𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

🔞Every orgasm comes with a zero at the end of your bank account.

♡ Yandere! DILF’s x Fem. Reader. Sugar Daddy, Old Money, Professor, Sponsor

♡ Headcanons. Midas Eyes – Part 3

♡ Word Count. 3,057

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy who should be repulsive. A man-child in his late thirties who spends obscene amounts of money on everything except dignity. A peacock draped in silk and cashmere, leather shoes that cost more than an entire human life, a watch that gleams like the price of someone’s soul. Gaudy, loud, excessive. He reeks of expensive cologne and desperation, of old money envy and cocaine dreams. And yet, here you are, letting him fuck you raw in the penthouse suite of a hotel that costs a year’s salary just to breathe in.

You’re so fucking good at this.

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy groans, breath hot against your neck, hands bruising your hips as he fucks you into the mattress like he’s trying to hammer his name into your body. He has the stamina of a man who has nothing better to do than chase pleasure and the money to afford every enhancement available. You don’t know if it’s the genetics, the hormone injections, or sheer willpower that makes him last so long, but it’s obscene, and it works.

“Fuck, you’re—” he pants, a laugh caught between his teeth. “You’re just so good for me, princess.”

You moan because it gets you more things. Louder, a little breathy, making sure your body clenches just right around him. He groans like you’ve fed him a shot of pure heroin and throws another ten thousand into your mental bank account. You let yourself go slack, let him manhandle you however he wants, plaything that you are. He likes to think he’s in charge. He isn’t.

Not when he’s gripping your thighs so tight he might leave fingerprints on your bones. Not when his voice is breaking, so desperate, so fucking eager, like he’s about to worship at the altar of your cunt.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters. “Gonna stuff you so full, baby, fuck, just take it, take it all, yeah?”

You bite your lip, nodding prettily, and he loses it. Thrusts go sloppy, frantic, all that practiced charm falling apart as he groans against your shoulder, spilling deep inside like he thinks he can buy you with his cum.

And maybe he can.

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy flops next to you, panting, still hard. Of course he is. He always is.

“Again?” He grins, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair.

You stretch, arching your back just enough to make his breath hitch. Then you turn, lazily trailing a finger down his stomach, watching his abs tense beneath your touch.

“A hundred grand,” you murmur.

He stares. Then he laughs. Loud, delighted, and just drunk enough to think this is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You’re a menace,” he says, grabbing your wrist and rolling you onto your back. His cock presses against your thigh, hard and needy. “Fine. But I get to make you cry for it this time.”

You smile, letting your eyes flash with that hypnotic galaxy hue. His pupils blow wide, breath hitching, completely enthralled. He’s already under your control, but you let him think he still has some.

“Go ahead, Daddy,” you purr. “Make me earn it.”

———

♡ Yandere! Old Money who was born into wealth so vast, it would take you several lifetimes to count the zeros in his family’s offshore accounts. Who never had to work a day in his life but did so anyway—because ruling over empires is simply what men like him do. Who was bred for supremacy, sculpted for dominance, and taught that anything can be bought.

♡ Yandere! Old Money who trained you, shaped you, and refined you like a diamond under pressure. Who took a filthy, starving guttersnipe and made her into a masterpiece. Who remembers the first time he saw you—some nameless thing, all hunger and teeth, tearing through a gilded party with the eyes of a wolf in a silk dress. Who saw potential in you, who sharpened your mind, your body, your soul. Who honed you into a weapon, only to find that the blade had a mind of its own.

♡ Yandere! Old Money who both despises and adores what you’ve become. A whore with no loyalty, a predator without a master. Who made you into something untouchable, yet still seethes with jealousy every time another man gets too close. Who is tormented by the fact that the very skills he bestowed upon you are now being used to elude him. Who doesn’t care how much you cost—because at the end of the day, you are his investment. His creation. His.

You never really understood love. Never cared to. Love was an abstract thing, messy and useless, the sentimental currency of the weak. Money, on the other hand—that, you understood. The raw power of it, the absolute control. You could make anyone do anything for enough money. But there was always one exception. Him.

It had started as a game. A little cat-and-mouse. A battle of wills between the old master and his disobedient little protégé. But now? Now it was something far worse.

Now you were in his bed.

Now his breath was against your ear, his hands moving over your body like they had every right to be there. As if they had never left.

“You come back to me like a bad habit,” he murmured, voice rich and deep, laced with amusement and something darker. His fingers traced down your spine, sending an involuntary shiver through you. “But I suppose I should be flattered. Even the most expensive sluts still come home to their first owner.”

You should have left. You should have fought. But you didn’t.

Because you knew, deep down, that this was always how it would end.

His grip was firm as he pulled you onto his lap, your silk robe slipping from your shoulders. The candlelight glowed against his sharp features, those cold, aristocratic eyes drinking you in like fine wine.

“How much?” he asked, deceptively soft. “How much do I have to pay to remind you of your place?”

