Dec 6, 2024
Warning!Nsfw audio
Yuta moaning in Japanese when he feels your insides ⋆˚ʚɞ
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Warning!Nsfw audio
Yuta moaning in Japanese when he feels your insides ⋆˚ʚɞ
跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife – SECOND PART
summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven
warnings: explicit smut (multiple scenes), dom/sub dynamics, power play, breeding kink, degradation praise, spanking, explicit dirty talk, oral (f receiving), creampie, possessiveness, choking (consensual), worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, virginity loss (detailed), fingering, public display of dominance, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, death of a sibling (mentioned), grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity (organized crime themes), arranged marriage (turned consensual), emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles (challenged), tattoos/irezumi (traditional), canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.
wc: 12,6k
notes: hi! here’s the second part of yuta’s story 🫶 i noticed a lot of people were interested in it and the response was really sweet, which made me super happy! someone asked me how i write so fast 🤣 the thing is, with this story (and most of them tbh), i usually write and prepare everything in advance when i have free time. i don’t publish them right away though, because i usually plan them in parts. so i keep them in my drafts, then i write the next parts, revise everything, adjust the flow, and once i feel like the timing is right, i post them lol. it’s kind of like "scheduling" my fics for delivery hahaha. alsooo i was kinda waiting for the anon to reply so i could tag them, but they never did 😭 if they’re reading this, please reach out to me 😭 jsjsjjs
part i. epilogue
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the steam clung to your skin like silk as you stepped out of the ofuro, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the faint scent of hinoki wood still clinging to your damp hair. the house was quiet—too quiet. you had grown used to the soft murmur of voices, the distant shuffling of feet as the men moved throughout the property, but tonight, silence held the hallways in a tight, heavy grip.
you dried yourself slowly, slipping into a soft ivory nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. it wasn’t intentional—just the first thing your hands grabbed in the dimness of your closet. you weren’t trying to look a certain way. you weren’t trying to think of him.
you tied your hair up in a loose bun and padded barefoot to your room. the warmth of the ofuro had relaxed you, almost lulled you into sleep already… until you heard it.
a sound—wet, harsh. a sharp exhale. a broken word.
you froze.
then came the strangled gasp. a thud. and finally, a shout.
“no—!”
you bolted down the hallway before your mind could process it, your feet silent on the wooden floor. you didn’t knock. you slid the door open sharply and found him tangled in his futon, drenched in sweat, breathing like he’d run miles barefoot through a battlefield. the moonlight spilling through the shoji window cut pale angles across his face, highlighting the way his brows furrowed in panic, lips parted in a grimace, chest heaving.
"yuta," you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. “yuta—wake up, it’s just a dream—”
his hand shot out, blindly reaching. you caught it, squeezed it tight.
“hey. you’re okay. i’m here.” your other hand cupped his cheek, brushing away the sheen of sweat with your thumb.
his eyes finally opened, unfocused and wild, then slowly zeroed in on your face. his lips parted but no words came out. just another heavy breath, a tremor, and then—without a word—he leaned forward and collapsed against you.
you sucked in a quiet breath as the full weight of his upper body rested against your chest. your nightgown stuck to your damp skin, thin cotton against bare muscle. he was burning hot, trembling, but you didn’t pull away. your hands found their way into his hair, gently combing through the messy strands as his breaths began to slow.
“it’s okay,” you whispered again. “you’re safe.”
his arms didn’t wrap around you, but his head tilted just enough that his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast, and you felt his lashes flutter with each exhale.
after several long minutes, he finally spoke. voice hoarse, barely a breath. “i saw you bleeding.”
your hands froze in his hair. he continued, still not looking at you. “in the dream… you were lying on the floor. screaming my name. i couldn’t get to you. there was blood. so much fucking blood.”
you swallowed the knot rising in your throat.
“but it wasn’t real,” you said softly. “i’m here. see?” you took his hand and pressed it flat against your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. “no blood.”
he let out a shaky breath. “i thought i was going to lose you.”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t.
then, after a beat—
“stay,” he said.
your heart kicked up a notch. “here?”
he lifted his head slightly to meet your eyes. “just tonight.”
your mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out. your cheeks were already burning. the word hung between you like a secret.
you nodded.
he eased back onto the futon with a quiet wince, making space. you slipped under the blanket beside him, heart pounding, unsure where to place your arms, unsure of everything. it felt like you were intruding.
you turned your back to him at first, unsure if it would make things less tense. but before long, you felt the warmth of his body draw closer. not touching—just near.
"you’re tense," he murmured behind you.
you tensed more. “no i’m not.”
he chuckled, voice low, still slightly raspy. “i won’t do anything you don’t want.”
you spun to face him, cheeks aflame. “i wasn’t thinking that!”
his brows rose, amused. “sure you weren’t.”
you smacked his arm gently, earning another soft laugh from him—warm this time. honest. he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.
“you look pretty when you’re mad.”
you scowled, even as your heart twisted into a knot.
you stared at each other for a long second, breaths mingling in the dark.
"does it still hurt?" you asked finally, nodding at the faded bandages on his side.
"only when i breathe," he joked, then sighed. "i’ll be fine."
you hesitated, then reached out and placed your hand gently over his abdomen. he tensed—but didn’t stop you. the heat of his skin under your palm made your fingers tremble.
"you're warm," you whispered.
"so are you." his eyes dropped to your lips.
you should’ve pulled away. should’ve turned back and faced the wall again. but you didn’t. neither of you did.
"this is weird, isn’t it?" you said softly. "we’re married and this is the first night we share a bed."
"we should’ve done it earlier," he said.
you looked up at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable. somewhere between a smile and a storm.
"why didn’t we?" you asked, more to yourself than him.
he tilted your chin up slightly, his thumb brushing your jaw. “because maybe now it means something.”
you felt your breath catch.
you didn’t kiss. not yet. but your faces stayed close, breath to breath, until sleep finally claimed you both—your fingers still tangled in his shirt, his hand resting protectively over your hip.
you didn’t dream that night.
but if you had, it would’ve been about him.
meanwhile, the world outside moved on without you.
the studio lights were too bright. the camera flashes too cold. you smiled on cue, tilted your head just so, changed outfits and pretended to care when the makeup artist fixed your lip gloss for the fifth time.
hitoshi didn’t speak much anymore. not unless it was absolutely necessary. not unless someone was watching.
you wanted to ask him if it was because of yuta.
you didn’t.
outside, everything felt disconnected. like you were walking through someone else’s life. fake laughter. fake perfume. fake nails. fake smiles.
but inside the walls of yuta’s house, something real was happening.
something warm. dangerous. inevitable.
that night, as you returned home past sunset, the hallway lights dimmed low and the scent of jasmine still lingering from the garden, you saw him standing at the end of the corridor—shoulders relaxed, arms crossed loosely, watching you with that look again.
not hungry.
not gentle.
just... aware.
you stopped walking.
he didn’t say anything.
neither did you.
but the glance lasted longer than it should have. held heavier than it ought to. like both of you were waiting for something to snap.
and you looked at each other.
not in the way married people are supposed to look at each other. not with comfort. not with affection.
with need.
the kind that simmers in silence. the kind that thickens the air between two people until it’s unbearable.
he took one slow step toward you.
you didn’t move back. you couldn’t. your knees felt like they were made of glass and breath was suddenly a conscious effort. his gaze flicked down your body once—just once—but it was enough to make your pulse trip over itself.
“come here,” he said.
not commanding. not tender. just… hoarse. low. like the words had scraped their way out of his throat.
you didn’t answer.
you stepped forward.
one step. then another.
you could see the strain in his posture. the tightness in his jaw. he was trying to control it, whatever it was burning under his skin. trying not to ruin this moment. but his fingers flexed at his sides, and you knew he was one breath away from snapping.
you stopped right in front of him.
your eyes met, closer now—so close you could see the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, the way his mouth parted like he was going to speak and then thought better of it.
