Pairing: Sugar Mommies Cait & Vi x Sugar Baby Reader
Warnings: Financial distress, sex work, creeps on the internet
Notes: Sex work is a very complicated industry with a lot of nuance. There are positives, and there are negatives. This fic does not shy away from the negatives, and there will be times when Reader is uncomfortable. I know this fic is just a smutty piece of fiction, but I don't want to glamorise what can be, at times, a very difficult job. Please read, and enjoy, at your own discretion.
being so sweet to my baby after hearing her go on and on about a dumb little oral fixation. laying down and allowing her to be in "charge" while she lowers her mouth slowly onto my dick. helping her, but also fucking the trust into her for every stroke against her greedy tongue. waiting and watching for her control to slip and then giving her a gentle command. seeing her brows furrow as i politely ask for her to say something for me, and then waiting to hear her pathetically mumble with her throat struggling to take me. cooing at her, saying i know she can do it, and my nails gently scratching down her throat. seeing her attain some admirable coherence, yet it crumbles once my finger loops around the chain of her collar and tugs it down to make her choke on me
thinking about filling a pretty girl up with my strap, making her take it right to the base - because I know she can. she'll whimper and squirm, but I know she feels better like this, so full of me that she can't even form a coherent thought that isn't about me. I'll fuck every last thought out of her sweet little mind. and afterwards? I'll tell her what a good puppy she was for me, taking me so well just like a good girl should.
warnings: sub!vi x dom fem!reader, vi's a virgin, strap use (duh), use of pet names, established relationship
minors dni
you harnessed the strap onto your hips, vi's pale blue eyes watching nervously. the navy blue strap you both picked out looked fine in the store; it looked fine when she thought it was going to be used on you.
"..baby.. i dunno.." she laid underneath you on the bed, bandaged elbows propped up. her form was completely bare, where yours was almost fully clothed.
"let me make you feel good, vi," your knees shuffled on the sheets as you crept closer to her entrance. your finger tips caressed her little bud, making her shiver and flatten her mouth in a tight line. "if you dont like it we can stop, okay? i just wanna try it out" your voice was soft, enticing.
vi nodded her head and closed her eyes as you collected her wetness onto the strap, gliding it through her folds.
slowly, carefully- you entered her hole. she never has anyone or thing inside, so it was a particularly tight fit.
"ffffuck, baby- slower, please" she hissed in pain as you stretched her out.
her eyes shut closed and her head fell back onto the pillows, hands covering her face.
your thrusts were soft and calculated, careful not to hurt her anymore than you already were.
"sweet girl, youre so tight" you caressed her face and slid deeper, forcing a small whimper out of vi. "i know, i know, shh.."
tears pricked her eyes as she listened to your words. you kissed along her jaw, the spots where she liked it most, and you went back to circling her clit. anything to distract your poor baby from the huge cock shes taking.
after another few minutes, vi found herself moving with you. her hips bucked for more once the tip hit that pretty little spot inside.
"mmffh.. faster- move faster.."
a forceful thrust and you bottomed out inside of her, forcing her to jolt up and emit a broken sob. your name was all she could think about, you filled all five of her senses.
you watched in awe as she sucked you in, her little pussy adorned with pinkish hair trembling.
"youre so pretty like this, vi," you moved to her nipples, pinching them with the pads of your pointer and thumb. "so sensitive, hmm? taking it soo well"
vi kept whimpering at your praise-- nothing she loved more than you telling her how well shes doing, whether its her fucking you or her in the pit. her brain short circuits.
"oh fuckfuckmmmfg im so- keep going!" her scarred hands grabbed at your waist to pull you closer to her core, forcing you to move even deeper.
her hair was splayed along the white pillowcase, her eyebrows cinched together, that pretty mouth open in an o shape. she couldnt take much more, the knot in her stomach was about to snap.
her nails dug into you as you filled her, and soon enough
"imn cumming, shit- baby-!" her muscular back arched off the bed and you grinned to yourself at your strong, pitfighting girlfriend, whimpering your name underneath you.
"thatsss it, good girl," you slowed down and let her come back to earth. "youre so good, violet"
you kissed up her neck and felt her jack-hammer of a pulse underneath her soft skin. her eyes were shut, fucked out expression on her face. you kissed up until you reached her lips, licking the scar near her cupids bow.
"youre cute like this, yknow."
she hummed in response and wrapped her sweaty arms around you, instantly rolling you over and pulling you under her.
the strap was still connected to your hips, but she just held you in her grasp and let herself calm down.
her cheeks were pink as you wiped her hair from her slick forehead.
.đ„ Ę ËË. Â Â đđđđđ đđ đđđđđ đđđ đđđđ đđ đđđ (đ'đ đđđđđđđđ đđđđđđđđđ đđ đđđđđđđ đđđđ đđđđđđ)
sub!vi x reader
â§âË đȘŠâ đ àŁȘ ÖŽÖ¶Öž . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **
âË đ â Ë â§ Â Â kinktober day twenty-one: facesitting and mommy kink
đđđđđđđđ : Â Â alternative universe - modern, established relationship, sub!vi, soft dom!reader, nicknames (reader calls vi puppy but thats the closest it gets to pet play i SWEAR), mommy kink, face sitting, big clit!vi, dacryphilia, cunnilingus, vi needs to get ate out so she can go brainless for a while and we support this
đđđđ đđđđđ : Â Â 1,011k
đđđđđ :   just a short lil thing today (legitimate headcanons i'm levelling up) cause i ended up getting derailed by family stuff and i'm legitimately exhausted so i would like to go to sleep right now please and thank. also my photo editing app has decided to not be responsive rn so have some scraps that work from previous fics this month until i can update   [ read on ao3 ]
[ divider credits: 1, 2, 3 ] Â Â [ resources for palestine ]
You can tell by the way she carries herself when she comes in, the deep sag of her shoulders, her drained energy as she moves almost on autopilot. But itâs her face, so open and exhausted that has you beckoning your girlfriend over with soft noises of pity and care.
Youâd been lay on the sofa, curled up with one of the throw blankets but now you sat up with a softened expression of concern, arms open wide for her to fall into your embrace. She can get like this sometimes, when the days are long and work is rough â so exhausted she comes home half-mute, just wanting to fall asleep in your arms.
But this time? Vi avoids your arms all together, sinking to her knees in front of you and looking up at you with intense need.
A hand comes under her chin, caressing the sharp line of her jaw. âWhatâs wrong, pup?â
âNeed some reliefâ Your heart aches at the watery sound of her voice, looking at her with a curious but caring gaze. She nuzzles her cheek into your hand, eyes falling shut with relief at your touch. âPlease⊠pleaseâ
It doesnât take long, having pulled her onto your lap and easily wrecking her with just a kiss. Sheâs just so desperate, for you, for the relief of switching her brain off and letting you free her to pleasure and pleasure only. She grinds her hips, whimpering as her needy fat clit drags against her ruined boxers and the denim of her jeans.Â
Her lips are almost bruised, such a dark and pretty purple-y red that you have to hold back from telling her how handsome she looks as you ruin her.Â
You wish you had a camera, a mirror, something to see the indulgent sight of your big butch girlfriend, body packed with firm muscle in her deliciously sweaty wife pleaser, tufts of dark body hair peeking from under her arms and along her happy trail as she arches her back. See her straddling you, dwarfing your figure and humping you like the little desperate puppy you adore.
When you start to ease her off your lap, finding it difficult to pull your lips from her hungry ones to speak, she starts to grab at your body â her barely working brain so caught up on that feeling you spark just letting her rut against you that she canât focus past kissing you with her last breath; Itâs only when your hands go to her belt, pulling it loose around her waist that she realises where you were going with things initially.
âAw, you needed this didnât you? All this mess for me?â Your fingers dip between her thighs, watching every sharp intake of breath, twitch from surprise, an absolutely gone look in her eyes as your fingers ghost over her oversensitive clit â erect and weeping arousal as you tease her.
Viâs still coherent enough that sheâs nodding, bottom lip wobbling as she feels tears pricking behind her eyes from how painfully desperate she is, how her cunt aches for a relief only you seem to know how to draw from her. "All cos'of you, mommy" she slurs slightly, trying to ignore the look of pure lust she recognises in your eyes as you watch her glassy powder blue eyes.
