neck, each exhale making your skin prickle with anticipation.

You can feel how hard he is through the fabric of his pants, pressing insistently against your stomach. The hand not holding your hips tightens in your hair, tilting your head to the side to give him better access to your throat. His tongue drags along the column of your neck, tasting the salt on your skin, before his teeth sink in just enough to make you gasp. The pain is sharp but fleeting, melting into pleasure as his lips soothe the mark he's left behind.

Every movement of his knee between your thighs sends sparks through your nerves, your body tightening around nothing as you grind down desperately against him. His free hand slides up your side, fingers splaying possessively over your ribs before his thumb finds your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you're whimpering against his shoulder. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Such a good little thing, taking whatever I give you." His knee presses up harder, his thumb pinching your nipple just enough to make you cry out.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck with a desperate whimper, your teeth sinking into the tender flesh between his shoulder and collarbone without warning. The sharp sting makes him hiss as you suck hard at the wound, lapping at the coppery tang of his blood like it's the only thing that can sustain you. Your tongue drags over the mark you've left, sealing the bite with a wet, open-mouthed kiss before you pull back just enough to moan directly into the shell of his ear.

Your hips grind against his knee with frantic urgency, the pressure between your thighs making your vision swim. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you chase the building tension. "Do you-" You manage between strangled breaths, your voice shaking with need. "Do you feel this too? This... close?" Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting into skin as your body trembles against him. The world tilts, your vision going hazy at the edges as the coil inside you almost tightens to the breaking point.

His groan rumbles against your skin, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to leave dark marks he'll trace later with a possessive gaze. "Close," he rasps into your ear, nails scoring down your thigh in a way that makes you shudder. "So fucking close-"

You whimper, grinding your hips against his with frantic need, your vision swimming as you cling to him like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. "M-me too," you gasp against his neck, lips clinging to his skin as you chase every sensation, utterly consumed by him.

The sounds you make ignite a hunger within him that drives him to increase the pressure between your thighs, his breath ragged in your ear, his own self control quickly dissolving. "Let go," he demands, teeth scraping against your earlobe. "Let it happen, for me."

You whimper against him, the sound raw and trembling as it grows louder with each shuddering breath. "Y-you... too. With me...?" The words come out broken, barely more than a desperate gasp between your trembling lips. Your hands clutch at him, fingers shaking as they dig into his shoulders, your eyes searching his face like he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

His eyes burn into yours, completely lost in the desperate, needy way you're looking at him as his control unravels. The hand on your hip slides down to grip the back of your thigh, yanking your leg up around his waist to shift your body against him. The new angle causes his knee to press even harder between your thighs, and you gasp at the sudden, overwhelming pressure.

His breath is ragged as he growls against your ear, his voice rough with lust. "’Together’... you're a filthy thing..."

The sudden shift sends a jolt through you - your cry is breathless as the new angle of his knee presses deeper between your thighs. Lightning bolts of pleasure crack down your spine, your body shuddering violently against him, every muscle locking tight as your vision whites out at the edges. You grind down against him with frantic need, your hips rolling in desperate circles, pressing that delicious pressure right back against his own. The both of you groan at the same time, the sound vibrating between your bodies. Your fingers twist into the back of his hair, gripping hard enough to make his scalp sting as you tug him closer, your whimpers turning into broken gasps.

Your eyes stay locked on his, wide and dark and drowning in the same madness that’s written all over his face. His name tears from your throat in a scream, your body trembling around him as pleasure rips through you in relentless waves. You ride it out against him, your hips stuttering, your breath coming in sobs as you cling to him.

And when he finally lets himself go, his body jerking against yours, grip on your thigh turning bruising, you feel it - every shudder, every ragged breath, every pulse of pleasure that tears through him as he follows you over the edge. His mouth crashes back onto yours, swallowing your cries as the both of you tremble through the aftermath, your bodies pressed so close there’s no telling where one of you ends and the other begins.

"That's it..." he breathes raggedly into your ear. "Such a good pet..."

Your chest heaves as you struggle to catch your breath, your body still trembling against his like a leaf in the wind. Your fingers remain tangled in his hair, your other arm wrapped tightly around his waist as if he's the only thing keeping you from collapsing. The world slowly comes back into focus, but your gaze stays locked on his - those dark, endless eyes that still hold you captive.

A shy, breathless smile tugs at your lips as you search his face, your voice barely above a whisper. "D-did you...?" The question hangs between you, soft and full of wonder, as if you still can't quite believe this is real. Your thighs squeeze around his waist, your body instinctively seeking more of his warmth, more of his touch, even as your senses slowly return to you.

His gaze burns into you, dark and satisfied as he takes in every detail - the way your body still trembles against his, the flush of your skin marked with his teeth, blade, and hands - the way your breath hitches when his fingers tighten in your hair. He doesn’t waste words on an answer. Instead, his mouth finds yours, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head and pin you against the wall as he kisses you deep enough to steal the air from your lungs.When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and pulse racing. You giggle softly, breathless and dizzy, pressing your forehead against his with a contented sigh. "I think I’ll take that as a ‘yes’."

He narrows his eyes at your response, a wicked smirk spreading across his features.  "You can think whatever your little head wants to," he murmurs, his hand trailing from the nape of your neck to trace down your sternum, brushing over the faint remnants of cuts and bruises. "But the only answer that matters is mine, pet."

Your voice is soft, almost sweet, but the way your body still trembles against his betrays the truth - you’re anything but innocent in this moment. You tilt your head, lashes fluttering as you gaze up at him with that desperate, clinging smile, the one that makes his grip tighten just a little more. "Tell me then," you whisper, your lips barely grazing his, "did you?" The pout is deliberate and teasing, your lower lip jutting out just enough to tempt him. "Did I get to please my master?"

Yet another chuckle escapes him at your petulant display, the smirk never leaves his lips even as his thumb drags your lower lip down just enough to expose your teeth - testing, teasing. "You did well," he murmurs, his voice a low purr as he leans in, his lips barely brushing yours. The kiss is a whisper, the ghost of a touch, but it sends a shiver through you all the same. "Very well indeed." His thumb traces the curve of your lip, his eyes dark with something dangerous. "Good pets might get rewarded."

His fingers tilt your chin up, forcing your gaze back to his when you try to look away. The way your cheeks flush pink, the way your voice trembles just slightly - it makes something dark and possessive flicker in his eyes. He loves when you’re like this - wrecked, flushed, and still so desperately sweet.

