Ange sang

The Red Ledger is your empire, but it is only one piece of the machine. Sex is the easiest currency; bodies are the most desperate wager. You own the brothels, the strip clubs, the underground fight pits where men break their bones for sport. You own the casinos, the high-rolling dens where fortunes are lost and lives are signed away. You own the ports, the routes, the supply chains that keep this city drowning in its own vices. Every transaction passes through your hands. Every debt owed, every sin indulged. And when the ledger runs dry, when the scales tip too far against them, they come crawling.

Even Alphas.

There is nothing more pathetic than an Alpha brought to their knees. No scent strong enough, no status high enough to defy the weight of power you hold. They look at you and see their ruin. You look at them and see profit.

Tonight, the ledger is wet with ink and blood. Five new bodies for sale, five new lives to crush beneath your heel. The auction looms, and the wolves have gathered, hungry and salivating. You watch them from the private box above the stage, your silhouette carved in the dark, a queen upon her throne of indulgence. Below, the bidding begins.

And as always, you are the one pulling the strings.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

The Red Ledger breathes. Not with air, but with power, wealth, and flesh. And tonight, your best investment is on display.

Gojo Satoru steps onto the stage, and the room tilts in his favor.

It’s not just his face—though that alone is enough to make men and women bankrupt themselves for the chance to taste his skin. It’s not just the arrogance, the unbearable, insufferable confidence that drips from every movement. It’s the knowledge that he owns this space, that the camera lenses are his playthings, that every breath drawn in this room will be spent speaking his name.

He is your number one. Your most valuable asset. The golden boy of Sinthral’s elite underworld, the untouchable king of the industry you built.

And he knows it.

Gojo Satoru is a pornstar, but calling him that is an insult to the empire he has created beneath your rule. He isn’t just an actor. He’s a god. He’s the industry. His films don’t just sell—they redefine pleasure, twist the limits of human depravity, push boundaries no one dares to cross. He isn’t just famous; he’s untouchable. He could walk through the streets of this city blindfolded, naked, and still leave a trail of bodies writhing in his wake.

Every single person in this room has paid a price to see him tonight.

You lean back in your chair, fingers drumming against the armrest, watching him with the cold satisfaction of an artist surveying their masterpiece. Gojo tilts his head, the silver-white strands of his hair falling into his eyes before he shoves them back with a grin. The way he moves is effortless, fluid—he doesn’t just walk onto the stage, he prowls, he demands attention. The way his hips shift, the slow drag of his fingers over the buttons of his silk shirt, the fucking audacity of that lazy smirk—he’s built for this.

"Come on," he says, voice slipping through the speakers like warm honey over broken glass. "You’re not gonna make me do all the work, are you?"

Laughter ripples through the room, but it's laced with something darker—hunger, anticipation. They would eat him alive if you let them.

You never do.

Gojo is not for sale. Not permanently, at least. He belongs to you, your most expensive commodity, your biggest gamble and your greatest return. He is the pinnacle of indulgence, the most sought-after star in a world that gorges itself on desire. And yet, despite all the money, the power, the control—you know one truth better than anyone.

He’s an Alpha. And Alphas don’t stay caged forever.

Except, you made sure this one did.

Gojo Satoru was made to be a god, and you made sure he was your god.

The auction is just a show. A tease. A chance for the city's wealthiest degenerates to bid for an hour, a night, a taste of him. But they never win. No amount of money will ever buy what belongs to you.

He knows this.

And yet, he plays the game so well.

Gojo’s fingers slide down his chest, the shirt slipping off one shoulder, baring pale skin under the cruel light of the chandeliers. His scent floods the air, that thick, intoxicating mix of sweat, expensive cologne, and something that burns at the edges of reason. Alphas aren’t meant to be like this, aren’t meant to be controlled, sold, displayed. But Gojo is different.

You made sure of that.

You remember the first time he stepped into your world—young, cocky, too beautiful for his own good. A rich boy from a powerful bloodline, born into privilege, into a life where the world bent over backwards to kiss the ground he walked on. He could have been anything. A businessman, a politician, a king in his own right.

And yet, he chose this.

Or rather, he let you choose it for him.

“You’re wasted on a normal life,” you had told him, a drink in one hand, a contract in the other. “What’s the point of being the strongest if no one gets to see what you can do?”

And Gojo—foolish, brilliant, greedy Gojo—had grinned, teeth flashing like a predator about to sink his fangs into something sweet.

“Alright, boss,” he had said. “Show me what I’m worth.”

And you did.

You broke him in, shattered every illusion he had of power, stripped him of the idea that he was untouchable. You taught him that in this world, power wasn’t about strength. It wasn’t about fists or bloodlines or the natural order.

Power was about control.

And you controlled him.

But Gojo was never the type to accept a leash. He turned it into a collar of diamonds and wore it like a crown. He made himself untouchable, undeniable, unstoppable.

And now, he stands on that stage, looking down at the world like a god preparing to pass judgment.

"You want me?" His voice drips with laughter, with promise. His shirt falls to the floor, and the room sucks in a collective breath. "Then come and get me."

The crowd erupts.

But no one ever gets him.

Not unless you allow it.

And you never do.

Because in the end, no matter how much Gojo Satoru shines under these lights, no matter how much he grins and teases and tempts—he is yours.

And in this city, gods don’t rule.

You do.

✦✧✦✧

Gojo wasn’t just a pornstar. He was an artist. A god. The most exquisite creature in this depraved Eden.

He could fuck, model, perform, and seduce with the kind of arrogance that made men weep and women beg. His mere presence turned money into water, burning through the pockets of billionaires and lowlifes alike. No one said no to him. No one wanted to. He was the star, the storm, the singularity. And he was yours.

Right now, he lounged against your desk, all six feet three inches of impossible beauty draped in a loose silk robe, porcelain skin illuminated by the amber glow of your office. His platinum-white hair was mussed, those absurdly blue eyes catching the city’s reflection through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The world outside begged for him. But he belonged to you.

