#Nakamoto yuta
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edgarwhitmanwilde · 8 hours ago
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gifs by jsuh
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yuta, mark & jaehyun // 240720 mbc music core interview
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haechaninmyheart · 2 days ago
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yuta’s top 5 kinks
MDNI/18+ CONTENT AHEAD
1. pain inflicting/degrading kink - now i’m not talking about extreme bdsm, he just loves to spank you here and there defo into slapping your pussy also loves to dirty talk to you where you two may be. at a restaurant? while you’re on the phone to someone? you best believe he’s gonna call you his cum slut or start sucking your neck. 
2. choking kink - he loves it when you moan but sometimes you gotta keep quiet right? so he will choke you.
3. role playing kink - i can see him being into teacher x student role play and makes you were a short skirt so he can tease you for handling in your work late
4. edging kink - in line to the role playing kink, he’d also be into teasing you. do you really think he’d let you cum so easily? oh baby girl, you’ve got to earn that
5. power play kink - yuta is a switch leaning dom in my eyes so on the rare occasion he does let you dom at the start, before pushing you back to your place as a sub
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cbeargyu · 2 months ago
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跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife
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summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.
warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.
wc: 12,1k
notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷
part ii. epilogue
taglist: special dedication to this anon.
@beestvng @bamtor1sss
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osaka, japan — summer, 1995.
the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.
at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.
he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.
his rise had been swift and ruthless.
they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.
but fear didn’t keep the police away.
by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.
the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.
“get married,” takuya said.
his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”
yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”
takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”
“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”
but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”
he hated how logical it sounded.
it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.
he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”
yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.
but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.
he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.
he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.
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the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.
“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”
people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.
hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”
you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”
he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.
“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”
you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.
“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”
no one dares to breathe.
fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.
the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.
by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.
he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.
you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.
so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.
you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.
but that night changed everything.
you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?
the knock at your door startled you.
sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.
you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.
riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.
“we need to talk,” he said.
your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.
“what did you do?”
“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”
you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.
“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”
you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”
“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”
your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.
you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.
and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.
not this time.
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the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.
takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.
“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”
yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.
he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.
“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”
before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.
“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”
he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.
takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.
“where did you get these?” he asked.
“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”
yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.
his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.
“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.
riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”
“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.
takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.
“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”
yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.
“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.
“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”
yuta tilted his head slightly.
“opportunity,” he repeated.
there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.
outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.
finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.
“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”
he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.
“and tell her to wear white.”
takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.
as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.
he smiled — slow, dangerous.
“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.
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the car wasn’t riku’s.
you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.
you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.
“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”
he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.
“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.
“you sound like someone in trouble.”
he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.
the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.
“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.
you shook your head. “no. who are they?”
he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.
“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”
“you’re talking about the mafia.”
“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”
you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.
he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.
the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.
your stomach tightened.
you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.
riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.
“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”
you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”
quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.
especially not him.
your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.
riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.
you blinked. “riku—”
he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.
“kneel,” he whispered.
your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.
the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.
riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”
a pause.
then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.
“enter.”
the doors slid open.
and there he was.
seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.
he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.
he just looked at you.
like you were something being weighed.
and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.
something shift.
like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.
the room was quiet.
no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.
he hadn’t said anything.
yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.
he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.
like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.
and right now, his eyes were on you.
you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.
your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.
and yuta noticed.
his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.
you swallowed hard.
“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”
you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.
“stand,” yuta said.
your breath caught.
he wasn’t talking to riku.
you.
he meant you.
with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.
yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.
when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.
interest.
“turn around,” he said.
your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.
you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.
then:
“enough.”
you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.
“how old are you?” he asked.
“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.
his gaze narrowed slightly.
“virgin?”
your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.
you didn’t answer.
yuta arched a brow.
“i asked you a question.”
you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.
“yes.”
a pause.
yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.
“good,” he murmured.
you didn’t know what that meant.
but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.
“leave us,” he said.
just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.
“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.
riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.
and now you were alone.
alone with nakamoto yuta.
his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.
“come closer,” he said.
and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.
as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.
you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.
he didn’t flinch.
he didn’t apologize either.
he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.
“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”
your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”
“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.
the words hit you like a slap.
you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”
“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”
you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.
like you were already part of the machine.
“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”
you almost flinched again. almost.
he noticed.
“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”
you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.
you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.
you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.
“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”
you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”
his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.
“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”
you stared at him.
“you want to marry me.”
“i need to,” he corrected.
“and you expect me to just—”
before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.
“enter,” yuta called.
the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.
“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”
takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.
“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”
you swallowed.
takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”
he looked you in the eye now.
“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”
your heart skipped a beat.
“you want me to marry him?”
yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.
“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”
your breath caught.
“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”
you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.
your cheeks burned.
“and what do i get?”
“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”
his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”
you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.
you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.
“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”
he finally spoke again.
“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”
you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.
but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.
you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.
you crossed your arms.
“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”
yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.
“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”
“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”
you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”
he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.
“both.”
you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.
“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”
he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.
“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”
your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.
“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”
“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”
you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.
he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.
he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.
“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”
your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.
“wear white again.”
“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.
he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.
“good. you’re learning.”
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you didn't sleep the night before.
not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.
riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.
“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”
you pulled the zipper down.
the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.
“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”
“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”
you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.
you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta
you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.
the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.
your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.
you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.
the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.
you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.
he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.
only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.
“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”
the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.
when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.
you turned.
you placed a hand on his chest.
and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.
he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.
you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.
the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.
you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”
you didn’t answer.
but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.
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the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.
the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.
you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.
the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.
then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.
you hated that your skin remembered it.
later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.
he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.
“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”
you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”
he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”
you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”
he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.
“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”
that startled you more than anything.
“…seriously?”
“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”
you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.
you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.
after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.
“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”
you looked up at him, surprised.
“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.
his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”
you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.
“…thanks,” you muttered.
he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”
you snorted. “damn right they did.”
he left without another word.
you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.
and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.
you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.
it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.
slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.
you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.
“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”
you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”
he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”
of course he is.
you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.
you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.
yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.
you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.
“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”
he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.
“go ahead.”
you paused. “can i have privacy?”
that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.
as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.
you dialed. it rang twice.
“y/n?”
his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”
you bit your lip. “…i got married.”
silence.
then—
“WHAT?”
you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.
“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”
you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”
“but—why?!”
you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”
he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”
you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”
his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”
you didn’t answer that.
instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”
after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.
then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”
the door slid open slowly.
yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.
his voice was lower this time. unreadable.
“who’s hitoshi?”
you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”
his jaw tightened. “just answer.”
“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”
“you seemed close.”
“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”
he stared at you a moment longer.
and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,
“…you look like you were made for this.”
you didn’t reply.
but you didn’t look away either.
you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.
yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.
you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.
“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.
you only nodded.
the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.
not really.
yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.
you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.
“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.
yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.
“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”
yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.
takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”
yuta’s jaw flexed.
“it’s not that.”
“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”
“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”
takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”
the car pulled away.
inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.
“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.
“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”
the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.
hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.
his expression was pure disbelief.
you sat down without a word.
“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”
“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”
“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”
“you’re overreacting.”
“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”
you met his gaze evenly.
“i’m safe.”
he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”
“hitoshi—”
“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”
your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”
his face froze.
you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.
“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”
he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.
he sat back.
“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”
you smiled faintly.
“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”
he watched you for a long moment.
“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“i do.”
he nodded.
then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”
you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.
when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.
yuta was waiting when you arrived.
he didn’t speak right away.
but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.
“how was it?” he asked at last.
“expected,” you said.
he didn’t respond.
so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.
“don’t look at me like that.”
his brow lifted. “like what?”
“like you think he’s more than what he is.”
“and what is he?”
you tilted your chin.
“not your problem.”
the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.
he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.
“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”
you met his eyes without flinching.
“then act like it.”
you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.
he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.
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the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.
“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.
you nodded. “always.”
it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.
“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.
you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”
he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.
that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.
you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.
a screech of tires shattered the silence.
your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.
“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.
you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”
his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.
“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.
“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.
“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.
you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”
his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.
“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.
you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”
minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”
you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”
your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”
he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”
they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.
you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.
but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.
“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”
you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”
he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”
just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.
“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”
your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.
takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.
your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.
the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.
the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.
when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.
“you don’t fucking listen.”
“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”
he hesitated.
“where is he?” you demanded.
after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.
room 304.
you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.
he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.
“you’re here.”
“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”
his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”
you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.
“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”
he hummed. “i figured.”
you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.
“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“i didn’t.”
“you’re not invincible, yuta.”
his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”
“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”
he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”
you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”
a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.
“come here.”
you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.
“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.
“your blood.”
he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”
“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”
his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.
“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.
“i’m not,” you lied.
he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”
you didn’t deny it.
then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”
it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.
you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”
his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”
and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.
his lips brushed your forehead.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”
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the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.
you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.
you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.
on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.
“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”
you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.
“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”
you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”
the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.
it was absurd.
and yet you killed it.
even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.
but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.
isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?
she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...
you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.
when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.
“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.
“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”
you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”
by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.
no one stopped you. they knew you by now.
room 304.
you entered without knocking.
yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.
“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.
you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”
he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”
you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”
“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”
“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”
he smirked. “should’ve been there.”
you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.
“you okay?” you asked softly.
“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”
you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.
“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.
“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”
he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.
“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”
“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.
you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”
he raised an eyebrow.
you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.
“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”
he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.
“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”
“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.
“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”
you felt something catch in your chest.
“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”
he swallowed. “i know.”
you reached for his hand. he let you.
“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”
he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.
“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”
“it was.”
he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.
“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”
you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.
“how did i look at you?” you asked.
“like i was worth saving.”
you swallowed hard.
his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.
“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”
you didn’t reply.
you didn’t need to.
you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.
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he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.
the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.
the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.
“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.
one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”
yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.
you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.
you didn’t say anything. neither did he.
you didn’t have to.
he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.
the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.
later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.
“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”
“i just want it done right.”
“it is done right.”
“then let me take it.”
“you don’t need to—”
“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”
he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”
“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.
on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.
the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.
“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”
their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.
inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.
when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.
“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”
you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”
“but i like this version of you.”
“the barefoot maid version?”
“the worried wife version.”
you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”
he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”
you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.
“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.
you looked over. “really?”
“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”
your voice softened. “was she strict?”
he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”
“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.
he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”
“where did she go?”
“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”
you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.
“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”
“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”
he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”
you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.
you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”
he didn’t flinch.
“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”
you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”
he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”
you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.
you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”
“you could stay.”
you looked over your shoulder.
he wasn’t smiling now.
just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.
“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”
you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.
he didn’t move it.
neither did you.
you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.
you didn’t dare give it a name.
not yet.
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teacheryoongi · 10 days ago
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mi viejo [my man]
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250726 YUTA
© tami_ing1026
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gooner127 · 4 months ago
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HEAR ME OUT JOHNNY SUGAR DADDY TEXTS 🔥🔥💯💯
LOVEEEE THE WAY YOU THINK OMG I TRIED MY BEST again idk where tf i was going with this BUT SUGAR DADDY JOHNNY (????) to bf (?!!!) or more so he’s just rich and send u a shit ton of money but same difference🤫 ENJOY NONETHELESS
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1K notes · View notes
atinyjules · 4 days ago
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Closure Was A Lie Ft. Ex!Yuta
A/n: I'm back?? I knoww, I've been gone for a long while 😭 College has been an ass. It's been so hectic and I hate my teacher. She teaches our general classes and my honours paper. Someone save me before I take matters into my own hands.
You should never get back with your ex but in some circumstances, it's allowed, like this one 😭
Genre: Second chance au, angst, fluff, romance
Pairings: Ex!Yuta x Seoa (fem reader)
Warnings: Kinda angsty, mentions of alcohol, they argue, swearing
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The bass thudded through the walls like a second heartbeat.
Bodies swayed, collided, grinded against each other, the air thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and spilled alcohol. Neon lights flickered against half-lit faces, everyone moving like they were trying to forget something.
Yuta didn’t know why he was here.
Well—he did.
He came to unwind. To drink. Maybe hook up. Maybe let some pretty stranger press against him long enough to convince his body that he wasn’t hollow inside.
But deep down—he knew.
He was here because he didn’t want to spend another Saturday night in his apartment thinking about her.
Didn’t want to stare at the couch where they’d once fallen asleep mid-conversation.
Didn’t want to open the fridge and see her favorite soda still sitting in the back. Didn’t want to lie in bed and remember how she always used to steal the covers.
So he let his friends drag him out. Told himself he needed it.
And yet now, two drinks in, a girl dancing way too close, her perfume clinging to his shirt—he still wasn’t feeling it.
His hand rested loosely on his glass, eyes trailing lazily across the dance floor. Detached. Bored.
And then—
He stilled.
There she was.
Seoa.
Like a ghost that had decided to show up in flesh and blood.
Hair tousled in that way he always liked, makeup done just enough to look lethal. A tight black dress hugging her curves like it was made for her. She was laughing at something someone said, head tilted back just slightly, and Yuta could swear the air shifted around her.
He froze. Everything else blurred.
His grip on his glass tightened.
Of course she would be here. On the one night he couldn’t deal with the idea of her, she’d walk in like a dream designed to ruin him.
He hated how his heart still reacted. Hated how his eyes locked onto her like muscle memory.
And worst of all—
He hated how beautiful she looked.
Still the most dangerous thing in the room.
Seoa sighed the second the guy stepped away.
God.
He talked too much. And worse, he talked about himself too much.
She had barely managed to fake a laugh every time he made some sad attempt at a joke. Her cheeks were already starting to ache from pretending to be interested, and her patience was hanging by a thread.
She huffed quietly, shoulders slumping just enough to drop the act.
So much for distraction.
Grabbing her glass, she tipped her head back and downed the rest of her drink in one go. The burn scorched down her throat, harsh and sharp — but welcome. At least that felt real.
Her eyes flicked up toward the ceiling, breathing in the moment of stillness under the pulsing lights. But just as quickly, something tugged her gaze back down — something in the corner of her vision.
She stilled.
Eyes sharp. Chest tightening.
There he was.
Her breath caught.
Across the room, past the swarm of bodies, stood a pair of eyes she hadn’t seen in weeks but knew better than her own reflection.
Yuta.
He wasn’t even trying to look away.
He was just there — half-shadowed, glass in hand, staring like he’d seen a ghost.
Like she was the ghost.
Her stomach twisted.
The fuck is he doing here?
She barely had time to register the spike in her pulse before she grabbed another shot off the tray passing by and slammed it back without a second thought.
She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
She just looked right back at him.
Chin up, fire in her eyes, daring him to do something. Anything.
But beneath the steel — her heart was already screaming.
Because no matter how much she wanted to hate him,
No matter how hard she tried erase him —
His eyes still had the same pull.
Like gravity. Like a song she swore she forgot the words to.
Yuta stood up.
Seoa cursed under her breath.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
She could see it in the way he moved — slow, deliberate, like he knew she saw him. Like he didn’t care who else was in the club or what kind of disaster he might be walking into.
Her heart kicked against her ribs.
Before he could reach her, she pushed off her seat and disappeared into the crowd, weaving between bodies with practiced ease. She moved toward the back of the club, where the noise faded into a low thrum and only a few people lingered — kissing against walls, smoking by emergency exits.
She exhaled hard, pressing a hand to her chest. Stupid. That was stupid. Why did seeing him still feel like this?
And then—
Footsteps.
She turned on instinct, and there he was.
Yuta.
That familiar scowl etched across his face like he’d been holding it in for weeks. Jaw tight, brows low, eyes burning into her like she was a problem he couldn’t solve.
“Did you follow me here or something?”
His tone was accusing, sharp, like it was her fault his night took a turn.
Seoa blinked.
The audacity.
Her lips curled into a scoff as she crossed her arms.
“Follow?” she repeated, voice rising slightly. “You think I have time to go around searching for you?”
She took a step closer, chin tilted up — fearless.
“You and your pride will never change.”
The words were poison laced with truth.
The kind that only hurt because they still knew each other too well.
Yuta's jaw twitched.
She always did that — flipped it around, made him the villain with that sharp tongue and colder stare. Like he wasn’t the one still losing sleep over the way she left.
“Right,” he muttered with a hollow laugh, stepping closer. “Because you’re always so busy pretending you’ve moved on.”
The words hit sharp.