"Of course, pet," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. His other hand trails up and down your arm, slow and deliberate, watching as goosebumps rise in its wake. "You’ll stay with me every night…" His grip tightens just enough to make you gasp, his lips curving into a smirk. "If I let you leave my bed at all."The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your breath hitching as his fingers trace down your throat, his touch lingering over the marks he’s left there. He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "Now, let’s get you cleaned up…" His teeth graze your earlobe, just enough to make you shiver. "Then maybe I can ruin you all over again."

~~~

Chapter 5

His mouth crashes into yours with the force of a man who has waited far too long to taste you again. The kiss is bruising, possessive - his teeth nipping at your lower lip, not bothering to wait for a response, before his tongue sweeps in to claim you completely. You melt against him with a shuddering sigh, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as the world tilts.

His free hand slides down to the small of your back, fingers splaying possessively against your spine as he yanks you flush against him. The hard lines of his body press into yours, leaving no space between you - no room for doubt, fear, no room for anything but this. Him. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your head grow light, and he groans into your mouth, low and dark, like he’s savoring the way you tremble for him.

He suddenly shoves you backward against the mattress, your back thudding against the sheets with a breathless impact, his weight pressing you down as a hand locks around both your wrists like a manacle. His grip is unyielding as he looms over you - lab coat hanging open.

"Greedy little thing," he rasps, his voice unnervingly smooth as usual, roughly grasping your jaw and yanking it to the side, his teeth dragging over the throbbing pulse in your throat where the serum hums beneath your skin. The sensation sends a jolt through you, your back arching involuntarily as a whimper escapes your lips. "You’ll drown yourself trying to consume me."

His free hand yanks at his shirt, tearing at the buttons in haste before his palm slams down beside your head, caging you in. The heat of his chest presses against yours, and you can feel the way his heart pounds - fast, relentless, just like yours.

Your voice trembles with devotion, body still beneath him as you gaze up through half-lidded eyes. "I don’t mind…" The words come out breathless, your cheeks flushed with intoxication. "Let me drown in you, then."

His grip on your wrists tightens, his thumb pressing into the delicate skin there as he studies you - your surrender, your need. The air between you hums with the weight of his control, the heat of your submission.

Your breath catches as his fingers tighten around your wrists, the warning in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Careful what you wish for," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours with each word, his voice dark. "Once I have you like this..." His thumb traces the soft skin at your throat, his grip unyielding and possessive. "I may not let go." The words hang between you, heavy with meaning, as his body presses deeper into you.

“Please don’t…” The words slip out in a whisper, rushed and trembling, as your gaze lifts to meet his. There’s worry in your eyes - real, raw - but it’s wrapped up in need, dependence. A fear not just of pain, but more of distance from him.

Your lower lip trembles into a pout, unintentional but impossible to hide. “I don’t ever want you to let go,” you whisper, barely breathing the words. “Please.” The silence that follows is thick, heavy with everything you don’t say - that you need him too much, that you wouldn’t even know how to exist without the hold he keeps over you.

A low, breathless laugh escapes him - quiet, but edged with something strained, almost like it hurts to hear you plead like that. Almost like he needs to… restrain himself, seeing you so needy. His hand moves, slow and deliberate, trailing down until it finds the collar at your neck. His fingers curl around it, and with a sudden tug, he forces your gaze back to his.

His eyes burn through you - hunger and disdain. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, the word slicing sharp - but his thumb brushes your cheekbone with a tenderness so precise it feels cruel. “So sweet… begging for your own chains.”

Your eyes drift upward, drawn to the faint part in his shirt - where pale skin meets the sharp lines of old scars, surgical and deliberate. Each mark tells a story you know he’ll never share, but somehow, they feel like part of the truth he wears for you alone. Something only he created with his own hands is allowed to see.

He leans in slowly, his presence swallowing the space between you until his lips brush over yours - light enough to make you ache for more. “But don’t worry…” he breathes, voice like steel, “I’d weld these hands shut before I ever let go.” The words are sharp-edged and final - and yet somehow - the possessiveness in them feels safer than freedom ever did.

He captures your mouth in another kiss so violent it tastes metallic, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. You melt beneath him, whining into the assault, your body arching up to meet his like a flame bending toward oxygen. His grip on your wrists tightens just enough to let you squirm before he finally releases you - only to have your hands immediately seek out the familiar landscape of his body.

Your fingers trace the raised lines of old scars, mapping everything you can manage to graze over. He shudders under your touch, a low growl rumbling in his chest as your nails drag lightly over his skin. "Such greedy hands," he murmurs against your lips, but there's no real reproach in it. His hips roll down, pinning you harder against the mattress as your exploration grows bolder, your touch worshipful in its desperation.

The kiss turns molten, his control slipping just enough to let you feel the edge of his hunger. His hand bunches tightly in your hair, forcefully yanking your head back to expose your throat to his teeth.

His lips hover just beneath your ear, breath warm and words velvet-dark. “You’re such a good little pet,” he murmurs against your skin, each syllable sinking in like a brand. “Always so eager to please.”

A soft, broken sound slips from you - more than a whine, less than a plea - as you press closer, closer, your mind lost somewhere between obedience and longing. Your eyes flutter half-shut, dazed and filled with that ache to be seen, to be wanted.

“Always…” you whisper, voice thick with heat and hope. “I always want you to be happy with me, Masacrik…” The name feels like it was built to be on your tongue. And you mean it the way you mean everything now - with your whole, reshaped heart.

His expression shifts, softening. His hand slips from your neck, fingers weaving into your hair as he cradles the back of your head with unsettling care. His thumb grazes your temple, and his gaze holds yours like a tether, unblinking.

“You make me happy just by existing,” he says, his voice low. “Seeing as I breathed life into you.” The words land with weight, quiet and final. A reminder. He leans in, his breath brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate. “But…” he adds, a slow smile curving his lips, “there’s something more you can do for me.” Not a question, nor a request - it was an invitation you were made to answer.

Your eyes light up, wide and shimmering with a familiar, reckless devotion. The spark of his attention alone sets something alight in you - need, purpose, longing tangled too tightly to pull apart. Your hands grip at his bare sides, fingers curling as if to anchor yourself there - against him, beneath him, wherever he allows. Eagerness floods your expression.

“I’m yours,” you breathe, the words trembling with conviction. “You… you control me.” Your gaze flickers, drawn from the scars on his chest to his eyes that hover just inches above your own. “Tell me what I can do for you,” you whisper, lips parted, heart racing. And in your voice, there’s no fear, only the hope that he’ll take whatever’s left to give.

His smile deepens as he watches your gaze, your trust laid bare in every breath. His hand moves from your hair to your chin, fingers tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His lips brush close to your ear, his voice low and silken. "I want you to be completely obedient. You'll do whatever I say, without question or hesitation. You exist for my use."

You nod before he even finishes speaking, the motion quick and full of aching need. Your eyes shimmer - completely, terrifyingly undone by him. “Then use me,” you breathe. Your lips seek out the hand that strokes your face, drawn to it as if it anchors you - because maybe it does. You press into his touch, craving any sliver of contact he offers, needing it like air.

“I’ll do anything,” you whisper, voice trembling, desperate. “Just say the word.” A pause. An unsteady breath. “I’m yours.”

A quiet laugh slips from him, rumbling beneath his breath. His fingers tighten just slightly against your cheek, enough to remind you that his touch, while now gentle, is never without intent. He leans in, and the air between you vanishes. His lips ghost over yours - dangerously close.

“Anything?” he murmurs, the word sharp and soft all at once. It wasn’t a question, because he already knows your answer. And he's already imagining how far he’ll take you.

“Anything,” you breathe, the word trembling on your lips. “Everything.” Your mouth brushes his - lightly, desperately - as if it were a plea. “Please…” The word spills out, caught between a whimper and a whisper, your voice raw with longing. Your face burns with heat, and your eyes, heavy-lidded, never leave his. “Please, just tell me what to do. I’ll do it right away, I promise,” you murmur. “I just want to please you. I’m begging, let me please you.”

His eyes darken with amusement as his fingers tighten in your hair, suddenly and sharply forcing your head back against the mattress. His weight pins you down as he reaches into his pocket, retrieving the once abandoned scalpel. The cold metal presses against your collarbone, sharp and precise.

"Begging doesn't suit such a specimen," he hums, dragging the blade against your skin just enough to bead crimson. His tongue swipes over the wound before sealing it with his mouth, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the heat of his kiss. "Let's see if that loyal little heart still beats after I carve my initials into every trembling muscle."

You don’t resist. You never really do. Instead, you arch into the blade, into him, your breath hitching as his lips find yours again. The kiss is possessive, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming every last gasp of air, the taste of your own blood melding in your mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with something far more dangerous than affection. The scalpel glints in the dim light as he traces it lower, and you - you smile, drunk on the promise of pain.

~~~

Link to chapter 6:

https://www.tumblr.com/2muchtocount/787627652236328960/dr-masacrik-x-femreader-ch-6?source=share

- 💊

Oh my goddd don’t even get me started 😈 Masacrik seems like such a switch, doesn’t think he wants to be topped but OH BOY he does.

Chapter 4

Your eyes squeeze shut, tight and sudden, as if blocking out the sight of him might somehow quiet the storm building inside you. But it doesn't help. Not with how close he is, with the heat of his breath brushing your skin, or the way his presence fills every inch of the space around you.

A small, high-pitched squeak escapes your throat - humiliatingly soft. Your whole body feels hot, flaring with mortified tension, even the tips of your ears burn with it. You don’t dare move away. Not when he’s this close. Not when part of you is aching to disappear - and another part is aching to be seen.

Dr. Masacrik lets out a low, velvety laugh, your reaction delights him, and he doesn’t really bother to hide it. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice like a purr curling against your skin. “You’re just melting away in my arms.” There’s a hunger in his tone now, insistent, inevitable. “I could eat you up right now.”

He leans in, closing the last bit of space between you until your body is completely caged in by his presence - his warmth, his will. His hand never stops moving, still tracing slow circles along your back, but something in the motion shifts. The softness fades, replaced by a quiet claim.

You melt into his touch without thinking, your body moving on instinct now - drawn to him like gravity. A sigh escapes your lips, fragile and breathless, as you lean in closer, closer still, until there’s nothing left between you but the thrum of your own heart and the steady rhythm of his hand.

“You made me like this…” you whisper, voice shy and barely held together. “I can’t help it.” There’s no blame in your tone - only a quiet and helpless kind of affection. Like you’ve long since stopped resisting the shape he’s carved you into. And maybe part of you hopes he hears it for what it is… not an accusation. But gratitude, twisted and earnest. Yours.

His chuckle is soft, quiet. There's something truly gentle in it, like he's fully pleased with what you've become. What he's made of you.

His hand lifts from your back and moves to your face, cupping your cheek with a careful touch that feels far too kind, knowing how deeply it owns you. He tilts your face toward him, eyes searching, watching every flicker of warmth, every trace of dependence in your expression.

“I know,” he says softly, “And I wouldn’t change a thing.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re exactly as you should be. Just the way I shaped you.” His other hand slips into your hair, fingers sliding slowly through the strands, anchoring you to him in that same soft, suffocating way he always does. “Just stay like this,” he murmurs, tone thick with satisfaction. “Melting into me… it suits you.” And it does - too easily.

A soft hum escapes you, warm and unguarded, as you lean into his touch. Your eyes flutter halfway shut, your body responding before your mind can catch up - drawn in, lulled by the steady rhythm of his hands and his voice, the way his presence fills every quiet space inside you. Without thinking, your lips almost brush against the palm of his hand - barely there, a ghost of a gesture, but telling all the same. You're lost in him, caught in the quiet gravity he always pulls you into. Everything else blurs around the edges.

You can feel his smile stretching wider, slow and deliberate, as your lips absentmindedly graze his palm - like a predator savoring the first tremble of its prey. His thumb drags along your lower lip, pressing just enough to part them, testing, claiming. 

"Good," he murmurs, voice thick with something darker than approval. "So responsive. As if you were built… just for me." The words slither between you, laced with amusement, with possession, with the quiet threat of how easily he could unravel you. His arm coils around your waist, fingers digging in just shy of pain, and then - you’re sprawled across his lap, his thigh steady beneath you, his grip unyielding. The heat of his body seeps into yours, but it’s the weight of his stare that burns deeper, pinning you in place. You should resist. You know you should. But the shame of how badly you want to obey curls low in your gut, hot and sickening.

Your lips curl into a smile against his fingers, soft and yielding, as if you’ve forgotten how to resist. "Well, you did make me…" The words slip out, breathy and light, but there’s something brittle in your laughter that follows - a fragile thing, easily shattered. 

He doesn’t need to hold you down anymore; you sink into his lap like you belong there, your body molding to his as if gravity itself has shifted. His palm rests possessively on your hip, thumb tracing idle circles, and you let him. Because it’s easier this way. Because the warmth of him is a lie you’re willing to believe.