“You’ve been quiet,” Gojo mused, sipping from a crystal glass of whiskey. “Planning my next show?”

You leaned back in your chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of your desk. Your office was the beating heart of this empire, a command center where deals were inked in sweat and blood. Surveillance screens lined the walls, each feeding real-time footage from the underground parlors, private suites, and filming studios. Every moan, every desperate gasp—it was all cataloged, archived, monetized.

“You’re restless,” you observed, tilting your head. “You need something to do.”

Gojo smirked, lazy and self-assured. “You know me too well.”

You did. You had shaped him, sculpted him into this unstoppable force of lust and spectacle. You knew what he craved, what made his blood race. And you would give it to him—because you were just as addicted as he was.

Without breaking eye contact, you pressed a button on your desk. The doors locked with a soft click.

“Strip,” you ordered.

Gojo’s smirk widened, but he didn’t hesitate. The silk robe slid from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. He stood before you in nothing but his own perfection—long, sculpted limbs, lean muscle flexing beneath smooth, unblemished skin. His cock was already half-hard, responding to the promise in your voice alone.

You rose from your chair, circling him like a predator inspecting its prize. The air between you was charged, thick with the unspoken history of every touch, every night spent pushing each other past the limits of pleasure. You ran a hand down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the barely restrained power beneath his skin.

“You belong to me,” you murmured, fingers ghosting over his hip. “Every inch of you.”

Gojo’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t look away. “Then use me.”

And you did.

You shoved him back onto your desk, the papers scattering, glass whiskey tumbling to the floor in a splash of amber. Gojo laughed, breathless, as you climbed over him, pinning him down with your body. His cock was hard now, the head slick with anticipation. You traced your fingers along the length, watching the way his abs tensed, the way his lips parted on a silent curse.

“You love this,” you whispered against his throat, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. “Being wanted. Being taken.”

Gojo arched into you, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. “I love when you stop talking and fuck me already.”

You obliged.

There was nothing soft about it—this was possession, a claiming, the kind of raw, brutal intimacy that left bruises and bite marks in its wake. Your nails dug into his hips, your teeth marked his skin. Gojo was loud, unashamed, moaning unabashedly as you drove into him with ruthless precision. The desk creaked beneath you, the sound swallowed by the wet slap of skin against skin, the desperate gasps that filled the room.

He was exquisite like this—wrecked, ruined, his perfect image shattered in the heat of pleasure. He clung to you, fingers tangled in your hair, nails scratching down your back. His body opened up for you, took everything you gave and begged for more. He was insatiable, just as you had made him.

Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a plea, an invocation.

And when he came, it was violent—his entire body shuddering, his voice breaking in a desperate moan. You followed moments later, burying him deeper in your tight heat, marking him from the inside out.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the distant hum of the city below.

Then Gojo laughed, soft and breathless. “Fuck, that was good.”

You smirked, brushing damp strands of white hair from his forehead. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Gojo’s eyes darkened with excitement. “Good.”

Because in this city, excess was survival.

And Gojo Satoru was built to last.

✦✧✦✧

The afterglow was brief, punctuated by the distant hum of the city and the soft crackle of an old record spinning in the corner. Gojo sprawled on the bed, one arm flung over his forehead, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. The sheets were a ruin of sweat and bruises.

You lit a cigarette, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as you watched him. Even now, disheveled and spent, he looked like something divine. A deity draped in the aftermath of sin.

“What’s next?” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

You took a slow drag, considering. “The board wants you for the Parthenon campaign. Full immersion, six-month contract.”

He snorted, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “You gonna let them keep me that long?”

Your lips curved. “I own you, Gojo. No one takes you without my permission.”

His grin was sharp. “Kinky.”

You exhaled another stream of smoke, watching the way the neon light painted shadows over his skin. In this world, there was no love, no innocence. Only survival. Only ownership.

And Gojo, your beautiful, dangerous investment, was the most valuable thing you had.

For now.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐩𝐢𝐧! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧

You didn’t believe in soulmates.

Never had. Never will.

That shit was for the weak—fairytales spun by scared little Omegas trying to feel special in a world that used their bodies like product, stamped and sold with a smile. But you were never that kind of Omega. No one even knew what you were. Alpha, they assumed—cold, powerful, untouchable. And you let them.

So when you crashed the auction in broad daylight, black coat flaring behind you, smoke still curling from the muzzle of your gun—you weren’t expecting him.

You came for his cargo. You didn’t expect Ryōmen Sukuna.

Blood King. Sex City’s nightmare. Not just a name, but a terror. An Alpha so mad he didn’t climb the ranks—he burned the staircase. Top of the food chain. Untouchable. Unkillable. Unfuckable… unless you wanted to die in bed. Rumor said he skinned traitors and wore their faces like masks.

And he was your soulmate.

He knew the second you walked through the bullet-riddled auction gates.

Because in this world, soulmates could see everything. Your lies. Your heart. The thing you’d spent years burying beneath ash and steel and sex and screams.

He saw you. The Omega you’d killed off. The one no one was allowed to find.

And fuck, he liked what he saw.

✦✧✦✧

"You're not an Alpha."

It wasn't a question. It was a verdict.

His voice was made of ash and wine—rich and brutal. The auction hall stank of blood, smoke, cum, and perfume, bodies still twitching on the ground, but he stepped through it like a king entering a ballroom. Not a scratch on him, even after the blast you set off five minutes ago. The man was built like sin had a muscle fetish. Shirtless beneath his blood-red coat, inked chest gleaming, scars slicing through tattoos like battle trophies.

Your gun was aimed at his head. His eyes never left your face.

Fuck. Soulmates.

You could feel it. That awful, acidic pull in your gut. The way the bond whispered mine like a disease. The way he smirked because he could feel you too.

You stayed calm. Detached.

"Move, Sukuna. You're blocking my exit."

"You blew up my fuckin’ merchandise," he said, glancing lazily at the dead brokers twitching at your feet. "That was cute. Dangerous. But cute."