Almost breaking out into a sob of relief when you coo softly at her, letting her know mommy is going to take care of her. Taking her hand in yours, her large scarred hand dwarfing yours in a way you swear your pussy throbs in response to, you guide her to the bedroom and offer reassuring words before speaking.
âSit on mommyâs face baby, let me help you relax? Make you go a little brainless, yeah puppy?â
Thereâs no rush, your tongue lapping at her puffy clit without a care in the world even as she squirms and crushes her muscled thighs around your head, shamelessly grinding her pussy against your mouth. Her arousal is messy, spilling past your lips and down your chin as the butch whimpers and mewls without embarrassment. You donât mind even as the air becomes difficult to breathe, too focused on making your girlfriend feel good enough that she canât even think about how bad her day was that she needed to go brainless for a little while.
When she comes the first time itâs with a shout, shaking above you as her pussy goes creamy with her release. She canât stop from babbling as the coil in her stomach tightens, a mantra of âMommymommymommâ A-Ahh!â before you swear sheâs going to either smother you with her delicious cunt or crush your skull with her thighs.
The second time sheâs got her hands gripping the headboard as she holds on for dear life, a shaky sob escaping her from how fucking good she feels while you feel your already soaked cunt grow wetter at the sound of her cries â imagining how pretty and wet her eyes must look, wanting to life your fingers and collect the tears before using them to rub at your own neglected clit.
The third time Vi comes is with such a force that you donât realise she squirted until you feel as though water has been thrown in your face. Itâs only when she distantly feels your hands tapping at her thighs after the afterstocks have subsided that she eases off. Your face is red and sweaty, along with her juices coating your complexion and Vi swears her treacherous pussy clenches at the sight like she hasnât already been made to feel fuzzy mentally. Pulling her by the arm, then â once in reaching distance â the throat so sheâs face to face with you.
âLick me clean like a good puppy? Be a good girl for mommyâ While her tongue kitten licks you clean, practically drooling at the taste of herself on your skin, the thought of the scent of her pussy marking you, claiming you in such an indecent way satiating the miniscule possessive nature Vi has.
a/n: happy valentine's day! here's some vi smut đ€Čđ»
Vi grunted as she threw herself down on the mattress, limbs sprawled out lazily and half-lidded gaze staring blearily up at the ceiling. The room spun around her, and everything felt thick and hazy, pleasantly numbed. It had been another rough day of fights; she'd sustained a few good hits to the face and would surely wake up with several new colourful bruises, but hell, it could have been worse.
After all, you had been there.
She'd caught sight of you somewhere around her third drink at the Last Drop, leaning against the far side of the bar chatting and laughing with a few friends, like always. The first few times she'd spotted you there, she'd satisfied herself with sneaking passing glances at you every once in awhile, worried about getting caught. Now, though, she'd become accustomed to letting her eyes linger over you indulgently as she nursed her drinkâ€or, more accurately, several.
She couldn't help it, really. You were the brightest thing there, a treat for the eyes. It would be impossible to ignore you if she tried. And believe her, she'd tried. At first.
Normally you were far too preoccupied to take any notice of her, but tonight, you'd seen her. Perhaps sensing her gaze on you, your eyes had flicked over to her before she had the chance to look away. You'd held eye contact for a few seconds, a small grin ghosting over your lips before you turned back to your friends.
It was almost embarrassing what those few seconds had done to herâ€the swooping sensation in her stomach, followed by the immediate desire to bury herself alive. Why the hell hadn't she looked away? And why did you make her so nervous to approach you? Instead, she'd leaned back over the bar, knocking back the rest of her drink before resolutely making for the door.
Now, she replayed the whole thing in her mind over and over, her drunken thoughts clinging to the moment your eyes had locked on hers, on the coy quirk of your lips, how pretty you'd looked. The top you'd been wearing was strapless, exposing the bare skin of your shoulders, your collarbone, your neck.
God, what she'd give to kiss that neck. Let her tongue slip out to taste your skin, leave little red marks all over that would show she'd been there. She wanted to know what your lips felt like, what kind of sounds you'd make into her mouth as she kissed you.
A slow, hazy sort of heat was spreading through her as these thoughts ran through her head, made more intense by the alcohol in her system. Already, a needy ache was beginning to pulse in the pit of her stomach, and she sighed heavily, lazily rolling onto her side. Her leg was draped over a pillow, and her hips gave a small, involuntary twitch forward into it, the friction between her thighs sending a pleasurable jolt through her.
Vi's eyes dropped shut, sinking into the feeling as her hips shifted subtly into the pillow again, and again. Before she could stop it, her thoughts flew back to youâ€this time, more indulgent.
You were straddling her, pressing hot, messy kisses to her neck and shoulder. Your hands were running over her torso, her chest, pressing yourself against her hungrily. Your hips were rocking against her thigh, little sighs slipping from your lips against her skin. You were so wet for her, so desperate, so...
Stop it. A faint voice in the more rational part of her brain interrupted the scene playing out in her head. This is fucking weird. Don't be a creep.
But she was far too deep in her arousal now, and powerless against her swimming, inebriated thoughts. She knew she should stop. It was wrong. It was...
You were pushing her onto her back, leaning over her, looking down at her with an utterly sinful expression in your half-lidded eyes. Your bare tits were practically in her face, hanging full and perfect, and she was groping them, running her thumbs over your pebbled nipples.
"Oh, fuck," she hissed under her breath. She propped herself up on a forearm, clutching the pillow closer and humping against it in earnest now. Each rock of her hips sent a delicious wave of heat through her core, the friction against her clit making her dizzy with need.
She was breathing heavily, her head a jumble of dirty thoughts that were on the verge of incoherent. They flashed from one lewd image to the next, jumping back and forth between them, each one of them featuring you.
What would you sound like moaning her name? "Vi," you purred as you moved over her, your voice breathy and sensual and cracking with pleasure, "Yes, yes, Vi, feels so good..." Your lips were parted, your face contorted in pleasure as you ground your dripping pussy against her hand. The whole while, you were staring down at her, holding her gaze.
Fuuck, yeah. A jolt of pleasure hit her so strong that a strangled, keening whimper slipped out of her, and she began grinding her hips harder, her brows scrunching together as the coil of heat wound tighter and tighter.
In her mind's eye, your rising pleasure mirrored her own; she heard your moans growing louder and higher in pitch, saw your naked form moving in a faster rhythm, tits bouncing as you rode her fingers. Your head thrown back, those breathy sounds leaving your pretty lips.
Vi shifted, shoving her hand clumsily down her pants and groaning as she made contact with her own wet heat. She moved her fingers over herself feverishly, through her slick folds and up over her throbbing clit, her own moans spilling out in between her ragged breaths. She was focused on nothing but your face, picturing it edging closer and closer to the brink of release.
"Gonna come, Vi, gonna come so fucking hardâ€"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckâ€" she whimpered, the words barely coherent, as her body tensed up and she finally tipped over the edge, her orgasm crashing into her hard. She rode out each wave, brows furrowed, and then fell back onto the mattress, breathing heavily and letting her heavy limbs go slack.
Even once the last dregs of pleasure subsided, you'd still be there, etched into her mind like a tattoo.
switch4switch is fun and super fucking hot when you're fluidly complementary, passing the reins back and forth and dutifully following step when its you're turn to be submissive, of course (we all know this). but I would also like to pedestal switches that end up in the same mood and make it each other's problem. two switch doms fighting for control, wrestling and pinning each other, pressing all their partner's buttons and weak spots (real and metaphorical) to try and get them to break first, telling each other off between hisses and growls, relentlessly manhandling each other. two switch subs clinging desperately to each other and making out as they grind on and grope each other, whining pathetically and begging in the ways they know drive the other crazy, desperately trying to spur the other to roll on top of them and fuck them into the mattress, both drawing out the torture of not wanting to make the first move but getting dangerously close in their frustration and denial to coming in their pants. love that
summary: a midnight demo and your voice on his track dom had no idea you were the harmony he didnât know he needed.
word count: 4.6k words
a/n: this was a request! i hope you enjoy!
âž»
Your phone buzzed just after midnight, one sharp vibration across the marble countertop where youâd left it charging, barely loud enough to break the quiet hum of your apartment.
You padded across the floor in socks, half-asleep and still glowing faintly from the aftertaste of a long studio day, and flipped the screen over.
Kevin Abstract: đ[Google Drive link: Geezer (Domâs Crybaby Demos)]
You blinked. Then blinked again.
