He mass–reported your account. Then made you his dirty little secret.
♡ Characters Include. Yandere! Envious Hater, Secret Admirer, Moral Crusader, Reputational Destroyer
♡ Word Count. 4,426
♡ Yandere! Envious Hater.
You don’t know his name.
But he knows yours.
And everything else.
He knows your schedule down to the minute. He knows the exact seconds your fingers will flutter over your keyboard, the cadence of your replies, the tags you recycle like prayers. He’s memorized them all. The time zones you post in. The idiotic memes you laugh at. The way you write your bios. Your sad little emojis. Even the timestamps of your thirst reblogs.
He knows what lube you like. The flavor. The brand. The offhanded joke you made about it at 2:31 a.m., three months ago. He’s bookmarked it. Jerked off to it. Obsessively. Desperately. Fantasized about forcing it down your throat until your eyes water and your lips gloss in his spit.
He knows your favorite playlist. The one you update compulsively. The one he loops while hating you. The one that plays in the background while he reports your posts. While he claws at his cock, whispering your username between his teeth like it’s divine blasphemy.
You should be nothing. You should’ve been a passing fix.
But you make him feel.
And feelings like these—feral, festering, hungry—they don’t go away.
You’re blowing up now. You’re viral. Again. He refreshes your page until the screen burns.
He’s seen you livestream. He’s heard your voice. Light. Confident. Smug. He stares at the way your lips curve. The twitch of your eye when you read something amusing. Your laugh, clear and sharp, slicing into his gut.
He watches you laugh at him.
You must be laughing at him. That meme you posted last night—”deranged lurkers with no bitches”—that was for him. That smile? For him. That smug little smirk you wore when mentioning reports in your inbox? Him.
It makes him shake. Rage and arousal rotting together under his skin.
He’s tried to get you banned. Flagged you. Flooded you with reports, DMs, alts.
And nothing.
You’re still here. Smiling.
God, he wants to rip that smile off your face.
He wants to drag you offline. Out of your world of fake praise and simping idiots and dopamine-chasing degenerates. He wants to slam your laptop shut mid-laugh, grip your throat and say, “You think they matter?”
He dreams of binding you to your chair. Of gagging you with your own streamer mic. Of fucking you over your desk until your branded merch is soaked in sweat and spit and the tears you never let anyone else see.
He knows you’d scream. You’d curse him. But you’d break. He knows you would. Because he already owns you. You just haven’t realized it.
The next time he watches your stream, it’s different.
You’re glowing. Not literally. But close. You’re giddy about something. Milestone, probably. New follower count? Patreon tier? Doesn’t matter.
You’re radiant. And you’re alone.
He doesn’t comment. He watches. Silent. Jaw clenched. Hand working his cock under the desk like a violent secret.
You sip your coffee. Black. No cream, no sugar. Bitter. Like you.
“Weird how obsessed some people get, right?” you say, laughing. “Imagine jerking off to someone you hate. Couldn’t be me.”
His cum hits his phone screen before he can stop it. Thick. Pathetic. Warm.
He doesn’t even moan. He exhales. Quiet. Like a dog.
Because you’re right. He is obsessed. He does hate you.
And he’d do anything to own you.
Anything.
He sends you a message that night.
Not from an alt. From a burner. More direct. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t insult.
He confesses.
He tells you he dreams of choking you out while you whimper his name. Of shoving your face into your own keyboard, typing slurs with your nose while he ruts you from behind like a beast. Of licking tears from your cheeks and making you thank him for it.
He doesn’t send a dick pic.
He sends a picture of your Spotify page open on his second monitor. Of your Twitter on the third. Of your stream playing in the background. And in the reflection of his screen, barely visible: his smile.
You don’t respond.
But you post a meme. Something stupid. Something biting.
“Some of y’all need to go outside. Touch grass. Get bitches.”
He reads it thirty times. His heart hammers. His teeth hurt from clenching.
The next time he messages you, it’s filth. Pure degradation.
“Stupid fucking whore. I know you get off on this. Posting like you matter. You’re not talented. You’re just a digital fleshlight for lonely creeps. I bet your room smells like heat and sweat and failure.”
No reply.
You post again. Another meme. This time a reaction image of a cat side-eyeing a cum-splattered phone.
He breaks something.
The next message is longer. Vicious.
