#Snakes and Mirrors AU

[salamander-spark]

What if Vee got adopted by the Nocedas as a baby? (She is now free from the horrors)

From an AU I'm slowly brainstorming

Floppy ears!! :3

This is an old sketch, based on a fic I read by Frog_With_A_Mushroom on AO3 (@fruity-phrog here). The concept of Vee and Luz growing up in the opposite realm they did in canon is what initially inspired me to do my AU. I still have barely written anything for it, but one of these days, I'm gonna do something with it.

[starlightwoofwoof]

Hello! I just wanna say that I love your au! I used to be obsessed with Miraculous back in 2020, and seeing this au kinda pulled me back in and inspired me to make my own Miraculous au! (With Cookie Run Kingdom)

Anyways, I just wanna say that Glisten would make a very fitting for a snake miraculous holder. Because of the whole second chance ability and Lady Lucky/Shelly giving him a chance to make up for the whole getting akumatized thing.

And I imagine this would be his big "f*** you" to Perfect, lol-

Also, Astro would make a cool peacock miraculous holder. (Hero, not villain, ofc-)

- Artsy (asking through my friend's account cuz I don't have Tumblr, lol-)

OOOOOOOOOO omg I love him

here I doodled him :3

okay but slight Perfect ramble- but I do really love the idea of Glisten becoming a hero being the end to Perfect’s reign of terror on him

and even if it isn’t, I feel like Glisten afterwards would just see Perfect as more like …….. an annoyance than something to be actually insecure and scared of

[loveyoujohnnycade]

🪦ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Supernaturals AU

Basically the gang as mythical/fictional creatures. Might not make sense but it's ok!!! Just descriptions in this one; I might write lore about them

🖨 ·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ @johnnycademylove

Ponyboy

Part zombie, part human

Was originally human, but when he died the other Curtis brothers sewed him together with rotten parts.

Practically nonverbal; staples are also on parts of his mouth, making it harder to speak (not that he minds).

↑If he wants to talk really badly, he'll use notebooks from when he was in middle school.

Kind of doesn't take care of his hair anymore. I.E. he doesn't grease his hair, roots are showing, in desperate need of a haircut

Sodapop

Angel

He basically just. spawned in... More specifically he fell from heaven when he was found guilty for treason

For the first few months he was with the gang, he consistently spoke Enochian (angel language) so Steve and Pony helped him learn proper English

Very prim and proper. Only ponyboy has ever seen him messy (happened once, but soda didn't really care because of the stitches)

He and Steve share EVERYTHING especially food. Sees Steve as a brother (because soda doesn't really care about romantic love in this AU)

Darry

Minotaur

Ponyboy is his blood brother; soda was adopted due to pony's begging

When ponyboy died, Darry was devastated. Eventually he found enough strength to try and bring pony back to life (with the help of soda and dally)

His horns are sensitive to light touch such as petting. Also has a tail but is rarely shown

Loves sewing! Additionally he doesn't have to work multiple jobs bc the landlord is scared of them (who wouldn't there's legit a half zombie, angel, and minotaur in the same house)

Steve

Gorgon

Has a birth defect where he doesn't have snake hair. To make up he owns 7 pet snakes (possibly 7 deadly sins?)

Has 3 sisters (medusa, stheno, euryale). When people ask him about his family he gets embarrassed when they side eye him (they think Steve is lying)

Has snake scales on parts of his face. Also wears bandage on his eyes in public (learned that the hard way, the stone statues are still there 😭)

Steve takes care of his nails, often just reshaping or giving them a trim. Also pretty clean

Two-bit

Griffin

Crashed through the window of the Curtis brother's house trying to catch a thief. Ended up staying way longer than he should have

Loves to fly around with Sodapop just to keep him company (canon that soda can't stay still for long)

He visits his mom and little sister often and brings trinkets and snacks. Darry comes along every once in a while

WILL SMACK THE GANG WITH HIS TAIL; it doesn't matter if it's on purpose or not, It still annoys the living shit out of them

Johnny

Mirror ghost

His back and arms have scars all over

Ponyboy pissed his pants the first time he saw johnny (he originally just lurked in the house, flickering the lights and casting shadows in mirrors)

Has a strong bond with dally and pony. If johnny isnt outside a mirror, they'll huddle inside the bathroom and talk to johnny there.

If johnny gets scared, nervous or bored he'll sometimes go inside his handheld mirror which serves as his own little room

Dresses like some sickly Victorian child

Dally

Vampire

Tried to bite soda in the middle of the night but darry caught him

Has a bat form! If two-bit and soda are out flying around in the middle of the night, he'll trail behind them to find food

Johnny lives with him; dally originally lived pretty far from the town, but when he found out Johnny got anxious because it was harder to talk to pony he moved closer to the Curtis brothers

Despises going outside. If he HAS to go out he uses a black umbrella with covers all around.

[kythecorg]

