#nct yuta

[cbeargyu]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife – SECOND PART

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

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

[bad-euphoria]

YUTA 'Off The Mask' MV TEASER (x)

[forunct]

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!

[viasdreams]

── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ──

telling yuta you’re getting a piercing !!

a/n: i have deep trauma (not really) with bellybutton piercings…😞

[zeroseuniverse]

NCT 127 – When You Tell Them to Sit Down After They Say They Can’t Stand You

Johnny

Immediately bursts out laughing. "Okay, that was a good one." He’ll actually sit down, leaning back dramatically like, "Well, I guess I have no choice now."

Taeyong

Blinks at you in shock. He wasn’t actually mad, but your response completely throws him off. After a moment, he just sighs and obeys, mumbling, "Fine. But only because that was funny."

Yuta

Smirks instantly. "Damn, alright." He loves a clever comeback, so now he’s extra amused. He’ll definitely test you more often just to see what other things you come up with.

Doyoung

He stops mid-sentence, staring at you like, "Did you just…?" Then he sighs so dramatically. "I hate that that was actually funny." He sits down, but he’s shaking his head the whole time like he’s fake disappointed in himself for laughing.

Jaehyun

Gives you that look—the one where he’s clearly impressed but trying not to show it. He sits down without a word, resting his chin on his hand like, "Okay, continue. I’m listening now."

Jungwoo

Gasps. Then immediately sits down like, "Fair. That was fair." He’s grinning the whole time, though, and now he’s just waiting to see what else you’ll say.

Mark

Mans is flabbergasted cause like when did you become bold? But honestly he is secretly super proud of the witt! He sits back down without a word because you left him totally speechless. However it won't last for long just know he's gonna have a better comeback just wait for him to stop buffering

Haechan

Throws his hands up like, "Okay, okay, damn." He sits down but fake sulks about it for at least five minutes. Eventually, he just grins and goes, "That was actually kinda good, I’ll give it to you."

[puppysuh]

FATHER’S DAY .ᐟ ( nct 127 smau )

synopsis. wishing ilichil happy father’s day 🤭

rating. suggestive (minors + ageless do not interact)

warnings. mentions of pregnancy, sexual implications, not really a warning but doyoung’s mentions not wearing glasses (glasses wearers i apologise), hints of daddy kink (OF COURSE)

a/n. first smau, kinda scrred… you can kinda tell the order i did it in because they get progressively longer… hope you like it though! just a silly little thing i decided to do for father’s day because i would gladly call anyone in ilichil da-

JOHNNY.

TAEYONG.

DOYOUNG.

YUTA.

JAEHYUN.

JUNGWOO.

MARK.

HAECHAN.

a/n : happy father’s day to nct 127 🙂‍↕️ maybe the daddies were the kpop bgs we met along the way

[vanesycho]

kinktober day 1 [mirror sex]

|masterlist|

warning:smut without a plot,fingering

Yuta, who entered the room, looked up from his phone and looked at you for a while, you were sitting at the end of the bed looking at the mirror in front of you doing your skin care before going to bed. He threw the phone on the bed randomly, then he got behind you, you gave him a smile, he smiled the same but only he knew it wasn't an innocent smile. He pulled your hair, exposing your neck, gave you a small kiss, you felt him whisper in your ear "You smell so good." You laughed in return for his compliment and turned to him, gave him a small kiss on the lips "Thank you my love, the new shower gel I bought. I think I'll use this from now on because..." he honestly didn't even listen to what you said, his hand roamed your legs, your sentence was cut off when he started caressing between your legs "Yuta- are you listening?"

He looked at you from the mirror "Get on my lap." You didn't understand what he said at first, he laughed briefly when he realized you were looking at him questioningly. "Stand up and then sit on my lap, baby." You didn't hesitate to do that, when Yuta got to the end of the bed you were about to sit on his lap but he stopped you "Take off your panties." you pressed your legs together, seeing you paused, Yuta looked at your face "Are you going to stand there or do I need to help you?" his hand went to your shorts without waiting, pulling you closer and placing a small kiss on your belly while taking off your shorts and panties, your body shivered for a moment, Yuta grinned seeing the effect of even a small kiss "Cute."

He then made you sit on his lap facing the mirror, his fingers didn't wait and went to your pussy immediately, even though you wanted to close your legs, he separated yours with his own legs "Ah-ah, are you trying to hide your beautiful pussy from me? You better not." he said the last sentence in your ear in a whispered tone, making you swallow hard. Yuta looked at the mirror, two of his fingers slipped inside you easily due to your wetness, he let out a deep breath "Fuck- you're this wet and I didn't even touch you. Yet trying to hide it from me." his other hand went to your chin, squeezing it lightly and forcing you to look in the mirror "If you take your eyes off the mirror, good things won't happen to you, do you hear?" You couldn't answer, you just nodded in agreement. He placed a small kiss on your cheek. "Good girl."

