#the answer is. because there is something wrong with me

[rex-rambles]

➤ PROUD | MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: max verstappen x wife! reader, kimi antonelli + max + reader (platonic)

summary: kimi gets his first podium, max finds you crying in a bathroom, and you both realize you want to start a family together

wc: 2.6 k

warnings: none! a few innuendos on max's part

➤ MASTERLIST

You had been married to Max long enough to recognize when his focus shifted. When he stopped paying attention to useless questions, when a car caught his eye, when he heard someone saying something wrong about anything, really. It was the subtlest of changes, the softest of looks, but you saw the way he turned, just slightly, when the TV in the motorhome played a clip of the rookies, talking about pressure and the reality of F1. 

He watched from the corner of his eye, his notes still in hand, so that anyone who might walk by would think he was deeply focused, and not distracted by a simple broadcast. You, however, know better.

You push off the counter of the small coffee bar, coming to take the hat from his head, and rake your hand through his hair instead. 

He smiles slightly at the action, letting his attention break to look up at you. "Do you think they miss their mums?" You ask, eyes finding the broadcast. Max would've been about their age when he started, so young, so full of dreams. You weren't that much older than them really, but it was still enough to be daunting. 

Being 18, like Kimi, was the time of little independent steps, going away to university, starting something new. Becoming a world-famous F1 driver when you're not even old enough to drink in some countries had to be quite the trip. "What?" Max responds, now turning to give the TV his full attention. "The rookies?" 

"They just look so young." Doing all this, on their own. They might have teams and managers and fellow drivers, but it had to be terrifying. "It's got to be hard, away from family like that. And on Father's Day, too." 

"I didn't miss my parents," Max says, returning to the notes in his lap as he lies. He can never look at you when he does. You never pressed about his childhood, though all you can imagine is that poor boy, charting across Europe alone to do all of these races, with all the stress. It can't be good for children, even if they are racing prodigies. "I turned out fine." 

There's a beat of silence where you don't answer, and he lets out a soft breath. 

"Fine, relatively speaking." He corrects. "Besides, with all the karting and F2 or F3, they're used to travel." 

"Even when they're still in school, poor things." Max glances back at the TV as the clip of Isack hugging Lewis's dad plays, and your heart dislodges in your chest. That's a lot of pressure, something that never goes away with F1, or at least you've never seen it leave Max. He was becoming a beacon for the rookies, maybe because of it. He probably knew better than anyone how to handle that sort of pressure, the lifestyle change. 

Someone walks by, cutting through the moment, and you and Max just look at each other as you wait for them to leave. There was so much more to be said on this kind of topic, specifically behind closed doors, but there was more than just Max being a good mentor that played into it. Finally, the person leaves, and Max returns to his notes. "If you're worried about their education, you could help them with their homework." 

"Maybe I can cook them a nice meal. You can have them over." Max laughs, then, getting up from his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close to him. The move startles you, so quick and so in public, but you lived for these stolen moments. Max was always like this when he knew no one could see. Little bursts of energy, the hidden romance that was best protected when others weren't around. You didn't mind by now, really. You'd rather your kisses be private than spread across Instagram. "What?" 

"You are something else," He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Worry about me for a change, hm? Where's my home cooked meals?" 

"They're a treat for when you win," You say as you press a quick kiss to his lips before finally pushing away. The last thing you needed was some photographer walking in on you two. "So go lose, yeah? Saves me from having to do the dishes." 

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he prepares to go, and you're struck by a feeling you can't quite describe. It's a strange sort of love that twists in your gut, almost complete but not quite. Loving Max was always just a full-bodied feeling, that some small part of it missing was obvious. It wasn't nerves, though the butterflies still came out as he raced, as he battled for second place. 

It wasn't anger, or concern, or sadness, no strange emotion you couldn't place. Instead, it just felt like you were waiting for the last piece to click into place, even if you didn't realize what it was. Max gets second, and the win doesn't really fix it either, though you're happy he placed well. He probably wasn't the most enthused at George's first, but then, as the racers settle, you realize who came in third: 

Kimi. 

Little Kimi, with his homework and the pressure and now, you realize as you watch the nearby Mercedes garage, without his parents. 

That must be awful, you find yourself thinking as your heart sinks further into your stomach. What a race to miss, to have no one there to celebrate. The big screens catch your eye as you see Max approach Kimi, and for a moment, the world pauses as Max pulls him into a quick hug that feels like it might last forever. 

That's the missing piece, you think. 

Max had always been so good with kids. Whether his little nieces or nephews, or teenagers like Kimi, he had a way with them. He was patient, and funny, and kind, and welcoming. He was saying something to Kimi as your visions swims before you, a mix of emotions that truly catch you by surprise. 

It's pride, and heartbreak, and knowing. 

That could be your son someday. Maybe he had just done well on a test, or won a competition, you didn't care, and Max was hugging him like a father would. You turn back toward the Red Bull garage's bathroom, quick to try to calm yourself, but it's no use. 

Max would make a fantastic father one day, and for the very first time, you realize that's something you can pursue. 

-

There was something going on with you lately. Max hadn't really had too much time to notice it, with the triple headers and your work schedule, but you were just...softer. Not in a bad way, and not in a way he'd ever vocalize, but you were just so utterly irresistible and sweet. He didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave your side, didn't even mind hearing you talk about ridiculous things like rookies being lonely and the best parks near his apartment. 

But there was something brewing under the surface, and he didn't really know what. 

Then again, he also just got 2nd place, and you're not at the barrier to greet him, so he doesn't really have time to focus on that either. He chalks it up to the crowds crushing in to get to George and Kimi, both for George's first win of the season and Kimi's first podium, both of whom refuse to stop smiling, especially once they get to the podium platform. Even from up above, however, Max can't seem to spot you. He can always find you in a crowd, a skill he prides himself on. 

You were wearing one of his hats, and a cute little white dress, so it should be easy, but you're not with his team, not with the crowd. 

Nowhere. 

Finally, when he gets back to his driver's room, and it's empty, does he start to worry. "Have you seen-" He barely gets the word out before one of his attendants is gesturing towards the restroom with a strange expression, and Max panics at the thought of you being sick, of something being wrong, and he quickly knocks on the door. "Love? You okay?" 

"Shit, Max-" Your voice sounds hoarse and Max's heart breaks at the thought of you being sick while he was out celebrating, but when you open the door just a crack, he realizes it's something else entirely. "Sorry, sorry, I'm a mess." 

You let him into the restroom, a small space considering it's just a little side room, but that sort of invasion of each other's space had never bothered either of you. What does bother him is the tear-tracks on your cheeks, the way you laugh sadly as you try to wipe away the evidence. "What's wrong?" 

You crying is not the most uncommon sight in the world, but the last time you cried at one of his races was because he won his fourth championship title. Maybe you were crying over how poorly he was doing? Maybe something terrible happened? "The video-" 

"What video?" Max rushes out, coming to cup your face in his hands. "I swear, if anyone said anything-" 

"You hugged," You say with another soft laugh, now truly confusing him. Max tries to wrack his brain for the last time he hugged a woman that might be taken as him cheating, and then what it might take for you to have a mental break. "And his dad wasn't there." 

"What?" Then, the pieces click into place. "Kimi?" You nod, sniffing softly as you wipe at your nose with a tissue. "You're crying...because I hugged Kimi?" 

"Our little baby got his first podium." 

Our. 

Little. 

Baby. 

Oh shit. "Are you pregnant?" 

"What?" That seems to snap you from your tears, looking up at him before reaching out to smack his arm. "No! I can be emotional without being hormonal!" 

"I wasn't saying that," He soothes, though he finds himself somewhat saddened by the answer in a way he never thought he would be. "You just called him our baby." 

"He's your baby," You joke, covering your face with your hands. "He won and you hugged him, and his parents are here, and he's probably so happy I just...I can't. How could you not cry? He worked so hard!" 

Max slowly wraps his arms around you and gently rocks you, unable to stop the growing smile on his face. Only you could get emotional about another man getting on the podium. You'd probably be like this for all the rookies, he thinks. He'll need to start packing more tissues. "But you didn't come to watch." I missed you, he wants to say, but right now is not about him. 

"I didn't want anyone to see me like this and take it wrong." You say, muffled by his shoulder. "If I saw him in person I'd probably start bawling." 

"Well, you should go congratulate him if it moved you to tears." He says, somewhat teasing, somewhat not. It was a very big thing for Kimi to finally get on the podium, and you were right. He worked hard to get here, taking third place in a way many other drivers couldn't currently. 

Maybe crying over it was a bit much, but being proud? That was understandable. "Give me your sunglasses." 

"Anything for you," He says, reluctantly pulling the sunglasses he'd hung on his shirt collar and handing them out to you. You walk, then, hand in hand through the garages before reaching Mercedes, which Max realizes is somewhat enemy territory, but for you, he doesn't mind. Kimi is off to the side to take pictures with some of the mechanics, all beaming ear to ear, and he hears you sniff beside him. "Hey, Kimi." 

