♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,086
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
You notice it first in the shift of his eyes. Not in their direction, nor their shape, but in the stillness. He hasn’t looked at you in twenty minutes. Not even once.
That should scare you more than it already does.
Alhaitham isn’t the kind of man who throws tantrums. He doesn’t sulk. Doesn’t seethe. He rewrites reality around himself with the same calm as rearranging his books. When he’s jealous, you don’t know. You simply find yourself no longer speaking to the person he didn’t like. They don’t speak to you either. Sometimes, they don’t speak at all.
He’s reading again. Always reading.
But it’s a lie.
You’re not sure when he put the book down.
The next thing you’re aware of is his breath beside your ear, slow and even, and the chair creaking beneath your weight as he presses against the back of it. You didn’t hear him move. You never do.
“Are you proud of yourself?” His voice is lower than usual, with no anger, no shift. Only cold dissection. As if he’s already opened you up and seen everything inside you. “Parading yourself in front of that imbecile.”
You blink. You hadn’t. At least, not intentionally. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters once he’s decided.
Before you can speak, his fingers wrap around your chin, tilting your head back. The grip isn’t bruising—yet—but it’s hard enough to silence. He gazes down at you with nothing in his expression. Absolutely nothing. That’s what’s worst.
He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t lean down. Just watches. His thumb presses against your lower lip, dragging it down.
“You’re not even aware of how cheap you look,” he murmurs. “It’s embarrassing.”
You flinch as he steps away, but he catches your wrist, dragging you after him with effortless control. Into the hallway. Into the bedroom. His study, actually. A place you’re rarely allowed.
The door shuts behind you with a mechanical click. Locked.
He lets you go only to strip his gloves, methodical, tossing them to the desk. That same desk where he’s redacted reports and ruined reputations.
He turns to you slowly. His gaze drags over your frame like a knife.
“Strip.”
Your stomach twists. “Alhai—”
He’s in front of you in an instant, hand wrapped around your throat—not choking, not yet, but firm. Unshakeable.
“I didn’t ask for commentary.”
You shiver as he leans in. His breath is warm, his expression the same terrifying neutrality he always wears. There’s no lust. No tension. Only decision.
“You have a habit of inviting attention. So I’ll remind you,” he whispers. “Who you belong to.”
He lets go. And waits.
You don’t know why your hands obey, or why your breath hitches as you undress. Why your fingers tremble. He’s watched you like this before, but not like this.
The moment you’re bare, he crosses to you.
His hands aren’t gentle.
He forces you onto your knees first, not to worship, but to be examined. Like property. He grabs your jaw, tilts it. Slaps your cheek lightly—not playful, but condescending. His eyes are sharp. His silence sharper.
“Do you even realize how disgusting you are?”
You flush. Not from shame. From heat. The contradiction burns.
“I feed you. House you. Keep you alive. And you still act like some stray bitch in heat the moment someone smiles at you.”
His fingers hook under your chin, dragging your face up to his.
“Don’t smile at them,” he hisses. “Don’t even look. You’ll regret it.”
He straightens and unbuckles his belt.
The act is slow. Calculated.
There’s nothing seductive in it—he isn’t trying to arouse you. He’s reminding you. Punishing you. The slide of leather, the quiet click of the buckle hitting the floor, is deafening.
“You don’t speak. You don’t think. You don’t get to do anything unless I allow it.”
You nod. It’s automatic.
He slaps you for it. Not hard. Just enough.
“Use your voice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The next moment is pain. He grabs your hair and drags you up, throwing you over the desk. Cold wood against your stomach. The air prickles your skin. He kicks your legs apart, no softness in his movements. You hear the sound of his zipper.
The first thrust is brutal.
You cry out, clinging to the desk. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Doesn’t wait. He forces himself into you with no hesitation, no care, just possession. Every snap of his hips is sharp, punishing. His fingers bruise your hips, holding you in place.
“This is what you wanted, right?”
You can’t answer. He slaps your ass, once, twice.
“Answer me.”
“Yes—yes, sir—”
“Of course you did. You always do. You pretend you hate this. But your cunt doesn’t lie.”
Your breath stutters. It hurts. It burns. It bleeds shame through every nerve.
And yet—
You arch into it.
He snarls. Actually snarls. And grabs your arms, yanking them behind your back. One hand pins them there, the other reaching around to press against your throat.
“You’re filthy,” he growls. “Do you get wet for anyone who raises their voice at you? Is that what it takes?”
You whimper.
“You’re mine. Mine. No one else will ever look at you again.”
The words aren’t a threat. They’re a sentence.
You feel your legs buckle. He holds you up effortlessly, pounding into you with relentless force. His breath is ragged. Not with desire. With restraint.
He wants to break you.
And he is.
He pulls out suddenly, shoving you to your knees again.
“Look at me.”
You try. You really do. But your eyes blur.
He grabs your chin again. Forces your gaze to meet his.
“Open your mouth.”
You obey.
He doesn’t put himself in your mouth. No. He just watches you kneel there, ruined, drooling, trembling.
Then, slowly, he runs his thumb over your bottom lip again.
“Pathetic.”
You don’t know if he’s talking about you or himself.
He kneels in front of you. And for the first time, his voice is quiet.
“If you do that again,” he murmurs, “I’ll erase every last person you’ve ever spoken to. One by one. I won’t even touch them myself. I’ll let them destroy each other just to reach you.”
Your throat tightens.
He leans closer.
“And you’ll still come crawling back.”
He kisses you.
It’s not romantic.
It’s not even rough.
It’s possessive. Clinical. Inevitable.
Because in this room, this life, this reality—
You are his.
And there is no other ending.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
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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.
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