honey 🍯

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You ought to have knocked on wood before finishing your thought – you admonished yourself with eyes squeezed tightly shut and a punishing bite to your lower lip.

It's funny – you winced – how his voice is so casual, so breezy and laidback, all cool and friendly – funny how it sends such spiky goosebumps down your spine.

You ignore him, trying to squeeze past him – quick and dexterous as you attempt to slip away and disappear out the door – maybe be so lucky to lose him in the crowd.

"Whoa, whoa- you tryna run off on me?" He joked. His large hands held up to block your way. 

You watch the rest of your classmates leave – leaving you to fend for yourself. But you couldn't really blame them… none of you wanted to explain new bruises to worried parents at home.

He was like a shark circling, and if he smelt blood in the water, you were as good as done for. And you were like an open cut.

"Now, what did I do to deserve a disappearing act, huh?" He pouted. His head tilted, blocking out the lights in the ceiling, shadowing his already scary face. 

You nearly squeaked instead of speaking. "Please- I- I-"

"Calm down, will yah?" He dismissed. Flashing you a wide smile – the one that nearly fooled you into believing he was a good and decent guy. "I ain't come to pick on yah…"

You didn't listen. Once again, you bravely tried to push past him with your bag squeezed tightly to your chest – trying to rush to the door.

But his size was like the door itself. Big and squared. Muscly and tough as he blocked your way effortlessly. Though, no less bothered with your insistent attempt at running away from him.

"Now, when I tell you to do something-" He laughed passive-aggressively as his hand reached out to clutch the handle on your bag, yanking you back. "You should perk up and listen, yeah? Use that head of yours for something useful for once."

His knee rode up between your thighs – making you whimper where you stood, caged between his thick arms and the desk behind you.

"Wouldn't wanna make me angry now, do yah?"

His breath tickled your face, and you bowed your head under his gaze – unable to take your eyes off of the veins flexing along his beefy arms as his large hands gripped the table’s edge, sleeves rolled up like usual – the sight of his knuckles whitening, making you queasy with unease.

You tried ducking away once again. "Please, I need to-"

But he just clicked his tongue at the measle effort. Cutting you off yet again. 

"You don't need to do anything but stand here and entertain me." He decided with a voice a bit more biting than before.

You jolted, your eyes round and wide as you looked back up into his glare.

He laughed out a lighthearted chuckle before his hand broke off from marring the desk – scratching the back of his neck with an apologetic smile – serving a small effort at easing your worries where you stood tense and rigid in your place in front of him.

"Thing is…” He started once again, his tone back to normal – or whatever he wanted you to think was his normal. “Coach is gonna kick me off the team if I don’t get my grades in order.” He explained. “So’s thinkin’ since you’re such a good little nerd, you wouldn’t mind helpin’ me out.”

His hand reached out to tickle your chin.

“M’sure havin’ a cute little nerd-tutor like you is exactly what I need.”

Your throat was so tight you thought you might just choke. “I don’t-”

“Good!” He boasted over your pitiful protest. “Since y’got nothin’ better to do, how ‘bout we just head straight for my dorm right now?” He asked – though you knew better than to think it was a question. “Le’me carry that for yah-”

He yanked your backpack from your chest, ripping it out of the tight hug before throwing it over his own shoulder.

“I can carry you too if yah want?” He posed – smirk loud on his face as he placed his large paws at your waist – followed quickly by you shooting your arms forward to shove him off in protest.

But though you thought you’d put in some strength behind it, the boy in front didn’t budge at all. 

He just arched a brow as though asking if that was really all you had. And you hoped dearly he couldn’t see how the stiff muscles of his shredded chest had actually strained your wrists instead.

“What do you say, short stuff?” He leaned in, his breath foggy on your glasses and hot on your cheeks, as his hands clawed themselves into the fat of your waist, pulling you off your feet just a bit.

“N- no, thank you.” You stuttered out, stumbling a bit as you braced yourself against him. Your eyes squished close as you bowed your head away from him in a mix of fear and embarrassment while you suppressed the mortifying feeling of nearly pissing yourself.

But the tall boy realized little of your inner turmoil – rather enjoying it as he scoffed out an amused laugh at you. “A'ight then, come on.”

He yanked you along – his large paw gripping your arm as you struggled to keep up with his long strides. Nearly needing to resort to jogging where you otherwise tripped when the gap between the two of you became so large you had to skip a step or two to catch up – and before you even realized it, you were already standing outside the boy’s dorm waiting for him to find his keys.

He unlocked the door and welcomed you inside with the same grace of a warden showing a prisoner to their cell – with the weight and breadth of his warm hand on the small of your back as he nudged you inside.

The room had an overwhelming dank scent of both bodyspray and sweat and other things you’d only expect to smell in a boy’s locker room.

“Yo.” Came another voice from inside.

“Sup, roomie.” Your bully replied lazily. Grinning at how you gripped his shirt, all but jumping into hiding behind him. 

You’re cute…

“Who’s that you got there?” His friend arched a brow at you, where you peaked at him from behind your bully’s sleeve.