Typical Kevin. No explanation. No context. Just vibes and a vaguely suspicious file title. Still, your curiosity got the better of you. You grabbed your headphones off the couch, plugged in, and opened the link.
The first file was unlabeled, just a string of numbers and the word ârough.â
Classic Dom.
You hit play. The track opened with a few scratchy bars of guitar, stripped raw like it had been recorded in the middle of the night on the first take because knowing Dom, it probably was. Then came his voice. Softer than usual. Unpolished. Honest in that way that made your chest pull tight before you even caught the lyrics.
You sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, the city quiet outside your windows as the song filled the room like a secret. His voice cracked halfway through the second verse not because he missed the note, but because he meant it. It was that Dominic Fike signature, a little reckless, a little broken, impossibly beautiful in its imperfection.
He sang like he didnât know anyone would ever hear it and god, something about that made your heart ache. You didnât even realize you were holding your breath until the track faded out and the silence hit, sharp and sudden.
Your phone lit again.
Kevin Abstract: You didnât hear this from me. But Domâs been stuck on this one for weeks. He wonât admit it, but he wants a feature just wonât say whođźâđš
You read the text twice, eyes darting back to the open file. You could still feel the ghost of his voice in your chest. Then three dots appeared.
Kevin Abstract: You in?
You stared at the message for a long second, thumb hovering over your screen, suddenly way more awake than you had any right to be. Your heart beat faster not with nerves, exactly, but with knowing. Like standing on the edge of something that already felt inevitable.
Because the thing was this wasnât the first time the idea had come up.
Dom had teased it months ago casual, offhand, almost like he was testing the waters. âWe should do something sometime. Would be fun.â
And youâd played it cool. Laughed, shrugged, said something deflective. But deep down, youâd wanted it. Youâd wanted this. Him. In that creative space with you. Not just as the boy who made your heart race, but as the artist who made your head spin.
You wanted the mess and the magic and the way his voice curved around emotion like it was carved to fit. You wanted the real Dom. In the booth. No filters. No ego. Just you and him, and whatever the hell you could make together.
Your fingers moved before you could second guess it.
For Dom?
Say less.
âž»
You pulled into the back lot just before 1 a.m., headlights cutting briefly across the side of the building before flicking off. The engine hummed in the silence for a beat too long before you finally killed it, sitting still in the dark for a moment hoodie drawn low over your head, sunglasses still perched on the bridge of your nose despite the fact that the moon was the only thing watching.
Classic L.A. behavior. But tonight wasnât about being seen. Tonight was about being felt. Kevin met you at the side door, hoodie up and grinning like a kid sneaking into his own birthday party. He cracked the door open just wide enough for you to slip in.
âYou look like youâre about to rob the place,â he whispered, eyes dancing.
You tugged your hood a little lower, lowering your sunglasses just enough to peer at him. âWell,â you deadpanned, âI am stealing his song. Temporarily.â
Kevin snorted, quickly locking the door behind you. âFair.â
The studio smelled like long hours faint incense, leftover takeout, and the warm metallic tang of gear that had been humming all day. Most of the overheads were off, casting the space in a soft, golden half light. The mixing console glowed like it had a secret, and maybe it did.
You stepped inside and let the door shut behind you with a soft click, muffling the rest of the world. The city could wait. Kevin didnât say anything as he moved toward the booth just pulled up the project file and clicked through the tracks like heâd done it a hundred times. He paused with one finger over the play button, glanced over at you, then gave the smallest nod.
You pulled your hoodie back and slipped on the headphones. Then play. Domâs voice hit you instantly. No build up, no polish. Just him.
Raw. Quiet. Close.
You swore you could hear the room he recorded it in the creak of the stool, the breath he took before the first line. The guitar was barely there, more feeling than sound. The drums whispered underneath like they were afraid to interrupt. And his voice god, his voice. It wasnât perfect, and thatâs what made it brutal. That familiar rasp. The little cracks in the second verse where it sounded like he might break but pushed through anyway. Like every word cost him something to say.
You sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, your thumb absently tapping your bottom lip as you listened. It felt like he was confessing something he hadnât even admitted to himself yet. Like this track wasnât made for release it was made because he had to. The bridge hit and took your breath with it.
âDid you know I only write about the things I never say out loud?â
Your chest ached just a little. You smiled, small and reverent.
âJesus, Dom,â you whispered.
The track faded into silence, and the room held its breath with you. You didnât move for a second. Didnât want to. But the moment passed like all moments do. And then, your instinct kicked in.
âCan you loop the second half?â you asked, voice low but steady, rising from the couch with a new kind of energy threading through you.
Kevin was already on it. The mic smelled faintly like eucalyptus and old stories. You adjusted your headphones, tapped the stand once, and rolled your shoulders back. No plan. No scribbled lyrics. Just your voice. And his.
You started small, a low hum that curled under his vocals like a second thought. Then came the harmonies, soft and close, shaping themselves around his melody with the kind of ease that only came when you werenât thinking too hard. It felt like talking to him through the music. Like answering something he didnât know heâd asked. Then came the verse.
Not too clean. Not too sharp. You didnât want it perfect. You wanted real. Your voice dipped and rose, danced with his, not overpowering, just with.
The words came easy. The emotion, easier. Kevin sat back in the chair, hands frozen on the console, lips slightly parted like he forgot how to breathe. When you finished, you pulled off the headphones slowly, your breath still shaky from the last note. The studio fell into that sacred kind of silence the kind that follows something true.
Kevin didnât speak. Just hit play again, eyes focused, jaw slack. When the final harmony faded, he let out a low exhale and swiveled in his chair.
âHeâs gonna flip when he hears this.â
You leaned against the booth doorway, arms folded, the smallest smirk tugging at your lips.
âThatâs the idea.â
âž»
It wasnât supposed to happen like this.
Dom wasnât even meant to be at the studio until the afternoon. That was the plan a late call time, a slow ease into the day, maybe some half-hearted journaling and a smoothie before diving into the tracklist. Heâd even told Kevin he needed âa reset,â like his brain was a dusty etch a sketch that just needed shaking.
Kevin had nodded, said âbet,â and planned everything around it.
But Dom being Dom got restless. He woke up early, mind spinning, something tugging at him like gravity. So he threw on a hoodie, didnât brush his hair, grabbed the first snack he could find, and headed to the studio like a man possessed.
At 10:47 a.m., the side door clicked open.
âYo,â he called out casually, stepping in mid-thought, half of a granola bar clutched between his fingers and his phone still lit with scribbled voice memo notes. âSo I was thinking, for the bridge on âGhostsâ maybe we strip the drums out entirely. Just let the vocal carry it like, almost naked, right?â
He didnât get to finish. Because something was playing through the monitors already. Low volume. An old mix, maybe? He didnât really clock it until it hit the second verse. His voice. The one he recorded weeks ago raw and too emotional, the kind he almost didnât want anyone to hear. And then her.
Dom froze in the middle of the room, the granola bar halfway to his mouth, his sentence stalling midair like someone had hit pause on his entire body. Her voice. Clear. Warm. Cutting through his like sunlight through a dusty window. It was hers, no question and yet it blended with his in a way that felt seamless. Like her voice had always been there, quietly haunting the edges of the song, just waiting to be turned up.
The sound wrapped around his second verse like it belonged there. Intimate. Intentional. Soft in the places he broke. Strong in the places he held back.
He blinked, shoulders stiffening, foot still slightly raised like heâd forgotten how to finish the step he started.
âWait, hold up,â he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. âIs thatâŠ?â He walked forward, slowly now, pulled like a tide he didnât understand. Around the corner. Past the racks of cables. Straight toward the booth.
And then he saw her.
You.
In his booth.
Completely in your own world, headphones on, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows. One hand cupping your ear. The other tapping against your thigh in time with the beat. You were humming into the mic, soft background harmonies, tucked right under his vocal line. Your expression focused, peaceful. You didnât even look like you were trying hard. You were just being and it was stunning.
His chest went tight. And then warm. And then all kinds of messed up.
You hadnât seen him yet. Which made it worse or better. He couldnât decide.
Kevin, meanwhile, was absolutely thriving. Leaning back in the engineerâs chair with his feet propped up and a shit eating grin stretching across his face, he looked like a man watching a rom-com unfold in real time.
âSurprise, bro,â he said, not even trying to hide the delight in his voice.