“this…” he began, but didn’t finish.
you shook your head slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “don’t ruin it with words.”
he didn’t.
instead, he reached.
a hand at your waist first—careful, grounding, his thumb pressing into the silk of your robe. your breath hitched. he exhaled shakily. then the other hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck. he didn’t pull—he just held. like anchoring you there, like making sure this wasn’t a dream he’d wake from.
“i don’t know what this is,” you murmured. “but i feel it.”
his brow furrowed like the words hurt. like they exposed something he wasn’t ready to admit.
“i do too,” he said, voice barely audible. “i’ve been trying not to.”
“me too.”
and then, as if your bodies had grown tired of waiting for permission, you leaned in at the same time.
the kiss wasn’t soft.
it wasn’t rushed either. it lingered, pressed, took. there was no awkward pause, no hesitation—just the raw electricity of mouths meeting after too long, of breath mixing, of hands finally allowed to hold.
his fingers slid deeper into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste more of you, to pull a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. you clung to him—hands gripping the collar of his shirt, sliding up the back of his neck, curling into the short strands of his hair as if anchoring yourself to him.
his other hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, how he was still fighting the instinct to take too much too soon. but the tremble in his breath gave him away. this was unraveling him. you were unraveling him.
you kissed like you were trying to understand it. to confirm it. to make sense of this pull between you, the way nothing outside these walls felt real anymore. how everything out there felt empty, cold, meaningless—except this. except him.
his mouth left yours just barely, brushing the corner of your lips, then your jaw. “this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound regretful. he sounded undone.
you swallowed hard, lips brushing his again. “i don’t care.”
he kissed you again—this time slower. not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted to memorize. the shape of your mouth. the sighs you gave when he sucked your lower lip just enough. the way your nails pressed into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. it was indulgent, shameless, intentional.
and it wasn’t like your wedding kiss.
that one had been staged, timed, performed.
this one was the truth.
when he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, your forehead pressed to his.
his voice was rough. “if i kiss you again, i won’t stop.”
your pulse pounded in your ears. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
he laughed once—short, bitter, sweet. “because it is.”
your hands slid down his chest, slowing at the center where his heart beat fast beneath your palm. “then don’t.”
for a moment, he didn’t respond.
but his hand at your waist tightened again.
and his lips ghosted your cheek.
and he whispered, “stay with me tonight. just like this. just… stay.”
you nodded.
you didn’t go back to your room. you didn’t need to.
you had crossed a line now. one neither of you would be able to step back from. and even if the world burned down around the two of you, you knew this was real. raw. dangerous.
you didn’t turn the lights on. he didn’t ask why.
something about the dark made it easier to admit this was real.
yuta pulled you toward the futon slowly, not by the wrist or hand—but by placing a gentle touch on your lower back, guiding you like the space beside him was meant for you and had always been. his bed smelled faintly like cedar and something warmer, something him. the sheets were cool, but his body wasn’t.
he laid back first, propped against the pillows.
you hesitated—only for a second—then climbed in beside him, curling on your side. facing him.
he was already watching you. soft. open. like his edges had finally stopped cutting, like this was the only moment he didn’t have to be the heir, the boss, the legend. he was just a man. and for the first time, he looked free.
he reached for you. slowly. deliberately. a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye as if checking you were really there. you leaned into it. eyes fluttering shut.
and then the kiss came again.
it was different this time.
slower. deeper.
not needy—but full.
the kind of kiss that asked questions instead of demanded answers. lips moving with intent, his hand sliding into your hair again as you leaned closer until your chest brushed his, until your breaths tangled and the space between you no longer existed.
he kissed you like this could heal something in him. and maybe, somehow, it did.
your fingers curled lightly at his nape, then trailed down the curve of his shoulder. you rested your forehead against his between kisses. he pressed one to your temple. then your jaw. then your collarbone. nothing rushed. nothing expected. just the hum of electricity, of presence, of him holding you like the world outside could go to hell.
at some point, you settled with your head on his chest.
his arm wrapped around you without hesitation. his thumb moved slowly along your upper arm, a rhythm so tender it made your throat ache. you could feel his heartbeat under your ear—steady, loud, real.
"i forgot what this felt like," he murmured into your hair.
you didn’t ask what he meant.
you just whispered back, “me too.”
he kissed the top of your head. and you kissed the skin at his collarbone.
you didn’t speak again for a while.
not because there was nothing to say—but because silence was finally safe.
and when sleep came for you both, it didn’t feel like surrender.
it felt like belonging.
the steady hum of the car wheels against the gravel-covered road filled the silence as the black sedan made its way through the outskirts of osaka. moonlight filtered through the dense tree line, shadows flickering like ghosts against the windows. yuta sat beside you, calm and composed in his midnight blue kimono embroidered with black cranes that symbolized protection and vigilance. your kimono was a delicate shade of plum, tied tightly at the waist, accentuating the soft curves of your form. your hands rested on your lap, fingers curled in, hiding the tension that had nested in your chest since you left the house.
"are you nervous?" yuta asked without looking at you, eyes scanning the road ahead like a man who had lived too many lives in one.
"should i be?" you replied, your voice even, but not cold.
"always," he said. and that was it.
the meeting with the clan elders was held in a countryside estate hidden among the pines. flickering lanterns lit the stone path leading to the large wooden structure. the air was thick with incense, and the heavy scent of sandalwood made your head feel light. as you entered the main hall, dozens of eyes turned your way. you held your chin high.
yuta introduced you with the calm pride of a man who owned everything in the room. you stood beside him as if born to be there, even if your heartbeat betrayed you. the meeting began as expected, with slow exchanges, nods of agreement, and passing cups of sake.
but it changed in seconds. the loud crack of wood splitting came from behind. yuta’s body tensed before the masked attackers even burst in. everything blurred—yuta grabbing your arm, shielding you behind his body, the clang of steel, the echo of gunfire.
you reached for the small pistol hidden beneath the folds of your obi. you never thought you'd use it. but tonight, you did. your hands shook at first, but when one of them lunged at yuta, instinct won. you pulled the trigger.
the assailants dropped one by one. yuta moved like wind and water—silent, fatal. but one shot grazed him. your scream was lost in the chaos.
once it ended, silence fell heavy. bodies lay sprawled on the polished wooden floor, blood pooling like ink.
in the car, as you both escaped back into the cover of night, you turned to him. "take off the top half of your kimono."
"it’s nothing," he muttered, though his breathing betrayed the sting.
"take it off, yuta."
he obeyed. his chest, usually smooth and unmarred, had a long, thin scratch from a bullet that had barely missed its target. you pulled cloth from the glove compartment, soaked it with the small bottle of water you had, and began to clean him. your fingers worked gently, but your eyes held fire.
yuta didn’t speak. he just watched you. eyes wide, confused, as if no one had ever treated him with such... tenderness.
when you finished, you pressed your palm against the uninjured part of his chest. his hand came up to cover yours.
"thank you," he said, voice low.
"you’d do the same for me."
he didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
the days after, something shifted. without a word, he started sleeping in your room. not in your bed. just in the same space. but at some point, the futons ended up closer. and at some point, your nightly kisses, born of adrenaline and intimacy, became ritual. nothing more happened—but the heat that bloomed beneath your skin every time his mouth met yours grew.
each night, his hands lingered a little longer on your waist. yours tangled into his hair. his breath warmed your collarbone. it was a slow burn that neither of you seemed ready to extinguish.
then came the whispers.
inside the tatami-lined war room, takuya stood before the clan’s council, arms crossed. yuta was beside him, silent.