“I’mma need the room.” He announced, not really answering the question.

The roommate then scoffed with a grin, beholding you with slim eyes for a moment, then scoffed once more before he got up to leave.

“Don’t hit the books too hard – Coach’ll have your ass if you don’t bring your A-game later.” He warned, pulling his gym bag up on his shoulder as he excused himself.

You looked around once he was gone, spotting dumbbells and other equipment – and quickly realized how there must be many more muscles beneath his shirt than what you’d already borne witness. 

“So- uhm-” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you awkwardly turned to the boy. “Where're your books?”

Your bully smiled, taking a casual step toward you. “My books?” He asked, nowhere near even trying to sound the least bit genuinely confused.

“Your- uhm...” You paused, feeling uneasy. “Textbooks?”

His smile sharpened. “That’s cute.” He mocked sweetly while buttoning up the small black buttons of his white uniform shirt, giving a flash of those muscles you’d been anxiously anticipating. “You actually thought we were gonna study?”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Miya twins, Tendou, Ukai ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

Full fic with smut available here:

♡ List of Fandoms and Characters.

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

Ace Attorney: N/A

Arcane: PTSD! Jayce

Blue Lock: Michael Kaiser, Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Shidou Ryusei, Yoichi Isagi

Boku no Hero Academia: Dabi, Katsuki Bakugo, Villain! Midoriya Izuku

Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: Hiroki Dan

Death Note: Light Yagami

Demon Slayer: Sanemi Shinazugawa, Tengen Uzui

Dishonored Series: The Outsider

Genshin Impact: Childe, Dainsleif, Kaeya, Pantalone, Scaramouche, Xiao, Rex Lapis

Haikyuu!!: Atsumu Miya, Futakuchi Kenji, Hajime Iwaizumi, Kei Tsukishima, Keishin Ukai, Kentarou Kyotani, Oikawa Tooru, Suna Rintarou, Tendō Satori, Tetsurou Kuroo, Yūji Terushima

Honkai Star Rail: Aventurine, Boothill, Caelus, Jiaoqiu, Mr. Reca, Mydei, Sampo Koski

How to Live as an Illegal Healer: Seunghyeon Kang

Hunter x Hunter: Hisoka Morow, Pariston Hill, Uvogin

I'm Not That Kind of Talent: Demon Aru, Duke Illuster Starbe

Jujutsu Kaisen: Kenjaku, Naoya Zen'in, Ryōmen Sukuna, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Yuji Itadori

Kill The Hero: Kim Woo-Jin, Park Yong-Wan

Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: Claude, Gusion, Suyou

MONSTER: N/A

Naruto Shippuden: Deidara, Hidan, Kabuto Yakushi, Kisame Hoshigaki, Zabuza Momochi

One Punch Man: Boros, Garou, Suiryu

Reverend Insanity: Fang Yuan

TOUCHSTARVED: Mhin, Player Character, Vere

Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Bill! Sans, Dust! Sans, Error! Sans, Fresh! Sans, Ink! Sans, Horror! Sans, Killer! Sans, Nightmare! Sans, Shattered Dream! Sans, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans

Wuthering Waves: Geshu Lin, Scar

Your Throne: Eros Orna Vasilios

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

❤︎ 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.

Well… suppose it wouldn’t hurt if he listened sometimes. Or no, that’s not fair. You’d have to speak up first in order for him to listen. Still, you think… he should be able to tell without you saying anything. 

You don’t even know what you’re complaining about, really… It's not as if he’s done anything overtly bad. You just feel… well, you suppose you just feel a little left out. He’s so dominating in everything he does—you just end up being swept along in the process. He doesn’t ask for your input, nor do you give it. Things just happen the way he wants them to before you’ve even agreed. You don’t even think he recognizes it himself, how he makes decisions you’re supposed to be making together on your behalf.

He bought the house without telling you, for starters. But it was a wedding present and a nice surprise, so you’re not mad about it exactly. But given how big a step it was, it still feels strange to have been on the outside. Then he sprung that vacation on you and even called your boss to schedule your leave—only a month after your honeymoon, no less. Not to mention the wedding itself—how all the arrangements were already done before you’d even sat down with the wedding planner, of whom was his choice. In some ways, or in many ways, you felt as if you were just a part of the decor.

But it’s not as if you aren’t happy—because you are. And it’s not as if you don’t love him—because you do. It’s just well… You know it’s not exactly fair, but you’re beginning to feel a little taken advantage of… as if he doesn’t even care about you or your thoughts and feelings as long as you’re keeping him happy.

But you can’t keep feeling that way without telling him, you decide. You’re sure none of it is his intention. You’ve never taken an interest in decision-making, so why would he think you’d want to? For all his prowess, you can’t exactly expect him to read your mind, either.

So, tonight’s the night you’ll finally say something. You want to be included. If he’s hiring a new maid, you wish to be a part of it. If he’s buying a new TV, you want to help pick out which one. If he’s taking you out to dinner, you want to be informed, preferably beforehand. Even if all he’s doing is getting his hair cut, you want him to tell you about it.