His chuckle is a slow, dark thing, curling around the sound of your laughter, almost suffocating it. His other hand rises, fingers threading through your hair with deliberate care. Then he’s leaning in, his breath just a whisper against your ear, lips brushing the shell of it just shy of a kiss. "You’re mine," he murmurs, voice low, certain. "All mine." A pause. The weight of his words settles over you as you shiver. "Understand?" His fingers tighten imperceptibly in your hair, a silent reminder - this isn’t a question.

"Yours…" The word slips from your lips, soft with submission. Your smile trembles at the edges as you shape his words around your tongue. "All yours. Nobody else’s." The admission tastes like sacrament, like something sacred and spoiled all at once.

You press closer, your body melting into his until there’s no space left between you - no air, no resistance, just the thud of his heartbeat against your ribs, steady and sure. His. The thought hums through you, warm and suffocating. You should be afraid of how good it feels. But you’re not.

His smile is slow and indulgent - a man savoring the inevitable. He feels you melt against him, your body molding to his chest like wax under a flame, and his grip tightens just enough to make you aware of it. Not pain. Not quite. But the promise of it lingers in the way his fingers dig in, possessive and patient. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need the words. The message is already written in the way your breath hitches, in the way his hold doesn’t loosen. You’re his. And he’s well aware of it.

You burrow closer without thinking - because thinking is dangerous, isn’t it? Your body moves before your mind can protest, humming low in your throat. And then, quick as a stolen breath, you’re pressing your lips to the warmth of his cheek. Soft. Gentle. A kiss.

For a heartbeat, you almost feel like you’re in control of yourself. His skin is warm beneath your mouth, but the second your lips leave his flesh, the air between you goes cold. You don’t dare look at his face. You feel like you already know what you’ll find there.

Your kiss lands like a spark on dry tinder - his entire body locks, muscles coiling tight enough to crack bone. For one suspended heartbeat, you’re frozen in the eye of the storm. Then - oh, then - that laugh slithers out of him, low and wrong, like honey laced with arsenic. 

"Mine," he repeats sharply, the word a blade dragging across your throat as he wrenches your face up to his. The pad of his thumb grinds into your lips, smearing your traitorous kiss like it’s something filthy. "This?" His voice drops impossibly lower. "Mine to control."

Then, the kiss comes like punishment. Teeth clash, his mouth moving against yours with the ruthless precision of a man claiming territory. You taste copper and something darker - something insistent. Then he’s gone, leaving you gasping as his breath ghosts against your swollen lips. "Good pets don’t steal," he murmurs, fingers tangling cruelly in your hair. "They kneel. They beg." The last word curls around you like a noose. "Now."

The sound dies in your throat, swallowed whole by his devouring mouth. Your body betrays you, eyes flaring bright with something that isn't just desire, something that feels more like worship. The fight leaves you in a single breath, melting into his grip.

"I-I'm sorry," you whimper, the words trembling between your swollen lips. "I didn't mean to-" Your gaze flickers up through damp lashes, lips parted and glistening, trembling in that perfect pout he shaped himself. The air between you hums with something sick."Please," you breathe, fingers curling into his shirt like you might drown without him. "Masacrik." His name leaves you like a prayer.

His smirk unfurls slow as a blade being drawn, watching the way your pupils blow wide with that perfect, pathetic devotion. "Good," he purrs, the words dripping like syrup from his tongue, impossible to escape. His grip shifts, fingers threading possessively through your hair while his other hand brands your hip with the weight of ownership. "Mine," he snips, the word a physical force that presses you deeper into his hold. His thumb traces the shell of your ear, a lover's touch with a conqueror's intent. "And disobedience?" A sharp tug on your hair makes your breath catch. "Has consequences."

The words spill from your lips before he can demand them, your voice trembling with the weight of his name. "I’m yours," Your head bobs in quick, eager obedience, a shiver racing down your spine as his voice carves through the air between you. Your gaze drinks him in, tracing every harsh curve of his face through heavy-lidded eyes, your body already swaying toward him.

"Can I-" Your breath hitches, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. "Can I please kiss you again?" The words come out broken, desperate, your lips parting as if the very act of asking is its own kind of devotion. "Please?" Your voice cracks, your body trembling with need. "Pretty please?" The last word is a beg, a whisper, your entire existence narrowing down to the space between your lips and his.His lips curl - just barely - as if your begging amuses him, though the cold glint in his eyes never quite warms. "Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, voice laced with dark amusement - his fingers tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as he grants you this scrap of mercy. His grip shifts, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your jaw, just enough to make your pulse flutter. "You may kiss me again."

The words are a benediction, a reward wrapped in thorns. His thumb traces your lower lip, pressing almost hard enough to bruise, a silent reminder of who holds the power here. You don’t even breathe until he nods, his smirk widening as you scramble to obey.

You lean into him with a shuddering exhale, your lips parting against his in a kiss that feels like both a gift and a test. The taste of him lingers on your tongue as your fingers twist into the fabric of his lab coat, knuckles whitening with the effort of holding back. His breath hitches, - just barely - and you press closer, chasing the warmth of his body like it’s the only thing keeping you from unraveling.

His hands don’t move to stop you. They don’t even guide you. They just wait, letting you cling, letting you tremble, letting you prove how thoroughly you’ve learned your place. And when you finally pull back, his thumb drags across your swollen lower lip, smudging the evidence of your devotion like he’s marking territory.

His voice is a slow drawl as he punctuates each word with another kiss - soft and lingering, each one a brand. "You're so sweet," he murmurs against your mouth, his lips curling into something darker than a smile, "and all mine." The last two words are a growl, a claim, his teeth grazing your lower lip just enough to make you gasp.Your whine vibrates against his lips, desperate and needy, each kiss a collision of hunger and surrender. "Yours," you gasp between them, the word dissolving into his mouth like an offering. "I'm all yours-" His fingers tighten in your hair, roughly yanking your head back just enough to force your eyes to his, your breath coming in ragged little pants. "-and nobody else's. I'm yours, only yours, you have me all to yourself."

His thumb traces idly against the swollen curve of your lower lip, admiring his own handiwork. "Such pretty words from my perfect little creation," he purrs, though the way his smile sharpens makes it clear this isn't praise. "Shall we make them permanent?"

The syringe emerges from his coat pocket with a slow, deliberate glint - its contents swirling with an unnatural blue luminescence, catching the light like liquid starlight. He brings his free hand to rest against your throat, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump beneath his fingers, the cool metal of your collar biting into your skin as he drags the needle in a slow, teasing line along your inner arm. The tip presses just shy of breaking skin, and you can feel the weight of his gaze as he watches your reaction, savoring the way your breath hitches.

A soft moan escapes you before you can stop it, drawn out by the pressure of his touch. Your eyes flick briefly to the syringe in his hand - hesitant, uncertain - but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all. “W-what is it?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling more from anticipation than resistance.

His smile deepens, slow and deliberate, shadowed by something unreadable. His eyes never leave yours - even as the cold press of the needle meets your skin. “A serum,” he says, voice calm, almost gentle. “Just a little… reinforcement.” His thumb brushes over your arm, a mockery of comfort. “It’ll help you remember where you belong. Keep you… steady.” There’s something final in the way he says it. Not a threat. A decision.

Your body arches toward him like a flower bending toward the sun, your whine trembling in the air between you. "I-I'd never leave you!" The words spill out broken, desperate, your lips brushing against his with each syllable. "I'll always, always-" You push your throat deeper into his grip, the metal of your collar biting into your skin as you tilt your head back, baring yourself completely. "-be yours."

His breath ghosts over your parted lips, warm and cruel, as his fingers flex against your pulse. The needle hovers still, a silent promise, a silent threat. "Good," he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. "Then let’s make sure of it." The needle sinks in with a sharp, electric sting, the serum igniting under your skin like molten metal threading through your veins. You gasp, fingers clawing at his lab coat as the fire spreads, but his grip on your throat tightens - just enough to keep you still, just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm.

He licks the last bead of blue liquid from the syringe’s tip with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, then lets the empty vial clatter to the floor between your feet. "Delicious," he murmurs against your collarbone, lips warm against the fevered flush of your skin. His teeth graze the hollow of your throat, and you shudder. "Your pulse tells me you’re thrilled."

Your breath hitches into a broken sound - half whine, half groan - your lips trembling against his as the world tilts. The serum hums in your veins, thick and electric, turning your thoughts to syrup. "P-please-" The word dissolves into his mouth, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat like you might fall if you let go.He chuckles, his grip on your throat flexing just enough to make your pulse stutter. "Please what?" His lips ghost over yours, teasing, denying, even as his thumb presses into the fluttering pulse at your neck. "Use your words, pet. Tell me what exactly you’re begging for."

You can barely think. The room spins, or maybe it’s just you - just the way your skin burns where his hands brand you, the way his voice wraps around your ribs and squeezes. "Y-you," you manage, your voice wrecked. "Just - just you. Always you."

Your voice cracks on his name. "Please, Masacrik-" The syllables tremble, desperate, your fingers curling into fists against his chest as if you could tear the fabric just to feel his skin. The blush on your cheeks burns hotter than the serum in your veins, your breath coming in gaps as you press closer, trembling.

"I love you," you whisper, the words raw and wrecked, your lips brushing his with each syllable. "I love you so much-" Your voice breaks, your body arching toward him like you’re made of nothing but need and want and the hollow ache of devotion. "Please just let me kiss you. Please, kiss me-"

He watches your expression closely, your need laid bare in every trembling breath. A slow smile pulls at his lips - not cruel, but knowing. Satisfied. His hand rises from your throat, fingers brushing along your cheek before gently cupping your face, his touch deceptively tender. “You really are desperate,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with quiet triumph, “so needy.”