‼️WARNING: FLASHING AND BLURRING, WEIRD OOZE‼️

“Welcome to the Abyss, 𝘔𝘴 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 “𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦”, w̸e̵’̴v̶e̷ ̷b̶e̸e̴n̷ ̴e̵x̵p̶e̷c̵t̷i̵n̵g̷ ̶y̸o̵u̷…̵”

~~~~~~~~~~~

I apologize for the long wait, it’s been a hell of a time. BUT we’re hoping to have more out when we can 👍. In the meantime, have this ooze snake. I made it just for u, I hope u like em ;3.

Also my birthday is tmrw…WOO! Take my bday snake gift for YOU on MY bday! BIRTHDAY OOZE SNAKE 🎉🐍🎂

[jrwiyuri]

Criticized a chr for getting hard in the human experimentation lab as if I wouldn’t get hard in the human experimentation lab. Had to do some serious self reflection just now

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, college au, first lesson, dumbification, praise, he's so nerdy, squırting, unprotected, mdni.

nerd! nanami who ends up teaching you a few ‘fundamentals’ of squirting after you end up gushing out by accident.

“oh, my,” he’d huskily croon, taking a short glance at your body that’s laid flat on his timber desk. mousy eyes zero up ‘n down your entire frame before he groans, feeling your legs snake around his slim torso. after another hourly long session of cramming your brain with pounds of boring information, you’d probably forget by the next day, you told nanami that you wanted to try out ‘penetration.’ and now, that came with you gushing straight out with his meaty shaft buried snugly deep inside of you. he grows quiet, smacking his lips as he feels your slobbering cunt dripping wetly like a running never-ending faucet. it’s almost adorable with the way your face scrunches up and you’re clawing at the buckle of his drooping belt with shaky hands. “we haven’t gone over that area yet, sweetheart,” and you’re moaning, feeling your back tickle against the scattered piles of marked papers that laid directly underneath you. “ah, ah. don’t close ‘em,” he purrs, staring as your stick-glossed quavery legs try to snap themselves shut. “let me examine the wet problem a bit closer.”

“w- was that supposed to happen?” you breathe through rushed pants, frantically chewing on your bottom lip as you watch him pull out. he’s slow, feeling your slight muscles tense and spasm as you drenched the entirety of his stilled dick with molasses of your webby slick. “f- fuck,” you whimper, and nanami’s pressing a pointed thumb down against the pearly top part of your tender clit. gradually, he’s swirling a plethora of exaggerated shapes alllll around your tender entrance, lowering his head once his turgid cock’s fully out of you.

with a placid hum, nanami nods. “don’t fret, sweet thing. it’s normal,” and you prepare a deep, heavy breath as you try to peek down, watching nanami re-adjust his clear-framed glasses. “but, do you think you can do that again? i’m . . having a bit of trouble with my vision,” and he softly presses a chaste kiss against your cunt. shortly after, a slimy dewy web of stringy juices merrily glues against his lips. “i believe if my hypothesis is correct . . if ‘m closer like thiiiis,” and you moan, feeling the cold lenses of his glasses press right up against your puffed folds. “you’ll help me solve just how much of a wet girl you can get for me this time.”

openly, nanami eyes at your sopping pussy that’s just pouring from all areas with so many dewdrops of slick. a shimmery stream of your syrupy arousal cascades down the slot of your entrance and oh- it’s so pretty. at least to him.

if you squinted enough, you could see the obscene mirroring reflection of the shiny glossed view that rests between your legs from the clear lenses of his glasses. “clitoral glands,” he starts to ramble, rubbing a thumb near the top bulb-shaped part of your twitching heat. “clitoral body,” and you moan, feeling him swerve his digit down lower. “but let’s skip to . . . her,” nanami coos huskily, and you gasp once his round thumb plugs itself inside you after just a few loose inches. you swallowed that single digit right up oh-so blissfully.

like a hidden trick of a magician—his finger disappears inside of your cunt, and it presses against a particular small texture right above your lower opening. “. . that pretty urethra of yours.”

there - that’s where you felt the exact pressure of yourself gushing out, creaming down his cock with such a vivid risqué spray.

you’re still getting over it as your jaw dangles open—mouth cutely wholly ajar and all. as nanami continues to toy with your slobbering clit, he silently grumbles whatever extra clitoris facts underneath his breath. a single finger that was tucked inside of your gummy orifice gradually transitions into two, and you let off the sweetest moan that rang against his ears.

“such a pretty pussy from an even prettier girl,” and his words smokily deepen as he loudly ‘pops!’ both fingers out of your drenched slit. it’s all puffy now, drooling from each slippery flap. nanami sits up before re-aligning his milky-covered tip against your sobbing cunt.. “mini pop quiz,” he grumbles, letting off a deep sigh once his flushed crownhead languidly slides its way between the split of your folds. you’re laid back against the desk with a pout twisting across both sides of your lips.

pop… quiz?

nanami adjusts his crooked glasses by shoving them slightly back with a middle finger before humming. “riddle me this,” and a sweet moan drags its way past your throat once he’s smearing his bulbous tip across your sticky entrance.

left-to-right and it’s hypnotic. “what is the majorly important gland of the clit that helps lubricate the vagina properly?” and nanami presses a large hand on your tummy, simpering at the cute silence for an answer. with a snicker, he tilts his head at your quirked brow. “oh- c’mon. this is easy, we talked about this two days ago.”

“t . . the um-” you stammer, the throbbing of your clit increasing with each delicious second that passed. with your mind joggling its empty memory, you inhale a moan that was desperately trying to escape from your spit-stained lips. “the clitoral glands?”

“close, but no, dumb girl,” and with a smack, nanami whacks his swollen tip against the front of your weeping pussy. you finally release that moan you were holding onto with heave after heave puffing out your chest. “try again. this time, actually use that brain for me, yeah?”

you pout, and after about four seconds you left off a whiny grump. “is it . . the skene’s glands?”

“good girl,” and you let off a needy mewl once he rubs a palm against your pussy. his personal way of praising you without words, even after calling you a ‘good girl.’

it’s a soft, enticing rub that smears the entirety of your slick around his entire palm, coating it right away.

you’re so wet - pathetically drenched that you stick your candied juices all over the prints of his hand.

“it’s very important that you know about the skene’s glands. just like how important it is for me to teach you how soaked you are,” and you don’t even realize it, but the second he spanks against your cunt once more with his palm, you’re squirting . . again.

it’s a thick shiny geyser that ends up spurting out of you with a loud pssssh! and your toes curled in ecstatic rapture. you’re whining at how sudden and abrupt it was, and nanami just shakes his head with a wry smile. a hand maneuvers in a circular rotation against your pussy as you finish your three-second monumental high. “f- fuuuck, fuck!” you whimper out the same colorful syllables through your lips as your eyelids droop.

as you’re panting, still feeling the scattered bundles of paper rub and prick against the back of your skin, you eye nanami through murky peripherals. pretty ‘n glossed-eyed, you let off a shaky puff before moaning. “did . . did i pass?”

“not quite,” nanami takes his glasses off. they were still a bit soaked from earlier, a bit of your own droplets of literal juices fogging the lenses before he gave it a sweet lick. filthy. nanami squints at your twitching body before slithering a fat thumb down your tender, convulsing pussy for the nth and last time. “think we still have more basics to go over,” and he positions his head right back down between the eagle-spread valley of your legs, whistling riiiight between your driveling, puffy slit.

“besides,” and you whine once he gives your cunt its final, sloppy spank. “my only criticism— is that, we could work on that squirt velocity a little bit more,” and he pats your cunt before staring straight at your pulsating entrance, hungrily licking his lips.

“i wouldn’t mind training her, heh.”

[yasministration]

hands full - harry potter

summary: sex with harry potter makes you lose your ability to think, even when his mother is speaking to him on the other side of the locked door. 1.3k words of basically pure filth. porn and no plot. cw: almost getting caught? kind of? concussions and interruptions au - can be read as a standalone

The oxygen in the room was heavy, barely making its way into your lungs with every slow shove of his pelvis into yours, your skin dragging upwards in a pinch with the force of Harry’s moving hips, rolling over the bones of yours with bruising potential. Moans were fluidly tumbling out of your lips, like a chant, a prayer of some sort that no one could prevent.

Harry’s hair tickled the skin of your neck, his hot breath pulsating against the layer of sweat coating you. He murmured sweet words, lips brushing the shell of your ear. It was half for himself, half for you. “Oh, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” That one got a particularly loud keen from your, your hips bucking up to meet his as you clenched around his cock. “My perfect girl” He added with a moan.

“You feel so good.” You whimpered with your own praise, nails dragging across the wet skin of his back. His muscles contracted under your harsh touch, everything else about the situation so sweet and gentle. One of Harry’s big hands reached down to curl underneath your thigh, pulling it up to mirror your other leg, folded up with your foot flat against the sheets. He manhandled your limbs, spreading your legs wider for him to reach deeper crevices of your cunt, constantly leaking around his erection to encourage his movements.

Harry didn’t pry anything out of you; one glance your way had him confirming that you were too deep in pleasure to respond to anything he had to say. A particularly loud moan flew between your lips, Harry’s cock reaching just that much further into you, nearing your cervix. Harry groaned as your hand snaked into his hair, massaging his scalp. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, though he continued to lazily thrust into you.

The atmosphere in the room completely stilled for a moment, both of you pausing to ensure you heard the same thing - a knock on the door.

“Harry, you in here?”

Harry rose off you, and his cock plunged further into you. You bit your lip, a noise of pleasure vibrating in your throat at the feeling. Your boyfriend’s eyes widened, and he pressed a strong hand over your mouth, shooting you a panicked look. “Yeah mum! In here!” Harry shut his eyes briefly, pulling his hips out again at a sluggish pace, but he saw the effect it had on you when his eyes fluttered open again; head digging into the pillow, your mouth parting beneath the palm of his hand.

“Is y/n here?” She asked, pressing her ear to the door to hear your responses from inside. Harry gasped quietly, inhaling deeply as he pushed back into you, calling out “Yeah, she’s here!” Giving you a pointed look, Harry withdrew his hand from over your mouth, and you gripped his wrist to ground you, saying loudly “Hi!” It was all you could muster.

The door handle rattled as Lily Potter tried entering her son’s room, eyebrows furrowing when it didn’t open. “Well, let me come in and say hi!” Harry’s hand returned to your mouth as he leaned his weight on you again, praying that his mum would get the hint and go away. “I can’t open the door, my hands are full!”

“Let y/n open the door then.” Oh, she was clueless. Harry groaned, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He saw your eyes widen in shock, one of your hands over the one he had on your mouth, keeping him in place. You shook your head as well as you could. Harry huffed into the crook of your neck. “Mum,” He began with an obviously annoyed whine, “She can’t open the door, her hands are also full.”

The startled “Oh” that came from the other side of the door was barely audible to you, because Harry had decided to silence himself by sucking on the skin of your neck. Unfortunately for you, it just made it more difficult to stay quiet, your hips twitching upwards at the added friction. Harry kept an ear out for his mother’s subsiding footsteps before finally whispering filthily “Yeah baby, I know you want to cum.” And luckily for you, he removed the hand from your mouth — now coated with saliva — and used two fingers to rub harsh circles on your clit, immediately making your legs twitch around his torso.

