𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

🔞“I saw the way you looked at him. Do you want me to carve your eyes out next?”

❤︎ Synopsis. You belong to him—everyone else just forgot that. But don’t worry. He’ll remind them where you truly belong… one corpse at a time.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Granger, Yandere! Gusion, Yandere! Aamon, Yandere! Xavier x Fem. Reader (separate)

♡ Headcanons. When Love Kills – Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,242

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non con + BDSM, kidnapping, torture, abuse

♡ Granger.

He didn’t play the violin anymore.

The strings had long been unwound. Torn loose. The wooden frame that once carried lullabies and soft hymns now rested at the edge of the bed like a forgotten relic. A splintered frame. A shattered reliquary.

You breathed too loudly.

He noticed.

Your breaths were hitches, shaky exhales that tried to sound composed. It only made them more pitiful. He tilted his head at you, letting the corner of his mouth quirk, just slightly. You were trembling. Of course, you were. The floorboards were stained where you’d cried last night, though he doubted you’d remember through the haze he left you in.

It was your fault, really. You had smiled at that merchant boy too brightly. And then, when Granger shot the bastard in the chest from forty yards without blinking, you flinched. Like he was the monster.

Now you were here.

Hands bound with the very bowstring that once played the Hymn of Light. Mouth gagged, the fabric stuffed between your teeth torn from your own blouse, still smelling faintly of your skin. He preferred it that way. Everything of you belonged to him. And he hated being reminded that the world still thought otherwise.

“You’re too pretty to be this stupid.”

His voice was low, impassive. It always was. There was a song in the way he talked, the slow rhythm of a man who’d never needed to raise his voice to be heard. His coat was half-off, red scarf unraveling down his shoulder, boots thudding soft and heavy against the wooden floor.

You wanted to crawl away.

He saw it.

Granger didn’t stop you.

Not until your back hit the wall, and even then, he only knelt down. Silent. Observing. Like he was trying to see if you’d fold or fight. Your breath caught again as he brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers, his hand rough with callouses. Dried blood ringed under his nails. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Still pretending you don’t like this? After everything I do for you?”

He didn’t mean the warm meals. Or the stitched clothes. He meant the chaos. The way he carved his affection into the corpses of men who looked at you too long. The way he ruined every road out of this town, one bullet at a time.

You hadn’t eaten in days. Not real food. He said you didn’t deserve it. Said it with that same, steady cadence like a lullaby twisted in a minor key. Said it while you were tied to the bedpost and forced to listen to his guns being cleaned in the dark.

Tonight, he was quieter. Hungrier.

Granger stood and stepped over you, lifting your chin with the toe of his boot.

“Look at you. All that intellect, all that spirit, and this is what you’re reduced to. Drooling on the floor like a broken thing. Like something that needs me.”

He dragged the boot down your throat. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to humiliate. Enough to remind you that your pride couldn’t protect you here. Not from the eyes that never blinked. Not from the man who saw your resistance as foreplay.

“Do you miss him?”

He meant the merchant.

He meant the one whose body was probably rotting behind the inn, face blown off, chest caved in. He said it so easily, like he didn’t remember crushing the man’s skull with the heel of his boot after he fell.

“Say yes. Say you liked the way he looked at you. Say he made you feel like more than a cocksleeve.”

He kicked your legs apart.

You whimpered.

It made him smile.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That noise. That’s the only honesty you know, isn’t it? Not your voice. Not your pretty little lies. Just that broken sound you make when I remind you where you belong.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Wrong move.

He grabbed your throat.

You were yanked upright, slammed against the wall, his gloved hand crushing your windpipe just enough to blur the edges of your vision. He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“Look at me. Now.”

Your eyes opened. You met his.

He was smiling.

Not a smirk. Not a sneer. Just that terrible, serene smile that made your skin crawl.

“I should cut out your tongue,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t change anything. You don’t use it anyway. You think you’re so clever, so detached. But you look at me like you’re scared, not disgusted. I know the difference.”

He shoved you back down.

“Crawl.”

You hesitated.

He drew Dirge.

The gun clicked once, quiet as a church bell in the dead of night.

You crawled.

Every inch across the floorboards felt like punishment. He followed, boots slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with prey it didn’t need to chase.

“That’s better,” he said. “You’re learning.”