You smirked, reaching up to run a finger down his cheek. “All of it.”

The answer made something wicked flash in his gaze.

“Greedy girl.” His hand closed around your throat, not enough to choke, just enough to remind you that you were nothing in his hands. “You think you can sell yourself to the highest bidder and I won’t notice? That I won’t hunt down every single man who has ever touched you and make them disappear?”

“You trained me for this,” you reminded him, tilting your head, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Don’t act surprised when I outgrew you.”

♡ Yandere! Old Money chuckled, dark and amused. “Outgrew me?” His grip tightened, forcing your legs apart as he shifted, the silk sheets whispering beneath you. “Oh, darling.” His free hand slid up your thigh, tracing the inside like he was claiming territory. “You haven’t outgrown anything.”

His mouth found yours in a searing kiss, all dominance and possession, teeth and tongue warring for control. You gasped into it, back arching as his hand found its way between your legs, teasing, taunting. He was cruel, methodical, drawing out every sound he wanted from you with the skill of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.

“You act so untouchable,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers sinking into you with devastating precision. “So untouchable, yet look at you now.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound. But he wasn’t done yet.

♡ Yandere! Old Money pulled back, surveying you like an artist admiring his own work, his own creation. Then, with an almost lazy arrogance, he unbuckled his belt.

You watched, entranced, as he freed himself—thick, hard, proud, the very embodiment of dominance. Your mouth went dry, your body betraying you as he pressed the tip against your entrance, teasing, just barely there.

“Say it,” he commanded.

You refused.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he thrust in all at once, bottoming out so deep you nearly sobbed.

“Say it.” His voice was low, a whisper of silk and steel.

You gasped, trembling, but held his gaze, even as he started moving. Slow at first, deep, dragging, making you feel every inch of him. Then faster. Harder. Ruthless.

“You,” you finally choked out, your pride shattering like glass. “You own me.”

The words ignited something in him. His grip tightened, his pace brutal, pounding into you like he was branding himself into your very soul. You clawed at his back, nails digging into flesh, but he only laughed.

“That’s right,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You can sell your body all you want, little girl. But your soul? Your soul belongs to me.”

And in that moment, as he drove you to the edge of oblivion, you knew he was right.

You could have all the money in the world.

But you would never escape him.

———

♡ Yandere! Professor who has the poise of a man carved out of marble—cool, composed, and entirely unreadable. A man with the patience of a saint and the mind of a devil. His words are scripture; his touch, a revelation. He speaks in measured tones, every syllable deliberate, as though calculating the exact reaction each word will elicit from you.

♡ Yandere! Professor who watches you over the rim of his glasses, calculating, assessing. He is not moved by beauty alone—intellect is what ensnares him, and you, for all your feigned simplicity, are a masterpiece of complexity. You lure men with your body, but he is the only one who sees the hunger beneath. The void you so desperately try to fill with money. He has no interest in your wealth, only in possessing you—mind, body, and soul.

♡ Yandere! Professor who has studied you longer than you’ve known. Who understands your patterns, your weaknesses, the exact inflection in your voice when you are lying. He does not need to tame you; he needs only to set the right trap and wait. You are a strategist, a predator, but so is he. And in this game of chess, you are already in checkmate.

♡ Yandere! Professor who fucks like a man unraveling scripture. Every touch is precise, every movement methodical, unraveling you in ways you did not think possible. He does not need to be cruel to dominate you. He simply dismantles you with patience, with precision. You, who have seduced kings and moguls, who have named your price and watched the world pay it—now trembling under a man who has not spent a single cent on you just yet.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not believe in rushing. Who makes you beg, not with words, but with silence. With the way he simply watches you, fingers tracing the outline of your ribs, the dip of your waist. Who keeps you spread open on his desk, untouched, until your body betrays you, slick and shivering, whispering pleas you swore you’d never give him.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not kiss you. Not at first. He will taste every inch of your skin, bite into your throat, your shoulder, but he will not give you the intimacy of lips pressed to yours. Not until you’ve earned it. And when he finally does, it is not tender. It is ownership. It is his teeth against your lower lip, his tongue carving his claim into your mouth, swallowing every noise, every breath, until you are left gasping, dizzy from the sheer control he exerts.

♡ Yandere! Professor who takes his time. Who makes you sit on his cock, unmoving, as he reads a book, as if your desperation is of no concern to him. As if your pleasure is simply a matter of patience. Who will stroke your thighs absentmindedly, turn a page, glance at you over his glasses with a look so calm it is maddening.

“You are always in such a hurry,” he murmurs, fingers grazing over the sensitive flesh between your legs, deliberately avoiding where you need him most. “And yet, for all your intellect, you fail to grasp the simplest lesson: anticipation makes the reward sweeter.”

♡ Yandere! Professor who teaches you the meaning of desperation. Who coaxes sounds from your throat you did not know you were capable of making. Who turns your arrogance into broken cries, into choked-out prayers, into the breathless realization that, for the first time, you are not the one in control.

