𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,266

Your mouth is already full.

He knows that. He made it that way.

Your cheeks are puffed like a chipmunk with cream and sugar, lips swollen from earlier kisses, now smeared with frosting, syrup, saliva. And he’s grinning like he just won something. Like he’s proud of how pathetic you look, slumped there on the kitchen floor, barely dressed, trembling, all wet between your thighs just because he’s been feeding you sweets and tongue-kissing you like it means something.

It doesn’t.

To him, it’s a game.

You’re the toy.

“Swallow it.”

He taps your cheek with three fingers, like he’s talking to a dog. When you hesitate—because your throat is already burning, because your chest is heaving and your stomach is tight with cream and sugar and shame—he squats beside you, forcing your face up.

“You wanted this, didn’t you? You came to me.” His voice is quiet, cruel. Sugar-sweet. That same awful grin splitting his mouth. “You begged. You’re the one who can’t stop drooling every time I so much as hold a spoon.”

You try to breathe through your nose. Try not to choke. Try not to cry. But he’s already kissing you again, tongue shoving more sugar into your mouth. Frosting from his own lips, syrup from his own tongue. He spits something thick and honeyed past your teeth.

“Swallow it. Now.”

You do. Because you have to. Because your hands are tied behind your back and he’s kneeling on your legs and there is no choice but his.

“Good girl,” he purrs.

That tone makes you hate yourself.

His smile gets worse.

You’re wearing one of his shirts, oversized and slipping off your shoulders, collar smeared in chocolate from where he rubbed the cupcake against your neck earlier. Your panties are long gone. He took them before you even reached the kitchen. Said something about them being a distraction. Said he wanted to see how long you’d last with icing in your mouth and nothing to cover your cunt.

Not long.

You’re wet. He can smell it. He says so.

“You think I can’t tell how much you like this? I bet you’re dripping. I bet if I put my fingers in your mouth and then shoved them between your legs, you’d cum from the taste alone.”

You flinch.

Wrong move.

He reaches behind him and picks something up off the floor. A cherry, soaked in syrup. He holds it above your mouth, then drops it. You choke, gag slightly, and he just laughs, tapping your throat again like he’s proud.

“Messy little thing. I should make you clean the floor with your tongue when we’re done.”

His hand slides behind your neck. Yanks you forward. His mouth is on yours again, tongue fucking into you like he wants to taste your tonsils. He spits something else in—more frosting, more heat, more power. Every kiss is a violation. Every swallow another chain. Every “good girl” makes your stomach twist.

He knows.

He loves it.

You try to pull away, but he grips your jaw, fingers biting into your skin.

“Open. Wider.”

You obey. Your body does, even if your mind doesn’t. He stuffs a marshmallow in this time. Lets it sit on your tongue. Kisses you again, melts it between both your mouths, hot and sticky and obscene. Slurping the sugar off your teeth like it’s his own, licking past your lips until you can taste him under the sweet. Until you’re dizzy from the heat of it all.

Your cunt throbs with every sound he makes.

He’s not gentle. He licks your tears. Bites your lip when you don’t open fast enough. Calls you “whore” like it’s your name.

“You like when I spit in your mouth? Hm? You like when I feed you like a little dog, make you lick it all up while you squirm and moan like you’re about to cum just from this?”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t let you.

His hand moves between your legs. Two fingers slide in without warning. You’re soaked. Shame floods your chest, but he just whistles, low and mocking.

“Greedy little cunt. You’re disgusting, you know that? Filthy. All this for a few sweets and some spit.”

You shudder.

He rubs your clit with the palm of his hand while his fingers pump inside you. Slow. Rhythmic. Every thrust squelches. Wet and loud. Your hips jerk, but he holds you still with his knee.

“I could make you cum like this. Just like this. Fuck you with my fingers, fill your mouth with cream and spit, and you’d thank me after. Wouldn’t you? Say ‘thank you, sir’ like the perfect little sugarwhore.”

He adds a third finger.

You scream against his mouth.

He kisses it away.

He fucks you harder with his hand, grinding your clit like he wants to bruise it, devour it, destroy it. His other hand grabs another treat—a piece of cake this time—and crumbles it into your mouth mid-moan. The crumbs mix with your saliva. You choke again, sobbing.

He groans.

“That’s it. Cry for me. Show me how sweet you taste when you’re broken.”

The sound of your own slick squelching under his hand is unbearable. But worse is how your body arches into it. How your cunt clamps down around his fingers like it’s starving. Like it’s begging.

He knows what you are. What he’s turned you into.

And you’re going to cum like this.

He shoves you down onto your back. Your hands are still tied. Your shirt rides up, baring everything. He straddles your chest, smearing icing from his fingers down your face, painting your skin with dessert and spit and cum-thick teasing.

He jerks his cock once. Twice.

Spits on it.

And slides it into your mouth.

Your lips stretch. Your throat fights it.

But he doesn’t care. He rocks his hips, slow at first, feeding you inch by inch, using you like a toy while you lie bound beneath him.

“That’s it. Take it. You can cry later. Swallow first.”

He shoves deeper.

You gag. Choke.

He moans.

“This is what you were made for, sweetheart. Mouth full, cunt dripping, brain blank. Just how I like you.”

When he pulls out, you’re coughing. Drooling. A mess. He leans down and kisses you again, tongue shoving past your lips, sharing spit and sugar and cruelty like communion.

Then his cock is at your entrance.

“I should make you beg for it. But we both know you will anyway.”

He pushes in.

You scream.

He doesn’t stop.

Your cunt stretches painfully around him, but he keeps going, filling you to the hilt with one brutal thrust. His hips slap against yours, hard and fast and unrelenting. Every thrust knocks the breath out of you. Every inch he drives in makes your back arch.

“Tight fucking hole,” he growls. “You want to cum, don’t you? Say it.”

You sob. Shake your head.

“Liar.”

He slaps your face. Not hard. Just enough to humiliate. Just enough to watch your lip tremble.

Then he fucks you harder.

“Cum for me. Now. Show me how pathetic you are.”

You can’t stop it. Your body betrays you. The orgasm hits like a train, ripping through you in waves, leaving you gasping, broken, dripping.

He pulls out.

Strokes himself once more.

And finishes on your stomach.

The mess glistens there, sticky and warm, mingling with cake crumbs and spit and tears. He leans down, smears it across your skin with two fingers, and lifts them to your lips.

“Clean it up.”

You open your mouth.

You swallow.

He smiles.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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❤︎ 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.