He reached down and gripped your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. Your knees ached. Your wrists throbbed. But the worst pain was in his eyes. In the way he looked at you like you were his final requiem. Like killing you would be the sweetest peace—but fucking you was the closest he’d get.

“Do you want me to play the violin for you again?” he murmured. “No? Then you’ll sing for me.”

He tore the gag free. You coughed. Spat.

“Still got spirit. Good.”

He pushed you to your back.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he said. “Not because I hate you. Because I miss you.”

His voice broke on that word.

He grabbed your wrists, tying them to the bedframe. The metal rattled. You squirmed. He shushed you, almost gently, fingers running down your ribs.

“All those dreams of freedom,” he whispered, sliding his hand between your thighs, “they end here. In this bed. With me.”

You cried out. Your body arched.

He moaned like it hurt him.

“Good girl.”

He made you say his name.

Over and over.

Made you beg.

Then degraded you for it.

He called you his little bitch. His whore. His ungrateful toy. He told you he could snap your neck and no one would come. That even if you screamed, only the rats would listen.

But he held you after.

That was the worst part.

The after.

You fell asleep tied to the bedframe, bleeding and used, and he was already cleaning his guns beside you. The violin case sat open nearby, a single bullet resting in the hollowed center.

He watched you.

And he smiled.

He never needed music to soothe the noise anymore.

Now, he had you.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Gusion.

You weren’t supposed to matter to him.

You were just a bored, bookish little thing from a border town, dragged into the Moniyan capital with nothing but a scholar’s permit and quiet contempt for everyone around you. Gusion Paxley had watched you for six months—through the slats of a carriage, from a rooftop when you left the archives at night, with a dagger glinting between his teeth while you slept in that dusty attic rental. You made it so easy, always alone, always withdrawn, always a little too proud of being unimpressed by nobility.

He hated you for that. And yet he needed you more than he had words for.

You’re in his house now. No—his cage.

The former castle of House Paxley looms like a relic of a dead religion, quiet and cruel. He’s draped you in white, thin and soft, like surrender. And every morning, he makes you make the bed, wipe the floor, fold his clothes, cook, polish his daggers. Every movement under his gaze is humiliating.

The first time you spoke back, he bled you.

“You’re not funny when you think you have pride,” he said while licking the wound on your thigh. The blade had sung across your skin like a violin string, not too deep—he always knew exactly how much to cut.

He always watches. He watches now.

Your wrists are red from rope burns. A twisted little domesticity: arms bound behind you, legs spread, gag between your teeth so your spit drips down your chin. Your collar is his belt, buckled too tight. You’re on your knees on the cold floor of the castle’s old chapel.

There’s no one left to pray to.

Gusion crouches before you, admiring you the way an artist admires a painting. His shirt is half-buttoned, lazily untucked, and his bare feet are stained with dried blood.

“Look at you. Fucking pathetic,” he says. “I gave you a kitchen. I gave you a bath. I gave you my name, my knives. And you—you still want to make friends?”

You blink at him, body trembling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hisses, grabbing your jaw until your teeth grind. “You’re not special. You’re just mine.”

You thought you’d found a moment of peace, a girl who shared your love of maps and old books. You smiled too much when you were with her. Gusion saw it. He saw everything.

He carved his name into your thigh last night.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you laughed with her?” he sneers. “What the fuck do you talk about, hmm? The price of ink? Little secrets?”

He slaps you hard enough to ring your ears. His hands are never as rough as his mouth.

“I let you read. I let you breathe. I let you,” he snarls, eyes wide with that sick light only he gets when he’s furious—beautiful and psychotic. “And you think that means you can have choices?”

The dagger kisses your throat.

Gusion kneels over you, pushes your face into the stone floor. You taste dust and your own blood.

“This is what happens when little sluts think they’re clever.”

He rips the gown from your body. It tears like paper.

“Don’t cry now,” he says, dragging the flat of the dagger across your back, leaving a shallow red trail. “You were smiling just fine for her.”

There’s no part of your skin untouched by him. Either he’s cut it, bruised it, kissed it, or claimed it in ways too vulgar for words. He keeps a chart. He tracks your reactions, your pulse, your screams.

“Tell me what you are,” he demands.

You mumble behind the gag, throat already hoarse. He slaps you again.

“Say it, or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

You choke around the leather, tears finally spilling.