“Can you try being quiet?” He peeked up from the dark crook of your neck where he was hidden, grinning when you nodded quickly, eyebrows furrowed as you chewed on your bottom lip, trying your best not to make any noises. Your breathing was heavy, and your hands moved to grasp each of Harry’s biceps, nails digging into his supple skin as he continued working you towards your orgasm.

“Harry” You whined, trying to turn your face towards him, trying to communicate to him that you were close. “Oh, I know baby, I know.” He whispered, separating his lips from your neck to bring you into a kiss. You gasped loudly, back arching off the mattress, pushing your chest into his as one of your hands returned to grip his hair, pushing him further into the kiss. Harry’s cock twitched inside you and you were grateful to know you weren’t the only one nearing your orgasm.

Harry forced his tongue into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours. Your brain took too long to communicate with your body from the exhaustion, and you were barely able to kiss him back, but Harry took control of the messy kiss, revelling in the rare sloppiness you kissed him with. Fuck, he was turned on by merely knowing the effect he had on you.

“Gonna cum, Harry.” You warned in a shaky whisper, tilting your head back to make space between your lips and Harry’s. “Cum for me, baby.” His rough fingertips on your clit drove you past the edge, body stiffening in a storm of white-hot pleasure, washing over you with a force you couldn’t explain if you tried. But now, you submitted to the pleasure of your orgasm, hearing Harry’s guttural moan in your ear as his head dropped down to rest on your shoulder, cock driving into you to the hilt, his entire body freezing with the exception of his hips, stuttering into you while he emptied his load into you.

“I love you.” Harry moaned loudly, his body going limp on top of yours, chest to chest with you as your legs fell flat on the bed around his torso. It took you a while to come back to your senses, fingers brushing Harry’s hair away from his face as you finally replied “I love you too.” Your boyfriend’s cheeks flushed hotly at the realisation that he had admitted to loving you balls-deep inside you. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but the hundreds of other times these three important words had been said were all while fully sober, not drunk on pussy.

“I need to go say hi to your mum.” At the mention of his mother, Harry felt his cock soften inside you, and he pulled out with a groan, flopping next to you on the bed. You turned your head to the side, pressing a kiss on Harry’s cheek before struggling out of bed. “I’m gonna take a quick shower, then go say hello.”

Harry perked up, pushing himself up on his elbows, his gaze following your naked body across his room. “Shower?” He repeated, a silent question lingering in the air. You rolled your eyes playfully, a smile tugging at your lips as you opened the door to his bathroom. “Yes, you can join.”

Harry scrambled up, leaping over the other side of his bed so he could catch up to you before you shut the bathroom door in his face.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @potterheadlovespotter, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @xmatcha-kitty13, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @thenasoneshots, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen

[siriuslylantsov]

save a horse

pairing: joel miller x reader

description: joel puts on his old cowboy getup and it gives you an idea.

tags: MDNI! smut, porn w/o plot, no outbreak au, established relationship, age gap, fem!reader, unprotected piv, riding, thigh riding, dirty talk (kinda?), nipple stuff (bcs i think joel miller is a boob man), praise kink kinda, little domestic.

a/n: my first joel miller smut! because i've been reading an ungodly amount, i can't stop thinking about him...

wc: 2.2k

“oh my god,” your voice comes out stunned as you walk in, kicking the door shut behind you.

a cowboy. sitting on your couch. well, joel dressed as a cowboy on your couch. 

he stands up with a grin, a little shy. “found this in my storage. from some years ago, can't believe it still fits me.”

flannel and jeans, old and a little faded–the jeans fit more snuggly against his thighs compared to his normal ones that you can't help but gawk. he's dressed the same way as always but this time there's a hat on his head and a belt around his hips adorned with a flashy buckle. his boots click lightly on the floor as he makes his way over to you, your eyes dart down to them.

“woulda wore the chaps too but that felt like overkill,” he says, dropping his hands to your waist. “d’ya like it?”

do you like it? you stare up at him a bit incredulous, at a loss for words as you check him out slowly. when you meet his gaze again, the shadow of his hat darkens the top of his face, yet you can still see the way his eyes glisten hopefully.

“yeah baby,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss his jaw, his beard scratching your lips slightly.

his grin widens and he pulls you closer, “good.”

“you did this for me?” 

“well, yeah. thought it’d be fun.”

“fun how?” you tease, slipping your fingers into his belt loops and tugging them.

“hate it when you work blue,” he grumbles, his small smirk telling you otherwise.

“no you don't,” you counter with a knowing smile. your lips part as if you're going to say something but they quickly shut.

joel eyes you curiously, eyebrows furrowed trying to figure you out, “spill.”

you hesitate for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek before speaking.

“i've always wanted to ride a cowboy.”

his head cocks to the side, eyebrows raised, amused. “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you breathe, nodding before jutting your head toward the couch. “sit please.”

you stand between his spread legs as he sits. leaning back, he lazily lifts a hand to unbutton your jeans, popping it off with ease as if he's done it a hundred times before–he has. when he pulls them down, you take your shirt off, leaving you in your underwear. 

“what's that thing people say? save a horse, ride a cowboy?” you ask and joel stares at you shamelessly, eyes dragging down and back up, utterly enticed.

“‘s a song by um- big ‘n rich,” he murmurs distractedly as he hones in on the little bow on your bra, right in the middle. you pinch the tip of his hat and lift it off his head, placing it on top of yours instead. fingers snake itself through his soft hair and guide his head back so he can look at you.

“hi,” your voice comes out quiet, coy. you smile down sweetly at him and you find him mirroring it. “hi darlin’.”

your gaze trails down his body again, stopping at his thighs. it's obscene how good they look in his old jeans, he's obviously filled into them well. the fabric stretches tight over his limbs, hugging them perfectly. what if you just-

with a finger in the waistband of your panties you pull them down in one swift motion, moving your body to hover over his right thigh, now in between your legs.

he groans something pained when he realises what you're about to do, hands flying back up to your waist to urge you down and body scooting forward so it's easier. you gasp when you lower yourself, legs parted just right that your clit brushes against the fabric of his jeans upon contact. 

fuck.

the patch of wet on the denim comes as a surprise when you draw your hips back, you didn't realise you were that wet. you rock your hips again, experimentally, and the friction is debilitating. you’d fall over if joel's hands weren’t keeping you steady.

speaking of them, he begins to guide you back and forth, and your eyes snap back to him in alarm. he gives you an encouraging nod, keep going. you have to hear it from him and he knows that. 

“cmon, baby. want you to feel good,” he spurs while nodding again, pushing down to apply more pressure, your mouth falls open in a gasp. but you take his words in tow and keep going. 

maybe it's a little pathetic how you rut against his leg, little whines escaping your parted lips, but he doesn't seem to mind. he's more than okay watching you like this as he rubs circles into your hip bone. 

“joel, i can't-” you sob, legs beginning to ache from the way you were perched. it feels so good but you’re quickly regretting how you chose to go about this, half sat and calves straining from the weight. you pout, lips trembling, and he looks absolutely wrecked by this.

what you hadn't realised was that every so often your knee pushed into his crotch, he was being stimulated as much as you. the hard-on he's sporting pushes against the confines of his jeans, he’d gladly come untouched if he didn’t want to be inside you as badly as he did. 

“yeah, you can, baby,” he grits through his teeth, “gimme this one, want you t’come first.”

his fingers start tweaking your nipple under your bra, and god, he starts flexing his thigh. he hopes the added incentive will help push you over the edge. to his delight, the oh so familiar feeling starts to build embarrassingly fast in the pit of your stomach. 

your head falls back in a high, baring your neck to him. this in turn causes the hat to slowly slip off your head, he smiles and tucks it back on, repeating the motion of his thigh, bouncing ever so slightly.

“oh fuck. fuck. fuck-” you finish with a whine, body collasping into itself. joel reaches out to hold you to him as your hips stutter. his head dips to your neck, kissing the skin softly as you come down. 

“there ya go. did so good for me, angel,” he speaks into your skin.

you get off his thigh and slump onto the couch with a groan, ignoring the startlingly dark patch you leave on his jeans. you're catching your breath when you nudge him playfully with your elbow, he's equally leaned back, head tipped to the side, looking at you with awe in his eyes.

“i think your bad joints are contagious, old man.”

this makes him scoff. you take the hat off, placing it on his lap before bringing both knees to your chest and squeezing to relieve some of the tension, they really did ache. to this, he laughs and drops his head to your shoulder.

“what? i'm serious, they hurt,” you defend, albeit a little petulantly.

“but you came?”

“yes,” you respond, dragging the word out in exaggeration.

“and ya felt good?”

“yes, miller,” you grumble, nosing the hair of his that tickled your face.

“i don't see any problem in a little hurt, s’what i go through every time,” he mutters quietly.

“every time, huh?”

you feel him nod dutifully and you chuckle. his age usually made itself known after sex–either by complaining about his hips or his knees cracking after a taxing session of eating you out, not that he minded.

he lifts his head and shifts, leaning in. “so when ya gonna ride this cowboy?”

impatient, but he had been waiting.

you look down to his crotch, still painfully hard, and the corners of your mouth pull down in faux sympathy.

“poor baby,” you coo, taunting although he knows you’re teasing. “want me to fuck you?”

his eyes meet yours in searing eye contact, deadpan, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners betray him, he’s trying not to smile. with a curt dip of his chin, he nods, yes. 

and who are you to deny him?

you nudge him to lean back again and put the damn hat back on his head. god, he looks sexy. 

you settle on taking his pants off, leaving them and the belt pooled around his feet. and when you unbutton his shirt, you stop him from taking it off completely–liking how his skin peeked down the middle. you settle on his lap, legs bracketing his thighs. you kiss him, sweet and gentle, head tilted more than usual because of the hat. his hands drift up your back to the clasp of your bra, quickly unfastening it and letting it fall. you slip your hand under his boxers and palm him, you like the weight of him your hands.

“baby-” he drawls. “please.”

“i know, i know.”

you pull him out of his boxers and rise to your knees, positioning yourself accordingly. you swipe the tip through your folds a few times, relishing in the groan it earns you before pushing in, tantalisingly slow. 

you brace yourself on his shoulders, it's always a stretch with joel. when he's bottomed out, you let out a deep long winded sigh. you stay like that for a moment, eyes closed. the angle is maddening and the way your weight settles on top of him drives him crazy.

you tentatively rise and sink back down slowly. fuck. you do it again and again. joel shoots you a proud grin, his hands back at your waist to help you. a breathy moan escapes you when the tip of him drags against your g-spot on the ascent .

“attagirl. there she is," joel mumbles, always keen on your sounds. “feels good, huh?”

“mhm, feels- so good, joel,” you sigh, rocking back and forth now.

“i bet,” he responds with a grunt, “can feel you squeezin’ around me.”

you whimper at that, back arching and effectively pushing your tits closer to his face. he tries to lean closer but the hat stops him, hitting your sternum.

“stupid fuckin’ hat,” he grumbles, tossing it away. it flies somewhere beside the coffee table and you laugh, ducking down to kiss him as he continues making incoherent annoyed noises. a hat is not going to deny him what he wants.