Kimi looks up with a grin, and you offer a small wave. "I just wanted to come congratulate you," You say, and Kimi immediately goes in for a hug, which somehow makes Max more emotional as he watches it. 

That's the missing piece, he thinks, what he wasn't getting about the tears.

You were always so good with kids. Whether Max's own nieces or nephews, or teenagers like Kimi, you were always so good with them. Even now, Kimi sinks into your arms like you're his mother, like it was the kind of hug he needed. You already were so patient with Max, you had to be with children, so warm and honest and welcoming. Kimi could be your kid someday, maybe after having a hard day, or maybe after a good one, just needing comfort. 

You would be an incredible mom someday, and as Max had said earlier, he'd do anything for you. A little baby, clad in Red Bull gear, with his hair colour and your eyes, it would be perfect. 

Anything you make would be perfect. "I'm so proud." You say as you pull back. "Your parents must be so proud! Third! You're first podium!" 

"You're going to make me cry," Kimi sniffs, and Max watches your bottom lip tremble. "No, no, don't cry too!" 

"Alright, alright." Max wraps his arm around you, pulling you into his side. "Both of you." 

"Emotions are meant to be felt!" You say stubbornly, a reminder Max has had to hear plenty of times. You had never made him feel guilty when he got angry, never made him feel like he couldn't be sad. It was the sort of thing a parent should have said to him as a kid, the sort of thing that would make you a fantastic parent now. 

"You know what they call you?" Kimi says, more to Max than you. "Mother Hen. Now you are Mother and Father Hen." 

You tense in Max's arm, and he softly laughs. "We're adopting him." You state bluntly, looking up to Max. "Can we adopt all of them?" 

"Bit late to adopt, I think." He says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "We'll just have to make our own." 

"Hey!" Kimi says, hands flying to his ears like an actual kid as he laughs.

"You can be our babysitter," Max continues, reaching out to shake hands with the boy, who happily shakes it back. You, on the other hand, are shooting Max a rather strange look. "What? It'll be good for him to have a normal job for once." 

"We can all take turns," Kimi agrees eagerly. "Ollie and I-" 

You finally laugh, shaking your head as you take a step back, and Max doesn't blame you. Those boys probably got into more strange situations than Max did at that age, which is saying something. "There is no way both you and Ollie are looking after them. That is a recipe for disaster waiting to happen." 

"What's a disaster waiting to happen?" George asks, and now it's Max's turn to tense. He was very good at being civil, good at hiding it too, but that didn't cut the tension in the air.

"Ollie and Kimi babysitting for us." You answer for him, head coming to lean back against Max's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. It's the sort of admissions that would make headlines if it got out, but considering what Max was planning on tonight?

Probably wasn't too early to announce the baby.

"Babysitting?" George echoes, shocked. "Are you expecting?" 

"Not currently," Max says before he can help it. "Give it about nine months." 

"Max!" Your face flushes red, smacking at his arm, and he takes it as his cue to leave. "You are unbelievable!" 

"Congratulations, Kimi." Max says as he leads you away, trying hard not to laugh as both Kimi and George exchange looks. "George." 

You wave goodbye, turning around to look at them, and Max keeps his arm around your waist to drag you backwards. "You both did so well! You better celebrate tonight."

"I think you are celebrating enough for the both of us." Kimi answers, and George turns on him like a scandalized mother.

You laugh as you turn back around, and Max finds that he missed the sound. You crying was easily one of the things he hated most in this world, meaning your laugh is one of the things he loved the most.

Your hand slips into his, offering a squeeze. Only when you're finally out of earshot, the rest of the crews and the microphones and the eavesdroppers hidden away, do you tug harder on Max's hand, drawing his attention. "Do you mean that? About starting a family?" 

"Like I said, anything for you." Then, after a beat, "We're not naming our kid Kimi." 

"I know," You answer, leaning up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "I was thinking George." 

a/n: KIMI PODIUM! didn't realize i was a kimi fan until i genuinely got emotional at seeing him come third.

[hearts4hughes]

It’s the middle of the night rn but I have to request this before I forget it.

Exbf!Rafe where reader forgot or never got around to removing Rafe from their emergency contact list. And one day the police or hospital call Rafe about reader being in an accident of some sort.

he doesn’t recognize the number at first. some 252 string of digits that buzzes across his screen right as he’s halfway through a voicemail he’ll never send you. he almost lets it ring out—almost.

but something—gut or god or just bad luck—makes him swipe. “yeah?” he answers, short, distracted, a little annoyed like usual. then someone says your name.

~

the hospital is white in all the wrong ways. fluorescent and echoing, two things rafe hates. it smells like something between bleach and breathlessness. like someone died here last night and they’re still trying to scrub the memory out of the tiles.

he’s already pacing when the nurse finally finds him. pale blue scrubs and a clipboard tucked against her ribs like a shield. “you’re rafe cameron?”

he turns. “yeah.”

“you’re still listed as her emergency contact. we tried calling someone else but she didn’t have anyone else listed.”

something shifts behind his ribs. a pinch, a pull. his jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything, just nods once like that makes it okay. like he didn’t spend the last six months trying to not be that person for you anymore.

“she was in a car accident,” the nurse continues, voice dipping gentle. “minor injuries, mostly bruising and a mild concussion. but she hit her head. we’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

rafe chews on his fingernails hard enough to feel a pinch. he drops his hand like its venomous and is already moving towards your room.

you’re asleep when he finds you. curled up on your side in a way that makes you look impossibly small, like a rewind version of yourself— the version he loved first.

your wrist is wrapped. your lip’s a little swollen. the iv hums soft and steady in your arm. he stands there like he’s on the outside of a life he wasn’t supposed to walk back into.

he shouldn’t be here. but you called him, didn’t you? no, you didn’t, your phone did. because you forgot or never got around to removing him. because some stupid form still says he’s the one they should call when everything goes to hell. and for some reason, he showed up anyway.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, staring at the slow rise and fall of your chest. “you don’t even want me here.”

then you shift and begin to stir. you blink hazily in the dim light, eyes swollen and unfocused, but they find him. even now—months and many tears later. “…rafe?”

his name. a ghost in your throat. he exhales. almost flinches. “yeah. it’s me.”

“what are you doing here?”

there’s a pause.

“apparently,” he says, voice quieter now, rough around the edges, “you still think i’m the one who’ll come.”

you don’t say anything. he doesn’t move to sit down. just stays by the door like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“i forgot,” you admit, swallowing hard. “i didn’t mean to still have you listed.”

he nods slowly. he expected that, but it hurts the same either way. “yeah,” he says. “but i came anyway.”

this time, you don’t say anything. you just blink at him. glassy-eyed and something slips through the cracks of your voice when you whisper, “thank you.”

he looks at you for a long time. longer than he should. then he drags the chair closer to your bed. sits in it like it’s always belonged to him. elbows on knees and his jaw set.

“go back to sleep,” he mutters, eyes still on your face. “i’ll be here.” just for tonight. just until they say you’re okay. just until you forget him again.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove

[interlink-au]

Y'all, I want you to know that this blog focuses on canon for the purpose of combatting the Mandela Effect or making people feel forced to limit headcanons to what fanon dictates. We can have headcanons outside of the generally accepted fanon. We can disagree about headcanons and sometimes even still enjoy the ones we disagree with.

I'll admit that sometimes (most of the time) I speak very dogmatically, whether I mean it that way or not. It's a trait I've been working on taming for years. Not an excuse, but an explanation for if I ever come off strangely. Please call me out on it so I can do better. Just try not to be mean about it, please?

And I'm not a stickler about canon. I take note of when canon contradicts a headcanon, but that doesn't discredit the headcanon, not at all. I've got headcanons that go against canon, too. In fact, because I'm limiting my story to canon-compliancy, I've had to drop some of those beloved headcanons of mine from the story. I may do AUs of my AU specifically for those dropped ideas. Because they're fun! Completely non-canon headcanons are fun.

And I've done a lot of research, but sometimes I'm wrong about canon or I've missed an important perspective. Please share your thoughts with me! Be warned that I might ask if you have a source, but don't let that scare you off, because even a vague "I think I remember..." can send me off on a research train with some interesting results. I love that stuff.

I want to get into deep discussions, even strongly opinionated ones, as long as it's respectful and the goal is to share information without the intention of changing opinions. "Agree to disagree" doesn't have to be a bad thing. But again, if I ever come off as pushy, please let me know. The 'tism makes it difficult to take a hint, so I appreciate directness. If someone questions me about my decisions, I might come across as defensive, but I'm just stating my own reasoning without the intention of slamming someone's headcanon.

"If you think so, then why are you so insistent about using canon for the basis of your story?" you may ask. It's because a lot of AUs start with the goal to show off the author/artist's headcanons, so I thought I'd go against the grain and see what would happen if I stuck with canon. The answer is, you can do a lot! Since fanon and the Mandela Effect are so prevalent, sometimes people miss some fun canon stuff they can make new headcanons about. Because I think headcanons are more fun when there is a big variety of them. And I think more information about the source subject could have the potential of spawning a bigger variety of headcanons.