His hand moved down from your chin to your neck, not squeezing too hard, just staying there. His fingers started to move in and out of your pussy in a certain rhythm, the wetness wrapping around his fingers, making Yuta lick his lips in pleasure. Your breathless little moans reached his ears. Your voice got louder as he started to speed up his fingers, looking at your body shaking from the speed of his fingers. “Ah...Can’t you handle just two fingers, baby? Does it feel good?” You couldn’t answer, he slid his third finger into your pussy easily, only grinning when he heard a small cry. “So needy and cute...Look at how nicely you wrap around my fingers.”

He squeezed his hand around your neck lightly, your eyes were slightly open but you could see what was happening clearly in the mirror. Your juices were already starting to flow down your pussy, Yuta’s hand moved down your neck and started to play with your nipples this time. His fingertip gently traced circles around your nipple, your erect nipples satisfying him even more. He looked at the mirror again, his hand was still rapidly destroying your pussy "Please..I'm close..Yuta-" he looked at how you can barely speak between your moans and laughed, spoke in a mocking tone "Are you close already? What a shame..I was just starting to enjoy myself."

His fingers continued to hit your pleasure point, you heard him muttering curses as your juices flowed from your pussy. Your eyes closed from the pleasure and you leaned your head on his shoulder, he couldn't help but laugh at how exhausted you looked even for his fingers "Are you going to cum on my fingers, baby? Are you that needy?" The sentences he whispered in your ear were driving you even crazier, when your moans got louder he realized you were getting close, he bit his lower lip, his own breathing was also irregular. A few more hits on your pleasure points and his fingers were filled with your cum, he watched it flow away. Yuta slowly pulled his fingers out of you, watching how your legs were shaking, you closed your legs, eyes still closed and you were resting tiredly on his shoulder.

His chuckle reached your ear "I should have done this sooner, fuck." he whispered to himself, you opened your eyes and looked at him, he gave you a small kiss on the lips "Are you tired already? I told you I was just starting to enjoy it so now turn around and lift your ass for me baby. I need to see how I fuck you with my dick."

[alfaire]

𓉮⠀ ৡ⃪꫶⃗🩻. 📿⠀ 虚しき華と知る THE FINAL⠀

[orangesaek]

'tattooed on my mind' | Jaehyun

request: "Jaehyun (y/n's unrequited love at first but falls bit by bit for her)"

pairings: tattoo-artist!Jaehyun x afab-lawyer!reader (Johnny, Taeyong, Yuta & Ten cameo)┊genre: slow-burn romance, friends to lovers, some comedy (tried), fluff┊wc: 3.5k┊cw: minimal cursing/swearing

@bluedbliss I might have gotten a bit carried away (hence the wc im sorry) but I hope u like this anw~ tysm for requesting xoxo

a/n: slightly proofread. also, I MISS JAEYONG :((((

Two years ago, you found yourself reluctantly stepping into a tattoo shop, dragged there by your older brother Johnny and his friend Yuta. They promised you something irresistible:

“After the tattoo session, we’ll treat you to the best food ever.”

That was the only reason you agreed to tag along. You had zero interest in tattoos—well, aside from admiring the art from a safe distance.

The air inside smelled like antiseptic. Dark and edgy. 

“Yo, Ten,” Johnny called as you all stepped in.

“Hey,” Ten mumbled from across the room without looking up, hunched over a client’s arm with focused precision.

“Hi to whoever you brought, too.”

“Hi,” you replied, a little amused.

Johnny grinned. “This is my little sister, the lawyer. Finally dragged her out.”

“Cool,” Ten said, still not looking up. “Hi lil sis.”

And then you saw him.

Jaehyun.

Jaehyun looked up from his desk near the window and stood, brushing graphite off his hands. He was wearing a loose, sleeveless black tee that showed off his toned, tattooed arms, his hair tousled like he hadn’t even tried. His dimples made an appearance as he gave you a small smile.

“And this,” Johnny continued, motioning toward Jaehyun and the man beside him, “is Jaehyun and Taeyong. They own this shop with Ten.”

Taeyong gave a slight nod and a friendly smile.

“Hey. You can sit on the couch if you want. There’s also a coffee shop downstairs if you want to grab something to eat.”

Without missing a beat, Ten called out again—still tattooing, not looking up. 

“We’ve got water and instant coffee in the back, and snacks in the cabinet above the fridge. Might wanna grab something now—based on those cursed sketches Johnny and Yuta wanted, you’re gonna be here for a while.”

You chuckled. “I’m okay, thanks,” you said, settling onto the couch.

From your seat, you watched them work. Jaehyun, Taeyong, and Ten moved with smooth confidence, tattoos like murals on skin, faces too perfect.

They should be celebrities, you thought, not tattoo artists. Too handsome to be hidden in a tucked-away studio like this.

Jaehyun was working on Johnny’s forearm, glancing up occasionally to chat, then down again with expert precision. At one point, he looked over at you and flashed another smile, one dimple deepening.