“You’d love it if I found you. Admit it. You fantasize about it. Being choked out mid-stream, mic still on, fans listening while I wreck you. Maybe I let them hear you beg. Maybe I gag you with your own mousepad. Maybe I fuck you so hard your desk splinters.”
No reply.
He doesn’t need one.
Because he knows you’ll break. Eventually.
He imagines it now.
You’re chained to your office chair. Wrists bruised. Ankles spread. Webcam tilted downward. Your followers watching. Comments flooding in. Some confused. Some aroused. None knowing the truth.
He’s behind you. Masked. Shirtless. Voice low.
“Smile. Your fans are watching.”
You cry.
He grins.
“Say it,” he growls, yanking your head back. “Tell them what you are.”
You sob.
“Say it.”
“I’m a…” Your voice cracks. Humiliated. Raw.
He slaps your thigh, hard enough to sting.
“Louder.“
“I’m a stupid little cumdump for anonymous freaks!”
Your audience loses it. The chat floods. Some think it’s a joke. A kink stream. They don’t realize it’s real. That you’re really sobbing. That the bruises are blooming like roses on your thighs.
He slaps you again. Chokes you with your own ring light cord. Fucks you on cam. Slow. Cruel. Grinning at the screen.
He degrades you with your own tags. With your own words. With quotes from your fics, your tweets, your own lines whispered against your cheek as he ruins you.
And you break.
Just like he dreamed.
Because this is your punishment.
For existing. For thriving. For being everything he’s not.
For never noticing him.
You shouldn’t have posted that meme.
You shouldn’t have laughed.
Because now, he won’t stop.
He’ll find you. He’ll crawl through your wires like a ghost. Infect your spaces. Choke your light.
He doesn’t want your love.
He wants your submission.
And online?
There is no escape.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
♡ Yandere! Secret Admirer.
You don’t know his name.
But he knows yours.
And he hates it.
A single syllable that scrapes across his brain like a razorblade. It festers there, acidic and raw, whispering your presence into every damn corner of his digital world. Every time he logs on, it’s you.
Your words, your tags, your depraved little fantasies smeared across the screen in the sickly glow of midnight.
He tried to block you.
It didn’t work.
You always come back. New posts. New fics. New filth.
It’s like you know he’s watching.
He grips his phone like a lifeline and stares at the glowing notification.
[reblogged by me] “he makes you crawl for it, sobbing into the sheets while he tells you you’re worthless, stupid, his.”
His jaw clenches. His eyes blur. Blood pounds in his ears. It’s 3:14AM and you just updated.
He shouldn’t read it. He swore he wouldn’t.
But he does.
Every line is a noose tightening around his throat. You write like you want to ruin someone—like you know exactly where to sink the blade. He hates you. He hates how good you are. He hates how your filth sings to something buried and shameful inside him.
By the time he reaches the ending, his breathing is ragged. His cock is hard. And he’s furious.
He hisses through his teeth, slamming his phone onto the bed.
“Fucking whore,” he snarls, but it doesn’t sound convincing.
You wouldn’t even care. You wouldn’t even know. You write like you don’t need to know who gets off to it. And maybe that’s what drives him insane—the power you wield, the control you never asked for but hold all the same.
So he does what he always does.
He opens the ask box.
His fingers tremble as he types:
anonymous said: your writing’s not even good. anyone could write that degenerate trash. i hope you choke on your own fucking kinks.
He hovers.
Then deletes it.
And types something else.
anonymous said: why do you write shit like that? you think it’s hot to be treated like a dumb little fucktoy? you must be so broken. you’re disgusting.
Deleted.
Again.
anonymous said: do you even understand what you’re doing to people?
He stares.
Then he sends it.
You don’t reply.
The silence is worse than any insult.
He checks your inbox obsessively, hoping to see an answer, a reaction, anything. But it’s like you never saw him.
And that’s when it happens.
He starts imagining you.
The type of girl who types like that. Alone, curled up under the covers, one hand buried between your thighs while you write some brutal new scene. Probably dead-eyed and hollow, just like the characters you write. Probably fucking pathetic.
He pictures you sobbing while some monster breaks you in half. Begging, drooling, shaking like prey. And he hates it.
He hates how fucking hard it makes him.