Not to say there's anything wrong with the popular ones! I like and read them too! I just hope others get an opportunity to make a choice to go their own way if they want to.

I feel like knowledge is power in this instance. Knowledge means that if someone argues that your idea is silly, you have examples to back it up. Knowledge is the power to say, I know it's this way but I am choosing to specifically go against that idea. That's powerful!

All that is to say, I'm thinking of starting a weekly headcanon thing where I choose headcanons I like and talk about why I like it and how it goes with or against canon. I think it would be a fun way to celebrate headcanons while still acknowledging canon and trying to clear up possible misinformation. I don't know if it will actually be a weekly thing or if it's just something I'll do at random, but yeah. Look forward to my weekly headcanon I guess.

“the fandom has decided - ” “everyone agrees that - ” “we all know that this is the only right way to - ”

[cameronsbabydoll]

petty prayers

jewish!rafe x jewish!reader

cw: explicit smut (oral f. receiving), married sex, mild dom!reader/subby!rafe dynamic, possessiveness, light praise, jealousy, emotionally charged intimacy, rich people drama, event planning stress, rafe worships reader like a religion

a/n: this fic is for my bby @rafesgreasycurtainbangs for her birthday! divider by @yuppijin

you’ve been awake since 5 a.m.

not because you had to be—because shelly rosenberg called. again. in tears. something about the party favors being a “disgrace to the occasion.” something about the lavender being too blue. you sit up in bed and fight the urge to scream into your hermès pillow.

across the bed, rafe groans.

“it’s shelly,” you hiss, silencing your phone and rubbing your eyes. “she says if her name on the seating card is spelled wrong, she’s suing.”

“she should sue her plastic surgeon first,” rafe mumbles into the pillow.

you stifle a laugh. you’re mad, not heartless.

still, by 7 a.m., the penthouse is buzzing. the planner is coming by with the new centerpieces. your glam girl is coming early to trial your look for the saturday dinner. and rafe—rafe, the love of your life, your husband of ten years, the father of your gorgeous, overachieving children—is pissing you off.

“you said you’d finalize the security deposit with the hotel,” you say, arms crossed, toe tapping against the marble. “that was two days ago.”

he doesn’t even look up from the espresso machine. “and i did. i wired them yesterday.”

you blink. “you didn’t tell me.”

he turns around with your oat milk latte. “i didn’t realize i had to report to you.”

you take the coffee from his hand, eyes narrowed. “i’m the one dealing with shelly and the kosher chef and your mother, rafe.”

“and you’re doing great,” he says, leaning in to kiss you.

you dodge him expertly.

he sighs. “baby—”

“don’t baby me right now. i swear to god, if your mother critiques the menu one more time—”

“it’s not a wedding,” he says. “it’s jacob’s bar mitzvah. not the met gala.”

you gape. “it’s more important than the met gala.”

rafe grins. “you know you’re crazy, right?”

“i’m passionate.”

“you’re terrifying.”

you sip your latte and storm off in your robe, calling the planner for the third time that morning, practically growling into the phone, “the champagne tower isn’t optional.”

by the time saturday rolls around, you’re fine. mostly. your dress fits perfectly. your daughter looks angelic. jacob—sweet jacob—beams at you before he’s pulled into a circle of friends from school, and you feel a twinge of pride. you made this happen. the flowers, the lighting, the exact shade of navy in the cocktail napkins—it’s all you.

then you see her.

rafe’s talking to a mom. she’s laughing a little too hard. her hand is on his forearm. his forearm. the audacity.

you don't even flinch. you just smile from across the room, sip your champagne, and wait for him to notice.

he doesn’t. not right away.

but you make sure he knows.

you won’t sit next to him during candle lighting. you pretend not to hear him when he calls your name. you let shelly sit between you instead—and you know exactly what you’re doing.

later, after the kids are finally in bed, the gifts counted and texts from your friends rolling in ("this party was insane", "dying over your dress", "how does rafe still look like that??"), you're in the bathroom doing your skincare. face lit up by the hollywood bulbs, silk slip clinging to your hips, diamond tennis bracelet glittering in the mirror. you dab on your serum. ignore the way he’s leaning in the doorframe behind you.

“you’re mad,” he says quietly.

you don’t answer.

he pushes off the frame, pads closer. “i wasn’t flirting.”

you snort. “sure.”

“she asked about the valet. that’s it.”

“well she was drooling.”

“you’re the only one i care about.”

you shrug. apply eye cream. keep your chin high.

then—his hands on your hips.

you glance at him in the mirror. he’s watching you like you’re his whole world.

“you gonna stay mad?” he murmurs, mouth against your ear. “or are you gonna let me make it up to you?”

you raise a brow.

he smiles, drops to his knees behind you.

“rafe—”

“let me make it up to you,” he repeats, voice thick, hands already sliding up your thighs. “c’mon, baby. you wore this for me.”

you glare down at him like he’s pathetic.

it’s mean. you know it’s mean. but it’s also fun.

“you think i wore this for you?” you murmur, voice low, sweet like poison.

rafe nods immediately. he’s already on his knees, already got his hands pushing your robe up around your hips like he’s starving. “yes,” he says, “you always do.”

you tilt your head. dab one more dot of cream under your eye. “and you think that makes up for ignoring me all night? letting her touch you like you’re—”

“she wasn’t—”

you cut him off with a look.

he shuts up instantly. lips parting. eyes wide and obedient.

you watch him in the mirror, how pretty he looks when he’s guilty. his expensive button-down’s wrinkled, hair still a little messy from the party, jaw tight like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’ll give him.

good.

you lift yourself up onto the marble vanity, crossing one leg over the other slowly, letting the silk of your robe slide open just enough for him to see the lace beneath. you watch the way his eyes follow the motion like it’s instinct.

like he’s trained.

because he is.

"say you're sorry," you say softly.

he licks his lips. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

“for not telling you about the wire,” he says immediately. then, quieter, “for letting her touch me. for not being next to you all night like i should’ve been.”

you hum. “you’re not gonna do it again?”

“no.”

“you’re not gonna let another woman touch what’s mine?”

rafe actually whines. “never.”

you uncross your legs. hook your finger through the lace of your panties. “then make it up to me.”

he’s got your panties off in one breathless tug.

he kisses up your thigh first, slow and reverent, like it’s a privilege to be this close. like it’s something he doesn’t get to do often, even though you both know you let him eat you out like a starved man every time you’re even slightly mad.

he moans the second his mouth finds you, nose pressed against your skin, fingers gripping your thighs like he’s scared you’ll pull away.

but you don’t. you just lean back against the mirror, tilt your head and sigh like you’re being generous.

“you’re lucky i’m letting you,” you mutter.

he nods into you. tongue eager, messy, perfect. he doesn’t even try to make it slow—he’s greedy. hungry. like he’s been thinking about it all day, since that morning argument in the kitchen.

“god, you’re such a freak,” you breathe, hips shifting against his face. “look at you.”

he loves it. you can feel how hard he is even though he’s still fully dressed, suit pants tight over his thighs, his belt digging into the tile as he kneels.

“don’t stop,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair. “you better not stop.”

he groans into your pussy and keeps going, tongue working in perfect, practiced rhythm. one hand moves to your stomach, then your chest, just to feel you. to make sure you’re really there. like he needs the contact to survive.

“fuck, rafe—” you cry out when he sucks just right, your thighs clenching around his ears. “right there. stay there—don’t stop—”

he nods frantically, hands tightening on your waist.

when you come, you nearly break the mirror.

legs trembling, head thrown back, hand clutching his hair like you’re anchoring yourself. he doesn’t stop even after, keeps licking you through it like he’s got something to prove.

because he does.

he finally pulls back with your slick all over his chin, lips shiny, panting like he just ran a marathon.

you sit there in your robe, still glowing, watching him catch his breath on the floor.

“did i make it up to you?” he asks, voice raspy, eyes desperate.

you smirk. stretch out your legs, toes brushing his chest.

“almost,” you say.

he groans.

“but don’t worry,” you whisper, leaning forward, brushing his jaw with your thumb. “you’ll get another chance tomorrow.”

[snowfall-jess]

Whether it be an angst fic or real life, I do genuinely suffer with feeling undesirable/the second option so here is my comfort character saying otherwise. Incredibly self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy <3

Like usual, not at all beta read lmao. I should get a beta reader…

Kinda Sylus POV??? Idk, I started writing and this happened.

Implied non!mc x sylus btw aaaa

Word count: 957

꩜ ‧.°. ��.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.

Soft!Sylus comforting you when you feel undesirable.

It was subtle, it always was when it came to you. Sylus knew your body language - it came with time and experience. At the beginning, he struggled to read your cues. As you two spent more time together, it became easier. Easy enough to the point it was as if he could read your face and body language perfectly and plan at least three steps ahead.

But today felt different.

