#bylyric

7. Doctor yandere who uses your own medical chart as foreplay; reading your stats aloud while fingering you, whispering, “Heart rate elevated. Pupils dilated. Wetness.. clinically obscene.”

8. Doctor yandere who doesn't just fuck you—he monitors you during. He straps a heart monitor to your chest, a pulse oximeter to your finger, and watches the screen spike every time you moan his name.

9. Doctor yandere who has files of your orgasms, recorded, labeled, categorized. Audio, sometimes video. Clinical notes beside each one. He rewatches them at night while whispering about how good you are for him.

10. Doctor yandere who leaves his cum inside you on purpose, then does a pelvic exam the next day. Just to see how long you held onto him. Just to praise your body for clinging to what’s his.

11. Doctor yandere who whispers anatomical terms into your ear as he fucks you. “Cervix... uterus... clitoris... every inch of you belongs to me on a cellular level.”

12. Doctor yandere who fully intends to lobotomize you after he's broken your body in enough times, Because he doesn’t want to erase your feelings, just your resistance. He wants you wet, obedient, and mindlessly in love. Forever.

You turned your head. Slowly. The weight of your head dragged against the pillow. He was seated beside you—white coat wrinkled, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. The veins in his forearms twitched faintly. His eyes locked onto yours.

Hazel bloodshot eyes. How dreamy.

“You’ve been dreaming of me,” he said, not a question. A statement. Like it was already truth. “I know. Your vitals spike whenever I come close.”

You tried to move. Nothing responded the way it should have. Legs heavy, Mouth dry.

Luciel reached forward, stroking your hair back with ripped surgical gloves still stained from someone else’s surgery. The latex squeaked against your temple. His breath smelled like stale coffee and something metallic.

“You talk in your sleep,” he said, tone light. Almost amused. “You beg.”

His gloved hand traced your jaw, then drifted lower across your collarbone, over the thin hospital gown. No urgency. Just... inspection. Reverence, even. Like you were something he had built from bone and skin.

“You said no to me, Sure,” he murmured, fingers pressing down where your heartbeat lived. “But it's all fine now, right? Surely consent is just a lie.."

He stood up straight.

You heard the quiet snap of latex peeling off as he removed his gloves. He tossed them into the bin without looking, then rolled the tray of surgical items closer. It gleamed with tools not meant for healing. Forceps. Bone saw. Ice pick.

You swallowed. Or tried to. Your throat was so dry.

“I was going to wait,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed your ear. “But you're still resisting. Somewhere, deep inside, you're still... fighting me.”

He pulled back, voice clipped.

“That won’t do.”

You shook your head. It was weak and pathetic. You didn’t even mean to. It just happened. Luciel’s eyes darkened.

“Dear, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, calmly, as if the tray didn’t exist. “And you know that. But I can’t stand the thought of you thinking of anyone else. Of you leaving me. Leaving what we've built and accomplished here."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, slow and gentle.

Then he strapped the bite gag in place.

The gag settled between your teeth, leather straps cinched tight behind your head. You felt the pressure more than the pain. It was intimate, in a sick way, like he’d done it before, like this was a practiced ritual.

Your breathing hitched, shallow. The scent of alcohol swabs and plastic tubing filled your nose.

Dr. Luciel’s hands were bare now, warm and unhurried. He moved to the side tray and selected the ice pick.

It gleamed.

"Do you know what a transorbital lobotomy does?" he asked, softly. His voice was never harsh, never loud. It lilted with affection. "It doesn't erase you. That's the misconception. No, it just... quiets the noise."

He leaned over you again, stroking your temple.

"I want you to be still. I want to preserve you. As you are now. You fight me, but you don’t know what for.

You cling to a version of yourself that would’ve walked away from me. That hurts, sweetheart." He chuckles.

"And you don't want to hurt me, right? No, that would be so.. Unfortunate."

You tried to scream through the gag when he gently pulled your eyelid back, but it was muffled, pathetic. Saliva pooled under your tongue. He hummed a lullaby.

"No more leaving. No more rejection. Just you and me. And the silence."

He inserted the pick.

Not all the way. Not yet. Just enough to let you feel the pressure behind the eye socket. Not pain exactly. Something more violating. It felt like your body was no longer yours.