Dom didnât answer. Couldnât. His mouth was open, but the words werenât working. All he could do was look at you, at the way you moved, at how effortlessly your voice wove into his, at the way you somehow made his unfinished track feel finished.
His heart was doing the absolute most in his chest. A full sprint. No warm up.
You finally glanced up, sensing the shift in energy and your eyes locked with his through the booth glass.
For a second, time stretched. Hung. And then, without missing a beat, you smiled. Not an apologetic one. Not shy. Just that easy, knowing grin the kind that said yeah, I did this on purpose.
And then you winked. Playful. Shameless. A little too good. Dom clutched his hoodie strings like they might ground him.
His hand went to his mouth instinctively, like it could hold in the reaction the grin that broke across his face so fast it startled even him. His eyes softened in real time. That wide, awestruck, what the fuck kind of look that no one ever got from him unless theyâd earned it. He looked like heâd just walked straight into a dream and wasnât sure whether to speak or sit down and thank someone.
Kevin, barely containing himself, leaned over the console and stage whispered like David Attenborough narrating a wildlife special.Â
âLook at him. Manâs done for.â
And yeah he absolutely was.
âž»
By the time the booth door finally opened and you stepped out, Dom still hadnât fully recovered.
He was leaning against the console like it was the only thing holding him upright, one hand still absently clutching the headphones heâd ripped off minutes ago, eyes locked on you like he didnât quite trust that you were real.
He was smiling wide, open, soft around the edges. The kind of smile people tried to write songs about and never quite got right. Like someone had just handed him his dream on a silver platter and whispered, itâs yours if you want it. Like if he blinked, youâd vanish.
âYou didnât tell me,â he said, his voice low, a little breathless, like he was trying to sound annoyed but couldnât stop his mouth from curling into a grin.
You crossed your arms loosely, fighting your own smirk. âWasnât my surprise to ruin.â
He ran a hand down his face like he didnât know what to do with himself. Looked at Kevin through the glass like he was debating whether to throw hands or give him a standing ovation. Kevin just threw up two triumphant thumbs and slapped the record button like he was directing a rom-com.
And then it was on. You slipped back into the booth, this time with Dom beside you, both of you facing your mics, your lyric sheets, your self control.
Your mics were spaced out enough to keep it technically professional. Emotionally? Not even close. The second playback started, something shifted. The air in the room turned electric sharper, heavier. Like the music was pulling some invisible thread tighter with every bar.
You came in first your harmonies sliding in like smoke curling under a door, instinctive and warm. Dom turned his head slightly when he heard it again, like it was the first time, like it still surprised him how right it sounded.
By the time his verse kicked in, you were already scribbling ideas, adjusting phrasing in your head. You didnât want to just fit into the song you wanted to answer it. Echo it. Challenge it.
Dom caught you flipping through your notes between takes, a grin tugging at his lips.
âI think Iâm gonna flip the second line,â you said, chewing your pen cap as you made a quick edit. âMake it more of a response. More bite.â
Dom raised a brow. âYouâre rewriting again?â
You didnât even look up. âKeep up, rockstar.â
His laugh was immediate, full and unfiltered. It bounced off the booth walls and landed right in your chest.
Kevinâs voice crackled through the talkback mic. âGod, this is gross. Can yâall flirt after we get a clean take?â
Dom looked toward the glass, deadpan. âWeâre professionals, Kevin.â
You turned to him, raising your brows like are we really doing this? âAre we?â
He lost it. Full body laugh. Head back. Shoulders shaking. One hand pressed to his chest like youâd just knocked the wind out of him with a single sentence. You tried to keep your expression straight, but it was a losing battle. He was grinning too hard. You were grinning too hard. It was chaos. It was chemistry. It was the most fun either of you had had in a studio in months.
âThis is insane,â he muttered after he got his breath back, adjusting his headphones. âYouâre way too good at this. Itâs rude, actually.â
You scoffed. âIâm rude?â You gave him a mock scandalized look. âComing from the guy who casually drops heartache into a demo like itâs no big deal?â
Dom shrugged, smirking. âI do what I can.â
You rolled your eyes but your smile betrayed you. And then the track rolled again. This time, your voices didnât just blend they collided, danced, tangled. You didnât have to look at each other to know exactly where to pause, where to push, where to leave space for the other. It was effortless. And completely not safe. Every glance between takes held a little more weight. Every note hummed with something unspoken. Every harmony was less about pitch and more about tension. Kevin let it go for a while, but eventually, even he couldnât take it.
âYeah, weâre not finishing this song today,â he muttered under his breath, dragging his hoodie over his face like he needed to shield himself from whatever emotional firestorm was happening on the other side of the glass. âYâall are killing me.â
Dom just leaned toward you slightly, the corner of his mouth still quirked.
âNot to be dramatic or anything,â he said, softer now, âbut this might be my favorite version of this song. Ever.â
You didnât say anything at first. You just bumped your shoulder gently into his, close enough that your arms brushed. And stayed that way. The track rolled again.
And neither of you moved away.
âž»
The studio was almost completely silent now.
No music. No buzzing monitors. No Kevin shouting sarcastic commentary through the talkback mic. Just stillness soft and golden and sacred in that way studios get when the work is done, but the moment isnât over.
The overheads had been dimmed to their lowest setting, casting a warm glow across the space like dusk frozen in amber. It pooled in corners, softened edges, made shadows look kinder. The leather couch youâd collapsed onto hours ago creaked faintly as you shifted, worn and familiar and exactly the kind of place you could stay for a while.
Kevin had left with a dramatic flourish and a parting shot something about âyou two better name your duo project after me or Iâm suing for emotional damagesâ and then he was gone, the click of the door leaving a new kind of hush in his absence.
Now it was just the two of you. You and Dom, legs stretched out in opposite directions, one of his socks balled up on the floor like it had tapped out first. A single water bottle being passed back and forth without a word, condensation slicking your fingers each time.
You were both flushed skin warm, cheeks pink from laughing too hard and singing too long and maybe from the fact that you still hadnât quite come down from whatever that was in the booth. That feeling like the two of you had cracked something open. Not just in the music but in each other.
Hair messy. Clothes rumpled. The kind of tired that felt earned. Dom tilted his head back against the cushion with a quiet sigh, like it had taken him all day to remember how to exhale like that. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against the bottle cap as he turned to look at you.
And then he didnât look away. He just watched you for a moment really watched you like he was letting himself see you without the adrenaline and distractions. Without the music playing or the mics hot. Just you, sitting next to him in this soft, suspended quiet.
âYou didnât have to do all this for me,â he said finally, voice low, the kind of low that feels like a secret. Like truth slipping out before ego can catch it.
You blinked, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. But then you smiled, slow and sleepy, like the answer was obvious. âOf course I did.â
He shifted slightly, his knee brushing yours. Not an accident. You didnât move away.
âYouâre brilliant, Dom,â you said simply, your voice matching his unpolished but true. âYou just donât always see it.â
You shrugged like it was nothing. Like that kind of faith in him didnât cost you anything. But it kind of did. It was that rare, unguarded kind of belief that only came when you really meant it. He looked at you like he knew that.
Stared for a beat too long, like he was searching your face for whatever it was you saw in him. And then he looked down, let out a breathy, broken little laugh not the flirty kind, but the overwhelmed kind. The youâre wrecking me and you donât even know it kind.
His voice cracked slightly as he said, âYouâre the most talented person Iâve ever met.â
You froze just a second. Then you tilted your head, caught off guard by the sincerity pouring out of him. But you didnât stop him. You wanted to hear it.
âNot just like âsheâs hot and can sing,ââ he added quickly, like he was trying to untangle his thoughts and failing spectacularly. âEven though thatâs, like obviously true.â
You snorted quietly.
âBut youâre it. Youâre the real deal. You donât just walk into a room and light it up you build the fire. You make the whole thing warmer.â
He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to his lap, like he hadnât meant to say it quite like that. Like it slipped out too honest.
âI still donât get how I got lucky enough to have you here. On my song. In my booth. Sitting here like this.â
Your heart thudded, quiet but certain. Like it had been waiting for that moment. For him to see you back. You didnât rush to answer. You just leaned over and gently bumped your head against his shoulder soft, slow and said, âWell. Youâre welcome for your best track.â
That made him laugh, really laugh. The kind that made his whole chest move, made him shake his head like he couldnât believe you.