“Hello, welcome home,” you greet once he staggers into the bedroom, looking tired yet no less neatly put together than always.

“Hello, my sweet,” he mirrors, voice gruff with the toils of the day as he marches over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

It’s late. You’ve already gotten dressed for bed, having been just about ready to cut your losses and postpone the talk for tomorrow.

He could have told you he was working after hours. No, he should have.

You were just about to switch off the night lamp and go to sleep—but find yourself feeling redetermined now.

This was just another one of those things you can bring up as an example, after all.

“I-”

“God, I missed you today. Felt like work took an eternity,” he groans, hurriedly removing his suit with sloppy movements, throwing his jacket on the floor, shirt quickly following before he’s back on you. “Give me those pretty lips—I’m starving.”

He takes your mouth with his, one hand steadying him against the bedframe while the other works on unbuckling his belt, hunching over where you lay.

You put your hands on his bare chest to distance him, asking, “Can it wait a bit?”

He drops his pants on the floor and climbs on top of you, face buried in your neck while muttering, “No, not really. Been waiting all day.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something-” you try again, to no use.

“No talking tonight—none, except pillow talk.”

He says it with a smile. You feel it against your neck—his teeth and tongue and the heat of his voice.

You’re sure he means it playfully, and yet you freeze, feeling a little sick.

“But I really need to—”

“Omegas are supposed to obey their Alphas, you know.” 

His touch isn’t rough, but it’s not without force, but more than that it’s those words that make your heart jump and then stutter. 

You hold your breath, but it goes unnoticed by him or maybe ignored—you’re not sure which. It shocks you—scares you even, but then, following the original freight, your heart sinks, and you feel nothing but disheartened and disappointed.

And then, even a little angry.

“Oh…” you mumble, lying still beneath his onslaught. “I guess I thought I was yours ‘cause I wanted to be, but I see now…” Your brows cinch with many feelings between them. “I had it wrong.”

He halts then—struck with a sudden pang of guilt maybe, or perhaps just puzzled by your words. Whatever the case, the former rush he’d been in is gone, and he looks down at you—finally.

“What? What do you mea-”

“No, no, never mind. I was out of line,” you brush him off—harshly, and he blanches, going rigid. “Do what you want—you’re the Alpha, after all—so by all means.”

You turn your head to the side and lie still.

Eyes prickly and throat tight, you push the words out all stiff and hoarse, “I have no right to stop you, and even if I did, it’s not like I could. But who cares, right? Nothing I think matters.”

“Baby, you know that’s not what I mea–” he tries.

“Then what did you mean?” you all but bark, snapping to face him again. But however pointed your glare is, there’s no mistaking the now visible tears brimming in your eyes.

Seeing it, he stiffens even more, undaring to move. Trying to make his voice softer, “Don’t cry.”

But his acts of comfort are far from sufficient.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Good, you think—it better. He made you uncomfortable when he ignored your wishes, so why shouldn’t you? And ignore him in turn?

“Funny that, isn't it?” you continue. “The only thing I have against you is a pesky few tears. Would you like me to turn around, maybe?” 

You know you’re guilt-tripping him—and you’re not sure why or if it’s the right thing to do, but even so, you couldn’t find it in you to stop either—no, not until you had punished him, for some reason.

“If you hide my face in a pillow, maybe you won’t hear it either–”

“Please stop,” he finally begs, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

You stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s apologizing for. And though the thought of asking him to clarify strikes you, it doesn’t feel important. Those weren’t the words you wanted to hear.

You sigh then, trying to calm yourself down. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to see me—to listen—I need you to respect me.”

He looks up again, this time with a deeply remorseful expression warping his face. “I do. I’m sorry-”

“Really?” you question. It's a little harsh, you admit, but it's what you need, “Then get off me and go sleep downstairs.”

He’s rigid under your admonishment. Shocked by your claims, yet begrudgingly ashamed by the truth in them. 

You were right. He wasn’t paying attention. And by the looks of it, he hasn’t been paying attention for a while.

 “Okay,” he ends up agreeing.

Sliding off the bed like a shunned dog, he walks back to the door he’d only just come through a moment ago.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, he looks back—head still bowed.

“Good night.”

You feel a little bad about how it turned out, but you steal yourself. You wanted to be alone right now. In fact, you think it would do you both some good.

“We'll talk tomorrow. Good night.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Gojo ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Geto ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Nanami ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Choso ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Toji ˚₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You looked like her. Perhaps it was fate—a cruel, twisted joke—that he met you while you were unraveling, a creature tearing themselves apart, playing men in your twisted games. But he’s only trying to fix you. To show you love. Isn’t that what every woman wants? To be safe? To be cherished? So why do you look at him like that, those sharp, accusing eyes every time he steps into the room where he’s had to lock you away.

It hurts, honestly.

It hurts to see you like this. Starving yourself. Throwing the food he brings like some ungrateful animal. How could you reject what he offers so freely?