You cocked the gun. "Last warning."

And then he did the last thing you expected.

He stepped closer.

One step. Then another. Until the muzzle of your gun pressed against the center of his chest, right where his heart should’ve been—if he had one.

"You think that scares me, baby?" he murmured, leaning in, his voice dropping to a growl. "We’re bonded. You shoot me, you feel it too."

Your lips parted. Not in shock. But in fury.

"Then I’ll bleed happily, asshole."

✦✧✦✧

You pulled the trigger.

Pain exploded in your ribs like lightning. But you didn’t fall.

Neither did he.

The bullet had torn clean through him. Crimson splattered across his chest like paint on canvas. But he only chuckled, licking his lips, watching you stumble.

"Told you. Cute."

He yanked the gun from your hands and slammed it against the wall behind you, pinning you in a blink. His palm wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to choke—but firm. Dominant.

You didn’t flinch. You looked him dead in the eye.

"Touch me again and I’ll take your balls for trophies."

But Sukuna’s grin only deepened. He leaned in until his breath kissed your ear, body pressed sinfully close, the bond between you two crackling like live wires.

"You’ve been hiding, Omega," he whispered. "All this time… pretending to be Alpha. Bet no one even knows what you smell like, huh? But I do."

You jerked your knee up. Missed. He caught it mid-thrust, gripping your thigh and shoving you harder against the wall.

"You're not gonna scare me off," he growled. "I’ve waited a long fuckin' time to find you. And now that I have?"

His eyes glowed like fire. His voice dropped to something terrifying and reverent.

"You're mine."

✦✧✦✧

You escaped. Of course.

Slit two guards' throats, kicked a flaming chandelier at him, jumped out a second-story window.

Standard shit.

But you didn’t forget what he said.

You didn’t forget the way his bond clawed at your chest whenever you see him again. How your slick betrayed you. How the memory of his hand on your throat lingered like a bruise.

You didn’t forget how he looked at you. Like prey. Like salvation.

And he didn’t forget you, either.

✦✧✦✧

Your vision was a smear of lights and color when you woke up—languid, heavy, high as fuck. The silk sheets under you whispered wealth. The scent in the air was spiced sandalwood, musk, and him. Always him.

Your limbs felt treacherously soft. You hated it. You hated him.

"Took you long enough, princess."

The low, silken voice pulled you fully awake. Sukuna stood at the foot of the bed, the bastard kingpin dressed in fitted black slacks and a wine-colored shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows to reveal the tattoos curling down his forearms—symbols of power and possession. Eyes the color of dried blood and smoldering heat traced over your sprawled, vulnerable body. There was hunger there. Possessive. Dark.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to panic. Refusing to let him see your heart pounding.

"Drugging me, Sukuna? How romantic."

His grin stretched wide. Too many teeth. His tongue flicked over one canine. "You never pick up your fucking phone. I had to improvise."

"You’re obsessed."

"Obviously."

You forced yourself upright. The sheets fell, and you were naked underneath. Of course. You knew him. Knew he’d stripped you himself. You also knew he hadn't fucked you. Not yet. Not until you said yes.

Unfortunately for him, you’d rather die.

"You think this will change anything?" you sneered. "You think tying me to your bed like some—some omega bitch will make me fall in love with you?"

He walked closer, gaze hooded. You hated the way your body heated. The chemical edge still fogged your mind, but it wasn’t the drug making you wet.

It was him.

The worst part? He could feel it. Soulmate bonds were sick like that. You'd long stopped believing in that fairytale, even when the universe spat his name out for you. Even when you tasted him in dreams, saw the future in flashes when he touched you.

He was your match. Your perfect hell. The psychotic bastard who would burn kingdoms for a kiss.

"You fight me so hard," Sukuna murmured, crawling onto the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, muscles coiled and raw as he loomed over you. "But your body never lies to me."

He pinned you easily, wrist to the headboard. The metal cuffs were already there. You cursed.

"Sukuna, I swear—"

He slammed his hips between your legs. You gasped—your thighs betrayed you and parted. Instinct, curse it.

His cock pressed hard through his pants, hot against your mound.

"You want to be fucked like a bitch in heat," he growled, lips brushing yours. "You want to forget how smart you are, how cruel you are, how cold your little brain is. You want me to break that."

"Try it," you spat.

He did.

The sound of his zipper was thunder in your ears. Your breath caught—no preparation, no warning. Just heat, pressure, intrusion. He speared you in one brutal thrust.

You screamed—not just from the stretch, but from the sick, sick pleasure.

"That’s it," Sukuna growled, eyes glowing now, mad with lust. "Moan for your mate."

"Fuck you—"

He thrust harder.

You arched, the drug making everything ten times worse—every drag of his cock set your nerves on fire. Your omega body betrayed you, slick gushing around him, gripping him. You bit his shoulder to muffle your sob.

He laughed like a demon.

"I could fuck you stupid, sweetheart. Knot you so full you never think again."

You wouldn’t let him. You couldn’t.

But your body was already spasming, climax crashing through you—fury and disgust and fuck, you hated this. Hated how much it felt like belonging.

He leaned down, tongue in your mouth, teeth scraping your lip as he fucked you through it.

"You don’t get a choice anymore," he whispered, voice ragged. "You’re mine. Always were. I’m done playing nice."

He came with a brutal snap of his hips, knot swelling—oh fuck, he was actually—

You screamed again, nails digging into his back.

He kissed your temple.

"Let the whole world come for me," he murmured, panting. "I’ll kill every last one of them. But I’ll die with my cock buried in your cunt."

And your traitor heart beat louder in your chest.

✦✧✦✧

You didn’t speak for hours after. Not while his cum leaked down your thighs, not while he wrapped your limp body in Egyptian cotton sheets, not while he lit a cigar and watched the skyline with that possessive gleam still glinting in his eye.

You lay there, head tilted to watch him. No shame. No apology. Just arousal and hatred burning slow in your blood.

"You think this means anything," you finally muttered. "You think I’ll be soft to you now."