He leans in, just close enough that his breath ghosts against your skin. “I should make you wait,” he adds, almost to himself. “But when you beg like that…” He trails off, the unspoken truth settling heavy between you.

He was never going to say no.

~~~

Link to chapter 5:

https://www.tumblr.com/2muchtocount/787212825232883712/dr-masacrik-x-femreader-ch-5?source=share

Chapter 3

You whimper softly as he continues to tend to you, the sting of antiseptic burning into wounded skin. The pain was sharp, blooming behind your eyes, and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to muffle the cries that threatened to escape. At times your teeth sank into your knuckle, desperate to silence the sound, to stay obedient. Still, you didn’t move. You stayed exactly where he put you, exactly as he wanted - silent, still, compliant. The pain rippled beneath your skin but you bore it, because he was the one inflicting care. Because he'd asked you to be still. And in that stillness, even as your body trembled, something in you surrendered a little more.

Not to the pain. To him.

His touch is careful and tender as he continues to clean the wound, gentler than the pain warrants, which somehow makes it worse. There's something unnerving in the way he handles you, like you’re something delicate he enjoys keeping just broken enough to keep holding close. He pauses occasionally, not so much to offer relief as to watch you breathe through the discomfort, to let the silence hang just long enough to remind you who's in control.

“There we go,” he murmurs, voice soft and low. “Just a little more. You’re doing so well.” The words settle into you like warmth, but they sting too… twisting gently around your need to please him, to be good for him, even when it hurts.

After what feels like forever, he finally finishes cleaning the wound and begins to bandage it with slow, meticulous care.

You exhale shakily, the smallest sigh of relief slipping from your lips, though you still hold yourself rigid and cross-legged on the floor, hands clenched nervously in front of you like a child trying to be good. You don’t look up. Instead, your gaze stays fixed on the floor, as if lifting your eyes might break whatever fragile calm he’s allowing you.

The sadness clings to your face, soft and quiet, but unmistakable. It dulls the light in your eyes, dims the spark he always said he adored so much. Maybe that’s why he watches you now with something unreadable behind his gaze - something close to satisfaction, possibly?

“Thank you…” you murmur, barely more than a breath. And although the words are yours, they feel like they belong to him.

At last, he finishes wrapping the bandage around your head, securing it with practiced ease. His hand lingers for a moment before patting it gently, almost playfully.

“There you go,” he chirps, too light for the weight in the room. “All better.”

But then his tone shifts - just slightly - as his eyes catch the sadness etched into your face. Without asking, he reaches out, fingers brushing beneath your chin as he lifts your face to meet his gaze. The touch is gentle, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. His eyes lock onto yours, calm and searching, like he’s trying to read a language he already taught you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, softly. The question feels caring on the surface, but underneath, there’s something more. As if the answer better be about anything but him.

“I don’t…” The words slip out before you can stop them, quiet and unsure. Your gaze breaks from his as your cheeks flush with nervous heat, shame curling in your stomach before you even understand why. But then something shifts in you… instinct, fear, or maybe the need to please. Before the silence can stretch too long, you shake your head quickly, too quickly, and paste on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It’s wide, forced, almost frantic in its brightness. You nod along, a little too eagerly.

“I’m fine,” you say, but the lie trembles in your throat, hoping he’ll let it go. And still, part of you watches his face carefully, waiting to see if your performance would be good enough.

His eyes narrow, just enough to let you know he’s seen straight through the mask you tried so hard to hold. That fake smile - you should’ve known better. He studies you in silence, and for just a moment, the warmth in his gaze cools into something else entirely, sending a chill down your spine.

“You can’t fool me, my dear,” he says, voice smooth but edged, like a blade wrapped in silk. “You forget - I taught you how to smile like that.” He leans in, his presence heavy, invading your space with the ease of someone who knows you won’t try to pull away. His fingers brush your chin again, the familiar gesture that mimics tenderness holds just enough pressure to remind you he’s in control.

“I know when something’s bothering you,” he continues, quieter now. “And I don’t like being lied to.” The pause that follows is suffocating, as if he’s giving you a chance to correct yourself.

Your brows pull together, the weight of his words hitting deeper than you’d expected, maybe deeper than you wanted to admit. The smile slips away entirely now, leaving only the ache beneath. You’ve never been able to hide anything from him. How could you? He made you this way. Every soft edge, every trembling response - he’d shaped it with careful, deliberate hands.

You hesitate, the silence stretching as fear coils slowly in your chest. Your eyes lift to meet his, even though everything in you wants to look away. “I don’t want to be scared of you… I don’t think… I don’t want you to scare me…”

The words fall from your lips like a confession, fragile and uncertain. But even as you speak them there’s a flicker in your eyes - something that knows it’s already too late. Because fear wasn’t an accident with him. It was a tool. And you’ve just handed it back to him.

The doctor’s expression shifts, softens, but not with comfort. There’s something so calculated in the change, something that feigns the compassion you so desperately craved with eerie precision. His fingers curl tighter beneath your chin, lifting your face with that same measured gentleness he always uses when he wants you pliant.

“Shhhh… I know you don’t,” he murmurs, low and coaxing, as though your fear is just a small inconvenience to soothe away. “And I don’t want to scare you either.” His other hand rises, cradling your face like something breakable that he likes just a little better when it's on the verge of cracking. His thumb strokes idly along your cheek, a gesture so soft it borders on reverent - but it’s too perfect, too deliberate.

“I just… sometimes need to remind myself that you’re mine. That no one else gets to touch what’s mine.” The words are whispered, but the possessiveness in them is unmistakable - sweetened only to keep you from running, even as they tighten the leash around your throat.

Eventually you give in, leaning into his touch with the tentative trust of someone too tired to resist. His hand is warm against your skin, still gentle, still careful, and for once, you let yourself believe it might stay that way. That this moment won’t shift beneath you like so many others. Your voice is soft when you speak, barely above a whisper.

“Can we maybe…” you look away, sheepish, uncertain, your cheek still pressed into his palm, “…have a way to remind us differently?” The question hangs in the air like fragile hope, something that feels too delicate to survive him. And yet you ask it anyway, even knowing what he’s made of. Because somewhere beneath the fear, there’s still that small, flickering part of you that wants to believe he might say yes.

His lips curl into a slow smile as your words reach him, satisfied, as if this moment was inevitable. Like he knew you’d fold for him eventually. His hand slides into your hair, fingers combing through with an almost unsettling tenderness, it almost borders on affection, but never strays far from the shadow of what came before. The same hands that unsettled you just moments ago now offer comfort, and somehow that contrast makes the softness feel even more dangerous.

“Of course,” he says, voice low and soothing, a lullaby laced with something sharp. “We can find a better way to remind ourselves.” But the way he says it - it doesn’t sound like compromise. As if your request was something he decided to allow.

Still, you leaned into the warmth of his hand, letting yourself savor the gentleness like it was something rare and precious. You didn’t want it to end…not yet. Not when it felt so easy to pretend the fear hadn’t happened. That his words, his presence, hadn’t just shaken something loose inside you. You buried your head a little deeper into his palm, the motion small and instinctive - like a creature finding safety in the same hand that had once held the blade. Your lashes fluttered, a soft breath escaping you as you clung to the illusion of comfort.

“What do you think?” you asked, voice hushed. Not because you didn’t know your own thoughts - but because his answer somehow still felt more important than your own.

His hand slipped from your hair, thumb trailing slowly down to your jawline. The way he touched you was careful, but there was an edge beneath it, as though your skin was something he was measuring. His gaze was locked with yours, unblinking and heavy.

“A covenant,” he murmured, the word curling from his lips like a secret spoken aloud. His fingers drifted lower, tapping - almost teasing - at the collar fastened snugly around your neck. The metal felt colder now, like it had remembered its purpose before you did.

You had nearly forgotten it was there.

“Always keep this on,” he said, and though his tone remained soft, something in it coiled tight and unyielding. “Its weight should remind you… and me… what happens when you forget who you belong to.” The tap became a press… gentle, but firm enough to send a message. Then he smiled, faint and satisfied. The collar hadn’t changed - but now, it almost felt like it had teeth.

“When the fear creeps in…” His voice was a whisper, low and deliberate as he leaned in close… so close his breath ghosted across the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, “…you’ll remember who crafted every beat of that fragile heart.” The words melted into you, intimate and cruel in equal measure.

“And when I lose patience…” His lips brushed just beneath your ear, connecting in a kiss too cold to quite be affectionate. Then a finger hooked lazily around the collar at your neck, the tug that followed subtle. “I’ll make sure this stays clean…” he murmured, voice almost amused. “Until it doesn’t.” The metal shifted slightly against your throat, suddenly too tight. And in that breathless pause that followed, it was clear that the promise wasn’t in his kiss, but in the silence after.

A shiver runs the length of your spine, like your body reacting before your mind can catch up. You nod, slowly and obediently, accepting the weight of his demand without a word. There’s no resistance left, only the echo of his voice, his touch, wrapped around your thoughts like silk.

Your head tilts slightly, leaning toward the touch where his lips had just been. As if chasing that fleeting trace of warmth - like a starving thing grateful even for the ghost of affection. The skin beneath the collar prickles, the kiss already fading, but the memory of it lingers like a brand.

It didn’t matter that it chilled you.

You still wanted more.

His smile deepens the moment he sees you shiver, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. There’s pride in the way he looks at you… pride in the way you yield. “Good little pet,” he purrs, the words smooth and poisonous, meant to remind you what you are. His hand slides through your hair, slow and indulgent, fingers threading through the strands like he’s admiring something he owns. And he is.

“You look so much better with this on.” It’s a claim, a reminder that the collar isn’t just for show - it’s a symbol of his design, his control, the way he’s reshaped you into something he finds beautiful only when marked by him.

He rises without haste, graceful and confident, then extends a hand toward you. His smile softens deceptively, beckoning. “Come on,” he says, voice dipped in something sweet. “Let’s get you settled somewhere more comfortable.”

You offer him a soft, trembling smile, your cheeks flushed with warmth. You reach out and place your hand in his, delicate and careful, like you’re afraid to grasp too tightly without permission.

The moment you try to stand, your legs betray you - unsteady, weak, shaking beneath you like they’ve forgotten how to hold your weight without his command. Your body wavers and you clutch his arm with both hands, clinging to him as though the floor might swallow you whole if you let go.

“S-sorry,” you whisper, breathless. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” The apologies tumble from your lips in a quiet stream, each one more frantic than the last, as if speaking them fast enough might make you less of a burden. You hide behind them, shrinking smaller with every stumble, every tremble. And yet through it all, you don’t let go of him.

His grip tightens around your arm the moment you falter, steadying you with his strength. He doesn’t strain - your weight means nothing to him. You’re light in his hands. Fragile. Exactly how he likes you. A low chuckle slips from his throat as your apologies pile up, breathless and anxious. It’s not mocking… not quite. Just amused, as though your desperation only makes you more endearing to him.

“Shhh… It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice honey-sweet yet just sharp enough to quiet you. “You’re just a bit shaken up. That’s to be expected.”

He doesn’t ask if you can walk. He simply starts leading you, his hand clamped firmly around your arm, guiding you from the room with the quiet confidence of someone who already knows you’ll follow. Who knows you don’t have much choice. “Just hold onto me,” he says, as if the words are a comfort. His grip never loosens. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I-I know. I trust you.” The words leave you softly, as if speaking them aloud will make them true. They tremble between you - half confession, half plea - and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks, shame blooming at how easily you fall into this rhythm with him. How natural it feels to cling to him, even now.

You stay close, your fingers tightening on his arm - not just for balance, but for something deeper. Familiarity… comfort… the kind he’s trained you to seek from no one else. And he can feel it. That fragile trust, handed over like a gift. The way you press into his side, even after the fear, even after the bruised edges of his affection.

His expression softens at your words, the corners of his mouth lifting. There’s a quiet pride in the way he looks at you, as though your trust was something he knew you’d give him eventually, in just a matter of time. He gives your arm a gentle squeeze - comforting on the surface, but with just enough pressure to remind you of who you’re leaning on.

“I’m glad you do,” he says softly, voice brushing against you, warm and low. He continues walking, leading you down the dim hallway without hesitation, his hand never straying. “You can always trust me.”

“I do, I’m yours-” The words slip out too fast, rushed and instinctive, like a reflex you no longer question. As soon as they’re out, embarrassment creeps up the back of your neck, burning hot beneath your skin. But you don’t take them back, because part of you means them. He says nothing - yet his silence is heavy, indulgent, as though he’s savoring the sound of your surrender.

By the time you reach your bedroom your steps are unsteady again, legs barely holding you up beneath the weight of exhaustion and everything else he’s pressed into you. You make it to the edge of the bed before your foot catches on nothing, and you tumble forward - headfirst into the mattress with a soft thud. The bed catches you gently. But it’s the sound of his quiet, amused breath behind you that lingers.

He watches you stumble and collapse onto the bed, the sound muffled by the sheets. A quiet chuckle slips from his lips - not mocking, but rather laced with amusement. Still, there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes, concern, or at least the version of it he chooses to show you.

“You really are a bit of a mess,” he says gently, almost fondly, as he sinks down onto the bed beside you. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, a reminder of how close he always keeps himself. “But it’s alright… I’ve got you.” His hand moves to your head, brushing through your hair with a touch so careful it almost feels like love. Almost, you try to remind yourself. “You’re just a little overstimulated from earlier,” he murmurs, his voice sinking into that familiar and velvety cadence. “It’s alright… You can relax now. I’m here.”

Then he leans in, his breath grazing your ear, voice low and commanding beneath the softness. “Just close your eyes… and take a deep breath.”

“Ah-” The sound slips from your lips before you can stop it, sharp and soft, your breath catching the instant his warm exhale grazes the shell of your ear. The closeness steals whatever composure you’d managed to hold onto. A flush rushes to your cheeks, unbidden and unmistakable, as heat coils in your stomach - confusing and unwanted but impossible to ignore.

You try to do as he says, try to focus on your breathing - deep, steady, obedient. But your chest rises too quickly, falters too soon. The air feels too shallow and your pulse too loud in your ears. And he hasn’t moved. He’s still right there. Watching, listening, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. Each inhale feels like another small surrender. And somehow, that only makes you try harder to please him.

He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches or the way your body tenses beneath his whisper. It draws a quiet, satisfied smile to the corner of his lips, the kind of smile that says he meant for this to happen. He leans in closer, his mouth now just a breath from your ear, the space between you all but gone.

“Relax… Just breathe,” he murmurs, “I’m here with you.” His hand slides up, slow and deliberate, resting lightly between your shoulder blades. With a practiced calm, he rubs gentle circles along your back - comforting, measured, disarmingly soft. The kind that makes you forget where the fear ends and the longing begins.

Instead of slowing, your breathing quickens - shallow, uneven, like your body doesn’t know whether to relax or brace itself. Your cheeks darken, the flush spreading rapidly across your skin, betraying you before you can even find the words to explain it.

His hand on your back, slow and steady, only makes it worse. The circles he draws are gentle, sending a shiver rippling down your spine and you tense without meaning to, as if your body itself isn’t sure if this is comfort or control.

“I-I’m sorry…” you whisper, voice small and rushed, like you’re apologizing for how you react to him. For feeling too much and not being able to contain it. The words fall into the space between you like a reflex. You no longer question why you're the one apologizing, and still, you lean closer - because the air feels safer near him, even when it shouldn't.

His head tilts, studying the flush on your cheeks with a mix of amusement and something darker. His hand slides up from your back to rest possessively against the new collar. "Such sweet reactions," he hums, tapping the silver clasp with his thumb. He leans in until his lips nearly brush yours, "Let's see how red you turn when I remind you exactly who you breathe for."