He’s only trying to love you. He is a good man.

He tells himself that it’s only temporary. That one day you’ll see things his way. Understand his love. Accept it. You’ll stop glaring at him like he’s the villain in your story. You don’t understand what he’s done for you. The way he’s pulled you from the filth you surrounded yourself with. The sacrifices he’s made, the lengths he’s gone to. He quit his job, you know. Walked away from the mindless grind just to be here for you, to give you his undivided attention. To make sure you didn’t slip away.

But you’re ungrateful.

Every scream, every snarl, every slap of your hands against the locked door only pushes him further.

“You’re only hurting yourself,” he murmurs through the door one evening, his tone calm despite the clench in his chest. Sitting outside your door, a tray of untouched food at his feet. Wondering if you can hear the way his hands tremble, how the silverware rattles faintly against the porcelain.

“I just want to take care of you.” A slight break in his voice as he swallows hard, wiping at his eyes before the tears can fall. He’s stronger than this. He has to be. For you.

Inside, you’ve gone silent. He pictures you curled up in the corner of the room, glaring at him from the shadows. It’s all right.

Because he can wait, at least that's what he keeps telling himself again and again, kneeling outside your door, fingers flexing against his knees. He’s patient. He has to be. Because love takes time, and you—you need time to understand. To realize that he is what’s best for you.

Inside, the silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, a sound. The rustle of movement. The faintest shift in your breath.

A victory.

Or so he thinks.

Because on the other side of that door, past the locks and the chains and the devotion he so freely offers, you stir to wakefulness, not with revelation, not with gratitude, but with a headache thrumming behind your eyes and cold leather biting against your throat.

The weight of the collar is the first thing you notice. Snug, pressing into your pulse every time you swallow. Then the scent—leather, faintly oiled, carrying the warmth of Nanami’s hands. Your hands shoot up to claw at the thick strap, but the padlock at your throat keeps it in place, metal pressing into the delicate skin just beneath your jaw.

There were a few probable causes for your current predicament—what led to the leather collar snug around your pretty neck. But none of that mattered as much as the pounding in your skull, the ache settling behind your eyes as you blinked up at the overhead lights. Didn’t he at least have the decency to use softer lighting?

What a bitch, however you suppose you don't have room to talk.

The floor beneath you is hard and unforgiving. Muscles aching from curling up on yourself, stiff from the lack of proper bedding. The familiar scent of him lingers on the blanket thrown over your shoulders—a cruel mockery of comfort when everything else has been stripped away, besides the party dress and the pretty pink panties he gifted you. One that you reluctantly accepted.

If you're going to be in hell, you might as well have good hygiene

You don’t bother fighting the nausea curling in your stomach. When you retch, dry-heaving into the metal bucket placed beside you, Nanami is already there. His hand cups the back of your head, not rough, but firm enough to keep you from collapsing. His thumb strokes the nape of your neck, a soothing gesture that sends a fresh wave of revulsion up your spine.

“You’ll feel better soon,” he murmurs, his voice warm, comforting. A priest at the altar, murmuring his blessings. His other hand dips a cool cloth into water, pressing it against your fevered skin. The sharp scent of lavender curls into your nose, soft, familiar—a calculated comfort.

You tremble against him, throat raw from sickness, body aching with exhaustion.

"There we go," he breathes, tucking your damp hair behind your ear with infuriating tenderness. Thick gentle fingers trail down, grazing the leather collar at your throat, the touch feather-light leaving goosebumps in their wake. His thumb lingers just beneath the padlock, where its cool weight presses heavily against your collarbones, a declaration of ownership masked with love.

"You were so wild before," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his lips warm against your fevered skin. The scent of him—clean, familiar—fills your lungs, suffocating in its patience. "But I’m making you better."

The words settle over you like a second skin, sinking past flesh, past resistance, burrowing deep into something raw. You knew what you did. You understood. You played your games, used men like pawns, flashing that pretty, painted smile in exchange for something as trivial as a new handbag.

Nanami had been sweet. An easy man to play. Sickeningly so. That was the problem.

That kind of man wasn’t fun for girls like you, was he?

No, you never wanted the family man. You never wanted someone who’d make you believe love was anything but a slow, agonizing ruin. You wanted the thrill, the chase—a man who played just as dirty as you did. Someone who kept you clinging, desperate, always teetering on the edge of a high. Like the drugs that were once in your system.

Key word: were.

As your head hung over the metal bucket, body wracked with tremors as the sickness ate away at you. Nanami’s fingers wove through your hair, gently pulling it back, grooming you perhaps, ever the devoted man. A cool towel pressed against the fevered skin of your nape, his touch careful, considerate. The kind of love that should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

When was this hell going to be over? Time blurred, lost in the fevered haze of withdrawal - the cold sweats, the violent mood swings, the nausea that never seemed to end. It was torture. And worst of all? It was with a man who wanted nothing more than to love you. You sucked in a shaky breath, only to feel the press of warm lips against your temple. The sharp scent of vomit clung to you, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. Nothing ever did.