he hums low against your lips, trailing his kisses down to your neck. he nips at your skin, placing a peck to your collarbone before reaching his destination. his lips close around your nipple, hand securing itself between your shoulders to hold you firm against his mouth. 

“oh fuck,” you breathe. you look down to find him already looking back up at you and the sight is depraved, downright filthy. 

you card a hand through his greying hair and tighten, speeding up the motion of your hips. his free hand tweaks the neglected nipple and he is everywhere. you can’t handle it. a weak grunt sounds from you and he knows.

“joel please-” you cut yourself off with a broken moan as he begins to suck, pinching the sensitive bud between his teeth. he switches over to the other one and repeats, leaving you a whining mess in his lap.

“s'okay, baby. i got you,” he coos, lifting his head up to kiss you again. he pulls your body closer, holding you to his chest, bracing you. because before you know it his hips jump to meet yours, fucking up into you. 

he swallows every lewd sound you make, responding with a quick snap of his hips. “always take me so well, pretty girl. like you're made for this cock, huh?”

“mhm, i love it,” you slur.

he grins, breath growing heavier as his peak nears. he recognises the expression on your face instantly, eyebrows pinched together and eyes fighting to be closed, he knows you're in the same boat and he’ll be damned if he doesn't get you to cum first.

“you close, angel?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. when you nod, he hums sympathetically, fucking you harder. his hips slap against yours incessantly and you let out a muffled cry, holding onto him for dear life. 

“that’s it, take it,” he encourages as he feels your walls clamp down. “cum for me, baby.”

your nails leave crescent shaped imprints on his shoulder, back, anywhere you can hold onto as you tip over the edge, keening loudly, it borders on a scream. 

his orgasm quickly follows as his hips stutter, spilling into you with a shudder and a groan. he lazily fucks into you a few more times, riding out the aftershocks before stilling.

the two of you sit there, breathless, skin sticking to each other . his head dips and falls onto your chest as he hugs you to his body. his breath comes out in soft puffs against your skin, warm. 

“that was...,” you mumble, heart finally slowing down.

he chuckles, dry and low that it makes you shiver. “yeah.”

“joel?”

he lifts his head up, eyes soft and admiring when he looks at you. he hums in acknowledgment.

“wear the chaps next time.”

he laughs again, something heartier as he takes in your face, deadly serious. he kisses your chin, “yes ma’am.”

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

[moonsaver]

tw; yandere Phainon, obsessive feelings/tendencies, arranged/forced marriage au. Phainon x reader (gender neutral). One sided yearning. Different setting from that of Amphoreus, kind of a royal au?

Also extremely ooc probably. Idk anything much about amphoreus <3

———

Phainon is perfect. Without flaws. A hero. A lover.

So why can't you love him?

Sure, he never expected an arranged union to go anywhere he wanted. It was an obvious rocky start. Stilted conversations, withheld words, occasional stiffness from your side. Of course he was patient. Titans above, how could he not be? It was unutterably obvious how in love he was growing with you – the perfect hero fumbling over his words and blushing like a swan over his supposed "lover".

But it was equally, and painfully obvious, you didn't return his feelings.

And he was fine with it. So frustratingly understandable. So kind. So patient. So soft. Just for you. Just because he loved you.

Until he wasn't.

Polishing his sword was a double edged knife – the clear Sunny sky a reflection of the peace under his rule, and the burgeoning of his own heart on the other edge when your mirage of a reflection appears, vanishing in an instant behind the cloth as he slides it over the sleek metal, stopping just once as his mind processes the glimpse.

It was like you haunted him. Made him obsessed.

Like seeing the past and the future reflected in countless mirrors; he saw you everywhere.

The echo of your shoes as he follows, just a corner behind, his own creaking silently, hurried steps as he grows closer, and as he rounds the corner, winded, you vanish. Signs you were in rooms – your hairbrush splayed on your mattress, adornments scattered over your dressing table, candles burnt and melted, the wax imprinting on your other furniture, the hint of your perfume snaking into his senses, penetrating his weak resistance.

You were everywhere but in his arms.

And he never dared to encapsulate you without your will.

He stares down at your golden-lit face, eyes half lidded and silently swirling with the haze of wine and exotics. His arm wraps around your propped up knees, his cheek resting on your kneecap, looking down at you. Your hair splays perfectly on the silk pillows, your slip twisted and folded around your figure makes it easier to see the rise and fall of your chest. Even, and deep. Your arm thrown over your stomach.

His eyes don't dare peer directly into the Sun, but he swears he can touch it.

So he allowed himself an exception. Once. Curiously entering your room when you weren't present, noting the way you liked to keep your curtains, the candles you burned often, whistling quietly to himself as he picked up your hairbrush, casually inspecting the insignia of your family on its broad back. The wedding gift you were so devastated to recieve.

Once turned to twice.

As the Sun sets, did he leave. And as the Moon rises, he returned.

Quietly, he sat, the mattress dipping under his weight as he watched your back. The pillows remained untouched on his side, the side he would traditionally occupy, and of course, under your displeasure, did he never breach the film of stillness over it. It was still the same as the night the servants fixed it for your arrival, for both of you to unite. And of course, that never happened.

His eyes follow the curve and the ridges of your back, down to your hips and your legs.

He had seen the Moon, and he swears he'll feel it. One day he will.

Twice turned to thrice.

But there was no excuse this time.

What does the Sun think, when it sets it's eyes upon the Moon twice a cycle? No more, no less.

Sunrise, he approaches you, insisting on helping you dress for the day. Despite the awkward resistance of the servants, an amicable smile and a reassurance is all they need to scurry away and leave him in your silent presence.

You want to speak, force the whistling pot to boil over and burst, bright hot and red. But all that's reminiscent of your anger now, are the flickering candles in your room. An unwanted union long done. Phainon is nothing like you. He watches the pot boil, the water sizzle from it's edges and evaporate into fumes. Tampering with the flame, increasing, decreasing, always stabilizing the simmering until it's impossible to go further. Right before it boils over, does he snuff out the fire.

It's always the small things. The purposeful grazing of his fingers over the skin of your back as he "helps" you. The slow movement as he covers your shoulders with fabric. The eye contact he tries to bridge through the mirror facing you. The barely restrained, quiet breathing of his hot breath on the curve of your neck, as he reaches over to your front from behind, fixing the folded fabrics around your waist. He swears he can admire every speck of you like stars blurring an ink stained night.

You don't say anything – what can you? a man reputed to be of his people, high standing, without flaws. A lover yearning endlessly for the scornful. It's not like you haven't heard what the others whisper and mutter about you. You bite your lip, and unfortunately attract the attention of your "lover's" peculiar blue eyes, an unreadable expression on his face.

He's done. But he doesn't move. You feel the faint heat buzzing from his front to your back.

Phainon ponders what the Moon dreams of.

——

Jealousy was a laughable thing.

Phainon's familiar voice echoes through the gathering, unfortunately for you. Learning to avoid someone is simply the other face of the coin, the same as learning to find someone. Perhaps Zagreus laughs at you.

You sigh, observing the golden coin in the palm of your hand. It's insignia is foreign to the land Phainon rules over.

Rather, it's more familiar to you than was Phainon's.

The insignia of Castrum Kremnos.

Jealousy, yearning, devastation. Laughable, silly feelings under the various Titans' watchful gazes. A minor inconvenience easy to dissolve under plethoras of problems. Except perhaps Mnestia.

But trivial feelings matter most to those who have nothing else filling their vessel.

Unfortunately, that was you.

For once, you may understand Phainon's yearning, your gaze sweeping hazily across the gathering and subtly landing on the Prince clad in red.

Fiery, restrained, straightforward. An equal standing to Phainon.

Your eyes, swirling more with the champagne and wines you've drank throughout the night, admire the man he could have been. Admire the man that could've belonged to you. The red markings over his body moving with his muscles as he raises his cup to the other man. You avert your eyes before someone catches on, but your imagination is more than enough to envision the intensity of his golden gaze.

You think you realise what it's like to stare at the Sun.

There's a reason people don't do it. There's a reason Phainon always jokes in silence about it. There's always a reason his eyes follow yours everywhere you look.

You place your empty glass on the table, and move to leave. Phainon decides to cut his meeting short.

He thinks the Sun burns the Moon.

——

He slumps down into your bed.

The soft sheets of the mattress, cool against his skin, sticky with sweat. The crumble of your soft quilts framing the edge of your bed. The lingering of your scent so unquestionably you.

He looks rabid – he's sure of it. You were his undoing the entire evening. His eyes are blown wide open, his breathing uneven, erratic, but restrained. He stares at your ceiling, countless obsessive thoughts warring so loudly in his head that it renders him motionless, stiff. His hands clench into fists at his sides, crumbling the soft silk, thrust into by his fingers and threads snapping in his palm.

He couldn't find you. Upon return to the gathering, Mydeimos had mentioned the agitated and restless demeanor of the Hero. It was as though watching the Sun swallow the Moon. But Phainon could barely pay attention, barely laugh.

The gathering ended early. He returned to your empty room. The moon poured in through your shifted curtains, wind knocking gently at your windows. No candles were lit. It was as though the room was holding it's breath in his presence.

He takes a deep breath, feeling the air cloggy and sodden in his chest. His fist relaxes, the distressed fabric released from his grip.

he wonders if you spoke to Mydei. If you smiled at him.

Something quiet rose in his chest. White hot. Trodden and ugly.

he wonders if your hand grazed against his. If you allowed him the luxury of feeling your gentle breath fan his shoulder.

A creak resounds in the silent room, stirring Phainon from his impossibly swirling thoughts.

You stand there, clad in thin nightwear, like the gentle film over a still pond. Phainon sits at the edge of your bed, observing you for a moment.

You stay silent, disturbed.

He doesn't break the silence – rather he immobilizes it.

He gets up, walking towards you. You take equal measures back, an unsure hand stretching behind as if to reach for the door. Phainon is faster. He corners you, right against the door.

The moon shadows his face.

You must be on the wrong side of an eclipse.

This time – it feels as though the Moon swallows the Sun.

——

[cbeargyu]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. ��marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

[salamander-spark]

Vee redesign for my AU, 'Snakes and Mirrors'.

Look at this little happy childhood haver (her ass is unaware of the horrors behind her creation).

[starlightwoofwoof]

Hey! It's me, Artsy! I'm so happy you like my design for Oroboros! I have a few extra things to say + a few ideas for a future fic:

One- His "tail" is supposed to be like a belt/coat tail thing, it's what happened to his bow during the transformation- (Sorry I didn't make that clear enough-)

Two- I had to get this funny thing off my mind:

Anyone: *insults Perfect*

Perfect: Wait, that's illegal-

Three: I imagine the way that Glisten got the miraculous was like this:

There was an akumatized villain that had a gimmick that would need someone like the second chance ability to beat them. So in the middle of the chaos, Lucky Lady saves Glisten and hides him and herself so that way they wouldn't be discovered. Lucky Lady begins to give Glisten the miraculous, but he refuses, scared he'd mess up and get akumatized again. Then Lucky Lady reassures him that won't happen because he's not perfect in the akumatized or literal sense, and that's okay. Once Glisten gets the miraculous, Perfect probably starts to belittle him until he realizes that Glisten isn't listening. And then something like this happens:

Perfect: HEY! Are you DEAF?! Don't you hear me?!

Glisten: Oh, I do. I'm just not afraid of you anymore.

And after that, Glisten transforms into Oroboros!

Sorry this is long, but I had a lot to get off my chest for this au-

Also, I made another Miraculous au inspired by yours, this time for TAWOG (The Amazing World of Gumball-)

-Artsy

okay let’s pretend I answered this like 10 days ago um

ANYWAY- YIPPEE LET’S TALK ABOUT GLISTEN/PERFECT/OUROBOROS AGAIN ‼️‼️

okay, first of all, that’s actually kinda cool- and it’s okay lol

two, y e s

and third of all, I love that omg and the dialogue between Perfect and Glisten is low-key kinda sick YOU GET HIM GLISTEN- /pos

okay, lastly, YIPPEE MORE AUS I INSPIRED ‼️‼️🪞💖✨

[prosypepper]

HEAVEN IS A BEDROOM

summary: you loved him years ago, when the both of you were too nervous and immature to express your feelings. what happens when the man you love most shows up out of nowhere?

pairing: ex-lover!kento nanami x fem!reader

content warning: angst, smut, non-canon au, she/her pronouns used, unresolved feelings, alcohol use, dubcon bc of alcohol use, oral (m.receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, me giving random jobs to people, abrupt ending, resolving feelings with sex, crying, professions of love. wc: 3.1k.

pepper's note: it’s finally here! thank you all for 2k and thank you to everyone who’s taking part in this collab with me <3 you guys mean the world to me and i love you all so much! THANK YOUUUU! 18+ mdni!!

collab masterlist

this is stupid.

idiotic, even.

what does kento even say to you? was there a protocol for talking to the girl that—unintentionally—ripped his heart out five years ago? no, there wasn’t. nanami was well-versed in manuals of all kinds, and he hadn’t ever read one about this.

god, he’s drunk. tipsy, at best. and nervous.

just stopping by to see an old friend, right? right. he’s on business, just dropping by.  

his hand lifts in a fist to knock at the door.

wait—does he look okay? would you even recognize him with his haircut? or his build, because he was way scrawnier in college than he is now. and his new, more professional sense of style. how are you going to react?

shit.

but, with the courage that only hard liquor could grant him, kento nanami knocks at your door. quickly, three raps that ring through your apartment and almost make you jump out of your skin.

“uh—coming!” you yell, rushing around to throw on a pair of lounge pants. fuck fuck fuck, who the hell is here? you quickly check yourself out in the mirror next to your door—a habit a certain blond someone had passed onto you—figuring you look decent enough.

opening the door, your eyes focus on the figure in front of you—and your jaw drops.

you look just as beautiful as you did when he first met you, nine years ago. and the last time he saw you, and the time in between. kento had always known you were the most beautiful person he’d ever met—would ever meet.

you were once in a lifetime.

and kento—he grew into himself. just as handsome, but a few style changes, hair cut shorter and neatly parted. his shoulders were bigger, arms were bigger, he was past the age of growing in college but it seemed as if he towered over you.

kento nanami was once in a lifetime, too. you resented the fact you neglected that so long ago.

“ken…kento?” you breathe, voice evaporated from shock.

“hey.”

you stare at him, eyes squinting before opening wide along with your smile.

“oh, my god! kento!” you squeal, leaving the door to jump into nanami’s arms, “what the hell? what are you doing here?”

your arms wrap around kento’s neck, breathing in the scent of him—he’d upgraded his cologne over time, you notice. it mixes with the smell of alcohol in your nose, but it’s pleasant. it’s him.

nanami’s arms snake around you, a familiar hold encircling your waist. his nose digs into your neck, his hands rub over your back, fingers tangle in your hair. his girl, his woman. the only thing in his life that’s ever made sense—even when you didn’t make sense.

you’re finally back in his arms.

 “i…i missed you,” you admit into his shoulder, beginning to sway a little in his hold, “do—do you want to come in?” you pull away from him, looking at the beautiful eyes you’d fallen in love with. he nods.

wordlessly, kento lets you go and follows you inside, studying the way you set up your home. colorful, a pastel rainbow seeped into every crevice of your space. it was so…you. someplace he’d stay in forever if he could. you usher him to sit on your sofa, grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“do you want some wine? it’s—,” you hesitate, eyes flickering all over the room, “it’s your favorite.”

a smile pulls at the corner of kento’s mouth.

“no, i’ve already drank enough tonight,” he confesses, sinking into the soft plush of your couch with each passing second. he runs a hand through his hair, anxious. the back of his head meets the cushions, trying to force himself to settle down.

it’s not working.

and you are just as nervous. where you lived was no secret—everyone else you’d went to school with had come to visit you from time to time. kento was an entirely different story, however—there were many more layers to your relationship than what met the eye.

you were one another’s firsts—in any way you can think. first loves, first person to sleep with. but at the end of it, you were nervous early twenty-something year olds who couldn’t express their feelings. you felt it, kento felt it.

but once you graduated, you left with a few words, destined for more in the world than what you were given. kento knew that, as much as he hated it.

even after all that time, sitting in your home, those emotions all came flooding back to kento. he never should’ve let you go.

you never should’ve gone.

fate has an odd way of working, you think. the universe had still drawn you back together.

obviously, because the love of your life was sitting on your goddamn sofa.

you pour your wine glass a little too full, treading over to sit next to kento with the bottle in your other hand. not too far, probably too close.

“so. . how have you been?” you ask, mentally slapping yourself because you know how he’s been. satoru had kept you updated weekly. plus, that’s the most generic, worst question you can ask someone you emotionally ghosted years ago.

“surviving,” he jokes, a rare sense of humor that only came out around the tight-knit circle of friends he kept. he doesn’t look at you, speaking straight up at the ceiling, “i’m in town for business. you?”

“i’m good. . i’ve uh—i’ve been working, you know. i’m chief editor for a magazine now, so that’s great. really great,” you ramble, shutting yourself up by taking a big gulp of wine.

the news causes kento to finally lift his head to look at you, eyebrows raised but eyes lidded. he’d always known you were going to do big things. fabulous, important things, as you had said.

“wow,” he whispers, pinching the fabric of his slacks together with his thumb and forefinger. still a man of fewer words, you noticed.

“what are you doing? must be important since they sent you all the way over here,” you giggle.

“insurance. they had a conference here i had to attend.”

as the conversation of small talk goes on, there’s a tension between the two of you in the air. it’s unresolved, full of feelings you were too scared to tell him and emotions kento’s been holding onto. the session of ‘catching up’ reveals little information to you, he’s still the same man you’d always known, a little more matured and polished.

talking to him isn’t awkward, however. it’s natural, easy. just a little tense.

“hey, kento?” you break the silence that your words had dwindled down into, a wave of nausea punching you in the gut as you try to think of what to say. you’ve moved closer, set your wine glass down on the coffee table, and gained a little courage from the buzz of the alcohol.

“hm?”

“i’m really sorry—for leaving like that, after college. i don’t. . i didn’t think about anyone else. i just knew i always wanted to move away, and you know i got that job offer here and i just—i’m sorry. you didn’t deserve that, none of you guys deserved that.”

apologizing to nanami after all this time feels similar to a thousand-pound weight being lifted off your shoulders. sure, it was rushed and probably not the best—you could write an essay of your feelings if you really wanted to.

“it’s alright,” kento responds, flashing you a reassuring look—almost a smile, “you didn’t need to stay. you’re successful here, we all knew you’d be better off somewhere else.”

oh.

you aren’t sure if his response upsets you or not—it doesn’t, not really. people move on and grow apart, of course.

but kento didn’t move on. neither did you.

“i missed you, kento. it was hard to decide,” you begin to babble, “i’ve made friends and stuff here but i don’t think i ever got over you. i haven’t even been with anyone like that since i left.”

oops.

“oh shit—fuck—sorry, i didn’t mean—well, i’m going to shut up now i’m sorry.”

you fucked up. who the hell is stupid enough to just admit that to someone who’s only been in your house for an hour? kento just looks at you astonished, which is making it worse, you feel the air leaving your lungs—

“i haven’t either.”

it’s his turn to talk now. he hesitates briefly, sobering up quickly and breathing in before deciding to let it all go.

“i thought i was going to marry you, but i never gained the confidence to make you mine, and i apologize for that. i would’ve come with you. being here with you now, i feel no different.”

maybe he fucked up, too.

“kento,” you whisper, fidgeting with your thumbs. tears well up in your eyes, but you blink them back, forcing yourself to look at nanami.

here goes nothing.

before either of you can say another word, you lean into nanami, pressing a long kiss onto his lips. it’s heavy, the tension is finally allowed to snap, emotions bottled up finally allowed to bleed into one another.

kento’s taken aback, only for a moment, soon easing into the kiss as if it’s the last breath he’ll be allowed to take. his hands—once softer, now wisened and rough—cup your jaw, one sliding to the back of your head to pull you in closer. you can taste the faded whiskey on his breath, reminding you that he’s at least a little drunk.

“wait—wait, you’re drunk,” you say, pulling back, “i don’t want you to regret anything i—i’m sorry.”

kento blinks, still entranced by your touch. he takes a moment to register what you’re saying—he’s sobered up after his confessions, and it’s you. he’d never regret a thing as long as it was you.

“i’m fine, sweetheart,” he assures you, the nickname from college rolling off his tongue naturally. “we don’t have to do anything, however, trust me when i say this,” he runs his thumb over your cheek, feeling the burning skin beneath the finger.

“the only thing i’ll ever regret is letting you go. now, if you’ll allow me to continue.”

your eyelashes flutter at him, big, glassy, love-struck eyes staring him in the face. nanami has never been more serious in his life.

“yes, please.”

kento leans back into you, initiating a deeper kiss. your lips lock with his like second nature, his saliva beginning to coat your lips. he grabs your waist, firm, pulling you to straddle his lap. his hands run over your hips, up your spine, sending shivers down your back.

you’ve missed his touch for so long.

“ken—ken, bedroom,” you plead when you’re able to come up for air, gasping less than an inch from his face.

wordlessly, nanami picks you up bridal style, standing up from your couch. you yelp, suddenly weightless, before pointing the blond man in the direction of your room.

it’s cute inside, signs of your life strewn all over the place. paintings and photos line the wall—kento doesn’t miss the few you have up of the two of you from college. he lays you down on your unmade bed, standing in between your legs at the edge. kento watches you for a second, sees the way you’re watching him, drinking in every last detail like you’ll forget him tomorrow.

tugging at his belt loop, you attempt to coax him down onto you, wrapping your legs around his hips at the same time. yet he’s not budging, instead he brings his fingers to begin unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing the tone and muscle he’d built up over time. when he finally allows the fabric to fall to the floor—you’re awestruck.

“jesus,” you groan, running a hand over his abdomen, “jesus christ.”

he’s definitely changed. and he saved all this for you?

“hm?” kento hums, running his hands over your thighs smoothly. he gazes at you lovingly, while you inspect every part of him—from his arms to the line of hair that leads down the pudgy part of his tummy.

with all your power, you pull kento down next to you, quickly switching positions so you’re on top of him. your fingers make quick work of his belt, fidgeting with the buckle until it’s undone. the button on his slacks is next, then the zipper—until everything but his boxers are haphazardly pulled down around his thighs.