He jerks off to you that night, growling obscenities under his breath, spitting cruel insults at his screen like you could hear him. Tells himself he’s punishing you. Degrading you.
He whispers it like a prayer:
“You like being hurt, don’t you, stupid little slut? You want to be humiliated. Bet you’d cry if I spit in your face, wouldn’t you? Beg me to do it again. Bet you dream of someone ruining you so bad you forget your own fucking name.”
The orgasm leaves him shaking. Empty.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
He spirals fast after that.
He doesn’t just read your work. He dissects it. Pulls it apart line by line, analyzing every filthy word, every humiliating phrase, every brutal climax.
He imagines himself as the dom in your stories. Imagines you as the blank-eyed masochist. Except you wouldn’t be blank with him. You’d cry. You’d scream. You’d break.
He’d make sure of it.
“No one else gets to see you like this. You understand? You’re mine. My pathetic, ruined little bitch. Say it. Say you’re my fucking toy.”
He writes it down. For research.
He sends more asks.
anonymous said: would you let a man ruin you? like really ruin you? until you’re just a wet, crying, shaking mess?
Still no response.
He starts checking your page every hour. Then every half hour. Then obsessively, fingers twitching whenever he sees a new post.
Every time you post, it’s a hit of dopamine. A new high. A new excuse to fall deeper.
He wants to punish you for it. Wants to rip the power away from you. Tie you up and fuck the smug detachment out of your voice.
“You think I don’t see through you? You think I don’t know what you want? Say it. Say you want to be used. Say you’re my little cumdump. Look at me when I’m breaking you.”
He starts writing fics of his own.
But they all sound like you.
Worse, they all sound like you with him.
Until one day, your inbox is empty. No posts. No updates.
Gone.
He refreshes. Again. Again. Again.
Nothing.
And for the first time in weeks, he panics.
You left.
You fucking left without even looking at him.
Not a single response.
He was nothing to you.
He drops to the floor, phone slipping from his hand.
His breathing turns erratic. Cold sweat beads on his back.
You never cared. He was just another deranged viewer screaming into the void.
And he still can’t stop.
He opens your last fic. Rereads it. Starts touching himself, angry and desperate. Whispers your name. Moans it. Hisses it like a curse.
“I’ll find you. I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on you, you’ll never fucking write again. You’ll only scream. You hear me? You’ll scream until your throat’s raw and your legs don’t work. And you’ll thank me. You’ll fucking thank me for it.”
He finishes with a shudder, lips parted in a silent snarl.
And then, shame. Rage. Emptiness.
He curls up in the dark with only the screen to keep him warm.
Your ghost whispers in his brain.
He’s ruined.
And he fucking loves it.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
♡ Yandere! Moral Crusader.
He told himself he was above this.
A man of principle. Of justice. Of clarity.
He lived on moral high ground like a castle, perched far above the filth that crawled and slithered through the gutters of the internet. You, with your blog, your stories, your horrific filth — you were everything wrong with the world. And he, born from a fire of righteousness, had a duty.
To expose you.
It started as curiosity — academic, he insisted. A post reblogged onto his dash, grotesque in tone, dripping with something he couldn’t name but instinctively reviled. He clicked it. Of course he clicked it. Someone had to. He couldn’t stop the spread of infection if he didn’t understand it.
He read it.
He hated it.
He devoured every word.
And it wasn’t just porn. It was horror. Sharp, psychological. Intimately cruel. Your writing dared the reader to look away — to flinch — and punished them for it. Your monsters were too alluring. Your protagonists too familiar.
He clicked away, bile rising in his throat. A few days passed. And then he came back. Just to confirm his disgust.
He read more.
It became a ritual.
He’d leave work early, brew a cup of tea, lock his door. Lights dim. Curtains drawn. Laptop glowing. Your blog bookmarked.
He knew the structure of your posts by heart. Tags. Pacing. The way you described your yandere men — monsters dressed in human skin. They said horrible things. Did worse. And he hated every second he was hard reading them.
He slammed the lid of his laptop shut, fists white-knuckled.
He needed to stop you.
He made the post — that glorious takedown. Three days of cutting and pasting, quoting selectively, lacing every paragraph with venom. He framed it like a community warning, a noble act.
Two likes. One reblog. From a porn bot.