At first, you had free reign, a spacious room, carefully tucked sheets, the softest pillows—a false sense of luxury, a familiar trap. And just like back then, he slept beside you. Just like when you’d bat your lashes, pout up at him, and coax another trip to that one five-star resort.

You ruined it, of course. Tried to smash a lamp over his head, thinking—hoping—he was the kind of man who would crumble at the first sign of defiance. But you underestimated him. Nanami does go to the gym. Nanami can pin you down in a second flat. And he can ignore the obvious hardness pressing against your thigh as he held you there, his expression stoic with mild discomfort while you thrashed beneath him, seething.

Like a rabid dog, you lost your privileges. The luxury suite was downgraded to a locked room with a steel door. Did no one at home renovations question a purchase like that?

“Feeling any better, honey?” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple before planting another slow, deliberate kiss. “Got all that nasty, revolting stuff out of your system?” His voice was warm, soothing, like a lullaby meant to calm a restless child. “Sweet girls should know better,” a soft murmur just as his breath ghosted over your skin. “Those pills aren’t candy. That powder was giving you nosebleeds…” He sighed, the weight of his disappointment sinking into every syllable. “God, if only you had told me sooner…”

Another kiss. Then another. His lips moved in slow, measured worship—against your temple, down your jaw, pressing lingering warmth into fevered skin. Your stomach twisted with something far worse than withdrawal.

“Get off me,” you managed to rasp, voice raw from retching, screaming, and the sheer helplessness of it all. However, his grip on your hair remained gentle, his fingers threading through the damp strands with sickening patience.

You weren't some pet. You weren't some wild animal that was sent to become domesticated.

The realization scorched itself into your fevered skin, cutting through the haze of withdrawals, the weakness in your limbs as a primal instinct crawled it's way back to the surface like the bile burning in your throat. You moved fast, faster than he expected. Or maybe he let you think that. With all the strength you could muster, you lashed out, nails dragging down his cheek, desperate to leave something—anything—of yourself behind. A mark. A reminder that you weren’t just some pet for him to cradle and fawn over. A sharp inhale. His hand shot up, seizing your wrist before you could strike again. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t curse. He didn’t throw you off like he should’ve.

Instead, Nanami hummed—soft, thoughtful. “That’s not very nice, sweetheart.” His grip on your wrist tightened, the pressure blooming into a dull ache, not to bruise, not enough to break - just enough to teach. Just enough to pull you to your senses, past that fight raging in your blood, past the foolish notion that you were anything but his to handle.

Your breath came out in ragged bursts, your body still weak, still trembling from the sickness and withdrawals, but your hatred burned through the fatigue. You bucked against him, fought against the grip pinning you in place, but he only sighed, shifting to straddle your waist.

“You always make things so difficult,” he murmured, thumb tracing the frantic pulse at your wrist. “But that’s alright.” A fresh surge of rage flared in your chest. You twisted, trying to slam your forehead into his, bite at the hand that dared to touch you so gently when all you wanted was to claw him apart. But Nanami was faster.

The moment your body lurched forward, he shifted, maneuvering with ease, and suddenly, you were back to being flat on your back, wrists pinned above your head. The worst part? The absolute worst part? He looked amused. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just… understanding. Like this was something he had expected. Like this was just another piece of you he was willing to take, to mold, to love despite the blood smeared across his cheek. And that—that was what made you truly sick.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple as if you weren’t spitting curses at him. “It’s hard. But I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

His forehead met yours, the weight of his hips sinking into you as he straddled your waist - not enough to allow a dull ache to bloom, just enough to break down resistance, to remind a straying dog where it belonged. Just to remind you who was in charge.

Had he been taking obedience classes?

“Now,” he breathed, voice steady, unshaken. “Are we done with this little tantrum?”

You thrashed beneath him, but it was useless, just like the other hundred times. His grip was firm, pressing you into the thin mattress like you belonged there—beneath him, beneath his will. Your pulse pounded against his palm, fast and frantic, but his thumb only stroked lazily over the racing vein at your wrist.

Then, just as suddenly as he had pinned you, he released you.

You barely had a second to react before his hand shot out again, fingers curling around your throat. Not squeezing. Not choking. Just resting there, warm and heavy. A warning perhaps, you just don’t think he has the balls to do it. 

“You want to act like a rabid dog, sweetheart?” His voice was quiet, terrifyingly so. The gentle affection was gone, replaced with something icier. Something detached. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Your nails bit into his wrist, your body arching up in defiance, but he didn’t budge. Didn’t flinch. His grip only tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.

“No more soft beds,” he murmured, pressing the words into your skin as his hands tightened. “No more silk sheets. No more warm baths or gentle touches.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your trembling lips.

“You want to bite the hand that feeds you?” A humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Fine. Then you can crawl for your meals.”

He let go of your throat with a soft pat, standing up with a quiet sigh, like this was some minor inconvenience he had to deal with. He wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, staring down at the crimson streaks like they were nothing more than spilled ink.

Then he looked at you.