He didn’t turn. Just exhaled smoke, the faintest smile curling his lips.

"No," he said. "I think you’ll keep fighting me. And I’ll keep fucking you. Until you’re too broken to keep lying to yourself."

You stood. Limped, actually. Your legs ached from the brutal pace, the knot. Your inner thighs were slick and sore. Still, you walked like a queen—naked, bruised, head held high.

You found the robe he left for you on the chair. Slipped it on. Tied the sash with a sharp, practiced jerk.

"Next time you drug me, I’ll cut your cock off in your sleep."

"You’ll suck it first."

You gave him a sweet smile. "Don’t count on it."

You reached for the phone on the table beside his bar. Dialed a number.

"It’s me," you said. "Tell them the deal’s back on. But I want double. And full ownership of the port."

Sukuna’s head turned slightly. His grin widened.

"You’re still doing business with me?"

"You’re a useful bastard. Doesn’t mean I trust you."

"You will. Eventually."

"Don’t bet on it."

You hung up. Walked back to him. Stared down at where he lounged like a devil made flesh.

He reached out, curled a hand around your hip. The bond buzzed between you—hot, electric, like a chain coiling tighter.

"You’ll never escape me," he said quietly.

"I don’t plan to. I plan to win."

He chuckled, yanked you down into his lap.

"Then try, omega. Let’s see who breaks first."

You kissed him with teeth.

This wasn’t love.

It was war.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧

Sunday is the rarest of creatures in Sinthral—a virgin in a world where every inch of flesh has been sold, every body twisted into something unrecognizable. In a city where desire runs rampant, where bodies are commodities, and no one escapes unscarred, he is untouched. A canvas still pure, a thread still unbroken. And it’s not because he’s weak, or too innocent to survive. It’s because you saw the value in him, the potential in keeping him pristine.

You are the one who saved him.

Not many people know this. Not even Sukuna. But you remember the night.

The night you watched Sukuna—your enemy, your rival, the man who built his empire on blood and ruin—turn Sunday into a puppet. The gleam of pleasure in Sukuna’s eyes as he tore apart that angelic face, making him dance for the highest bidder, was the most repulsive thing you had ever seen. But you couldn’t intervene directly. Not then. Not with Sukuna watching every move, every inch of the gameboard under his control.

But you knew. You had your sights set on Sunday long before that night, long before Sukuna’s twisted hands could sully him. You saw his value, the purity he held—his body, untouched by the brutality of the world around him. It was the one thing that separated him from every other man who stumbled into your world. And when you make an investment, you don’t break it.

So, you bided your time. And when Sukuna finally turned his back, when the window cracked open just wide enough, you took your chance.

Sunday came to you, trembling at first, unsure whether he was walking into salvation or into a new cage. But you were patient. You were always patient with him.

It took only one look for you to recognize the kind of man Sunday was—quiet, angelic, his eyes wide with the fear of someone who had been broken, but not yet completely corrupted. He was still young, still naive enough to believe in something other than survival. You could see that glimmer, a kind of purity that shone even through the filth of Sinthral’s underbelly.

And that purity? You would protect it.

The first time you spoke to him, you said only one thing:

"Stay untouched. It will make you more valuable than any of them."

He didn't ask why. He didn't ask how long. He just nodded, a silent acceptance in the hollow of his chest. The trembling stopped. He knew you were a force he couldn’t oppose, that you held the reigns on his fate. But you also knew that he wasn't like the others. He wasn’t a tool to be ground down, stripped, and thrown aside once his worth was spent. No, Sunday was an investment for the long haul.

You had raised him like a prize, like a rare flower in a garden of rotting corpses. In the time you spent together, you learned that Sunday was more than just a pretty face or a body meant for a one-time use. There was a depth to him, a grace. His fragility wasn’t weakness, but a strength that couldn’t be replicated.

Women adored him—more than just for his looks. They adored the way he moved, the way he could look at someone without the usual raw hunger that burned in every other man in the city. There was something almost otherworldly about him. Something… angelic. And you, of all people, understood the value of angelic things in a city that devoured everything pure.

He doesn’t work for you like the others. He doesn’t dance, doesn’t strip, doesn’t sell his body. Instead, he is a vision. A symbol. A dream. A commodity that remains in mint condition, untouched by the dark undercurrents that threaten to ruin everything in this world.

But God, does he make them beg.

It’s an art, the way he moves. His every step is calculated, every glance a spell. When he enters a room, silence falls. There’s an ethereal quality to him that makes the air crackle, like an angel walking among demons. His soft, unblemished skin glows under the dim, neon lights, making the most hardened men lose control. He is beauty in its purest form. Untouched.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sunday knows. He knows what they want. What you want. But more than that, he knows what they can never have.

You stand in the shadows, eyes on him as he makes his way to the center of the stage. His white shirt clings to his frame, his jeans sitting just low enough to tease without revealing. The crowd shifts, restless, eager, but you can feel the difference tonight. The energy in the air is heavier, suffocating with want.

For once, Sunday isn’t the prey. He is the hunter.

He turns his head just slightly, catching your gaze from across the room. His lips curl into a soft, knowing smile—faint, but enough to send a wave of possessive hunger through you. The way his eyes flicker with the glint of understanding makes your heart stutter. It’s like he’s reminding you—reminding you of what you’ve made him. What you’ve molded him into.

Untouched.

But he still belongs to you.

As Sunday takes a single step forward, the crowd shifts closer, some of them daring to reach out, but never too close. They know better. You’ve made sure of that. The moment anyone crosses a line with Sunday, they’ll find themselves in a pit of ruin they’ll never claw their way out of.

But even in the face of all their yearning, he remains calm. Controlled. Innocent. His gaze remains locked on you, eyes full of something far deeper than obedience. He’s not a dog to be caged; he’s a partner, an equal. An investment so valuable, you would never let anyone soil him.

The auction for him is coming. It always is. But for now, he remains yours. And that’s how you like it.