“You look like you're analyzing us like a criminal case,” he said. “Should I be worried you’re building evidence?”

You smirked. “Only if bad puns are a felony.”

He snorted mid-laugh—snorted—and his pen jerked slightly.

“Shit,” he hissed. “Almost ruined the outline.”

Taeyong cracked a smile from where he was prepping Yuta’s arm.

“I told you not to try being funny while tattooing.”

Ten let out a snicker from across the room.

Johnny gave Jaehyun a side-eye.

“If you mess up my tattoo, I’m making you ink a dick on your pretty face.”

Jaehyun tried to hold in another laugh but failed miserably, shaking his head. 

The whole room fell into a lighthearted rhythm after that, and from the couch, you watched it all unfold—your heart doing things it shouldn’t around a guy like him.

Johnny and Yuta loved Jaehyun and Taeyong’s work so much they kept coming back for more tattoos. And somehow, you kept tagging along—on the excuse that the café downstairs had the best iced Americano in Seoul.

They knew exactly why you came.

“Stop pretending you just like coffee,” Yuta teased one day as you sipped your drink while Jaehyun was busy with another customer.

You glared at him. “I’m the only responsible adult here, okay?”

Jaehyun caught your eye and grinned.

“Responsible, huh? I’d say reckless—showing up just for coffee and bad jokes.”

You rolled your eyes but chuckled when he flexed his tattooed arms and winked playfully.

Weeks passed, and you found yourself drawn into their world despite your demanding job. Whenever Johnny said Jaehyun would be around, you’d drop everything and come by.

One evening, Johnny nudged you during dinner.

“You know, everyone in the shop can tell you like Jaehyun. Even Taeyong and Ten are keeping tabs. Yuta knows, too. Obviously.”

You nearly choked on your food. “What? No way.”

Johnny smirked. “Yeah, way. You’re the worst at hiding it.”

You blushed but said nothing. You’d never told Jaehyun how you felt. You were scared it would ruin everything.

One day, while shopping for new office clothes at the mall, you and Jaehyun were walking side by side through the clean, wide hallways—your arm occasionally brushing his as you wandered in and out of stores.

He carried your shopping bags without complaint, even held up a few blouses to your frame while making fake model poses that made you snort.

Then, casually, you brought something up.

“Oh, by the way,” you said as you were flipping through some tailored blazers on a rack.

“A lawyer from SM asked me out yesterday. Said he saw me during trial and it was ‘love at first sight’.”

You didn’t look at Jaehyun when you said it. You weren’t sure why—maybe you were testing something, or just curious.

Jaehyun, who had been scrolling through his phone as he leaned against a pillar, paused. His smile faltered. You caught the flicker in his eyes when he looked up. Something unreadable. Confusion? Unease?

“Really?” His voice was slightly tighter than usual.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at him from the side, trying to read him. “He seemed nice. Said he’s been seeing me in a few hearings and finally worked up the nerve.”

Jaehyun’s jaw ticked for a second. Then he gave a short laugh, forced.

“Can’t blame him. You’re pretty and amazing.”

Your heart twisted at the words. Sweet and supportive, but the delivery felt off.

There was silence. You were about to move on when he asked, voice low and seemingly offhanded, “So… do you like him?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not sure yet...”

Jaehyun tilted his head slightly, studying you. “He decent?”

“Kinda,” you said, shrugging. “I mean, he’s okay. Perfect hair, polite, driven.”

You weren’t even sure why you were describing the guy that much.

Jaehyun nodded slowly, as if absorbing that.

“Are you thinking about going on a date with him?”

You glanced at him again. His tone was careful. 

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Jaehyun didn’t respond right away. He shifted his weight slightly, eyes drifting away toward the row of jackets behind you. His lips pressed together.

He told himself he should be happy for you. That’s what friends do, right? Be supportive. 

But instead, something tugged at him.

The idea of someone else getting to listen to your rants after court, getting to see that excited sparkle in your eyes when you talked about winning a case. Someone else making you laugh.

He looked back at you with a faint smile, then tilted his head toward the escalators.

“Anyway, didn’t you say you wanted to check out the stationery shop on the fifth floor? Let's go. Before you fall for Mr. Perfect Hair and decide to ditch your shopping buddy.”

Jaehyun didn’t realize it yet, but that moment would haunt him for weeks. Because that wasn’t the reaction of someone who saw you as “just a friend”.

That was the first time he realized that if he didn’t do something soon, someone else might step in where he had always been too careful to tread.

Someone else might get to call you theirs.

And he didn’t think he could handle that.

The first time Jaehyun came to your office, he unintentionally caused chaos.

He had stopped by your building during one of his free afternoons, dressed casually in a black sleeveless hoodie that showed off his toned, tattoo-covered arms. His hair was pushed back, revealing his sculpted face, sharp jawline, and the ever-dangerous combo—his dimples and a polite smile.