Your legs kicked weakly against the restraints. He smiled, genuinely sadistically.

"You’re trembling," he whispered. "That’s beautiful."

Luciel held it there. Motionless. Teasing the edge of transformation. Then, he pulled it back. Set it down carefully.

Your eye throbbed. You wept silently, gag soaked. He wiped your cheek with his thumb.

"Later," he said. "You need to remember this."

He undid the lower buckles first. Then the gown.

It was clinical, efficient. But his eyes devoured you.

"You’re mine now, Darling." he said, almost mournfully. “It’s not about pleasure. It’s about belonging. And I need you to understand that as I take you.”

You were bare from the waist down. He spread your legs apart, using the straps on your knees to lock them open.

His hands were warm, but clinical. No pretense of seduction.

Just... control. The way he touched your inner thighs, the lips between it was methodical. Memorized, even.

“You’ve been wet before I even touched you,” he murmured, dipping two fingers between your folds. “Your body knows who owns it.”

You whimpered into the gag. It felt filthy and degrading. He's making you feel that way. Disgusting.

Luciel dragged his fingers up, smearing your slick along your slit, then up to circle your clit, light, teasing strokes that made your hips twitch, even restrained. His eyes locked on your face as he did it, hungry for your reactions.

“You say you don’t want to want this,” he said softly, leaning down to press his lips against your navel. “But you do. You will. Every nerve. Every pulse.”

He stood again and undid his belt with a slow, deliberate pull. His cock was already hard when he freed it, flushed and veined, leaking at the tip. He gave it one stroke, watching your eyes track it. Not with desire. With dread. With disgust.

“That fear,” he said, lining himself up, “is just proof you’re still thinking. You're a virgin. It's like you were saving yourself for me."

He pushed in without warning with little preparation.

You screamed behind into gag. Your body clamped down hard around him, trying to reject the intrusion, but it only made him groan.

“Tight. God, you’re tight. Like you were made to be ruined.”

He bottomed out with a grunt, hips flush to yours. Then he started to thrust—slow, brutal strokes that stretched and filled you, He forced your body to accommodate him. Your eyes watered. Your hips twitched involuntarily under the restraints. He loved that. It made you want to throw up. But he wouldn't be happy with that.

Luciel leaned over you, his cock grinding into you with each punishing thrust, his breath heavy against your cheek.

“This is what obedience feels like,” he whispered. “This is me fixing you.”

He fucked you like it was surgery. Like he was curing something. His pelvis slapped against your ass, fast and unrelenting now, and the sound of skin against skin echoed in the sterile room.

“Let go,” he panted. “Stop fighting. Stop thinking. Let me fucking erase you.”

One hand moved up to your throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. As if to say: this? This belongs to me too.

You didn’t want it. But your body betrayed you.

Your pussy clenched around him harder, your eyes rolled back, your cunt slick and raw from the rhythm. And he felt it.

“Oh saints..,"he moaned. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Against your will.. How pitful."

He angled his hips, slamming into the spot that made your thighs shake. Your back arched, your breath choked in the gag.

He kept whispering to you, filth and reverence tangled together.

“Good girl. My girl. My patient. My property.” he repeated like a spell. A fucking curse.

You came with a full body spasm, sobbing, drooling around the gag. And he kept going, milking every aftershock from your broken nerves.

His own climax hit just seconds later, hot, thick release spilling deep inside you.

He didn’t pull out. Why would he?

He stayed there, cock buried to the base, forehead pressed to yours as your body trembled beneath him.

“When I finish the lobotomy,” he whispered against your lips, “you’ll only remember this. Me inside you. Me owning you.”

Written by bylyric.

Dr Luciel belongs to @whitneysslut .

A - Aftercare: Soul is intensely possessive afterward. He wraps himself around you, nuzzling into your skin like you might disappear. He murmurs soft, obsessive things.

“Mine, mine, mine…” and if you try to move, he whines and pulls you closer. If he was rough, he’ll tremble against you, overstimulated and needy, but he won’t admit it.

B - Body part:

• His favorite part of himself: His eyes. He knows the way they bore into people, hypnotizing them, making them feel seen and owned.

• His favorite part of you: Your throat. Whether he’s wrapping his hand around it, feeling the vibrations of your moans, or pressing kisses there, he’s obsessed.

