i love love love pathetic yandere men who cries, kneels, and even grovel on the ground like a dog just to beg an ounce of your love and attention.
he doesn't care if the sharp tiny rocks embed on his knees. he doesn't care if people are looking at him, laughing and taking videos of his pathetic act. oh, is he embarrassing you? he cries a string of sorrys and begs for your forgiveness.
but him clinging, hugging your legs tightly doesn't help. in fact, it only became worse. with your face flushed from embarrassment, you gave in to his wishes and dragged him out of the public eye.
he'd follow you home where his long awaited punishment would take place. you would edge him so many times, it hurts. too close to cumming but he'd never reach his climax. twitching, whining, and crying naked on your sheets, he could do nothing but beg and beg for your mercy.
warnings. — oral (f rec), petnames, fingering, hard fucking, multiple sex scenes, jaehyun is hungry af, edging, praising kink, dumbification, multiple sex positions, wife and husband, married, loud sex, y/n has a full back tattoo, they're so inlovee, backshots, size difference / size kink, manhandling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink (light or heavy), marking.
wc. — 2.3k
synopsis. — jaehyun comes home from military leave exhausted but desperate for his wife (reader) the second he walks in he devours you—deep kisses, relentless oral, then rough backshots on the couch for half an hour straight. needy, vocal, marking you up while praising you softly. high sex drive means the night is nowhere near over. your body and full tattooed back take everything he gives.
the door clicked open at 11:47 pm. jaehyun stepped inside still in his military fatigues, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, boots heavy on the wooden floor. twenty-eight years old, broad shoulders filling the frame, taller than the doorway made sense for. two weeks into his temporary discharge, thirty days total—and this was the first night he made it home before midnight. the apartment smelled like the jasmine rice you cooked earlier and the faint vanilla of your lotion.
you were on the couch in an oversized black t-shirt and nothing else, legs tucked under, scrolling on your phone, back decorated with that full snake graphic tattoo that curled from your shoulder blades down to the dip above your ass. you looked up when the door shut and your whole face changed—eyes softening, lips parting like you’d been waiting for this exact second.
he dropped the bag. didn’t even kick his boots off properly.
“hey,” he said, voice low, tired, but already thickening with something else.
you stood up fast.
he crossed the room in three strides, caught you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the floor. the size difference hit immediately—your feet dangling, his biceps flexing under the fabric as he pulled you against his chest.
he was bulkier now, months of training carved into lean muscle, abs tight, happy trail disappearing under his belt. you fit against him like you were made to disappear there.
“missed you so fucking much,” he muttered against your mouth before he kissed you.
it wasn’t soft. he swallowed you whole—tongue sliding in deep, wet, controlling the angle so your head tilted back. you whimpered into it, eyes fluttering shut, mouth going slack almost instantly because he didn’t let you lead.
he did everything: sucked on your tongue, licked the roof of your mouth, bit your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp. one big hand cupped the back of your head, the other gripping your ass, squeezing, kneading like he needed to remind himself you were real.
your back hit the couch first. he followed right after, caging you in, knees on either side of your hips. you were already breathing hard, cheeks flushed. he pulled your t-shirt up and off in one motion, mouth latching onto your neck, then lower—collarbone, the soft swell of your breast, sucking marks that would bruise tomorrow. his dimples flashed when he looked up at you for half a second, that boyish smile cutting through the hunger.
“jaehyun—” you started, but he was already moving down, spreading your legs with his shoulders.
he ate you like a man starved. tongue flat and slow at first, then focused, relentless. every lick, every suck had your hips twitching. he groaned against you, the vibration making you whine louder. one arm hooked under your thigh, holding you open while the other hand pressed down on your lower stomach, keeping you still. you came the first time fast—back arching, small hands fisting his short hair, a broken “fuck” slipping out.
he didn’t stop.
second time he added two fingers, curling them just right, mouth still working your clit. you were shaking, overwhelmed, eyes glassy. he looked up at you, lips shiny, dimples deep. “that’s it, baby. let me have it.”
by the third you were pushing at his shoulders, too sensitive, but he just kissed your inner thigh and murmured, “one more for me, my wife. missed this pussy so bad.”
when he finally pulled back, his cock was straining against his pants—thick, heavy, already leaking. he stood just long enough to shove his fatigues down, shirt ripped off over his head. abs flexing, biceps bulging, that happy trail leading down to where he was rock hard. y/n’s eyes widened a little every time, like you still couldn’t believe how big he was.
he flipped you over without warning, pulling your hips up so you were on all fours on the couch, back arched, that snake tattoo on full display. he ran his palm down your spine, thumb tracing the inked bones and scales. “love this fucking tattoo,” he said, voice rough. “love looking at it while i fuck you.”
he pushed in slow at first—letting you feel every inch, stretching you open. you were so tight, so wet from his mouth, but still gasping at the fullness. your waist in his big hands looked tiny. he bottomed out and stayed there a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder blade, breathing hard.
“so good,” he whispered. “my beautiful wife. so fucking perfect for me.”
then he started moving.
rough. desperate. months of pent-up need in every thrust. skin slapping, couch creaking under you both. he gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, one hand sliding up to press between your shoulder blades, pushing your chest down while he fucked you deeper. backshots for what felt like forever—half an hour at least, pace never letting up. he’d slow down when you got close, edging you until you were crying into the cushion, then slam back in harder.
“jaehyun—please—” you whimpered, voice muffled.
“i know, baby. i got you.” his voice stayed soft even when his hips were brutal. “cum for me again. wanna feel you squeezing me.”
you did—over and over. he talked you through every one: low praises, “good girl,” “that’s my wife,” “missed you so much, missed being inside you.” his hands never stopped moving—groping your ass, squeezing your waist, reaching around to rub your clit when he wanted you to fall apart faster.
he pulled you up once, back against his chest, still buried deep, one arm banded across your stomach while the other hand tilted your head for another messy kiss. tongue fucking your mouth while he ground up into you. you went boneless, mouth hanging open, little gasps and whines the only sounds you could make while he did all the work.
by the time he finally let himself go, you were both drenched in sweat. he came with a deep groan, hips stuttering, filling you until it leaked down your thighs. even then he didn’t pull out right away—just held you close, kissing the back of your neck, dimples pressing into your skin as he smiled against you.
“we’re not done,” he murmured, voice hoarse but already hungry again. “got a whole month, baby. and i’m not letting you leave this apartment much.”
you laughed weakly, still trembling, pussy aching in the best way. “rip me then.”
he flipped you onto your back, settled between your legs again, mouth already descending.
“that’s the plan.”
both of you barely made it to the bedroom.
jaehyun had you in his arms the second he pulled out from the couch, your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory. cum was still leaking down your thighs, but he didn’t care. he carried you down the short hallway, mouth never leaving yours—tongue slow and deep, licking into you like he was trying to taste every whimper you made. your arms were loose around his neck, brain already hazy, body buzzing from the first round.
he kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and dropped you onto the bed face down. the sheets were cool against your overheated skin. you didn’t even have time to push up on your elbows before he was on you—big body covering yours completely, one knee shoving your legs together so they stayed straight and tight. he mounted you like that, chest pressed to your back, weight pinning you down just enough that you couldn’t really move. the snake tattoo on your spine flexed under his palm as he ran his hand down your back.
“stay like this, baby,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and rough. his cock, still hard and slick from before, nudged between your thighs. “gonna fuck you just like this.”
he pushed in slow, forcing your legs to stay closed so the fit was ridiculously tight. the squelch was loud—wet, obscene, every inch sliding through the mess he’d already left inside you. you moaned into the pillow, the sound muffled and broken. you were already so full, so sensitive, but the way he stretched you with your thighs pressed together made everything feel sharper.
jaehyun groaned deep in his chest, forehead dropping to the back of your neck. “fuck… so tight. hear that? that’s my wife’s pretty pussy.”
he started moving—long, heavy strokes that made the bed creak. every thrust pushed you deeper into the mattress, your small frame swallowed under his taller, bulkier one. the happy trail on his stomach brushed against your lower back with every roll of his hips. his biceps flexed on either side of your head as he braced himself, one hand sliding under you to grip your waist—21 centimeters of soft skin and bone that fit perfectly in his palm.
you sobbed.
not from pain—from being completely overwhelmed. the kind of brain-clouded sob that came when you were already fucked dumb and he just kept going. your moans turned wet and shaky, face flat against the pillow, mouth open, drool starting to soak the fabric. every time he bottomed out the wet slap of skin and the squelchy sound of your pussy taking him made you cry out louder.