✦✧✦✧

You don't touch Sunday like you touch the others. That’s what makes him valuable.

You'd rescued him from Sukuna’s quarters—shattered wings, fractured pride, half-naked and pale with dried blood threading down the inner curve of his thigh. Not his, you found out later. He hadn’t cried then. Just looked at you with that same muted elegance he’s never lost, even now, months later, draped in the softest silks and walking like he’s already in a cathedral.

He’s your angel. And angels, unlike playthings, are best left untarnished.

Until now.

Tonight, he stands before you like he was summoned. Like he’s yours because Heaven whispered that fate into his spine. Still dressed from his shift—glitter kissed across his collarbones, the bare skin of his chest glowing beneath translucent fabric. There’s a grace to the way he waits. Always waiting. Patient and pure.

You step closer. His breath doesn’t hitch.

"Sunday," you murmur, voice sliding over his name like velvet soaked in oil. "Do you know why I haven't fucked you yet?"

His eyes—golden, fathomless, quiet—stay on you. "Because I work better like this," he says. Not a question. A truth. A law.

You smile. Slowly.

"That’s right. You shine brightest with your halo intact." Your fingers brush his waist. "But you’ll be teaching them seduction now. Can’t do that without knowing how to weaponize your own body, can you?"

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He lets you undo the knot of silk at his hip, lets the fabric spill down like petals, feet bare on the cold marble floor.

He’s beautiful in the way ancient statues are beautiful. Ethereal. Unyielding. But built for worship.

And you? You’re the God he kneels for.

You don't ravage him. You sculpt him.

Fingers dragging across his stomach, your voice low, instructive. You guide his palm to your mouth and kiss the base of each knuckle.

“Seduction isn’t desperation. It’s dominance.” You bite gently on his ring finger. “It’s knowing every gaze belongs to you, even before they look.”

You make him mirror you. Make him press his mouth to your skin—not in need, but in performance. A dance of grace and learned control. Your hand guides his hips down to your lap, teaching him pressure, rhythm, angles. Every breath you steal from him is deliberate. Measured. Like prayer.

“There,” you whisper against his collarbone, licking sweat that barely exists. “That’s it. That little tremor—I want you to memorize it. That’s the sound of a heartbeat when they’re about to break.”

He doesn’t blush. Doesn’t gasp. His skin is too noble for that. But his spine arches with the next roll of your hips against his. He learns by feel.

And you teach with your hands on his throat. Loose. Not choking. But there. A reminder.

“You’re not here to enjoy it,” you say, forehead against his temple. “You’re here to master it.”

He nods once.

And when he comes—silent, graceful, devout—it’s not for pleasure. It’s for knowledge.

After, you dress him again with your own hands. Delicate, almost reverent. He leans into your touch the way a blade leans into flesh—calculated, quiet, inevitable.

"You’re mine now."

He doesn’t answer.

But he kisses your throat like a prayer.

"You’re still pure, Sunday. Still mine. Don’t ever forget—I only let you touch me because you’re different."

You know he believes it.

You know he will never touch anyone else.

And that’s the sweetest seduction of all.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐭! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧

He always smelled like sweat and gunpowder.

Even when you were kids—barely scraping by in the rot-choked gutters of Sinthral—Boothill smelled like violence. It clung to him, sunk into the pores of his skin like the smoke in your father's study. You remember the first time you saw him bleed.

Some older brute had tried to shake him down for smokes and creds, cornered him in the alley behind that rust-bitten chapel where the whores went to weep. Boothill didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He gritted his teeth, pulled a rusted blade from his boot, and carved the bastard up like meat for market.

You watched from the shadows. Silent. Unblinking.

When it was over, when the blood had sprayed your face like warm rain, you stepped out and offered him a cloth. No words. Just the press of your small hand against his cheek, wiping the red away. He looked at you like he’d never seen a girl before—like maybe you weren’t real. Like maybe he’d dreamed you up from the hell he lived in.

“Damn,” he’d muttered, voice low, drawl thick even then. “Ain’t you a strange lil’ thing.”

You didn’t speak. Not then. But your eyes said everything.

You never left each other after that.

✦✧✦✧

Boothill was raised by bullets and bourbon. The bastard son of a gunrunner and a prostitute, he lived in brothels and barfights, slept in beds soaked with other people’s sins. By the time your father found him, Boothill was sixteen and already killing for coin. Your father took one look at the boy, saw the broken thing inside him, and smiled.

“This one,” he’d said to you, dragging the bruised boy in by the collar, “will follow you into hell.”

And he did.

You were eight then. Silent still, but smarter than any of your tutors. You didn’t need to be told Boothill was meant to be yours—not just as a bodyguard or a tool, but something more. He was betrothed to you before either of you bled. An unspoken contract signed in trauma and sealed with your father’s ring.

He slept outside your door every night. Never came in, never asked. Just waited. Loyal as a beast on a chain. But sometimes, you’d wake in the middle of the night, padded footsteps silent as breath, and curl beside him in the hall. No words. Just the soft press of your body against his, the warmth of shared nightmares.

✦✧✦✧

Sinthral chewed boys like him up and spat them out in pieces. But not Boothill. No, he adapted. Got meaner. Smarter. Sharper. While you learned diplomacy from your father’s enemies and seduction from his whores, Boothill learned how to kill without blinking. How to make a man talk without ever laying a hand on him. How to snap necks with that easy smile still on his lips.

You taught him to read. He taught you to shoot.

He kissed you for the first time when you were eighteen. You’d just slit a diplomat’s throat in the bathhouse, hands still dripping red when you stepped out into the marble steam, and there he was—leaning against the wall, smoke curling from his lips.

"Hell, darlin’," he drawled, voice molasses-thick, eyes darker than night. "You just keep gettin’ prettier."

You didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just walked up to him, blood soaking your gown, and kissed him like it meant nothing.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it never did.

But that was the night you started fucking him.

✦✧✦✧

Now?