kento is driving you crazy. you’re acting downright feral over him, and he sees.

“darling, you don’t have to—oh,” he starts, but is quickly cut off as you pull the waistband of his boxers down, just enough to allow his length to spring free. it’s hard, already leaking—and you waste no time licking a long stripe up the shaft.

nanami moans at that, a low groan from the back of his throat becomes all you can hear. he props himself up on his elbows to look at you, almost shying away when you look him directly in the eyes. another sound akin to a whimper falls from his lips when you lower your mouth on him, suckling the tip enough to make his leg jump.  

kindly, kento reaches down to collect your hair behind your head—something you’d requested the first time you sucked him off—and you smile at him quickly before taking his length all the way to the back of your throat. his cock prods at your uvula, and you will yourself to not gag, letting your tongue slip out your mouth to swipe over the rest of his shaft. you’re messy—drool covering the entirety of his length without you even trying.

kento’s so sensitive he thinks he might cum just from that—and it’s even worse when you hollow out your cheeks and begin to bob your head up and down, a few wet noises escaping from your lips. his hand begins to guide your head, slow you down, using every last ounce of self-control to keep himself from filling up your throat.

but it’s still too much.

he tugs a little harder at your hair, pulling you off his cock, a string of saliva still connecting you and him.

“was that okay? was—was it bad?” you ask, expression changing from seductive to worrisome.

“no, you’re perfect, just—,” he replies, pursing his lips for a moment, “come here.”

he urges you to crawl up, your body settling into the mattress next to him. one arm cradles around your back, holding you against him, the other bringing a hand to cup your face and pull you in. he initiates the kiss now, catching your lips against his and keeping you there. you oblige, closing your eyes and relaxing into it, allowing kento’s hand to trail from your face down, and down to the band of your bottoms.

his hand slips under, immediately bringing his fingers to the wet heat of your cunt. you’re soaked, and kento lets out a small groan at the realization it’s all for him, because of him. his digits are immediately circling your throbbing clit, you whine into his mouth at the feeling of being so sensitive, so pent up because you’ve been waiting on him.

and he’s finally here.

your eyes squeeze together, and you bury your head into kento’s shoulder, whimpering and whining into the warm skin. he makes you feel safe, makes you think only about him—you can’t get that feeling with anyone else.

“i know,” he whispers, kissing your hair as he speeds his fingers up. soft flesh of your thighs squeeze around his hand, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even let up—nanami remembers exactly what makes you tick, knows how to make you lose yourself in him.

testing the waters, kento slips his fingers down into you, curling his the digits slightly to stretch you open. it’s too good, leaving you to clutch at the sheets and mutter out some nonsense to nanami.

“ken—want you inside, please,” you murmur, glassy eyes looking up at him in a plead.

of course, nanami can’t deny you.

he allows you out of his grasp to shed himself of the rest of his clothes. you quickly follow suit, throwing every last article of clothing across the floor and laying back on your pillows. butterflies fly around your tummy in anticipation, even more so when kento crawls on top of you with a smile.

“hi,” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss you.

kento cradles your head with one hand, his other slides between the two of you to guide his cock into your heat, sliding the tip in with ease. you gasp into his mouth, arms tightening up around him, feeling the stretch of each inch entering you. you’d almost forgotten how big he is, how he fills you up perfectly.

as he begins to move, you feel him hitting the deepest parts of you, almost impaling your cervix. but he’s not rough—anything but, really. he’s slow, taking his time to savor the feeling of you squeezing him, each flutter of your insides sending shockwaves of pleasure through him. it’s overwhelming, for both of you—emotions of love and lust and everything that had been bottled up for so long are finally coming to the surface in the best way you could think of.

nanami’s glad you keep his mouth so close to yours, he’s almost embarrassed of the sinful, desperate noises that fall out of his lips—and you drink all of them up with ease. you take every part of him—the good and the ugly—and absorb it into you, you adore every part of him as he is.

every moment, he’s reminded why his love for you never died.

“ken,” you moan, pulling your head away from his to look him in the eyes, “i love you—i’m so sorry. i love you so much.” your apologies are accompanied by a few tears welling up in your tear ducts, threatening to spill over at any moment.

“i love you, too, it’s okay. i forgive you, sweetheart.”

those words are all you’ve wanted to hear, all you’ve needed to hear, sitting atop the years of frustration and anger with yourself for leaving. the tears begin to run down your cheeks, hot, devastating, but happy.

happy that kento’s here, and even if everything isn’t resolved between the two of you—this is a start.

and as kento looks down at you, the sweet girl he’d loved for so long, below him, telling him how much she loves him, he thinks that this is heaven.

you are heaven.

with you in your bedroom, professing your love to him, your bodies together—

this is the closest kento nanami would ever get to heaven.

special thanks to: @twilightsumu @nanamisbbygirl @dearsnow @spearofheaven @prisvvner @aquasoftware and @naammiii for all working with me in this collab <3 i adore you all

[shouyuus]

idk how i thought of ts but going on a road trip with vi and [who ever is driving and in the passengers seat], sliding her hand down reader's pants and reader trying not to squirm, then finally after that lil teasing session, all of you decide to stop for a bathroom break and then boom vi finally finishes what she started in that small bathroom stall (😥)

open road

violet; +18, mdni; fluff and smut, unsafe driving practices, carmech!vi au

it’s a trip she makes often enough for her to know the way with one eye on the road, a hand on the steering wheel, the other stretched over the center console, fingers teasing up the plush of your thigh, a crooked grin tucked like a secret or a watermelon seed in the corner of her cheek as she glances over at you squirming in the passenger seat.

“bit hot? need the ac on higher, pretty girl?” she asks, making as if to reach for the temperature knob, only to have you whine and clamp your thighs around her wrist.

vi lets out a low hum, glancing into the rear view mirror — traffic���s been smooth, and she’s been cruising at a sweet, solid 70. there's nothing much to do except sit back, relax, and well --

you whine, fingers scrabbling at handle of the door, your head tipping back as vi drags two fingers along our slick cunt, groaning to herself at the wetness she finds there.

"holy shit..." she murmurs, almost to herself, the words wrought over a small chuckle. she'd say she were impressed, except that she knows you, and she knows your body, and she knows what you and your body like -- more than she knows herself.

"vi... don't tease..."

"awww..." vi coos, indulging in you, hooking a finger between your folds to flick at your clit. her grin only stretches as your whole body jumps, your mouth falling open. she thinks about pulling over onto the highway shoulder, just to pull you into her lap and kiss you till you're desperate and needy above her (more so than you already are, i mean). she thinks about the thrill of knowing that anyone who drives by might glance over to get an eyeful of your writhing body, your nipples pushing against your pale blue cami, your skirt flipped up, her fingers tucked into your lacy panties.

"want me to fuck you properly, doll?" vi asks, slowly down slightly for a red toyota to merge in front of her. she glances at you again and winks when she meets your reproachful gaze, your eyes sugar-glazed and lust-ridden.

heat burnishes your cheeks a ruddy red and vi can't help feeling just a little smitten -- what a pretty picture.

"mm -- please..." and you sound so good begging for her (and she's never been one of god's strongest soldiers) that she laughs, flicking on her turn signal to merge out, leaning forward slightly to ease a finger into your needy cunt, biting down hard on her bottom lip as she feels you clench down around her, vice-tight and hot.

"sweet fuck."

she takes the nearest exit and pulls into a rest stop, pulling sideways into a parking space before tugging her hand from you with her eyebrows raised.

you lick your lips, your chest heaving as you watch her. it's a look caught somewhere between predator and prey, and vi shivers, wondering which she'd be, which she'd prefer you to be.

"so? how'dyou wanna do this, princess? in here? or..." she flicks her eyes towards the rest stop bathrooms. you crinkle your nose, and she can almost see the gears turning in your head as you weigh the options. she knows you're not a fan of the cleanliness of the rest stop bathroom, but it affords you both some privacy -- something that vi's vintage pontiac is decidedly lacking.

"i --" you stutter, tugging on the hem of your skirt.

vi cocks her head, heat hissing in her belly, coiled like a snake. she reaches down to yank on the lever under her seat and the seatback jerks forward as she ducks out the seat and hoists herself into the backseat.

"c'mere sweet girl --" she says, patting her lap, and it takes you less than three seconds to scramble over the center console as well to join her in the spacious back seat, your knees on either side of her hips, her fingers sinking into your hair to pull you close.

she kisses you with her mouth open, licking languid into your mouth, swallowing around your tiny little moans, her free hand skating down the length of your back to palm at the round of your ass, grabbing a handful and shifting you higher, just so she can grind you down over her the way she likes.

"mm -- fuck --" she groans, feeling your fingers tugging at the waistband of her jeans. it takes a bit of shuffling to get her jeans loose but the moment you do, vi's hissing out a breath as you sink down into the footwell, blinking up at her with those eyes of your as you pillow your cheek on her partially exposed thigh.

"wanna taste you vi -- can i?"

she nearly curses under her breath, feeling a familiar ache settling in her own cunt as she licks her lips, eyes going hooded as she watches the way you glance down at her boxers and then up at again.

"yeah, princess? wanna -- fuck -- wanna eat me out on the side of the road?"

you crinkle your nose, but the pitched moan that tumbles out of you stitches heat up the front of vi's chest till her eyes are rolling back.

"y-yeah -- been thinking about it for hours," you admit, your voice ripening over the last word, summer-plum sweet.

"yeah?" vi grins, cocking her head as another idea slowly takes shape and she licks her lips. "how about you come up here and... we see who can get the other off first?"

your eyes go wide; outside, the bluebird sky is bright and endless.

"and... whoever wins...?" you let your sentence trail off, blinking star-bitten lashes at her. vi chuckles, reaching down to catch your chin in her fingers, giving your face a tiny little shake before she answers --

"gets to be passenger princess for the rest of the drive."

a smile splits your face as you shift up to wiggle your panties off your legs.

"deal."

[minarisplaything]

A Good Boy's Reward (ft. TripleS)

summary: your biker mommies decide to reward you for doing a good job on the most recent run. aka these concept photos inspired something tags: threesome, foursome (sort of), pegging, rimming, excessive use of 'baby boy', mommy kink, daddy kink, biker gang!au, domme!Sohyun also known as just Sohyun, male reader, did i mention pegging? seriously don't continue if this isn't your cup of tea word count: 4.6k

“Baby boy, are you ready?” 

You shuddered, feeling Xinyu’s hot breath against your ear. The tall, 174-centimeter goddess stood behind you, her arms circling around your shoulders. Sohyun, who was across the room tinkering with preparations, glanced over her shoulder. Her short-cropped hair only accentuated the smirk that graced her features. 

“Look at him, he’s practically trembling,” she teased.

“He’s just excited,” Nakyoung, the third member of the group, her voice comforting. 

She was kneeling atop the bed so she was eye level with you, her hand rose to stroke your cheek. Her role as a foil to Sohyun’s demeanor was incredibly effective. “Isn’t that right?”

You could only nod at first, your mind still grappling with the situation you found yourself in. 

“I guess I am a little nervous…”