He had walked up to the front desk like he belonged there, asking in that calm, deep voice, “Hi, I’m looking for Attorney L/N’s office? I’m a friend. Just dropping something off.”

The poor intern at the reception nearly dropped her pen.

“Oh—uh, yes! She’s on the 17th floor. You can take the elevator to your left,” she stammered, blinking rapidly as she tried not to stare too hard at his arms or the way his black joggers clung perfectly to his hips.

Jaehyun smiled and thanked them with a slight bow, his dimples making a brief but deadly appearance.

The whispers started as soon as he turned around.

“Oh my god.”

“Who is that?”

“Did we just get a celebrity in the lobby?”

As Jaehyun stepped off the elevator on the 17th floor, more heads turned.

Your colleagues peered through office windows, peeking from behind their cubicles as he walked calmly down the hallway, his boots making light thuds on the polished tile. Even the older colleagues blinked in mild surprise as he passed.

He gave a slight, bashful nod to a few people who were obviously staring and then he stopped outside your door.

Inside, you were busy typing furiously on your computer, deep in edits for an upcoming court document. When you heard a soft knock, you called out automatically, “Come in.”

You didn’t look up until the door creaked open.

And then, “Jaehyun?”

He stepped inside, holding a takeout bag in one hand and two cups of iced Americano in the other. 

“Johnny told me you haven’t eaten yet. Said you texted him you were swamped with that multi-million dollar case.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “He told you that?”

“Yeah, we were texting,” Jaehyun said simply, placing the bag and drinks carefully on the corner of your desk. “So, I figured you might need some fuel.”

You blinked, then stood up and smiled, the surprise giving way to warmth. 

“Thanks… I didn’t even realize how hungry I was.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, dimples peeking again as he gave you a boyish grin. 

“Didn’t want you to faint from hunger while winning your clients’ millions.”

You laughed. “That’s very specific and considerate of you.”

He glanced briefly around your office, eyes scanning the framed degrees and awards on your walls. 

“It’s cool seeing your world. You talk about court all the time, but seeing it like this? I dunno. Makes me proud.”

You paused. That was unexpectedly sweet.

Jaehyun didn’t linger too long. “I’ll let you get back to it. Eat, okay?”

You nodded, walking with him to the elevator.

“Thanks again, really.”

“Anytime,” he said, waving as the doors closed.

The moment you walked back into your office, you were ambushed.

Two of your colleagues nearly tackled you in the hallway.

“WHO was that?” one of them whispered, wide-eyed. “And can you introduce me?”

You laughed nervously, trying to sidestep them.

“He’s just a friend.”

“Oh please,” another snorted. “Friends don’t bring lunch like that with iced Americano and a face that hot. He looked like a heavily tattooed K-pop idol.”

“He’s really just a friend,” you repeated, holding up your hands.

“Then give me his number,” one said boldly. “If you’re not dating him, I wanna take him out.”

You blinked. Then blurted out the first thing that popped into your head. 

“He’s gay.”

“What?” they all said in unison.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “He just looks like that but totally not into women. That’s why we get along. We talk about boys.”

They stared at you suspiciously.

You gave your best lawyer-face and backed into your office.

“I gotta review this case. Good luck, ladies.”

That wasn’t the last time Jaehyun came.

He started dropping by whenever he had gaps in his schedule—especially after that day. Sometimes, he’d bring hot soup on rainy afternoons. 

When you were in a meeting and didn’t see him, you’d come back to your office and find the food waiting for you, along with those funny little messages that made your heart skip.

“Eat this or I’ll tattoo ‘hangry’ on you myself. – J”

You’d sit down at your desk, smile at his note, and immediately shoot him a text.

“you’re ridiculous but thank you 💛”

He’d reply almost immediately.

“only the best for Seoul’s top lawyer 💅✨ did you eat it or are you suing me for trespassing 👀”

One afternoon, Jaehyun had texted you, asking if you wanted to hang out. Johnny, Taeyong, and Yuta were off hiking somewhere ‘spiritual’, and you were home alone, slowly losing your mind between legal briefs and iced coffee refills.

"Come to the shop," Jaehyun had said. 

"It’s just me and Ten today. He’s my only victim-slash-client. You can study here—it’s quieter than you think. Plus, you get to hear me whine while I work."

So, you brought your notes. Another complicated case waiting to be dissected, and settled into the familiar couch across the room. 

You couldn't help but glance up every now and then, the ink glistening beautifully under the shop lights, and Jaehyun looking much more attractive as he expertly outlined Ten’s arm.

Your eyes took in all of Jaehyun’s visible tattoos and teased, “You're basically art with muscles.”

Jaehyun glanced up, dimples showing.

“And you're basically an encyclopedia with legs.”

You bit back a laugh.

Ten let out a dramatic sigh.

“Can you two stop flirting while I’m trying not to die here? My pain tolerance is not compatible with this rom-com energy.”