He watched her eyes narrow, her lips press into a tight line — but she didn’t look away. Of course she didn’t. Seoa never backed down, never gave him the satisfaction.
“Tell me, Seoa,” he went on, voice low, bitter. “Do you fake your smiles for everyone, or was that guy earlier just special?”
There it was — the jab.
Not just a jab. A gut-shot.
The mention of the guy she’d been with — the fake laugh, the pretend charm — it was petty, but it was real. It burned seeing her try to enjoy herself with someone who wasn’t him. Seeing her look like she was fine.
And now, here he was, trying to claw some of that hurt back out of her.
Seoa let out a cold, dry laugh.
“Wow.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
“So you’re keeping tabs on who I laugh with now? What’s next — gonna tell me how to breathe without your permission?”
Yuta stepped forward, tension radiating from every inch of him.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
His voice was low, sharp.
“I wasn’t watching. You just make it really damn hard to ignore you.”
“Trust me,” she snapped, “if I knew you were here, I wouldn’t have walked through the damn door.”
“Then leave.”
It was quiet. Hard.
A dare, more than a request.
Seoa blinked. Her chest ached, but her face didn’t show it.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Push me away again so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you’re still not over it.”
Yuta laughed — but there was no humor in it.
Just pain. And exhaustion.
“You walked away, Seoa.”
His voice dropped, bitter and quiet now.
“Don’t turn that into my sin.”
Her breath caught in her throat — just for a second. But she didn’t let it show.
She rolled her eyes and folded her arms, nails digging into her sleeves.
“I walked away because you didn’t stop me.”
Her voice cracked at the edges, soft but sharp.
“You stood there. You let me go.”
That shut him up.
They stared at each other in the dim light of the hallway — just the low bass of the club muffled behind them, like the world was giving them a moment alone to self-destruct.
Yuta’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“You think I didn’t want to?” he asked, stepping closer now. Too close.
“I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But every time we fought, every time I tried to fix it—”
His voice broke slightly.
“You made it feel like I was the only one trying.”
Seoa’s eyes glistened, but she held his gaze.
“And you made it feel like I was the only one hurting.”
The air between them was thick. Every word only stoked the fire more. Every breath was a dare.
Yuta stepped in closer, eyes dark, jaw tense.
“You think I didn’t hurt?” he snapped, voice rising.
“You think I didn’t spend weeks wondering how the hell we ended up like this?”
Seoa's laugh was sharp, bitter.
“Oh, poor you,” she said, voice cutting. “You think I didn’t? I was breaking too, Yuta. Every single night felt like hell.”
“Yeah?” he bit back. “Then maybe you should’ve said something instead of acting like every fight was a reason to walk away.”
“And maybe you should’ve stopped acting like silence was the answer to everything!”
Her voice cracked, hands flying up.
“God, do you even hear yourself? You’d shut down, I’d lash out, and we’d both pretend we didn’t care until someone exploded!”
“You did explode, Seoa!”
His words were harsh, loud.
“You always had to win the fight. Always had to have the last word. It was like talking to a wall—only the wall screamed back.”
“At least I was saying something! You’d just sit there and let me spiral!”
Her voice rose, shaky but furious.
“Like you were too proud to admit you didn’t have it together either!”
Yuta shook his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“I was trying to keep us together, Seoa!”
His voice cracked under the weight of it.
“But every time I reached for you, you made me feel like I was never enough. Like nothing I did could fix it.”
“Because you never actually fixed it, Yuta!”
She stepped forward now, eyes shining with unshed tears.
“You kept dancing around everything. Acting calm while I burned. That’s not love. That’s survival.”
They were toe-to-toe now. Breathing hard. Staring like the next word might break the other.
“We were both on fire,” she said, quieter now, but no less intense.
“We just kept pretending the smoke didn’t mean anything.”
“No,” he muttered.
“We just stopped trying to put it out.”
Her lip trembled.
His fists were clenched.
Their chests moved in sync, hearts pounding hard enough to echo in their ears.
“You hurt me too,” she said finally.
Not a whisper. A blow.
Yuta’s eyes softened just a little, like the words hit a place deeper than all the yelling ever could.
“I know,” he breathed.
And still—neither of them moved.
The silence after the storm was louder than the shouting.
Their words still lingered between them like bruises — raw, tender, still bleeding.
But neither of them spoke.
Seoa looked away first, jaw tight, eyes glassy.
Yuta’s gaze dropped to the floor like it was easier than looking at her — like if he stared at her too long, he’d do something stupid.
The heavy beat of the club behind the walls pulsed around them, but it felt distant now. Faint.
She let out a bitter breath. Awkward. Tired.
“Why am I even doing this…” she muttered under her breath, voice barely loud enough to hear.
Then she sighed — that deep, chest-rattling kind that feels like surrender — and turned around to walk away.
Yuta’s fingers twitched.
Something in his chest panicked.
She was walking again. Leaving.
Again.
His hand shot out and caught her wrist. Not rough — just firm. Just desperate.
She froze.
Her head turned, slow and sharp, eyes unreadable.
“What?” she asked, voice flat. Defensive.
He didn’t answer right away.
He didn’t know how to.
His fingers stayed around her wrist as he stepped closer — close enough that the tension snapped back into the air between them like a live wire.
“I'm not the only one who still feels it,” he said quietly.
His voice was lower now, not angry. Just real.
“This—whatever this is—it doesn’t go away, no matter how much I try.”
Her chest rose.
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but nothing came.
Yuta took another step.
Their faces were inches apart now.
Breath mixing. Eyes locked.
Neither of them moved — but everything was already shifting.
The air buzzed. Thick. Stolen.
And then—
Her eyes flicked down to his lips. Just for a second. Barely.
But he saw it.
That’s when it snapped.
He leaned in.
She didn’t stop him.
And just like that—
Their lips crashed.
Not gentle. Not careful.
It was messy. Hot. Angry. Desperate.
Weeks, months, maybe even years of pain packed into the way his hand found her jaw and her fingers curled into his shirt like she was mad at herself for still wanting him.
It wasn’t about fixing anything.
Not yet.
It was about the burn they never stopped feeling.
And in that moment, they both let it consume them.
They pulled apart, breathless.
Their chests rose and fell in sync, foreheads nearly touching, lips barely inches away.
Seoa’s fingers were still fisted in the fabric of his shirt, her lips kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed.
Yuta’s gaze searched her face.
His hand slid gently up her waist as he slowly pressed her back—until her spine hit the wall behind her.
Not rough. Not forceful.
Just… steady. Firm.
Like he wanted to feel her right there. Real.
He leaned his weight into the space around her, one hand planted on the wall beside her head, the other hovering at her hip, like he didn’t want to go any further unless she told him to.
His eyes locked with hers, fierce and uncertain all at once.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathed.
Not a challenge. A lifeline.
Seoa didn’t say anything.
She just looked at him — really looked — eyes shining, her lashes heavy with emotion.
And then—
Her fingers curled into his collar and yanked him back in.
Their lips met again, harder this time.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
He groaned softly into the kiss, something in him snapping with the way she grabbed him like she needed him to stay right there.
He kissed her like he still remembered how she liked it — the pressure, the angle, the pause between her gasp and his pull.
And still, he was careful. Even in his need, he was watching her.
Because no matter how chaotic this was, no matter how angry they’d been—
He was still soft for her.
Still hers, in a way he hadn’t been for anyone else since.
Her grip on his collar dragged him in again, lips crashing like waves in a storm — loud, angry, breathless.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t tender.
It was a collision.
Yuta groaned against her mouth, hands roaming now — one gripping her hip like he didn’t know how to let go, the other sliding up her side, feeling every inch like he was trying to remember it all over again.
Her back hit the wall harder this time, and she didn’t flinch.
She kissed back harder, nails dragging over his chest like she wanted him to feel what she couldn’t say.
Everywhere they weren’t touching throbbed.
Yuta’s lips left hers only to trail down her jaw, biting lightly just under her ear.
He heard the hitch in her breath, felt her body arch instinctively into his, and it made something in him unravel.
This wasn’t careful. This was clawing.
It was possession laced with regret.
It was months of silence and distance exploding at once.
Seoa pulled at the hem of his shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists like she needed to break him open just to find the parts that still belonged to her.
His mouth crashed back onto hers, rougher this time, like if he kissed her hard enough it would erase the way she’d walked away that night.
Like if she bit back hard enough, maybe it would silence the way his name still echoed in her chest.
Their lips tore apart, breathing ragged and heavy like they’d run straight through a warzone.
Yuta’s forehead dropped lightly against hers, his fingers still ghosting over her waist.
Her lips were swollen, her breath shaky.
But then—
Her eyes opened.
And the moment cracked.
Her chest rose too fast, like the air had turned thin. Her hand pressed against his chest, a barrier this time — not a pull.
Yuta froze, watching her.
“Seoa…”
But she was already shaking her head.
One step back. Then another.
Her body trembled — not from the kiss, not from the closeness — but from the crash of it all coming down at once.
“No…”
Her voice came out small. Frantic.
“No, no—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Her hand flew to her temple as if that would stop the spinning in her head.
She looked at him like he was fire again — but not the kind that warmed.
The kind that burned everything down.
Yuta stood still, chest still heaving, eyes unreadable.
His hands fell to his sides slowly, like he didn’t trust himself to move.
“Seoa,” he tried again, quieter this time.
But her eyes were already darting away.
“I can’t—” she cut him off, backing away like she needed distance just to think. “I just… I shouldn’t have—”
She turned, the words choking in her throat.
And for the first time that night, Yuta didn’t stop her.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because he recognized that look in her eyes.
The same one she’d had the night she left.
She was already walking away.
Fast.
Like the kiss hadn’t just left them wrecked, like her heart wasn’t still racing in time with his.
But Yuta didn’t move at first — just stood there, watching her back get further and further away, his pulse thundering in his ears.
And then it hit him.
She’s leaving again.
But this time, it felt like closure.
“Seoa—”
His voice caught, too harsh.
She didn’t stop.
His heart dropped.
No.
Not again.
He moved.
Three strides, quick and full of panic. He reached out and caught her wrist, the same way he had earlier — but this time there was no heat. No fire.
Just fear.
She froze, barely turning her head.
“Let go, Yuta,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
But she didn’t pull away.
His fingers loosened just enough to let her choose.
But he didn’t let go completely.
His voice, when it came again, was low. Unsteady. Real.
“Don’t leave.”
She didn’t look at him.
Didn’t speak.
“Not like this again,” he said.
“Not without hearing me this time.”
Her eyes finally met his, and there was something raw in them. Torn. Shaken.
“Yuta…”
But he stepped closer. No anger. No pride. Just everything he had left.
“I thought I moved on,” he said quietly.
“I tried. God, I tried—” he laughed, but it broke halfway through.
“But none of them were you.”
Her brows furrowed, mouth parting.
He kept going.
“You were my chaos. You tore me apart.”
He swallowed, his voice rough now.
“But you were also the only person who ever really had my heart. And I didn’t know it then. Not clearly. But I do now.”
The silence stretched.
The club's bass still pulsed in the distance, like a heartbeat refusing to let go.
He stepped closer again, eyes flicking down to her hand.
“I’m not asking for anything right now,” he said, softer than ever.
“I just… don’t disappear on me again. Not tonight.”
She didn’t pull away.
Her eyes shimmered — like maybe, just maybe, she’d been waiting to hear those words longer than she’d ever admit.
Her escaping was like closure and it scared him.
And maybe—
maybe that fear showed more than he meant it to.
Because she froze.
Not from his words this time.
But from his eyes.
Yuta wasn’t a crier. Never had been.
And when he did — those rare, shaken moments — he always hid it.
Tucked himself into the crook of her neck.
Pulled her into his chest and held her tight enough that she couldn’t see.
But now?
He wasn’t hiding.
He was standing right in front of her.
Eyes trembling.
Lips parted.
And his lashes wet with tears he was trying hard not to let fall.
Her breath caught.
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
“I counted,” he said softly, voice breaking just enough for it to hurt.
“One year.”
He met her eyes again. “A year since we broke up.”
She didn’t speak.
“I waited,” he said. “I thought… maybe you’d come back. Even for your stuff. The hoodie you always wore. The charger you used to steal. Your favorite can of soda in the fridge…”
A laugh slipped through his throat, but it was hollow.
“I never threw any of it out.”
His voice cracked. His chest rose and fell quicker now.
“Every time I opened the fridge and saw that damn can, I’d think about you. I’d think about how you’d pop it open and offer me the first sip, even though I always said no.”
Her eyes began to sting.
He took one broken step closer.
“I tried everything,” he whispered. “Hookups. Work. Friends. Distractions.”
He looked down, blinking fast.
“But nothing took you out of me.”
He looked up again. And this time, the tears did fall.
“I can’t live another second pretending I’m okay,” he said.
“Not when you’re right in front of me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not when you’re about to disappear for good this time.”
She didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because this time—
he wasn’t just bleeding.
He was breaking.
Right there in front of her.
And he wasn’t hiding it anymore.
She didn’t speak.
Not until the silence between them started to ache.
Her throat bobbed as she finally found her voice.
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
It came out quieter than she meant.
Barely a whisper.
But it was loaded. Heavy with every scar they gave each other.
Yuta stilled.
His lashes fluttered, breath catching, but his answer came almost instantly.
“It will.”
No hesitation. No doubt.
Just firm, unwavering certainty.
She blinked, almost startled by it.
He stepped forward again, slow but sure — like he didn’t want to scare her off.
“I’ll make sure it does.”
His voice was steadier now, though his eyes were still wet.
“I swear, Seoa.”
She looked away, like she was trying not to believe it.
But he wasn’t done.
“You won’t have to wonder if I’ll try this time. You won’t have to carry us both when things get hard.”
He swallowed, voice thick again.
“I’ll fight for you. For us. Every day. I’ll learn from every mistake I made, every word I didn’t say back then. I’ll show up — even if you’re mad at me. Even if we don’t agree.”
Her breath shook.
He took one final step. Now just a breath away.
“I’m not a perfect person. I know I'll never be.”
His brows knit, desperate and real.
“But I will love you right. I’ll give you peace this time. You won’t have to worry about ‘what if’ anymore, because I won’t let ‘what if’ happen.”
And this time, when he reached for her hand—
he didn’t grab.
He just offered it, palm open, eyes locked to hers.
“Please,” he said softly.
“Let me try again.”
The club’s lights kept flickering.
The music thumped in the background.
But here, between them, the world had gone completely still.
For a second, she didn’t move.
Her eyes stayed locked on his hand, his open palm still waiting, trembling just a little.
Like he wasn’t sure if hope was a blessing or a curse.
And then—
She broke.
A choked sound slipped from her lips as she suddenly turned away, hands flying up to her face.
Her shoulders shook.
Yuta’s breath hitched.
She sobbed, muffled behind her palms, her body curling in on itself — like holding everything in for a year had finally snapped her spine in two.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched, every part of him breaking with her.
And then she lowered her hands, just enough to breathe — her cheeks wet, her eyes swollen and red.
She looked at him.
Like she was seeing him not as the boy who hurt her, or the boy she left —
but the boy who stayed broken with her, even when they were apart.
And then she stepped forward.
Wordless.
Still trembling.
She pressed her forehead to his chest, her body light against his — and then wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into him like she’d done a thousand times before.
Yuta didn’t hesitate.
His arms came around her instantly, tight, secure, like he’d been aching to hold her in every empty second since she left.
Her sobs were quieter now. But real. Raw.
She clutched the back of his shirt, her face hidden against his shoulder as she whispered, voice cracking—
“You were supposed to hate me…”
His hand gently cupped the back of her head as he whispered back—
“I never could.”
And just like that—
They stood there.
No promises about tomorrow.
No dramatic declarations in front of the world.
Just two broken hearts,
clinging to the one thing
that never stopped beating —
even when everything else fell apart.
Each other.
That's it for this one 😭
I wrote this a long while back, it's more on the angsty side though.