He reported your blog. Three times. Ten. A hundred. Nothing. You kept posting. Kept thriving. Your followers left unhinged, drooling comments. Thirsting for your sadists. Calling themselves good girls, dumb sluts, obedient pets.
He told himself it was research when he followed you anonymously.
That he needed to know when you posted. He needed to understand the appeal. Not because he liked it. God no. He wasn’t like them.
He read everything.
Even the ones that left him shaking.
✦✧✦✧
The one that broke him was tagged: Dark Erotica | Brutal Yandere | BDSM | Sadist x Apathetic Reader | NSFW | Degradation | Humiliation
You didn’t title it. You never titled them. They just started.
✦✧✦✧
You don’t scream when he calls you filth.
You don’t even blink.
He’s never hated anyone more.
His breath hitched as he read. The man in the story was you in male form. Cold. Cruel. Sadistic. A predator who spoke like scripture.
“Do you think being a whore is a personality?”
“Answer me when I speak, you pathetic bitch.”
“You exist to be ruined. You were made to kneel.”
The protagonist — you — was inert. Dead-eyed. Emotionless. You didn’t break under him. You let him destroy you. Coldly. Silently. As if his cruelty was the only thing that made you feel.
He scrolled with shaking fingers.
“You like being used like a cumrag, don’t you? You want me to break you open and fuck the rot out of your skull.”
“That’s all you are. Dead meat wrapped in pretty skin.”
He couldn’t stop reading.
His body betrayed him. Every vicious line lit something electric in his spine. Shame swelled in his gut. He kept going.
The scene continued — hands around a throat, spit, blood. The hard crack of a belt. Tears the reader didn’t shed. Whimpers choked down, not from fear, but boredom. The sadist was furious.
“Fucking look at me. Look at what you make me do.”
“You’re disgusting. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”
The way it was written — immersive, visceral — he felt it. He saw the room, the dark, suffocating atmosphere, the flicker of light off leather. He heard the degradation, each word a knife carving into soft flesh.
He hated you.
He hated you so much he came.
When it happened, he just stared at the screen. Blank. Disgusted. He wiped his hand on his pants. Closed the tab. Deleted his history. Sat in the dark.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was the good guy.
✦✧✦✧
He blocked you. Again. Vowed never to look. Again.
Three days later, he was back.
You posted a meme:
me adding trigger warnings like an unhinged bitch knowing damn well the freaks are still gonna click
He re-read it twenty times. Your followers were foaming in the replies.
He made a second blog. Just to track your posts.
You released another story.
This time, it started with a warning:
Hard dom yandere. Extreme degradation. You’re his dirty little nothing.
✦✧✦✧
He didn’t even try to resist.
He tells you to kneel before you’ve even spoken.
Calls you a fucking object. Says you’re worse than trash — at least trash gets taken out.
“Look at this face. Blank. Brain-dead. You’re just holes, aren’t you? That’s all you’ve ever been.”
“You write that sick shit online and think you’re safe?”
“I know what you are. I see you. You want someone to drag you down where you belong.”
He was sweating.
The voice in his head grew louder.
Why does this feel like it’s about me?
Why does this feel like he knows?
✦✧✦✧
The story ends with a command.
A cruel, mocking prompt:
Say thank you, little freak.
He whispered it aloud in the dark.
His stomach turned.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Didn’t work the next day.
Didn’t report you.
He just scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.
Until your voice — that fictional, sadistic voice — became his thoughts.
“You’re obsessed. You’re mine.”
He couldn’t look away.
And he knew, even as he opened a new incognito tab and searched for your latest, that he wasn’t there to stop you anymore.
He was there to serve.
To submit.
To kneel, just like the rest.
He was your most loyal reader.
Your dirtiest disciple.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
♡ Yandere! Reputational Destroyer.
He doesn’t want your body.
He wants your collapse.
You’re smug. Cold. Distant. That was always the brand. You wore mockery like perfume, laced every word with venomous sarcasm, and they worshipped it. Ate it up. Your fans paraded your name like it meant something. Sharp-tongued siren, they called you. Savage muse. Queen of filth.
And it made him want to ruin you.
Not ruin like fucking you stupid. Not yet. No, first—he needed to peel your skin off in layers. Not physically. Not immediately. No. He wanted to destroy everything else. Your name. Your credibility. Your illusion of control.
You were smart. He hated that.