Jaehyun snorted, eyes twinkling as he returned to his shading on Ten’s arm. 

“Sorry, bro. She started it.”

You looked back down at your notes, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too hard, when Ten—currently sprawled comfortably in the chair as Jaehyun shaded on his arm—spoke up.

“So,” he began casually, “What’s the update on Mr. Perfect Hair?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard.

“Wait, how do you even know about him?”

Jaehyun visibly froze beside him, the buzzing of the tattoo machine pausing for a second. His shoulders stiffened.

Before Jaehyun could throw a warning glance or say anything, Ten casually replied, “Oh, Jaehyun told me.”

Your eyes slowly shifted to Jaehyun, who was now staring very intently on Ten’s arm—like his life depended on getting that one tiny shadow just right. He didn't meet your gaze. His jaw was clenched slightly, and you could see the tension in his brows. You raised a brow at him before turning back to Ten.

“He still texts me,” you said slowly. “But I haven’t said yes to his date invite yet… I’m not sure what to do.”

Ten hummed thoughtfully and turned his head to look at you. 

“If you’re not sure, I think it’s better to just turn him down now. You don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

You nodded, unsure. “Yeah, but what if I regret it?”

Ten gave you a knowing look, one Jaehyun purposefully avoided. 

“You would've gone out with him a long time ago if you were really interested. You look like you're already into someone else anyway.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out because that actually made perfect sense. And the moment your eyes involuntarily glanced toward Jaehyun again, who was pretending he was way too focused on blending the shading, you felt your heart sink a little just from the weight of your own realization.

Later that night, after dinner and a little more quiet time at the tattoo shop, you finally sent Mr. Perfect Hair guy a message.

It was kind, honest.

You thanked him for his sweet words, told him you appreciated the gesture, but your heart wasn’t in the right place to start anything with him. 

He responded quickly.

"That’s okay, really. Thanks for being honest. Whoever the guy is that ends up with you… he’s lucky. Good luck."

You smiled softly at the message. And without even thinking, your thumb hovered over another chat—Jaehyun’s. You didn’t type anything yet, but your heart was already miles ahead.

You were hanging out in the tattoo shop again, quietly studying your cases spread out on the table. The faint scent of ink filled the air.

Jaehyun was at his usual spot by the big window, working intently on a sketch for Yuta’s new tattoo. His brows knit together in concentration, every stroke of his pen deliberate and precise.

Every now and then, you’d glance up at him. His muscular, sleeveless arms flexing as he moved, tattoos on his skin looking like they had stories to tell. When he caught your eye, he’d flash that warm smile, dimples deepening, before returning his focus to the sketch.

You felt a quiet comfort in the shared silence, your mind flipping between legal jargon and the mesmerizing sight of Jaehyun so absorbed in his art.

Finally, summoning courage, you broke the silence.

“So... do you think someone like me could ever... get asked out by someone like you?”

You kept your eyes on the table, pretending not to watch his reaction.

Jaehyun paused, then laughed—a deep, genuine laugh that made your heart skip a beat. You looked up quickly, suddenly nervous.

“O-okay,” you said quietly, gathering your things, voice trembling a little, “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

You stood up, heading for the door, when Jaehyun caught your wrist and suddenly pulled you into a tight hug.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh,” he said softly, his dimples showing as he smiled against your hair.

“I was laughing because... honestly, I can’t believe you beat me to it.”

You froze, heart pounding.

“I was going to ask you out,” he continued, voice soft but sure. “I just needed the right moment.”

You pulled back a little, searching his eyes. “Since when?”

His smile softened.

“Since the first time I saw you walk into the shop. You’re one of a kind—smart, funny, and somehow able to take my world-class jokes without rolling your eyes too hard.”

You laughed softly, the tension melting away.

“But when you told me about that lawyer guy who asked you out...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Something just... flipped inside me. I realized I didn’t want to be just your tattoo artist friend or shopping buddy or your brother’s friend... I wanted to be part of your life, really part of it.”

Your breath hitched, warmth flooding your chest.

“So, what took you so long?” you asked, voice gentle but teasing.

He grinned, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to ask you but you just beat me to it. And honestly? I’m glad you did.”

You smiled, like something long-awaited had finally arrived. Jaehyun pulled you back in for a tighter hug, his arms warm and secure around you as he gently swayed your bodies side to side. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, his chin resting lightly on your head.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured softly, voice slightly muffled in your hair.

“You walking into the shop that first day? I thought Johnny brought you just to test my self-control.”

You chuckled into his chest. “You almost ruined his tattoo.”

He laughed, the low sound vibrating through your frame. “Because you made me laugh. Still do.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“I didn’t think someone like you could really look at someone like me and see beyond the ink or my dumb jokes.”

You reached up, fingertips tracing the curve of his jaw.

“I always saw you. I just thought maybe you didn’t see me like that.”

Jaehyun smiled, dimples deep, eyes soft.