“jae—hyun… ah—fuck—”
poor neighbors. the walls weren’t that thick and it was past midnight, but he didn’t slow down. if anything your broken little sobs fueled him more. he loved when you got like this—completely lost, eyes unfocused, body limp except for the way your walls fluttered around him.
he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “that’s it, my beautiful wife. let it out. sound so good when you cry for me.”
always a kisser. he turned your head to the side with two fingers under your chin and kissed you like he was starving for it. tongue sliding in deep, playing with yours, sucking on it, licking the roof of your mouth while he kept fucking you in that tight, closed-leg position. you couldn’t even kiss back properly anymore—your mouth just stayed open, letting him do whatever he wanted. soft whines and gasps vibrated against his tongue every time he thrust hard.
he pulled back only to kiss the corner of your lips, your cheek, the shell of your ear, then dove back in again. one hand stayed on your waist, the other reached under to rub slow circles on your clit. the dual sensation made you sob louder, legs trying to twitch but trapped between his.
“so fucking wet,” he whispered against your mouth, voice soft even as his hips snapped harder. “missed this. missed filling you up every day. my wife… my pretty little wife taking me so well.”
he edged you twice like that—slowing down right when you were about to tip over, grinding deep instead of thrusting, kissing you through the frustrated whimpers. then he’d pick the pace back up, rougher, deeper, until the squelching noises got louder and your sobs turned into desperate, hiccuping moans.
third time he didn’t stop.
you came hard, body shaking under him, pussy clenching so tight around his cock that he hissed. your face stayed smashed into the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry for a second before the sound broke free—high and wrecked. he fucked you through it, never pulling out, just slow deep rolls of his hips while you pulsed around him.
“good girl,” he praised, lips brushing your temple. “cum on my cock again, baby. wanna feel it.”
he didn’t let you come down. flipped you just enough to slide one arm under your chest, pulling your upper body slightly off the bed so he could kiss you better while still fucking you from behind. tongue in your mouth, lazy and filthy, matching the rhythm of his hips. you were completely brainless now—eyes half-lidded, tears clinging to your lashes, little whimpers every time he hit that spot inside you.
he kept going. minutes blurred. the wet sounds of your pussy, the slap of his hips against your ass, your muffled sobs and moans filling the room. his hand never left your clit, drawing another orgasm out of you until you were shaking so hard he had to hold you tighter.
“jaehyun… can’t—too much—”
“you can,” he said gently, kissing the side of your neck, then your jaw, then claiming your mouth again. “one more for me. my beautiful wife. let me have it.”
when he finally let himself finish, it was with a low groan against your lips, hips stuttering as he pumped you full again. he stayed buried deep, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped around your small frame like he never wanted to let go. sweat slicked your skin. the snake tattoo on your back glistened under the low lamp light.
he kissed you again—slow, deep, tongue gently playing with yours even as you both tried to catch your breath. you were limp, fucked out, barely able to respond, but he still licked into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough.
“love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse but soft. dimples pressing into your shoulder as he smiled against your skin. “missed my wife so fucking much.”
he didn’t pull out yet. just held you there, cock still twitching inside you, kissing the back of your neck, your tattooed spine, murmuring praises while your body trembled with aftershocks.
summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.
warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.
wc: 12,1k
notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷
part ii. epilogue
taglist: special dedication to this anon.
@beestvng @bamtor1sss
osaka, japan — summer, 1995.
the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.
at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.
he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.
his rise had been swift and ruthless.
they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.
but fear didn’t keep the police away.
by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.
the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.
“get married,” takuya said.
his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”
yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”
takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”
“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”
but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”
he hated how logical it sounded.
it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.
he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”
yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.
but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.
he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.
he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.
the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.
“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”
people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.
hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”
you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”
he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.
“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”
you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.
“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”
no one dares to breathe.
fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.
the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.
by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.
he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.
you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.
so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.
you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.
but that night changed everything.
you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?
the knock at your door startled you.
sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.
you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.
riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.
“we need to talk,” he said.
your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.
“what did you do?”
“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”
you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.
“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”
you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”
“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”
your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.
you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.
and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.
not this time.
the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.
takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.
“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”
yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.
he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.
“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”
before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.
“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”
he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.
takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.
“where did you get these?” he asked.
“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”
yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.
his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.
“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.
riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”
“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.
takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.
“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”
yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.
“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.
“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”
yuta tilted his head slightly.
“opportunity,” he repeated.
there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.
outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.
finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.
“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”
he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.
“and tell her to wear white.”
takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.
as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.
he smiled — slow, dangerous.
“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.
the car wasn’t riku’s.
you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.
you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.
“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”
he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.
“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.
“you sound like someone in trouble.”
he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.
the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.
“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.
you shook your head. “no. who are they?”
he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.
“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”
“you’re talking about the mafia.”
“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”
you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.
he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.
the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.
your stomach tightened.
you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.
riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.
“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”
you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”
quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.
especially not him.
your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.
riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.
you blinked. “riku—”
he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.
“kneel,” he whispered.
your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.
the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.
riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”
a pause.
then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.
“enter.”
the doors slid open.
and there he was.
seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.
he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.
he just looked at you.
like you were something being weighed.
and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.
something shift.
like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.
the room was quiet.
no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.
he hadn’t said anything.
yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.
he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.
like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.
and right now, his eyes were on you.
you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.
your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.
and yuta noticed.
his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.
you swallowed hard.
“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”
you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.
“stand,” yuta said.
your breath caught.
he wasn’t talking to riku.
you.
he meant you.
with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.
yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.
when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.
interest.
“turn around,” he said.
your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.
you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.
then:
“enough.”
you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.
“how old are you?” he asked.
“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.
his gaze narrowed slightly.
“virgin?”
your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.
you didn’t answer.
yuta arched a brow.
“i asked you a question.”
you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.
“yes.”
a pause.
yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.
“good,” he murmured.
you didn’t know what that meant.
but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.
“leave us,” he said.
just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.
“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.
riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.
and now you were alone.
alone with nakamoto yuta.
his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.
“come closer,” he said.
and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.
as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.
you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.
he didn’t flinch.
he didn’t apologize either.
he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.
“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”
your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”
“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.
the words hit you like a slap.
you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”
“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”
you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.
like you were already part of the machine.
“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”
you almost flinched again. almost.
he noticed.
“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”
you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.
you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.
you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.
“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”
you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”
his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.
“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”
you stared at him.
“you want to marry me.”
“i need to,” he corrected.
“and you expect me to just—”
before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.
“enter,” yuta called.
the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.
“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”
takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.
“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”
you swallowed.
takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”
he looked you in the eye now.
“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”
your heart skipped a beat.
“you want me to marry him?”
yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.
“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”
your breath caught.
“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”
you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.
your cheeks burned.
“and what do i get?”
“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”
his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”
you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.
you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.
“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”
he finally spoke again.
“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”
you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.
but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.
you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.
you crossed your arms.
“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”
yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.
“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”
“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”
you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”
he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.
“both.”
you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.
“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”
he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.
“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”
your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.
“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”
“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”
you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.
he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.
he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.
“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”
your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.
“wear white again.”
“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.
he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.
“good. you’re learning.”
you didn't sleep the night before.
not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.
riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.
“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”
you pulled the zipper down.
the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.
“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”
“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”
you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.
you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta
you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.
the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.
your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.
you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.
the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.
you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.
he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.
only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.
“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”
the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.
when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.
you turned.
you placed a hand on his chest.
and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.
he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.
you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.
the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.
you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”
you didn’t answer.
but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.
the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.
the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.
you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.
the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.
then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.
you hated that your skin remembered it.
later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.
he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.
“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”
you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”
he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”
you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”
he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.
“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”
that startled you more than anything.
“…seriously?”
“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”
you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.
you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.
after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.
“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”
you looked up at him, surprised.
“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.
his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”
you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.
“…thanks,” you muttered.
he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”
you snorted. “damn right they did.”
he left without another word.
you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.
and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.
you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.
it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.
slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.
you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.
“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”
you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”
he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”
of course he is.
you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.
you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.
yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.
you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.
“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”
he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.
“go ahead.”
you paused. “can i have privacy?”
that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.
as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.
you dialed. it rang twice.
“y/n?”
his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”
you bit your lip. “…i got married.”
silence.
then—
“WHAT?”
you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.
“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”
you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”
“but—why?!”
you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”
he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”
you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”
his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”
you didn’t answer that.
instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”
after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.
then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”
the door slid open slowly.
yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.
his voice was lower this time. unreadable.