"this arrangement is a distraction," takuya said sharply. "she was supposed to serve a purpose, nothing more. you’re losing focus."
yuta's jaw clenched. "say what you really mean."
"i mean," takuya snapped, "that you were supposed to be leading us into negotiations with the osaka-hyogo factions this week. instead, you're sitting at her bedside cleaning wounds and playing husband."
"i am her husband."
the room fell quiet.
takuya laughed. it was hollow. "a husband for six months. that was the deal. we marry her, used her image of being the perfect, respectable woman and move on. this... this is becoming a problem."
"she’s not the problem," yuta said slowly. "you are."
outside the room, you stood hidden behind the shoji screen. the words cut into you like glass. you hadn’t known the full extent of the deal before. six months. and now, takuya wanted to end it early.
you clutched your sleeves tighter. your chest burned—not with anger, but something deeper. pain. disappointment. a foolish part of you had started to hope.
to believe.
yuta had risked everything for you that night—stood in front of you when the bullets flew. defended your presence when his oldest ally called it a mistake. you couldn’t repay him by making him choose.
the clan or you.
so you didn’t say anything. you didn't confront him that night. instead, you kissed him like nothing had changed. like your world wasn’t slowly crumbling beneath your feet.
because if he had to choose, you'd rather he never knew there was a choice to make.
and that was the cruelest love of all.
one you couldn’t name. one you couldn’t keep. but one that lived in every stolen breath, every bruising kiss, every silent night shared under the paper lantern glow.
the garden was quiet.
too quiet.
even the wind seemed to hesitate, brushing past the trees like it didn’t want to disturb what was unraveling beneath the summer sky. soft lanterns flickered along the stone path, their warm light casting long shadows across the grass, but none of it reached you. not really. you were already somewhere else — deep in your own thoughts, drowning in the things you couldn’t say.
yuta stood a few steps away, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff beneath the expensive black jacket he always wore when things felt heavy. he had one hand tucked in his pocket, the other hanging loosely by his side, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something but didn’t know what.
maybe your hand.
maybe your throat.
you had just told him the truth — or part of it. that you weren’t going to stop modeling. that your work mattered to you in ways he could never understand. and he had laughed. not cruelly, not loudly, but with that sharp edge that always cut you when he didn’t know how else to feel.
“if it’s not about money,” he said, his voice low, “then what is it? huh? tell me.”
you blinked. “it’s about my dream, yuta. it always has been. the reason i left my village, the reason i stayed here. i need to feel like i’m building something for myself. like this... this isn’t all there is.”
his eyes narrowed. “and hitoshi? he’s part of that dream too?”
you didn’t answer.
your silence was like a gunshot.
his jaw clenched tighter. “so that’s it, then.”
“that’s not what i said,” you muttered.
but he was already shaking his head. not fast, not dramatic — just slow, like someone accepting the kind of truth they never wanted to hear.
“you didn’t have to say it,” he said. “i see it every time you come home smelling like him.”
you flinched. “i don’t—”
“don’t lie to me,” he snapped.
his voice cracked, and that scared you more than the accusation. because yuta didn’t break. not in front of you. not ever.
he took a step closer, and even in the fading light, you could see the tiredness in his eyes. not just from the long nights or the weight of his title — but from you. from this. from the fact that every time he reached for you lately, you felt a little further away.
“do you ever look at him the way you looked at me?” he asked quietly. “do you think about him when i’m not home?”
“no,” you whispered, barely audible. “never.”
but he didn’t believe you.
and honestly, maybe you didn’t believe yourself either — not because you wanted hitoshi, but because the distance between you and yuta had become a chasm neither of you knew how to cross anymore. it had started slow — missed dinners, hushed calls, unspoken things. then it became routine. avoidance. resentment.
and now here you were, standing in the garden of a man who once held you like you were fragile and holy, now looking at you like you were a betrayal wrapped in lace.
“when this is over,” he said, his voice colder now, controlled, “when the contract ends… will you run to him? will he be your safe place?”
you stared at him.
and said nothing.
because you didn’t know what to say. because even if the answer was no — even if hitoshi was the furthest thing from your heart — you couldn’t find the words fast enough. couldn’t reach him in time.
his eyes dropped for a second. then he turned.
the movement was simple, quiet, deliberate. he was walking away.
and for yuta, that was your answer.
you didn’t chase him.
you stood there, trembling, breath stuck in your chest. you watched his back retreat across the stepping stones, his figure melting into the shadows of the engawa, swallowed by the darkness of the house that had once felt like safety. and something inside you cracked open.
you wanted to run after him. wanted to scream that he was wrong, that he was the only man you had ever truly wanted. that hitoshi could disappear tomorrow and you wouldn’t blink, but if yuta left... if he really left...
you would never recover from it.
but your feet didn’t move. because what was the point?
you both knew how this story ended.
you were a contract bride, a girl wrapped in white silk and political lies. and he was the king of a blood empire, trying to build something clean on top of a foundation soaked in violence. there had never been a version of this where you got to stay.
you pressed a hand to your chest, felt the weight of your own heartbeat, heavy and uneven.
he doesn’t know.
he didn’t know that the thought of hitoshi touching you made your skin crawl.
he didn’t know that the only time you felt beautiful was when yuta looked at you like you were something rare and breakable.
he didn’t know that every time you came home, you searched for his scent first. that your pillow still smelled like his cologne. that you hadn’t thrown out the blood-stained robe from the night he almost died, because it reminded you that you’d saved him.
he didn’t know that you were still in love with him.
you collapsed onto the wooden bench at the edge of the garden, the soft fabric of your skirt folding under you, your hands trembling in your lap. somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rattled. your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.
not yet.
the moon had started to rise, silver and low, bathing the garden in cold light. the flowers yuta planted last spring were starting to wilt — their petals curled, fragile from the heat. and it hit you then: maybe you were wilting too.
you whispered to the night. not a prayer, not a plea. just his name.
“yuta...”
but he didn’t come back.
he didn’t hear you.
or maybe... maybe he did. and chose not to answer.
you hadn’t spoken in two days.
not really. not more than clipped sentences passed during breakfast or muttered greetings when your paths crossed in the hallway. the silence between you and yuta had settled like fog — dense, stubborn, refusing to lift.
but that night, something cracked.
you couldn’t sleep. not in your room. not with the weight of his absence pulling at your ribs. so you bathed — slow, methodical — letting the heat of the ofuro melt the tension in your limbs. you scrubbed your skin until it felt new. until the scent of steam, jasmine oil, and longing clung to your every pore. then, without thinking, you slipped on a silk robe. pale cream, nearly translucent, tied loose at the waist. nothing underneath.
you didn’t wear perfume. you didn’t need to.
your hair was still damp, falling in soft waves down your back, glistening under the dim lantern light as you padded barefoot across the wooden hallway toward his room.
you had never knocked before.
but tonight, you did.
a soft, uncertain sound — two knuckles against paper and wood.
inside, you heard movement. fabric shifting. then a pause.
“come in,” he said.
your fingers tightened around the knot at your waist.
you slid the door open slowly.
he was sitting on the futon, shirtless, the blanket draped low over his hips. moonlight spilled through the paper panels behind him, cutting his body in shadows — the ink of his tattoos shifting over his arms, his chest, the sharp lines of his abdomen rising with every breath.
his eyes met yours instantly.
he didn’t say anything.
but his gaze moved — slow, deliberate — taking in the new robe, the way it clung to your damp skin. the light shimmer of moisture on your collarbones. the bare soles of your feet. your hair, dripping soft against your shoulder.
you stepped inside. silent. calm. and then you turned, sliding the door shut behind you.
when you faced him again, he hadn’t moved.
he was waiting.
you met his gaze. held it.
then, slowly — with fingers that didn’t tremble — you reached for the tie of your robe.
you pulled.
the silk slipped apart. loose. effortless.
and then it fell.
your robe hit the tatami floor in a whisper.
you stood still — completely nude, your arms resting gently at your sides, your legs pressed close together, breath quiet but deep.