He nudged your knee with his again. âSee? Thatâs the problem,â he muttered, voice warm and wrecked and full of something he wasnât quite naming yet. âYouâre cool and youâre humble. Itâs exhausting, honestly.â
You grinned and let your head stay there, resting against him. Neither of you said anything else for a while. You didnât need to. The music was gone, but the moment stayed. Full and quiet and golden. Heavy in the way only intimacy can be when it sneaks up on you and settles in without asking. The studio didnât feel like a workspace anymore. It felt like a secret. And neither of you rushed to break it.
Because some silences feel less like an ending and more like the start of something you donât want to name just yet.
âž»
The track rolled from the top, crisp and clean this time the final mix, every piece of it sharpened and smoothed like glass. The harmonies tucked just right under the melody. The bass line hugged the low end without smothering it. The reverb on your last note faded out with the kind of timing that made Kevin sit back and mutter, âDamn, thatâs cinematic.â
But somehow, it still felt raw. Still felt like the first time you heard it. Like it hadnât been touched at all. Like it came straight from a heartbeat.
Domâs head was bobbing before the first chorus even hit, one leg bouncing, lips moving with the words like he couldnât help but sing along. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, exposing the fading imprint of his guitar strap across his arm. He looked like a kid on christmas morning wide eyed, beaming, a little stunned.
The grin tugging at his mouth was huge unguarded, messy, pure. The kind of joy that couldnât be staged or filtered or rehearsed. The kind that only happened when something finally came together in a way that made you come together too.Â
He kept sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye, like he needed to check if you were hearing it the same way. If you knew. Because this wasnât just a track anymore. It was yours. And his. And no one elseâs.
When the final harmony faded that soft, aching note you added at the very last second, the one that sounded like the emotional equivalent of a hand brushing skin the room dipped into silence so full it was almost holy. Dom let out a low whistle, exhaling like heâd just held his breath for the entire track.
And then, without missing a beat, âThis oneâs not going on the album.â
You blinked, turning toward him, one brow raised. âExcuse me?â
He looked at you, completely serious, but the grin on his face betrayed him. He looked ridiculous. Giddy. A little in love.
âItâs going on every album. From now on. All of them.â
You burst out laughing, leaning back on your palms. âAt least put me on the deluxe, damn. Let a girl breathe.â
He was halfway through forming a reply and judging by the look on his face, it was going to be flirty and probably a little unhinged when the door creaked open behind you.
Kevin strolled back in like he hadnât just left a nuclear moment brewing in his absence. Snapple in hand. Hoodie sleeves bunched up. Chaos in his eyes.
âOr,â he said casually, eyes flicking between the two of you, âyou two could just date already and make a whole joint project. Blush x Lovers collab incoming.â
The silence that followed was immediate and deafening. You and Dom froze. The kind of stillness thatâs instinctual like your bodies knew before your brains did that this was a moment.
Then you looked at each other. Then immediately looked away. You felt it the second it happened the heat rising from your collarbones to your cheeks, ears burning like someone had spotlighted you onstage with no warning. Dom wasnât any better his face had turned the color of his snapple cap, and he was suddenly very interested in the floor. You snatched the nearest throw pillow off the couch and launched it at Kevin. It hit him square in the chest. He didnât even flinch. Just took a long sip of his drink like heâd been waiting for this exact moment to unfold.
âIâm just saying,â he added, completely unfazed. âItâd go platinum.â
You looked at Dom, waiting for him to protest to roll his eyes or deflect or change the subject. But he didnât. He just smiled slow, quiet, genuine. And blushed even harder.
You squinted. âYouâre seriously not gonna defend yourself right now?â
Dom shrugged, eyes twinkling with something warm and weightless and way too honest. âHeâs not wrong.â
Your heart kicked in your chest too fast, too full. You didnât push it. You didnât name it. But you didnât deny it either. You just gave him that soft, tilted smile the one you always gave when you meant something but didnât want to make a big deal about it. The one that said I see you.
And Dom? He gave it right back. Like yeah. I see you too.
The track looped again in the background, quieter this time like it was bowing out, letting the moment take center stage. And it didnât feel like an ending. It felt like the start of something you hadnât even written yet.
a/n: new celebrity crush unlocked y'all!! I know most of y'all won't like this cause it's not billie and that's okay but there's literally no kwn fics so I have to do my job as a fanfic writer
the studio was busyâpeople rushing up and down with heavy, expensive equipment. some were preparing the set, paying attention to every tiny detail. others were busy with the actors, making sure they looked prim and proper for the camera that weighed heavy in your hands.
but most of all, when you glanced to your side, kwn stood out,conversing with the directors and creatives about last-minute changes. truthfully, you shouldâve been there too.
you slowly made your way over, fingers working your hair into a manageable low ponytail as you got closer. you stopped right beside her. her focus faltered the second she saw you, her eyes sweeping over your face like it was the first time all over again. they lingered on you...watching, waiting for you to look back.
so you did. just slightly.
your eyes met.
only for you to break the gaze a second later, tuning back into the conversation, hoping it would give you some insight into your job for the day. you were the camera operator well, camera woman.
your role was simple,keep the equipment rolling.
kwn liked one takes. she always said they were more efficient. more effective. you never asked in what way you just went with it.
âokay, weâre starting in five! everybody to your places!â the director shouted, sending the entire crew into motion.
as you moved into position, you felt her right behind you her scent finding its way into your nose, familiar and distracting.
âtry not to get jealous, yeah,â she murmured behind you.
âyeah, okay,â you scoffed, rolling your eyes instinctively as you caught a glimpse of her walking toward the bar setup.
you were positioned exactly where you needed to be, eyes tracking what the lens was supposed to capture. when the countdown started, and they called out one!, you hit record. the camera rolled smoothly as you walked behind it, hands on the remote, ready in case anything went wrong.
it caught the storyline as it unfolded, following the dialogue, the action, until it panned over to kwn. your eyes followed her closely. she moved with purpose, in sync with the energy of the scene. she was magneticâfully in tune with what was needed.
the camera followed her walk toward the love interest. you stayed right behind, capturing the chemistry radiating between them. every detail: the way she looked at the girl, the way her lips curled into a subtle smirk, the girl twirling her hair while looking up at her with wide, suggestive eyes.
your jaw tensed, tongue poking the inside of your cheek.
they broke away from each other soon after, heading to separate sides of the set for the next scene. your camera panned to the setting, giving the audience context, anchoring them back into the mood.
then came the kitchen scene intimate and closed off. you moved carefully, feet silent on the ground, navigating between machinery and cables with the camera resting on your shoulder. you got in close.
the mood shifted flirty, slow-burning. the early signs of desire that come when something new sparks to life. kwn reached for the girl, tugging her in by the hoop of her jeans, teasing her into leaning close. the girl practically melted into her touch.
and just like that, they broke apart. like they knew they were being watched. or maybe just maybe the universe was being kind to you, not letting it go too far.
your eyes met kwnâs for a fleeting second. her expression unreadable. you looked away, grounding yourself back into the cameraâs viewfinder, following the love interest as she ran out of frame and back into the previous scene.
this was the final stretch the girl having a dramatic fight with the guy she originally came with. you stayed close, letting the camera drink in the tension, capturing every motion, every word, until the final,
âcut!â
you instantly stopped recording, turned to the crew, gave them a thumbs up and a quick smile to confirm everything was captured cleanly.
you barely had a second to breathe before the editor-in-chief was in front of you, pulling you into a discussion about footage delivery and post-production timelines. you listened intently professional as ever but when a familiar scent filled the air again, your body turned on instinct.
she was there.
and without needing to say a word, the editor-in-chief took the hint and walked off, leaving you two alone.
âhey youâŠâ she cooed playfully, poking your side just to make you laugh.
âhey, you did great. one takes really are your thing,â you said, casually, keeping your tone steady, professional.
âcâmere. the shoot is over. can i have my girlfriend back now? not the camera person,â she grinned, pulling you in by the hook of your jeans, spinning you until your body lightly collided with her chest.
âoh my god, where did you even learn that?â you laughed, your real self slipping through the cracks.
âwhy? you feelinâ it?â she teased, eyes watching your face carefully, already smiling at your grin.
âmaybeâŠâ you murmured, your arms sliding around her shoulders, pulling her in close. lips just inches from hers.
âweâre still at work, you lovebirds,â your assistant chimed from behind, voice teasing, snapping both of you out of your little world.