“who’s hitoshi?”
you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”
his jaw tightened. “just answer.”
“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”
“you seemed close.”
“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”
he stared at you a moment longer.
and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,
“…you look like you were made for this.”
you didn’t reply.
but you didn’t look away either.
you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.
yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.
you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.
“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.
you only nodded.
the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.
not really.
yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.
you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.
“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.
yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.
“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”
yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.
takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”
yuta’s jaw flexed.
“it’s not that.”
“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”
“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”
takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”
the car pulled away.
inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.
“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.
“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”
the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.
hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.
his expression was pure disbelief.
you sat down without a word.
“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”
“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”
“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”
“you’re overreacting.”
“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”
you met his gaze evenly.
“i’m safe.”
he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”
“hitoshi—”
“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”
your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”
his face froze.
you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.
“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”
he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.
he sat back.
“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”
you smiled faintly.
“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”
he watched you for a long moment.
“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“i do.”
he nodded.
then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”
you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.
when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.
yuta was waiting when you arrived.
he didn’t speak right away.
but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.
“how was it?” he asked at last.
“expected,” you said.
he didn’t respond.
so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.
“don’t look at me like that.”
his brow lifted. “like what?”
“like you think he’s more than what he is.”
“and what is he?”
you tilted your chin.
“not your problem.”
the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.
he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.
“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”
you met his eyes without flinching.
“then act like it.”
you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.
he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.
the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.
“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.
you nodded. “always.”
it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.
“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.
you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”
he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.
that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.
you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.
a screech of tires shattered the silence.
your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.
“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.
you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”
his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.
“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.
“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.
“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.
you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”
his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.
“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.
you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”
minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”
you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”
your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”
he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”
they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.
you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.
but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.
“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”
you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”
he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”
just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.
“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”
your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.
takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.
your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.
the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.
the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.
when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.
“you don’t fucking listen.”
“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”
he hesitated.
“where is he?” you demanded.
after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.
room 304.
you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.
he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.
“you’re here.”
“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”
his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”
you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.
“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”
he hummed. “i figured.”
you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.
“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“i didn’t.”
“you’re not invincible, yuta.”
his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”
“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”
he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”
you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”
a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.
“come here.”
you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.
“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.
“your blood.”
he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”
“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”
his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.
“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.
“i’m not,” you lied.
he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”
you didn’t deny it.
then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”
it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.
you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”
his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”
and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.
his lips brushed your forehead.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”
the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.
you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.
you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.
on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.
“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”
you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.
“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”
you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”
the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.
it was absurd.
and yet you killed it.
even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.
but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.
isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?
she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...
you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.
when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.
“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.
“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”
you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”
by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.
no one stopped you. they knew you by now.
room 304.
you entered without knocking.
yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.
“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.
you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”
he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”
you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”
“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”
“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”
he smirked. “should’ve been there.”
you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.
“you okay?” you asked softly.
“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”
you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.
“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.
“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”
he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.
“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”
“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.
you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”
he raised an eyebrow.
you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.
“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”
he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.
“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”
“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.
“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”
you felt something catch in your chest.
“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”
he swallowed. “i know.”
you reached for his hand. he let you.
“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”
he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.
“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”
“it was.”
he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.
“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”
you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.
“how did i look at you?” you asked.
“like i was worth saving.”
you swallowed hard.
his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.
“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”
you didn’t reply.
you didn’t need to.
you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.
he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.
the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.
the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.
“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.
one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”
yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.
you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.
you didn’t say anything. neither did he.
you didn’t have to.
he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.
the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.
later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.
“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”
he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”
“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.
on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.
the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.
“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”
their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.
inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.
when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.
“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”
you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”
“but i like this version of you.”
“the barefoot maid version?”
“the worried wife version.”
you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”
he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”
you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.
“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.
you looked over. “really?”
“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”
your voice softened. “was she strict?”
he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”
“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.
he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”
“where did she go?”
“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”
you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.
“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”
“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”
he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”
you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.
you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”
he didn’t flinch.
“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”
you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”
he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”
you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.
you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”
“you could stay.”
you looked over your shoulder.
he wasn’t smiling now.
just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.
“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”
you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.
he didn’t move it.
neither did you.
you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.
♣︎ a/n "i should probably finish my other fics" NAHH fuck them lets write another
haechan is just a simple guy. he doesn't mean any harm to you, you just happened to catch his eye one afternoon on campus.
maybe it was the way you laughed at something your friend said, head tilted back without a care in the world. maybe it was the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear while reading beneath the shade of a tree or maybe there wasn't a reason at all.
all he knows is that after that day, he couldn't forget you, he tried. he really did but somehow everytime he thought about you led his hand in his trousers.
he was tired, tired of stroking himself alone. he laid in his bed every night, the rhythm of his chest rising up and down, sweat scattered on his forehead, as he imagines you, taking his length, filling you to the brim, tears leaving your eyes. he even thought about impreganting you, so you can't leave him.
but at the end of the day, it's all just a piece of his imagination. however, fate has another plan, the dream house party is this weekend. this time, he'd approach you without hesitation filling his blood.
it was finally the weekend. the one where haechan had been thinking about for weeks, where he was finally going to talk to you. he genuinely felt so pathetic as if he was high school teenage girl trying to confess to her crush, but the thing was that this was exactly the same thing.
he saw you the moment you walked in. the noise of the party didn’t fade, not really, but something about you cut through it anyway. oh god, you wore a short skim dress, not aware at how many jerks might be staring at you (including him) which made him want to gauge their eyes. he swore he popped a boner right there and then.
his hands embarassingly sweaty, resulting him clamping his hands over his crotch, trying to hide his rising length during the whole party. it was 12 am, people were leaving slowly, haechan was still there, still standing somewhere between “i’m going to do it” and “i’ll wait a few more minutes.”
which, at this point, was basically his entire personality for the night, he watched you from across the room. you were still surrounded by your friends, still talking, still smiling at something someone said like the world wasn’t quietly winding down around you. like time wasn’t slipping away with every second he hesitated.
he sighed, finally forcing his feet to move this was it. no more standing there pretending he was “waiting for the right moment.” there was no right moment. there was only this one, messy, real, slightly terrifying one.
he took a step forward, then another, eyes locked on you like if he looked away even for a second, he might lose the courage completely but then–
your group shifted, your friends started moving straight toward him or more specifically, toward his friends’ side of the room. haechan’s steps slowed almost instantly.
of course.
of course this was happening now, his heart kicked up so fast it almost felt loud in his ears, like it was trying to warn him before his brain could even catch up. suddenly, everything felt closer. tighter. like the room had shrunk without asking permission.
haechan caught in his gaze, the way you were walking towards him right now...everytime you took a step, your oh so perfect tits bounce just right, his eyes locked on them, for too long but not too long for you to notice. it drived him to the edge of crazy.
his mind already racing with filthly thoughts, he shifts uncomfortably, adjusting his growing erection in his pants. he let out a small, slightly awkward breath that might’ve been a laugh if he had more control over his nervous system.
one of your friends cut in first, haechan barely had time to register the movement before someone was suddenly in front of him, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“hey! wanna play truth or dare?”
for a second, he just blinked because his brain was still stuck on you being right there. close enough that he didn’t even have to look for you anymore.
“uh—yeah,” he heard himself say before he could overthink it into oblivion, his voice sounded normal. somehow miraculously. his friends immediately reacted like he had just agreed to jump off a building for fun.
haechan shot them a look, but it didn’t really land because his attention kept slipping back to you.
the group started forming a loose circle in the living room, people dragging chairs, sitting on the floor, laughing as the night finally settled into something slower, more contained.
haechan slides into the circle, positioning himself directly across from you so he has a perfect view. he leans back on his hands, legs spread casually as he watches you settle into your spot.
"alright, who's going first?" jaemin asks, spinning an empty bottle in the center. the bottle slows down, pointing directly at one of your friends.one of the friends clapped her hands dramatically, grinning “truth or dare?” the girl the bottle landed on didn’t even hesitate “truth!” immediate chaos.
the group around her reacted at once,
“no fun!!”
“boring!”
“you’re supposed to suffer a little!”
laughter broke through the complaints, filling the space again, light and easy, bouncing off the walls that were slowly feeling less like a party and more like a shared secret between everyone left in the room.
haechan let himself smile a little at that, just watching, but then his eyes drifted.
of course they did, to you.
you were sitting not too far away, listening, laughing at something someone whispered beside you, completely relaxed like the whole thing didn’t have the same effect on him that it did on you.
the girl suddenly leaned forward, eyes scanning the circle like she was about to expose secrets for fun “okay so,” she said, dragging it out for effect, “the people among us… who still is a virgin!" the room went instantly louder.
