𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,138

He takes you out like he always promised he would.

Not out in the sweet way. Not the way you might’ve once imagined when he said, all those months ago, that he wanted to take you somewhere nice. No, this is how Gojo Satoru defines a date: locking the front door of a five-star hotel suite, pressing the keycard deep into his pocket so you can’t even try to run, and dragging you to the bed with a grin that never quite touches his eyes.

He’s been smiling since dinner. Since he fed you too many sweet things—mille-feuille, fruit glazes, syrup-laced wine. He never touched a bite himself, just watched you eat like it was some private show, those pale eyes trained on your mouth with a hunger that made your skin crawl. That was the appetizer.

This is the meal.

You’re barely clothed now, limbs lax from the drugged sweetness that still swirls in your blood, but he’s only just getting started.

“Cute,” he murmurs, trailing a finger under the strap of your bra. “You’re still pretending you don’t like it. Even now.”

His voice is light, teasing. Like he’s scolding a kitten for hissing. Like you’re stupid for resisting something so inevitable.

You try to push away, weakly, but he pins your wrists above your head, straddling your waist with ease. He holds your entire body down with his weight, his strength.

You’re not going anywhere.

“Be good.”

He slaps you. Not hard enough to hurt—yet—but enough to sting, to shock. To make your eyes snap wide as he leans in and licks a stripe up your cheek, tasting your skin like he’s savoring some rare dessert.

Then he brings out the box.

You don’t know when he pulled it from his coat, but it’s in his hand now—ornate and black and lacquered. Inside are sweets. Handmade. Beautiful. You can see the careful decoration, the glint of crystallized sugar, the glossy glazes. A luxury candy box worth more than your rent.

“You know what I love about sweets?” he asks, popping a raspberry truffle between his teeth. He speaks with his mouth full, and it’s obscene, the red filling staining his tongue. “They melt when you’re warm.”

You flinch as he sets one on your bare collarbone. It’s cold and sticky. You feel it smear as he presses it down, letting it slowly lose its shape to your heat.

Then he eats it off you.

He bites it in half and licks the chocolate from your skin. The heat of his tongue is unbearable, too deliberate, too greedy. He sucks the sugar off your collarbone, then your chest, then lower, then back up again—crisscrossing your skin like a man obsessed.

Like a man breaking a fast.

“Still taste like dinner,” he murmurs. “Still taste like mine.”

You try to twist away, but he slaps your thigh. Harder this time. You gasp.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is sharp now. The veneer of playfulness snaps, replaced by something much darker. Colder.

“You know how expensive this room was? I had to lie to get it. Said I was bringing my girlfriend here for our anniversary. Isn’t that cute?” He laughs, short and mean. “Imagine me, lying.”

You don’t speak. You’ve learned not to. Silence is safer, though never safe enough.

He grabs another sweet, this time a delicate bonbon, and places it right between your breasts.

“Don’t drop it.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and wet and relentless.

He sucks at your chest like a starving man, tongue swiping the melting sugar, teeth grazing your nipple. You shudder under him, involuntarily, and he notices. Of course he does.

“Slut,” he breathes against your skin. “Getting off on this? Letting me do this to you? You’re worse than I thought.”

He keeps going.

Tongue swirling, lips dragging over sensitive skin until it burns with raw heat. He latches onto your nipple and sucks hard—mean and slow—like he wants to bruise you. You feel the pressure deep in your gut, spiraling down. Your legs twitch.

He bites.

You cry out, and he covers your mouth with his hand.

“Shhh.”

You can taste the sugar on his palm. Can smell the dark chocolate and something beneath it—his skin, his scent, invasive and omnipresent.

“You moan so loud, someone might think I’m hurting you.”

He snorts, then grabs another candy, dragging it down your stomach with the intent of marking you. It leaves a sticky trail. He follows it with his mouth, licking you clean, devouring you slowly.

Your body feels feverish. You hate how sensitive you are, how easily he manipulates your nerves. How he toys with you like a puppet.

“You make the prettiest noises,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s like breaking open a music box. Cracked and hollow and still singing.”

He goes back to your chest. He doesn’t let you rest. This time he brings syrup.

He pours it directly onto your breasts—thick, slow, cold. You flinch again, and he grabs your face with syrup-slick fingers.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispers. “I love that about you.”

Then his mouth is on you again. Louder, messier. He moans into your skin as he licks you clean, suckles and bites and sucks again, harder each time. The obscene wet noises echo through the room. Every breath you take tastes like sugar and his cologne.

He marks you. His teeth leave imprints. He makes you look like a meal.

You are a meal.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, rubbing the syrup into your nipples with the pads of his thumbs. “Too much?”

You shake your head. You don’t know what he’ll do if you say yes.

He smiles.

“Good girl.”

You hate that he says that. You hate how it makes your stomach clench. How your body betrays you, again and again.

He reaches down and forces your thighs apart, syrup still glistening on his lips.

“We’re just getting started.”

The look in his eyes is too bright. Too hungry.

And somewhere in your mind, something snaps.

Not loud. Not a scream. Just a soft, final click. Like the lock on a box closing.

You’re not sure if it’s his or yours.

But it’s closed. And you’re inside.

He drizzles chocolate sauce between your thighs. Watches it slide down, watches your twitching muscles, watches everything.

He doesn’t just consume you. He studies you. Like you’re a science experiment. Like he’s figuring out which parts of you break first and which parts he wants to ruin second.

“You’ll never get away,” he says softly. Almost gently. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Even if you run, even if you cry, even if you try to kill me. You won’t get away.”

He kisses your nipple, one last slow suck, and smiles.

“Because you’ll always taste like mine.”

Then he starts again.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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.