“there’s only one way to show you that i want no one else,” you said, your voice soft, unwavering. “and it’s this.”
yuta didn’t speak.
he didn’t blink.
his eyes dropped — slowly, reverently — trailing down your body like a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud.
he took in everything.
your breasts, soft and full, nipples already taut under his gaze.
the curve of your waist.
the line of your hips, the small patch of skin between your thighs where heat gathered.
your thighs. your knees. the delicate arch of your feet.
you stood there for him. only for him.
and for a long, still second — he said nothing.
then he moved.
fast.
the blanket was gone, flung aside. his body was on you in an instant — heat, hands, hunger. his mouth crashed into yours, open and gasping, desperate like he’d been holding his breath for days. you moaned against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers diving into his hair.
he lifted you.
you wrapped your legs around his waist, felt the hard press of him already thick and ready between your thighs.
he carried you to the futon like you weighed nothing.
and then he laid you down.
“say it again,” he growled, mouth at your throat, his hand sliding up your side, rough and trembling.
“i want you,” you whispered. “only you.”
he groaned — low, guttural — and kissed you again, his lips bruising yours, his teeth dragging gently over your jaw. one hand cupped your breast, thumb teasing your nipple until you arched beneath him. his other hand slid down — over your stomach, between your thighs — and when he found you wet, bare, aching...
he hissed.
“fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against yours. “you’re already this wet for me?”
you nodded, your voice breaking. “been like this since the garden... since you left.”
his fingers teased you, slow circles that made your thighs twitch.
“you should’ve told me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “should’ve told me you were still mine.”
you spread your legs wider for him.
“i’m telling you now.”
he slid two fingers inside you — thick, slow — and you gasped, hips rising to meet him.
“yuta,” you whimpered. “please...”
he growled softly, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean.
his breath caught, chest rising and falling as he hovered above you, his body flushed with heat, with want, with restraint. your legs trembled beneath him, thighs soft and parted, glistening with your arousal — and yet, your eyes betrayed something else.
uncertainty.
fear.
innocence.
and he remembered.
you were his wife, yes. you had given yourself to him in every way but this. and he had known — from the beginning — that when the moment came, it would have to mean something.
it couldn’t just be hunger.
it had to be reverence.
his hand slid up the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with the gentlest touch.
“look at me,” he said softly.
you did. your lips trembled. your eyes shone with unshed tears.
“this is your first time,” he whispered. not a question. a truth. a weight he would carry with care.
you nodded, your voice caught in your throat.
“i know,” he breathed. “i know, baby.”
he kissed your forehead first. then your cheek. then your mouth — tender, slow, lips moving over yours like he was memorizing the shape of your fear, your surrender. his hands explored your body without pressure — just warmth, just presence — sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs.
“you tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jaw, “and i will. i mean it.”
“don’t stop,” you whispered. “i want you.”
his heart nearly broke in his chest.
he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance — thick, hot, hard — and brushed the head of his cock slowly through your folds, spreading your slick over himself, teasing your clit just enough to make your hips twitch.
then he paused.
his gaze dropped to where your bodies met.
you were so tight. untouched. the soft pink of your folds glistened with heat and nervous want, trembling slightly under his fingers.
he lined himself up with careful precision, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, and when he began to push — just barely — he felt your whole body tense.
“breathe,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”
you nodded, clutching his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.
he eased forward — slow, excruciatingly slow — parting your body inch by inch.
you gasped.
pain bloomed, sharp and full, stretching you in ways you’d never known. your thighs shook, your hands flew to his chest, and your eyes widened, glassy with sudden tears.
“yuta—” you whimpered, voice fragile. “it hurts.”
his heart clenched.
“i know, i know, baby,” he soothed, kissing your jaw, your temple, your trembling lips. “you’re doing so well. so fucking perfect.”
he stopped moving, giving you time. his thumb stroked your cheek, catching one of the tears that had slipped free.
“you’re taking me so good,” he whispered. “you’re the tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. you feel like heaven.”
you whimpered again, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.
“relax for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “just a little more.”
you tried.
you breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.
he kissed you again.
and then, with a long, gentle press, he sank the rest of the way in — sheathing himself fully inside you.
you cried out softly, overwhelmed. your walls stretched around him, pulsing, resisting, your body struggling to accommodate his size. the pain was there — raw and real — but so was something else.
fullness.
intensity.
connection.
yuta stilled inside you, arms shaking from holding himself back.
“fuck,” he rasped. “you’re mine. all mine.”
his forehead rested against yours as your bodies trembled together.
he didn’t move yet. not until your breathing slowed. not until your nails relaxed against his chest. not until your legs loosened their grip.
“you’re okay?” he asked gently.
you nodded. “still hurts... but not as much.”
he kissed your lips — soft, slow, sacred.
“i’ll make it better,” he promised.
and he did.
he began to move in slow, careful thrusts, pulling out just an inch before sinking back in, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. his hands cradled your jaw, his mouth praising every breath that left your lips.
“so beautiful,” he whispered. “you’re so beautiful like this.”
you whimpered, your body adjusting, the burn easing into a dull throb — and then something more. something electric.
pleasure.
he moved a little deeper, a little fuller, the stretch still sharp but starting to pulse with warmth, with friction, with heat.
“i can feel you opening up for me,” he murmured, voice husky. “you’re letting me in.”
your mouth fell open in a gasp as his hips rolled against yours, his cock brushing something deeper inside you.
“y-yuta...”
he groaned, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “say it again.”
“yuta... please... don’t stop.”
he lifted himself onto his elbows, looking down at you.
your hair spread like silk across the futon, your cheeks flushed, breasts rising with every breath. the sheen of sweat on your skin made you glow in the moonlight.
“fuck,” he whispered. “you’re a fucking goddess.”
he kissed down your body — your throat, your chest, your breasts — taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, rolling his hips into you with a rhythm that made your toes curl.
you moaned loudly, the pain all but forgotten now.
he worshiped you.
his hands never stopped moving — stroking your hips, your thighs, your stomach. his lips pressed reverent kisses across every inch of skin. and when he fucked you, it was with slow, deliberate strokes that grew deeper, firmer, more intense as you moaned louder beneath him.
“so tight,” he groaned. “so wet for me. you were made for me, weren’t you?”
“yes,” you gasped. “yes, yuta — i’m yours.”
his thrusts quickened, your slick coating him now, your pussy fluttering around his cock as he hit that spot again and again, each thrust pulling a louder cry from your lips.
your legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.
“don’t hold back,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “i can take it.”
and he did.
he fucked you harder, faster, driving into you with a hunger barely leashed, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.
“come for me,” he growled. “come on my cock.”
your body tensed.
the pressure snapped.
your orgasm hit you like a wave — deep and intense, your pussy clenching around him, your cry sharp and breathless. he groaned loudly, thrusting harder as you came, chasing his own high.
“i’m gonna fill you up,” he moaned. “gonna come inside you, baby. is that what you want?”
“yes,” you whimpered. “fill me, yuta — please.”
he grunted, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching inside you.
he spilled into you in hot, thick pulses, his breath ragged, his body trembling over yours.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
his body collapsed slowly over yours, his weight grounding you, comforting you.
his arms wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing the top of your damp hair.