And for the first time, you felt it.

The absence of warmth. The weight of his exhaustion, the slow fraying of whatever patience he had left.

"You think you're untouchable," he mused, dragging a hand through his hair. "That you're special. That you  get to hurt and take without consequence."

He crouched down, resting an elbow on his knee as he met your glare head-on, eyes cool and impassive.

"You’re not," he said simply. Then he stood and turned toward the steel door.

"You want to be wild?" His hand hovered over the lock, fingers flexing before he pushed the heavy door open. "Then be wild. But don’t expect me to stand around while you’re harming yourself."

From that day on, things… changed. The plush mattress you once lounged on was stripped away, replaced with a thin, unforgiving mat. The silken sheets, the delicate comforts—gone, as if they had never existed. Meals were no longer fed to you with gentle hands. No more coaxing words. No more warm fingers brushing against your lips, testing your temperature with soft concern. Instead, he would drop a bowl at your feet with all the care of someone feeding a stray. Atop the meager meal, two small pills would always sit.

One white—something to sedate you.

The other, small and blue—birth control.

A declaration of ownership. A reminder that your body was still his, even if his arms no longer held you.

Because holding was for lovers. lovers who didn’t act like rabid dogs.

So you resisted. Of course, you did. You let the food sit untouched, let your stomach cramp and twist with hunger, let your body weaken until your limbs shook when you tried to stand. You thought maybe—maybe—you could make him break first. That he would give in, that he would fold like before, press his lips to your forehead and murmur, please, sweetheart, eat for me.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the patience drained from his eyes, his jaw locking tight as he knelt in front of you, gripping the bowl with calloused fingers. His gaze flickered as if debating whether to speak, whether to reason with you. He didn't. Instead, he scooped the rice porridge into his hand and forced it between your lips, fingers prying past clenched teeth.

You gagged, choked, tried to twist away. His palm pressed against your jaw, keeping your mouth shut until you swallowed. Until he was sure you wouldn’t spit it back in his face.

Starvation wasn’t an option.

Not when he owned your survival.

“You want to act like an animal,” he murmured, voice devoid of emotion, “then I’ll feed you like one.”

The warmth was gone.

The same warmth you used to tease him about—back when he would glance over at you during a late-night drive to some high-end restaurant, willing to drop a small fortune just to see you indulge in luxury. And yet, you’d barely pick at the expensive food, more interested in texting other men under the dim glow of candlelight.

You were a bitch. Now, he was simply treating you like one.

You gasped and choked, trying to spit out the food, but his hand never wavered, pressing firm against your jaw, making sure you swallowed every last grain.

Then came the water. No cups. No careful tilts of a glass to your lips like before. Just a shallow bowl, filled to the brim, set down in front of you like a challenge. And when you refused, glaring up at him through sweat-slick lashes, he sighed. A sharp whistle. Then his fingers curled around the leather collar at your throat, yanking you forward—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you. Your hands shot up to claw at his wrist, to rip away the restraint, but he was faster. Stronger. With humiliating ease, he forced you to your knees, your body collapsing against his leg, the cool steel of the leash chain rattling as he kept you close.

“I won’t let you dehydrate,” he said simply, before lowering his voice. “Drink.”

Water sloshed as he poured more into the bowl, the surface rippling, reflecting your own hollow-eyed stare. You should have fought harder. Should have spit in his face, should have lunged for his throat like the dog he thought you were. But you were so thirsty. Your tongue felt swollen, and cracked, your throat raw from retching, from screaming, from the hours of resistance.

You wanted to win. You however wanted water more. So you lowered your head, heart hammering, hating yourself, hating him, hating everything as your lips finally touched the surface.

Nanami’s grip loosened.

He let go of the leash.

When you were done, trembling and gasping, wiping at your chin with shaking fingers, you finally dared to look up. He was staring down at you, his face impassive, unreadable. But for just a second—just a flicker of a moment—you saw it. Fondness. So brief, so fleeting, but it was there. A slight softening of his eyes before he quickly looked away. What was worse—what was truly pathetic—was the tent in his pants, the way even he wasn’t above something as base as lust.

As water dripped from your lips, you looked up at him, impassive. Unmoved. He could play at being above it all, at being some unshakable, disciplined man, but in the end? He was just like the rest.

You smiled, shifting onto your knees as you reached for him—Only to have your hand smacked away. Gently, of course. 

“Bad dog,” Nanami said coolly. “That’s only for wives.”

Your brows lifted before a sharp, breathy laugh left your lips.

“Not bitches?”

You licked the lingering water from your lips, watching the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. “It’s fine. You can say it. You want to, don’t you? You want to put me in my place. Because that’s all this really is, right?”

You tilted your head, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “This isn’t about making me better—it’s about punishing me. About putting me on my knees, making sure I crawl for everything I used to have. Making sure I know that I’ll never be anything more than your pet. Because you can’t have me as anything else.”

His expression didn’t tremble, but you caught it—the flicker of something behind his eyes, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. Good. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice to something saccharine, that dripped with venom.