He pulls the gag out with a sharp motion, then grabs your hair. “Say it, bitch.”

“Y-Yours,” you rasp.

His eyes soften. Briefly.

“Good girl.”

He slices a shallow line across your inner thigh. Blood wells up slowly. Gusion moans like it’s holy.

“You bleed better than you speak. Maybe I’ll just make you mute. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No more backtalk. Just a pretty little wife to fuck and ruin.”

You shiver violently. He knows you hate the word ‘wife’. It’s why he uses it. He calls you his little bride in front of the mirror while brushing your hair with a knife in his other hand.

He lifts you, throws you against the altar table. The old wood creaks under your weight. He spreads you open.

“You think she’d want you now? All stretched out and ruined like this? You’re so fucking ruined, you don’t even flinch anymore.”

You whimper. He kisses your throat. Not gentle—possessive.

“I should make you beg to see her corpse. I should tie her entrails around your neck so you remember what jealousy feels like. But no. No, no. That would ruin your pretty little brain. And I like that about you. That pride. That logic. That fucking denial.“

He thrusts his fingers into you, hard. There’s blood. There’s always blood.

You scream.

His grin sharpens.

“That’s more like it.”

His belt stays around your neck. His dagger stays in his hand. He uses the hilt to bruise you, to punish you, to remind you who you are.

Every time you go still, he whispers your name.

And every time you cry, he kisses you, soft and cruel.

“You don’t love me yet. But you will.”

You believed it was temporary. A kidnapping, a tantrum, a spoiled noble’s obsession. But months have passed, and you’ve stopped counting days. The sky outside is always gray.

You don’t know what week it is. But he does. He marks anniversaries. He bakes for them. He makes you eat from his fingers.

“You’ll never speak to another girl again,” he says into your skin. “You’ll never read without my permission. You’ll never write unless it’s my name.”

Your whole body is shaking.

He cups your face again.

“I’ll give you a child next,” he whispers. “You’ll look so pretty pregnant and collared. Just like a proper wife.”

You sob, and he moans again, hips grinding into yours.

“I’ll carve our vows into your ribs. I’ll stitch my name into your lungs. You breathe me, understand?”

You nod.

Because you have to.

Because if you don’t, he’ll make good on his promises.

He’ll make you watch.

He’ll make you love it.

And the worst part is—you already do.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Aamon.

He watched you again that evening, from the alcove of the grand hall where the torchlight made the marble gleam like bone. You didn’t know he was there, of course. You never did. Not when he drugged your tea—just enough to dull your perception, just enough to make you pliant. Not when he slipped his shadow into your room, inspecting your garments, your scent lingering on your silks. Not when he learned every inch of your mind before you ever realized you were prey.

You were nothing like the courtiers who paraded themselves in House Paxley’s decaying hallways. No painted smiles or false modesty. You had that strange, cold distance he craved. The way you questioned everything. The way you resisted softness, as if it offended you. You spoke to him once—only once—and that was enough. The curiosity in your voice was dissection, the same way a surgeon studies a body before the cut.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you. And that was the first transgression.

You weren’t meant to be in Castle Aberleen for long. Just a scholar from the southern provinces, sent to study Paxley glyphs. But he changed the records. Extended your stay. Made sure your escorts vanished into “unexpected military conscription.” Even your letters—never delivered. You began to wonder. And wonder. And wander.

Until the inevitable.

He invited you to dinner, under the pretense of formality. You accepted, because of course you did. He was the Duke. Your host. Your captor masked as a gentleman.

You wore black—practical, severe, intelligent. He liked that. He liked it enough to ruin it.

“You’re late,” he said as you stepped into the dining room, his voice velvet over razors. “Or have you decided you can test my patience today?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “The guards said—”

“The guards,” he interrupted, “do not dictate your schedule. I do.”

He gestured, and a chair slid out for you with an unnatural grace. Shards hovered around his fingers, glittering like broken mirrors. Light magic. Illusions. You had no idea how much of what you saw was real. But he saw the flicker of doubt in your eyes. The first fracture.

Dinner was a blur. Your thoughts slowed, tangled. You blinked too much. Felt heat under your skin. A strange flush.

“Tell me,” he said, watching you struggle to cut into the roast, “do you always flush like this when you’re aroused? Or is it just the drug working?”

You dropped the knife. He caught it midair.