âi see youâre still being a cockblock, huh,â kwn smirked, peeking over your shoulder to tease her back.
the three of you laughed but her arm stayed wrapped around your waist, and your heart stayed right where it always was.
summary: you marry a stranger in silkâhis 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.
the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm â 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 wasnât 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 â the revered oyabun â 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" â 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 didnât keep the police away.
by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies â a modeling agency, ironically â 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 werenât idiots. theyâd 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.
âget married,â takuya said.
his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days theyâd fought with knives in parking lots. âmarry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.â
yuta stared at him like heâd grown a second head. âyou want me to lie to the japanese government?â
takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. âyouâve lied to worse.â
âi can handle this,â yuta muttered. ânegotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.â
but takuya didnât flinch. ânot this time. theyâre 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.â
he hated how logical it sounded.
it wasnât about love. it wasnât even about appearances. it was about strategy â 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 didnât do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call â a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. âsheâs perfect,â he said. âtwenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. sheâll agree if you ask.â
yuta didnât answer. not immediately.
but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldnât stop thinking about it.
a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.
heâd be lying if he said he wasnât curious.
heâd be lying if he said the idea didnât thrill him.
the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume â the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. youâre 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.
âi said no,â you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. âiâm not posing in fucking lingerie.â
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 theyâre all waiting â for your manager to handle you.
hitoshi exhales the way someone does when theyâre trying not to scream. âwe already talked about this,â he says, trying to keep his voice level. âitâs just lace. itâs not porn.â
you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate â the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. âlace?â you echo with venom. âwhat part of âlaceâ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?â
he flinches. good. but he doesnât back down â youâll give him that. heâs known you long enough to know youâre a storm, but he still walks into the rain.
âyou signed a contract,â he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. âwe donât have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.â
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 â the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.
âfine,â you snap. âbut if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, iâll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.â
no one dares to breathe.
fifteen minutes later, youâre on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move â slow, poised, deadly. you donât pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? theyâll 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 isnât from the lights. you donât 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 throatâs dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshiâs beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.
he doesnât 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 â 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 peopleâs mouths. you stayed with your aunt â kind, clueless â 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. didnât ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasnât yours.
but that night changed everything.
youâd 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 werenât even sure what this was all for anymore â 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.
âwe need to talk,â he said.
your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.
âwhat did you do?â
ânothing,â he lied too quickly. âjust... just hear me out, okay?â
you didnât move. your body was still. cold. waiting.
âsomeone wants to meet you,â he continued. âitâs important. serious. could change everything.â
you narrowed your eyes. âif this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to godââ
âitâs not that,â he snapped. âthis is... different. big. maybe dangerous.â
your stomach turned. not from fear â you donât do fear â but from something colder. something real.
you didnât say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.
and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming⊠it wouldnât be something you could control.
not this time.
the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather â 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 â 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.
âweâre being watched,â takuya said, low and direct. âagain.â
yuta didnât 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.
âand your genius solution,â he said, voice rough but eerily calm, âis for me to get married.â
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 â crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.
ânot just anyone,â riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. âher.â
he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you â stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red â a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasnât just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.
takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.
âwhere did you get these?â he asked.
âtheyâre from a catalog,â riku admitted, his voice too eager. âshe just shot them a week ago. sheâs my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. sheâs... sheâs the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... sheâs probably still a virgin.â
yutaâs head turned â slow, deliberate.
his eyes, dark as a crowâs wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.
âprobably?â he echoed, voice like a blade.
riku swallowed, color draining from his face. âi... i just meant sheâs not... sheâs not like the others. sheâs not easy.â
âwatch your mouth,â yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.
takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.
âi donât think this is a joke,â he said. âthe tip came from above the osaka division. someoneâs pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, weâre fucked. this girl â a marriage â it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.â
yuta didnât 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 â just once â over the curve of your hip.
âand if she doesnât agree?â he asked.
âshe will,â riku blurted, then shrank under takuyaâs glare. âi mean... she doesnât know yet. but she will. sheâs ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. sheâll see the opportunity.â
yuta tilted his head slightly.
âopportunity,â he repeated.
there was a silence then â 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.
âbring her tomorrow,â he said, setting it down. âat dusk.â
he looked up then â first at takuya, then at riku.
âand tell her to wear white.â
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 â 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 â slow, dangerous.
âwhite,â 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 wasnât rikuâs.
you knew it the second you saw it â 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.
âriku,â you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, âwhose car is this?â
he didnât meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.
âiâll explain when we get there,â he said.
âyou sound like someone in trouble.â
he didnât laugh. that was your first clue.
the streets blurred past â 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.
âever heard of the nakamotos?â riku asked, voice low.
you shook your head. âno. who are they?â
he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.
âtheyâre... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think theyâre just a legend. but theyâre not.â
âyouâre talking about the mafia.â
âiâm talking about something older than that,â he corrected. âthis isnât like the shit you see in movies. they donât wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.â
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 hadnât lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house â wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasnât a home, but a domain.
the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard â 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.
âcome on,â he said, voice softer now. âand... donât say anything unless spoken to.â
you stumbled out, the white heels youâd chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, âshoes off.â
quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin â 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 wasnât 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 â 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 â without a word â dropped to his knees.
you blinked. ârikuââ
he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.
âkneel,â he whispered.
your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.
the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.
riku cleared his throat. ânakamoto-san... iâve brought her.â
a pause.
then a voice â low, smooth, commanding.
âenter.â
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 â black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.
he didnât stand. didnât smile. didnât offer a single greeting.
he just looked at you.
like you were something being weighed.
and you â still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress â 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 â sandalwood, rich and smoky.
he hadnât 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 werenât flashy; they were traditional â 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 didnât 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 â thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves â 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.
âyou wore white,â he finally said, voice quiet but firm â the kind that made people listen the first time. âgood.â
you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.
âstand,â yuta said.
your breath caught.
he wasnât 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 â exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.
yutaâs eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body â 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.
âturn around,â he said.
your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.
you turned â slowly â 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:
âenough.â
you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadnât changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.
âhow old are you?â he asked.
âtwenty-three,â you replied quietly.
his gaze narrowed slightly.
âvirgin?â
your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didnât say a word.
you didnât answer.
yuta arched a brow.
âi asked you a question.â
you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.
âyes.â
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.
âgood,â he murmured.
you didnât know what that meant.
but you could feel it â your fate shifting under your feet.
âleave us,â he said.
just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.
âcall takuya,â he said, not taking his eyes off you.
riku froze for a second â like heâd forgotten something crucial. âyes, sir,â 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 didnât smile. didnât move.
âcome closer,â he said.
and something in you â something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn â obeyed.
as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky â barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.
you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. âwhat the hell was that question?â you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.
he didnât flinch.
he didnât apologize either.
he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.
âi needed to know,â he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. âthat information changes things.â
your eyebrows shot up. âchanges what?â
âyour value,â he said, flat and emotionless.
the words hit you like a slap.
you blinked at him, stunned. âiâm not... some kind ofââ
âi didnât say you were,â he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. âbut where youâre going, who youâll be playing... details matter.â
you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone â but also no softness. just facts. just business.
like you were already part of the machine.
âyouâre here for a reason,â he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. âriku says youâre smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a manâs attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.â
you almost flinched again. almost.
he noticed.
âdonât take it personally,â he added. âthe role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice â until itâs too late.â
you didnât 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. âare you going to tell me whatâs going on?â
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.
âthereâs pressure from the police. not just local. national,â he said. âtheyâre watching us. they want to bring me down.â
you blinked. âso... what does that have to do with me?â
his voice didnât change. still cold. still even.
âif i marry a civilian woman â someone clean, untouched by our business â it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.â
you stared at him.
âyou want to marry me.â
âi need to,â he corrected.
âand you expect me to justââ
before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.
âenter,â 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.
âthis is takuya,â yuta said without looking at him. âthe one who came up with the plan.â
takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.
âpleasure,â he said flatly, then got straight to it. âwe're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division â higher up. there's a task force building a case. theyâre using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. itâs not just raids anymore. theyâre aiming for image. public perception.â
you swallowed.
takuya continued, unfazed. âthey need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction â a different narrative â the pressure dies.â
he looked you in the eye now.
âa marriage,â he said. âto 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 âreformedâ man.â
your heart skipped a beat.