“You’re getting revenge, aren’t you, Kento?”

A smirk curled at your lips.

“Have you been lurking through my phone while I’ve been locked up in here? Watching those videos of me touching myself for other men?”

Silence - a sharp, satisfying crack in his composure.

“The ones I never sent you,” you murmured, smiling cruelly. “Because why the fuck would I? You’re nothing but a pathetic—”

The word never left your lips, because in the span of a second, Nanami moved. Not out of anger, not from your cruel words, no, this was out of sheer coldness. One moment you were smirking, basking in the way you could feel his restraint fraying at the seams—the next, your back hit the thin mattress, wrists pinned above your head with an ease that made your stomach lurch.

You should have expected it.

You wanted it, you still sucked in a sharp breath when his weight pressed down, never hurting—but letting you know, without a shred of doubt, that you weren’t going anywhere. A spark of amusement in his eyes, dulled beneath the weight of lust.

“You think I didn’t know?” His voice was eerily calm. “That you were filthy?” His grip didn’t tighten as you still squirmed against it, more out of defiance than actual struggle. “And yet,” he continued, tone almost conversational, “you mistake me for one of them. Those men you let use you. The ones you let watch you, touch you, forget about you.”

A quiet scoff.

“You think I’m pathetic?” His lips ghosted over your ear, not out of affection, but to let the words sink under your skin. “I could have had you, sweetheart. I could have fucked you in a thousand different ways before you ever thought to look my way.” As dipped lower, quieter, like he was telling you a secret, his grip on your wrists loosened, his knee moving to press against the overwhelming heat between your thighs.

“But I don’t fuck whores.”

Your breath stilled, your body going rigid beneath him. For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your own shallow breathing. Then, he gently nipped against the shell of your ear, the same spot where his praise used to linger.

“But I do make them wives.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, searching, waiting. Not for remorse. Not for shame. For understanding. Because that was what it had always been, wasn’t it? You’d fought him, mocked him, bared your teeth in defiance. You could spit venom, sharpen your words into daggers, try to cut him down where he stood— But you felt it now. The reality of your situation —you felt it—felt the slow lift of the poor excuse of a party dress you’d been wearing for days. The same dress you refused to change, refusing to indulge in the frilly, doll-like things he’d bought for you. Your panties, however—those you had relented on. Gone were the flimsy g-strings you wore to clubs, traded for something softer, something sweeter—pastel pink, delicate lace, ones he had chosen for you.

Domestication, turning you into something worth loving.

Now as he was pulling them to the side. A fevered kiss met your neck, followed by another, his lips burning against your skin, dragging over the sensitive column of your throat. Your breath hitched as he lifted your legs with ease, wrapping them around his waist, pressing closer, deeper, the chain of your leash rattling softly as his fingers curled around it.

You shouldn’t be enjoying this.

You shouldn’t feel warmth coil in your stomach as he gave the leash a gentle tug, not to hurt—not to choke—just to tilt your chin up, to capture your lips more fully. He had never kissed you like this before. Never with this kind of hunger. Yet, even now, even in this moment of possession, he remained patient, controlled, kisses that were consuming, but never punishing. Never cruel. Unlike the men at the clubs, the ones who bit too hard, grabbed too rough, and kissed with carelessness and greed—Nanami kissed you like a man fulfilling a duty. Like a priest at the altar, like a man worshipping something divine.

Even as his thick fingers pried you open, even as your breath stuttered, even as heat flooded through your veins— It was adoration. As your weak legs trembled around his waist, as each soft gasp escaped your cracked lips against your will. You realized what he already knew. You weren't fighting him anymore, no, you were acting like the very thing you despised.

Like a bitch in heat. A bitch willing to be controlled.

To be cared for.

To earn the praise of your owner for rewards.

Spreading your legs without a care in the world as he worked you open, stretching you with patient, meticulous devotion. His thick fingers curled inside you, stroking, coaxing, preparing. You let him. You let him take you in, swallowing each strangled moan between soft kisses, tongues tangling, drool slipping from your parted lips when the kiss finally broke, when you gazed up at him—fevered, desperate, begging for the release only he could grant. To sooth the pulsing ache between your slickened thighs. As your lips parted, murmuring soft begs and breathless pleas, words you never thought you’d say, not to him, not to this man. He had broken you down piece by piece until all you could do was need. And so, finally, he gave you what you wanted.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips as he guided his thick length inside, his movements careful, strokes controlled, pushing deeper and deeper, filling you inch by inch until he reached the hilt. Your head tipped back, mouth parted in a silent cry, the stretch intoxicating, overwhelming, too much and yet not enough. A low groan rumbled from his chest, his breath warm against your neck, his arms caging you in as if he could press you further into the thin mattress, further into him.

A haze clouded your mind, thick and all-consuming, making it impossible to think, impossible to fight. Because what was there left to fight? He had you unraveling for him, allowing him to fill you up into the depths. 

Allowing yourself to be bred like a bitch, after all a litter makes a better dog. Some say a better wife.