“Don’t look so surprised. You’re clever, aren’t you? You must’ve suspected.”

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, hot and cloying. “That tea you drank before your bath—do you remember it? Of course you do. So sweet. So innocent. Like you.”

He laughed then, softly. Not unkindly. As if he pitied you.

“Do you know what it’s like to love something broken? Something that pretends it doesn’t bleed, just so it doesn’t have to be touched?”

You tried to stand. Your legs didn’t work.

He lifted you easily. Carried you down the hallways like a bride. And for a moment—just a moment—you imagined the warmth of being held might be real. But his grip was too tight. Too possessive.

His bedchambers were enormous. Black glass and old runes. His father’s war books still stacked by the hearth.

He threw you onto the bed with a reverence that made your stomach twist.

“Tell me who he was.”

You stared up at him, panting, vision swimming.

“The one who touched you before me. Who left you hollow. Who made you think you deserved anything better than a monster.”

His voice cracked like a whip. You flinched. That delighted him.

“No answer? Then I’ll find it myself.”

He tore open your blouse, shards spinning above you like a shattered chandelier. The fabric gave way like paper. Exposed. Raw. Cold air on flushed skin.

“Look at you. You pretend to be above it, but your body—” he cupped you with a harsh hand, fingers bruising, “—your body tells the truth. You’re soaking. You were the moment I spoke your name.”

You gasped. He grinned.

“Filthy little thing. My little defiler. You act so intelligent, but this is what you want, isn’t it? To be used by someone stronger. Smarter.”

His mouth was at your throat now, biting until the skin purpled.

“You can’t lie to me. I’ve studied you. You like being broken. You crave it. And I—” he slid a shard across your collarbone, not enough to break skin, just enough to sting, “—was made to break you.”

He pushed inside, slow at first, but mercilessly deep. The aphrodisiac still burned in your veins, making everything sharper. Every drag, every thrust, every humiliation amplified. Your body betrayed you, welcoming him with shameful wetness.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. That would be too kind.

“Say thank you,” he whispered.

You turned your head away.

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Say it. Or I’ll carve it into you.”

“…thank you.”

His laugh was jagged, breathless.

“Good girl.”

The rhythm grew brutal. Your mind fragmented. You tried to hold onto your sense of self, the logic, the distance—but he shredded it with every thrust, every insult, every praise twisted into mockery.

“You’re mine,” he said. Again. And again. A mantra. A curse.

He came with a groan that sounded like mourning. Then silence. You lay beneath him, trembling.

He pulled back slowly, dragging fingers down your thighs.

“You don’t get to leave,” he said finally, as if there had been any illusion you could. “I don’t share. I don’t forgive. And if you ever look at another man again…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

The shards spun faster now, like orbiting moons. Jealousy turned to hunger.

He leaned down. Finally kissed you.

It tasted like iron and poison.

And you knew then: you weren’t in love.

You were claimed.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ Xavier.

He had been watching you for weeks.

You noticed it first in the echoing corridors of the Monastery ruins. The cold, hollow sound of boots just half a breath too far behind you to be coincidence. The way the sacred wards—long since faded—crackled when you passed through them, not from your magic, but his.

Xavier. The Defier of Light. Arbiter turned traitor. Monster in man’s clothing.

You had heard rumors of his return to the Monastery grounds—whispers among the few remaining Acolytes. His name spoken in hushed, anxious breath. They said he’d gone mad with power. That he’d cut out heretics’ tongues and left them hanging in the moonlight as warnings. They said he talked to no one.

Except the cats.

Except you.

At first, he only watched. Always distant, always veiled in shadow, always just far enough away that you could pretend he wasn’t real. But you knew. Something ancient and cold pressed in the air whenever he lingered. Magic so precise, so heavy, it felt like it had weight on your skin. Like a hand.

You remember the first time he spoke to you.

“Do you lie to yourself, little heretic? Do you pretend you’re innocent?”

You had stood your ground. You were detached. You didn’t need his approval. And yet, the way his voice slid into your spine, controlled your breath, forced your pulse to stutter—there was something deeper than fear there.

Interest. Recognition. Hunger.

It wasn’t long before he cornered you. There were no theatrics. No dramatic confrontation. Just the slow chill of shadow filling your cell and his hand, wrapped around your throat, lifting you clean off your feet. Calm. Measured. Like he was performing a ritual.