“oh my god—”
laughter bounced around the circle as people started pointing, teasing, trying to guess before anyone even answered properly. she buried her face in her hands for a second before finally peeking out between her fingers “ugh, fine.”
the room quieted immediately, she pointed across the circle “it's y/n..!" for a split second, everything went still then every head turned toward you, haechan's heart immediately dropped somewhere near his stomach.
the words hit him like a truck, his breath hitching audibly in his throat. immediately, his jeans became painfully tight, the realization that you were untouched driving him absolutely insane. he shifts his legs uncomfortably, trying to hide the massive bulge forming in his pants, his eyes locked solely on you with a newfound, predatory hunger. "fuck..." he muttered under his breath.
you looked completely caught off guard, “what?” you laughed, staring at your friend in disbelief.
“you asked!”
“i didn't think you'd actually say it..”
the room exploded into reactions, some people looked shocked and some looked suspicious. others immediately started teasing you while your friend defended herself with a dramatic, “don't blame me! you told me the truth!”
later, as the party slowly emptied out, people began gathering their things and saying their goodbyes.
the once crowded living room was now scattered with half-finished conversations and tired laughter. the energy had shifted completely from loud and chaotic to soft and sleepy.
haechan stood near the front door, hands tucked into his pockets and somehow, after spending an entire night trying to gather the courage to talk to you, he still hadn't done it.
it was actually impressive.
almost, then he saw you. you were saying goodbye to your friends, adjusting the strap of your bag as you prepared to leave. his stomach dropped.
no.
absolutely not.
if he let you walk out that door now, he knew exactly what would happen. before he could talk himself out of it, his feet started moving and suddenly he was standing in front of you. for a moment, neither of you said anything.
mostly because haechan's carefully prepared speech had completely disappeared from his brain.
"uh..."
great start.
you looked at him expectantly, he nearly laughed from nerves "you're leaving?" the second the words left his mouth, he wanted to throw himself into traffic.
obviously you were leaving.
you were standing by the door with your bag on.
genius observation.
but instead of looking annoyed, you smiled slightly. "yeah."
"right. yeah." he said, with a hint of hesitation.
silence.
haechan could feel himself actively losing this battle then he forced himself to continue "i was wondering..." his voice came out steadier this time. "would it be okay if i dropped you home?"
for a second, his heart forgot how to function, the question hung between you yet somehow it felt like the most terrifying thing he'd ever asked. you blinked, clearly surprised, not uncomfortable. just surprised which, honestly, was fair.
from your perspective, a guy you'd barely spoken to had suddenly appeared at the end of the night offering you a ride.
haechan immediately rushed to explain "only if you're okay with it," he added quickly. "if not, that's completely fine." he scratched the back of his neck, looking away for a moment "i just thought i'd ask." his honesty surprised even himself.
you studied him for a second and for the first time since he'd noticed you months ago in that university courtyard, haechan realized he wasn't looking at some impossible fantasy. he was standing in front of a real person and for the first time, you were looking right back at him.
ever since that night he dropped you to your home. it stimulates him that he knows where you live, your address. he has no bad intentions, he would never think of doing such a pathetic thing— but here he is, infront of your apartment complex.
he has your routine memorized, like the back of his hand. to anyone it was just a mundane routine but to him? it was poetry. he knew, at five am, the morning light peeked in your apartment causing you to wake up. then you'd get ready til six thirty am and leave for your uni.
you'd return home by seven to seven thirty pm, the real rush that made his blood hum with excitement was that today you were at a sleepover, he heard from your friends meaning you wouldn't be home today.
he has no bad intentions, really. he just wants you to feel loved, loved by him.
right now, he stands in front of your apartment. his eyes are locked on the keypad. he paces slowly in the dimly lit hallway. in his mind, he replays the exact movement of your finger. he had the code completely memorized.
he steps closer and presses the digits one by one. a sharp beep tears through the silent hallway. the lock click turns, as the door opens and all he could smell was remnents of you, your smell and your presence.
he steps inside, his eyes filled with lust scanning the familiarly unfamiliar place, the scent of vanilla and jasmine hits him instantly, your scent. it's intoxicating, driving him mad with desire.
he closes the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet apartment. he pushes open your bedroom door slowly, stepping inside. his breath catches in his throat. the room is a sanctuary, soft pink walls, fairy lights draped across the ceiling, your scent lingering in the air like a beautiful ghost. he runs his fingers along the edge of your desk, his touch gentle, reverent.
he exits youe room, his feet moving towards the bathroom with a hidden ambition. his heart races as he spies your discarded panties on the bathroom floor. he picks them up cautiously, bringing them to his nose, oh god, your smell... something intimate and erotic awakes inside of him. his cock hardens instantly in his sweatpants.
he looks around, checking if someone could see him. the irony, his hand travels down to his trousers. he palmed his crotch as he found himself delving into your scent, he gasps for air.
he presses the fabric against his nose again, inhaling deeply. his free hand travels down his sweatpants, slowly. his throbbing length springs free and he groans softly, stroking himself as he sniffs your panties. he breathes, his thumb circling his tip. his breath is ragged, desperate. desperate for you.
his hand moves faster, pumping his length rhythmically as he imagines you beneath him. he presses your panties against his face, groaning at the intoxicating scent, "fuck... you smell so good, baby..." he pants, his hips bucking slightly, he closes his eyes, picturing your face.
his strokes grow harder, faster. in his mind, he sees you— eyes wide, lips parted as he slides inside you. He imagines your tight warmth gripping him, your soft moans filling his ears, "yes... take it all" he whines, his hips thrusting into empty air, his voice echoing in the empty apartment.
his pace becomes frantic, desperate. his cock twitches violently in his grip as he imagines your walls clamping down on him, milking him endlessly. his other hand squeezes your panties against his face, he strokes himself with the thrill of getting caught by you.
with a guttural, choked moan, his body arches violently. thick ropes of cum spill over his hand and the bathroom floor, his hips bucking uncontrollably into his fist as he rides out the intense orgasm. he gasps, panting heavily. his entire body trembles as the waves of pleasure crash over him.
after shamelessly catching his breath, he moves to your dresser, pulling open the drawer filled with your neatly folded panties. his eyes darken with hunger as he selects a pair. soft, silk, unused. he rubs his drying cum across the fabric, marking them with his essence.
a dark grin spreads across his face as he finishes marking them, his chest swells with twisted pride that every morning you'll slide into these panties, unaware that his cum will be pressing against your folds, coating your delicate flesh. you'll walk around, go about your day, feeling nothing but the fabric.
the next few days, he sees you across campus and his heart swells with this dark secret. you wave at him brightly, completely unaware that your sweet pussy is basically wraped around his essence. he waves back, playing the naive friend while inside he's burning with possesion.
for the next few weeks, the space between you teo seemed to shrink with every passing day. it became a fixture in the lecture halls, always sliding into the same creaking wooden seats, shoulders brushing with every shared laugh. but the casual hangouts and quiet study dates were no longer enough to quiet the restless storm brewing inside him.
a heavy, aching dissatisfaction had taken root. he didn’t just want to be close to you anymore; he wanted to tear down every remaining boundary, to consume you completely and feel you wrap around him from the inside out.
he just couldn't wait no more. he tried. he really did. but you would test his patience when you showed up in the shortest shorts, and tight tanks that barely covered you. sometimes he wondered if you were intentionally straining his patience, pushing his self-control to the limit.
today, he stood just a step away, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. the usual easygoing warmth in his eyes had vanished, replaced by something dark, intense, and unreadable as he watched the rain drip from your jawline.
you'd asked him to drop you off to your apartment, but it started raining, heavily. oh, how haechan thanked the heavens.
the rain fell in punishing sheets, standing under the shelter of the apartment awning, you were both completely soaked. strands of wet hair clung to your face, and your clothes felt heavy, plastering themselves to your skin.
haechan's eyes flickered, catching the way your white shirt had become translucent from the rain, clinging to your curves like a second skin. through the thin, wet fabric, your black bra was clearly visible, the lace pattern barely concealed.
he swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing as he watched the water droplets trail down between your breasts, disappearing beneath your collar.
it took every ounce of his self-control to keep his composure. he clenched his jaw, forcing his eyes away from the tantalizing sight of your wet shirt clinging to your breasts. he shifted his weight, discreetly adjusting his stance to hide the growing problem in his jeans, his knuckles turning white as he shoved his hands into his pockets.