“And I’ve always seen you. I just didn’t want to risk losing you before I was sure.”

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he gave them a small squeeze.

Then, with a teasing grin, he said, “So… what’s gonna happen to that Mr. Perfect Hair guy? The one who fell in love with you at first sight?”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion.

“Mr. Perfect Hair? Hmm. Can’t say I know anyone like that.”

Jaehyun raised a brow, amused.

You bit back a smile, lowering your voice just a little.

“I am waiting for some guy to ask me out, though. Handsome, tattooed, annoyingly good at puns. I heard he might be free this weekend, and lucky me—I don’t have any cases to work on.”

For a second, Jaehyun didn’t move. Then that deep, warm laugh of his escaped as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your nose, dimples flashing.

“Perfect,” he murmured, still smiling. “I think that guy’s been waiting for the weekend, too.”

Weeks later, you were back in the tattoo shop when Jaehyun held out his hand.

On his ring finger was a tiny tattoo—your initials with a small heart.

“Tattoos last forever, right?” he said with that cheesy grin you secretly loved.

“So does my love for you.”

You smirked and pointed at your ring finger.

“Think you could tattoo mine with your initials?”

He leaned in close, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Only if you pay me with a kiss.”

You smiled and kissed him.

And just like that, your unspoken love was inked into reality—permanent, beautiful, and real.

[127gifs]

welcome to Y2K

[cbeargyu]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife – EPILOGUE

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!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, creampie, possessiveness, worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, 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), parenthood, tattoos/irezumi (traditional), symbolic death/rebirth, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.

wc: 2,3k

part i. part ii.

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss @turtash @amazinggraxia @rubiiisyeon @doiestars @7dreambaby @joepomonerof @hanxxz @sunghoonsgfreal @evebionc @unlikelyeaglegirl @hyucksnctzen

by 2004, the house felt different.

not smaller, not quieter — just fuller. the halls that once echoed with tension now hummed with the sounds of daily life: children’s footsteps chasing one another down the engawa, the murmur of a radio left on in the kitchen, the rustle of sliding doors pulled open and shut by hands that had never known violence. it was the same house, the same bones, the same garden just outside — now blooming again with early summer peonies and camellias — but something had shifted permanently. there was warmth where once there had only been steel.

yuta had changed too.

not softened — never that. he still ruled with precision, still carried the weight of his name and history with that quiet, dangerous grace that made men straighten their spines when he entered a room. but he had grown into something more. not just the oyabun of a clan that had expanded and stabilized under his leadership, but a man who no longer ran from his past — a man who returned to the shrine every year on the same date, with a boy at his side whose hand fit almost perfectly in his own.

shotaro was seven now.

sharp-eyed, quiet like his father, though he laughed easier, with a crooked grin he hadn’t inherited from either of you. he asked questions constantly — about honor, about names, about the tattoos he was not yet old enough to understand. yuta answered them all, never speaking down to him, never sugarcoating. and when he’d asked last winter, in the soft hush of snowfall outside, why he was named after someone in the ground, yuta had knelt, placed a hand on his shoulder, and simply said, “because the man you’re named after taught me what it means to protect something. and now that name belongs to you.”

and then there was tsubaki.

your daughter had arrived two springs ago, born under the bloom of the tree you had planted after your wedding. her name meant “camellia,” a flower symbolic of strength, love, and resilience — one that thrived even in cold seasons, blooming when others withered. and she lived up to every syllable of it. bright, fearless, stubborn as rain — with your eyes and your temper, and yuta’s impossible ability to control a room without speaking. she had already declared, at the age of two, that she would marry no one unless they brought her three swords and a horse, which shotaro immediately promised to steal for her. neither of you corrected them.

riku still came by every sunday.

he had changed the most — at least on the surface. now living in a glass-and-gold penthouse high above namba, he had risen through the clan ranks with that same street-born cunning and loyalty that had once earned him the right to drive your car in silence. he wore imported suits now, changed women like watches, and arrived smelling of expensive cologne and nights without sleep. but he never missed a visit to his mother, never missed a birthday, never looked at your children without that same big-brother warmth that had once shielded you both from the world outside.

the clan had grown too.

under yuta’s leadership, it had evolved — not sanitized, never clean, but refined. operations were quieter now, more surgical, layered with strategy and diplomacy that reached far beyond osaka. territories were protected, alliances kept in balance, and his name no longer needed to be shouted to be known. in meetings, he still sat in silence more than he spoke, but when he did, the room fell still. and you — you were still at his side. not as a shadow, but as his reflection. you handled affairs that didn’t touch violence directly: the security of the women, the education of the next generation, the negotiation of small conflicts before they became large ones. sometimes your word alone was enough to prevent bloodshed. you had learned how to wield power without raising your voice.

tonight, the house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that only came after everyone had gone to sleep. the children had been tucked in hours ago, shotaro with his wooden sword beside the futon, tsubaki curled up with her face in your old wedding kimono — the red silk wrapped around her like a dragon’s embrace. you had lingered a moment longer in their room, brushing her hair back from her forehead, listening to the way yuta’s footsteps slowed outside the door before continuing on.

now, he waited for you in the bedroom, already half-undressed, the soft glow of paper lanterns casting long shadows across his back. the tattoos were still vivid, still beautiful, age only adding depth to the black and gray lines that curled over his shoulder blades like the memory of fire. his robe hung loose around his waist, his hands resting in his lap. when you entered, he looked up and smiled — not the smirk he gave the world, not the careful calm he used with the clan, but something smaller. reserved only for you.