But even the smart ones crumble when the truth hits them from all sides. Or the illusion of truth.
He started slow. A vague call-out post from an account with no ties to him. Accusing you of stealing. Vague enough to dodge defamation, sharp enough to stir doubt. Then another account. This one more confident. Screenshots—fake, but indistinguishable. Then came the alt he made to “defend” you. A martyr to fan the flames. A decoy to make others doubt even themselves.
You didn’t react. Not publicly.
So he dug deeper.
He scraped through your old posts, digging for anything he could twist. Took your sarcastic jokes, removed context, layered them over black backgrounds in a bold sans-serif font. Added dramatic music. Uploaded the clips to Twitter, TikTok, Insta. He edited your voice, your livestreams, cherry-picked your laughter to sound malicious.
They called you a narcissist. A gaslighter. An abuser.
Still, you posted.
You smiled in your selfies. Laughed in your stories. Lived.
It wasn’t enough.
He made a list: every server you frequented. Every comment section you lingered in. He messaged mods, pretending to be a victim. Made burner emails. Attached logs—altered, invented. He contacted fandom blogs. Told them you sent hate. Even forged a suicide bait post and claimed it came from you. People flinched. Doubt bled. A few unfollowed.
Still, you were there.
And your followers? Loyal. Rabid. You lost a hundred. Then gained two hundred more. He watched your numbers rise, watched your pinned post hit 15k, watched your fanfic get turned into a podfic, then an animation, then merch.
You were winning.
And he was seething.
So he snapped.
He made an entire Google Drive. Doctored messages. Fake audio. Fabricated receipts. He hosted a document, color-coded, annotated, titled:
THE TRUTH ABOUT HER
It went viral.
You didn’t post for three days.
And when you came back—you were careful. Guarded. Your jokes were gentler. Your sarcasm thinner. There was a crack now, he saw it. A hesitation in your typing cadence.
That’s when he knew he had you.
And that’s when he really started.
✦✧✦✧
It begins when he hacks your alt.
Not your main. That would be too easy. No. Your side blog—the locked one. The one you vent on. The one you roleplay your filthiest thoughts on. The one where you posted those dark kinks, those deviant fantasies. He downloads everything. Screenshots. Reblogs. Every sordid, disgusting line. The degradation you crave—he sees it.
“Fucking little masochist,” he mutters, reading. “No wonder you like being hated.”
He waits until 3AM. Posts them all. Public. Tags your main.
Then he DMs you.
“On your knees. Now.”
You block him. Of course you do. But it doesn’t matter.
He sends more. New account. Then another. And another.
He describes what he wants in detail.
“You’re going to crawl, bitch. You’re going to beg me to stop lying about you, and then you’re going to fucking thank me for giving you attention.”
He makes a poll: Should she be exposed more? Or should she be punished privately?
Thousands vote. Most think it’s a joke.
He doesn’t.
You lock your account.
But you read everything.
He can tell.
You change your display name. Your icon. You delete old posts. You vanish for a week. But your fans scream for your return. They defend you, beg you to come back.
So you do.
And he’s waiting.
✦✧✦✧
The livestream starts at midnight. You don’t show your face, not this time. Just your voice, soft, measured. You’re playing some indie horror game, pretending things are normal.
You last forty minutes.
Then the notifications hit.
He floods your chat with a bot army. All of them chanting the same thing.
WHORE. LIAR. MASOCHIST SLUT.
You cut the stream.
Two minutes later, he gets the DM.
“What the fuck do you want?”
He smiles.
“Good girl.”
✦✧✦✧
You shouldn’t have messaged him.
Now he knows you’re cracked.
He plays you like piano keys. Every note another humiliation.
“Send a voice note. Now. Apologize.”
You resist. But only for a day.
And when it comes—your voice is trembling. Brittle. Dead.
“I’m sorry. For… for lying. For being—”
He cuts you off. Sends another message.
“Wrong tone. Try again. Slower. Be humble this time, you arrogant little cunt.”
You send it again.
He leaks it to one of his alt followers.
They post it.
He spreads it.
Then he messages you again.
“Don’t cry. You like being degraded, remember? Or was all that filthy kink talk fake?”
“Should I post those too? ‘Please call me a stupid bitch, daddy~’ Ring any bells?”
You beg.
You fucking beg.