"uh, i'll go now.." he said, diverting his eyes from you. "you're going to freeze out here," you said, your voice shivering slightly as you offered a kind, sympathetic smile. you gestured toward the heavy glass doors of the complex.
"come inside. just until the storm lets up, i can get you a dry towel." you urged him. how could he refuse you?, to which he reluctantly walked to your apartment, his steps heavy and deliberate as he followed you down the quiet corridor. he kept his eyes locked firmly on the back of your head, watching the way your wet clothes clung to your skin.
his hands curling into tight fists at his sides to keep from reaching out prematurely. he was crossing the threshold into your private world. a faint, dangerous shift passed over his features; a predator recognizing that the cage doors had just been unlocked from the inside.
when you unlocked the door, he stepped inside the utterly familiar house, which once he filled his scent with, inhaling deeply. the air still holds traces of him, ghosts of his presence, of the countless hours he's spent inside your walls. his eyes scan over you, damp and vulnerable, unaware that he's violated this sanctuary of yours dozens of times.
he watches you disappear into the bathroom, his mind racing. the sight of you, soaked and naive, has his heart pounding and his jeans growing tight. when you return with a towel, he takes it from you without a word, deliberately letting his fingers brush against yours.
"thanks.." he said with a soft smile, "yeah, no worries. just make sure don't catch a cold!
he nods, forcing his smile to remain casual as he watches you dry your hair. the gentle concern in your voice sends a jolt of possessiveness through him. he wants to keep you warm, keep you safe... and keep you wrapped around his dick.
"i'll bring you something warm to drink, mhm?" you said softly. his heart swelled at your sweetness. he nodded, watching you walk into the kitchen to make hot coffee. his steps were completely silent as he followed.
he purposely stood directly behind you, pressing his broad, damp chest flush against your back. he leaned his weight against the counter, trapping you between his bodu and the kitchen island. his cock presses against your soaked shorts as he feigns casual indifference, pretending to observe the coffee brewing.
"smells good," yeah, he couldn't give one single fuck about the coffee, the only scent he was craving was yours. he murmurs against your ear, his hips subtly grinding forward so you can't miss it.
you jolted, your breath hitching at the sudden warmth pressing against your back. you quickly convinced yourself he wasn’t doing it intentionally; the kitchen was small, and he was just trying to stay out of the way.
trying to shake off the sudden nervousness, you forced your hands to stay steady and continued brewing the coffee, "uh, yeah..." you stammered, your voice trailing off as you stared fixedly at the mugs, trying to ignore the wetness dripping in your panties.
he notices your nervousness and it intoxicates him. the way you're trying so hard to be normal, to be a good host, while he's violating your personal space. he grinds a little harder, letting you feel the full length of his arousal pressed between your ass cheeks.
you didn't mean to let out a whimper, your clamped your thighs tighter at the contact. haechan's ego swelling at your lack of experience.
his eyes flash with triumph at your unintentional whimper. he swallows hard, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you back against him fully. his other hand moves to cover yours on the counter, holding you in place as he continues to grind against you slowly, deliberately.
"shh..." his hand travels around your curves, you didn't stop him, it felt so good.
he feels your knees weaken and it makes him dizzy with power. your body is betraying you, responding to his hidden assault even as your mind remains oblivious. he grinds with more pressure. "just let your body feel it...doll."
his hand slides down from your waist to grip your thigh, lifting it slightly to change the angle so he can press deeper between your cheeks. he kisses your neck gently as he dry humps you against the counter.
haechan was way more vocal than you, he moaned against your ear, goosebumps spreading across your skin. his hand travels down to the waistband of your soaked shorts and your panties, tugging them down slowly as your whimpers fill the kitchen.
he drops them to the floor, exposing your bare skin to the cool air and his burning gaze. his cock is rock hard against your ass, slick with his own precum. "you're so wet, baby.." he groans, "you can give it to me, right?"
he coaxed you with his sweet and gentle voice, His voice drops to a low, soothing murmur as his fingers find your slick folds, sliding inside you with agonizing slowness. he feels your walls clench around him, your body responding despite your confusion.
"easy there, doll... just relax for me..." he curls his fingers gently, searching for that spot he knows makes you melt. "you feel so good..."
"haechan...i've never done this before..." you let out a breathy moan, his heart stutters at your confession–which he already knows, something dark and predatory burns behimd his eyes. he strokes you slower, gentler, revering the wet heat of you. his thumb finds the bundle of nerves, rubbing soft circles. he continues to stimulate you to the fullest.
he turns you to face him, his hands framing your face gently as he sees your eyes got glossy from the mere pleasure he gave you. he wondered how badly are you going to break when he stuffs you with his cock, filling you up or when he fucks your throat ruthlessly, gagging around his cock.
oh he was just getting started, you were so devastingly innocent, all he wanted to do was to corrupt you beyond any limit.
his lips curl into a dark smile as he takes in your innocent face, your tear-filled eyes. he realizes just how easy it would be to corrupt you, to take your virginity and make you love every second of it.
haechan, then led you into the bedroom, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you forward. once inside he started peeling off his clothes right in front of you, first tugging his shirt over his head to reveal his chest, then shoving his pants and underwear down in one motion.
his cock sprung free, already half-hard and flushed. he stepped out of the pile of fabric and moved closer, reaching for your own clothes next. he stripped you slowly, pulling your soaked shirt off, as he clipped off your bra as you stood bare in front of him.
suddenly you were hyperaware of everything about you. you felt insecure, your hands rushed to cover your breasts– but haechan burned inside when he witnessed you conceal your beautiful body, the body which he can worship for hours, the body which he could not leave untouched.
"no, no, no." he immediately pushed your hands from covering yourself. he sounded so angered as if it personally offended him, it absolutely did. he let you sit on the bed, standing in front of you with his cock standing hard.
he had climbed onto the bed and pushed two fingers into your mouth, sliding them over your tongue, "suck," he whispered, his other hand stroked his cock. your naive eyes fluttered open, confused but obedient as you closed your lips around his fingers and sucked gently.
he whimpered, pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the head of his cock, "you're so beautiful, do you know that?" you took him into your mouth, tasting the salt of his precum while he thrust shallowly between your lips, he removed his cock from your lips, and laid you down on the bed.
he pinned your wrists above your head. he shifted lower between your spread thighs, releasing one wrist so his fingers could trail down your stomach. two thick digits pressed between your folds, rubbing over your clit in slow circles before he pushed them inside.
a moan escaped your lips when he moved his digits inside you, his ego swelling beyond limit. he worked them in and out steadily, stretching your tight walls while his thumb kept stroking that sensitive spot above. the way your back arched oh god, he loved how your tits bounced to the rhythm of his strokes. your juices coated his fingers quickly as he curled them upward, searching for the spot that made your hips twitch.
he pulled his fingers free after a few minutes and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low hum. then he lowered his face between your legs, leaving small pecks on your stomach, on your pelvic bone and on your inner thigh. his tongue dragged a long, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit, tasting you fully before he sealed his lips around the swollen nub and sucked resulting a devastingly beautiful moan from you. "mhmg!...haechan.."
"oh you taste like heaven..." he licked and lapped with purpose, tongue dipping inside you now and then while his nose pressed against your mound. you trembled continuously and he showed no signs of stopping his assault on your core.
his hands gripped your thighs, keeping them wide open as he ate you out, saliva and your wetness mixing and dripping down toward the sheets.
he stayed there, tongue working deeper and faster, it made you see white, your toes curled with pleasure filling up your nerves. you squirted until your thighs started shaking around his head, your juices gushing out rapidly. his face, the sheets and your thighs dripped of your cum.
only then did he pull back, lips shiny, and crawl up your body again. he gazed at your dried tears, "oh baby, you did so well," he captured your lips in a deep, consuming kiss, nothing sweet or innocent about it. his tongue invades your mouth. he moaned into the kiss, tasting your juice, suckling on your tongue, a clash of teeth and tongues.