Now you share bodies like weapons, use each other for release and control. He’s the one you go to when your nerves are frayed, when the city whispers too loud and your father’s ghost won’t shut up. He lets you ride him raw and reckless, lets you choke him until his eyes glaze over. He calls you ‘Mistress’ when you have him on his knees, your fingers in his mouth and your knife at his throat.

You don’t trust him. Never will. Not fully.

But he’s the only one you let see you cry.

The only one who holds you after.

He doesn’t ask for more. Doesn’t need to. Boothill knows exactly what you are—what you were made to be. And still, he stays. Your enforcer. Your monster.

Your first love, even if you’d never call it that.

He’s the only one who ever came close to mattering.

And that? That makes him dangerous.

Because if there’s one thing your father taught you, it’s that love is leverage.

And Boothill? He’d burn the whole city down if you asked.

So you keep him close. Real close.

Just in case you ever need to put him down.

✦✧✦✧

Thunder cracked overhead as if to warn the world that sin was about to happen in this lonely brothel on the outskirts of a rotting, post-collapse city. The air smelled of dust, sex, and low-grade liquor. Neon bled through the fogged windows, painting your bare back in bruised pink and violent red.

You didn’t flinch as the door creaked open behind you.

"Y'know, sugar, if you keep temptin' the Lord with that ass, He might just come down and punish ya Himself," came that slow, familiar drawl.

You didn’t need to turn around. That voice alone was enough to make your thighs press together. Boothill. Your guardian, your jailer, your occasional executioner, and—most conveniently—your fuckbuddy. You trusted him as far as you could throw his cocky, ten-gallon-hat-wearing ass. Which wasn’t far. The only thing consistent about him was the way he made you come like sin was salvation.

You smirked, flicking ash from your cigarette into a chipped glass ashtray. “Didn’t know you were back in the city.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” he said, boots thudding on the wood floor as he approached. “But hearin’ you were mixin’ business with that snake from Sector 9 made me think twice.”

“Jealous?” you asked, still not turning around.

He was behind you in a second, his calloused hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head so he could breathe against your ear. “Nah. Ain’t jealous, darlin’. Just territorial.”

His other hand slipped under the thin strap of your dress, and he tugged it down your shoulder, baring one breast to the room’s cool air. His tongue was hot when it followed the path his hand had made.

You finally turned to face him, pressing your palm flat against his chest. Beneath the threadbare shirt, his body was hard, muscular from years of running, killing, and surviving. Boothill smelled like whiskey, leather, and gunpowder—danger wrapped in a smile.

You grinned up at him, lazy and poisonous. “You here to remind me who fucks me best?”

“No, sweetheart,” he growled, pushing you back until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. “I’m here to make you forget every damn other man on this planet.”

Then he was on you.

Boothill moved like a storm, wild and unforgiving. He shoved you down onto the mattress and yanked your dress up, baring your thighs, your cunt already slick from anticipation. You spread your legs without shame, watching his eyes darken with hunger.

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered, thumbing over your clit as he bent down to mouth at your throat. “Always so fuckin’ ready for me. You’d think I was your husband or somethin’, the way this pussy begs for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whispered, but your hips lifted into his hand anyway, betraying you.

He chuckled against your skin, low and thick. “Too late, sugar. I know you like it when I talk filthy.”

His fingers sank into you, two at once, spreading you open. You gasped, biting your lip to stay quiet, but he growled at that.

“Don’t you dare hold back on me now.”

Boothill’s voice was thunder and smoke as he worked his fingers inside you, curling them just right, pressing into the soft spot that made your whole body twitch. When he kissed you, it was brutal—teeth and tongue and ownership. There was no gentleness here. Only need.

He pulled back, only to shove your legs further apart and drop to his knees at the edge of the bed. You opened your mouth to snark something, but the moment his tongue hit your clit, your words melted into a moan.

“Fuck—Booth—"

He held your thighs down like a man possessed, lapping at you like he was starving. The edge built fast, hotter than fire, and when you came, you saw white. You barely noticed him unbuckling his belt until you heard the jingle of metal and the hiss of denim being shoved down.

“You ain’t done yet,” he growled, crawling over you. “Not by a damn long shot.”

His cock was thick and hard and pulsing when he pushed into you, one slow, dragging inch at a time. The stretch burned, perfect and terrible. You dug your nails into his back.

“God,” you hissed.

He laughed, fucking into you like he meant to breed you—deep, rough strokes that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“I ain’t god, sweetheart,” he whispered against your neck. “I’m the devil you let back in.”

And you did. Again and again. Each thrust made your back arch, your legs wrap around his waist, your cunt flutter around him like you wanted him to own you. You fucked like animals, your bodies colliding with vicious desperation.

He kept one hand on your throat, just enough pressure to make your vision swim, while the other gripped your hip and fucked you into the bed like he’d carve his name into your womb.

“You feel that?” he groaned. “This dick was made for you.”

You came again with a scream, clenching around him, dragging him down into your madness. Boothill didn’t slow. He was a machine, fucking you through it until your nails bled from clawing at his back.

And when he came, it was with a long, guttural sound, hips jerking as he filled you with his heat. He collapsed over you, panting, sweating, his forehead pressed to yours.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, softly:

“You still don’t trust me,” he muttered.

You smiled, lazy and satisfied. “Nope.”

He chuckled darkly. “Smart girl.”

You stroked his hair, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “You’d be the one to kill me if the price was right.”

He didn’t deny it.

But for tonight, you were safe.

And still full of him.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧

Alhaitham is always the quietest in the room, the most calculated. He’s the one who watches without making a sound, a shadow on the wall, moving through life like a thread in the fabric of your empire, each moment orchestrated with perfect precision.

He was never meant to be a part of this world—at least, not the way you’ve made him.

He was just another high-class consultant, a well-educated man who walked the fine line between legal and illegal with a quiet grace, as if the world owed him something.

But then came you.

And you found him, like a predator scenting the smallest whiff of weakness. He never thought anyone would have the power to bring him to his knees. But you did. And you’ve kept him there ever since.