~~~

Link to chapter 4!

https://www.tumblr.com/2muchtocount/787003618888990720/dr-masacrik-x-femreader-ch-4?source=share

Idk I just wanted to ramble I love thinking about this fic and the piece of media it’s from is fascinating and there is so much to unpack.

-💊

I LOVE your rambling omg this kept me so entertained!! A little devil might have snuck into my writing and done something similar, idk though you’ll have to stay tuned and see~ 🤭

Chapter 2

Terror explodes in your chest, suffocating you as panic seizes every muscle in your body. A ragged scream tears from your throat, echoing off the walls. You thrash against his grip, desperate and wild, your fingernails scraping splinters from the floor as you claw for any chance of escape. The world tilts - your vision swimming, heart pounding like a drum.

You fight to keep screaming - broken cries torn from somewhere deep inside you as you struggle against the drugs swirling in your system - until your voice frays into nothing, swallowed by the emptiness surrounding you. The sound feels distant now, like it belongs to someone else entirely. Just moments ago you were cradled in his warmth and safety, the world so soft and familiar. And now… this. The shift is so violent, so sudden, your mind can’t fully process it. Confusion mingles with fear, leaving you hollow. How could things unravel so quickly?

His laughter wraps around you like smoke - smooth, chilling, impossible to escape. It echoes through the room, rattling your mind while your voice chokes on a cry. His hands, steadfast as iron, hold you effortlessly, but it’s not just strength that pins you in place - it’s the way he looks at you. There’s something haunting in his gaze, something that sees too much. Fascination flickers in his wide eyes, mingled with a dark, devouring delight, as if your fear is not just expected… but cherished.

And beneath your panic, something else stirs - confusion, betrayal, heat - something you don’t dare name as you settle into silence.

"There we go," he purrs, his voice mockingly tender. "I knew you had it in you. Scream all you want… no one can hear us here."  

He moves with slow and deliberate intent, changing position until he’s straddling your legs, the press of his body anchoring you to the floor - solid, far too intimate, and terrifying in its certainty. There’s no struggle now, only the rise and fall of your breath as panic churns beneath your skin. His hand stays tangled in your hair, the grip possessive, almost gentle, as if he's almost soothing you even as he holds you captive. And then - silently, almost reverently - he sets the crimson filled syringe down, replacing it with the scalpel held in his hand against your hair, its edge cool and whisper-light as it comes to rest against your cheek. Not cutting. Not yet. Just there. A promise. His eyes lock on to yours, and there’s something deeply unsettling in the way he looks at you - like he wants you to believe this is closeness, like he wants you to wonder if this twisted moment is the only kind of intimacy he knows.

Your voice returns at last, broken and fragile, a ghost of what it once was. It catches in your throat, strangled in fear and helplessness, until all that escapes is a soft, pitiful cry. The sound barely fills the space between you, but it’s enough. Enough to betray you. Enough to please him. You see it in the way his expression shifts, not with pity, but with something far more dangerous - satisfaction. As if he’s been waiting for this moment, coaxing it out of you with every calculated touch, every stolen breath, every stitch he sewed into your skin. And now that he has it - your voice, your fear, your crumbling resolve - he holds it close, savoring how beautifully you’ve broken, just for him.

“Please, I’m sorry-” you sob, the words spilling out in broken gasps as tears trail down your cheeks. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry, I swear… please…” Your voice cracks and your lip quivers, pleading not just for mercy, but for understanding, for anything in him to soften. He watches, unmoved… or maybe just too pleased to answer? You pause, taking in every detail of his face as you try to come to a conclusion.