You were softer than usual. Granted, at times you would be soft and it would be due to you yearning for a gentle moment or simply just waking up in a daze. However, your hold on Sylus when you woke up lingered in a way that he hadn't felt before.

With a raised brow, Sylus pulled you closer. His arms wrapped around your waist and face buried into your neck as a low groan left his lips. Even dazed from sleep he knew something was wrong.

“What is on your mind, kitten?” He murmured, pressing gentle kisses to your neck as his thumb rubbed gentle circles on your hips.

He heard your hesitation, the way your body tense up at his gentle inquiry. He didn't like pushing for answers with you. He preferred when you told him candidly what you needed from him. But he also knew that sometimes you needed time to process before speaking, and so, he waited for a response from you.

“Kitten?” He asked, shifting to pin you under him after your prolonged silence. As he wrapped his arms around you and linked his fingers together above your head, his weight settled on your body.

He wasn't going to let you get away with no answers. And he knew that with your silence, there was a storm brewing. With a soft sigh, he gently tapped your forehead.

“What's on your mind, sweeite?” He asked again, his brow raising. His voice was still gentle, but with a little pointed edge to his tone.

“... Why did you choose me, Sy?” You asked, voice soft and trembling, as if you were on the edge of tears. “I'm not… I'm not anything special. Or powerful. Or…” You trailed off, voice breaking and tears filling your eyes.

“I'm not… I dont…” You whimpered, soft sniffles filling the air as Sylus immediately jumped to gently brush away your tears.

“Oh, kitten,” Sylus’ voice cooed. “Kitten, sweetie, my dove, you're everything to me.” He said, his voice soft and full of adoration and love as he peppered your face with gentle kisses.

“Dearest, I chose you because you're you.” He said, his lips pressing against the crown of your head. He knew his answer wasn't entirely satisfactory when he saw that adorable pout on your lips and the glint of disbelief in your eyes.

With a chuckle, he nuzzled his nose against yours. A warm smile on his lips as his larger hands gently caressed your body that was trapped under his.

“I love you,” He breathlessly said, his red eyes sparkling with a warmth solely reserved for you. His silver hair tussled by sleep as he breathed in your scent. “I love you, sweetie.” He repated.

“Love doesn't always need a reason to exist.” Sylus chuckled, his nose gently trailing down along your neck. He sighed, a smile curling on his lips as you tilted your head in a wordless action of trust.

“Sometimes, love just catches people by surprise.” He said, pressing a kiss to your pulse. “I love you for your smile,” he chuckled, pressing a quick peck to your lips that left you whining and him with a grin.

“I love you for your creative wit and cheeky attitude." He continued, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Your lovely voice,” he chuckled, shifting down to kiss your throat.

“Your hands that hold me like I am something precious.” He whispered, taking one of your hands to press a kiss to your palm. His red eyes on yours the entire time as his ruby eyes shined. “And so much more.” He breathlessly said.

“Everyday, I find a new reason to love you,” Sylus whispered, his hand moving to caress your cheek. “Each night in the N109 Zone, I know how lucky I am to have you in my arms.” He couldn't help but feel his heart warm as he watched you.

“I may not have a great or spectacular reason to love you, my dove,” Sylus softly chuckled. “But you should know that I adore you. There is no love purer than mine.” He said, leaning in with his thumb gently pressing on your bottom lip.

“And every single day, every moment you are with me. I crave you, want you, and desire you by my side.” He whispered, his eyes half lidded and flickering to your lips. “As my equal, as my partner. As someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He said, moving closer and closer, his voice trailing off as his lips brushed against yours.

“And I know, for as long as my heart beats, that I will only want you.” He quietly said against your lips before capturing yours in a deep yet slow kiss. Sylus kept the pace slow, yet his passion for you was easily felt with the way he moved.

His hands gripped you, gentle yet reminding you of his presence. Of the way that he chose you, desired you, and wanted you by his side more than anything. Even as he pulled away, he lingered. Not moving far as he smiled and looked into your eyes.

“Now,” He softly said, kissing the tip of your nose with a soft chuckle. His smile turning back into his playful and signature smirk.

“Shall we start the day?”

[humanjarvis]

your cheeks burn.

post after post flashes on your laptop, the screen’s light painting your frowning face in multicolored hues. 

their technique? stronger than yours. their concepts? more creative. even their aesthetic is nauseatingly perfect. 

your cheeks burn.

scorn. envy. embarrassment. 

“why don’t you take a break?” zayne offers, face drawn in gentle concern. 

you look at him. and then you burst out in laughter, the sound shrill and bordering on hysteric. “i don’t need a break,” you say as if it’s obvious. “i just need to get better.” 

he hums contemplatively, taking in your hunched figure on the armchair you haven’t left in hours. “is ‘better’ something you can get?”

you’re already wound up—anxious and ready to strike. so his words hit like a drop of blood in the ocean. 

“what?” you snap defensively. “you don’t think i can? you don’t think i’m good enough to?”

his eyes narrow. “i never said that. don’t put words in my mouth.”

the taut coil of your anger loosens at his sternness. chewing your lip, you look to the side and lower your laptop screen. “sorry.” 

nodding his acceptance, he crosses one leg over the other. “you’ve been staring at your computer all evening. i’d be concerned about your eyes, but i’m more worried they’ll burn a hole through the screen before the night is over. what’s wrong?”

a heavy sigh deflates the rest of your body, and for the first time in what seems like forever, you set your laptop on the coffee table. battling the numbness in your folded legs, you pull your knees to your chest, shoving your chin between them with a thud that makes zayne wince.

“i feel…bad,” you begin, tired eyes trained on the carpet. “it feels like everyone is more talented than me. or more successful. and it makes me feel bad.”

when you look up, kind hazel eyes greet you, as if he expects you to keep going. but when all you do is fidget with your fingers, he knows you’ll need a bit of help.

“i feel bad sometimes, too. what happens when you feel bad?”

“i get stuck,” you mumble, cheeks squished between your kneecaps. 

“stuck?”

“i can’t do anything when it happens. i just sit there and watch and think of what i don’t do well. and how i can do it differently—better. i just get stuck.” 

he thinks for a moment. “dr. greyson is better at septal myectomies than i am.”

raising your head, you scan his face for signs of teasing and find none. “thanks…but i don't know what that means.” 

his lips quirk. “it’s an open-heart procedure. greyson can remove the problematic tissue fairly quickly, whereas i take more time.” 

“you know that’s not anywhere near the same thing,” you grumble, plopping your chin back down with a huff. 

“but how is it different?”

you don’t answer.

zayne sighs. “come here,” he instructs simply. 

sliding your gaze over to him, you see the expectant look on his face. with a sigh of your own, you untangle your limbs and pad over to his seat, where he pulls you into his lap. 

“how is it different?” he repeats, splaying a soothing hand on your back. 

you pluck at his shirt. “your whole job is being talented and successful. you’re a heart surgeon!”

“and even heart surgeons have weaknesses. everyone does. but if they strive to be someone else, they lose what makes them unique,” he murmurs, cupping your tender cheeks in his hands. “it’s alright to want to improve. i admire you for it. but if you spend your time wondering how to get better, i’ll be a very lonely man. do you want to know why?” 

“why?” you whisper.

“because i’ll be here to celebrate your strengths, even when you can’t see them.” 

[dior-luxury]

Helloo your headcanons are so good. I don't know how you write so fast! I look forward to reading your work all the time!! Could I request what the boys would do if you got into a really big argument and you bring up breaking up? Maybe with Trey, Jade, Sebek, Jade, and Azul? Thank you so much!!

𓂃 . 𐑞 You Threatening To Break Up With Them ⟢

ꔫ﹒genre﹒⟢ - boyfriend stories/romance/angst/drama. gn!reader

⏆﹒⿻ ch . trey . azul . jade . sebek

﹙◞◟﹚﹒warnings ﹒Emotional Conflict /Fear of Abandonment /Mention of Breakup / Angst /Internalized Self-Loathing / Emotional Suppression / Neglect (Unintentional)

[Note]: Guys don't do this ever if you're in a relationship!! This is just for drama/fiction! 😋 Also guess who came back to tumblr as soon as break started- ME. I'll be writing more frequently so I hope you guys enjoy what's about to come~ ALSO NEW LAYOUT CHANGE!! How do we feel guys let me knoww

Trey Clover

Trey’s calm demeanor is legendary in Heartslabyul. He's always been the peacemaker, the voice of reason — but being your boyfriend added layers of vulnerability that most people never got to see. You were the person he could let his guard down around. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why the fight hurt more than he expected.

It had started over something small — a missed dinner date. Trey had gotten caught up baking with Cater and the younger Heartslabyul students, and by the time he checked his phone, your messages had gone from playfully annoyed to… silent. When he rushed to find you that evening, you were cold and distant. And he, already tired, misread your frustration as childish sulking.

The argument was quiet at first — sharp whispers laced with accusation and confusion. But it escalated. You asked why he always put everyone else first. Why you always felt like the one waiting, not the one chosen. And then… you said it. You told him, “Maybe we should just break up if it’s always going to be like this.”