“It is his first big reward after all,” Xinyu said, one hand rising to stroke your hair while the other ran circles against your skin. Her voice was warm and flirtatious, “You’ve really been working hard for us.”

“Yeah, if it weren’t for those last adjustments you made we might have been sitting in a jail cell,” Nakyoung smiled. “You’re our little genius.”

“If you keep praising him like that he’s going to get an ego,” Sohyun chided from across the room. 

“He would never!” Nakyoung protested, a slight pout forming on her features as she looked at Sohyun before turning back to you. “Right?”

“O-of course not,” you stammered.

“Well, if you did then we’d just have to put you in your place,” Sohyun said.

Something about the words she spoke sent another tremble through you. Almost as if you hoped she’d follow through on those words. And, admittedly, a part of you definitely did. 

Xinyu craned her head over her shoulder, noting the way your body was reacting to Sohyun’s words. A small grin spread across her features, “I think he likes that idea.” 

Sohyun looked over, pausing as she tightened a buckle on her hip to look over at you with her eyebrow raised. “Does he? Do you like the idea of mommy putting you in your place, huh? Reminding you that you work for us. That you belong to us.”

You moaned at her words, your cock twitching to life, brushing against Nakyoung’s stomach and she let out an amused gasp. “He definitely does.”

“Maybe we’ll keep that in mind, if we think you deserve it,” Sohyun smirked.

“Seriously though, he did good. Kaede would have been screwed without him,” Nakyoung added.

“I agree,” Xinyu pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Her arm snaked around you, her fingers curling around your cock as she began to stroke you slowly. “That’s why he’s getting this special reward tonight. Our brave boy. Isn’t that right, Sohyun?”

Finally done with her task, Sohyun turned to face you. And what a sight it was. She was nude, her body on display for your gaze as the light from the mirror behind her provided illumination. Your eyes traveled over her soft breast down further to where a strap on dildo was secured firmly on her crotch. Her fingers smoothed over it idly while she stayed at you. The look in her eye said nothing short of her wanting to devour you. 

“Jesus, Sohyun…” Xinyu breathed out, clearly appreciating the view as much as you were. 

“You have to wait your turn. It’s his night, remember?”

Xinyu nodded weakly, her grasp tightening around your cock and causing you to let out a pleased whimper. As you watched Sohyun grab the bottle of lube off of the dresser and begin to lather the dildo in preparation of what was to come, you couldn’t help but think of how you had gotten to this moment. 

Not this moment specifically, sandwiched between two beauties with your cock out and a third beauty on the way. But rather how you became their baby boy as Xinyu had put it. 

It started with Nakyoung. Before you had been involved with their group, you were merely a freelance repair man. In this day and age it was startling how many people didn’t know basic fixes for their tech, but it paid the bills so you weren’t one to complain. Nakyoung had been one of your customers, a regular one at that. You didn’t question it really. At first you had just assumed she was bad with tech. And even if she was a cute girl getting up to no good, well, that wasn’t any of your business.

Apparently it was that exact attitude that had proven you were trustworthy. It wasn’t long before Nakyoung came to you with a job. Then another. Soon after you met the rest of the gang – not that they referred to themselves as such. Eventually, you had become their full-time support, even learning how to tune their motorcycles to peak performance. 

Was it illegal? A lot of it was, sure. But that hardly mattered. You felt safe and accepted with them. More than you ever had anywhere else.

Even now, as you watched Sohyun prepare herself for you, there was nowhere else you’d rather be. 

“Nakyoung, why don’t you warm him up,” Sohyun said. 

“Wasn’t I doing that already?” Xinyu asked.

“That was just the start,” Nakyoung quiped as she shifted back onto the bed. Her comforting gaze turned into a sultry look as she spread her legs for you. “It’s all yours.”

“You’re going to fuck her good, aren’t you?” Xinyu whispered, nibbling on your earlobe as she guided your cock towards Nakyoung’s entrance.

The sight of Nakyoung, looking at you with her large eyes and beckoning you forward struck a chord. Despite their repeated comments about this being your night, you felt a deep desire to bring her pleasure. 

Her hand found yours, interlacing your fingers as you began to sink into her, Xinyu’s hands on your hips guiding you deeper and deeper. You tried to resist the shudder that ran through your body at the feeling of Nakyoung’s walls around you but to no avail. And how could you when she was taking you inch by inch with an angelic look on her features. 

“She feels good doesn’t she?” 

Xinyu’s question came as her touch lingered on your hips. 

“Mhm,” was all you could manage in response along with a weak nod. 

“So tight and perfect,” her hand stroked your hair. “And all yours.” 

“Fuck…”

Nakyoung sighed as you bottomed out inside of her, filling her to the brim. Her legs moved around your waist, locking you in position as merely held each other for a long moment. 

You knew what was coming. What was waiting for you once Sohyun finally got her hands on you. But for now you would focus on this. On Nakyoung’s pleasure and Xinyu’s guidance. 

“Does it feel good?” you croaked out. 

“So fucking good, baby,” Nakyoung moaned, her bangs splayed across her forehead as her head fell back. “So full.” 

You felt Xinyu’s hand pressing against your lower back and took that as your cue to move. It was slow at first, tentatively drawing yourself out before stuffing her again. You weren’t necessarily inexperienced but it was safe to say that domination didn’t come naturally to you. And yet, this feeling – biting your bottom lip as Nakyoung’s nails dug into your forearm – was addicting. 

They might’ve joked about you getting an ego from this but now you were starting to see why. Having this sight at your fingertips was enough to make any man addicted.

“More,” Nakyoung whined, her fingers dipping between her thighs to tease her clit. “Faster.”

You felt your hesitation steadily slipping away with each thrust, as your hips snapped faster. Eliciting delightful moans of pleasure from Nakyoung. It helped that you hand Xinyu nibbling on your earlobe, continuing to whisper sinful encouragement in your ear.

“Keep fucking her just like that baby,” Xinyu said, “Our little pillow princess making you do  all the work.” 

Your eyes focused on Nakyoung, her short hair splayed against the bed as she took every inch of you with short gasps. You couldn’t say Xinyu was wrong. She looked every bit the princess right now. But was that really such a bad thing?

Xinyu continued. “I’m going to make you feel even better.”

“W-what do you mean?”

You felt Xinyu press a kiss to your nape, then another against your shoulders and back. Your neck craned slightly to try and look over your shoulder, prompting a response from the woman beneath you. Nakyoung reached up, resting on one elbow as she turned your face to look at her. 

“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude not to focus on the girl your dick is in?” 

Your cheeks flushed at being called out. “S-sorry.”

To say it was overwhelming was an understatement. 

There were two women drawing your attention in different ways and a third who hadn’t joined the party yet. And that was without getting into the ways Nakyoung’s walls were squeezing your cock each time you pushed into her, as if begging you to empty your load inside of her.

“Don’t worry about her,” Nakyoung insisted.

Which was hard to do when you felt Xinyu place another kiss, this time at the small of your back. Before you could question it any further, you felt something moist tickling your backdoor. 

“Oh!” that was interesting, “Oh, fuck…” Your hips jerked involuntarily as you hunched over slightly. 

“I think he likes it, Xinyu,” Nakyoung moaned. 

Xinyu didn’t respond with words but rather with actions. Her tongue circled around your hole and your toes curled in response.  

Xinyu’s tongue pressed against you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each flick sending jolts of electricity up your spine. You gasped, your hips stuttering as you tried to maintain your pace with Nakyoung, but the dual sensations were overwhelming. Nakyoung’s walls clenched around you, her breath hitching as she felt you twitch inside her.

“Fuck, baby,” Nakyoung moaned, her voice trembling. “You’re getting so hard.” 

Her nails dug into your shoulders, urging you to keep going even as your focus wavered. Xinyu’s tongue was relentless, teasing and probing, making it impossible to think straight. Your breath came in short, ragged bursts, and your hands gripped the sheets for stability.

“That’s it,” Xinyu murmured against your skin, her voice low and sultry. “Just relax, baby boy. Let me take care of you.” 

Her tongue dipped back inside, and you let out a strangled groan, your hips jerking forward into Nakyoung again. Nakyoung giggled. 

“God, you’re so sensitive,” Nakyoung teased, her fingers trailing down your chest. “How does Xinyu’s tongue feel, baby? Do you like what she’s doing to you? She’s getting you nice and ready for Sohyun, isn’t she?”

You shuddered, your hips stuttering as Xinyu’s tongue pressed deeper, more insistently. “Y-yes,” you managed to gasp, your voice trembling. “It feels… so good…”

Xinyu’s tongue circled your rim with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each flick sending jolts of electricity up your spine. Her hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as she worked you open with a practiced ease. You could feel the tension building in your lower belly, a coil threatening to snap, as your body responded to her every touch.

You felt her hand slide beneath you, her fingers gently nassaging your balls. The dual sensation was overwhelming—her tongue teasing your rim while her fingers applied just the right amount of pressure, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You groaned, your hips twitching involuntarily, and Nakyoung let out a breathy laugh.

“Someone’s enjoying themselves,” she said, her legs tightening around your waist as you continued to stretch her out. Her walls clenched around you, warm and wet, as if urging you deeper. “You feel so good inside me, baby. But I think Xinyu’s the one really making you lose it, huh?”

You couldn’t argue. Xinyu’s tongue was relentless, her fingers working in perfect harmony to drive you wild. Every flick, every press, every gentle squeeze sent you closer to the edge. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, and your fingers dug into Nakyoung’s hips as you tried to keep your rhythm.

“You’re doing so good,” Nakyoung whispered, her lips brushing against your ear. “But I think… I think you’re ready for more, aren’t you?”

You barely had time to process her words before you felt Xinyu pull away, leaving you achingly empty. You groaned at the loss, but before you could protest, you heard the soft click of a bottle cap and the slick sound of lube being applied. Your heart raced as you realized what was coming next.

“Stay just like that.”

Sohyun’s voice cut through the haze, as she moved across the room. 

You froze, your hips still buried deep inside Nakyoung, her warmth enveloping you. Xinyu’s hands were on your hips again, steadying you as Sohyun moved behind you. You could feel the heat of her body as she pressed close, her breath warm against your back.

“You’ve been so good for us,” Sohyun murmured, “But now it’s my turn to reward you.”

Nakyoung’s hands slid up your chest, her touch soothing as she whispered, “Take deep breaths.” 

You nodded, your throat too dry to speak. Sohyun’s hands gripped your hips, her fingers digging into your skin as she positioned herself. The weight of her presence behind you was overwhelming, and you could feel the cool tip of the strap-on pressing against your entrance.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice teasing.

You swallowed hard and nodded again. “Y-yes.”

Sohyun smirked, her hand gripping the base of the strap-on as she applied pressure. “Good boy.”

The first press was slow, deliberate, and you tensed instinctively. But Sohyun’s hands were firm, holding you in place as she leaned over you, her breath hot against your ear. 

“Relax,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to let the tension seep out of your muscles. And then, with a slow, steady push, she was inside you. The stretch was intense, but the way she filled you sent a wave of pleasure crashing through your body. You moaned, your head falling forward as she bottomed out, your hips pressed flush against Nakyoung’s.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your hands clutching at Nakyoung’s shoulders. “Sohyun…”

She leaned over you, her chest pressing against your back as she whispered, “Sssh, you’re doing so well.” 