I hope y'all liked it 🥹
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ❤️‍🔥✨️
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bad-euphoria · 10 months ago
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YUTA 'Off The Mask' MV TEASER (x)
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mingistar · 22 days ago
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── NCT 127 with a shy gf headcanons ! ★
summary! how I think the members of nct 127 would act with a shy girlfriend <3
pairings! ot8 x fem!reader (seperately)
author’s note! this got wayyy longer than it was supposed to be, sorry I like to yap <//3 also can we blow this up so I have motivation to write more pls x
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★ JOHNNY
johnny is your polar opposite, but he absolutely believes that’s exactly why you work together so well
he lovessss that you’re shy. when he first met you, that’s why you caught his eye in the first place. you kept to yourself, and that intrigued him — he wanted to know more the second he saw you!
he speaks to you soooo softly, like he’ll be joking or arguing loudly with the other members, but then he turns to you and uses the softest voice you’ve ever heard… the contrast is shocking (to everyone but you)
he’s a tease, but he never takes it too far. he lovesss to dish out compliments to make you flustered (and you best believe he means absolutely everything he says)
johnny always stick up for you. like. always <3
he loves to show you off to the other members (he’s very proud and flabbergasted that he’s bagged you. like he actually can’t believe it.)
➽──────────────❥
★ TAEYONG
taeyong just gets you! he’s not much of an introvert himself, but somehow he just understands you so well
like johnny, taeyong loves that you’re more reserved, because it means no one knows you as well as he does. he loves being the one person that knows you best, the one you’ll always go to when you need something <3
he sees so much potential in you and wants you to be your full self whenever you’re with him — doesn’t care if you’re weird, ‘cos he’s weird too! he’ll push you to be more confident, but he’ll never push you too hard
taeyong will speak for you if you want him to, but he’ll first encourage you to do it yourself. he knows you’re fully capable! but if you don’t want to, he’s happy to do it for you
loves seeing you interact with his members, it makes him feel weirdly paternal. he gets so so happy once he notices you getting closer with them
loves having you under his arm at all times <3 he likes being your protector!
➽──────────────❥
★ YUTA
ohhh this man is the tease of the century. it’s so bad, he knows exactly how to fluster you and he doesn’t ever hold back
he always introduces you to people as “my girl” because he knows how much it flusters you (plus, he’s super proud to call you his)
when you mumble, yuta tuts at you and sticks his hand under your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “speak up, pretty. can’t hear you when you’re mumbling like that.”
he calls you “pretty girl,” like it’s your name, and it never fails to make your heart stutter
yuta always has a hand on you keeping you close! neither of you are big on pda but he’s always subtly touching you in some way. he knows you like it when he makes you feel safe <3
doesn’t let anyone speak ill about his girl ever. once, haechan said something about how he was surprised you were with yuta because you’re so different from him — he hadn’t meant anything by it, but yuta had hit him across the head (softly) and told him to, “shut up, dude. we’re perfect for each other.”
if yuta catches you staring at him (which you tend to do a lot) he gets this awful smirk on his face and makes some comment like, “stop looking at me like that or I’ll kiss you ‘til you can’t breathe.” and you just have to sit there and take it because you’re too shy to say anything back
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★ DOYOUNG
doyoung is veryyy attentive and knows how you’re feeling without you having to say anything! he knows all your tells, if you’re nervous, upset, feeling sick etc. you can’t hide anything from him!
very protective of you — he keeps you close to him when you’re out, and always always sticks up for you
doyoung doesn’t like to share you (he’s greedy okay), so if he sees one of the other members getting close with you, he’s sooo bitter because he wants to keep you to himself so bad. but he’s also happy and proud that you’ve opened up to someone else other than him <3
he can be a bit of a bully (affectionate) sometimes… doyoung knows how shy you are, and of course he respects that, but once the two of you have been together for a long time, he gets more and more comfortable testing your limits…
he’ll do things to purposefully make you flustered and then pretend nothing happened, meanwhile you’re stammering like a fool
the kinda person you can just sit in comfortable silence with and it could never be awkward <3
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★ JAEHYUN
thinks it’s funny to compliment you until you’re blushing beet red and can’t even get a word out..
tells you “I love your outfit, honey,” or “you look so pretty today, baby,” with all the nonchalance in the world, and you’re just a stuttering mess
jaehyun tells you he’s proud of you for literally everything you do. “I’m so proud of you.” “why? I didn’t even do anything.” “so?”
he encourages you to speak for yourself a lot! jaehyun knows how hard it is for you sometimes but he’s always there to support you
he’ll leave a social event for you in a heartbeat. even if he’s having the time of his life, if jaehyun notices you’re overwhelmed, he’ll pull you aside. “you want to go home?” “what? no, you’re having fun.” “it’s okay. let me grab my jacket and we’ll go, yeah?”
chronic pet name user! calls you all sorts of things, from “sweetheart” and “honey” to “princess” and “shortcake.” however, he thinks he could use all the names under the sun and still not find one perfect enough to suit how lovely he finds you
your personal guard dog <3 jaehyun is very protective of you, he keeps you close at all times, he’s always shielding you from loud noises or people, and he won’t hesitate to defend you to anyone who speaks against you.
➽──────────────❥
★ JUNGWOO
he thinks it’s adorable how shy you are! he’s your polar opposite but he wouldn’t change you for the world
like jaehyun, jungwoo also encourages you to speak for yourself. and once you manage it he’s so proud. “my girl is so brave,” he praises, rubbing your arm, and you have to hide your burning face in his jacket.
he’s biiig on pda. it’s always a random cheek kiss while you’re standing in line at the grocery store, or a bear hug from behind while you’re looking at makeup products!
^ he never goes too far with it, but he’s secretly slowly trying to get you more and more used to it so he can love on you whenever he wants
drags you to social events with him but will stick by your side the whole time if you need him to! introduces you to everyone as “my beautiful girlfriend”
jungwoo (bless his heart) feels the need to fill every silence ever so you can bet there’s never a dull moment with him! always yapping your ear off about one thing or another, but he’ll stop midway to ask your opinion, because he values it sm <3
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★ MARK
mark loves how shy you are!! he’s not very shy himself but he definitely knows how it feels to be awkward (awkward king!) so he sympathises with you quite easily <3
he’ll make fun of people in social situations to make you laugh or to help you feel more comfortable. most of the time during social gatherings, you’ll just be whispering and giggling to each other in the corner the whole time while everyone else wonders what you’re gossiping about
he always makes an effort to include you in whatever conversation he’s having! asks your opinion on everything during group conversations
also, mark is constantly bringing you up in conversations when you’re not even present. “oh, y/n told me that show was good,” or “i wish y/n was here.” and everyone is sickkk of it
also a big tease, his favourite thing to do is to compliment you because you get all flustered and red in the face and it makes him giggle (he’s a menace)
once you’re flustered beyond belief, mark loves to call you “my shy girl,” and say things like “you’re so shy, baby, what’s the matter?” even though he knows exactly what’s the matter
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★ HAECHAN
tease of the century exhibit b!! let’s be honest with ourselves .. haechan is probably worse than yuta
he thinks it’s sooo funny how shy you are. like of course, he’s sensitive to your feelings, and would never take it too far, but he’s also very brash and doesn’t hold back. he knows you can handle it! calls it exposure therapy (he thinks he’s so funny)
that being said, most of the time you don’t handle it very well at all. haechan will tease you with compliments and flirty comments until you’re damn near crying, and then he’ll act like nothing happened </3
speaking of teasing, only he’s allowed to tease you. if anyone so much as looks at you funny, haechan is gonna start acting like your damn guard dog … only he’s allowed to make fun of his girl, no one else.
he’s a brat so he whines when you’re being quieter than usual or when you won’t tell him what’s wrong. he gets it out of you eventually, mostly by being annoying <3
loves to corner you and make you beg for kisses!
loves when you cling to him at social gatherings or just when you’re out in public in general — it gives him a major ego boost!
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thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed ᡣ𐭩
© mingistar, 2025
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mejaemin · 9 months ago
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caramel - lee donghyuck
+18 mdni !!
wc: 2.8k
summary: donghyuck’s summer tan is just tewww sexy !! and spending your time with him and ilichil at the beach has you appreciating it just a little more
warnings: established relationship, fem reader, reader wears bikini, beach sex, exhibitionism, dry humping, nipple play, unprotected sex, pet names (mama, baby girl, baby), ft. taeyong, yuta, jungwoo, johnny, mark briefly
an: sm you will NEVER be able to keep tan donghyuck from me !!! do not play w me
(caramel masterlist here! ʕ ᵔⰙᵔ⠕ʔ )
───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────
the evening sun leaves a comfortable blanket of heat on your skin. yuta and jungwoo are controlling the aux from the condo just above your heads, jumping from smooth to chaotic music. the volume is low, so it doesn’t bother you. the waves crashing against the rocks overpower whatever’s playing anyway. mark and johnny have finally finished flailing in the ocean, and are now running back inside with everyone else. the newfound silence feels so comfortable that you turn on your side to nap atop your beach towel. when you do so, you’re met with your boyfriend, who appears to have the same plan.
donghyuck’s caramel skin shines beautifully under the sun, shimmering due to a combination of sweat and sunscreen. his arms are crossed over his stomach, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he soaks in the sun. laying on the beach just before the evening came definitely did him justice. unfortunately, your adoration is cut short when one of his eyes opens.
“take a picture, it’ll last longer.” his voice deepened and is a little croaky after resting.
“okay.” you respond, knowing he was teasing, but still following through.
you sit up, leaning over donghyuck’s face to reach your beach bag and pull out your digital camera. after sitting back down, you turn it on and point it at him, snapping a few pictures. despite pouting and mumbling an ‘i was joking’, he returns to his original pose for you. when you play them back, they’re beautiful. the filter on the camera makes him seem almost ethereal, his tanned skin glittering in the sunset. upon further inspection his cheeks are pink, so you call him out, intending to scold him for not applying enough sunscreen.
“okay, first of all, you can’t just lean over me and put your tits all in my face and not expect me to be flustered..” he turns his back to you to be sulky, especially when you stay silent after his confession.
the first thing to break the silence was a snort. your struggle to hide your amusement ends when donghyuck turns to look at you and you collapse onto his chest in a fit of laughter. at this he wraps you in his arms and pulls you to straddle his lap. all your giggles fade to silence when you feel his length poke at your ass. it’s now your turn to be flustered when his hands glide over your curves, stopping just under your breasts to rub a thumb over them.
“see what you’re doing? you’re just so pretty.” he grabs the string holding your bikini top against your neck and pulls, letting it fall forward. he undoes the second string behind your back and then holds out the top to you. “who bought this for you?” he asks, tilting his head innocently.
your thighs squeeze gently around his waist. “hyuck..” you whimper.
he brings you forward to press a kiss to your lips, hissing when it causes you to bump against his erection. when you pull away his gaze softens as he tucks a hair behind your ear. “it’s okay, baby, everyone’s inside.” he looks at you expectantly, waiting for your approval. when you nod, he kisses you again before his demeanor returns to how it was. “now, answer me.”
when you push your hips down into his, seeking friction, he puts a hand on your hip to stop you and raises an eyebrow. your cue to respond.
“y- you did..” you reply, looking down at your hands, planted on his chest.
“yeah.” he pulls you flush to his body, pressing kisses to your jawline. one of his hands leaves its home at your hips and begins gliding up and down your body. “cause i knew you would look so good in it..” his kissed travel downward to your neck, where he gets a little rougher and leaves marks as his teeth nip at your neck. “and look where that’s gotten us.” he gestures down to his lap, where you’ve begun grinding yourself into him.
“please, hyuck..” you whine, pushing yourself into him a little harder.
“go ahead, baby. get yourself off. i’m busy.” he replies before pulling you closer by your hips and attaching himself to your breasts.
a whine immediately escapes your lips at the sensation of his hot tongue against your nipple. one hand leaves your hip to hold the other, pinching and pulling at it as you rut against him. when you look down at him, his glimmering eyes stare back up at you. his tongue glides over your nipple and the surrounding marks he’s leaving, all the while maintaining eye contact with you. the way he stares at you, in an almost innocent manner, has you keening and dragging your hips against him a little rougher.
for the first time since you began, donghyuck finally expressed his pleasure and groaned, sitting up while keeping you in his lap. he pulled your nipple between his teeth, seemingly grounding himself as he began moving his hips in sync with your own.
“fuck, mama.. keep going.” he breathes, before snaking a hand behind your neck to pull your lips to his. the nickname has you throbbing against him, which didn’t go unnoticed when he twitched against you in response.
as soon as your mouth comes into contact with his, your hips start moving with a little more purpose. your boyfriend pushes his tongue into your mouth, swirling it around your own. neither of you are holding your voices back as you rut against each other. with each drag of your hips, donghyuck’s tip rubs against your clit in a way that sends waves and waves of pleasure through your body, stronger than the ocean’s.
with great reluctance you begin pulling away from his kisses, not without biting at his lip and letting it snap against his teeth. “i’m so close…” you whine, slowing your hips down while you wait for his response.
he pulls you forward, bringing you into another wet kiss before pulling away again. “i know baby girl, it’s okay. you can do it, cum in my lap.” he encourages.
as soon as the words come out of his mouth, you start up again. your hips glide against his clothed cock at a speed that has you nearly bouncing on his lap, all in an attempt to chase the high that approaches you slowly.
donghyuck’s arms wrap around your waist, holding you tight to his body as he begins chasing his own orgasm. you feel a little silly getting off like this, almost like a teenager. you’re sure that if someone saw you two right now you’d be compared to animals. however, you don’t pay the thought any mind. the subtle ache against your folds from your bikini bottom and your boyfriend’s coarse swim trunks is enough to make your body flare up in heat and make your thighs tense.
the fear of being heard, or even caught by the others turned into pure adrenaline. you put a hand on hyuck’s shoulder, leaving scratch marks as you rode his bulge, your other hand pulling at his soft brown hair. he moaned softly into your mouth at the feeling. you clenched around nothing, moaning desperately into the air. donghyuck has never been afraid to let you know how he feels, and the way his voice sounds so angelic in moments like these is what brings you to the edge.
“hyuck, i- fuck!“ your back arches, pushing your weight into him as far as possible as your body tenses. your eyes clamp shut and your pulse is all you can hear as your pleasure overcomes you.
donghyuck doesn’t stop, continuing to roll his hips into your clothed cunt until he finally comes, whining into your ear. as you both come down, he runs a hand through your hair to keep you grounded. when you finally come to, you pull away from the crook of his neck to see him smiling at you.
“hi.” he presses a kiss to your lips, followed by one (or ten) to the rest of your face.
you weren’t quite ready to come back to earth yet, so you just respond with a ‘mm’ before kissing him and resting your head on his shoulder once again. he chuckles, idly playing with the ends of your hair before speaking again.
“wanna keep going? or should we go inside?” he asks, leaning back so you both were laying on the towel.
“stay.” you mumble into his neck, tightening the grip your legs have on his waist. he shudders at the sensation.
”oh yeah? is that what you want? you wanna fuck on the beach?” he gently grips your hair, pulling you back to look at him. you moan breathily, nodding in response.
”use your words, mama.” he looks at you expectantly as his hand inches closer to the knot on the bottom of your swimsuit.
“yes, yes, please.. i want you so bad..” you respond, pouting and pushing your chest into him for emphasis.
as always, your body compels him to listen to your requests. his eyes flicker down to your cleavage and in the blink of an eye you’re now under him, completely bare. the sun has gone far enough under the horizon for your eyes to need adjusting before you can see your boyfriend again. once you can finally make out his features, it sends a whole new wave of heat through your body.
donghyuck’s face is perfectly dewy, from the heat and exertion. his brown hair is completely dry but still slightly clumpy from the ocean water. it hangs over your face and creates a nearly perfect cage that tickles your cheeks when he leans down to kiss you. immediately, your hand goes to the back of his head and pushes him closer. you let his tongue enter your mouth without a fight, desperately swirling it with your own in an attempt to get closer to him.
with an obnoxious smacking noise, your boyfriend pulls away from your mouth. he purposely pauses to laugh at the string of saliva connecting the two of you before you swat it away in annoyance. for once he decides against pouting at you and instead sits up to pull his swim trunks down just enough to be able to pull his cock out. his eyes squeeze shut as he pumps it one, two times before trapping your head between his arms once again. he presses a quick kiss to your lips before falling to rest on his elbows, leaning on one to use his now free hand to ease himself into your entrance.
when a whimper left your lips at the stretch donghyuck leaned down and pressed one of many kisses to your lips, followed by two times the amount to your cheek and jaw. with a harsh nip to the sweet spot of your neck, he pulls away.
“are you enjoying this, baby? do you like knowing that someone might come and see us? hear us?” he eggs you on, although he knows that this is a private beach connected to the condo taeyong rented for their off season. if you’re aware of it, you’re certainly too far gone to remember because you immediately get wetter, nodding your head with a moan as he pushes himself the rest of the way in.