“they asleep?” he asked.

you nodded, untying your robe.

“both,” you said. “though tsubaki was threatening to lead a coup if we didn’t let her sleep in our bed again.”

he laughed under his breath, eyes following the silk as it slipped from your shoulders.

“she gets that from you.”

“i get the blame for everything.”

“you get the credit, too,” he said, rising, crossing the room toward you. “for this house. for the way i survived myself. for both of them.”

he stopped in front of you, hands coming to your hips, mouth brushing your jaw.

“for making me want more than survival.”

you leaned into him, pressing your palms against his bare chest.

“and what do you want now, nakamoto?”

he didn’t answer with words.

he pushed you gently back onto the bed, his body following yours, one knee parting your thighs as his lips dragged across your collarbone, slow and unhurried. he worshipped you as he had that very first night — with a hunger honed by time, shaped by memory. his hands roamed the map of your body like it was the territory he had built everything on, his tongue tracing the edge of your tattoo before sinking lower.

“mine,” he whispered, voice low, rough. “still. always.”

you gasped as he filled you — deep and claiming — his pace slow but punishing, each thrust purposeful, each breath a promise. he didn’t have to ask permission anymore. you gave him everything long ago. but tonight, he still earned it, inch by inch, word by word.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he growled against your neck. “mark you from the inside this time. want to see it drip from you, want to watch it take.”

you whimpered, the sound lost between kisses and heat, your body arching as he pressed harder, faster, claiming you like only he could.

“gonna make you beg,” he hissed, grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. “show you who you belong to.”

“you,” you gasped. “only you.”

he smiled — dark, triumphant, adoring — and fucked you harder, deeper, until your cries turned into broken syllables and your body trembled beneath his. when you came, it was with his name on your tongue, and when he followed, spilling into you with a low growl, it was with his hands cradling your face like you were the only thing still holding him to the earth.

afterward, he didn’t move from you for a long time.

just held you, your legs tangled, your breathing slow, your bodies sticky and warm and still joined.

“we made something beautiful,” he murmured, his hand on your stomach, your heart, your life.

“we did,” you whispered back, lips brushing his.

and outside the window, beneath the stars, the camellia tree swayed — blooming, still, after all these years.

you had left modeling the year after the ceremony.

not the wedding — that had been for politics, for tradition, for the sake of appearances. but the second one, the real one, the one held in the temple courtyard with your hand in yuta’s and the clan kneeling before you in reverent silence — that was when everything shifted. after that, the camera no longer felt like a doorway to your future. it felt like a relic. a different skin you had already shed.

there were reasons, of course. you were now the wife of an oyabun, a woman of weight and presence in a house watched by too many eyes. the responsibilities were real, and heavy, and sometimes they left little room for dreams you once chased across magazine pages and studio lights. you stepped down without bitterness. not because the dream had died — but because it had simply evolved. power, after all, had many forms. and now yours wore silk, moved quietly, and negotiated the survival of families with a single glance across a tatami room.

still, from time to time, the itch returned — subtle, low beneath your skin. so every few seasons, you would indulge it. a private session. a camera. sometimes a friend from your past came to shoot, someone who understood that this wasn’t for publications, for fame, for the market. these photos weren’t meant for the world. they were for you. and for him.

you posed in lace, in silk, in shadows. sometimes wearing only his haori, your tattoos catching the light in deliberate contrast to the softness of your skin. you never smiled in those pictures. only stared into the lens like you were daring it to forget who you had become.

yuta never watched you shoot. he always let you have that space — but he waited outside the room like a man expecting something sacred. and later, once the photos were printed and arranged in the quiet privacy of your study, he kept them. not hidden. just protected. a lacquered album on the highest shelf, filled with his wife — his woman — arching across bedsheets, eyes half-lidded with power, with pride. he opened it on long nights sometimes, when the house was quiet and the city below dared to forget who ruled it. he’d look through the pages slowly, fingers brushing each image like a prayer.