"i'm gonna fill you up raw, baby..." he heaved with lust veiling his eyes, his cock rested heavy against your slick pussy as he positioned himself, the head nudging your entrance without pushing in yet.
he growls, lining the thick head of his cock against your untouched entrance. he pushes forward slowly at first, the fat tip stretching your tight hole, then slams in deeper with one rough thrust. your hymen tears open under the force, the thin membrane ripping apart around his cock as he forces every inch inside you, you screamed out, with pain flowing in veins which slowly transitioned into tempering pleasure.
blood trickles out around his shaft, spilling on the bedsheet and mixing with the slick from his precum as he starts pounding into you without mercy. each thrust drives deeper, stretching your virgin walls that clench and flutter around him.
he pulls back just enough to see the red streaks on his cock before slamming back in, fucking the torn innocence wider with every stroke. his hips snap forward relentlessly, the wet sounds of your bleeding cunt filling the room as he claims your virginity completely.
he doesn't slow down, not one bit. he finally have you under him, after months of longing. hd grinded his pelvis against your clit while his cock rearranges your insides, pushing past the resistance until he's buried balls deep as he fucks you harder, the head of his dick battering your cervix with each brutal thrust.
your body shakes under him while he uses your freshly deflowered pussy, pulling out partially to watch your juices cling to his cock before ramming back inside.
his pace grew erratic as he chased his orgasm, grinding deep and holding there while his cock pulsed. hot cum flooded your insides, thick ropes painting your walls and leaking out around his shaft to mix with the blood.
he stayed buried inside you, rocking gently to push his load deeper, "stay like this, doll.." he ordered, keeping you pinned beneath him, "we don't want any of it to drip out? okay?"
haechan told himself, he can't live without you, never and you can never leave him, ever. the way he can keep you to himself, only to himself is to get you pregnant. his nerves filled with joy, when he envisions you all big and plump with his seed in you.
so, even after he came he kept his cock inside, half-hard and twitching as more cum seeped into you. his hands roamed your body while he whispered about how he'd keep coming back to fill you up until your belly swelled.
you laid there dazed, his fingers back in your mouth as you sucked them clean, completely unaware of how thoroughly he'd claimed you.
Summary: When your enemy-turned- roommate goes on a date one night, you're left to deal with your jealousy on your own. That is until Jaehyun returns home early and catches you mid act, his name spilling from your lips like a confession you never meant to make.
Genre: smut,enemies-to lovers, roommates- to lovers(?)
Word count: 4,718
Warnings: oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, self pleasure (fem), hair pulling, calling eachother names, banter/bickering, swearing, jealousy, both lowkey down bad
Taglist: @bridgertonletsgo
Author's note: This is written on 2 hours of sleep combined across multiple nights. And I keep finding new flaws each time I reread, but my brain is too fried to care anymore. Based on that bathroom part in the vcr at the fancon and my previous fic. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated as it helps me to keep writing. I hope you enjoy!
Dislaimer:This work is purely fictional. Any resemblance to real person(s) is used solely for creative and fictional purposes and should not be understood as factual representation.
The first problem was that your roommate moved out. The second problem was that rent was due in three weeks. The third problem was him.
Jeong Jaehyun.
At the time, you naively didn't even realise he would become the biggest problem of all.
You found out about your roommate leaving on a Thursday evening.
"I've got news," she announced.
You immediately knew something was up.
"Why do I feel like you’re gonna tell me something bad?"
She laughed nervously.
Because she was doing exactly that.
Apparently, her boyfriend had gotten a new apartment so they'd decided to move in together.
And she would be gone by the end of the month.
You looked at her dumbfounded.
Then you asked the only question that mattered.
"What happens to rent?"
The answer was exactly as awful as you'd expected.
The apartment wasn't cheap.
You could manage your half comfortably.
The full amount?
Not a chance.
So for the next two weeks, your life became one long search for a roommate.
You interviewed everyone.
Students.
Coworkers.
Friends of friends.
Even strangers from rental websites.
And every single one was somehow worse than the previous candidate.
One showed up forty minutes late.
One asked if you'd mind sharing your room because "walls are kind of a social construct."
Like what the actual fuck?
One spent ten minutes explaining cryptocurrency eventho none of the questions you had asked him were about cryptocurrency.
It was safe to say that you were losing hope fast.
Then one afternoon you got a text from a mutual friend.
Hey. Weird question.
Do you still need a roommate?
Maybe...why?
Jaehyun needs somewhere to stay.
You stared at the message almost offended.
Then immediately typed back.
Absolutely not. I'd rather die.
The response came seconds later.
He said you'd say that.
Of course he did.
You'd known each other for years.
Not by choice exactly, but because somehow, he was always present in your life one way or the other. It started with mutual friends then came the mutual events and it blossomed in mutual annoyance. And every encounter somehow ended in an argument.
You couldn't stand him.
He couldn't stand you.
At least that was what you told yourself.
Then your friend sent another message.
He's desperate.
You almost laughed at the text but then looked around your apartment, and remembered your bank account. And quickly came to the realisation that you had no right to laugh at him when you were on the verge of ending on the streets yourself if you didn't find a roommate soon.
A deep sigh left you.
The kind of sigh people made before making life-altering mistakes.
Fine. He can move in next week.
────────────────────────────
The first time Jaehyun stepped into the apartment, he looked around like he was inspecting a crime scene.
"This is smaller than I expected."
"You can leave."
He chuckled.
"You haven't changed."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
You rolled your eyes.
"Whatever."
He grinned wider.
Your friend watched the interaction.
"Wow."
"Wow what?" you asked.
"I forgot how much you two hate each other."
"We don't hate each other."
Jaehyun looked at you.
And you looked back.
A beat passed.
"Yeah, no I definitely hate him."
He scoffed.
"Good. I'd hate to be all alone in this."
Your friend buried her face in her hands, already starting to regret her decision to help.
────────────────────────────
Living together started exactly how you'd expected.
Terrible. No, more than just terrible.
The arguments were immediate.
Who used the last coffee pod.
Whose turn it was to take out the trash.
Which television show to watch.
Whether cereal counted as dinner.
It definitely did.
Jaehyun insisted it didn't. There was no "real" nutrition in it, apparently. Eventho, you don't remember asking for his opinion.
The worst part was that he genuinely seemed to enjoy annoying you.
Especially because your reactions entertained him.
One morning, you walked into the kitchen half asleep.
Jaehyun was already there.
Leaning against the counter.
Coffee in hand.
Hair still messy from sleep.
You barely looked at him.
"Morning."
"Morning, sweetheart."
You stopped walking.
Slowly turned around.
"What did you just call me?"
His expression remained perfectly innocent.
"Sweetheart."
"Don't."
"Okay."
You relaxed. For exactly one second.
Then that smile appeared on his face. The one that told you how wrong it was to think he was actually going to stop.
"Morning, princess." He said, exaggerating the n for added effect.
You threw a napkin at him.
He looked delighted.
That should have been your warning.
Because after that it became a daily occurrence.
Sweetheart.
Honey.
Pretty thing.
Sunshine.
Baby.
Every ridiculous nickname imaginable.
Only for you.
Never for anyone else.
Which annoyed you to no end.
"You know," you said one afternoon, "one day somebody's going to punch you."
He looked up from the couch.
"Maybe."
"I hope it hurts."
He smiled.
"You volunteering?"
You hated how attractive his smile was.
You hated how attractive he was.
Actually, no.
You hated that you noticed in the first place. That was the actual dilemma.
Because somewhere along the way things had become complicated.
It started small.
A glance that lasted too long.
A laugh that sounded nicer than it should.
The realisation that you always knew where he was in a room.
The realisation that you looked for him.
And suddenly you were in love with your roommate.
Your infuriating, annoying, way too cocky, enemy of a roommate.
Which was a disaster, to put it lightly. Because Jaehyun clearly thought flirting with you was a game. A way to get under your skin. But nothing more.
Meanwhile, every teasing grin of his nearly killed you inside.
────────────────────────────
Three months later, things became somehow worse.
You had adapted to living together.
Which was dangerous.
Because now Jaehyun was woven into your routines.
You knew what time he woke up.
What coffee he bought.
What shows he secretly watched when nobody was around.
You knew he hummed while cooking.
You knew he left cabinet doors open.
You knew he got grumpy when he was tired.
You knew entirely way too much.
One Friday evening you were met with a mouth watering smell as soon as you opened the front door.
It seemed like Jaehyun was cooking for once.
There was no way, right?
Following the delicious smell, you walked into the kitchen and looked over to the stove.
"What are you making?"
"Dinner."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Then don’t ask if you already know."
He pointed a spoon at you.
"You know, conversations are usually easier when people don't start with stupid questions."
You scoffed.
“That’s a bold way to announce that you're too stupid to handle basic conversation.”
He laughed and just handed you a spoonful to taste.
You immediately froze.
Because he was suddenly very close.
Close enough to see every detail of his face. Close enough to feel the softness of his hoodie brush your skin. Close enough that your heart immediately started behaving like an idiot.
"Well?" he asked.
You quickly tasted it. "It's good... I guess."