“yes, hyuck, fuck- it’s so good..” you whine, already arching your back into him.
he begins picking up his speed now that you’ve adjusted and brings a hand to your cheek, pressing his thumb between your lips to keep you quiet. his other hand holds your hip and helps to pull you back and forth on his cock, wet noises erupting from between you two with each thrust.
donghyuck’s head is thrown back and he bites back a groan. the sight of his eyes pinched shut and his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows his sounds of pleasure has you wrapping your legs tight around his waist and subtly moving your hips to meet his own. he abruptly begins to slow his movements and you’re about to yell at him when you realize he’s looking in the direction of the beach house’s back porch, having a conversation with someone.
you can’t really turn to look at who’s there because the porch is behind you, so you let yourself slip slightly back into your normal consciousness to hear that yuta is yelling out to you both.
he calls out your names, “are you coming in yet? we’re about to eat!” he yells.
you look at your boyfriend and he briefly looks at you to press a finger to his lips before addressing the elder. “we’re relaxing! call us when it’s actually done!” he replies.
unintentionally, you twitch around his dick and his hips stutter before subtly pushing into you once again. you lay your head back down and are about to let yourself return to being blissfully unaware when yuta begins cackling.
”don’t be too long!” he sing-songs, nearly out of breath as he laughs his way back inside the house.
donghyuck looks back at you and huffs, rolling his eyes. “what a turn off.” he mumbles.
your legs tighten their grip on his hips. “you’re about to be even worse of a turn off if you don’t hurry the fuck up.” you whine.
immediately he begins increasing his speed.
“chill, chill… might as well leave you here if you rush me…”
he falls forward on his elbows. his face right above yours as he now rolls his hips deeper, aiming for your most sensitive parts in an attempt to speed up the process. each time he pushes himself back in, you can feel his dick poking at your insides so deliciously that each thrust has a familiar kind of heat flooding through your legs up into your whole body. with one hand leaving a bruising grip on your hip, the other resting next to your head, donghyuck licks a fat stripe up your neck, biting and sucking at the spot that always has you folding for him. your back immediately arches into him at the sensation, a series of pleas falling from your lips.
donghyuck pulls away, fake cooing at you. “aww baby, do you want to cum now?” he rests a hand on your cheek, his hips never stopping as he waits for your answer.
“yes, fuck- please, hyuck, please..” you whine, running your tongue along his thumb appreciatively when he pushes it into your mouth.
“of course, mama. anything you want.” he smiles, dropping his head back down to your neck to press wet kisses to it as he pushes you towards your orgasm.
at this point, you're so close to the edge that all it takes is your boyfriend’s hand slipping its way in between your bodies, rubbing vigorously at your clit to push you over. combined with his rough thrusts, your body tenses, hips shaking as white hot pleasure courses through you. shortly after, donghyuck gets there too, hips stilling as he moans softly in your ear. a whimper escapes your lips as his hot cum spills inside of you. you feel slightly overstimulated, but it’s so worth it.
after a few minutes of sitting in your afterglow, you hear the door above you slide open once again. this time it’s taeyong, calling your name before addressing your boyfriend.
“donghyuck! let’s go, we’re eating now!” he calls out, not wasting any time before going back inside. you flush, knowing that they’re more than likely aware that you weren’t just ‘resting’.
the man on top of you groans, sitting up and pulling out of you. he looks as if he’s half asleep, staring at the spot where his cum seeps out of you with heavy lidded eyes. when you sit up, his trance breaks and he sighs, getting himself together and packing up your towel. next to him you put your swimsuit back on followed by your shorts before folding up donghyuck’s and standing up. he takes your hand, making his way back up to the condo with you in tow.
as soon as you walk in the back door, everyone’s eyes are on you both. once again, yuta begins cackling, nearly choking on his food at the sight. donghyuck pulls your chair out at the table and helps you sit down before going to your room and putting your belongings away. when he comes back and sits with you, johnny is the first to speak up.
“so, uh, hyuck.. i’m assuming you’re not hungry?” he laughs.
you immediately cover your face in embarrassment, however you can’t laugh for long because you hear the word ‘actually’ leave his lips and immediately have to smack a hand over his lips to avoid everyone hearing about yours and his sexual endeavors. regardless, the night is full of laughter and strays away from the subject that they hopefully forgot about. until you do it again.
───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────
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hyunsuksswife · 11 days ago
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emotaeyongie · 5 months ago
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𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅127 when you miss them while they're on tour texts 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅
a/n: i saw nct127 two days ago in duluth and i havent stopped thinking about them since. literally one of the best concerts ive been to. sadly, i obviously didn't get to see taeyong and jaehyun but atleast i got to see the others! and the middle pic i used was one i got from the concert, they did so well! anyways i hope yall enjoy!
warnings: my usual swearing
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haechaninmyheart · 4 days ago
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speaking assessment (part two) ♡ yuta
summary: language professor!yuta helps you prepare for a speaking assessment in his own way
warnings: swearing, oral (f receiving)
MDNI/18+ CONTENT AHEAD
You finally manage to recite the whole of your speaking assessment, albeit with tear stained cheeks and your heat soaking your panties, just on the verge of a sweet orgasm. You pussy throbbing as you tried not to think about your professor’s fingers inside of you earlier. 
“Now,” Yuta clears his throat as he watches you gather your notes and he pats to the area next to him on the couch he’s seated on. He’s a smirk on his face and you know just what he means without him even having to tell you directly. 
Hurriedly, you go around the coffee table to settle yourself next to him and get into the position you were in before with your shirt pushed up and panties aside. Yuta licks his lips, hands coming up to grip your thighs and part them any further if possible.
He licks a firm strip from your entrance to your clitoris and makes you shudder. He then uses his tip to circle the sensitive bud and your hands bury themselves in his long dark strands as you moan out loud to vocalise your pleasure. 
“Feels that good?” He asks as if you really meant it and you nod. “God, you must be so sensitive.” 
“Yeah.” Your voice shakes as he goes back to tonguing your cunt in whichever way he deemed fit. “Fuck.”
Yuta takes his time teasing you, or at least that’s how he felt before you finally snap. The orgasm leaves your eyes rolled back, your back arching and legs shaking before you drop your hips back onto the couch, leaving out an exhausted moan. It’s as if it had ripped all the energy out of you and you lay there, feeling rather tired as Yuta slowly massages your folds.
“I haven’t made you squirt all over my couch yet.”
© haechaninmyheart, 2025 - all rights reserved. please do not repost, plagiarise, translate, or share my work on other platforms.
previously posted on jaesspresso but i lost access to that url.
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rrradduh · 17 days ago
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A Difficult Friendship
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reader x mark lee | 3.1k words
Synopsis: Your and Mark's friendship has always revolved around ignorance and self-control. Meaning, you both ignore your feelings and control the urge to act on them. After all, you were going to marry your long-term boyfriend, and Mark was always dating around. What happens when Mark can no longer commit to the illusion?
Themes/ Elements: angst on angst, yearning, reader is deflective as hell, flashback, dialogue heavy, some spicy kissing toward the end/ cheating (whoops!), some sugar and sweetness (yay!), open ending...
a/n: This is my first post for real for real :D if you like it, maybe comment/ reblog with your fav line of dialogue idk lol, hopefully you enjoy!! y/n's s/o's name is "Nate" for whatever reason....
((I also wrote a version of this for Heeseung of enhypen))
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“Can you please leave my apartment? There's nothing to talk about.”
“Y/N stop—”
“Mark. I am asking you nicely. Please leave.”
“No. I’m not leaving. You always do this shit- do you know that? You always do this shit. You’re so fucking—“
“What?” You turn fully to face him. 
You’ve been walking in circles for the past ten minutes in your small apartment, Mark hot on your tail, struggling to get a word in between your relentless rejection. You’d made your way from the front door to the living room— where you were previously sprawled on a moderately stiff couch with a pint of ice cream and a stupid, sad movie to wallow in self-pity, like a true adult— to the kitchen. 
You were going to attempt the pile of dishes in the sink to distract yourself, but his tone. His tone stopped you in your tracks. He was raising his voice, that’s new.
A scoff leaves your lips at his lack of response. He has your full attention now. Unfortunately for him, he’s not the only one in the room with a big voice. 
“What, Mark?” You tilt your head to the side, waiting. He looks down, drawing a labored breath. 
“Look, I came here to talk to you. Can we just sit down and talk?” He awkwardly shoves his hands in his pockets. His eyes bounce between your face, your chest, and the floor. Your tank top wasn’t helping at all, he really did just want to talk.
“No. What were you going to say?” You lean against the counter with your arms across your chest. 
He looks to the ceiling, catching a small stain in the corner from where you flicked pasta onto the ceiling a week ago. He suppresses a smile as his eyes fall to the floor. 
A week ago…
Mark had come over because you were stressed about a pitch presentation you had the next day and wanted to practice in front of someone. You work in advertising and were nervous about a new client you’d been assigned, something about a new “environmentally friendly” paper towel company. 
He has no clue why you’d called him of all people. The whole reason you’re as close as you are now is that Mark is overwhelmingly clueless when it comes to branding and marketing his own product: his music. What started as a paid agreement became an unusual friendship, then (on his end at least) an unfortunate co-dependency. 
That night, after you were done rambling on about how “all paper towel commercials are tired and unoriginal”, you insisted on feeding him for his service. All he really did was sit on your couch and dote. It was almost embarrassing. He knew his feedback was three “wows” and four “ums” away from useful, but it seemed to give you enough confidence to calm down.
You made pasta in some sort of red sauce. It was vaguely simple and only took you 30 minutes to prepare, which made Mark feel like less of a burden.
At some point, he had excused himself to the restroom. When he returned, you were singing softly as you stirred the finished meal at the stove. Your hips moved absentmindedly to the low hum of a speaker on a nearby countertop. A small, almost unnoticeable, laugh escaped you at a particularly lovey-dovey lyric. 
He wanted to laugh, too, but instead, he just quietly walked closer to you. You remained in your own little world, facing the stove as he shuffled toward you. The moment was too pure for him to interrupt. He solely wanted to observe up close. 
The chorus kicked in, and your singing grew bolder. A few paces away, Mark took another tentative step— CREEK. 
You whipped around fast, a few pieces of spaghetti flicking from your spoon to the ceiling as you turned. You could hear the wet red sauce splash against the high ceiling over the music. 
“Why are you so damn quiet?” You said as you clutched your chest, heart still racing. 
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Mark put his hands up in defense.
“No, sorry, you didn’t—Well, you kind of did, but it’s fine.” You fan a hand in the air dismissively. 
Mark walked closer to you. He looked at the bubbling pot of pasta and sauce, then at you. “Looking good.” His expression was way too sincere. You weren’t sure if he was talking about the pasta or you, but you pushed the feeling back. 
“Yeah?” You tease.
“Yeah.” 
“Thank you,” you share a soft smile. 
There was a long moment of silence and prolonged eye contact. The music still played, but it felt quieter. He remembers you clearing your throat, likely to ease the tension, but it just drew attention to your mouth. 
SPLAT.
The wet spaghetti drops from the ceiling and onto the floor in some corner of your kitchen. It drags your attention away, slicing the tension into small, bite-sized pieces.
Moments like this always happened between you two. 
Mark smiled and reached for the spoon in your hand. “Go sit, I’ll make our plates.”
“No, no. I got it.” You reached for the spoon, but he’s quicker.
“So you can throw more pasta at the ceiling?” 
“You scared me!” You protest. 
“I went to the bathroom, I didn’t evaporate into thin air. You knew I would come back.” He laughed in disbelief. 
“You literally tiptoed up to me, but I’m the weird one—“ You pushed his chest playfully.
He grabbed your hand against his chest and smiled. You stiffened slightly, but he didn’t say anything. “Seriously, go sit. I’m bored, let me do something.” 
You blinked at him and reluctantly drew your hand from the firm surface. “Fine,” you walked to your small dining table between the kitchen and the living room. “Turn up the music,” you glanced at him over your shoulder, eyes riddled with mischief. His stomach dropped.
Looking back at the memory now, he probably should’ve just left your apartment then and there. It was silly. He was in your kitchen, scavenging through cabinets like he lived there. Then he brought plates to the table and sat down to eat dinner with you like he was your boyfriend. 
He’s not your boyfriend; you already have one of those.
The thought snapped him back into the present. He sighs.
“Difficult.” He pinches between his eyebrows. “I was going to say you’re so difficult.”
You look away from him at that. Ouch. 
“But I don’t mean that. I’m just…” He looks for the words. “Drained.” His shoulders slump. 
Your tough-guy attitude fades. “Sorry…” You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for. Everything and nothing sort of. 
Silence. 
He sighs. 
Mark starts reluctantly. “I um… broke up with my girlfriend today.”
Your blood runs cold. More silence wraps around his words. It's suffocating, but you don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry.”
He says nothing to that, so you try again. “Do you um—“ Your eyes travel the room, eventually landing on the young man before you. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He huffs, shaking his head. 
“Do you want something to drink?” You speak as if you’re doing so against your will. Eyes drawing close to the uselessness of your own words. You shake your head because you knew it was a stupid thing to say. You’re so brave, you wanted to say.
Mark just looks at you. His eyes look so tired that you can barely stand to hold eye contact. 
“Y/N,” he sighs for the umteenth time. 
“Can you not say my name like that?” You look away with a forced laugh. “It makes me feel like I can’t breathe.” You mumble the last part. The tension was too much.
“How’s Nate?” His eye contact was unwavering. 
“Can you not—“
“No, I can’t. I want to have an honest conversation with you. I’m sick of dancing around things, Y/N.” He steps toward you with a shrug. “How is your boyfriend, Nate?”
A beat.
“He’s fine.”
“When does he get home?”
You chew on your lip nervously. “His uncle’s sick, he’s visiting him for the weekend.” 
———
Your lips formed a tight line after the confession. You wish you had just said ‘soon’, so Mark could leave you to your previously scheduled pity party in the living room. 
You didn’t want to talk about things; there was nothing to talk about. You were a practical adult with a 10-year plan. You’d been 3 years into the plan already by the time he met you, life isn’t as fluid as he’d like to make it seem.
The plan was to graduate from college (check), land a stable job at an ad agency (check), build an investment portfolio (check), move in with Nate (check), get married to Nate (pending), get a promotion at the agency (pending), have a child (pending). This has been the plan since you were in high school. He was fucking with the prophecy. 
“I’m sorry,” Mark’s voice squeezes through your dense internal dialogue. 
You wave a hand in dismay. “Things happen.” 
He leisurely takes another couple of steps forward until you're about an arm's length away. He breathes deeply, like his chest is too heavy for his lungs to move freely. “Shouldn’t you be with him?”
“It’s not a big deal. We both agreed some time apart could be healthy.” 
Mark laughs at that. He chews his lip to suppress it, but fails to regain composure so quickly. 
“What?” You chime in, a smile manifesting on your face before you can stop it. 
A rough hand runs over his face.”It’s just a little funny thinking about it.” He looks at you with the smallest fraction of a smile still present. “I rarely ever see you two together, yet you’re discussing healthy time apart.” He makes air quotes at the last three words. 
“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.” You jokingly quote Shakespeare with a smirk. That was not the right thing to say. The air shifts, and the room feels stuffy even with the air unit blasting cool air. You were just trying to be funny. 
He doesn’t say anything, but the .001% trace of a smile is gone. With a stone-cold expression, he looks at you like he has all the time in the world. You fidget under his gaze. 
“You look pretty, you should send him a picture,” is all he says.
You tsk at him, and his eyes return to your face at the sharp sound. “You’re insane, I look a mess.” An awkward silence appears, so you rattle on. “He’s only been gone a few hours at this point anyway. Not long enough to miss me.” Your voice is meek; you feel embarrassed. 
“Shouldn’t be.” He mumbles as he walks to your couch in the living room. 
A fuzzy blanket drapes over half the couch. Your half-eaten pint of ice cream melts on the coffee table next to crumbled-up napkins, post-it notes, and a tissue box. A sweetly scented candle burns at the far edge of the table. The TV displays a freeze frame from some B-rated tearjerker film. 
Mark dusts some crumbs off the couch from where you were sitting and plops down. He searches under the throw pillows for the remote. Swiftly, he checks the film’s synopsis and cringes. 
You pull on your fingers anxiously. “I thought you wanted to talk…”
“I did.” 
“Then why are you—“
“This movie looks awful.” He brushes past your concern and begins scrolling through your Netflix account.