“mine,” he would whisper. “mine forever.”

in the summer of that year, shotaro turned eight.

he asked to visit the shrine again.

this time, you let him go alone with yuta. you stayed behind with tsubaki, brushing her hair on the veranda, the scent of roasted barley tea drifting from the kitchen. she sat still for once, curious eyes turned toward the mountain path that had taken her brother and father out of sight.

at the shrine, yuta let shotaro walk ahead.

the boy moved with quiet steps, his hands respectfully tucked into the sleeves of his light jinbei, the dragon-embroidered sandals scraping softly against the stone. he carried a single flower — a white camellia, picked from the tree you had planted years ago. he had asked why it mattered. you had told him, “because it blooms even in the cold, and some names are meant to live forever.”

when they reached the grave, yuta didn’t speak. he watched as his son knelt before the stone, bowed deeply, and placed the flower carefully at the base.

“thank you,” the boy said quietly. “for my name. for my father.”

he bowed again.

and somewhere, just behind the trees, the wind moved like a breath held and released.

that fall, you watched tsubaki from the doorway of the meeting hall.

she was barefoot, small but composed, standing at the edge of the gathering like she belonged to it. she didn’t speak. didn’t fidget. just stood with her arms behind her back, head tilted slightly — listening.

the men watched her, but no one dared correct her presence.

not with you in the room.

not with yuta at the head of the table, his eyes flickering to his daughter only once before returning to the conversation about territory, expansion, diplomacy.

afterwards, she ran to you.

“they listen to you,” she said with a child’s solemnity. “and they listen to papa. so one day, they’ll listen to me.”

you smiled faintly and knelt beside her.

“and what will you say when they do?”

she considered the question, frowning slightly.

“i’ll say that peace doesn’t mean softness. it means knowing where to place your blade.”

you didn’t laugh. only kissed the top of her head.

“good girl.”

years from now, perhaps it would all change. perhaps shotaro would take over the clan or tsubaki would carve her own empire from the bones of your name. perhaps the city would grow beyond your reach. but for now, in the golden hush of late afternoon, your legacy was safe. not in money. not in territory. but in the way your son placed his hand on his sister’s shoulder when she spoke. in the way yuta looked at you like nothing else had ever made sense before you. in the way your story — once marked by silence and fire and fear — now unfolded in softness, in laughter, in roots that stretched deeper than any wound.

one night, when the children were asleep and the world outside was too loud to hear, yuta pulled you into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. he didn’t speak. just kissed you slow. deep. hands finding the familiar path of your hips, your breasts, the soft bend of your knees.

he made love to you the way a man remembers — every scar, every sound, every place you had once trembled. and when he came inside you, forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like an incantation, he didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness.

he simply said:

“thank you for staying. thank you for becoming everything i never knew how to ask for.”

and you smiled, the weight of time and joy and sorrow pooled between your bodies, and answered:

“thank you for giving me a name worth carrying.”

outside, the wind moved through the camellia tree again — still blooming.

always blooming.

just like you.

[bad-euphoria]

YUTA 'Off The Mask' MV TEASER (x)

[hyunsuksswife]

[viasdreams]

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

shutting johnny down after he reaches out

⊹ this is part 2, you can read part 1 here!!

a/n: thank you to all the ppl that left plot suggestions in my inbox!! i <3 you !!!

fake text m.list ☁︎⋅

[zeroseuniverse]

NCT 127 When You Randomly Pepper Their Face with Kisses

Johnny

Loves it. He grins and goes, "Aww, do it again." He will not let you stop—if you try, he’ll literally tilt his head like, "Wait, you missed a spot." You’ve now started a game that he will win.

Taeyong

Immediate flustered mess. His ears turn so red, and he just blinks at you like you just short-circuited his brain. "W-Wait, why—what’s happening?" If you keep going, he will just melt.

Yuta

Loves it. He will not let you go. If you pepper his face with kisses, expect him to grab your face and return the favor tenfold. "Oh, we’re doing this? Bet." You’re not escaping now.

Doyoung

Freezes. His brain crashes. He’s not used to being ambushed like this, and it takes him a second to recover. Then, he tsks and rolls his eyes, but you can see his tiny smile. He’ll pretend to be annoyed, but later, he’ll randomly kiss your cheek when you least expect it.

Jaehyun

Laughs, so softly. He thinks it’s adorable. He just watches you with this fond look and then murmurs, "Again." He’s the type to let you do whatever you want, then suddenly return the favor when you’re least expecting it.

Jungwoo

Gasps like you just attacked him. Then giggles. He finds it hilarious but also so cute. If you keep going, he’ll just squish your cheeks and go, "You're the cutest thing ever, you know that?"

Mark

Panics. Immediately. "Oh—wait—HUH?!" His brain short-circuits, and he just sits there blinking like you just hacked his system. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they just awkwardly hover before he finally covers his face, laughing. "Dude, you can’t just—warn me next time!" But the next time you do it, he’s already bracing himself with a shy little grin.

Haechan

Instant smug mode. "Aww, someone loves me." He leans way into it, closing his eyes dramatically like he’s basking in the affection. If you try to stop, he pouts and says, "More." You have created a monster.

[theeungodlyhour]

YUTA for LOUIS VUITTON at Paris Fashion Week