Then, his expression shifts - just barely - something flickering behind his eyes. Not pity. Not mercy. Something colder. Disappointment. As if your begging wasn’t the only victory he wanted… but proof of how easily you fold. Then he leans in, voice low - almost gentle.

“Shh… no more tears,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek almost like a lover might. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. But you will.”His thumb lingers a moment longer before he gains control of the scalpel once again, its cold edge gliding slowly along your jaw - unhurried, almost admiring. “You’re still holding on to something,” he murmurs, eyes tracking the curve of your face, “Still a little too… willful.”

His voice is soft and borderline affectionate - like he’s not punishing you, but guiding you. As if he feels that he is helping you along. Then, just before the blade stills, he smiles. Wicked. Amused.

“I’m sorry!” You scream, your voice ripping from the depths of your lungs, raw and ragged - your final breath spent like a weapon you no longer knew how to wield. The sound is terror and heartbreak fused into one piercing note, a cry that cuts through the room and seems to rattle even him. You gasp, clawing at your throat as if the air itself has turned against you too, your chest heaving, eyes wide - wild and drowned in tears and something dangerously close to surrender.

“I-I’m not - please, I’m not!” You sob, voice shattering with each word. “I took the pill - I wanted to, I swear, I did! I just - I just want to be yours!” The confession breaks you open, every shred of composure splintering as your head hits the floor with a dull, painful thud. And still, you keep crying, unsure if it’s from the pain… or from the truth in what you’ve said.

“I’m yours,” you gasp again, voice trembling through the chaos of your sobs. “That’s why I didn’t want your colleagues touching me, or - experimenting on me. I’m yours…” The words spill out in a frantic rush, a desperate attempt to be heard, to be claimed, in some twisted way. By the end your lungs burn, your vision swims, and the room seems to tilt. You blink through the haze, chest heaving as you wait for his response.

His gaze sharpens as he watches you unravel, a flicker of something almost like pride ghosting across his face. He tucks the scalpel back into his coat with deliberate, almost loving precision. Then he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice low and silken.

“Yours, you say? How deliciously predictable.” His hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back until your eyes meet - his pupils blown wide, drinking you in like something precious and ruined.

“But pets who beg too prettily,” he murmurs, “often forget…” A cold sting kisses your collarbone - the syringe. “…what happens when they disappoint their creator.”

The needle pierces skin with practiced ease, and you flinch - but his voice is already there, soft and coiling against your ear. “Shhhh… feel it yet?” He whispers. “That sweet surrender? No more screaming. No more fear.” Retracting the syringe from your body his thumb brushes away a tear from your cheek, slow and deliberate - then smears it along your skin like a mark, like a signature.

“Perfect,” he breathes. “Just how I made you… meant to be trembling at my feet.”

You whimper softly, the fight bleeding out of you as your body begins to go limp, sinking heavy and helpless against the cool floor. The drug lulls your pulse into a slow, steady rhythm - but it doesn’t quiet the dread. Tears still silently slip down your cheeks even as the world softens around the edges. Your heart may be calm, but deep inside, something still twists - a cold, coiled unease that refuses to fade.

The doctor’s smile deepens as he feels the tension melt from your limbs, your body going limp beneath his touch. Slowly, almost tenderly, he loosens his grip on your hair, letting your head lower until it rests against the cold floor, the syringe clattering to the ground next to you.

The care in the gesture is deceptive. Not mercy, but possession. As if now that you’ve gone still, you finally belong to him properly.

“There we go,” he murmurs, “much better. You’re being a good pet now.”

His hand rises slowly, fingers brushing along your cheek with a softness that feels almost cruel in contrast to everything that came before. He catches a tear, smearing it away with the back of his knuckle - with that same gentleness a lover might, if any of this even were love.

“There now,” he says quietly, voice like velvet over glass. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” The question lingers - not for comfort, but to remind you who guided you to this breaking point… and how easily he could do it again.

You can’t nod, can’t shake your head. Your body won’t obey. Instead, your lips pull into a trembling frown, muscles weak and uncertain. Tears well at the corners of your eyes, blurring everything - him, the room, even the edges of yourself. The silence between you stretches, filled only by the soft sound of your breathing and the weight of everything you can’t say.

All you can do is glance up at him, eyes wide with silent dread. The thought of the scalpel returning makes your skin crawl, but the idea of being handed over to his colleagues is somehow worse.

And yet, beneath the fear, something deeper claws at you. You crave the warmth he offered moments ago - the false tenderness, the softness laced in cruelty. Because even if it was a lie, something twisted within his mind, it was still the closest thing to comfort you’ve known in his hands.

You catch the subtle shift in his expression, the softening of his smile as he watches you struggle to form any kind of response. There’s no mockery in it now… only quiet satisfaction. He eases back on to his heels, no longer pinning you down, but still very much in control. For a moment, he just looks at you - not like you’re broken, but like you’re becoming exactly what he wanted. His gaze lingers, unreadable - part fascination, part possession - as if he’s not just seeing you… but claiming you, piece by trembling piece.

“I know you’re scared,” he finally says softly, “and I’m sorry if I frightened you. But sometimes… sometimes my sweet little pet needs a reminder of who she belongs to.”  

He reaches for your hand with surprising gentleness, his fingers curling around yours as though the past few moments hadn't shattered you. His thumb moves slowly across the back of your hand - soothing, almost affectionate. “There, there,” he murmurs, tone low and laced with something that sounds like comfort - but isn’t. “I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”

A beat. A smile.

“Not today.”

You start to tremble beneath his touch, the fear returning - sharp, electric, crawling beneath your skin. A shiver runs through you, uncontrollable, as if your body remembers what your mind is trying to forget. You try to speak, to summon something, anything, but your voice is fractured. All you manage are a few broken sentences, barely holding it together.

“I… I always know I belong… to you.” The words slip out in a shaky breath and you squeeze your eyes shut - as if saying it aloud makes it real, makes it binding. Because part of you fears it’s true. And another part fears it’s exactly what he wanted to hear. “I never forgot,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You’re scaring me… hurting me… but I didn’t need that to remember…” The words catch on a sob you barely manage to swallow, and you sniffle, your breath shallow. Pain pulses at the back of your skull, a dull, rhythmic ache from being hit against the floor - but it’s the ache in your chest that lingers more.

Dr. Masacrik’s gaze softens further, a quiet gleam of satisfaction flickering behind his eyes as your trembling words settle between you. He lifts your hand with deliberate care, as though handling something precious - something that finally understands its place. Then, without a word he presses a slow, lingering kiss to the back of it. It’s gentle. Measured. And unmistakably claiming. 

“I know you didn’t forget,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reflective. “But sometimes… I need the reminder for myself.” He lowers your hand back to the floor with quiet care, then his fingers find your hair, combing through it slowly and deliberately - a touch far too gentle for the violence that came before.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he whispers, the words soft against the edge of a lie. “But you have to understand… I can’t let anyone else have you.” His hand stills, resting lightly against your head.

Your body still trembles beneath his touch, uncertain - caught between the memory of pain and the fragile hope for comfort. Your eyes squeeze shut as his fingers brush over the back of your head, right where it had struck the floor. The contact sends a dull ache pulsing through your skull - tender, but laced with the echo of violence.

“I do understand…” you breathe, voice small and cracking around a whimper of pain. “But then why-” your words falter into a broken moan, “why were you going to let your colleagues have me… if I’m yours?”

His hand rests against your head, fingers threaded lightly through your hair as your question hangs in the air. His expression shifts, just a shade colder, and for a breath all you hear is the sound of him exhaling slowly through his nose.

“My colleagues are… curious,” he says at last, voice careful and measured. “They have their own thoughts about how my work should be handled.” He leans in slightly, his gaze sharpening. “But I don’t want anyone else touching you.” The words are final, territorial. Not warm. As though you’re less a person… and more a secret he refuses to share.

At his words, something in you loosens. The shivering begins to ease just slightly, and the sharp coil of fear in your stomach unwinds - if only by a thread. “Please don’t let them,” you whisper, voice catching. “Please… I don’t want that.” The thought alone tightens your throat, making it hard to breathe. A single tear escapes, trailing silently down your cheek - not from fresh terror, but from the weight of having to beg for safety at all.

His eyes darken as he sees the fear in yours, a quiet, possessive smile curling at the edges of his lips. He holds you closer, the air between you thick with his presence, and brushes away your tear, his thumb lingering too long.

“Shhhh… I won’t let them,” he murmurs, “I promise you that. You’re mine, and no one else gets to touch what’s mine.” He pulls you closer, his hands cradling your face with a firm, unyielding grip. His gaze doesn’t waver, as though he’s looking right through you. “Without me, you’ll break. Let go of the fear. I’m the only one who can keep you safe.” His voice softens, but there’s a quiet command beneath it. “Just rest now. Everything will be alright.”

“Do you really promise? Really? You promise?” Your voice trembles, soft and vulnerable as you bite your bottom lip, the pressure leaving a mark.

Dr Masacrik’s lips curl into a faint smile as he hears your question. His eyes darken with something dangerous, and he catches your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb slides over your lip, tracing the spot where you’ve bitten down. He leans in closer, his face only inches away from yours.

“Pinky promise,” he says, his voice low, almost menacing - solemn as he extends his pinky finger toward you. “No one else gets to touch you but me. Not now, not ever.” His gaze doesn’t waver as he watches you, each word heavy, a silent threat wrapped in possession.

“O-or look at me the way you do... use me... like you do,” you whisper, voice trembling, weak. Slowly you extend your pinky toward his, the movement fragile. As your finger brushes against his, a smear of blood stains your hand - blood from the back of your head - but you barely seem to notice. “You look at me special. I’m yours. I don’t want them to look at me like that… or have me that way… ever.”