“So now we’re watching a movie?” You wearily approach the couch, quickly swiping the blanket off, and crumbs fall to the floor. You had been messier than anticipated, but that’s your prerogative. It’s not like you were expecting company. You sit and watch him.
“Every time I open my mouth to say something real, you throw a joke at me, so yeah. Let’s watch a movie. I’m fine just being near you.”
“I was already watching something…” You reach for the remote, but he raises his arm, so it’s out of your reach. 
“Oh, do you have a problem with switching your attention from one thing to the next?” He raises an eyebrow at you. 
You knew what he was doing, but you weren’t going to play his game. “I was two-thirds in, I want to see how it ends.” 
“It looks boring. The couple kissing on the cover, obviously, ’ll end up together. Movie done, problem solved.” 
“You’re acting like a child.”
“You’ve seen it before; it was already rated.” His tone is light, but his words are pointed. 
“I like that movie.” You narrow your eyes at the young man. 
“Let’s find one you’ll love.” He fixes you a stern expression, then faces the TV again, fingers clicking through film categories. 
This carries on for a moment. You sit next to him, breathing heavily, easily flustered by his antics. He selects something dark and eerie-looking. You roll your eyes and snatch the remote while he’s preoccupied.
“I don’t want to watch that.” You begin to scroll away, but he snatches the controller back.
“Why? Is it too scary for you?” His eyes are intense when he turns to you.
“No, I just don’t want to watch it.” You attempt to regain control of the remote. You fail.
“I think you’re scared.” His voice is low, like he’s talking to himself. His eyes drop to your lips briefly before working their way back up.
“Well, I’m not.” You reach for the remote again, but he draws it away from his body.
“Then let’s watch the movie.” He shoves your shoulder.
“Give me my fucking remote back.” You lurch forward again. This time, you get so close that your faces are almost touching. He doesn’t waiver, he just moves the remote closer, close enough for you to reach it. As you try to grab it, he pulls it back again, leaning his shoulders against the couch so his hand with the remote is up and behind him. Mindlessly, you reach again, finger just barely brushing Mark’s hand as you hover over him for better leverage. 
Your eyes travel between the remote in his hand and his face. Mark’s eyes stay glued to your face. His heart is racing. All he can think about is doing something stupid.
You put a hand on his shoulder to help you push off the couch a little, hoping that would allow you to reach the black plastic thing in his hand. It does not.
Both of you draw shallow breaths. You spare a dry laugh, finally meeting his eyes for longer than a second. 
“Stop doing—“
He kisses you, and it completely knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes go wide for a moment, words dying in your throat with a weak, pathetic sound. 
Nate was going to kill him. Mark knew that, but as he started to think about his sudden need for life insurance, you kissed him back. A sound escaped him in shock, causing you to deepen the kiss. The remote slips from Mark’s hand. It clanks against the hard floorboards.
A hand reached for your face, then your waist. You grab a fistful of hair, your leg swings over his lap to straddle him. He squeezes your waist tightly as a reflex, then rubs your hip over your sweatpants as an apology. 
It’s like you’re both messily fighting for dominance, self-control long forgotten. Your hand fists his shirt as he pressed you down against him. His eyes squeeze shut. 
Mark was getting carried away, and you could feel it. A sigh leaves your mouth and enters his. His hips accidentally jut upward, and he shivers. You apply pressure back.
“Please,” the words slip past his lips before he can stop them. 
You’re completely immersed in the moment, mouth moving to his cheek, then his ear, then his neck. “Tell me,” you propose breathily against his neck. “Whatever you want.”
“Break up with him.” It was quiet. A fleeting comment. 
You still entirely, straightening up to meet his gaze. His eyes are still closed like that’ll make you start moving against him again. Break up with him, the words ring through your skull. You press your palms to his shoulders, using them to steady yourself as you get up. 
“I shouldn’t have—“ you start, but he cuts you off. 
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this…”
“Doing what?” You smooth out your tank top, pulling it up to cover as much of your chest as possible. “Sorry, let’s just watch the movie, yeah?” You walk around the couch to retrieve the remote from the floor. 
“I don’t want to watch the movie.”
“So, you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to watch the movie, what do you want to do?” You’re raising your voice now. 
“Not this—“ He answers exasperatedly. 
“Well, I don’t know what else to do, Mark!” Your voice crashes through the atmosphere. 
A beat.
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” he starts, “because of you…”
You scoff. “Don’t blame your shit on me. You broke up with your girlfriend because you were unhappy—”
“Yeah, I was unhappy because she wasn't you.”
“Stop saying things like that!” 
“If you weren’t with him before I met you, and I wasn’t seeing anyone, do you think we would still be friends?” He stands and walks so you’re nearly toe to toe.
“Of course, Mark. You’re just saying nonsense at this point—“ You turn away from him. You resist the urge to pull your hair with frustration.
He violently shakes his head, stepping even closer. “I don’t think we would be, I think we’d be a couple. I can’t imagine a single fucking reality where we meet each other single, and I don’t at least try to hit on you—”
You cover your ears childishly. It was too much. 
“—And I know we would be together because you’re covering your ears like a fucking child who’s afraid to hear the truth.”
You sigh, and your shoulders slump. You face him, hands dropping from your head. Your lips are pressed tightly together, and your eyes burn. You sniffle.
Another silence overcomes the space, but this time it isn’t awkward or tense. It’s just honest. 
Your phone vibrates in your pocket, popping the vulnerable bubble you and Mark were just in. You barely slide it out of your pocket before you know who it is: Nate. The picture makes it obvious to both of you. 
Mark looks away, hurt flashing across his face briefly. “Tell me I’m wrong so I can move on with my life.” 
“I can’t.” 
The phone buzzes again. You don’t attempt to answer it. The illusion is slipping.
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a/n: let me know if we're wanting more, thx for reading guys!
<likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated>
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cbeargyu · 2 months ago
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跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife – SECOND PART
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summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven
warnings: explicit smut (multiple scenes), dom/sub dynamics, power play, breeding kink, degradation praise, spanking, explicit dirty talk, oral (f receiving), creampie, possessiveness, choking (consensual), worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, virginity loss (detailed), fingering, public display of dominance, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, death of a sibling (mentioned), grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity (organized crime themes), arranged marriage (turned consensual), emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles (challenged), tattoos/irezumi (traditional), canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.
wc: 12,6k
notes: hi! here’s the second part of yuta’s story 🫶 i noticed a lot of people were interested in it and the response was really sweet, which made me super happy! someone asked me how i write so fast 🤣 the thing is, with this story (and most of them tbh), i usually write and prepare everything in advance when i have free time. i don’t publish them right away though, because i usually plan them in parts. so i keep them in my drafts, then i write the next parts, revise everything, adjust the flow, and once i feel like the timing is right, i post them lol. it’s kind of like "scheduling" my fics for delivery hahaha. alsooo i was kinda waiting for the anon to reply so i could tag them, but they never did 😭 if they’re reading this, please reach out to me 😭 jsjsjjs
part i. epilogue
taglist: (if you want to be added, fill up this form!)
@beestvng @bamtor1sss @turtash @amazinggraxia @rubiiisyeon @doiestars @7dreambaby @joepomonerof @hanxxz @sunghoonsgfreal
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the steam clung to your skin like silk as you stepped out of the ofuro, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the faint scent of hinoki wood still clinging to your damp hair. the house was quiet—too quiet. you had grown used to the soft murmur of voices, the distant shuffling of feet as the men moved throughout the property, but tonight, silence held the hallways in a tight, heavy grip.
you dried yourself slowly, slipping into a soft ivory nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. it wasn’t intentional—just the first thing your hands grabbed in the dimness of your closet. you weren’t trying to look a certain way. you weren’t trying to think of him.
you tied your hair up in a loose bun and padded barefoot to your room. the warmth of the ofuro had relaxed you, almost lulled you into sleep already… until you heard it.
a sound—wet, harsh. a sharp exhale. a broken word.
you froze.
then came the strangled gasp. a thud. and finally, a shout.
“no—!”
you bolted down the hallway before your mind could process it, your feet silent on the wooden floor. you didn’t knock. you slid the door open sharply and found him tangled in his futon, drenched in sweat, breathing like he’d run miles barefoot through a battlefield. the moonlight spilling through the shoji window cut pale angles across his face, highlighting the way his brows furrowed in panic, lips parted in a grimace, chest heaving.
"yuta," you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. “yuta—wake up, it’s just a dream—”
his hand shot out, blindly reaching. you caught it, squeezed it tight.
“hey. you’re okay. i’m here.” your other hand cupped his cheek, brushing away the sheen of sweat with your thumb.
his eyes finally opened, unfocused and wild, then slowly zeroed in on your face. his lips parted but no words came out. just another heavy breath, a tremor, and then—without a word—he leaned forward and collapsed against you.
you sucked in a quiet breath as the full weight of his upper body rested against your chest. your nightgown stuck to your damp skin, thin cotton against bare muscle. he was burning hot, trembling, but you didn’t pull away. your hands found their way into his hair, gently combing through the messy strands as his breaths began to slow.
“it’s okay,” you whispered again. “you’re safe.”
his arms didn’t wrap around you, but his head tilted just enough that his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast, and you felt his lashes flutter with each exhale.
after several long minutes, he finally spoke. voice hoarse, barely a breath. “i saw you bleeding.”
your hands froze in his hair. he continued, still not looking at you. “in the dream… you were lying on the floor. screaming my name. i couldn’t get to you. there was blood. so much fucking blood.”
you swallowed the knot rising in your throat.
“but it wasn’t real,” you said softly. “i’m here. see?” you took his hand and pressed it flat against your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. “no blood.”
he let out a shaky breath. “i thought i was going to lose you.”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t.
then, after a beat—
“stay,” he said.
your heart kicked up a notch. “here?”
he lifted his head slightly to meet your eyes. “just tonight.”
your mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out. your cheeks were already burning. the word hung between you like a secret.
you nodded.
he eased back onto the futon with a quiet wince, making space. you slipped under the blanket beside him, heart pounding, unsure where to place your arms, unsure of everything. it felt like you were intruding.
you turned your back to him at first, unsure if it would make things less tense. but before long, you felt the warmth of his body draw closer. not touching—just near.
"you’re tense," he murmured behind you.
you tensed more. “no i’m not.”
he chuckled, voice low, still slightly raspy. “i won’t do anything you don’t want.”
you spun to face him, cheeks aflame. “i wasn’t thinking that!”
his brows rose, amused. “sure you weren’t.”
you smacked his arm gently, earning another soft laugh from him—warm this time. honest. he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.
“you look pretty when you’re mad.”
you scowled, even as your heart twisted into a knot.
you stared at each other for a long second, breaths mingling in the dark.
"does it still hurt?" you asked finally, nodding at the faded bandages on his side.
"only when i breathe," he joked, then sighed. "i’ll be fine."
you hesitated, then reached out and placed your hand gently over his abdomen. he tensed—but didn’t stop you. the heat of his skin under your palm made your fingers tremble.
"you're warm," you whispered.
"so are you." his eyes dropped to your lips.
you should’ve pulled away. should’ve turned back and faced the wall again. but you didn’t. neither of you did.
"this is weird, isn’t it?" you said softly. "we’re married and this is the first night we share a bed."
"we should’ve done it earlier," he said.
you looked up at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable. somewhere between a smile and a storm.
"why didn’t we?" you asked, more to yourself than him.
he tilted your chin up slightly, his thumb brushing your jaw. “because maybe now it means something.”
you felt your breath catch.
you didn’t kiss. not yet. but your faces stayed close, breath to breath, until sleep finally claimed you both—your fingers still tangled in his shirt, his hand resting protectively over your hip.
you didn’t dream that night.
but if you had, it would’ve been about him.
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meanwhile, the world outside moved on without you.
the studio lights were too bright. the camera flashes too cold. you smiled on cue, tilted your head just so, changed outfits and pretended to care when the makeup artist fixed your lip gloss for the fifth time.
hitoshi didn’t speak much anymore. not unless it was absolutely necessary. not unless someone was watching.
you wanted to ask him if it was because of yuta.
you didn’t.
outside, everything felt disconnected. like you were walking through someone else’s life. fake laughter. fake perfume. fake nails. fake smiles.
but inside the walls of yuta’s house, something real was happening.
something warm. dangerous. inevitable.
that night, as you returned home past sunset, the hallway lights dimmed low and the scent of jasmine still lingering from the garden, you saw him standing at the end of the corridor—shoulders relaxed, arms crossed loosely, watching you with that look again.
not hungry.
not gentle.
just... aware.
you stopped walking.
he didn’t say anything.
neither did you.
but the glance lasted longer than it should have. held heavier than it ought to. like both of you were waiting for something to snap.
and you looked at each other.
not in the way married people are supposed to look at each other. not with comfort. not with affection.
with need.
the kind that simmers in silence. the kind that thickens the air between two people until it’s unbearable.
he took one slow step toward you.
you didn’t move back. you couldn’t. your knees felt like they were made of glass and breath was suddenly a conscious effort. his gaze flicked down your body once—just once—but it was enough to make your pulse trip over itself.
“come here,” he said.
not commanding. not tender. just… hoarse. low. like the words had scraped their way out of his throat.
you didn’t answer.
you stepped forward.
one step. then another.
you could see the strain in his posture. the tightness in his jaw. he was trying to control it, whatever it was burning under his skin. trying not to ruin this moment. but his fingers flexed at his sides, and you knew he was one breath away from snapping.
you stopped right in front of him.
your eyes met, closer now—so close you could see the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, the way his mouth parted like he was going to speak and then thought better of it.
“this…” he began, but didn’t finish.
you shook your head slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “don’t ruin it with words.”
he didn’t.
instead, he reached.
a hand at your waist first—careful, grounding, his thumb pressing into the silk of your robe. your breath hitched. he exhaled shakily. then the other hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck. he didn’t pull—he just held. like anchoring you there, like making sure this wasn’t a dream he’d wake from.
“i don’t know what this is,” you murmured. “but i feel it.”
his brow furrowed like the words hurt. like they exposed something he wasn’t ready to admit.
“i do too,” he said, voice barely audible. “i’ve been trying not to.”
“me too.”
and then, as if your bodies had grown tired of waiting for permission, you leaned in at the same time.
the kiss wasn’t soft.
it wasn’t rushed either. it lingered, pressed, took. there was no awkward pause, no hesitation—just the raw electricity of mouths meeting after too long, of breath mixing, of hands finally allowed to hold.
his fingers slid deeper into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste more of you, to pull a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. you clung to him—hands gripping the collar of his shirt, sliding up the back of his neck, curling into the short strands of his hair as if anchoring yourself to him.
his other hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, how he was still fighting the instinct to take too much too soon. but the tremble in his breath gave him away. this was unraveling him. you were unraveling him.
you kissed like you were trying to understand it. to confirm it. to make sense of this pull between you, the way nothing outside these walls felt real anymore. how everything out there felt empty, cold, meaningless—except this. except him.
his mouth left yours just barely, brushing the corner of your lips, then your jaw. “this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound regretful. he sounded undone.
you swallowed hard, lips brushing his again. “i don’t care.”
he kissed you again—this time slower. not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted to memorize. the shape of your mouth. the sighs you gave when he sucked your lower lip just enough. the way your nails pressed into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. it was indulgent, shameless, intentional.
and it wasn’t like your wedding kiss.
that one had been staged, timed, performed.
this one was the truth.
when he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, your forehead pressed to his.
his voice was rough. “if i kiss you again, i won’t stop.”
your pulse pounded in your ears. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
he laughed once—short, bitter, sweet. “because it is.”
your hands slid down his chest, slowing at the center where his heart beat fast beneath your palm. “then don’t.”
for a moment, he didn’t respond.
but his hand at your waist tightened again.
and his lips ghosted your cheek.
and he whispered, “stay with me tonight. just like this. just… stay.”
you nodded.
you didn’t go back to your room. you didn’t need to.
you had crossed a line now. one neither of you would be able to step back from. and even if the world burned down around the two of you, you knew this was real. raw. dangerous.
you didn’t turn the lights on. he didn’t ask why.
something about the dark made it easier to admit this was real.
yuta pulled you toward the futon slowly, not by the wrist or hand—but by placing a gentle touch on your lower back, guiding you like the space beside him was meant for you and had always been. his bed smelled faintly like cedar and something warmer, something him. the sheets were cool, but his body wasn’t.
he laid back first, propped against the pillows.
you hesitated—only for a second—then climbed in beside him, curling on your side. facing him.
he was already watching you. soft. open. like his edges had finally stopped cutting, like this was the only moment he didn’t have to be the heir, the boss, the legend. he was just a man. and for the first time, he looked free.
he reached for you. slowly. deliberately. a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye as if checking you were really there. you leaned into it. eyes fluttering shut.
and then the kiss came again.
it was different this time.
slower. deeper.
not needy—but full.
the kind of kiss that asked questions instead of demanded answers. lips moving with intent, his hand sliding into your hair again as you leaned closer until your chest brushed his, until your breaths tangled and the space between you no longer existed.
he kissed you like this could heal something in him. and maybe, somehow, it did.
your fingers curled lightly at his nape, then trailed down the curve of his shoulder. you rested your forehead against his between kisses. he pressed one to your temple. then your jaw. then your collarbone. nothing rushed. nothing expected. just the hum of electricity, of presence, of him holding you like the world outside could go to hell.
at some point, you settled with your head on his chest.
his arm wrapped around you without hesitation. his thumb moved slowly along your upper arm, a rhythm so tender it made your throat ache. you could feel his heartbeat under your ear—steady, loud, real.