“you’re mine,” he whispered again. “no one else. only me.”
you nodded, your voice soft. “only you.”
and for the first time in weeks, your heart felt full again.
you woke to warmth.
not just the kind that lingered on your skin from shared heat, but the kind that lived deep — quiet and golden and whole. for the first time since you’d entered that house, you didn’t wake alone. no empty sheets. no cold side of the bed. just him.
yuta was still asleep beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his face turned toward yours. soft strands of his red hair fell across his brow, tousled and wild from the night before. he looked younger like this. not the man who ruled osaka in silence and steel — but the boy who whispered your name into your mouth like it meant something sacred.
his breath was slow. deep. steady.
his hand flexed slightly against your skin.
you didn’t move.
you just watched him.
you let yourself memorize every detail in the pale light of morning — the faint scar near his left brow, the small freckle on the side of his neck, the way his lips parted just enough to make your chest ache.
he was beautiful.
but more than that — he was real.
and last night, he had made you feel more than wanted. he had made you feel chosen.
your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing the edge of his jaw, feather-light.
he stirred.
a low hum escaped his throat. his brow furrowed for a moment, then his lashes fluttered open. dark, still a little hazy, but focused on you within seconds.
he blinked once.
then again.
and then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath all night.
“you’re still here,” he murmured, voice raspy, rough with sleep.
you smiled faintly. “where else would i be?”
his hand on your waist tightened. not possessively — just sure.
“wasn’t sure,” he whispered, eyes studying your face like he didn’t want to miss a single second. “after what i said… in the garden. i thought maybe you…”
you shook your head before he could finish.
“i meant what i said last night. i wanted you to know. really know — that it’s only ever been you.”
he was quiet.
his gaze dropped for a second. then returned to yours.
“i didn’t deserve that,” he said. “your honesty. your body. you. not after doubting you.”
your throat tightened.
“you were hurt,” you said gently. “and i didn’t make it easy. i let the silence grow between us.”
he turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you now — the blanket slipping lower on his hips, his chest bare, skin still warm against yours.
“i don’t want silence anymore,” he said. “not with you.”
you reached up, fingers brushing against his chest. “so talk to me, then.”
he hesitated.
his brows drew together slightly — not from anger, but from fear. it was strange, seeing that expression on a man like him.
“i never planned to fall for you,” he admitted. “this started as protection. strategy. and then... you walked into my world like you were born to burn in it. and i couldn’t stop watching. couldn’t stop wanting.”
you bit your lip.
“i wanted to hate you,” you confessed. “wanted to resent this marriage, the way it forced me to pretend. but it never felt like pretending. not with you.”
his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.
“tell me what this is,” he whispered. “for you.”
you didn’t hesitate.
“it’s home,” you breathed. “it’s terrifying and messy and too much sometimes — but it’s home.”
he closed his eyes briefly, as if your words were too heavy to hold in open air.
then he leaned in and kissed you.
soft. slow. reverent.
not hungry like the night before. not claiming. just... grateful.
his forehead pressed to yours when he pulled away.
“if i lose you,” he murmured, “i’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”
you smiled. sad, soft.
“then don’t give me a reason to leave.”
he nodded, just once, but it felt like a vow.
“from now on,” he said, “you’ll never doubt your place here. in this bed. in my life. in my heart.”
“good,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “because i already gave you everything.”
his mouth found yours again, a little more urgent this time — and just like that, the morning turned into something golden, something sweet.
you stayed wrapped in each other until the sunlight painted your bodies in warmth, until the silence between you was no longer heavy — just peaceful.
and for the first time in weeks, the war was over.
takuya stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the compound like it could offer answers he didn’t already have. yuta was behind him, still barefoot from the room upstairs, wearing only loose black pants, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
the tension was thick. too quiet.
he didn’t greet yuta.
just stood with his arms crossed, eyes unreadable, spine stiff as stone.
“we need to talk,” he said.
yuta didn’t flinch.
“then talk.”
he watched him for a long, long second. then gestured toward the sliding door. “not here.”
yuta followed him into the garden, silent steps on the stone path, the air still carrying the lingering scent of summer rain and night-blooming jasmine. the same place where him had once walked away from you. now you were walking into something else — not heartbreak, but confrontation.
he turned to face him once the path ended.
his jaw was clenched.
“you’ve changed.”
yuta’s gaze didn’t flinch. “good.”
“no. not good. you’re softer. distracted. emotional. you think with your chest now. not your head.”
yuta crushed the cigarette in the tray. stepped forward.
“you think i’m weak because i love her?” he asked, voice deadly calm.
“i think you’re human. and in this world, that’s a liability.”
yuta tilted his head. “she’s not a liability. she’s the only reason i’m still standing.”
takuya didn’t speak. the silence stretched.
yuta took another step, closing the space between them.
“this marriage? it was supposed to be for appearances. a shield. a tool.” his jaw tightened. “but it’s not ending.”
takuya raised an eyebrow. “you sound certain.”
“i am.” yuta’s voice didn’t shake. “she’s loyal. she’s stronger than half the men we command. and she’s mine. i’m not letting her go.”
“she’s not from this world.”
“and yet she’s survived it better than most.”
takuya’s expression hardened. “i’m telling you to think with a cold head.”
yuta stepped close. too close.
“and i’m telling you — this isn’t about control anymore. this is about truth. about grounding. she’s good for me, takuya. not because she makes me soft — but because she makes me still.”
takuya studied him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
then, finally — a nod.
slow. reluctant.
but real.
“then stand by it,” he said. “and make damn sure no one doubts it.”
despite yuta’s firm confrontation with takuya, life didn’t shift all at once. there were no grand gestures, no dramatic changes in tone. just subtle things. quiet things.
a few days later, you returned to his —or maybe now, your room—, room and found it gutted. the futon replaced by a wide, luxurious queen-sized bed, draped in black sheets and lined with down pillows. the floor had been redone, dark polished wood. new lighting. warm, soft. a space not just made for sleeping — but for sharing.
your old room, however, hadn’t been discarded.
instead, it had been transformed into a closet.
an absurdly large, obscenely modern closet — velvet benches, full-length mirrors, recessed lighting, and drawers that slid open at the touch of a finger. racks of high-end clothing lined the walls: silk, cashmere, leather, tailored and imported. you’d lost count of how many designer tags you saw before the nausea hit.
“you used clan money for this?” you asked one night, mouth still agape.
yuta had only shrugged from the bed, shirtless, flipping through a magazine. “technically it’s our money.”
“that’s not how money works, yuta.”
“that’s how my money works.”
you weren’t supposed to find it.
the drawer in yuta’s private study was always locked. it wasn’t forbidden — just quietly off-limits. you never questioned it. never tried. but that night, he’d left in a rush, forgetting to grab his keys. and when you went in to bring him a new set, the drawer was already cracked open.
you told yourself not to look.
but you did.
inside: a black lacquered box, unmarked. inside the box: a bundle of old photos, yellowed with time. beneath those, a sheathed tantō blade — older than the one used in your wedding, its hilt worn, stained. and finally, a letter, folded so many times the edges had nearly fallen apart.
you opened it with trembling fingers.
the handwriting was messy. a mix of japanese and english, written like it had been scrawled during a storm.
“he died because of me. i told him not to take the other road. i said i’d handle it. i was wrong.”
beneath the words: a name. shotaro.
you sat there for a long time. silent. still.
when yuta returned home hours later, his jacket still damp from the rain outside, you were waiting in the study. the letter on your lap. your eyes unreadable.
he stopped in the doorway.
for the first time since you’d known him, he looked afraid.
“where did you find that?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“you left the drawer open,” you said quietly. “i wasn’t searching.”
he closed the door behind him.
slowly.
“shotaro was your brother,” you said. not a question.
his silence was answer enough.
you stood, walking toward him. you placed the letter gently in his hand.