It started innocently enough—or as innocent as anything in this city ever could. He had what you needed. Information. Access to people in high places. Connections. And you, always in control, knew how to exploit that.

The blackmail was the final push.

Alhaitham thought he could simply walk away, walk out of the twisted mess he’d found himself in. But you know him too well. You always know. It was his arrogance, his belief that he could outsmart you. The moment he tried to use his own games against you, you snapped him back into place. A few whispered words, a few carefully placed pieces of leverage, and suddenly, he was under your thumb.

But that wasn’t the real punishment.

No, the real punishment was when you took everything he valued—his family, his reputation, his pride—and turned it into dust.

You forced him into a corner, and just when he thought he could escape, you showed him the truth. There was no escaping you. Not when you owned everything, not when every move he made was already written in the ledger of your control.

Now, Alhaitham is yours. A sugar baby, yes, but so much more than that. He’s your spy. Your tool. Your weapon.

But you know, better than anyone, that no one can be a puppet forever without starting to cut their own strings. Alhaitham’s intelligence makes him dangerous. He’s always two steps ahead, calculating, thinking, plotting. His eyes burn with a quiet fury, one that he hides beneath the mask of calm indifference.

And yet, even as you squeeze him dry, as you send him off to other clients to be used and discarded, you know the truth. He’s playing the game just as much as you are.

The difference? He doesn’t realize that he’s already lost.

You lean back in your chair, fingers idly tracing the edge of a glass, your eyes fixed on him from across the room. Alhaitham stands by the window, looking out into the neon-lit chaos of the city. His silhouette is sharp, composed, like a man who has been trained to be invisible. But there’s something in the way he holds himself tonight, something about the stillness of his form that tells you more than words ever could.

"You’re always so distant, Alhaitham," you say, your voice low, like a teasing whisper in the silence.

He doesn’t turn to look at you right away. It’s almost like he’s savoring the tension, the moment where you think you have control over him. But you know better. You know the game he’s playing, and it only makes the chase that much sweeter.

Finally, he turns, his eyes locking onto yours with that cool, calculating gaze he’s known for. "What do you want me to say?" His voice is smooth, almost detached. "You know I’m not one for small talk."

You smile at that, leaning forward, the glass in your hand reflecting the dim light. "You can start by telling me how it feels to be so far from home," you say, letting the words hang in the air. "To know that you’re nothing more than a pawn in my empire."

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. "I’m not a pawn," he says, his tone a little too sharp, a little too sure of himself. "I’m your spy. Your...asset. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You’re lying," you reply smoothly, taking a slow sip from your glass. "Because you know as well as I do that you're more than that to me."

Alhaitham’s eyes flicker for a moment. The faintest twitch in his expression. It’s small, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him the way you do. But you know. You always know.

And that’s where you strike.

"You’re not just a spy," you continue, your voice dipping into something more intimate, more dangerous. "You’re mine. I own you, Alhaitham. Every part of you. And don’t think I don’t know the way you want to be owned."

Alhaitham stands his ground, but there’s a wariness in his eyes now. A flicker of doubt.

You reach out, brushing a finger across his jawline. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but he doesn’t recoil. No, Alhaitham doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. His entire body is taut, like a bowstring stretched to its breaking point.

"You’re always so clever, so elusive," you whisper, letting your fingers trace the curve of his neck. "But you can’t escape me. You can’t escape this. No matter how many games you play."

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, his eyes narrowed. "I don’t need your games."

"You don’t?" You tilt your head, your lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Then why are you still here, Alhaitham? Why do you keep coming back? You don’t have to. But you do. Every time."

He lets go of your wrist, but his gaze doesn’t soften. If anything, it hardens, like a wall being built around the part of him you’ve yet to reach.

"You’re a mistake," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "But I’ll play along, for now."

For a moment, the silence between you thickens, heavy with unspoken words, with the crackling tension that builds between predator and prey. You know he’s trying to outsmart you, trying to find a way to escape your grasp. But you also know that every step he takes only leads him further into your web.

And you? You’re more than happy to keep him there.

Because despite the fact that Alhaitham is a spy, a traitor in the making, you know the truth.

He’ll always come back to you.

Always.

✦✧✦✧

Your private quarters were dimmed to a soft, honeyed glow, filtered through silk curtains like whispers behind closed lips. Everything about the room was designed to invite sin—red velvet draped from the ceiling, the scent of sandalwood curling through the air, and a glass of half-sipped whiskey sweating in your palm as you lounged on your throne of decadent pillows.

You didn’t look up when the door slid open with a hiss. You already knew who it was. The cadence of his steps was unmistakable—leisurely, deliberate, self-assured. Alhaitham never rushed. He didn’t need to.

“Late,” you murmured, taking a lazy sip.

“I brought intel,” came his low, smooth voice. Just that. No apology. No excuses. Just results. Typical.

You tilted your head, finally glancing at him. And there he was: tousled hair, white-smooth skin, lips too full for a man who spoke so little, and eyes that held galaxies and guile. He wore your favorite today—a deep green silk shirt that clung too well to his sculpted chest and dark slacks that hinted at thighs forged by gods. Not a wrinkle in sight. Calculated.

Your silence drew him in. He dropped a USB on the table beside you like a cat dropping a mouse—look, mistress, I’ve hunted for you.

You didn’t reach for it. Instead, you let your gaze drag down his body like a whip. "You want something."

His lips curled, slow. "You always say that."

"Because you always do."

Alhaitham stepped closer, slipping one hand into his pocket, the other resting lightly on the back of the chair beside you, leaning just close enough that his scent—clean, cold, addictive—wound around you like silk ribbons. "They’re asking for me again. The senator’s wife. And the foreign diplomat."

You smirked. "Of course they are."

He bent slightly, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. "You send me to them, and I perform like the perfect whore. But you keep the best parts to yourself. You like playing puppeteer."

You tilted your head back, exposing your neck. Daring him. "You like being my puppet."

That did it. His hand slid to your throat, not squeezing—just resting. A reminder of control. Yours? His? Who cared?