The silence afterward was suffocating.

Trey froze. It was rare to see him stunned, but your words hit like a knife — not because they were loud, but because they were real. His glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he blinked at you.

“…You don’t mean that,” he said softly, trying to steady his voice.

When you didn’t answer, just looked away with tears in your eyes, Trey took a breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white.

“You think I don’t care,” he murmured. “That I forget you. I know I’m not the best at showing it… but you’re wrong if you think I don’t put you first. You’re the only thing I don’t want to mess up.”

He looked up at you, eyes searching, no longer hiding the mix of fear and hurt in them.

“If you’re really done… I won’t stop you,” he said. “But I’ll regret every second I didn’t tell you how much you mean to me.”

Then he added, in that rare, soft tone reserved only for you, “I love you. I don’t throw that word around. And I won’t pretend it doesn’t kill me to hear you say that.”

If you stayed, Trey would spend the next few days making up for every moment you ever felt forgotten — not just with sweets or gifts, but with quiet gestures: walking you to class, leaving notes in your bag, memorizing your schedule so you were never waiting. He wouldn't pressure you to forgive him immediately. But you’d feel it in the way he looked at you now — like he’d almost lost something he couldn’t live without.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is calculated, always in control. Negotiating contracts, managing the Monstro Lounge, keeping the Leech twins in check — it’s all part of his game. But you? You were unpredictable in a way he secretly adored. You made his world unstable — and he liked it.

But that night, it spiraled.

You had confronted him about a favor he granted another student — something that suspiciously mirrored the manipulative deals he used to make. You felt he was slipping back into old habits, ones that hurt people. Azul tried to justify it. “Business is business,” he’d said coldly. “You knew who I was when we started dating.”

You replied, “I thought I knew who you were — not what you pretend to be when you’re scared.”

And then it came out: “Maybe we shouldn’t be together if I’m just going to watch you become that version of yourself again.”

Time stopped.

Azul's hands, which had been resting on the desk, clenched into fists. He stood, rigid, the shadows of the Lounge long and looming behind him. His expression was blank at first — the perfect mask of neutrality he wore during tense negotiations.

But his voice cracked when he finally spoke.

“So it’s that easy for you?” he asked, eyes darting to yours. “One misstep and you're ready to throw it all away?”

He stepped toward you, and his voice dropped — trembling, like he was trying to keep it together. “You think I don’t fight every single day not to become him again? You think I don’t hate that part of me? But I built walls because I had to. I trusted you to help me take them down. And now… you want to walk away because I slipped once?”

There was a desperation now — not loud, not dramatic, but raw. Azul’s fingers hovered near yours but didn’t touch.

“I… I don’t want to lose you. I’ve already lost too much of myself trying to become someone worthy of you.”

His eyes glistened, but he turned away quickly to hide it — pride and pain warring inside him.

“If you leave, I won’t stop you,” he said, voice low. “I never make deals people don’t want. But don’t think for a second it won’t destroy me.”

If you didn’t walk out, Azul wouldn’t beg — but he would change. Not for show, but because losing you (or even coming close) would shake him to his core. He’d let himself be vulnerable more, invite you to see him without the layers. He’d open up about his fears — his need to be seen, not just as a businessman, but as Azul, the boy who once hid in an octopot.

And every time you sat beside him after that, he’d remember how close he came to losing the person who mattered most.

Jade Leech

Jade is a mystery — ever-smiling, ever-unshaken. He has the unsettling ability to remain composed no matter how tense things get. But behind the glint of amusement and restraint is a person who feels deeply — far more than he lets on. And being with you… that was one of the few things that made him feel real.

The fight had been brewing for a while.

You had confronted him about something that had been bothering you for weeks — how he seemed to keep parts of himself hidden, always deflecting serious conversation with amusement or ambiguity. You felt like you were in love with a mask.

“I want to know you, Jade,” you had said. “Not the version of you that plays riddles with everyone else.”

His reply was polite, but distant — the smile never left his face. “But isn’t that part of my charm? A little mystery can keep things interesting, can it not?”

That infuriated you. You wanted honesty. Vulnerability. Something real. It escalated. His calm fed your frustration, and your frustration pushed him further into that mask.

And then, you said it:

“Maybe we should break up. Maybe this just isn’t working anymore.”

Jade’s smile faltered — for a fraction of a second. The shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there. His golden eye blinked slowly, his posture remained perfect, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.

“…Fascinating,” he said, turning away for a moment. “Of all the scenarios I imagined this evening, I did not anticipate that one.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your heart was pounding, waiting for him to say something real. And then — Jade finally spoke, voice stripped of its usual playfulness.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he said. “I’ve spent so long being… entertaining. Elegant. Controlled. But you are not just anyone. You see through me. And I suppose I thought… if I let you too close, you’d see something you wouldn’t want.”

He turned toward you now, expression unreadable. Not because he was hiding, but because he genuinely didn’t know how to look vulnerable. “I’ve never had something as fragile and real as this,” he admitted. “You frighten me. Because you could walk away — and I would have no power over it.”

Finally, the mask cracked — just a little. His smile was gone. “I don’t want to lose you. But if being with me makes you unhappy… I won’t hold you here.”

If you stayed, Jade wouldn’t go back to pretending. He’d start showing you more — not just his dark humor, but his fears, his history, his strange and tender affections. You’d see his true face, not the one he showed the world. And he’d make sure you never had to question whether he was hiding again.

But if you left, he'd never stop smiling — even if it killed him inside.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek loves loudly. Passionately. Even recklessly. He may be brash and overbearing, but he cherishes you with the kind of fervent loyalty he usually reserves for Malleus himself.

But Sebek is also proud. Stubborn. Quick to anger — especially when he feels he's being challenged or not understood.

It started with his priorities. You felt like he was always running off at Malleus’s beck and call, even when you asked for just a little time — for him to put you first, if only once.

And when you finally brought it up, he got defensive.

“LORD MALLEUS’S WILL IS NOT TO BE IGNORED!” he shouted. “I serve him — I must! That is who I am!”

“You’re also my boyfriend, Sebek!” you shouted back. “Or does that come second every time?” The words stung. The yelling turned into arguing — both of you passionate, hurt, and desperate to be understood. And then… you said it.

“Maybe we should break up if I’ll always come second.”

The room went still. Sebek's eyes widened in disbelief, and for once — he was silent.

“…You would throw everything away over this?” he asked, voice shaking, the anger replaced by something far more raw. “Over me trying to be who I was born to be?”

You saw his fists clench. His jaw tight, his eyes bright with a storm of emotion he didn’t know how to release. He stepped back, as if the words physically struck him. “I am loud. I am… difficult,” he muttered, lowering his voice for once. “But never — never — have I treated you with anything but respect and devotion.”

He looked at you now, and there was no bluster. No overblown bravado. Just Sebek — heart pounding, too proud to beg, but too in love not to fight.

“I do not know how to balance these things,” he admitted, voice cracking. “But I swear to you — I want to learn. I want to be someone who deserves to stand beside you.”

Then, more quietly: “But if you leave me now… I will not stop you. I will remember you forever, and I will honor what we had. But I will never stop regretting that I couldn’t give you what you needed.”

If you stayed, Sebek would work harder than ever — training not just in swordsmanship, but in love. He’d still stumble, still shout too loud sometimes, but he’d try. He’d ask questions. He’d listen more. He’d pull you close after every duty, just to remind himself that you were still there.

He’d fight for you — with the same fervor he fought for Malleus — only now, it would be personal.

© writing by dior-luxury !

[strnilolover]

In love with stepbrother Matt! Also a big fan of him being mean lol. I’m imagining them on a family road trip. Three row van. Them all the way in the back. Music up loud. Matt initiating since it’s been a week since they’ve messed around. Reader being scared since their parents are up front. He keeps his hand around over her mouth to keep her quiet. Him threatening to get them caught if she doesn’t stop holding back her orgasm. Also results in her squirting for the first time as he cream pies her.