"i forgot what this felt like," he murmured into your hair.
you didn’t ask what he meant.
you just whispered back, “me too.”
he kissed the top of your head. and you kissed the skin at his collarbone.
you didn’t speak again for a while.
not because there was nothing to say—but because silence was finally safe.
and when sleep came for you both, it didn’t feel like surrender.
it felt like belonging.
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the steady hum of the car wheels against the gravel-covered road filled the silence as the black sedan made its way through the outskirts of osaka. moonlight filtered through the dense tree line, shadows flickering like ghosts against the windows. yuta sat beside you, calm and composed in his midnight blue kimono embroidered with black cranes that symbolized protection and vigilance. your kimono was a delicate shade of plum, tied tightly at the waist, accentuating the soft curves of your form. your hands rested on your lap, fingers curled in, hiding the tension that had nested in your chest since you left the house.
"are you nervous?" yuta asked without looking at you, eyes scanning the road ahead like a man who had lived too many lives in one.
"should i be?" you replied, your voice even, but not cold.
"always," he said. and that was it.
the meeting with the clan elders was held in a countryside estate hidden among the pines. flickering lanterns lit the stone path leading to the large wooden structure. the air was thick with incense, and the heavy scent of sandalwood made your head feel light. as you entered the main hall, dozens of eyes turned your way. you held your chin high.
yuta introduced you with the calm pride of a man who owned everything in the room. you stood beside him as if born to be there, even if your heartbeat betrayed you. the meeting began as expected, with slow exchanges, nods of agreement, and passing cups of sake.
but it changed in seconds. the loud crack of wood splitting came from behind. yuta’s body tensed before the masked attackers even burst in. everything blurred—yuta grabbing your arm, shielding you behind his body, the clang of steel, the echo of gunfire.
you reached for the small pistol hidden beneath the folds of your obi. you never thought you'd use it. but tonight, you did. your hands shook at first, but when one of them lunged at yuta, instinct won. you pulled the trigger.
the assailants dropped one by one. yuta moved like wind and water—silent, fatal. but one shot grazed him. your scream was lost in the chaos.
once it ended, silence fell heavy. bodies lay sprawled on the polished wooden floor, blood pooling like ink.
in the car, as you both escaped back into the cover of night, you turned to him. "take off the top half of your kimono."
"it’s nothing," he muttered, though his breathing betrayed the sting.
"take it off, yuta."
he obeyed. his chest, usually smooth and unmarred, had a long, thin scratch from a bullet that had barely missed its target. you pulled cloth from the glove compartment, soaked it with the small bottle of water you had, and began to clean him. your fingers worked gently, but your eyes held fire.
yuta didn’t speak. he just watched you. eyes wide, confused, as if no one had ever treated him with such... tenderness.
when you finished, you pressed your palm against the uninjured part of his chest. his hand came up to cover yours.
"thank you," he said, voice low.
"you’d do the same for me."
he didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
the days after, something shifted. without a word, he started sleeping in your room. not in your bed. just in the same space. but at some point, the futons ended up closer. and at some point, your nightly kisses, born of adrenaline and intimacy, became ritual. nothing more happened—but the heat that bloomed beneath your skin every time his mouth met yours grew.
each night, his hands lingered a little longer on your waist. yours tangled into his hair. his breath warmed your collarbone. it was a slow burn that neither of you seemed ready to extinguish.
then came the whispers.
inside the tatami-lined war room, takuya stood before the clan’s council, arms crossed. yuta was beside him, silent.
"this arrangement is a distraction," takuya said sharply. "she was supposed to serve a purpose, nothing more. you’re losing focus."
yuta's jaw clenched. "say what you really mean."
"i mean," takuya snapped, "that you were supposed to be leading us into negotiations with the osaka-hyogo factions this week. instead, you're sitting at her bedside cleaning wounds and playing husband."
"i am her husband."
the room fell quiet.
takuya laughed. it was hollow. "a husband for six months. that was the deal. we marry her, used her image of being the perfect, respectable woman and move on. this... this is becoming a problem."
"she’s not the problem," yuta said slowly. "you are."
outside the room, you stood hidden behind the shoji screen. the words cut into you like glass. you hadn’t known the full extent of the deal before. six months. and now, takuya wanted to end it early.
you clutched your sleeves tighter. your chest burned—not with anger, but something deeper. pain. disappointment. a foolish part of you had started to hope.
to believe.
yuta had risked everything for you that night—stood in front of you when the bullets flew. defended your presence when his oldest ally called it a mistake. you couldn’t repay him by making him choose.
the clan or you.
so you didn’t say anything. you didn't confront him that night. instead, you kissed him like nothing had changed. like your world wasn’t slowly crumbling beneath your feet.
because if he had to choose, you'd rather he never knew there was a choice to make.
and that was the cruelest love of all.
one you couldn’t name. one you couldn’t keep. but one that lived in every stolen breath, every bruising kiss, every silent night shared under the paper lantern glow.
the garden was quiet.
too quiet.
even the wind seemed to hesitate, brushing past the trees like it didn’t want to disturb what was unraveling beneath the summer sky. soft lanterns flickered along the stone path, their warm light casting long shadows across the grass, but none of it reached you. not really. you were already somewhere else — deep in your own thoughts, drowning in the things you couldn’t say.
yuta stood a few steps away, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff beneath the expensive black jacket he always wore when things felt heavy. he had one hand tucked in his pocket, the other hanging loosely by his side, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something but didn’t know what.
maybe your hand.
maybe your throat.
you had just told him the truth — or part of it. that you weren’t going to stop modeling. that your work mattered to you in ways he could never understand. and he had laughed. not cruelly, not loudly, but with that sharp edge that always cut you when he didn’t know how else to feel.
“if it’s not about money,” he said, his voice low, “then what is it? huh? tell me.”
you blinked. “it’s about my dream, yuta. it always has been. the reason i left my village, the reason i stayed here. i need to feel like i’m building something for myself. like this... this isn’t all there is.”
his eyes narrowed. “and hitoshi? he’s part of that dream too?”
you didn’t answer.
your silence was like a gunshot.
his jaw clenched tighter. “so that’s it, then.”
“that’s not what i said,” you muttered.
but he was already shaking his head. not fast, not dramatic — just slow, like someone accepting the kind of truth they never wanted to hear.
“you didn’t have to say it,” he said. “i see it every time you come home smelling like him.”
you flinched. “i don’t—”
“don’t lie to me,” he snapped.
his voice cracked, and that scared you more than the accusation. because yuta didn’t break. not in front of you. not ever.
he took a step closer, and even in the fading light, you could see the tiredness in his eyes. not just from the long nights or the weight of his title — but from you. from this. from the fact that every time he reached for you lately, you felt a little further away.
“do you ever look at him the way you looked at me?” he asked quietly. “do you think about him when i’m not home?”
“no,” you whispered, barely audible. “never.”
but he didn’t believe you.
and honestly, maybe you didn’t believe yourself either — not because you wanted hitoshi, but because the distance between you and yuta had become a chasm neither of you knew how to cross anymore. it had started slow — missed dinners, hushed calls, unspoken things. then it became routine. avoidance. resentment.
and now here you were, standing in the garden of a man who once held you like you were fragile and holy, now looking at you like you were a betrayal wrapped in lace.
“when this is over,” he said, his voice colder now, controlled, “when the contract ends… will you run to him? will he be your safe place?”
you stared at him.
and said nothing.
because you didn’t know what to say. because even if the answer was no — even if hitoshi was the furthest thing from your heart — you couldn’t find the words fast enough. couldn’t reach him in time.
his eyes dropped for a second. then he turned.
the movement was simple, quiet, deliberate. he was walking away.
and for yuta, that was your answer.
you didn’t chase him.
you stood there, trembling, breath stuck in your chest. you watched his back retreat across the stepping stones, his figure melting into the shadows of the engawa, swallowed by the darkness of the house that had once felt like safety. and something inside you cracked open.
you wanted to run after him. wanted to scream that he was wrong, that he was the only man you had ever truly wanted. that hitoshi could disappear tomorrow and you wouldn’t blink, but if yuta left... if he really left...
you would never recover from it.
but your feet didn’t move. because what was the point?
you both knew how this story ended.
you were a contract bride, a girl wrapped in white silk and political lies. and he was the king of a blood empire, trying to build something clean on top of a foundation soaked in violence. there had never been a version of this where you got to stay.
you pressed a hand to your chest, felt the weight of your own heartbeat, heavy and uneven.
he doesn’t know.
he didn’t know that the thought of hitoshi touching you made your skin crawl.
he didn’t know that the only time you felt beautiful was when yuta looked at you like you were something rare and breakable.
he didn’t know that every time you came home, you searched for his scent first. that your pillow still smelled like his cologne. that you hadn’t thrown out the blood-stained robe from the night he almost died, because it reminded you that you’d saved him.
he didn’t know that you were still in love with him.
you collapsed onto the wooden bench at the edge of the garden, the soft fabric of your skirt folding under you, your hands trembling in your lap. somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rattled. your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.
not yet.
the moon had started to rise, silver and low, bathing the garden in cold light. the flowers yuta planted last spring were starting to wilt — their petals curled, fragile from the heat. and it hit you then: maybe you were wilting too.
you whispered to the night. not a prayer, not a plea. just his name.
“yuta...”
but he didn’t come back.
he didn’t hear you.
or maybe... maybe he did. and chose not to answer.
you hadn’t spoken in two days.
not really. not more than clipped sentences passed during breakfast or muttered greetings when your paths crossed in the hallway. the silence between you and yuta had settled like fog — dense, stubborn, refusing to lift.
but that night, something cracked.
you couldn’t sleep. not in your room. not with the weight of his absence pulling at your ribs. so you bathed — slow, methodical — letting the heat of the ofuro melt the tension in your limbs. you scrubbed your skin until it felt new. until the scent of steam, jasmine oil, and longing clung to your every pore. then, without thinking, you slipped on a silk robe. pale cream, nearly translucent, tied loose at the waist. nothing underneath.
you didn’t wear perfume. you didn’t need to.
your hair was still damp, falling in soft waves down your back, glistening under the dim lantern light as you padded barefoot across the wooden hallway toward his room.
you had never knocked before.
but tonight, you did.
a soft, uncertain sound — two knuckles against paper and wood.
inside, you heard movement. fabric shifting. then a pause.
“come in,” he said.
your fingers tightened around the knot at your waist.
you slid the door open slowly.
he was sitting on the futon, shirtless, the blanket draped low over his hips. moonlight spilled through the paper panels behind him, cutting his body in shadows — the ink of his tattoos shifting over his arms, his chest, the sharp lines of his abdomen rising with every breath.
his eyes met yours instantly.
he didn’t say anything.
but his gaze moved — slow, deliberate — taking in the new robe, the way it clung to your damp skin. the light shimmer of moisture on your collarbones. the bare soles of your feet. your hair, dripping soft against your shoulder.
you stepped inside. silent. calm. and then you turned, sliding the door shut behind you.
when you faced him again, he hadn’t moved.
he was waiting.
you met his gaze. held it.
then, slowly — with fingers that didn’t tremble — you reached for the tie of your robe.
you pulled.
the silk slipped apart. loose. effortless.
and then it fell.
your robe hit the tatami floor in a whisper.
you stood still — completely nude, your arms resting gently at your sides, your legs pressed close together, breath quiet but deep.
“there’s only one way to show you that i want no one else,” you said, your voice soft, unwavering. “and it’s this.”
yuta didn’t speak.
he didn’t blink.
his eyes dropped — slowly, reverently — trailing down your body like a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud.
he took in everything.
your breasts, soft and full, nipples already taut under his gaze.
the curve of your waist.
the line of your hips, the small patch of skin between your thighs where heat gathered.
your thighs. your knees. the delicate arch of your feet.
you stood there for him. only for him.
and for a long, still second — he said nothing.
then he moved.
fast.
the blanket was gone, flung aside. his body was on you in an instant — heat, hands, hunger. his mouth crashed into yours, open and gasping, desperate like he’d been holding his breath for days. you moaned against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers diving into his hair.
he lifted you.
you wrapped your legs around his waist, felt the hard press of him already thick and ready between your thighs.
he carried you to the futon like you weighed nothing.
and then he laid you down.
“say it again,” he growled, mouth at your throat, his hand sliding up your side, rough and trembling.
“i want you,” you whispered. “only you.”
he groaned — low, guttural — and kissed you again, his lips bruising yours, his teeth dragging gently over your jaw. one hand cupped your breast, thumb teasing your nipple until you arched beneath him. his other hand slid down — over your stomach, between your thighs — and when he found you wet, bare, aching...
he hissed.
“fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against yours. “you’re already this wet for me?”
you nodded, your voice breaking. “been like this since the garden... since you left.”
his fingers teased you, slow circles that made your thighs twitch.
“you should’ve told me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “should’ve told me you were still mine.”
you spread your legs wider for him.
“i’m telling you now.”
he slid two fingers inside you — thick, slow — and you gasped, hips rising to meet him.
“yuta,” you whimpered. “please...”
he growled softly, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean.
his breath caught, chest rising and falling as he hovered above you, his body flushed with heat, with want, with restraint. your legs trembled beneath him, thighs soft and parted, glistening with your arousal — and yet, your eyes betrayed something else.
uncertainty.
fear.
innocence.
and he remembered.
you were his wife, yes. you had given yourself to him in every way but this. and he had known — from the beginning — that when the moment came, it would have to mean something.
it couldn’t just be hunger.
it had to be reverence.
his hand slid up the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with the gentlest touch.
“look at me,” he said softly.
you did. your lips trembled. your eyes shone with unshed tears.
“this is your first time,” he whispered. not a question. a truth. a weight he would carry with care.
you nodded, your voice caught in your throat.
“i know,” he breathed. “i know, baby.”
he kissed your forehead first. then your cheek. then your mouth — tender, slow, lips moving over yours like he was memorizing the shape of your fear, your surrender. his hands explored your body without pressure — just warmth, just presence — sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs.
“you tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jaw, “and i will. i mean it.”
“don’t stop,” you whispered. “i want you.”
his heart nearly broke in his chest.
he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance — thick, hot, hard — and brushed the head of his cock slowly through your folds, spreading your slick over himself, teasing your clit just enough to make your hips twitch.
then he paused.
his gaze dropped to where your bodies met.
you were so tight. untouched. the soft pink of your folds glistened with heat and nervous want, trembling slightly under his fingers.
he lined himself up with careful precision, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, and when he began to push — just barely — he felt your whole body tense.
“breathe,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”
you nodded, clutching his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.
he eased forward — slow, excruciatingly slow — parting your body inch by inch.
you gasped.
pain bloomed, sharp and full, stretching you in ways you’d never known. your thighs shook, your hands flew to his chest, and your eyes widened, glassy with sudden tears.
“yuta—” you whimpered, voice fragile. “it hurts.”
his heart clenched.
“i know, i know, baby,” he soothed, kissing your jaw, your temple, your trembling lips. “you’re doing so well. so fucking perfect.”
he stopped moving, giving you time. his thumb stroked your cheek, catching one of the tears that had slipped free.
“you’re taking me so good,” he whispered. “you’re the tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. you feel like heaven.”
you whimpered again, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.
