𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,050

You cry prettily when you’re scared. He always liked that.

No, more than liked. He obsesses.

Behind the lens, his grin stretches too wide, his unblinking eyes made of something too pale, too bright. The shutter of the camera clicks softly every few seconds, syncing with the twitch of your ruined thighs. He’s meticulous with the focus. He wants to make sure every droplet of slick shame gleams, every tremble, every pathetic clench, every twitching denial recorded in clarity.

“Don’t hide now,” he murmurs, one hand holding the camera, the other keeping your knees spread. You’re gagged with your own panties. Filthy, soaked, balled up and stuffed in your mouth like you’re just a thing.

A subject.

He’s treating you like art. Pornographic art.

The tripod is set up too, just in case his hands get busy again. He brought lighting. He brought gear. He brought ropes.

You didn’t scream, but he wouldn’t have minded if you had. The walls here are thick, padded, like you’re in a soundproof cage. A lab. A sanctum.

Like you’re part of an experiment.

He crouches between your legs, spreads you wider with his thumbs, not to fuck you—not yet—but to see. To study.

To ruin.

“You’re so damn tight, it’s laughable,” he drawls, voice low and venomous, laced with amusement that doesn’t reach his eyes.

His fingers are inside you, two to start. He didn’t even ask. Didn’t prepare.

Just pushed.

And now you’re writhing against leather restraints and cold, uncaring floor. Bound ankles. Bound wrists. Ankles bent back, forced into a folded position that burns, your muscles protesting but your brain has long since retreated into the panic-laced fog where thought turns to screaming.

“Look at that,” he hums, curling his fingers. “She clenches so nicely. God, I love when holes fight me.”

He sounds like he means it. Like he’s not talking about you, but something he owns. An object. A thing.

The camera zooms. He uses the manual dial. You’re too wet. Too swollen. He spreads your lips with one hand, obscene, methodical, filming the mess of you dripping down his knuckles.

“Fucking humiliating, isn’t it?” he says, smiling like he knows every thought you’ve ever had. “I’ll keep this footage. For when you try to act smart again. Or cold. Or quiet.”

He leans in.

The shutter clicks.

You want to disappear. You want your brain to shatter. You want to bite through your tongue and bleed. He knows. He sees it.

“You’re not a person right now,” he says, softly, as if it’s a comfort. “You’re a fuckdoll with a pretty brain I want to rewire.”

He thrusts his fingers deeper.

Your eyes roll. Your legs twitch. You jerk back involuntarily but there’s nowhere to go. Just the straps, just the filming, just the slow penetration of your mind being dragged down into the most debased version of itself.

Your thighs are trembling. Tears stream down your face, soaking your gag.

He cups your cheek tenderly with his slick hand. The same hand he was just using to defile you.

“Don’t cry yet,” he coos. “I haven’t even started degrading you.”

His fingers twist. Your back arches. There’s too much pressure, too deep, and when his thumb brushes your clit, you flinch so violently he has to grab your hip.

“Oh? Sensitive now? Didn’t think you were the type.”

He laughs like he’s mocking you. Like he’s won.

“That little cunt’s swallowing me like it’s in love. Isn’t that tragic?”

The camera angle changes again. He swaps hands.

Now he films your face.

“Smile for me. Let the world see how pretty you are when you’re destroyed.”

You close your eyes.

He slaps you.

Not hard. Just enough.

“Nope. Keep them open. Keep looking. Watch me watch you. Watch yourself fall apart.”

The room is too cold. Your skin is too hot.

You’re choking on your own scent and saliva, gag soaked, nostrils flaring, brain fraying. The lights above hum. Fluorescent. Blinding. Like surgery lights.

His camera is god here. It sees everything.

And he does too.

Because he doesn’t blink.

“You think too much,” he mutters, voice turned cruel again. “That brain of yours? Not so useful when you’re cockdumb, huh?”

He slaps your pussy.

You scream through the gag.

“Now that’s a good noise,” he chuckles. “Keep making that.”

He records it. He replays it.

You hear the distorted echo of yourself wailing back at you.

He loops the audio.

“How does it feel to be the instrument of your own humiliation?”

The fingers never stop. Two becomes three. He pushes deep, stretches you open, not fast, not brutal, just relentless.

Controlled.

He thumbs your clit again, slow little circles like he’s trying to test exactly how long it takes to override your terror with arousal.

You start panting. Eyes wide. The horror doesn’t fade. It just mixes with the heat, the unspeakable pull in your gut.

He sees it.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Ruin yourself for me. Be good.”

He leans in and licks your cheek, spit trailing down your jaw. The camera zooms again.

He never breaks eye contact.

You’re drowning. Your brain is stuttering. Every logical defense collapses under the steady, violating rhythm of his hand.

You try to shake your head. You try to look away. You try to curl in.

You can’t.

You’re open. Shaking. Filmed.

And wet.

So, so wet.

“This is the best part,” he says, clicking his tongue. “The part where you break.”

His fingers crook. His palm grinds your clit. It’s too much.

You convulse. Your moan is garbled through the gag, but it’s a moan. It’s wanton.

“Atta girl,” he grins, camera still rolling. “That’s the money shot.”

You sob.

He doesn’t stop.

“Now we keep going until your cunt begs me to fuck it properly. Until you cry for cock.”

You shake your head violently. He laughs again.

“Oh no no, baby. We’re filming a transformation. From quiet little freak to drooling hole.”

He purrs against your ear.

“Say goodbye to your dignity.”

Another slap. Another push. Another flood of shame.

Your eyes roll back. Your hips grind.

You don’t even know where you are anymore.

He does.

He never loses track of you.

Because he owns you.

And he’ll make sure you remember it.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @poopooindamouf , @imnotabot28 , @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.