His grin appeared. "Damn. Such high praise? I thought you'd spit it out."
"Don't get used to it."
"I think I will."
His lips curved into a smile when he got the last word in, and those irresistibly cute dimples made your heart skip a beat
God.
Oh God.
You were doomed.
────────────────────────────
A week later came the date.
You knew something was up with him all day, so when you walked into the living room, you were already prepared to be annoyed, but the sight in front of you nearly took you out.
Jaehyun was changing the middle of your living room, standing in front of the near full-length mirror. And you could swear you heard your brain shut down like those old Windows computers.
A white shirt was hanging loose from one hand while he stood there completely shirtless. Looking every bit like he walked straight out of your wildest dreams.
Endlessly broad shoulders on display. Those defined biceps, which you wanted to take a bite out of. A toned chest and a set of abs that looked like they belonged in a fitness ad instead of your living room.
You completely froze. And for one terrible second, your eyes lingered.
Then another second.
Then another.
His voice cut through the silence.
"Like what you see?"
You snapped your gaze upward.
He was already looking at you.
Smirking.
The worst part, tho?
He didn't seem embarrassed at all.
In fact, he looked delighted.
Absolutely basking in delight.
Your face heated immediately.
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Oh, I'm not." His grin widened.
"Your expression is doing all the flattering for me."
You scoffed and tried to walk past him.
Unfortunately, that required getting closer.
Which only made you notice things you definitely didn't want to notice.
The definition in his shoulders.
The way his arms flexed as he casually held the shirt.
The absolutely unfair muscle definition across his stomach. All the way down to his v-line that was dangerously peeking out...
You looked away so fast your neck almost hurt.
A low laugh escaped him.
"There it is again."
"There is what again?"
"That look."
"There is no look."
"Right." He nodded. "And you weren't staring at my abs thirty seconds ago."
You cleared your throat in a desperate attempt to play it nonchalantly.
"I was not staring."
"You absolutely were."
"I was distracted."
"By my abs."
"No!"
"By my shoulders, then?"
You hid your face in your hands, giving yourself away.
His eyes lit up immediately.
"Oh my God, it was the shoulders."
"Shut up."
He laughed.
Actually doubled over laughing at you.
The jerk looked impossibly pleased with himself.
"You know," he said, pulling on the shirt at an agonizingly slow pace, "for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a surprising amount of time looking at me."
You folded your arms.
"Trust me. Nothing about this changes the fact that you're insufferable."
"Mm." He buttoned another button.
"That's not denial."
You glared at him.
He grinned right back.
You let out a frustrated sigh and sat down on the couch, side eying him.
He looked back into the mirror, now finally dressed in that white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up neatly, displaying his delicious forearms, dark pants, his hair styled up instead of being in his eyes like usual. And he'd decided to wear cologne.
The exact same one that turns you into a mess everytime he wears it.
It's enough not to be overwhelming.
Yet just perfectly enough to make you painfully aware of it.
Your stomach twisted.
Because he looked good.
Really good.
Unfairly good.
Jaehyun noticed you staring again. And a slow smirk crept back on his handsome face.
"Take a pic. It'll last longer."
You looked away immediately, ignoring his words.
"Why are you dressed like that?"
His grin widened once again.
"Like what?"
"You know exactly what."
Jaehyun made eye contact through the mirror as he adjusted his cuff,
"I've got a date."
Your stomach dropped completely.
A date. Right. Why wouldn't he...
He was attractive, charismatic when he wanted to be, and infuriatingly good at making people like him, so it was only a given that he had dates lined up for him.
You forced a shrug.
"Poor girl."
His mouth twitched.
"Jealous?"
"In your dreams."
He laughed.
"You wish I was."
That was all you managed.
"Oh?"
Jay tilted his head.
"You sound disappointed."
You scoffed.
"In your dreams."
"Mhm."
You rolled your eyes to convince him, or maybe convince yourself.
"Have fun." You said, even if the words tasted like ashes in your throat.
His gaze lingered on you.
Longer than necessary.
Then his grin returned.
"Try not to miss me too much, princess."
"Get out."
He left, laughing at your frustration all the way out the door.
But this time, the sound didn't give you the usual butterflies. Instead, it felt like a knife slowly being twisted inside of you.
Jaehyun wasn't yours.
He never had been.
He never would be.
So why did the idea of him going on a date make you feel sick?
You hated it.
You hated everything about it.
────────────────────────────
The apartment felt empty afterwards.
Annoyingly empty.
And the evening only seemed to drag on.
You watched half a movie, you couldn't focus. You opened a book, didn't read a word. You checked the clock, then, checked it again ten minutes later.
This was pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
You weren't jealous.
Why would you be jealous.
No, that definitely wasn't it.
You were—
Okay.
You were jealous.
A little.
Fine.
A lot.
Some girl was probably sitting across from him right now. Laughing at his stupid genius jokes. Looking at him the way you tried not to.
You tried distracting yourself again, but it didn't help. It's like your brain insisted on imagining things just to torture you.
Was he having fun?
Was she pretty?
Was she making him laugh?
Did she get to see that smile?
The one that made you fall in love with him the first time.
The thought made your heartache worse.
Hours kept passing. And you were becoming increasingly miserable.
By ten o'clock, you were stretched out on the couch, phone in hand, trying to scroll through social media, but every few minutes, your thoughts drifted right back to the same thing.
Him.
Specifically, the moment you'd walked into the living room earlier.
You groaned and dropped your phone onto your chest.
This was pathetic. Actually pathetic.
You pressed a pillow over your face.
You weren't supposed to notice things about him. You certainly weren't supposed to remember them hours later. And yet your brain kept supplying details without your permission.
His broad shoulders.
His strong arms.
His stupid abs that were way too unnecessarily defined.
Even the way he'd looked completely at ease standing there while you forgot how to function.
Heat crept up your neck.
You shifted on the couch.
"Seriously?" you muttered to yourself.
The memory should have faded by now.
Instead, it seemed to be getting worse.
Every time you remembered the look on his face when he'd caught you staring, your stomach tightened.
Not in a bad way, which was exactly the problem. A very, very annoying problem.
Why him? Of all people, why him?
The guy was insufferable.
Arrogant.
Smug.
Impossible.
And somehow that only made remembering his self-satisfied grin worse.
Your pulse kicked up at the thought.
You immediately sat upright.
"No."
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this.
You were not lying on your couch thinking about Jaehyun or his perfect body.
Unfortunately for you, telling yourself not to think about him only made his face appear in your mind again.
His laugh.
His teasing.
His deep voice.
A strange restless energy settled under your skin. So you stand up and walk to the kitchen. Get a glass of water. And sit back down, drinking the cold water in one go.
The coldness lasted approximately thirty seconds before your thoughts wandered right back to him.
"You're actually the worst," you informed the empty room.
But no matter what you did, he didn't leave your mind. So much so, it got you bothered.
And there was no way you could ignore it at this point.
Jaehyun wouldn't be back in a few hours if he got back at all tonight. So technically, you could do whatever you wanted right now.
It felt so wrong.
How could you think about him of all people like this? How could your own body betray you like this? But the ache between your legs only got worse the more you tried to reason.
So before you know it, your hands are gliding down your own body all the way until you reach the waistband of your shorts. You could still stop now. You should stop now, but the need for relief overtakes your senses.
The moment your fingers come in contact with your soaking cunt, you let out a deep moan.
"Mmmgh...fuck,"
Your shorts and panties are pulled aside just enough that you can feel the cold air in the apartment on your skin.
Your thoughts drift to how it would feel like to run your hands over his body as your fingers glide through your already soaked folds and you start circling your clit.
"Ohh...Jaehyun..."
The quickly forming puddle on the couch is the least of your concerns as you keep imagining how good he'd feel inside of you. How he'd fil you up just right. All the way until neither of you'd know where he ends and where you start.
The vivid images make your pussy clench around nothing. So you ease the ache by pushing two fingers gently inside and immediately curling them to hit that spot that makes your toes curl every time.
"Fuckk...hnngh"
You slowly push in and out, your cunt squelching at the pace. And you feel the obscene nosies mixed with your loud moans, bounce off the walls in the empty apartment. Making the whole thing feel even more wrong.
Yet so good.
You imagine how pretty his skin would look with your marks all over him. How his deep voice would sound in your ears when he's overwhelmed with pleasure. How good his body would feel against yours as he fucks you into the couch.
"Jaehyunnn...please,"
Your coated fingers desperately thrust into yourself to the thought of his cock twitching inside of you as you'd feel him get close. Which only makes the coil in your stomach tighten as you pick up the pace.