C - Cum: Soul loves the mess. He’ll smear it on you, taste it, make you keep it inside. If you try to clean up too soon, he pouts. He wants to admire his work. Also, he has a filthy habit of sucking his fingers clean if they’re coated in it.

D - Dirty secret: He’s fantasized about keeping you tied to his bed for days, overstimulating you until you’re a drooling, fucked-out mess. You’d be so weak and pliant, completely dependent on him… He thinks about it way too often.

E - Experience: He’s not technically experienced, but his obsessive nature means he’s studied everything. He knows exactly what buttons to push and how to push them. The first time you’re together, it’s almost terrifying how well he understands what makes you tick.

F - Favorite position: Anything where he can see you. Missionary with your wrists pinned down, you straddling his lap, or sitting in front of a mirror so he can watch your expressions. He wants to see every reaction.

G - Goofy: Soul isn’t playful. He’s intense, desperate, borderline unhinged. But he does smirk when you whimper, and he definitely enjoys whispering filth just to watch you squirm.

H - A bit of neatly trimmed white hair, but nothing too wild.

I - Intimacy: It’s all intimacy with Soul. He’s obsessed, lost in you, breathing your name like it’s the only thing that matters. It’s suffocating, overwhelming, and inescapable—exactly how he wants it.

J - Jack off: He does it constantly while thinking of you. He moans your name, bites his lip, and makes a mess of himself, then stares at the cum on his fingers and imagines feeding it to you.

K - Kink: He has a few. Kinky motherfucker.

• Possessiveness/obsession – He needs you to know you belong to him.

• Overstimulation – He loves pushing you past your limits. However, He would love if you overstimulated him to.

• Marking – Bruises, bites, scratches—he wants people to know you’ve been claimed.

• Exhibitionism – Not full public exposure, but the risk of getting caught drives him insane.

• Asphyxiation - The thrill of struggling to breathe and slowly losing strength makes him weak in the knees.

L - Location: His bed is his sanctuary, but he’s had fantasies about taking you against a bookshelf, in an empty classroom, or pinning you to a cold stone wall in some forgotten part of wherever you are.

M - Motivation: The simplest things set him off. your voice, your scent, the way you look at him. But if you ignore him? Oh, he’ll get desperate real quick.

O - Oral: He loves to go down on you. He drags it out, taking his time, licking, sucking, devouring, he wants you whimpering. As for receiving? He shudders the moment your lips touch him, gripping your hair like he needs it.

P - Pace: Usually slow but intense. he wants you to feel every inch of him. But if he’s desperate? He’s a messy, needy, whimpering thing, rutting into you like he’s addicted.

Q - Quickie: He craves full intimacy, but he won’t say no if you need him right now. He’ll pin you to the nearest surface, whispering, “You couldn’t wait, huh?”

R - Risk: He’s insane when it comes to risk. Public teasing? Letting his hand wander under the table? Fucking you in an unlocked room? He lives for it.

S - Stamina: He doesn’t quit. Even when he’s spent, trembling, panting he keeps going. He’s the type to push past exhaustion because he needs more of you.

T - Toys: He has a few—mainly for overstimulating you. Vibrators, restraints, a pretty little collar he fantasizes about putting on you… And yes, he’s tried them on himself, just to imagine how they’d feel on you.

U - Unfair: He’s a tease, but in a way that makes you suffer. He’ll hold you down, whispering about how desperate you look, how much you need him, and then just… watch you squirm.

V - Volume: He moans. Not soft little sighs either. Full, breathy, whimpering moans. If he’s being rough, he growls. When he’s close? His voice breaks, and it’s the most sinfully beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

W - Wild card: He has a bad habit of stealing your clothes just to jerk off in them. If you catch him, he’ll just stare at you, shameless, before stuffing them in your mouth and fucking you stupid.

X - X-ray: He’s around 8 inches. But the real danger is how pretty he is. Pale skin, flushed tip, and dripping by the time he even gets started.

Y - Yearning: His sex drive is insane. He wants you all the time. Even if he’s already had you, he’s thinking about when he’ll get to fuck you again.

Z - Zzz: He doesn’t let you go to sleep right away—he needs to hold you, touch you, breathe you in. When he finally dozes off, it’s with you completely trapped against him.