âyou want me to marry him?â
yutaâs silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.
âthe marriage will be legal,â he said, bluntly. âweâre filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. itâll hold weight. thatâs the point.â
your breath caught.
âwe need legitimacy,â takuya went on. âyouâre the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up â especially when they realize youâre marrying someone like him.â
you looked down, at your dress â 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 yutaâs favorite color on women.
your cheeks burned.
âand what do i get?â
âmoney, comfort, protection,â takuya said immediately. âyouâll live in comfort. youâll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.â
his gaze hardened. âmoney. more than your villageâs mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.â
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 â and out of place.
you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.
âso... iâm supposed to pretend to be your wife,â you said, eyes locked on yuta now. âwhile you do what, exactly?â
he finally spoke again.
âlive,â he said. âlead. and make them believe iâve changed.â
you werenât sure if it was insane or brilliant.
but deep down, something about the idea â the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way â pulled at a place inside you that you werenât ready to name yet.
you didnât 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 â 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.
âyouâre a fucking piece of work,â you said, eyes locked on him. âyou donât even ask. you just... tell me iâm getting married. to you. like iâm supposed to be flattered.â
yuta tilted his head. his eyes â those cruel, unreadable eyes â didnât move from yours.
âif you werenât angry,â he said slowly, âiâd be disappointed.â
âwhat the hell is that supposed to mean?â
âit means i donât need a quiet, obedient wife,â he said. âi need someone with fire. someone who doesnât flinch when men like me enter a room.â
you scoffed. âso you want a wife or a weapon?â
he smirked â just barely. almost not at all.
âboth.â
you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.
âi come from a farm in fucking wakayama,â you snapped. âmy parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didnât come to osaka to be anyoneâs doll.â
he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didnât faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.
âthen donât be a doll,â he said. âbe the woman who stood next to the devil and didnât blink.â
your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.
âand what do you get out of this?â you asked. âbesides a pretty distraction.â
âpeace,â he replied, finishing his sake. âfor now.â
you stared at him, still furious â but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.
he stood slowly, and you couldnât 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 didnât need to tell with words.
he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.
âtomorrow,â he said. âweâll register the marriage. weâll make it real.â
your heart thudded â not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.
âwear white again.â
âyouâre a controlling asshole,â you muttered.
he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.
âgood. youâre learning.â
you didn't sleep the night before.
not from fear â you werenât 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 â 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.
âthese are from yuta,â he said, handing both over carefully. âhe said to wear the western one for the ceremony.â
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.
âjesus christ,â you muttered. âthis mustâve cost a fortune.â
âprobably did.â riku rubbed the back of his neck. âhe doesnât half-ass anything.â
you didnât respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono â heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.
youâll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. â 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 â 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 â 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 didnât smile. didnât blink.
only said, âyou look beautiful,â without moving his lips too much.
âyou better,â you muttered, âafter dropping this much cash.â
the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses â 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 â slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.
he didnât 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 didnât look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, âi knew youâd make it look good.â
you didnât answer.
but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.
the reception was held back at the traditional house â 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 wasnât celebratory â 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 â simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didnât speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras werenât looking.
the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both â riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yutaâs hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.
then came the second photo â 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 didnât 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 â a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea â 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.
âyou should tell your parents,â he said suddenly, voice calm. âso they donât hear it from someone else.â
you blinked. âi will. but itâs not that easy.â
he turned slightly toward you. âwhy not?â
you gave him a tight smile. âyou forget where iâm from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents donât have a landline.â
he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.
âwrite a letter. iâll send someone to deliver it in person.â
that startled you more than anything.
ââŠseriously?â
âi donât joke about family,â he said, gaze steady. âespecially now.â
you didnât 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 didnât reach for you. didnât touch you.
âyouâll sleep here,â he said, voice low. âiâll take the room next door. just for tonight.â
you looked up at him, surprised.
âwhat, not going to consummate the deal?â you asked dryly.
his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. âyouâre not a deal.â
you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.
ââŠthanks,â you muttered.
he paused by the door, then added, âyou looked strong today. people noticed.â
you snorted. âdamn right they did.â
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 yesterdayâs weight â 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 â a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.
âgood morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.â
you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. âwhereâs yuta?â
he didnât look up from the pot he was stirring. âthe young master is in his office.â
of course he is.
you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night â 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 â and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didnât 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 didnât try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.
âi need to make a call,â you said simply. âitâs important.â
he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.
âgo ahead.â
you paused. âcan i have privacy?â
that earned you a look â 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 â fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshiâs number was scribbled in your handwriting.
you dialed. it rang twice.
ây/n?â
his voice was frantic, breathless. âwhere the hell have you been? iâve been trying to reach you for daysâi even came by your aunt's house. itâs empty. what the fuck is going on?â
you bit your lip. ââŠi got married.â
silence.
thenâ
âWHAT?â
you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.
âwhat do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you evenây/n, are you conscious of what youâre doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't justââ
you cut him off gently. âlook at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrowâs papers. the answerâs there.â
âbutâwhy?!â
you leaned against the wall, voice calm. âbecause it was necessary.â
he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. ây/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses sayâyouâre supposed to be single.â
you sighed. âdonât worry about the money. thatâs not a problem anymore.â
his voice dropped. âwhat does that even mean?â
you didnât answer that.
instead, you softened. âiâll explain in person. letâs meet soon, yeah?â
after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.
then, without turning, you said, âyou can come back in.â
the door slid open slowly.
yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette â 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 â and maybe even someone who could command it.
his voice was lower this time. unreadable.
âwhoâs hitoshi?â
you raised an eyebrow. âwhat, jealous already?â
his jaw tightened. âjust answer.â
âheâs my manager,â you said firmly. âand i needed to let him know about this situation.â
âyou seemed close.â
âdonât start,â you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. ânot everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.â
he stared at you a moment longer.
and then, quietly â like it surprised even him â he said,
ââŠyou look like you were made for this.â
you didnât reply.
but you didnât 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 â 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 didnât say much. didnât need to. the silence between you wasnât cold â not quite â but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadnât 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 werenât the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.
âiâll be in my office,â he murmured as he stood.
you only nodded.
the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet â breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compoundâs 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 â 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 didnât feel afraid.
not really.
yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments â a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea â there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also⊠possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you werenât just here for the show.
you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.
âiâll drive you there,â he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees â 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.
âshe said heâs her manager,â takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. âwhy are you so tense?â
yuta didnât answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.
takuya smirked. âdonât tell me itâs jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.â
yutaâs jaw flexed.
âitâs not that.â
âhm,â takuya exhaled. âthen what is it?â
âiâm a man,â yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. âand she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching whatâs his.â
takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. âyouâre not very good at pretending, you know.â
the car pulled away.
inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.
âare you nervous?â riku asked, his voice softer than usual.
ââŠyou really went and did it,â he said eventually. âyou married someone. just like that.â
âi told you,â you said, tilting your head. âyou couldâve checked the papers.â
âoh, i did. believe me, i did.â he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. âbut nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i donât know what that meansââ
âyouâre overreacting.â
âam i?â he leaned forward. ây/n, do you have any idea what youâve gotten yourself into? these men arenât just businessmen. theyâre criminals. this⊠this is dangerous.â
you met his gaze evenly.
âiâm safe.â
he scoffed. âheâs got you brainwashed already.â
âhitoshiââ
âno,â he cut in. âyou canât just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.â
your voice dropped. âi didnât ask you to.â
his face froze.
you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.
âyouâre good at your job,â you said, eyes narrowing slightly. âbut you donât own me.â
he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw â the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.
he sat back.
ââŠso, what now?â he asked. âyou going to disappear into his shadow forever?â
you smiled faintly.
âi donât disappear, hitoshi.â
he watched you for a long moment.
ââŠi want you to be happy,â he said finally, quieter now. âbut i just hope you know what the hell youâre doing.â
âi do.â
he nodded.
then, reluctantly, âiâll wait for you to call.â
you stood, and he didnât 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 didnât speak right away.
but his eyes moved slowly over your figure â 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.
âhow was it?â he asked at last.
âexpected,â you said.
he didnât respond.
so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.
âdonât look at me like that.â
his brow lifted. âlike what?â
âlike you think heâs more than what he is.â
âand what is he?â
you tilted your chin.