“you’ve never told anyone?”
he shook his head once. “takuya knows some. but not everything.”
“why hide it?”
he exhaled, fingers tightening around the paper. “because i failed him. i told him i’d protect him. and he died for me instead.”
you stepped into his space, palms pressed to his chest, voice steady.
“you carry so much. alone. but you don’t have to anymore.”
he looked down at you — eyes shadowed, face unreadable. but something in him cracked. not loudly. not visibly.
just enough.
his hands came to your hips. gripped tight.
“say it again,” he whispered.
“you don’t have to carry it alone.”
his lips crushed into yours before the words fully left your mouth.
and everything exploded.
he pushed you back against the nearest wall, mouth devouring yours, hands sliding under your clothes, yanking your kimono open like it offended him. his body was hard, heavy, desperate against yours, and when you whimpered, he growled — deep, low.
“strip.”
you obeyed immediately, eyes wide, breath shallow.
he watched you undress, step by step, until you stood naked in the soft light of the study, the shadows of your tattoos dancing across your bare skin. his eyes raked over every inch, jaw clenched, cock already hard and straining against his pants.
“on the desk,” he ordered. “face down. hands flat.”
your heart pounded as you obeyed, the cool wood chilling your skin, your thighs trembling in anticipation. you heard the sound of his belt coming undone, the low hiss of his zipper.
then silence.
“do you even realize what you do to me?” he asked, voice rough.
you opened your mouth to speak, but he grabbed your hips, yanking you back so your ass arched up perfectly.
“don’t answer,” he growled. “just listen.”
his cock slid between your folds — thick, hot, teasing — rubbing through your slick without entering.
“you walk around this house like you don’t know you own me,” he murmured against your spine. “you sit in my meetings like a queen, and you think i don’t see the way they look at you? the way they fear you?”
he pushed the tip in — just barely — and you gasped, fingers curling against the wood.
“but you know who owns you, don’t you?”
“y-yes—”
he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
your cry echoed through the room.
he didn’t wait. didn’t ease you in. he took you — hard, deep, merciless — one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it burned.
“who fucks you like this?” he growled. “who makes you scream like you’re mine?”
“you, yuta — fuck — only you.”
his pace was relentless, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene.
“that’s right. and you’ll take every drop of my cum like a good little wife. won’t you?”
“yes—please—fill me—”
he bent over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.
“you want me to breed you, don’t you?”
you moaned so loud it broke into a sob.
“say it.”
“i want it. want your cum—inside me—wanna be full, yuta, please—”
he bit down softly on your neck, thrusts growing erratic.
“then take it.”
you felt the heat building in your core, body shaking, his cock pounding your g-spot over and over. your orgasm hit you like lightning — thighs trembling, vision white, a scream ripping from your throat as you clenched around him.
he cursed loud.
and then came.
deep inside you.
hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into your pussy, his grip tightening as he rode out every wave, buried to the hilt, panting against your skin.
you stayed like that — bodies locked, his cum dripping from you slowly, warm down your thighs — until your heart slowed.
he pulled out gently, and you turned, breathless, sweat-slicked, aching in the best ways.
he cupped your face.
kissed your lips.
then rested his forehead to yours.
“you know everything now,” he whispered. “there’s nothing left to hide.”
you smiled faintly.
“good. because i already gave you all of me.”
his lips brushed your ear, voice low and full of reverence.
“and now i’ll never give you back.”
you found riku by the back steps of the house, his phone in hand, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes scanning something you couldn’t quite see. he didn’t hear you approach. or maybe he did and was just pretending not to.
the late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting a warm haze over the garden stones. it smelled faintly of earth and chamomile, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe before breaking the silence.
“we need to talk,” you said gently.
he looked up, startled for a second, then shrugged. “if it’s about the shoes i ordered on your card—”
you gave him a look. “riku.”
he sat up straighter. serious now. “okay. what’s up?”
you sat beside him, folding your hands in your lap, your yukata sleeves pooling at your wrists. you took a breath, choosing your words carefully.
“you need to go back to school.”
he blinked. “what?”
“you heard me. i already spoke to the headmaster. they’re willing to let you re-enroll next term. and you need to talk to your mom. properly. you’ve been avoiding her.”
riku looked away. jaw clenched. “she wouldn’t understand.”
“she doesn’t need to understand all of this,” you said softly. “but she deserves to know you’re alive. and trying. you think you’re protecting her, but disappearing from her life like this… it’s not fair.”
he didn’t respond at first. his gaze drifted out to the garden wall, and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his silence.
“this life,” you continued, “this world we’re in now — it’s not safe. you know that. and i can’t help worrying that something might happen to you, and she’ll never even know why. i’ve accepted the risks of being here. but i never wanted them for you.”
his shoulders tensed. he stayed quiet, but his eyes looked glossy, like he’d blinked just a second too late.
“you still have a chance to choose,” you whispered. “and i want you to choose something that won’t kill you.”
he finally looked back at you, a long exhale dragging out of his chest.
“i’ll call her,” he said quietly. “and i’ll apologize. properly.”
you smiled, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
but as you did, your eyes caught the edge of something just beneath the sleeve of his jacket — a strip of white gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm. when your fingers brushed it lightly, he flinched.
you pulled the sleeve up.
the bandage had been carelessly wrapped. fresh ink peeked through the gaps — intricate black lines, a dragon’s claw, maybe, or waves, the skin still slightly raised and tender.
your stomach twisted.
“riku…”
he winced. “it’s nothing. i mean… it’s just a little piece. it’s not even done yet.”
you stared at it for a long moment.
“do you have any idea what she’s going to do when she sees this?”
he rubbed the back of his neck. “probably cry. or throw a pan at me.”
“or both.”
“...at the same time.”
you sighed, but your lips twitched into a small smile. still, your chest felt heavy. not angry — just afraid. he was walking deeper into the world you were only now beginning to understand, and it made your role in it feel even more complicated.
you didn’t say anything more. you just wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug, holding him there for a few seconds longer than either of you wanted to admit.
that night, after too many glasses of sake and a long evening spent in each other’s arms, the bed was a mess of sweat and tangled sheets.
you were lying on your stomach, your hair stuck to your back, body exhausted and humming. yuta was sprawled on top of you, chest pressed to your spine, his arm tucked under your ribs, his face buried in your neck.
you groaned, voice muffled into the pillow. “you’re heavy.”
“you love it.”
he was right.
he kissed the back of your shoulder, a lazy drag of lips against damp skin.
“you’ve ruined me,” he murmured.
you laughed breathlessly. “you say that like you weren’t already unfixable.”
“i mean it,” he said, shifting slightly so he could look at you. “i didn’t expect this. any of it. you… being here. being mine. and still choosing to stay.”
your eyes softened.
“you’re not an easy man to love, nakamoto.”
he smirked. “but worth it?”
“every headache.”
he leaned over the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer, and returned with a small velvet box — navy, square, simple.
you blinked. “what’s that?”
he sat up slightly, straddling your thighs, hair messy, chest still flushed. the box opened with a click.
inside was a ring — gold, sleek and bold, with a marquise-cut diamond set sideways, surrounded by a halo of tiny black sapphires. the band was engraved with delicate detailing, traditional japanese patterns etched into the metal like hidden promises.
it gleamed even in the low light. expensive. beautiful. utterly yuta.
you sat up, stunned.
“you’re asking me to marry you right after we’ve had sex?” you asked, laughing.
he shrugged. “i was inspired.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“you’re naked and gorgeous and mine. i panicked.”
your laughter caught in your throat, replaced with a tightness that swelled in your chest as you stared at the ring. your eyes watered, lips parting, voice shaky.
