𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,154

The first thing he buys you is silence. Not the silence of peace, not the soft hush of safety—but the choking, glittering kind, wrapped in silk and guilt. You sit there in the back of the car, legs crossed at the ankles, wrists tight around your purse strap like it might stop your stomach from twisting any harder. The city blurs beyond tinted glass. He hasn’t said a word since you got in.

His phone glows against his thigh, buzzing once. You catch a glimpse of a name you don’t recognize, followed by a string of hearts. He doesn’t respond. Just tosses it into the console like it’s meaningless.

You don’t speak, either. Because you’re not here to talk. You’re here to behave.

The restaurant is rooftop-exclusive, guarded by glass and stars. Everything smells like vanilla and money. You feel out of place in the dress he bought you. It’s too expensive. Too tight. He likes you looking just a little uncomfortable—just enough to remember who owns you.

“You look decent,” he drawls, eyes flicking up and down. “Could’ve worn a bra, though. But then, I guess the chef’s getting a tip either way.”

He laughs at his own joke. You don’t.

Your smile is tight. Small. Mechanical.

Dinner’s a performance. He orders for you. You keep your eyes down. He talks with the kind of volume that turns heads, jokes that bruise without touching you, and a touch that always lingers a second too long. He calls you baby when he’s mocking you, sweetheart when he’s annoyed, and good girl when he’s about to do something very, very bad.

The ride home is silent again. Except for his fingers tracing lines on your bare thigh. Cold, ring-heavy, and uninvited.

You swallow your voice. You always do.

He locks the door behind you before you can pretend to go to the bathroom. Your breath stutters when you hear the click.

“You know what I hate most about you?” he asks, already walking ahead, stripping off his jacket. “You’re such a fucking liar.”

Your blood runs cold.

He doesn’t look back at you. Just walks into the bedroom like he owns every breath in your lungs.

“You smile, you nod, you play sweet little puppet—but I see the way you flinch. Like I haven’t paid for every fucking inch of you.”

His voice is silk. Spun through razors.

You know better than to run. You just follow. Hands trembling. Mouth dry.

He’s sitting on the bed now, legs wide, shirt unbuttoned, lazy grin on his face like this is funny to him. Maybe it is. Maybe you are.

“Take it off,” he says. “The dress. Slowly. I want to see if you learned anything tonight.”

Your fingers fumble at the zipper. You hate how they shake. Hate how hot your face feels. Hate how he watches with the same gaze he gives crime scenes.

He hums when you reveal your chest—no bra, just like he told you. No panties either. His rules. His doll. His little performance piece.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with something darker than lust. “You really do want to be good for me, huh?”

You hate the way your body reacts to praise from a mouth that only opens to cut you down.

He grabs your arm hard enough to bruise. Pulls you onto his lap, facing him, knees on either side of his thighs. His hand knots in your hair and yanks your head back just enough to force your eyes up.

“Say it,” he breathes. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You try. You really do. But your throat closes up. No sound comes out.

His slap rings louder than your gasp.

You blink. Tears burn.

“Say it.“

You swallow. “Y-You.”

His hand slides between your legs.

“That’s right. My little project. My good girl. So good, you’ll sit here and let me ruin you without a word. Without a fight. You’ll cry and beg and still ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

He’s hard against your stomach. His hands are all over now—neck, waist, breasts, thighs. Every touch possessive, like he’s trying to press fingerprints into your soul.

He shoves you backward until your spine hits the mattress. Climbs over you. Smirks when you don’t move.

“Didn’t say you could close your legs.”

You force them open. Shame coiling inside your chest like wire.

He kisses you hard. Bruising. No softness. Just teeth and heat and the reminder that you’re not allowed to think for yourself anymore.

You hate how your body responds. How your breath hitches, your hips tilt up without asking, how you ache for him in places you wish he never touched.

He groans against your throat. “Fucking needy, aren’t you?”

You shake your head. He slaps you again—lighter, mockingly soft.

“Don’t lie to me.”

He doesn’t prep you. He never does.

His hand pins your wrists above your head. The other holds your jaw tight as he sinks into you, slow and cruel. He watches every twitch of pain cross your face.

He doesn’t stop.

You sob once, and it only makes him grin wider.

“That’s it. Cry for me. God, you’re pretty when you’re humiliated.”

You turn your face away. He grabs your chin and forces it back.

“Look at me. Look at me while I fuck every last thought out of your head.”

You do. You always do.

He thrusts harder, deeper, until your vision blurs. Your body gives up before your mind does—tightens, shakes, clamps down around him in desperate betrayal.

“Good little thing,” he whispers against your temple. “Takes me so well. I should keep you like this forever. Fuck you stupid until you forget how to disobey.”

You’re not sure where you end and he begins anymore.

His hand slides down, cruel and skilled. Your back arches without permission.

“Say you love me.”

You shake your head. He thrusts harder.

“Say it.”

“I—I—”

You scream. From pain or pleasure, you can’t tell. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you’ve already gone past the point of knowing anything.

He growls into your skin. “Fucking say it.”

“I love you,” you sob.

“Louder.”

“I love you. I love you—please—”

He groans, spilling into you with a noise that sounds more like victory than release.

The world slows.

He collapses over you, still inside, lips brushing your ear.

“Good girl.”

And just like that, your reward arrives.

His touch softens. Fingers stroke your thigh. His voice turns honey-sweet.

“You did so well for me. Want a new necklace? Maybe something with your name on it. Or mine.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

You lie there, wrecked and raw, the silk sheets soaking beneath you.

His hand slides up to cup your cheek.

“Don’t cry. You know I only do this because I love you.”

You finally turn your head.

He’s smiling.

And that’s the scariest thing of all.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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