And it turns him on so bad he nearly blacks out.
He doesn’t touch himself right away. No. He wants to earn it.
So he starts calling you.
Blocked numbers. Encrypted apps. You never answer.
Until one day, you do.
You’re already sobbing.
He breathes in the sound like it’s incense.
“You ruined my life.”
He exhales slowly.
“No. I rewrote it. You were boring before. A fake. Now? You’re a proper little bitch. Just like you always wanted to be.”
“Please… please stop posting. Please…”
“Say my name.”
You don’t.
He hangs up.
Two hours later, your nudes drop.
Not from him. He never touches your private photos. He doesn’t have to. You sent them before. To someone else. But now they’re here. Circulated. Tagged. Mocked.
You delete everything.
Main. Alt. Twitter. Discord. Twitch. Spotify.
Gone.
And he jerks off to the silence.
✦✧✦✧
But you come back.
New name. New brand. New look.
He knows it’s you.
Of course he knows. Your cadence. Your typos. Your syntax.
You try to blend in.
You try to be vanilla.
But you’re not.
You’re his.
He starts over.
“Nice new blog. Shame if someone exposed your little ‘daddy degradation whore’ phase, huh?”
“You belong in the dirt, bitch. Don’t forget who put you there.”
“Say it. Say you miss the hate.”
Your typing stops.
And then starts again.
“I miss it. I miss the way you made me feel like nothing. Like trash. Like a fucktoy.”
“Good girl.”
He doesn’t threaten to leak it.
He doesn’t have to.
You send more.
Voice notes. Pictures. Scripts.
You narrate your own humiliation. Your own destruction.
And he replies with voice messages of his own:
“Slap yourself for me. Hard. Louder. Let me hear it. Then say thank you.”
“You liked being a liar. But now you get to be a toy. Isn’t that better?”
“You don’t need a reputation. You need a collar.”
And in those long nights, when your inbox is full of his orders—your fingers shake as you type your replies.
Because it’s true.
You don’t miss being loved.
You miss being ruined.
You miss him.
You miss the monster who made you feel like nothing.
And everything.
All at once.
He knows.
He always knew.
Because now you belong to him.
Not just your body.
Your identity.
Forever.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
♡ List of Fandoms and Characters.
♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.
Ace Attorney: Manfred von Karma
Arcane: Silco, Marcus
Blue Lock: Rin Itoshi, Shidou Ryusei
Boku no Hero Academia: Stain, Dabi
Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: N/A
Death Note: Light Yagami, Teru Mikami
Demon Slayer: Douma, Sanemi Shinazugawa
DC: Damian Wayne, The Riddler (Riddler from The Batman 2022), Two-Face (Harvey Dent)
Dishonored Series: Daud
Genshin Impact: Alhaitham (twisted version), Childe (Tartaglia)
Haikyuu!!: Oikawa Tooru
Honkai Star Rail: Blade
How to Live as an Illegal Healer: N/A
Hunter x Hunter: Illumi Zoldyck, Chrollo Lucilfer
I’m Not That Kind of Talent: N/A
Jujutsu Kaisen: Naoya Zen’in, Geto Suguru (Post-defection)
Kill The Hero: Park Yong-Wan
Love and Deepspace: Caleb
Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: Aamon, Gusion (Dark skin lore)
MONSTER: Johan Liebert, Roberto
Naruto Shippuden: Sasuke Uchiha (early Shippuden), Danzo Shimura
One Punch Man: Garou
Reverend Insanity: N/A
TOUCHSTARVED: N/A
Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Fresh! Sans, Horror! Sans, Ink! Sans, Undertale! Flowey
Wuthering Waves: Jiyan
Your Throne: Eros Orna Vasilios
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
♡ A/N #1. This is a March 9 draft. As you can see, I’m clearing up my drafts sections before I release the big guns for the big books. Literally. But visiting old drafts is like looking at cursed stuff. But, well, better than letting it rot in the basement. Actually, if you must know, I have a number of long-form series coming up. Just editing stuff.
♡ A/N #2. Oh yeah, and if shiz happens. Like in general? Honestly, just ignore it. I’ll still be here posting whatever I want, while sharing the food I make.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @poopooindamouf , @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @loserworld , @esthelily
❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.
♡ 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. 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 [you are here]. 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.
♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.
♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 