⌗ . . . ON THE ROAD

WARNINGS : PUBLIC (in the car with other people in it). SMUT. THREATENING TO GET CAUGHT. FINGERING. HAND JOB.

i changed this just a little bit cause i already had an idea in mind for something like this, and i feel like them fucking with everyone in there might be more obvious and such.

the backseat was too cramped. you had a few things to your left side—things that didn’t fit anywhere else in the car which made you get pushed closer to matt.

your leg was touching his, the blanket you had brought was draped over both of your laps. initially you wanted the blanket because of the ac and how chilly it was getting in the car—but—matt decided he wanted to share.

which you were okay with—but the thought of being this close with your whole family in the car made your brain short circuit. no one had figured out you and matt were sleeping with one another, and that was a good thing.

that didn’t mean your nerves weren’t racing anytime you were too close to him, afraid your mom or his dad would take one good look at you both and know what was going on.

you could feel how warm his body was against yours, the place where your leg was touching his felt like it was on fire. and honestly—you’d be lying if you said you weren’t thinking about what happened your last family trip. when he touched you and let his hands wander everywhere.

you tried to ignore the growing heat curling inside your stomach—right now wasn’t the time for that. i mean you couldn’t—right?—not with everyone in here. so you looked out the window, listening to the hum of the tires on the highway being drowned out by smaller sounds. the music up front keeping your mom and step dad distracted.

you took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the feeling. but you felt matt shifted just slightly next to you—and it was like your whole focus shattered. his thigh was pressed harder into yours under the blanket. you turned your head to look at him, finding his gaze looking forward and not at you. but then… your eyes caught the way his hand landed on your knee.

and you froze.

he didn’t even look at you. he just kept his gaze looking forward, watching whatever thing passed by next. he was acting as if he wasn’t doing anything wrong—like his fingers weren’t slowly starting to slide up your leg, moving to the inside of your thigh.

your whole body reacted quickly—the heat blooming in your stomach like a match to gasoline. you flicked your eyes up front quickly, afraid someone’s eyes might catch what was going on, even if it was so subtle. but your mom was bobbing her head to the music and your step dad was focused on the road. chris was in the middle row with his headphones in, scrolling on his phone, not paying attention to anyone.

still, even after making sure no one was watching—your heart raced like you were about to get caught red-handed. “matt.” you hissed as his hand went higher, and you turned your head just slightly toward him.

his lips were curled into a dirty grin. he knew what you were feeling—could feel how tense you were under his hand. but he didn’t turn his head until a moment later, cocking a brow at you. “you gonna stop me?” he mocked, knowing damn well you couldn’t and didn’t want to already.

matt watched as your gaze flicked away for a moment and he hummed, giving you a silent answer of ‘that’s what i thought’ before his hand made its way hight to the waistband of your shorts. his fingers slipped under the band of your shorts—under the blanket, hidden from view. gently his fingers inched closer and closer until he pressed them right over your soaked panties.

the lacy material wet and clinging to your folds. matt hissed at the feelings, pressing his fingers down a little. “so wet sweetheart.” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the music.

“I—I,” you stammered, the words dying on your tongue your hips shifted into his hand, grinding down on it. you were embarrassed at how easily he could make you wet, even when he wasn’t touching you. he loved how easily you caved for him, it was like you couldn’t resist having his hands all over you.

he quickly slipped two fingers under the damp fabric, finding your clit with practiced ease. your hands clenched the edge of the blanket, teeth biting your bottom lip so hard you swore you’d break skin. you couldn’t help but let your gaze dart up again. chris was still on his phone.

and when your gaze shifted to your mom—she turned around slightly to ask something, and you immediately sat straighter, heart pounding against your chest. but she didn’t seem to notice anything—just smiled and asked chris to pass you a water bottle before turning back.

matt’s fingers hadn’t stopped when chris grabbed a bottle from the cold bag you guys had brought with for snacks and drinks. in fact, he moved down to push two fingers deeper into you as soon as chris looked at you.

your lips had parted slightly, a small noise almost escaping your lips but you held it together. you let a shaky hand come up, grabbing the bottle from chris and giving him and smile the best you could before he turned back around.

his fingers moved slow, curling up with that perfect drag that made your legs jerk. you whimpered quietly, the noise barely audible unless you were listening for it. which matt was—he knew you had a hard time staying quiet sometimes.

“shhh.” he cooed, leaning his body towards yours just a little more than it already was. “you want them to hear you back here, sweetheart?” you shook your head, but your eyes fluttered shut. it was pathetic that you were so close already, your body rocking against his hand in tiny, desperate movements. you could feel the orgasm building.

matt noticed, watching how you humped his hand now, rubbing your clit against the palm of his hand as his fingers fucked you deep. but he wasn’t gonna let you cum yet—so he stilled his fingers, removing them from you.

you gasped, eye snapping open and blinking wide at him in disbelief. he leaned in, a smile on his face—not the nice kind, no—he was being mean and he knew it. “not yet. want you to help me now, baby. want us to finish together. can y’do that baby?”

and your heart punched your ribcage. just the thought of having your hand wrapped around him while his fingers were buried inside you made you flush—your hips grinding down against the seat a little. and so you nodded, panting softly as you waited.

gently his hand moved to your own, guiding it over to his lap beneath the blanket. you hadn’t even realized how hard he’d gotten—his cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. your eyes flicked up front again. everyone still looked distracted. the music was loud enough. and you took that as a good enough sign that you guys were okay.

when your attention turned back to matt, your hand fumbled for just a second with the button on his jeans, then unzipped him, freeing his cock into your hand. he was already leaking onto your hand and the first swipe of your thumb across his tip, the action making him hiss quietly.

“stroke me.” he whispered, before moving his hand back into your shorts, into your panties before curling two of his fingers back into your cunt. you whined softly, sucking in a breath. “match me, okay? we cum together, or I make you wait till we get to the motel.”

your breath hitched at that—the motel was still two hours away—surely he wouldn’t do that? but it was matt. you knew how mean he could be. you wouldn’t put it past him to not stick to his word.

so you started to move your hand in time with the rhythm of his fingers—slow but tight, your thumb teasing the sensitive head of him with every stroke. it was the hottest thing, watching the way his teeth dug into his bottom lip when you squeezed your hand just tight enough around him and when you gave the head of his cock more attention.

by now you were both panting—barely audible but frantic. your eyes flicking up to everyone every once in a while to make sure no one would catch what you guys were doing. but every time you did—your walls clamped down around his fingers more. you did like the idea of getting caught, just the thought of it was making the band in your stomach tighter with each passing minute.

“i can feel you clenching.” he murmured. “you gonna cum on my fingers like a good girl while you jerk me off? hm?” and You nodded fast, your lips parting in silent gasps. still—you looked forward once again. chris had changed songs. your mom and step dad were arguing over directions.

it was still safe—barely.

your attention was drawn back to matt when you felt the way he throbbed in your hold. feeling the way his body began to tense under your hand. “don’t stop.” matt gritted, his lips parting as he looked down at his lap where your hand was moving under the blanket—he wished he could lift it up and watch. “don’t fuckin’ stop.”

so you sped up, moving your hand faster over his cock as his fingers sped up inside you, hitting your spot over and over again until your thighs began to shake. the band in your stomach became incredibly tight, your free hand coming up to your mouth as you bit your knuckles to stay silent as you came around his fingers. your eyes rolling back. but that didn’t slow your hand.

matt hissed, his hips twitching up to fuck your fist as he cursed under his breath. quiet “fuckfuckfuck” slipping past his lips before his cock twitched in your hand and hot spurts of cum spilled over your fingers as he came.

you both sat there for a moment, flushed and gasping, the air around you thick with heat and adrenaline. your eyes were growing heavy, flicking between matt and everyone else—making sure no one was looking still.

it was a moment before matt leaned in, mouth barely grazing your temple in a light kiss. he couldn’t not give you a kiss—you did so well for him. gently he took the blanket and used it to wipe up whatever mess that was made and you. you’ll just have to wash it later, but you didn’t mind.

and then—just like that—he zipped himself back up. moving the blanket to an area that wasn’t between you two and opened his arms up.

surely they wouldn’t mind if you cuddled him—he is your step brother after all…they’d see it as getting along.

a/n : need him now.

[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.

[byjove]

Hey, I just wanted to say it is totally valid to feel that disappointment, ESPECIALLY when the test is for something that could be cured or managed relatively easily. There have been times that I’ve hoped what is wrong with me is something relatively simple like allergies or an infection and when the test results come back negative, it feels like a horrific blow because it means whatever is wrong is still wrong, more obscure and possibly more serious. I hope you get answers for your kid and be gentle with yourself, navigating the medical system can be so emotionally crushing and traumatizing even if you or your loved one isn’t gravely ill.

it’s crazy how many times I’m like “I don’t feel good” and doctors are like “there is nothing wrong with you actually” and then they get test results back and go “oh fuck. wait a minute. you weren’t lying. this is real not good.”

and I get it, I know an element of medical misogyny plays into because they see me as a woman but I think it’s also because I’m autistic and my reactions are not ‘appropriate’. when I’m in severe pain I’m silent and I’m fidgety. they probably think I’m overstating my symptoms because my affect is flat and I’m not emoting when that is actually a sign I am doing very badly.

[seraphinitegames]

Hi! I hope you're doing well.

I wanted to thank you for sharing the Wayhaven series with us-- I started reading it in high school, after getting my mom to buy the first book as a birthday gift, and even though I've only been able to buy the other two books recently (pros of having regular income now!), I've been obsessed with the series ever since that birthday night. I actually recently recommended the series to a coworker, and I have a feeling she'll love the M route lol

Anyway, I did have a silly question to ask about UB and the MC but I still wanted to thank you-- especially as someone whose native tongue is not English; I could speak English at the time my mom bought Book 1, but the game (and other CoG I played after that) really helped me build a better vocabulary, and learn how to write better.

Anyway. :>

I had a silly question about UB and the MC: basically, I tend to have MCs who are very curious and eager to learn about the supernatural world, especially the Echo world-- they're also usually well-versed in languages.