“relax for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “just a little more.”
you tried.
you breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.
he kissed you again.
and then, with a long, gentle press, he sank the rest of the way in — sheathing himself fully inside you.
you cried out softly, overwhelmed. your walls stretched around him, pulsing, resisting, your body struggling to accommodate his size. the pain was there — raw and real — but so was something else.
fullness.
intensity.
connection.
yuta stilled inside you, arms shaking from holding himself back.
“fuck,” he rasped. “you’re mine. all mine.”
his forehead rested against yours as your bodies trembled together.
he didn’t move yet. not until your breathing slowed. not until your nails relaxed against his chest. not until your legs loosened their grip.
“you’re okay?” he asked gently.
you nodded. “still hurts... but not as much.”
he kissed your lips — soft, slow, sacred.
“i’ll make it better,” he promised.
and he did.
he began to move in slow, careful thrusts, pulling out just an inch before sinking back in, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. his hands cradled your jaw, his mouth praising every breath that left your lips.
“so beautiful,” he whispered. “you’re so beautiful like this.”
you whimpered, your body adjusting, the burn easing into a dull throb — and then something more. something electric.
pleasure.
he moved a little deeper, a little fuller, the stretch still sharp but starting to pulse with warmth, with friction, with heat.
“i can feel you opening up for me,” he murmured, voice husky. “you’re letting me in.”
your mouth fell open in a gasp as his hips rolled against yours, his cock brushing something deeper inside you.
“y-yuta...”
he groaned, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “say it again.”
“yuta... please... don’t stop.”
he lifted himself onto his elbows, looking down at you.
your hair spread like silk across the futon, your cheeks flushed, breasts rising with every breath. the sheen of sweat on your skin made you glow in the moonlight.
“fuck,” he whispered. “you’re a fucking goddess.”
he kissed down your body — your throat, your chest, your breasts — taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, rolling his hips into you with a rhythm that made your toes curl.
you moaned loudly, the pain all but forgotten now.
he worshiped you.
his hands never stopped moving — stroking your hips, your thighs, your stomach. his lips pressed reverent kisses across every inch of skin. and when he fucked you, it was with slow, deliberate strokes that grew deeper, firmer, more intense as you moaned louder beneath him.
“so tight,” he groaned. “so wet for me. you were made for me, weren’t you?”
“yes,” you gasped. “yes, yuta — i’m yours.”
his thrusts quickened, your slick coating him now, your pussy fluttering around his cock as he hit that spot again and again, each thrust pulling a louder cry from your lips.
your legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.
“don’t hold back,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “i can take it.”
and he did.
he fucked you harder, faster, driving into you with a hunger barely leashed, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.
“come for me,” he growled. “come on my cock.”
your body tensed.
the pressure snapped.
your orgasm hit you like a wave — deep and intense, your pussy clenching around him, your cry sharp and breathless. he groaned loudly, thrusting harder as you came, chasing his own high.
“i’m gonna fill you up,” he moaned. “gonna come inside you, baby. is that what you want?”
“yes,” you whimpered. “fill me, yuta — please.”
he grunted, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching inside you.
he spilled into you in hot, thick pulses, his breath ragged, his body trembling over yours.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
his body collapsed slowly over yours, his weight grounding you, comforting you.
his arms wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing the top of your damp hair.
“you’re mine,” he whispered again. “no one else. only me.”
you nodded, your voice soft. “only you.”
and for the first time in weeks, your heart felt full again.
you woke to warmth.
not just the kind that lingered on your skin from shared heat, but the kind that lived deep — quiet and golden and whole. for the first time since you’d entered that house, you didn’t wake alone. no empty sheets. no cold side of the bed. just him.
yuta was still asleep beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his face turned toward yours. soft strands of his red hair fell across his brow, tousled and wild from the night before. he looked younger like this. not the man who ruled osaka in silence and steel — but the boy who whispered your name into your mouth like it meant something sacred.
his breath was slow. deep. steady.
his hand flexed slightly against your skin.
you didn’t move.
you just watched him.
you let yourself memorize every detail in the pale light of morning — the faint scar near his left brow, the small freckle on the side of his neck, the way his lips parted just enough to make your chest ache.
he was beautiful.
but more than that — he was real.
and last night, he had made you feel more than wanted. he had made you feel chosen.
your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing the edge of his jaw, feather-light.
he stirred.
a low hum escaped his throat. his brow furrowed for a moment, then his lashes fluttered open. dark, still a little hazy, but focused on you within seconds.
he blinked once.
then again.
and then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath all night.
“you’re still here,” he murmured, voice raspy, rough with sleep.
you smiled faintly. “where else would i be?”
his hand on your waist tightened. not possessively — just sure.
“wasn’t sure,” he whispered, eyes studying your face like he didn’t want to miss a single second. “after what i said… in the garden. i thought maybe you…”
you shook your head before he could finish.
“i meant what i said last night. i wanted you to know. really know — that it’s only ever been you.”
he was quiet.
his gaze dropped for a second. then returned to yours.
“i didn’t deserve that,” he said. “your honesty. your body. you. not after doubting you.”
your throat tightened.
“you were hurt,” you said gently. “and i didn’t make it easy. i let the silence grow between us.”
he turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you now — the blanket slipping lower on his hips, his chest bare, skin still warm against yours.
“i don’t want silence anymore,” he said. “not with you.”
you reached up, fingers brushing against his chest. “so talk to me, then.”
he hesitated.
his brows drew together slightly — not from anger, but from fear. it was strange, seeing that expression on a man like him.
“i never planned to fall for you,” he admitted. “this started as protection. strategy. and then... you walked into my world like you were born to burn in it. and i couldn’t stop watching. couldn’t stop wanting.”
you bit your lip.
“i wanted to hate you,” you confessed. “wanted to resent this marriage, the way it forced me to pretend. but it never felt like pretending. not with you.”
his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.
“tell me what this is,” he whispered. “for you.”
you didn’t hesitate.
“it’s home,” you breathed. “it’s terrifying and messy and too much sometimes — but it’s home.”
he closed his eyes briefly, as if your words were too heavy to hold in open air.
then he leaned in and kissed you.
soft. slow. reverent.
not hungry like the night before. not claiming. just... grateful.
his forehead pressed to yours when he pulled away.
“if i lose you,” he murmured, “i’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”
you smiled. sad, soft.
“then don’t give me a reason to leave.”
he nodded, just once, but it felt like a vow.
“from now on,” he said, “you’ll never doubt your place here. in this bed. in my life. in my heart.”
“good,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “because i already gave you everything.”
his mouth found yours again, a little more urgent this time — and just like that, the morning turned into something golden, something sweet.
you stayed wrapped in each other until the sunlight painted your bodies in warmth, until the silence between you was no longer heavy — just peaceful.
and for the first time in weeks, the war was over.
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takuya stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the compound like it could offer answers he didn’t already have. yuta was behind him, still barefoot from the room upstairs, wearing only loose black pants, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
the tension was thick. too quiet.
he didn’t greet yuta.
just stood with his arms crossed, eyes unreadable, spine stiff as stone.
“we need to talk,” he said.
yuta didn’t flinch.
“then talk.”
he watched him for a long, long second. then gestured toward the sliding door. “not here.”
yuta followed him into the garden, silent steps on the stone path, the air still carrying the lingering scent of summer rain and night-blooming jasmine. the same place where him had once walked away from you. now you were walking into something else — not heartbreak, but confrontation.
he turned to face him once the path ended.
his jaw was clenched.
“you’ve changed.”
yuta’s gaze didn’t flinch. “good.”
“no. not good. you’re softer. distracted. emotional. you think with your chest now. not your head.”
yuta crushed the cigarette in the tray. stepped forward.
“you think i’m weak because i love her?” he asked, voice deadly calm.
“i think you’re human. and in this world, that’s a liability.”
yuta tilted his head. “she’s not a liability. she’s the only reason i’m still standing.”
takuya didn’t speak. the silence stretched.
yuta took another step, closing the space between them.
“this marriage? it was supposed to be for appearances. a shield. a tool.” his jaw tightened. “but it’s not ending.”
takuya raised an eyebrow. “you sound certain.”
“i am.” yuta’s voice didn’t shake. “she’s loyal. she’s stronger than half the men we command. and she’s mine. i’m not letting her go.”
“she’s not from this world.”
“and yet she’s survived it better than most.”
takuya’s expression hardened. “i’m telling you to think with a cold head.”
yuta stepped close. too close.
“and i’m telling you — this isn’t about control anymore. this is about truth. about grounding. she’s good for me, takuya. not because she makes me soft — but because she makes me still.”
takuya studied him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
then, finally — a nod.
slow. reluctant.
but real.
“then stand by it,” he said. “and make damn sure no one doubts it.”
despite yuta’s firm confrontation with takuya, life didn’t shift all at once. there were no grand gestures, no dramatic changes in tone. just subtle things. quiet things.
a few days later, you returned to his —or maybe now, your room—, room and found it gutted. the futon replaced by a wide, luxurious queen-sized bed, draped in black sheets and lined with down pillows. the floor had been redone, dark polished wood. new lighting. warm, soft. a space not just made for sleeping — but for sharing.
your old room, however, hadn’t been discarded.
instead, it had been transformed into a closet.
an absurdly large, obscenely modern closet — velvet benches, full-length mirrors, recessed lighting, and drawers that slid open at the touch of a finger. racks of high-end clothing lined the walls: silk, cashmere, leather, tailored and imported. you’d lost count of how many designer tags you saw before the nausea hit.
“you used clan money for this?” you asked one night, mouth still agape.
yuta had only shrugged from the bed, shirtless, flipping through a magazine. “technically it’s our money.”
“that’s not how money works, yuta.”
“that’s how my money works.”
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you weren’t supposed to find it.
the drawer in yuta’s private study was always locked. it wasn’t forbidden — just quietly off-limits. you never questioned it. never tried. but that night, he’d left in a rush, forgetting to grab his keys. and when you went in to bring him a new set, the drawer was already cracked open.
you told yourself not to look.
but you did.
inside: a black lacquered box, unmarked. inside the box: a bundle of old photos, yellowed with time. beneath those, a sheathed tantō blade — older than the one used in your wedding, its hilt worn, stained. and finally, a letter, folded so many times the edges had nearly fallen apart.
you opened it with trembling fingers.
the handwriting was messy. a mix of japanese and english, written like it had been scrawled during a storm.
“he died because of me. i told him not to take the other road. i said i’d handle it. i was wrong.”
beneath the words: a name. shotaro.
you sat there for a long time. silent. still.
when yuta returned home hours later, his jacket still damp from the rain outside, you were waiting in the study. the letter on your lap. your eyes unreadable.
he stopped in the doorway.
for the first time since you’d known him, he looked afraid.
“where did you find that?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“you left the drawer open,” you said quietly. “i wasn’t searching.”
he closed the door behind him.
slowly.
“shotaro was your brother,” you said. not a question.
his silence was answer enough.
you stood, walking toward him. you placed the letter gently in his hand.
“you’ve never told anyone?”
he shook his head once. “takuya knows some. but not everything.”
“why hide it?”
he exhaled, fingers tightening around the paper. “because i failed him. i told him i’d protect him. and he died for me instead.”
you stepped into his space, palms pressed to his chest, voice steady.
“you carry so much. alone. but you don’t have to anymore.”
he looked down at you — eyes shadowed, face unreadable. but something in him cracked. not loudly. not visibly.
just enough.
his hands came to your hips. gripped tight.
“say it again,” he whispered.
“you don’t have to carry it alone.”
his lips crushed into yours before the words fully left your mouth.
and everything exploded.
he pushed you back against the nearest wall, mouth devouring yours, hands sliding under your clothes, yanking your kimono open like it offended him. his body was hard, heavy, desperate against yours, and when you whimpered, he growled — deep, low.
“strip.”
you obeyed immediately, eyes wide, breath shallow.
he watched you undress, step by step, until you stood naked in the soft light of the study, the shadows of your tattoos dancing across your bare skin. his eyes raked over every inch, jaw clenched, cock already hard and straining against his pants.
“on the desk,” he ordered. “face down. hands flat.”
your heart pounded as you obeyed, the cool wood chilling your skin, your thighs trembling in anticipation. you heard the sound of his belt coming undone, the low hiss of his zipper.
then silence.
“do you even realize what you do to me?” he asked, voice rough.
you opened your mouth to speak, but he grabbed your hips, yanking you back so your ass arched up perfectly.
“don’t answer,” he growled. “just listen.”
his cock slid between your folds — thick, hot, teasing — rubbing through your slick without entering.
“you walk around this house like you don’t know you own me,” he murmured against your spine. “you sit in my meetings like a queen, and you think i don’t see the way they look at you? the way they fear you?”
he pushed the tip in — just barely — and you gasped, fingers curling against the wood.
“but you know who owns you, don’t you?”
“y-yes—”
he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
your cry echoed through the room.
he didn’t wait. didn’t ease you in. he took you — hard, deep, merciless — one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it burned.
“who fucks you like this?” he growled. “who makes you scream like you’re mine?”
“you, yuta — fuck — only you.”
his pace was relentless, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene.
“that’s right. and you’ll take every drop of my cum like a good little wife. won’t you?”
“yes—please—fill me—”
he bent over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.
“you want me to breed you, don’t you?”
you moaned so loud it broke into a sob.
“say it.”
“i want it. want your cum—inside me—wanna be full, yuta, please—”
he bit down softly on your neck, thrusts growing erratic.
“then take it.”
you felt the heat building in your core, body shaking, his cock pounding your g-spot over and over. your orgasm hit you like lightning — thighs trembling, vision white, a scream ripping from your throat as you clenched around him.
he cursed loud.
and then came.
deep inside you.
hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into your pussy, his grip tightening as he rode out every wave, buried to the hilt, panting against your skin.
you stayed like that — bodies locked, his cum dripping from you slowly, warm down your thighs — until your heart slowed.
he pulled out gently, and you turned, breathless, sweat-slicked, aching in the best ways.
he cupped your face.
kissed your lips.
then rested his forehead to yours.
“you know everything now,” he whispered. “there’s nothing left to hide.”
you smiled faintly.
“good. because i already gave you all of me.”
his lips brushed your ear, voice low and full of reverence.
“and now i’ll never give you back.”
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you found riku by the back steps of the house, his phone in hand, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes scanning something you couldn’t quite see. he didn’t hear you approach. or maybe he did and was just pretending not to.
the late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting a warm haze over the garden stones. it smelled faintly of earth and chamomile, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe before breaking the silence.
“we need to talk,” you said gently.
he looked up, startled for a second, then shrugged. “if it’s about the shoes i ordered on your card—”
you gave him a look. “riku.”
he sat up straighter. serious now. “okay. what’s up?”
you sat beside him, folding your hands in your lap, your yukata sleeves pooling at your wrists. you took a breath, choosing your words carefully.
“you need to go back to school.”
he blinked. “what?”
“you heard me. i already spoke to the headmaster. they’re willing to let you re-enroll next term. and you need to talk to your mom. properly. you’ve been avoiding her.”
riku looked away. jaw clenched. “she wouldn’t understand.”
“she doesn’t need to understand all of this,” you said softly. “but she deserves to know you’re alive. and trying. you think you’re protecting her, but disappearing from her life like this… it’s not fair.”
he didn’t respond at first. his gaze drifted out to the garden wall, and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his silence.
“this life,” you continued, “this world we’re in now — it’s not safe. you know that. and i can’t help worrying that something might happen to you, and she’ll never even know why. i’ve accepted the risks of being here. but i never wanted them for you.”
his shoulders tensed. he stayed quiet, but his eyes looked glossy, like he’d blinked just a second too late.
“you still have a chance to choose,” you whispered. “and i want you to choose something that won’t kill you.”
he finally looked back at you, a long exhale dragging out of his chest.
“i’ll call her,” he said quietly. “and i’ll apologize. properly.”
you smiled, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
but as you did, your eyes caught the edge of something just beneath the sleeve of his jacket — a strip of white gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm. when your fingers brushed it lightly, he flinched.
you pulled the sleeve up.
the bandage had been carelessly wrapped. fresh ink peeked through the gaps — intricate black lines, a dragon’s claw, maybe, or waves, the skin still slightly raised and tender.
your stomach twisted.
“riku…”
he winced. “it’s nothing. i mean… it’s just a little piece. it’s not even done yet.”
you stared at it for a long moment.