Her voice was soft, almost tender, a stark contrast to the commanding tone she’d used earlier. Her breath was warm against your ear, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow. You could feel her weight against you, the heat of her skin, the way her body molded to yours. It was grounding, comforting even, as you adjusted to the fullness of her inside you.

A beat passed, and you felt yourself starting to relax, the initial intensity giving way to a deeper, more insistent pleasure. Sohyun’s hands smoothed over your hips, her touch firm but gentle. 

“I’m going to move now,” she murmured, “Just keep breathing for me, baby boy.”

Her hips pulled back slowly, dragging a whimper from your lips, before she thrust forward again, deeper this time. The sensation of being filled from both ends was overwhelming, and you could feel Nakyoung’s walls clenching around you in response.

“Oh god,” Nakyoung moaned, her nails digging into your arms. “You feel so good… both of you…”

Xinyu’s hands were on your back now, her touch light and teasing as she watched the scene unfold. “Look at him,” she said, her voice filled with awe. “Taking it like a champ.”

Sohyun’s pace quickened, her thrusts becoming more deliberate, more demanding. Each movement sent shockwaves through your body, and you could feel yourself losing control, your hips moving in time with hers. Nakyoung’s moans grew louder, her legs tightening around your waist as she urged you deeper.

“That’s right,” Sohyun growled, her hands gripping your hips tighter. “He loves Mommy’s strap.”

Sohyun’s thrusts were relentless, each one hitting a spot inside you that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. It was a kind of pleasure you hadn’t known you could feel, let alone crave. The stretch, the fullness, the way she dominated you—it was overwhelming in the best way. You were completely at her mercy, and you loved it.

Nakyoung’s walls clenched around you, her body trembling as she neared her own peak. “Fuck, baby,” she gasped, her nails digging into your shoulders. “You feel so good… so deep…”

To the side, Xinyu had settled onto the edge of the bed, her legs spread as she touched herself. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, her eyes locked on the scene before her. 

“Look at him,” she gasped, “Isn’t he perfect?”

Sohyun’s hands tightened on your hips, her thrusts growing harder, deeper. 

“He is,” she agreed, her voice rough with desire. “Our perfect little toy. Aren’t you, baby?”

You could only nod, your voice lost in a moan as Sohyun’s strap-on brushed against that spot inside you again. Your hips jerked involuntarily, and Nakyoung let out a sharp cry, her body arching against yours.

“Two cocks, and I’m stuck with my hand,” Xinyu pouted, her fingers moving faster, her breath hitching as she teased herself. Her eyes flicked to you, a playful glint in them as she bit her lip. “Not fair, is it?”

Nakyoung let out a breathy laugh, her hips rolling against yours as she tightened around you. “Maybe you should try taking two next time,” she teased, her grin wicked. “See how well you handle it.”

The image popped into your mind, vivid and intoxicating: Xinyu, her body arched and trembling, stretched to her limit as she took two cocks at once. One of them could be yours—the thought alone sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. You could almost hear her gasps, see the way her nails would dig into the sheets, the way her lips would part in a silent scream as she was filled completely. The fantasy was so vivid, so real, that it ripped a moan from your throat, your cock swelling inside Nakyoung as your hips jerked involuntarily.

“Oh?” Xinyu’s voice was a purr, her fingers slowing as she caught the way your body reacted. “Someone likes that idea, don’t they?” She tilted her head, her smirk growing wider as she watched you. “Maybe next time, baby boy, you can be the one to help me out. Think you can handle that?”

You couldn’t respond, your mind too hazy with desire, but the way your cock twitched inside Nakyoung was answer enough.

“You’re distracting him!” Nakyoung’s hands cupped your face, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes were dark with desire, her lips parted as she panted. “Focus, baby,” she urged. “I’m so close…Fuck, I want to feel you…all of you…”

Not to be forgotten, you felt Sohyun press deep into you.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” she growled, her thrusts never slowing. “You’re going to fill Nakyoung up like a good boy. Show Mommy how much you love her cock.”

The combination of their voices, their touches, their demands—it was too much. Your hips stuttered, your rhythm faltering as pleasure overtook you. With a cry, you came, your body trembling as you spilled yourself inside Nakyoung. She cried out, her own climax crashing over her as she held you close.

Sohyun didn’t stop, her movements slowing but still relentless as she rode out your high. 

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice soft now, almost tender. “So good for us.”

Xinyu let out a breathless sob, her fingers pulled from her own snatch and coated in her juices. “That was beautiful.”

Sohyun’s hands slid up your back, her touch gentle now as she leaned over you. “You did so well,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Her movements came to a slow stop, her body still pressed against yours as she held you close. “You worked so hard for this reward, baby boy. I’m proud of you.”

Her voice was soft, almost reverent, as she smoothed her hands over your skin, her touch soothing and grounding. “You took everything so perfectly,” she murmured, her lips brushing against your ear. “Our good boy. Our perfect boy.”

“Fuck…”

You whimpered in response, your body still shaking from the aftershocks. Beneath you, Nakyoung seemed to be in a similar state of exhaustion. But even as that exhaustion threatened to pull you under, you knew you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

A few weeks later…

“Look at you, taking his cock so well, aren’t you?”

Sohyun’s voice was low and commanding, her hand resting lightly on Xinyu’s throat as she guided her movements. Xinyu was seated atop her, Sohyun’s strap buried deep in her ass, while you stood in front, filling her from the other side. Xinyu’s head was tilted back, her lips parted in a breathless moan as she took you both, her body trembling with the effort.

You couldn’t help but marvel at the sight—Xinyu, usually so playful and teasing, now completely at the mercy of Sohyun’s control and your rhythm. Her nails dug into Sohyun’s thighs as she rocked back and forth, her breath hitching every time you thrust into her. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, of gasps and whispered praises, and you felt a surge of pride knowing you were a part of this.

You couldn’t help but reflect on how that night had changed everything. 

Before, you had been the hacker, the mechanic, the one who kept their bikes running and their operations smooth. But now? Now you were something far more undefined, something deeper. You were theirs—not just a tool, but a part of their world in a way you hadn’t imagined possible.

And it wasn’t just your role in the gang that had shifted. In the bedroom, you had grown in confidence, learning to read their cues, to take control when they wanted you to, and to surrender when they demanded it. It was a dance, one you were still learning, but every moment with them felt like a step closer to mastering it.

“That’s it,” Sohyun murmured, her hand tightening slightly on Xinyu’s throat. “Take him just like that. Such a good girl for us.”

Xinyu’s eyes fluttered open, locking onto yours as she moaned. “Fuck, baby,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “You feel so good… so deep…”

Her words sent a tingle down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smirk, your confidence growing with every thrust. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, your hands gripping her hips as you guided her movements.

Sohyun let out a low laugh, her free hand sliding up Xinyu’s side. “Look at him,” she said, her tone dripping with approval. “Our little hacker, all grown up.”

The praise sent a rush of warmth through you, and you couldn’t help but lean into it, your thrusts growing more deliberate, more confident. Xinyu’s moans grew louder, her body tightening around you as she approached her climax..

“That’s it,” Sohyun encouraged, her voice a low purr. “Make her come for us, baby boy. Show her what you’ve learned.”

Sohyun didn’t need to tell you twice.

Your movements became harder, rougher, as you aimed to drive Xinyu toward her release. You had quickly learned that Xinyu, for all her teasing and bravado, was every bit the princess of the gang that she accused Nakyoung of being. Sure, she could be an active participant when she wanted to, but there was something about the way she melted under your touch, the way she begged and gasped, that made it clear she loved being taken care of just as much as she loved taking control.

“Look at her,” Sohyun purred, her hand still resting on Xinyu’s throat, her thumb brushing lightly against her pulse. “So greedy, isn’t she? Couldn’t even wait for Nakyoung to join us.”

You found Sohyun’s words amusing, a smirk tugging at your lips.

In the weeks since that first night, none of the three women had seemed keen on sharing you with anyone else in the gang. It was always the four of you, a closed circle of trust and desire. You weren’t complaining—far from it. But it was hard not to notice the way they kept you to themselves, as if you were their little secret.

There had been a moment, not long after that first night, when Nien and Yubin had approached you with flirtatious smiles and suggestive comments. You’d been flattered, of course, but before you could even respond, Sohyun had appeared out of nowhere, quickly causing the other girls to scatter.

“Fuck!”

Xinyu’s moans grew louder, breaking you from your thoughts. Her voice was more desperate, her body trembling as she neared her peak. 

“Please, daddy,” she gasped, her nails digging into Sohyun’s thighs. “Finish inside me…make me come…I need it, daddy, please…”

Her use of the word sent a jolt of heat through you, and you obliged, your thrusts growing faster, more urgent. 

“You love this, don’t you?” you egged her on, your own release teetering on the edge, “Taking me and Sohyun at the same time, stuffed full like the hungry little cock slut you are. You’re so good for us, baby. Come on, come for us. Let go.”

You could feel her tightening around you, her body on the edge, and with one final, deep thrust, you pushed her over. Xinyu cried out, her back arching as she came, her walls clenching around you in waves of pleasure. The sensation was too much, and with a groan, you followed her over the edge, spilling yourself inside her as your hips stuttered against hers.

For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breaths and the occasional shuddering gasp. Sohyun’s hand slid from Xinyu’s throat to her shoulder, her touch gentler. 

“Good girl,” she murmured,“You did so well.”

Xinyu could only nod weakly, her body still trembling as she leaned back against Sohyun, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

And then, as if on cue, the door swung open. Nakyoung stood in the doorway, a pizza box in one hand and her mouth half-open mid-sentence. 

“I hope you like pepperoni—” she started, before her words caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: Xinyu still straddling Sohyun’s strap-on, your cock slowly slipping out of her as she caught her breath, and the general state of disarray that suggested exactly what had just happened.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Nakyoung’s voice cut through the room, sharp and incredulous.

“You started without me?!”

Sohyun let out a low chuckle, her hand still resting on Xinyu’s shoulder as she shot Nakyoung a tired but amused smile. 

“She couldn’t wait,” Sohyun said, her tone dry but playful.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your own smile mirroring Sohyun’s as you leaned back, catching your breath. Xinyu, still half-delirious from her climax, tilted her head toward Nakyoung and gave a lazy wave. 

“Hey, Naky~” she slurred, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Nakyoung sighed, shaking her head as she set the pizza box down on a nearby table. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched as if she were fighting a smile. “I leave for twenty minutes…”

As you watched the three of them—Sohyun’s calm amusement, Xinyu’s blissed-out grin, and Nakyoung’s mock exasperation—you couldn’t help but think that this life, chaotic and unpredictable as it was, wasn’t so bad at all.

[polarspaz]

Greektome AU

Momo's snakes mirror her true feelings, so when she feels flustered or embarrassed the little buggers will get themselves tangled up. (More often than not, Okarun is the cause of this.)

Lucky for her, Okarun is always happy to help gently untangle the little rascals, who pepper his hand with little kisses in thanks, much to Momo's horror(delight).