His eyes flicker to the blood on your hand, and his expression hardens, a dark satisfaction settling in as a ghost of a smile creeps against his lips. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, possessive kiss against the bloodstained skin. “You’re right,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, “you are special. And no one else gets to look at you... or have you, the way I do.” A brief pause stretches between you before he speaks again, his voice like a soft command. “You belong to me. Don’t ever forget that.”

He releases your hand, but his touch doesn’t leave you. His fingers ghost over the wound on the back of your head, tracing it with careful precision. “But why don’t we get you cleaned up?” His voice softens, too gentle. “That looks painful... but you’ll be just fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

You wince, a quiet whimper slipping from your lips as your eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “I-it hurts…” you whisper, blinking rapidly, as if trying to hold yourself together just for him.

He tilts his head, watching you with a strange mix of tenderness and possession, like your pain somehow binds you tighter to him. He leans in, brushing a knuckle beneath your eye to catch a tear before it falls. “I know it does,” he murmurs, voice darkly soothing. “But pain means you’re still here. Still mine. And I’ll take care of you… because no one else will. Just hold still for a moment.” His touch lingers - soft, almost loving - but there’s something underneath it, something that says you need me.

He moved without hesitation, rising to his feet in a swift, purposeful motion. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of his steps as he crossed to a nearby shelf, retrieving a small, worn first aid kit. When he returned, he set it down beside you - close, deliberate. With a calm precision that felt more intimate than it should, he opened the kit and began to tend to the wound at the back of your head. His touch was gentle, but not without weight. Every movement spoke of quiet control, as though this - your pain, your stillness, your trust - belonged to him.

You sat frozen, the ache in your skull pulsing, but his presence dulled it somehow. Not soothing. Just... eclipsing it.