♡ Yandere! Professor who marks you, but never where others can see. His teeth bruise the inside of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breasts. His fingers dig crescents into the softness of your waist, but when you stand before your admirers, you look as flawless as ever. No one will ever know the depth of your submission. No one will ever see how he reduces you to nothing but trembling need.

♡ Yandere! Professor who makes you say his name. Properly. Not in moans, not in screams, but in reverence. In acknowledgment of the fact that, despite everything, despite your hunger for wealth and power, despite the way you have played and conquered men like pawns—he is the only one who has ever truly had you.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not allow you to leave his bed until you are completely ruined. Until your body is boneless, your mind too fogged with pleasure to form coherent thoughts. Who cradles your face after, thumb brushing over your swollen lips, watching you with quiet satisfaction.

“Money is not the only thing worth worshiping, my dear. But don’t worry—I have all the time in the world to teach you.”

———

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who never had money, not really.

Not the kind that keeps your hands clean, anyway. It was all blood and sweat and torn muscle—fought for in the filth, carved out in the trenches, scraped together with broken fingers and clenched teeth. He’s the kind of rich that still walks like he’s got nothing, the kind of powerful that still looks at people like they might turn on him at any second. And you—

You, with your dead gaze and even deader heart, the whore with a price tag bigger than a small country’s GDP—you fascinate him. Not in some romantic, poetic way. No, he isn’t built for that kind of weakness. It’s visceral. It’s in the way his jaw tightens when you move, the way his hands twitch when you speak.

You’re money. You are the thing he’s fought for all his life. And now you want him to own you?

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who doesn’t fall for your tricks.

Most men are easy. One look, one shift in tone, one tilt of your head and they crumble like the worthless sacks of flesh they are. But him? He watches you like a predator sizing up a rival. You’ve met a lot of men in your line of work. Soft ones, weak ones, strong ones who thought they were stronger than you. But he’s something else.

He doesn’t give a fuck about your Midas Eyes.

That first night, when you sat in his lap and whispered the price in his ear, he just laughed. Low and dark. A sound that sent something unpleasant slithering down your spine. And then he grabbed your jaw, rough, unforgiving.

“Try that shit on me, and I’ll break your legs.”

You believed him.

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who fucks like he fights—dirty, brutal, and without mercy.

The first time he takes you, it’s not in some luxury suite with satin sheets and a view of the city skyline. It’s in the grimy backseat of a blacked-out car, somewhere between a deal gone wrong and another fight that left someone (not him) bleeding out in an alley.

You’re bent over his lap, dress hiked up, face pressed against cracked leather while he yanks your panties down with zero patience. There’s no tenderness, no soft prelude—just the sound of his belt unbuckling, the sharp bite of cold metal against your thigh as he restrains you, the hard press of his cock against your slit as he forces you open.

“You want money, right?” His voice is a rasp against your ear, breath hot, words edged with amusement and something darker. His fingers dig into your hip, keeping you in place. “So work for it.”

And then he shoves inside.

The stretch burns, delicious and cruel. You gasp, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just thrusts, hard and deep, filling you up until your body molds to him.

He doesn’t fuck like a man who cares. He fucks like a man who takes.

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who likes to see you break.

You thought you were good at playing the game, but he’s better. You moan for him, whimper his name, pretend to shudder when he hits the right spot—but he sees right through you. And it pisses him off.

So he makes it worse.

He angles his thrusts just right, buries himself so deep it feels like he’s rearranging your guts. His fingers slip between your legs, rubbing tight, ruthless circles around your clit. The belt around your wrists tightens. The car rocks with the force of it.

And when you finally, finally cum—when you arch and shudder and cry out like the perfect little whore he paid for—he doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you. Keeps using you. Keeps pounding into your oversensitive cunt until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation, until your thighs shake and your breath comes in ragged, broken little gasps.

“Thought you wanted money, baby,” he murmurs, voice dripping with mockery. His hand grips the back of your neck, forcing your head down. “Gotta earn it.”

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who pays you just to keep you.

He never tells you to stop seeing other men. He doesn’t have to.

Because when you wake up the next morning, sore and wrecked and aching in places you didn’t know could ache, there’s a suitcase on the nightstand.

It’s full of cash.

More money than you’ve ever seen in one place. More than you could make in months.

A message, loud and clear.

You’re his now.

And there’s no fucking way you’re leaving.

Yandere! DILFs

Headcanons 1 : Midas Eyes (General)

1. Some women play hard to get. You play impossible to afford.
2. You’re not a gold digger. You’re an entrepreneur. And business is booming.
3. 🔞Every orgasm comes with a zero at the end of your bank account.
4. He’s not jealous. He just needs to remind you why no one else can fuck you like he does.
5. 🔞”You wanna act like a whore? Then be one. On your knees. Now.”

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♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.