He kissed you then. Slow. Filthy. With a groan that vibrated against your teeth. His tongue was hot and knowing, sliding against yours like it already owned your mouth.

You moaned into it, grabbing a fistful of his hair, dragging him down to straddle you.

He obliged with practiced ease, hips slotting between your legs like he belonged there—which he did. He always had. You could send him to any bed in the world, and he’d still come back to yours, feral and greedy.

“Say yes,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “To the thing I want.”

You arched a brow. “What thing?”

“Freedom for a week.” He started trailing kisses down your neck. “No clients. Just you.”

You laughed. Cold and amused. “You think I give that out for free?”

He bit your collarbone. “I know exactly what you want in exchange.”

And when he pulled back, those fox eyes met yours, dark with lust and dangerous knowing. Then he dropped to his knees.

It was a show. Everything he did was. The slow unbuttoning of your robe. The reverent way his lips trailed down your body. The tongue that circled your nipple before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl.

He sucked like a man starved. Like he hated being beneath you but loved it more than anything. That was the thrill of him—he was smarter than you, maybe, but you had the power. And it made him vile in how he worshipped you.

When he kissed down your stomach, he paused over your core, breath hot against it. He looked up, eyes glazed and teasing. “Say yes.”

“Make me.”

And he did. Tongue slow at first—testing. Then faster, crueler. You gripped the edge of the chaise, knuckles white, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a moan.

He sucked your clit like he was punishing you. Fingers curling into your entrance, curling just right, and when your hips bucked—

He smirked against you.

Bastard.

You came with a cry, legs clamping around his head. He kept going, coaxing more out of you until your thighs trembled and your voice cracked.

And when he rose again, face soaked, lips swollen, he wiped his chin with the back of his hand like a sinner licking his fingers after communion.

“Now,” he rasped, voice ruined, “do I get my week?”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into another kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

“Not until you fuck me stupid.”

His grin was feral.

He didn’t undress. Just unzipped his pants, pulled himself free, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

You gasped—not in pain, in delight—at how fast, how hard, how deep he went.

No gentleness. No hesitation. Just the sound of skin slapping and your moans echoing off the velvet walls.

“Say it,” he growled, biting your shoulder. “Say I’m your favorite.”

You bit his neck hard enough to draw blood.

He fucked you harder.

He gripped your throat again, squeezing this time, just right—not enough to cut air, but enough to make you dizzy.

You laughed, breathless. “My favorite. Always.”

He groaned. And when he came, it was violent—deep, full-body shuddering, collapsing against you, his hips still grinding, still chasing more.

You held him there, nails digging into his back. Not letting go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

He was yours.

And he’d never really be free.

But you’d let him believe it.

For now.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You remember the first time your father taught you how to make a man beg. You couldn’t have been older than ten.

He didn’t use his hands—not at first. No, he used words. His voice like silk dipped in cyanide, slow and lethal. You watched him lean over the trembling junkie chained to the radiator, smile like a phantom, and whisper things that turned fear into submission. You memorized every word. Every cadence. Every tremble. It was better than any lullaby.

He turned to you afterward, lighting one of those handcrafted, tar-black cigarettes he always smoked, the ones he rolled with opium, crushed petals, and a whisper of something that made your head float. You reached for one too. He let you. Said you were ready. You remember the burn in your throat, the dizziness. You remember how he watched you, pride gleaming in those godless eyes.

“Pain is leverage,” he said. “Desire is control.”

And you? You never forgot.

Even now, years later, you carry that same cigarette between your lips. Your own blend, stronger. Your concoction—laced with enough euphoria to numb the ghosts, but not enough to forget him. Never him.

You miss him more than you’re willing to admit.

That crooked smile, the way he touched your hair after a good kill. How he taught you to cut a man open without flinching. You didn’t learn love from him. Not in the way others did. But you learned loyalty. You learned control. You learned how to keep someone under your thumb with a whisper and a touch. How to reward obedience with ecstasy and punish defiance with pain.

He never raised a hand to you, not unless you wanted him to.

You were his masterpiece, after all. His perfect creation in a world gone feral.

Other children had dolls and birthday parties. You had body bags and blood-slicked hands. You had evenings in the red light of Sinthral’s back alleys, watching as your father auctioned souls for favors, letting you sit on his lap while he bartered with pimps and politicians. You were quiet then. Selectively mute, but never unheard. When you spoke, people listened. When you smiled, men wept.

You were made to rule.

He said so every night as he curled around you in the velvet dark, smoke curling from his mouth like a blessing. "You're better than me," he'd murmur against your ear. "Smarter. Colder. You'll have more blood on your hands than I ever did. And they’ll worship you for it."

And you do.

Now, Sinthral pulses beneath your feet like a living thing. The city bends to your will—its underbelly, its deviant heartbeat, its red-lit temples of flesh and sweat. You own it all. Strippers, killers, junkies, saints. And they all bow to the woman who learned everything from the only man she ever called god.

You lie to lovers with soft sighs and cold hands. Let them take you, fuck you, ruin themselves in your name. You moan for them. You choke on them. You straddle their laps like a girl in love. And inside? Nothing. Not even a ripple.

But when you light a smoke, lean back, and remember his breath against your skin, that emptiness almost feels like something.

You keep his ring on a chain around your neck.

You wear his cologne.

You fuck men who remind you of him and kill the ones who dare try to be more than that.

You let yourself cry once, years ago. Just once. Genuinely. In the room where he died. On the silk sheets still stained with your blood and his. And then you lit a cigarette and never looked back.

Now, they call you Queen. Goddess. Monster. And they’re all right.

You never loved anyone. Not really.

But you were his. And he was yours.

And in this city of sin, you wear your grief like a crown and your past like armor.

Let them come. Let them worship. Let them die.

You’ll smile like he taught you. And light another smoke.

♡ Fun Fact. Sinthral is based off an actual setting I created in my epic. This is a vanilla / lighthearted version of the place.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @poopooindamouf

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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.