“Do you think you can touch what’s mine?” he had whispered, sapphire eyes cold and glittering, voice steady. “You spoke to him. That Acolyte. Did he look at you? Did he touch you?”

You had tried to laugh. That had been a mistake.

The spell hit you before you could blink—something ancient and cruel. A binding. It coiled around your limbs like iron serpents, rendering you helpless, knees scraping stone as he dropped you to the floor like an animal.

He crouched behind you then. Silent. Breathing against your ear.

“Don’t worry. I’ll correct your delusions. I always do.”

✦✧✦✧

He kept you in his personal sanctum—what had once been the Bishop’s private chambers. Now corrupted with blood-stained scriptures, torn paintings of saints, and glowing sigils carved into the stone walls. The chains were not iron. They were made of Light—twisted, corrupted light—and they burned into your wrists when you struggled.

And you did struggle.

That pleased him.

You were bound to an altar, bare and spread and humiliated, every inch of your skin exposed to the frozen cathedral air. He never spoke when he entered. He never needed to. You could feel him, like a phantom fog before the storm. The air became heavier. The candles dimmed. And then he was there.

“Slut.”

He said it like a prayer. Like a declaration.

“You wanted his hands, didn’t you? That simpering worm with his doe eyes and trembling devotion. But you looked at me when you came. Didn’t you, pet?”

You didn’t answer. Your mouth was gagged with the same cloth he used to polish his staff—the scent of incense and blood smothering your tongue. You glared at him, though. That pleased him too.

His magic bloomed around you in choking waves—hot and cold, pleasure and punishment. Mystic magic wasn’t made for the flesh. It tore at the mind. It amplified. Enhanced. Distorted. He used it like a scalpel, dragging power along your spine and lower, lower still, until your nerves were afire and your pride broke apart into trembling.

“Look at you. Reduced to a moaning little hole for me to use.”

He pulled you down onto his lap—his robes still on, always immaculate. He didn’t remove his gloves, either. He liked the way you flinched under leather. His hands weren’t gentle. They corrected.

“You want to be defiled, don’t you? You want me to ruin you so completely that not even the Light would recognize your soul.”

He thrusted hard. Deep. Every movement intentional, every scrape of his teeth down your throat laced with venomous scripture. You could feel the incantations laced in every degrading name he spat at you—whore, heretic, dog.

“You thought he would protect you? That little Acolyte? You thought he loved you?”

His laugh was colder than the sanctum walls.

“No one will ever love you like I do.”

And that was the worst part.

Because you believed him.

His grip tightened in your hair as he yanked your head back, forcing you to look at the corrupted Light crest above. It burned your vision, but you couldn’t look away. He hissed something in ancient Elvish, and your body spasmed—magic coiling around your nerves, forcing you to feel everything. Every inch. Every thrust. Every humiliating sound you made.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusting harder.

You moaned behind the gag.

“Say it, you filthy little relic. Say you belong to me.”

You couldn’t. Not yet. But your silence only fueled him.

He pulled out suddenly, and you sobbed from the loss. He smirked.

“Maybe you need another lesson.”

Chains rattled. Runes glowed. And the spell began again.

✦✧✦✧

He never let you forget.

Every time you blinked, every time you tried to sleep, his voice echoed in your skull—layered with magic, burrowing into your very sense of self.

“No one touches you but me.”

“You want this.”

“You’ll thank me when I’m done.”

And eventually, you did.

You whispered his name between broken sobs, begged with your body instead of words. He rewarded you with cruel affection—a hand over your mouth as you came undone again, twitching under the overwhelming force of his mystic command.

In the end, it wasn’t the chains that broke you.

It was the truth. That no one would ever love you enough to destroy you so completely. That no one else would desecrate your soul with such… devotion.

And when he leaned down to kiss your ruined lips, magic thick and corrupt in the air, he whispered:

“You’re finally mine.”

And this time…

You didn’t fight him.

───────── ♛ ─────────

♡ A/N. Yes, I’ve been playing ML. Chillin’. Getting back to gaming, yey. While practicing writing on the side. nom nom nom

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on this post. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @mokingbrd78k , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay , @tnsophiaayaonly , @ilyannailyanna , @starxvs , @iris-arcadia , @misscaller06 , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @takeyomikamakura

❤︎ 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 [you are here]. 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. 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.