When I read the Book 4 demo (still positively insane about it, btw), I saw a few Echolian words were mentioned, and imagined a funny moment with my MCs trying real hard to pronounce the words correctly, and even use them in sentences. Kinda like this (book 4 demo spoilers!):

MC: Ostin released the-- Ee-yooh-lees-aid-- You-leesed-- Y'oolees'aid-- Y'ulis'ed... :)

(Cue MC looking to N and F with a "Did I pronounce it correctly" smile lol Clearly the whole case isn't as important as linguistics to MC 😭)

Anyway!! I was just wondering how UB (and Rebecca lol) would react to an MC like that, lol? And I'm so sorry for the length of this ask, as you can see I can't not ramble. 😭😭

Thanks again for the books!!

Aah, what an amazing message! I'm so happy to know that you're enjoying the series! I can't wait until Book 4 is out so I can chat about all the major dramatic and exciting stuff to come (I do love my melodrama, hehe!)

As for your ask, I think N would definitely be helping the MC with pronunciation. Though, interestingly, even N might not be quite so…accurate with it either all the time.

For example, I actually wrote a moment like this in Chapter Five when F and N are discussing something Li-Sar said in Echolian (a moment that will be coming up in the demo the end of this month!)

-

"The direct translation for it would be something such as…." Nate/Nat waves a hand as though attempting to summon the translation from thin air. "'My want', or possibly, 'my need'."

IF ROMANCE NATE/NAT Farah/Felix places a hand on her/his hip with an unusually serious expression tightening her/his features. "Or you could tell them what it actually means without being too worried to admit because you're swept up by[Name]."

Nate/Nat's brows pinch together before he/she spins away.

-

IF NOT ROMANCE NATE/NAT Farah/Felix places a hand on her/his hip with an unusually serious expression tightening her/his features. "Don't sugarcoat what it really means, Natey/Natkins."

Nate/Nat rolls his/her shoulders back before turning away.

---

"Nate/Nat not necessarily wrong. It does directly translate into that, but when in actual use in the actual language, the meaning is closer to 'my possession' or 'my obsession'," Farah/Felix explains with a shake of her/his head. "The creep is basically saying he/she wants to own you."

--

I kind of went off on a tangent for that ask, but I hope this is an ok answer anyway, hehe! :D

Thank you so, so much again for the amazing message! <3

[miange1]

could you do an older man and male reader who's nervous around him because he's got daddy issues?

definitely sex after :3

PUT ME IN A MOVIE — drabble

pairing: older character insert x younger male reader

tw: male reader, age gaps, daddy issues, "lana" mindset, daddy kink, slight feminization, reader is described to be smooth and soft, kinks stemming from trauma(kinks as in a daddy kink don't be weird), fantasies, constant teasing

note: wanted to off myself writing daddy. for the plot tho fr. reminder, i NEVER proofread.

older man, who had no clue why you acted this way around him. always so fidgety, never looking him in the eye, late responses, the stuttering. the stuttering really got on his nerves, give him a damn straight answer.

older man, who was much more perceptive over you as time passed. he would try to ask you what the matter was, but you'd brush it off and instantly change the subject or just plain out left. but he'd see it, he would notice it

older man, who'd see the way you'd look at him. notice the way your breathing seemed to stop or quicken once he got closer, see the way you'd get tense. he could see the way you'd flinch and shake, your face looking like you had a fever, the way you were huffing like you ran a mile.

older man, who'd realize almost too late. he figured it out, and used it to his own advantage. started bumping elbows on "accident" , tiny touches he knew would drive you crazy, making you look him in the eye when you spoke to him. yeah, he loved that part. you looked pathetic, looked like you needed him as a vessel to keep you alive. you looked at him like he healed something inside of you.

older man, who finally had you. or rather to you, you finally had him, but this wouldn't be the case if he hadn't made the first move. cornering you, asking you what the hell was wrong until you confessed. he loved it just as much as you did, and he didn't even think that would happen. you tagged along him all the time, hung onto him and couldn't take your eyes off of him,

older man, who took in every single sound you made like it would come loose from his grasp. taking in the way your body wiggled and arched from his touches and his teases. your skin glistening with sweat, he'd ask if you want a break but no– "daddy please.." you'd beg, trying to push him inside deeper

older man, who'd spoil you till your teeth rotted. getting all them clothes and things you wanted. as long as he could pick something out for you as well. he could dress you up like a pretty little baby doll, getting you all pretty and ready for him whenever he wanted. like you wanted.

older man, who'd only laugh and shake his head when you claimed the outfits were embarrassing. they weren't embarrassing, so stop covering yourself and that pretty body. he'd extended two fingers, telling you to come here so he could get a real good look at you. that skirt that covered nothing, giving him a real good look at that smooth cock that stood and leaked so pretty all for him, all because of him.

older man, who couldn't help himself. you wanted him, and now you had him. and then he had you, twitching and grinding all on him for more. "daddy.." oh, he'd get high off of it. "mhm, daddy's got you."

[orimuraa]

• To say I love you - 양정원 ↳ ┊: really like you - babymonster

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆jungwon finally musters up the courage to ask you out ⨾

۶ৎ idol!jungwon x fem barista!reader┆fluff┆kissing, members tease wonnie, petnames┆wc 619

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

part 1

“jesus hyung! what’s gotten into you!? you’ve been up in the clouds practically all week! you know we have a comeback to prepare for, right?” ni-ki questions, despite knowing the exact answer.

“god- but ni-ki! she was gorgeous!! and she’s only texted me once! i don’t know what to do…” jungwon frowns, biting the inside of his cheek.

and it’s true. you only reached out to jungwon once because you were scared that you might ruin his whole career if you made one wrong move.

so, jungwon decided to take matters into his own hands after practice that day.

the day felt like an eternity as jungwon was waiting for it to just be over so he could run to you. throughout the dance practice though, heeseung and jake kept teasing jungwon about how he just needed to grow some balls and get the girl. so he did.

he bolted out of the practice room as soon as they were done, leaving his members chuckling. he quickly ran up to the café floor, hoping you were still there.

and luckily for him, you were just packing your stuff up.

“is it too late to order?” he smiles, causing you to whip your head around at him, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“jungwon! you scared me oh my gosh,” you gasp, hand shooting up to cover your face.

“sorry pretty girl,” he says lightly, walking slowly over to you.

“unfortunately, we’re closed as of now,” you frown. “but if you needed something else i’m happy to help!”

jungwon felt his heart flutter again, your smile immediately brightening his mood.

“oh- well you see…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “i actually wanted to see if you maybe wanted to go out…with me?…”

you pinched yourself once, twice, three times to make sure you weren’t dreaming. yang jungwon of enhypen—your bias since i-land—just asked you out. what the fu-

you were at a loss of words. you trued to say something but no words were forming.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to! sorry that was so out there…” jungwon said frantically, unsure of what your reaction was.

“no!! i- i do want to go out..” you mutter shyly, unable to look him in the eyes anymore. “i actually really want to get to know the real you, not just the idol you.” you smile sheepishly, your ears heating up.

jungwon tried so hard not to coo at you but you were just too adorable.

“aww angel, you’re making my heart melt,” he laughs lightly, stepping even closer to you, causing your breath hitch.

you both stood there, a few inches apart, eyes searching each other’s for any unspoken words. the mood was soft and sweet, jungwon’s arm finding a place on the small of your back while he gently touched your cheek with his other hand.

“can i kiss you?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes scanning your face. he admired your gorgeous eyes, your soft lips, and the beauty marks delicately placed around your face.

you nod, too lost in his sparkling eyes to speak. and with that, jungwon slowly leans in, hid hand carefully placed on your cheek, rubbing soft circles.

his lips press against yours and it feels like the last piece in a puzzle. they’re soft against yours but they’re claiming as well. jungwon wants this. he wants you.

when you both pull away, he leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and soaking in the moment.

“god angel- you drive me insane,” jungwon smiles against your lips. “gonna make you mine, all mine.”

and from behind the wall, there was some snickering:

“jake, you owe me $10.”

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa, @manariee

[creatingblackcharacters]

Dang I genuinely never noticed before that Epic is def pretty anti-Black. Feel a bit guilty now abt how much I enjoy it lol 😅

I know people feel differently about this, but me, I think there's a difference between enjoying something while being aware and accepting that it has its issues, versus tripling down on it because "I Would Never Watch Something Wrong As I Am Good And Infallible".

If you enjoy Epic and its fan space, by all means! Just be aware of what you're participating in, and be honest that this time, you are enjoying it in spite of those things. Fans get scared of the phrase "consume critically" but that's what's actually gonna allow you to watch things more intelligently and be able to spot those moments during. And also accept that some people aren't going to want to participate, that something you're able to overlook is not something that they can.

I said once on here that if people had to ask themselves "am I willing to tolerate the racism in this media for the sake of enjoyment?", they'd get uncomfortable with how often the answer is "yes" (myself included!) So unfortunately, your guilt is up to you! Epic might be one of your "yes" moments, and only you can choose to change that, or accept that and do better in other ways. Part of antiracism is making choices!