“do you have any idea what she’s going to do when she sees this?”
he rubbed the back of his neck. “probably cry. or throw a pan at me.”
“or both.”
“...at the same time.”
you sighed, but your lips twitched into a small smile. still, your chest felt heavy. not angry — just afraid. he was walking deeper into the world you were only now beginning to understand, and it made your role in it feel even more complicated.
you didn’t say anything more. you just wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug, holding him there for a few seconds longer than either of you wanted to admit.
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that night, after too many glasses of sake and a long evening spent in each other’s arms, the bed was a mess of sweat and tangled sheets.
you were lying on your stomach, your hair stuck to your back, body exhausted and humming. yuta was sprawled on top of you, chest pressed to your spine, his arm tucked under your ribs, his face buried in your neck.
you groaned, voice muffled into the pillow. “you’re heavy.”
“you love it.”
he was right.
he kissed the back of your shoulder, a lazy drag of lips against damp skin.
“you’ve ruined me,” he murmured.
you laughed breathlessly. “you say that like you weren’t already unfixable.”
“i mean it,” he said, shifting slightly so he could look at you. “i didn’t expect this. any of it. you… being here. being mine. and still choosing to stay.”
your eyes softened.
“you’re not an easy man to love, nakamoto.”
he smirked. “but worth it?”
“every headache.”
he leaned over the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer, and returned with a small velvet box — navy, square, simple.
you blinked. “what’s that?”
he sat up slightly, straddling your thighs, hair messy, chest still flushed. the box opened with a click.
inside was a ring — gold, sleek and bold, with a marquise-cut diamond set sideways, surrounded by a halo of tiny black sapphires. the band was engraved with delicate detailing, traditional japanese patterns etched into the metal like hidden promises.
it gleamed even in the low light. expensive. beautiful. utterly yuta.
you sat up, stunned.
“you’re asking me to marry you right after we’ve had sex?” you asked, laughing.
he shrugged. “i was inspired.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“you’re naked and gorgeous and mine. i panicked.”
your laughter caught in your throat, replaced with a tightness that swelled in your chest as you stared at the ring. your eyes watered, lips parting, voice shaky.
“is this real?”
he nodded, his voice quiet now. “i don’t want the kind of marriage we started with. i want one that means something. to both of us. no contracts. no politics. just us. in front of the clan. in front of the gods.”
your fingers reached out, barely brushing the edge of the ring.
“i want to do this right,” he whispered. “let me show you.”
you swallowed hard.
and smiled.
“then yes,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “ask me a hundred times and the answer’s always going to be yes.”
his grin broke wide.
and this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t about hunger.
it was about forever.
the second wedding was nothing like the first.
the first had been arranged in cold hallways, behind doors that clicked shut like iron, signed with blood and pressure and the unspoken rules of the underworld. the first had been necessary — a move on a chessboard.
but this one?
this one was chosen.
held in the shrine courtyard of the nakamoto estate, under the quiet watch of ancestors and gods alike, it began with the low beat of taiko drums and the scent of incense curling through the crisp morning air.
you stood at the center of it all.
dressed in a white shiromuku, the traditional bridal kimono of purity and rebirth. its silk trailed the floor, heavy and immaculate, embroidered with phoenixes and cranes in shimmering thread. your tsunokakushi — the white head covering meant to conceal ego — crowned your head, soft and still.
beside you stood yuta.
his posture was straight, proud, the black crested montsuki haori and hakama hanging from his frame like armor. he looked every bit the oyabun — the head of a family — and yet his gaze never left you, like nothing else in the world demanded his attention.
behind you, rows of men and women knelt on tatami mats — the inner circle of the nakamoto clan. some bore tattoos beneath their sleeves, others scarred hands, others cold eyes trained by violence and loyalty. but in this moment, they were still. silent.
they were bearing witness.
the priest began the shinzen kekkon — the wedding before the gods — by purifying the space with shide and sake, then guiding you and yuta to the front of the altar. a sacred tree branch, tamagushi, was placed in your joined hands. together, you offered it to the kami, bowing low.
this was no contract.
this was devotion.
your palms touched. warm. sure.
and then came the san-san-kudo — the sharing of three cups of sake, each one drunk in three sips: first you, then him, then together. nine sips in total. three-three-nine. an old number. a sacred one.
you drank slowly, your lips brushing the rim, the liquid sharp and ancient on your tongue.
when he drank, he didn’t look at the cup.
he looked at you.
as the final sip passed between you, the priest intoned words of binding.
not legally.
spiritually.
eternally.
and then yuta turned to you, voice low but clear.
“i married you once for duty,” he said. “now i marry you for truth.”
your throat tightened.
you bowed your head and replied, voice steady:
“and i vow to walk beside you, not behind.”
there were no claps.
no applause.
just silence.
respectful.
reverent.
a world watching its king choose something sacred.
when you stepped away from the altar, hand in hand, a man approached from the side.
takuya.
he bowed.
deeply.
then, with solemn hands, presented the ceremonial dagger — tantō — wrapped in white silk. a symbol of acceptance into the family. not as a pawn.
but as one of them.
yuta took it, unwrapped it, and turned to you.
“kneel,” he said softly.
you did.
without fear.
he placed the blade across your palms.
“you carry the weight of my name,” he said. “from now on, no one questions your place.”
you bowed low, touching your forehead to the hilt.
when you stood again, your eyes met his — and something ancient passed between you. a vow older than paper. stronger than ink.
hours later, after the feast, after the toasts, after the smoke and laughter and low bows from men who once called you nothing but ‘the girl from the village’...
you were lying on your stomach in the private room upstairs, your white kimono loosened and draped to your waist, exposing the pale skin of your back and arm.
the tattoo artist sat beside you, focused and quiet.
the hum of the needle filled the room.
yuta was there too.
he sat behind you, shirtless, cross-legged on the floor, watching the design bloom across your skin — a dragon and peony motif interlaced with fine black wind bars, each line tying you deeper into their world. the colors were subtle, but fierce.
the design stretched from your shoulder down to the start of your wrist.
a mirror to his.
not identical. not copied.
complementary.
his hand rested on your calf, thumb drawing lazy circles as the artist worked. you winced once, and he leaned forward, kissing your spine.
“almost done,” he murmured.
you nodded, breath steady.
when the final line was inked and the cloth wiped away the last trace of blood, the artist stepped back.
yuta stood.
he offered his hand.
you took it.
the photograph was more than a picture.
it was a statement. a declaration. an immortal moment suspended in monochrome — raw and reverent. in it, you sat with your back to the camera, your legs drawn close, arms resting lightly over your chest, the cropped sarashi wrapping your torso like a ribbon of quiet power. the light caught the shine of your new tattoo: a sweeping sleeve of mythical creatures and chrysanthemum blooms, still fresh, still red at the edges, but already a part of you. you wore it like a second skin, regal and unbothered, your chin slightly lifted, your hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of your neck, strands framing your face. behind you sat yuta, shirtless, composed, his own tattoos a war map of history carved into muscle and bone. he sat in seiza, arms resting on his knees, head turned just slightly toward your shoulder, not in possession — but in respect.
the image held no smiles. no forced emotion. it was calm. deliberate. powerful. and when it was printed, framed, and placed in the tokonoma alcove of the clan’s primary meeting room, no one questioned it. it hung higher than the weapons displayed on the walls, higher than the scrolls of bloodlines and signed treaties — at the very center of the room, commanding the eye.
to those who entered from the outside, it was a symbol of unity between worlds: tradition and transformation. loyalty and love. ink and intention.
but to those who belonged to the nakamoto clan, it meant something more.
it was the moment they stopped seeing you as “the outsider.” the girl in the white dress from a village none of them could name. the contract bride. the quiet one who used to bow too deeply and speak too little.
now, you sat beside yuta during meetings — not in silence, but in observation. not hidden behind him, but at his side. when younger wives or girlfriends were brought into the compound — nervous, uncertain, too afraid to speak — you were the first to greet them. you created rules to protect them. gave them space to breathe. and over time, it wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking members of the clan to glance your way during decisions, silently asking for your read. your word.
sometimes, you gave it. calmly. decisively.
and when you did, yuta never interrupted.
he listened. he agreed. he trusted.
your presence became part of the structure — not ornamental, but foundational. the quiet balance to yuta’s fire. the logic behind his instinct. you were his shadow when it was needed, and his shield when he left himself exposed. and though some still whispered in the dark corners of old ways, they never challenged you. not after the photograph. not after the wedding. not after the way yuta looked at you when he thought no one was watching.
he looked at you like you had saved him.
because you had.
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that night, long after the meeting room had emptied and the halls had quieted, you found yourselves in the sanctuary of your shared space — warm lamplight casting soft amber shadows across the tatami mats, the scent of cedar and sandalwood lingering in the air. your yukata was folded neatly on the bench, your body bare beneath the sheets, still warm from the bath, hair damp against your shoulders. you sat cross-legged on the futon, eyes closed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the new lines of your tattooed arm. it ached — not painfully, but as a reminder. of everything you now carried. of everything you had chosen.
yuta entered quietly, still in his black hakama, his haori open at the chest. he watched you for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe. no words. just breath. reverence.
then, slowly, he crossed the room.
he knelt in front of you, hands resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on your face. when you opened your eyes, he was there — so close, so still, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile between you.
“i see you,” he said quietly, voice low and full. “not just as my wife. not just as my lover. i see the whole of you. and i want you to know… i trust you with everything. with this clan. with my life. with myself.”
your throat tightened, your chest blooming with something deep and unspeakable. you reached for him, cupping his face with your inked hand. his fingers curled around your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold you there.
he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.
then another to your wrist.
and then, slowly, he laid you down.
his body followed, not with urgency, but with worship — every kiss placed like an offering, every touch a vow. he undressed with no rush, peeling away the layers of cloth until only skin remained between you, until he could feel the curve of your thighs against his hips, your breath against his throat.
he kissed the dragon on your shoulder, then the soft underside of your arm, the delicate line of your ribs. when he reached the curve of your waist, he paused, resting his cheek against your stomach.
“i’ve never bowed to anything but blood and blade,” he whispered. “but for you… i kneel willingly.”
you ran your fingers through his hair, the pads of your thumbs brushing over the scars on his back.
“you don’t have to kneel,” you whispered. “just stay.”
he did.
that night, he didn’t take you roughly. he didn’t claim. he shared. his lips traced every new line on your body as if learning them for the first time. he kissed the places where you winced, and moaned softly when you melted beneath him. he held your hands above your head, not to restrain — but to ground. to feel your pulse against his palms, the heartbeat he’d promised to protect.
when he finally pushed into you, the stretch was deep, familiar, perfect. no pain now. no hesitation. only breath. only movement. you gasped his name against his mouth and he shuddered, whispering yours back like a confession.
he moved slow.
steady.
deliberate.
your bodies rocked in time with the sound of distant wind through the paper doors, with the beating of your own hearts. he watched your face the whole time — every arch of your spine, every flutter of your lashes, every whisper that spilled from your lips.
and when you came — trembling, wet, full of him — he followed, murmuring words into your neck, words you couldn’t remember later but felt deep in your bones.
afterward, you lay tangled in silk and sweat, your inked bodies glowing under the flicker of dying lamplight.
he pulled you close.
kissed your forehead.
and whispered into your ear with a voice only meant for you:
“you’re not just the woman i love. you’re the one who made me real.”
and in the silence that followed, you smiled.
because you believed him.
completely.
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the journey was quiet.
no guards. no entourage. just you and yuta in the back of a black car, the windows fogged slightly from the spring rain outside. he hadn’t said much since you left the house — just held your hand loosely in his lap, his thumb tracing slow, endless circles against your skin. the route took you far from the city, past rice fields and roadside shrines, into the kind of silence that belonged to memory and ghosts.
when the car finally stopped, you stepped out into a small mountain cemetery — tucked into the hills, moss-covered, serene. the rain had eased into a mist, the scent of wet earth and cedar wrapping around you like incense.
the cemetery was quiet in the way only mountain cemeteries could be — the silence not empty, but full, brimming with memory, with weight, with things that still hovered in the air long after breath and body had left the world. above the hills, the late spring sun filtered through a haze of low clouds, casting a soft, muted light over the moss-covered stones and uneven steps. you walked beside yuta, your fingers lightly wrapped around his, your pace steady and deliberate, each step more a ritual than a motion. the path curved slightly as it climbed, the gravel crunching underfoot, and the scent of pine and damp earth rose in slow, solemn waves around you, the kind of scent that felt ancient, like it had always belonged to places like this.
he didn’t speak as you walked. he hadn’t spoken much all morning, and you hadn’t asked him to. you knew what this day meant. what it carried. what it demanded of him. when he finally stopped, it was without warning, his body going still as if something inside him had met resistance — not fear, not hesitation, but reverence. you followed the direction of his gaze and saw it: the gravestone set slightly apart from the others, modest in size, but so immaculately kept that the stone still gleamed beneath the faded sky. the characters were carved deep into the black granite, bold but elegant:
nakamoto shotaro 1972 — 1989
you stared at the dates for a long time, feeling the years settle into your bones. he had been seventeen when he died. seventeen and full of the kind of impossible plans that only younger brothers had — plans to run, to rebel, to protect someone taller than him with his own small body if it meant taking some of the weight off his shoulders. you didn’t know him, not really, not in voice or laughter or presence. but you felt him now — in the way yuta’s hand tightened around yours, in the way the breeze shifted at your ankles, in the way something unspoken hovered just above the earth.
yuta knelt slowly, his knees pressing into the gravel, the sleeves of his haori brushing the edges of the stone as he reached forward with both hands and gently set down a bundle of fresh white chrysanthemums. he didn’t rush. he adjusted each stem until they sat perfectly balanced, then bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the stone. you stayed behind him, giving him the space to let the moment breathe, your heart tightening in your chest with each passing second.
when he finally lifted his head, he exhaled slowly — a sound that wasn’t just breath, but release, something old and painful and buried long enough that it had become part of his spine. his voice, when it came, was low and quiet, spoken more to the grave than to you.
“i couldn’t come before,” he said. “i didn’t know how.”
the wind stirred slightly, catching the edge of his hair.
“i ran. i thought if i built something powerful enough, loud enough, cold enough… maybe it would drown the guilt. maybe i wouldn’t see your face every time i closed my eyes.”
he glanced back at you then, and you met his gaze, offering him nothing but presence.
“but i never stopped seeing you,” he continued, turning back to the stone. “and i never stopped thinking — what would you say if you could see me now? if you knew what i’ve become?”
he reached into the inner fold of his robe and pulled out a photograph, carefully wrapped in a cloth. he unfolded it slowly and set it down beside the flowers, weighing it with a smooth black stone.
you recognized the image before you saw it fully.
it was the photo.
the one of you and him — back to back, inked and bare, solemn and unbreakable.
“this is her,” he whispered. “the one who brought me home. my precious wife.”
you stepped forward then, kneeling beside him. you didn’t speak. instead, you pressed your palm to the stone, fingers splayed. it was cool beneath your skin, rough at the edges, and yet it vibrated faintly, as if warmed by something deeper than sunlight. in that moment, you felt him — not just yuta, but shotaro too — and it struck you how alike they must have been. same blood. same defiance. same loyalty.
yuta turned his head toward you, his voice steadier now, softer. “i told you once that i had a sister,” he said. “but i never told you why i stopped speaking to her. it wasn’t just grief. it was shame. she raised us both after our parents passed away, and i failed her. failed him.”
you looked at him, your expression unreadable, your voice gentle.
“but you didn’t fail him, yuta. you survived. and now you’re honoring him in the only way that matters — by living differently. by loving differently.”
his eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were wet.
not broken.
not defeated.
just full.
he took your hand and kissed the back of it slowly, then stood. you rose with him, brushing gravel from your knees. together, you bowed one last time to the stone, deeper than before, not as farewell but as acceptance — of loss, of memory, of love that had changed its shape but never its place.
as you turned to leave, the wind passed again through the trees, rustling the leaves above like a whisper, and you could’ve sworn — just for a second — that the air felt warmer. lighter. forgiven.
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yutaslaugh · 10 months ago
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OFF THE MASK MV TEASER
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forunct · 3 months ago
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long distance
about; random text messages between you and your long distance boyfriend genderneutral!reader x 127!boyfriends
setting; nowhere specific- different time zones
warnings; suggestive themes in jaehyun’s and mark’s. minors dni!
note; not entirely sure that this is gender neutral but if it isn't please lmk. not proofread, hope you enjoyed!
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