𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 836

He stuffs the first bill into the strap of your bra.

His fingers don’t just touch; they invade. Cold fingertips against the hot skin of your chest, knuckles dragging as if they’re wiping filth off you. He chuckles, all teeth and indifference, his gaze shielded behind those stupid sunglasses despite the dark.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice syrupy with mockery. “Cute.”

Another bill, then another—he folds them carelessly, tucks one behind your ear like you’re some bar girl at a seedy strip dive. The paper crinkles against your sweat-slicked skin.

You try to look away.

He grabs your jaw. Hard. Fingers digging into the hinge until your eyes water. “Nah, nah. Don’t look away now, sweetheart. That’d be rude. You should be thanking me.”

His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It burrows in.

You know what you are. What he’s decided you are.

He treats you like a toy bought off a street corner. A thing to be handled and tossed, a novelty to pass the time. And yet—yet he stays. He always stays.

Always watching. Always waiting. Always grinning with those teeth like he’s tasted your blood before.

You hate him.

He knows.

And he loves it.

His hand slides down your sternum. He tugs open your blouse—buttons skipping across the floor—and he whistles low. “You’re not even wearing a bra today. Sluts get bolder when they think no one’s watching.”

He’s always watching.

Money rustles again. His fingers stuff a bill into the waistband of your panties. It crinkles where it touches your thigh, warm from his hand, wet from your sweat.

“Bet you feel rich now, huh? Getting paid for once. Should I toss some coins too? Make it rain?”

He laughs. It’s not joy. It’s not even amusement. It’s domination, distilled and poured straight down your throat.

You don’t say anything. You never do.

The silence only feeds him.

“Good girl.” His tone changes. Praise like poison. A reward for stillness. He cups your breast, not in affection, but ownership. Thumb flicking at your nipple with lazy cruelty. “Don’t pretend you’re not soaked.”

He’s right.

And you hate that he’s right.

He pushes you down onto the mattress. His knee parts your legs like a priest opening a holy book. Everything about him is sacrilegious, obscene—he drips blasphemy from every pore.

“You were born for this,” he says, undoing his belt. “Not thinking. Not choosing. Just lying there and taking it.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

You hear the belt uncoil. Hear it slap the floor like a verdict.

He’s always so theatrical. It makes the degradation worse, somehow.

You know what’s coming.

His hands roam, tugging, pulling, manhandling you like you’re nothing. He whispers the filthiest things as he stuffs money where it doesn’t belong—beneath your back, between your thighs, under your tongue.

He wants you to choke on it.

“Dirty little charity case. You think I do this because I care?”

You blink.

He spits in your face.

“Nah,” he says. “I do it because no one else will ever want you like this. No one else sees what I see. And I want you destroyed.”

It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to.

He peels your panties off slowly, like unwrapping a ruined gift. He shoves more bills underneath your ass before he settles between your legs. You hear the zipper. The rustle of clothes. The breath he exhales as he looks down at you, already bruised and ruined beneath him.

You want to scream.

You don’t.

He fucks you like a punishment. The rhythm is brutal—constant and unrelenting, his grip harsh, his teeth gritted.

Every thrust is a statement.

You are mine.

You are nothing.

You will never escape.

And he moans your name like it’s something sacred—mocking, guttural, dragged from his chest like a curse.

You cry. Of course you cry. It doesn’t stop him.

It encourages him.

He slaps your cheek, not hard enough to knock you out, just hard enough to sting. “C’mon, don’t tap out on me now. This is the most alive you’ve ever been.”

You shake as he fucks you deeper, rougher, the sound of your body against his obscene, wet, ugly.

He wraps a fist in your hair, pulls your head back, makes you look into his eyes as he finishes.

He wants to see your humiliation.

He wants to see you break.

And you do.

You break so quietly, he almost misses it.

Almost.

He licks the sweat off your cheek, then leans in, whispering like a secret, “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He pulls out. Stuffing more money between your legs before fixing his pants. “You’re so much better when you don’t speak.”

He turns to go. Then pauses.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He grins over his shoulder. Cold, triumphant.

“Don’t spend it all in one place, sweetheart.”

Then he’s gone.

You lie there.

Sticky. Shaking. Covered in cash.

A whore in a tomb.

And all you can do is wait.

Because he always comes back.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

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.