You're almost there already. The combination of your imagination and your movements are enough to bring you to the edge.
Almost-
"Please what, princess?"
For one horrible moment, you can feel your soul actually leaving your body as you lock up and register his voice at the same time.
No! You heard wrong. He isn't home. He can't be-
Slowly, you lift your head.
And to your absolute horror, Jaehyun is, in fact, standing by the doorway. One shoulder leaning against the frame and wearing that infuriating smirk across his face in pure delight.
Oh no.
No.
No no no.
You quickly pull up your shorts and try to hide yourself with a pillow.
"How- how long have you been standing there?"
His grin only widens.
"Long enough."
You wanted to disappear. Have the earth swallow you immediately and forever.
"I wasn't—"
"You were moaning my name."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I-"
"You missed me."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I didn't."
He walked over and leaned down slightly. Close enough that you could smell the cologne again. Close enough that your heart started acting up again.
"Princess," he murmured, clearly enjoying every second of this, "If you wanted me that badly, a little asking would’ve gone a long way."
Before you can react, he’s already on the couch, straddling you and trapping you there, his hands braced on either side of your head.
"Is this what you do when I'm not home?"
He grabs your hand, the same one you just used on yourself, and kisses up your wrist, whilst looking deep into your eyes.
"I- I don't-"
"You're such a bad liar, baby"
Slowly, he kisses up your hand, tongue flicking out to lick the same fingers you just used on yourself.
"Mhmm. How sweet."
You freeze, breath hitching as you stare at him in disbelief.
"That little act of yours—that so-called ‘hate’ you feel for me—isn’t really working, is it princess?”
You unconsciously press your thighs together, and his gaze darkens—something in his expression shifting in a way you’ve never seen before.
"You want me?"
Your breath catches.
"I asked you a question."
"...Yes."
"Yes, what? Use your words."
"Yes, I...I want you."
"But we shouldn't..." You start whispering, not because you didn’t want him. Because wanting him had become the only thing you could think about for months now.
His answer was quieter.
“I know.”
But he didn’t pull back. And you didn’t either.
His thumb brushed against your slightly parted mouth.
"I've wanted to taste these pretty lips for so long now..."
His eyes flicker up to yours, and you see the desperation in them.
"Tell me to stop before I lose my mind."
Unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer, you pull him in by the back of his neck and press your lips to his in a firm, decisive kiss.
The kiss doesn't begin gently.
It starts like something is breaking. Like months of restraint finally giving up at once, like every ignored glance and unfinished sentence collapsing into a single, undeniable moment. His hand rises to your face like he’s been waiting too long to remember he was always allowed to touch you. You, in turn, grab onto his shoulders as you deepen the kiss. His warm tongue glides across your bottom lip, and you instinctively open up as you both can't seem to get enough.
You'd imagined this so many times. To the point a part of you had started to believe the real thing could never live up to it. But the moment his lips met yours, every version you'd ever invented just vanished into thin air.
He slowly makes his way down your jaw, all the way to your neck, leaving behind little kisses like promises on your skin.
He looks up, searching for your eyes, "can I keep going?"
You nod immediately, too breathless to speak a word.
He smiles back at you before slowly settling between your legs.
His hands slide down your body. Over your the swell of your breasts, down your stomach and along your thighs.
"You're so beautiful..."
Jaehyun slowly pushes your thighs apart and gently yet firmly, starts pressing kisses on the inside of your thigh. Every kiss closer to where you wanted him the most. And he doesn't take long either before you feel his tongue licking a fat stripe over your shorts.
You gasp at the sensation.
Jaehyun smirks at your reaction before kissing up your core until he reaches the edge of your shorts. With quick hands, he removes the barrier between himself and what he wants. After making sure with you one last time.
You draw a sharp breath as the cold air hits your pulsing cunt for the second time that night. His fingers gently press into your thighs, keeping them apart.
A deep, unrestrained moan falls from his lips as he sees how worked up you already are.
"What a pretty princess, you are." he praises as he takes in the sight of your glistening pussy.
Jaehyun groans at the way you already start clenching around nothing. "You want it that badly, baby?"
That question makes you hide your face and instinctively try to close your legs as heat creeps up your neck. But Jaehyun’s hands shoot up immediately, holding them apart.
“Uh-uh, princess… don’t hide now. You were doing so well for me.”
The protest in your throat dies down the minute Jaehyun's mouth attaches itself onto your cunt. His smooth tongue flat against you, lapping up your dripping juices.
Fuck. He knew how to use it. It definitely wasn't his first time.
He matches every lick to every curve. And every flick to every angle. You squirm against his face, a hand inevitably reaching out to fist into his perfectly styled hair. And a soft whimper escapes your throat as you press him further into you, feeling a moan vibrate through your body whilst his nose brushes against your clit.
"Fuckkkk," you whimpered, gasping for air already as you look down at him.
And almost come on the spot at the sight of him.
His mesmerising, chocolate eyes, lock with yours as he pulls your legs over his shoulders and moves your hips as he dives in deeper. His mouth glistens with your juices, and a smirk locks back in place as he feels you get wetter by the second.
When you tug on his hair, he gives you a split second to breathe before resuming. Picking up his pace even more as continues to drink you, utterly obsessed by the way you taste. Like he'd never get enough. Like he could die happily as long as he could taste your sweetness.
Your breath catches as his tongue moves to your clit, circling and flicking firmly. "Jaehyun," you gasp, eyes closing at the overwhelming feeling.
He pulls back, chuckling at your state, lips swollen from his effort and your essence dripping down his chin.
"Look at you, baby. So lost for words. You’re usually impossible to shut up when you’re pretending you can’t stand me. Is this all it takes, princess? Just my mouth, and you're already a mess for me. You love it, don't you? This is exactly what you wanted isn't it?"
You shoot him a glare, which only seems to amuse him more. His smirk deepens as his teeth graze your clit, and you suck in a sharp breath.
"You fucker," you mutter.
The look in his eyes turns completely wicked as he stays perfectly still, purely to spite you. "Tell me you love it, and I'll make you see stars, baby"
You narrow your eyes and clench your teeth but can't help and give in, "yes, I love it. Jaehyun."
"That's a good girl."
And that's all it took for him. All he needed before he put his tongue back on you and sucked and prodded every bit of your cunt like there is no tomorrow. The burn of his scalp as your fingers kept tugging his hair only adding to his growing bulge.
The way your hips moved against his mouth, the way you kept pulling him in, the way your pussy only seemed to get better by the minute had him going crazy.
"Fuck, yes, Jaehyun!" you cried out, hips rolling up against his tongue, making him hum against your swollen folds.
Jaehyun couldn't stop. Like his fingers had been glued to your thighs whilst the wetness kept leaking from your pussy. You just tasted so fucking good.
Jaehyun whined as his tongue flattened over you, and he started to slurp all the juices before they could escape.
"Jaehyun...Oh God! Jaehyun!" you kept moaning, and the pit of your stomach started to coil up again.
Fuck. You were so close now.
Jaehyun said nothing, continuing his assault on your clit. Alternating between sucking and licking every few seconds, not wanting to miss a crevicle of your pretty pussy.
"Don't hold back, baby. Come for me,"
The moment those words left his mouth and you felt him adding a finger, you came undone. Your hips shaking against his face as your climax hit. Juices running down your thighs and to your ass, which he happily licked off.
The pleasure rushed through your body in pulses, leaving you seeing stars just like he promised you.
He only stops when you push him off and leans back wiping his mouth, looking at your blissed out state in satisfaction.
You’re still on the couch, trying to get your breathing back under control when you tell him,
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Jaehyun lets out a deep chuckle, like you’ve just told him a bad joke.
“You were singing a very different tune a second ago.”
“That was- That was just momentary misjudgment.”
“Oh? Was it now, my princess?” he murmurs, clearly not believing you.
He leans in again, catching your hands and pinning them above your head with infuriating ease. You shut your eyes on instinct, waiting for it—breath caught, heart already giving you away again.
But nothing happens.
Just as he brushes your lips, he pulls back.
You make a small, frustrated sound before you can stop yourself. His smirk turns cunning, like he was exactly waiting for that reaction.
He gets off you, already turning to his room.
“Come find me when you’re done pretending,” he says over his shoulder.
A pause.
Then, his voice drops dangerously lower,
"And I'll gladly make sure you and the neighbours never forget my name again."
Then he leaves with that calm, teasing certainty, like you’ve already been his this whole time, and he’s just patiently waiting for you to realize it—leaving you breathless and completely undone on the couch.