ânot your problem.â
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 didnât move.
âyouâre mine,â he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. âwhatever this started as⊠it doesnât change that.â
you met his eyes without flinching.
âthen act like it.â
you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.
he watched you go â and for the first time in days, he didnât 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 cheekbonesâyou 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.
âyouâre ready,â he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.
you nodded. âalways.â
it was the first time you stood beside him like thatâvisibly, 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 youâimmaculate, poised, clean as paperâtheir 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.
âmrs. nakamoto?â the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.
you nodded politely. âyes. is there a problem?â
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 houseâthe same one you were brought to the first timeâwatching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasnât about the marriage. it wasnât about the danger. it was the way he hadnât come home.
you didnât 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. âyuta?â you called out, voice unsure.
âdonât turn on the lights,â he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.
you froze, your breath caught. âwhatâwhat happened?â
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.
âyutaâoh my god.â 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.
âitâs fineâjust... just a scratch,â he muttered, clearly lying.
âshut up,â you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldnât see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you werenât 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. âstay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.â
his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. âyou look like a damn goddess,â he whispered, his breath hitching.
âyouâre delirious,â you snapped, voice cracking.
you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. âitâs bad,â you said as soon as he picked up. âheâs hurtâstabbedâbleeding. hurry, please.â
minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. âget him in the car. now!â
you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadnât even realized you were crying until takuyaâs hand cupped your shoulder. âheâs gonna be fine. itâs not his first time.â
your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. âwhat the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?â
he sighed. âyou married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.â
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 werenât. you never would be.
but youâd made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.
âyouâre not coming with us,â takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. âwe donât know if itâs safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.â
you clenched your jaw. âi donât care.â
he sighed, exasperated. âyou should. if something happens to you, heâll lose his fucking mind. heâs already half-deadâdonât give him another reason to bleed out.â
just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to youâblood still crusted on your armsâbefore turning to takuya.
âsend a team,â the man said coldly. âfind the ones responsible. they laid hands on the bossâi want heads rolling before sunrise.â
your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didnât 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 surroundedâunmarked 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.
âyou donât fucking listen.â
âand you donât get to keep me away from him,â you snapped. âiâm his wife, remember?â
he hesitated.
âwhere is he?â 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.
âyouâre here.â
âof course iâm here,â you said, voice cracking. âi wasnât going to let you go through this alone.â
his head rolled slightly on the pillow. âtold you not to come.â
you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.
âtheyâre looking for them,â you whispered. âthe ones who did this.â
he hummed. âi figured.â
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 thatâlike you were the only light in the roomâsomething shifted in your chest.
âyou couldâve died,â you said, barely above a whisper.
âi didnât.â
âyouâre not invincible, yuta.â
his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. âiâve survived worse.â
âdoesnât mean i want to watch you do it again.â
he blinked slowly. âare you worried about me?â
you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. âof course i fucking am.â
a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.
âcome here.â
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.
âyou smell like blood,â he murmured against your temple.
âyour blood.â
he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. âyou shouldnât have come.â
âshut up,â you whispered. âi couldnât stay away.â
his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasnât sexualânot yetâbut it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.
âyouâre shaking,â he said, voice low.
âiâm not,â you lied.
he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. âyou were scared.â
you didnât deny it.
then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, âiâm sorry.â
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. âjust... donât make me lose you.â
his fingers tightened against your spine. âyou wonât.â
and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay thereâhis 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.
âthank you,â he whispered. âfor disobeying.â
the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attackâeach 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, heâd mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.
you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didnât belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.
on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.
âi know itâs sudden,â he said, voice crackling with low urgency, âbut they need you for the ad. the setâs already built. weâre behind schedule.â
you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.
âitâs the commercial,â he added, softer this time. âthe one with the energy drink. the âneon burnâ campaign.â
you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. âiâll be there.â
the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. theyâd dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuitâelectric 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.
isnât that the girl who married a nakamoto?
sheâs still working? i thought sheâd go into hiding after that shooting...
you didnât flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. youâd learned that from yutaâhow to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.
when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshiâs car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.
âtake me to the hospital,â you said quietly.
he didnât argue, but he didnât hide the concern in his tone either.
âyou keep walking into fire,â he muttered, one hand on the wheel. âone of these days, youâll get burned.â
you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. âthen i guess iâll burn.â
by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige setâtrousers 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.
âwhatâs with the shades?â he asked, swallowing.
you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. âblinding lights. needed protection.â
he eyed you, amused. âyou look like you walked out of a magazine.â
you shrugged. âit was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.â
âso you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?â
âand leg warmers. donât forget the leg warmers.â
he smirked. âshouldâve been there.â
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.
âyou okay?â you asked softly.
âbetter,â he said. âdoc says maybe two more days.â
you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.
âyou really went to work in the middle of all this?â he asked, voice low.
âi didnât want to,â you admitted. âbut i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.â
he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickeredâguilt, maybe. or admiration.
âi heard the crew talking,â you continued. âthey think iâm crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.â
âtheyâre not wrong,â he muttered.
you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. âi brought you something.â
he raised an eyebrow.
you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.
âsee?â you said, a little teasing. ânot a complete mistake.â
he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other manâwounded but human, soft around the edges.
âi missed this,â he said suddenly, voice quieter. âus. when itâs... normal.â
âthis isnât normal,â you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.
âno,â he agreed. âbut itâs ours.â
you felt something catch in your chest.
âyou scared me, yuta,â you said. âthat night. i thoughtâi thought you were going to die in my arms.â
he swallowed. âi know.â
you reached for his hand. he let you.
âand it made me realize... itâs not just about the blood. or the danger. itâs you. itâs always been you.â
he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this momentâsunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.
âyou were shaking,â he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. âyou wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.â
âit was.â
he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.
âiâve had men take bullets for me. iâve had people beg to die in my name. but no oneâs ever looked at me the way you did that night.â
you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.
âhow did i look at you?â you asked.
âlike i was worth saving.â
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 yoursânot quite a kiss, not yetâbut the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.
âiâm not letting you go,â he whispered. ânot now. not after that.â
you didnât reply.
you didnât 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.
âwelcome home, young master,â they murmured in unison.
one of the higher officers stepped forward. âthe men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible⊠was eliminated last night.â
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 didnât say anything. neither did he.
you didnât 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.
âheâs my husband,â you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. âiâll take it.â
he blinked at you, then snorted. âpossessive little thing.â
âiâm just not decorative,â 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 heavyâhe still hadnât 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.
âyutaâ you said softly. âiâm coming in.â
their eyes widened slightlyâyou hadnât 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.
âis this what i get for nearly dying?â he said, voice rough but amused. âa pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?â
you stood, holding the tray. âdonât get used to it.â
âbut i like this version of you.â
âthe barefoot maid version?â
âthe worried wife version.â
you walked over and set the tray in front of him. âyouâll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.â
he chuckled low in his chest. âyouâre all thorns tonight.â
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.
âthis smells like my motherâs,â he murmured.
you looked over. âreally?â
âmm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.â
your voice softened. âwas she strict?â
he took a sip of tea before answering. âno. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.â
âyou donât talk about them much,â you said, careful not to pry.
he rested the cup on the tray. âthereâs not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.â
âwhere did she go?â
âfukushima, maybe. iâm not sure anymore. she hasnât contacted me sinceâŠâ he paused. âsix years.â
you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavyâbut sharp, like the moment before a storm.
âsorry,â you said. âi didnât mean toââ
âit doesnât matter,â he interrupted, glancing at you. âi donât need her.â
he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, âi have you now.â
you looked at him. his voice wasnât teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.
you smiled, faint but genuine. âweâre not really a family though, are we?â
he didnât flinch.
âmaybe not yet,â he said. âbut marriages evolve. even the fake ones.â
you scoffed lightly, looking away. âyou really think this can become something real?â
he shrugged, finishing his tea. âiâve seen stranger things.â
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. âiâll let you rest.â
âyou could stay.â
you looked over your shoulder.
he wasnât smiling now.
just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.
âstay,â he repeated, softer. âwe donât have to talk. just sit.â
you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.
he didnât 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 bloomâsoft, patient, dangerous.
one of my favorite parts is that the character doesn't just bow down to the danger that is yuta. she stands her ground and even plays along with him. LOVEEEEE
izzy806
kaledo-art
theartofmadeline
jacobvanloon