[wabatle]

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Studying Together (bllk ver)

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Featuring: Reo. Sae, Rin, Kaiser, Bachira, Chigiri

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Warnings: lots of swearing, mentions of summer school 😱, rin gets called a freak of nature (slander bc i love him but if you do what he does ur not a freak only he is)

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Contains: gn!reader, fluff, comedy

𓆩⚝𓆪 — A/N: it's exam time for me so take what i wrote about studying while i should've been studying

-ˏˋ⋆ Reo Mikage

╰┈➤ I would like to think Reo doesn’t ever really need to study (smartass) but he would gladly help you study if it means he gets to see you!! (down bad ass)

╰┈➤ It’s less like studying and more like he’s tutoring you, I guess. He goes over most of the things in the curriculum quickly and then helps you with specific things you need. He gives you random questions and also helps you with the vocabulary and important terms.

╰┈➤ He looks online to find practice tests or previous exams and you take them together, so he’s learning too. He lets you answer first in case you’re wrong.

╰┈➤ Studying with Reo is very organized and put together, and you usually feel quite prepared when you’re done. Which is probably why the both of you passed with flying colors! YAY!

-ˏˋ⋆ Sae Itoshi

╰┈➤ Sae really doesn’t like to study, but he always does without fail or complaint. It’s like, he hates it but he likes it at the same time, and doing it with you can make it slightly less of an annoyance.

╰┈➤ All he’ll do is go over the terms with you, and maybe have you quiz him on some of the them, and then vice versa.

╰┈➤ If you still want to study when he’s all done, he very well might just find you some random practice test online to keep you occupied like a Mom giving her child Cocomelon.

╰┈➤ You hardly feel prepared when it’s time for the exam, but when you get your grade back, you basically aced it. So, it worked, I guess?

-ˏˋ⋆ Rin Itoshi

╰┈➤ Rin does not like to study either, so he just doesn’t, and he gets good grades anyway. What the fuck?? FREAK OF NATURE!!!

╰┈➤ So when you ask to study with him, his immediate response is literally “no.” like ok rude much??

╰┈➤ So, you know, eventually you wear him down and he agrees to study with you. He isn’t very cooperative and is usually doing something else, but he will genuinely help you if you’re feeling stuck. If you ask him to explain something, he will, but not without being a little bitch first (he’s a big bully).

╰┈➤ Basically, as long as you ask him the right questions and study a bit on your own, you’ll do good on the exam. Proven since you got a decent grade! YAY!

-ˏˋ⋆ Michael Kaiser

╰┈➤ Okay listen. He thinks he knows what he’s doing. You ask to study and he says yes, thinking he’ll be tutoring you. He’s confident he’ll ace the exam. He boasts about how smart he is and how easy the whole course was.

╰┈➤ You start studying by doing a practice test and Kaiser finds out he’s literally cooked. Buddy has no idea what the fuck he’s doing and basically his entire life is a lie, he’s definitely going to fail the exam.

╰┈➤ So most of the studying is you teaching him and studying every single term from the entire year, as well as taking practice tests and whatever other work your teacher gives you.

╰┈➤ You pass! YAY! Kaiser barely scrapes by.

-ˏˋ⋆ Meguru Bachira

╰┈➤ Bachira asks you if you want to study together because he wants to hang out with you (#bsfs4life) and you’ve been talking about how you’re going to study, so he thinks it’s the perfect plan!

╰┈➤ However, despite him being at your house for the whole day, you hardly study. You basically do everything but study. Every time you try to lock in, one of you says something quite silly and then you get completely distracted for the next 20 minutes.

╰┈➤ You do manage to lock in and get maybe 30 minutes to an hour’s worth of studying, but it isn’t great.

╰┈➤ You both bomb your exams. At least you’ll be together in summer school!

-ˏˋ⋆ Hyoma Chigiri

╰┈➤ Chigiri wants to study. You want to study. Might as well study together, right? So, you end up at your house.

╰┈➤ The single question, “Can you lock the fuck in?” is uttered thousands of times between the two of you, because you just can’t focus. The majority of the time is not spent studying, it’s trying to get one of you to study.

╰┈➤ In a few hours, you make it through maybe three practice tests and some vocabulary. It’s not a lot, but it’s probably more than you would’ve done if you were alone.

╰┈➤ You both pass. You could’ve gotten a higher grade if you just locked the fuck in, but at least you don’t have to go to summer school.

𓆩⚝𓆪 — thank you for reading!

𓆩⚝𓆪 — taglist (ask 2 be added): @mariaace , @stellas-starry-sillies13, @meowkages

𓆩⚝𓆪 — blue lock masterlist

[beenbaanbuun]

kitchen floor w/ quinn hughes

have sims proof of life (i’m going through something and needed to comfort myself…)

——————————————————————————

at first, quinn wasn’t concerned when he walked through the door to see you starfish-ing on the kitchen floor; he’d known you long enough by now to recognise that this is just a part of you. strange and unexplainable, yet inexplicably endearing. it’s what drew him to you in the first place, honestly. like a scientist devoting their life to a topic they don’t yet understand, he’s decided to devote his life to you.

choosing to devote it to you was the easy part, but figuring you out? you really make him work hard for that.

see, most questions he used to have about you can be answered with nothing more than a simple statement; that’s just how you are! some of them, like why on earth you find the kitchen floor such a good place to relax, are a little trickier to figure out. because unlike when you grind concerning amounts of salt onto your toast in a morning, or eat your scrambled eggs right from the pan, this habit usually does have an explanation.

sometimes it’s too warm, and the tile in there chills you just enough to make you content. sometimes, you have back ache and you claim the flat surface of the floor makes it go away. sometimes, more often that quinn approves of, you’re just finishing up a caffeine high by crashing on the largest area of clear floor you can find in the apartment.

this time, however, is different.

“are you okay?” he asks with enough caution in his voice to make it sound like he’s approaching a dangerous animal. you’re anything but dangerous, but being safe is better than being sorry, i’m quinn’s eyes; you’ve been known to bare your teeth if he catches you in the wrong mood.

“fine,” you respond, and it’s about as believable as the floating house in that one kids film you love so much, “you?”

quinn closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. the fact that you still think you can hide things from him after all these years would be almost amusing, if it didn’t irritate him so much. if you think he can’t see the red ring around your glassy eyes that seem to be glaring menacingly at the ceiling light, you’re a fool.

“i’m great,” he says, somehow managing to keep his frustration out of his voice, “a little concerned about those wet streaks on your face, though. they don’t seem very ‘fine’ to me, baby.”

and as you tear your eyes away from the ceiling to fix your glare on him instead, he can almost hear your next words.

“y’know, ‘fine’ is subjec—“

“subjective,” he cuts you off with a sigh, “so you always tell me.”

this time it’s a little harder to keep the weariness out if his tone, but in his defence, he feels as though he has an excuse! put anyone in a room with a girlfriend as stubbornly ‘fine’ as you, and tell them to remain levelheaded. if quinn were to bet on their success, or lack there of, he guarantees he’ll come out of the experiment a richer man.

the room is silent for a moment or two as he makes his way over to the fridge. he steps over your flat-out body as if it’s nothing but a root sticking up on a woodland trail, and out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the way your lips tilt up at the corners. he always does tell you that you’re a part of the furniture; that you belong in his home just as much as his overpriced sofa does.

“am i nothing but a rug to you?” you joke as he opens the fridge door to pull out the britta water filter. he shakes his head as a smile splits his face in two.

“you’d be a lot easier to deal with if you were, that’s for sure!” he feels a little kick against his ankle, and he laughs. a proper one that comes from his belly. one that makes his face light up and his shoulders shake. ever since the day he met you, he always had loved your tiny bouts of violence. a small tap to the back of his head here, a tiny kick to the side of his leg there; nothing that ever hurts, but enough to make him aware of your displeasure. “oh, you didn’t like that one, hm?”

and you don’t need to answer him. not when the pout on your lips makes your displeasure oh-so-obvious.

fuck, you’re cute, he thinks to himself as he grabs a glass from the cupboard. even when you’re being stubborn and annoying, he can’t help the way his stomach fills with butterflies, or the way his heart seems to swell so much it pushes on his ribs and makes his chest ache. he’d rather die than have you not be there to frustrate him. what a cruel fate it would be if the universe were to take you from him.

“i don’t like you,” you argue, voice filled with something far cuter than the venom you intended.

“you’re cute when you’re lying,” he replies like a lovesick fool.

he takes a sip from his cup of water as he turns to face you fully, your form in his periphery no longer being enough to satisfy him. he needs to see you fully. to be able to study you as much as his heart wants. he craves to behold each and every one of your facial expressions, the little twitches of muscle somehow meaning more to him than everything else in the universe combined. his brothers like to call it obsession, but he knows better than that.

because an obsession can be tamed; what he feels for you cannot.