“is this real?”
he nodded, his voice quiet now. “i don’t want the kind of marriage we started with. i want one that means something. to both of us. no contracts. no politics. just us. in front of the clan. in front of the gods.”
your fingers reached out, barely brushing the edge of the ring.
“i want to do this right,” he whispered. “let me show you.”
you swallowed hard.
and smiled.
“then yes,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “ask me a hundred times and the answer’s always going to be yes.”
his grin broke wide.
and this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t about hunger.
it was about forever.
the second wedding was nothing like the first.
the first had been arranged in cold hallways, behind doors that clicked shut like iron, signed with blood and pressure and the unspoken rules of the underworld. the first had been necessary — a move on a chessboard.
but this one?
this one was chosen.
held in the shrine courtyard of the nakamoto estate, under the quiet watch of ancestors and gods alike, it began with the low beat of taiko drums and the scent of incense curling through the crisp morning air.
you stood at the center of it all.
dressed in a white shiromuku, the traditional bridal kimono of purity and rebirth. its silk trailed the floor, heavy and immaculate, embroidered with phoenixes and cranes in shimmering thread. your tsunokakushi — the white head covering meant to conceal ego — crowned your head, soft and still.
beside you stood yuta.
his posture was straight, proud, the black crested montsuki haori and hakama hanging from his frame like armor. he looked every bit the oyabun — the head of a family — and yet his gaze never left you, like nothing else in the world demanded his attention.
behind you, rows of men and women knelt on tatami mats — the inner circle of the nakamoto clan. some bore tattoos beneath their sleeves, others scarred hands, others cold eyes trained by violence and loyalty. but in this moment, they were still. silent.
they were bearing witness.
the priest began the shinzen kekkon — the wedding before the gods — by purifying the space with shide and sake, then guiding you and yuta to the front of the altar. a sacred tree branch, tamagushi, was placed in your joined hands. together, you offered it to the kami, bowing low.
this was no contract.
this was devotion.
your palms touched. warm. sure.
and then came the san-san-kudo — the sharing of three cups of sake, each one drunk in three sips: first you, then him, then together. nine sips in total. three-three-nine. an old number. a sacred one.
you drank slowly, your lips brushing the rim, the liquid sharp and ancient on your tongue.
when he drank, he didn’t look at the cup.
he looked at you.
as the final sip passed between you, the priest intoned words of binding.
not legally.
spiritually.
eternally.
and then yuta turned to you, voice low but clear.
“i married you once for duty,” he said. “now i marry you for truth.”
your throat tightened.
you bowed your head and replied, voice steady:
“and i vow to walk beside you, not behind.”
there were no claps.
no applause.
just silence.
respectful.
reverent.
a world watching its king choose something sacred.
when you stepped away from the altar, hand in hand, a man approached from the side.
takuya.
he bowed.
deeply.
then, with solemn hands, presented the ceremonial dagger — tantō — wrapped in white silk. a symbol of acceptance into the family. not as a pawn.
but as one of them.
yuta took it, unwrapped it, and turned to you.
“kneel,” he said softly.
you did.
without fear.
he placed the blade across your palms.
“you carry the weight of my name,” he said. “from now on, no one questions your place.”
you bowed low, touching your forehead to the hilt.
when you stood again, your eyes met his — and something ancient passed between you. a vow older than paper. stronger than ink.
hours later, after the feast, after the toasts, after the smoke and laughter and low bows from men who once called you nothing but ‘the girl from the village’...
you were lying on your stomach in the private room upstairs, your white kimono loosened and draped to your waist, exposing the pale skin of your back and arm.
the tattoo artist sat beside you, focused and quiet.
the hum of the needle filled the room.
yuta was there too.
he sat behind you, shirtless, cross-legged on the floor, watching the design bloom across your skin — a dragon and peony motif interlaced with fine black wind bars, each line tying you deeper into their world. the colors were subtle, but fierce.
the design stretched from your shoulder down to the start of your wrist.
a mirror to his.
not identical. not copied.
complementary.
his hand rested on your calf, thumb drawing lazy circles as the artist worked. you winced once, and he leaned forward, kissing your spine.
“almost done,” he murmured.
you nodded, breath steady.
when the final line was inked and the cloth wiped away the last trace of blood, the artist stepped back.
yuta stood.
he offered his hand.
you took it.
the photograph was more than a picture.
it was a statement. a declaration. an immortal moment suspended in monochrome — raw and reverent. in it, you sat with your back to the camera, your legs drawn close, arms resting lightly over your chest, the cropped sarashi wrapping your torso like a ribbon of quiet power. the light caught the shine of your new tattoo: a sweeping sleeve of mythical creatures and chrysanthemum blooms, still fresh, still red at the edges, but already a part of you. you wore it like a second skin, regal and unbothered, your chin slightly lifted, your hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of your neck, strands framing your face. behind you sat yuta, shirtless, composed, his own tattoos a war map of history carved into muscle and bone. he sat in seiza, arms resting on his knees, head turned just slightly toward your shoulder, not in possession — but in respect.
the image held no smiles. no forced emotion. it was calm. deliberate. powerful. and when it was printed, framed, and placed in the tokonoma alcove of the clan’s primary meeting room, no one questioned it. it hung higher than the weapons displayed on the walls, higher than the scrolls of bloodlines and signed treaties — at the very center of the room, commanding the eye.
to those who entered from the outside, it was a symbol of unity between worlds: tradition and transformation. loyalty and love. ink and intention.
but to those who belonged to the nakamoto clan, it meant something more.
it was the moment they stopped seeing you as “the outsider.” the girl in the white dress from a village none of them could name. the contract bride. the quiet one who used to bow too deeply and speak too little.
now, you sat beside yuta during meetings — not in silence, but in observation. not hidden behind him, but at his side. when younger wives or girlfriends were brought into the compound — nervous, uncertain, too afraid to speak — you were the first to greet them. you created rules to protect them. gave them space to breathe. and over time, it wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking members of the clan to glance your way during decisions, silently asking for your read. your word.
sometimes, you gave it. calmly. decisively.
and when you did, yuta never interrupted.
he listened. he agreed. he trusted.
your presence became part of the structure — not ornamental, but foundational. the quiet balance to yuta’s fire. the logic behind his instinct. you were his shadow when it was needed, and his shield when he left himself exposed. and though some still whispered in the dark corners of old ways, they never challenged you. not after the photograph. not after the wedding. not after the way yuta looked at you when he thought no one was watching.
he looked at you like you had saved him.
because you had.
that night, long after the meeting room had emptied and the halls had quieted, you found yourselves in the sanctuary of your shared space — warm lamplight casting soft amber shadows across the tatami mats, the scent of cedar and sandalwood lingering in the air. your yukata was folded neatly on the bench, your body bare beneath the sheets, still warm from the bath, hair damp against your shoulders. you sat cross-legged on the futon, eyes closed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the new lines of your tattooed arm. it ached — not painfully, but as a reminder. of everything you now carried. of everything you had chosen.
yuta entered quietly, still in his black hakama, his haori open at the chest. he watched you for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe. no words. just breath. reverence.
then, slowly, he crossed the room.
he knelt in front of you, hands resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on your face. when you opened your eyes, he was there — so close, so still, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile between you.
“i see you,” he said quietly, voice low and full. “not just as my wife. not just as my lover. i see the whole of you. and i want you to know… i trust you with everything. with this clan. with my life. with myself.”
your throat tightened, your chest blooming with something deep and unspeakable. you reached for him, cupping his face with your inked hand. his fingers curled around your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold you there.
he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.
then another to your wrist.
and then, slowly, he laid you down.
his body followed, not with urgency, but with worship — every kiss placed like an offering, every touch a vow. he undressed with no rush, peeling away the layers of cloth until only skin remained between you, until he could feel the curve of your thighs against his hips, your breath against his throat.
he kissed the dragon on your shoulder, then the soft underside of your arm, the delicate line of your ribs. when he reached the curve of your waist, he paused, resting his cheek against your stomach.