The blood on your hand had started to dry. His fingers were careful, practiced. And as he cleaned the wound in silence, you realized… this wasn’t mercy. It was a claim.

~~~

Link for chapter 3!

https://www.tumblr.com/2muchtocount/786913001635790848/dr-masacrik-x-femreader-ch-3?source=share

Chapter 1

You are his creation. A little pet made by him, to be obedient for him…

As you sit cross-legged on the floor, drawing on scattered papers with crayons, Dr Masacrik makes his way over to you from the dark abyss of the hallway.

"What are you doing my dear?" Flashing his warm, yet unmistakingly intimidating smile in your direction he lowers himself on to the floor across from your drawings. His eyes trail to your sketches with a mix of curiosity and quiet intensity, then to your clothes, the oversized sweater he sewed with his own hands. Your headband, also composed from his designs, modeled after your favourite animal's. 

You shrug your shoulders with a weary sigh, the exhaustion evident in your slouched posture as your heavy eyes drift down towards your drawings, barely able to hold their focus.

“I’m just trying to relax a little, today wasn’t so good,” you pause for a moment. “I feel like there’s a million things going on in my head and I just can’t get them to stop, I can’t figure out what to do,” With a soft sigh you let the crayon fall from your fingers, letting it clatter on to the scattered papers as you tilt your head up to look at him, lips curled into a tired, almost pleading pout.

The doctor tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass. His hand reaches out to brush a stray hair behind your ear with unsettling tenderness.  

"Ahhh, the relentless symphony of thoughts - how it must gnaw at that delicate little mind of yours." He chuckles lowly, his fingers lingering near your jawline as if measuring the tension there. "But fret not, my little doll. I’ve concocted something… special for restless evenings just like this."  

With his free hand he pulls a small velvet pouch from his lab coat pocket, presenting the mysterious gift to you he spills glittering red pills into your palm - they hum faintly against your skin. "One melts away worries. Two lets you go far, far away," His smile widens impossibly as he leans closer, eyes open wildly. "Three? Well… let’s call it our private experiment. Wouldn’t you prefer quiet over relentless noise?"

“Private experiment…” You murmur under your breath, testing the words out with a mischievous lilt, half expecting them to unlock some sort of fun.

“I would prefer quiet over anything right now, honestly,” You say with a frown, gazing down wearily at the mystery pills he held in his outstretched hand.

With a click of his tongue, a flicker of amusement dances in his hollow eyes, something else hidden behind them. He pinches up one of the red pills between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to you like a sacrament.  "Good girl." The words drip like venom as he pops the pill into your mouth with sudden force, his hand cupping your chin to keep you from spitting it out. His other arm snakes around your waist possessively as he pulls your body ever so closer to him, whispering against your temple, "Now let’s see how quickly those unruly little thoughts unravel…"

The room blurs at the edges. The smell of a sharp, metallic tang fills the air around you, almost like rusted iron and antiseptic.

As quickly as you begin to get dizzy, you slump forward, almost falling straight into Masacrik’s waiting arms. Overwhelming and anxiety-ridden thoughts blur away into sweet nothings, your mind as clear and silent as the night sky. Finally.

A slow, almost reluctant smile crept its way onto your lips, the corners of your mouth twitching upward as you fought to shake off the fatigue. With a heavy sigh you finally lifted your gaze, eyes meeting his piercing ones - sharp and intense.

“Thank you.”

His lips curl into a grin as he pulls you close and cradles you against his chest, one hand stroking your hair while the other traces the curve of your cheekbone. His touch is both reverent and invasive, a doctor tending to his prized subject. 

"You’re welcome, my dear." His voice drips with dark satisfaction as he gazes down at you, "See how much easier life becomes when I take control? You don’t need to suffer those…" He pauses for dramatic effect, "annoying thoughts again." He gestures loosely in the air, waving his hand around as if to shoo away a cloud of smoke surrounding your head.

You smile wider and slowly nod your head in agreement against his chest, comfortable right where you were in his arms.

“No more annoying thoughts ever,” You emphasize, giving your head one final, intent nod.

Dr Masacrik’s laugh is low and melodic, almost childlike in its delight. He continues to cradle you close, his arms enveloping you like a possessive cocoon.  

"Good girl," he murmurs again, "My sweet little pet. You were made for this - made just for me." He plants a chaste kiss on top of your head before continuing, "There will be no more sleepless nights, no more worries or stress. I’ll take care of all that. All you need to do is rest and let me handle everything… isn’t that right?"

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes once again, searching his face with a quiet intensity. It takes a steady breath before you’re able to find the words to speak.

“Do you promise?” Your eyebrows knit together in worry, the thought of ever being a burden to anyone, let alone him, weighing heavy on your chest.

In response he cups your chin gently, his touch soft yet firm. His eyes bore into yours, filled with a mix of twisted affection and something darker. "I promise you," he says slowly, his voice soft but edged with something sharper. "You will never be a burden to me. Looking after you isn’t just my choice - it’s my right. No one else will ever care for you the way I do." His hand glides up from your chin to cup your cheek as he continues, "You are my creation, my masterpiece. You are everything to me - and I will never let anything or anyone hurt you."

"’My masterpiece,’" you repeat, mimicking his voice with an exaggerated tone. The words barely have time to leave your mouth before you burst into a fit of giggles, unable to stop yourself. You regain your composure after one final giggle, settling your cheek to fully rest in his hand, maintaining eye contact.

“Okay, I trust you.”

He chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest as he listens to your giggles. He shakes his head affectionately, "Oh, you’re such a tease sometimes… I do hope you understand how dangerous it is to mock the man who controls the chemicals that keep those pretty little thoughts at bay." His thumb gently rubs circles on your cheek as he speaks again, "But that’s part of what makes you so special. You’re fearless and playful - and it’s adorable."

Your cheeks flush under his touch and you let out a soft, nervous giggle, barely able to meet his gaze. When you finally look up, your wide eyes hold a quiet vulnerability - like a deer in headlights, unable to look away.

“Me? Adorable?” You laugh, poking your tongue out quickly, a playful spark shining in your eyes. Your cheeks flush as you glance away, embarrassed yet unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Dr Masacrik snickers, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He playfully pinches your tongue between thumb and forefinger, "Yes, you - adorable." He releases your tongue and taps the tip of your nose. "So cute… like a little kitten trying to hiss at its master."

You flash a devilish grin, eyes twinkling with mischief, before pretending to snap at his finger. In the next instant you throw yourself backward toward the floor while squirming playfully in his grip, nearly breaking free. Laughter bursts from you, loud and uncontrollable, filling the air around you two.

He gasps dramatically, feigning offense as you almost wriggle free. His laughter mingles with yours, but there's a sharp edge to his smile. "Naughty little thing." He lunges after you, pincer-like grip snatching your ankle mid-laugh. In one fluid motion he drags you back into his lap, arm locking like a steel band around your waist as he looms over you with theatrical fury.  

His eyes almost seem to gleam in the low light when he growls, "Would my perfect pet prefer the quiet of chemical bliss... or perhaps…" He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear far too gently for the threat in his voice, "...a gentle reminder of who holds her strings?"

“I don’t know, doctor…” You mumble, trying to fight off the residual laughter. “This ‘chemical bliss’ is making it really hard to make a decision for myself.” You shrug your shoulders dramatically, sighing against him.

His eyes grow dark at your words, his grip tightening ever so slightly. He leans closer, his face now just inches from yours. "Is that so?" he purrs, "And what if I told you that bliss is working exactly as intended? That it’s making you more obedient… more malleable." His free hand begins to trace idle patterns on your back, the touch ever so light and almost ticklish. "Would my little pet prefer to regain her wits… or submit to her master willingly?"“Mmm,” you hum softly under your breath, tilting your head as if actually giving the thought real weight. A teasing smile tugs at your lips before you continue. “I think if I lost my wits, you’d miss them. I think you like them.” You cross your arms having come to a decision, nodding your head firmly to no one in particular.

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing patterns on your back. He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an amused expression, trying to find out what exactly about you kept him so entertained. "You’re not wrong," he admits, a hint of genuine affection in his voice, "I do enjoy your wit… most of the time.” He leans forward, lips brushing yet another kiss against the top of your head before continuing, “But I must admit that there are times when I find myself craving that sweet oblivion… when everything is so simple with you."

“Then… oblivion sometimes, and wits sometimes,” you say slowly, as if weighing the balance of the two in your mind. “We split them up, take turns. It could be a good balance.” You nod your head again and smile to yourself, subconsciously leaning closer towards the kiss he had placed on top of your head, letting the rest of your body come to relax against his chest as you made the decision.

His lips curve into a satisfied smile as you lean into his touch. He wraps his arms tighter around you, pulling you closer and closer against him as he nuzzles the top of your head. "Mmm, a compromise then…" he murmurs, "A little bit of bliss, and a little bit of clarity. It’s only fair.” His hand slides up to gently stroke your hair again, "And I must say… I’m quite pleased with this arrangement. It allows me to enjoy both sides of my darling pet - obedient and compliant one moment… mischievous and defiant the next."

Humming contently, you smile as his fingers thread gently through your hair. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine - leaning in closer you chase the sensation until you're nearly toppling over, the world around you blurring as you lose all sense of place.

Laughing softly he brings you closer to his chest before you can fall. He adjusts his grip on you, holding you against his chest with one arm while the other continues to stroke your hair.  

"You’re like a little cat, aren’t you? Always seeking comfort and attention," he teases affectionately, "But I must say… I find it endearing."

You gaze up at him sleepily through your lashes, melting into his touch. Playful glint in eyes, you stick out your tongue and let out a playful ‘meow,’ soon followed by a burst of giggles.

His lips curl into a predatory smile as he watches you transform into a giggling, almost purring mess in his arms. His fingers poke playfully into your ribs before sliding up to press against your throat - gentle but deliberate. "Purr away," He coos mockingly, "But remember - kittens who forget their place often find themselves… collared." With sudden gentleness, he retracts his hand from your hair to find his coat pocket, pulling out a velvet-lined bag, opening it with a flourish. Inside lies an intricate silver studded collar adorned with gems that sparkle under the light.  

"Adorable, isn’t it?" he drawls, tilting your chin upward with two fingers. "A reminder of whose lap you belong in."

You don’t even think before you respond, “Yours, always,” You whisper happily, nuzzling in closer to his chest as you admire the collar he presents you with.

“I love it… I think it’s… it’s really cute!” you say with a soft giggle, your cheeks warming as you speak. Tilting your head to the side, your eyes widen with a hopeful gleam as you look up at him, holding it out a little awkwardly. “Can you help me put it on?”

A sharp smile spreads across his face as he gently brings the collar around your throat, securing it into place with a theatrical flourish, his hands lingering there on your throat. The gems gleam faintly as he adjusts it. "Perfect," he breathes, thumb brushing over the clasps. "No more squirming out of my reach…” 

Leaning down until his lips graze your ear he breathes, "But worry not - you’ll wear this beautifully when I present you to my colleagues. Imagine their envy at seeing how… well-behaved my masterpiece is." He pulls back with a chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You think it’s cute? Oh no, darling. This is far more than that. This is ownership."

Your eyes widen at his sudden declaration, a prickle of shock and confusion rushing through your chest as your body turns stiff beneath his touch. You instinctively draw your arms around yourself as if the gesture could shield you from the weight of his words - an attempt to feign some semblance of comfort.

“C-colleagues? What? Presented?!” you stammer out in disbelief as your voice catches in your throat. Confusion and panic rises within you and you tense up even further, shoulders drawing tight as your lips pull downward into a worried frown. You try to process what you’ve just heard, the implications weighing heavy in your mind, distorted by the pill he had given you earlier.

His smile melts into something disturbingly gentle as he notices the tension building in you. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch deceptively tender. “Ah-ah, my precious doll - must I remind you what those lovely little pills are for?” He taps the collar with a fingernail, the sound ringing like a bell. “No more anxious thoughts. No more… fear.”  

He leans in until his breath warms your cheek. “My colleagues only deserve to witness perfection. And when they see how perfectly obedient you’ve become…” A cold laugh escapes him as he traces the clasp at your throat again, “Let’s just say you’ll make quite the demonstration model. For science, of course.”

“I don’t… I…” you whisper, your breath unsteady. A sting builds behind your eyes as tears threaten to fall - your body instinctively recoils, inching back as if distance could protect you. The presence of the doctor, once a source of calm, maybe your only, now feels foreign - unsettling - any sense of safety now shattered. “I thought I was just… yours. I don’t want others to… have me. I don’t want a demonstration!” Your voice cracks at these last words, the tears finally beginning to flow down your face.

Dr Masacrik’s smile vanishes instantly, replaced by a look of cold fury. He grips your jaw with sudden force, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze. “Still yours?” he hisses, the mask of gentleness crumbling. “You exist because I carved you from nothing. Every breath is mine. Every tear - mine.” His free hand dips into his coat pocket and pulls out the velvet pouch once again, shaking a single red pill into your trembling palm. “Swallow it,” he commands softly, “Or I’ll carve that fear out of you myself.”

As you obey shakily, parting your lips to let the pill pass through, he brushes the tears from your cheeks with mock tenderness. “There we go. My sweet girl… No demonstrations. You’re too precious for sharing.” He laces the lie through his teeth like poison.

Your heart beats wildly out of your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you continue to tremble even as the pill makes its way through your system. You avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes, the weight of his stare too heavy. Though unsuccessfully you try to hold them back, tears well up again, clinging to your lashes as your body trembles against his. A shiver runs through you - not entirely from fear, but from the paralyzing conflict within. You want to pull away, to put space between you, yet hesitation roots you in place, the fear of provoking him tightening in your chest.

The grip on your jaw tightens further as he notices you trying to avoid his gaze. He leans in even closer, almost unbearably so, forcing you to look at him directly. “Eyes on me,” he commands, “I don’t want you looking away from me while I’m speaking to you.”

He waits patiently until your eyes once again lock onto his before continuing, “There we go… much better.” His tone softens ever so slightly, “I can see that those thoughts are still bothering you, even with the pill. But I have a little idea that might help take your mind off things.”

The sharpness in his voice with the unkind edge of his touch cut deeper than you expect, and that’s all it takes for the tears to finally spill over. They trail down your cheeks hot and silent as your lower lip begins to tremble. You bite down hard on the urge to break completely, struggling to hold yourself together even as the fragile composure you clung to starts to slip away. 

“Idea?” You say meekly, gently testing the waters.

The doctor releases your jaw only to trail his fingers down your trembling arm, nails brushing faintly against the fabric of his own handiwork. His gaze darkens with twisted amusement as he reaches into his coat and produces a gleaming surgical scalpel. "A demonstration," he purrs, flicking the blade to catch the light, "but between just us. Nobody else. Shall we carve away those pesky doubts? A little... therapeutic surgery?"

He presses the cold steel against your collarbone through your sweater - situated right over the area where he first sewed stitches into you. His voice drops to a whisper, "Or perhaps I'll add my initials here... permanently. A reminder that even in pieces..." The blade dips lower, "...you're mine."Every muscle in your body locks tight as you draw in a sharp breath and hold it, your chest barely rising. Your eyes fly open, wide with pure, unfiltered fear, the kind that anchors you in place. What once began as a tremble now overtakes you entirely, your limbs shaking uncontrollably as adrenaline floods your system. A strangled cry catches in your throat, barely escaping as a broken sound, while your gaze fixates on the gleaming scalpel - cold, precise, and far, far, too close.

His smile widens into something truly terrifying as he examines your reaction. He presses the scalpel against your skin just hard enough to leave a red mark, but not enough to break it. “Mmm, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he coos mockingly, “I can almost hear your heart pounding away in your chest.”

He leans in closer until his face is mere inches away from yours, “But don’t worry… I won’t hurt you too much. After all, what fun would it be if my precious pet wasn’t able to remember our little lesson?”

Your eyes flick frantically around the room, searching for something - anything - that offers an escape. Panic coils in your chest like a tightening rope, each breath growing shallower as it claws its way up your throat. It rises fast and merciless, threatening to choke you and steal your voice before you can even cry out. The walls seem to press in closer as if the room itself is closing in on you. Your head shook quickly and violently side to side, lip quivering and fresh tears freely rolling down your reddened cheeks.

You were frozen in place - in silence. Helpless.

Grinning, the doctor's expression turns razor-sharp as he watches your paralysis, the scalpel still hovering against you like a threat. He clicks his tongue and raises the blade to tap gently against your trembling cheek. 

"Tsk tsk. Still so stubborn? How… unfortunate." He drags the flat edge of the blade down your cheek, your neck, stopping just above where his initials might rest on fresh skin. "Don’t fret - I’ll make this quick," he coos, pulling a syringe from his pocket with practiced ease. The liquid inside swirls crimson. "A little painkiller to dull those noisy nerves… and something special to ensure you’re quite... compliant during our little procedure."  

He yanks your head back by the hair, fisting it together with the scalpel, exposing your throat as he raises the syringe for you to examine - a surgeon’s precision masked behind wild eyes. "Scream for me, darling. I do so love seeing how loud I can make my art."

~~~

Link for chapter 2!

https://www.tumblr.com/2muchtocount/786836755825475584/dr-masacrik-x-femreader-ch-2?source=share

Thank you guys for reading! I'll be adding on the next chapters soon, and posting my works on AO3 and Wattpad as well under my same user! ^v^