Yet, as his cock dragged in slow, shallow thrusts against your velvety walls, reaching depths that had you gasping for air that no longer seemed to come, a small thought began to fester.

What happened to that little blue pill?

You had grown used to its bitter remnants, the way it left a sharp aftertaste in your porridge. At first, you barely noticed it, just a faint hint of something medicinal, something unwelcome. lately… the porridge had tasted sweet. You had assumed it was just him indulging you, adding sugar to make up for the blandness, a small kindness in the cruelty of your confinement.

Before you could dwell on it, his gentle movements pulled you back under, dragging you deeper into the haze, into him. Large rough hands pressed into the backs of your plush thighs, lifting your legs higher, draping them over his shoulders with ease. The shift had you gasping, had you sinking into the thin mattress as he folded you into a mean mating press, pressing himself impossibly deeper.

A pathetic whimper escaped at the stretch, the way the velvety tip of his cock pressed against your cervix, sending a sharp, aching pain curling through your core. Your stomach tightened, coiling around the warmth threatening to escape. Nanami's lips brushed against yours as he shushed you gently, swallowing the sound as if it were something sacred.

Whispering between each rough thrust, every punishing stroke that forced against your cervix as if he were trying to break through to your womb, with every roll of his hips—as if he were carving himself into you.

"I knew you’d come around."

His hips rocked into you, slow and deep, making sure you felt everything, every inch, every deliberate drag of his cock against your walls. Making sure there was no space left between you.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your lips. "I hope you can forgive me."

For what?

For this?

For all of it?

Or for something else, something you hadn’t yet figured out? Something that had tasted sweet in your mouth, something that should have been bitter. Your fingers curled against his arms, weak, unsure, too lost in the pleasure, too lost in him to focus.

The thoughts lingered, a whisper beneath the haze, but it was drowned out by the rhythmic press of his hips, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you, the way he handled you with reverence even now—despite everything, despite your defiance, despite the war you’d fought against him. Your body trembled, unable to do anything but take what he gave, pinned beneath the weight of his devotion.

"That’s it," he murmured against your lips, dragging his mouth along your jaw, nipping gently before soothing the bite with a kiss. "You were made for this, sweetheart."

Your stomach fluttered at the words, at the way he said them—like a man whispering a prayer, a vow. Your hands clawed at his arms, weak and useless, the pleasure drowning out any resistance left in your body. Your mind tried to grasp at that lingering thought, that doubt, but then he shifted, rolling his hips in a way that had your eyes rolling back, had your nails digging into his skin instead.

You felt the moment he broke.

The way his composure finally cracked, his thrusts turning less controlled, less measured as if he could barely hold himself back. His grip on your plush thighs tightened - brusingly as his forehead pressed against yours, breath warm, ragged, desperate.

"We're going to be a happy family," he whispered hoarsely.

The chain of your leash rattled softly as he tugged it again, pulling you impossibly closer as if in fear that'd you run as pleasure curled hot and unbearable in your stomach, and before you could fight it, before you could push down the truth of what he had done to you, the way he had ruined you.

You broke.

Your body shuddered beneath him, your legs tightening around his shoulders, and you felt him smirk against your skin. Felt the groan vibrate against your throat as he finally, finally let go, sinking as deep as he could, filling your womb completely.

A moment of silence followed. A moment where all you could hear was the sound of your own ragged breathing, the hammering of your heartbeat, the slow, careful way he smoothed his hands over your trembling thighs.

The aftermath. A large palm slid down your leg, pressing into the soft flesh as he gently unhooked you from his shoulders, lowering them back onto the mattress. His touch remained steady, grounding, as if he knew you had nothing left to fight with.

You let him.

You let him carry you after, his arms strong, steady, as he lifted your spent body from the thin mattress, ignoring the way your muscles twitched, ignoring the quiet whimper that slipped past your lips.

"Shhh, sweetheart," he murmured, voice gentle now. "I’ve got you."

The room had changed. Gone was the cold steel of your confinement, gone was the cruel mat you had been forced to sleep on.

Because he was carrying you back. Back home, at least that's what he said, though you were sure it wasn't your beloved, lived in apartment.

The bedroom was warm, the dim golden glow of soft lighting replacing the harsh fluorescence of the other room. There in the attached bathroom, a bath was already drawn, warm steam curling in the air, the scent of lavender thick and soothing.

A promise of comfort.

Nanami set you down carefully on the cool bathroom counter, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, his touch unbearably soft. Regret was etched in his stoic features as you noticed him looking into your lifeless eyes that trailed to the roses floating in the bath. Then flickering to the sink where a small white box was placed neatly beside a warmed folded towel.

A pregnancy test. Your breath caught, your stomach twisting as your mind raced with what just happened.

What you allowed to happen to yourself.

Nanami gathered you into his arms once more, carrying you towards the bath, pressing soft, patient kisses along your jaw murmuring soft words about how you don't need to worry about that now. Now all you needed to focus on was comfort. About being a wife.

Ah, you finally understand what happened to the blue pill.