“i’ve never bowed to anything but blood and blade,” he whispered. “but for you… i kneel willingly.”
you ran your fingers through his hair, the pads of your thumbs brushing over the scars on his back.
“you don’t have to kneel,” you whispered. “just stay.”
he did.
that night, he didn’t take you roughly. he didn’t claim. he shared. his lips traced every new line on your body as if learning them for the first time. he kissed the places where you winced, and moaned softly when you melted beneath him. he held your hands above your head, not to restrain — but to ground. to feel your pulse against his palms, the heartbeat he’d promised to protect.
when he finally pushed into you, the stretch was deep, familiar, perfect. no pain now. no hesitation. only breath. only movement. you gasped his name against his mouth and he shuddered, whispering yours back like a confession.
he moved slow.
steady.
deliberate.
your bodies rocked in time with the sound of distant wind through the paper doors, with the beating of your own hearts. he watched your face the whole time — every arch of your spine, every flutter of your lashes, every whisper that spilled from your lips.
and when you came — trembling, wet, full of him — he followed, murmuring words into your neck, words you couldn’t remember later but felt deep in your bones.
afterward, you lay tangled in silk and sweat, your inked bodies glowing under the flicker of dying lamplight.
he pulled you close.
kissed your forehead.
and whispered into your ear with a voice only meant for you:
“you’re not just the woman i love. you’re the one who made me real.”
and in the silence that followed, you smiled.
because you believed him.
completely.
the journey was quiet.
no guards. no entourage. just you and yuta in the back of a black car, the windows fogged slightly from the spring rain outside. he hadn’t said much since you left the house — just held your hand loosely in his lap, his thumb tracing slow, endless circles against your skin. the route took you far from the city, past rice fields and roadside shrines, into the kind of silence that belonged to memory and ghosts.
when the car finally stopped, you stepped out into a small mountain cemetery — tucked into the hills, moss-covered, serene. the rain had eased into a mist, the scent of wet earth and cedar wrapping around you like incense.
the cemetery was quiet in the way only mountain cemeteries could be — the silence not empty, but full, brimming with memory, with weight, with things that still hovered in the air long after breath and body had left the world. above the hills, the late spring sun filtered through a haze of low clouds, casting a soft, muted light over the moss-covered stones and uneven steps. you walked beside yuta, your fingers lightly wrapped around his, your pace steady and deliberate, each step more a ritual than a motion. the path curved slightly as it climbed, the gravel crunching underfoot, and the scent of pine and damp earth rose in slow, solemn waves around you, the kind of scent that felt ancient, like it had always belonged to places like this.
he didn’t speak as you walked. he hadn’t spoken much all morning, and you hadn’t asked him to. you knew what this day meant. what it carried. what it demanded of him. when he finally stopped, it was without warning, his body going still as if something inside him had met resistance — not fear, not hesitation, but reverence. you followed the direction of his gaze and saw it: the gravestone set slightly apart from the others, modest in size, but so immaculately kept that the stone still gleamed beneath the faded sky. the characters were carved deep into the black granite, bold but elegant:
nakamoto shotaro 1972 — 1989
you stared at the dates for a long time, feeling the years settle into your bones. he had been seventeen when he died. seventeen and full of the kind of impossible plans that only younger brothers had — plans to run, to rebel, to protect someone taller than him with his own small body if it meant taking some of the weight off his shoulders. you didn’t know him, not really, not in voice or laughter or presence. but you felt him now — in the way yuta’s hand tightened around yours, in the way the breeze shifted at your ankles, in the way something unspoken hovered just above the earth.
yuta knelt slowly, his knees pressing into the gravel, the sleeves of his haori brushing the edges of the stone as he reached forward with both hands and gently set down a bundle of fresh white chrysanthemums. he didn’t rush. he adjusted each stem until they sat perfectly balanced, then bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the stone. you stayed behind him, giving him the space to let the moment breathe, your heart tightening in your chest with each passing second.
when he finally lifted his head, he exhaled slowly — a sound that wasn’t just breath, but release, something old and painful and buried long enough that it had become part of his spine. his voice, when it came, was low and quiet, spoken more to the grave than to you.
“i couldn’t come before,” he said. “i didn’t know how.”
the wind stirred slightly, catching the edge of his hair.
“i ran. i thought if i built something powerful enough, loud enough, cold enough… maybe it would drown the guilt. maybe i wouldn’t see your face every time i closed my eyes.”
he glanced back at you then, and you met his gaze, offering him nothing but presence.
“but i never stopped seeing you,” he continued, turning back to the stone. “and i never stopped thinking — what would you say if you could see me now? if you knew what i’ve become?”
he reached into the inner fold of his robe and pulled out a photograph, carefully wrapped in a cloth. he unfolded it slowly and set it down beside the flowers, weighing it with a smooth black stone.
you recognized the image before you saw it fully.
it was the photo.
the one of you and him — back to back, inked and bare, solemn and unbreakable.
“this is her,” he whispered. “the one who brought me home. my precious wife.”
you stepped forward then, kneeling beside him. you didn’t speak. instead, you pressed your palm to the stone, fingers splayed. it was cool beneath your skin, rough at the edges, and yet it vibrated faintly, as if warmed by something deeper than sunlight. in that moment, you felt him — not just yuta, but shotaro too — and it struck you how alike they must have been. same blood. same defiance. same loyalty.
yuta turned his head toward you, his voice steadier now, softer. “i told you once that i had a sister,” he said. “but i never told you why i stopped speaking to her. it wasn’t just grief. it was shame. she raised us both after our parents passed away, and i failed her. failed him.”
you looked at him, your expression unreadable, your voice gentle.
“but you didn’t fail him, yuta. you survived. and now you’re honoring him in the only way that matters — by living differently. by loving differently.”
his eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were wet.
not broken.
not defeated.
just full.
he took your hand and kissed the back of it slowly, then stood. you rose with him, brushing gravel from your knees. together, you bowed one last time to the stone, deeper than before, not as farewell but as acceptance — of loss, of memory, of love that had changed its shape but never its place.
as you turned to leave, the wind passed again through the trees, rustling the leaves above like a whisper, and you could’ve sworn — just for a second — that the air felt warmer. lighter. forgiven.
── ⭑ ☆ ⭑ ──
telling yuta you’re getting a piercing !!
a/n: i have deep trauma (not really) with bellybutton piercings…😞
127 breeding kink
warnings: smut, mdni, breeding, unprotected sex, dirty talk, daddy kink, creampie, sex toys, mentions of pregnancy, baby trapping.
summary: breeding kink w bf!127
requested! enjoy lovely!
johnny:
johnny is nasty when it comes to his breeding kink, he would have you cumming for him for hours. any position he can get you in. loves having you in back shots, body pulled up against his chest as his hips are drilling into you like a jack hammer. filling you up beyond believe, you can feel it in your womb, in your tummy, so full of his seed you’re tummy starts to bloat. you’re thighs and ass are covered in both your releases, hot sticky and filthy. definitely started with his daddy kink, now obsessed with putting babies in you. his mouth and words are obscene. definitely calls you mama during it. talking and gushing about how you’ll look all swollen for him, carrying his kids. lot of creampies. keeps pushed in you so he knows none of him is gonna drip out of you.
“that’s it mama, hold it in until it takes”
taeyong:
he has been vocal in the past about wanting kids, and a lot of them too. and he’s so ready for them, ready for them with you. he reads up on the best positions for it to take. when you guys are going at it he can’t help but overstimulate you, needing to keep going. needs to fill you up until he’s empty. the image he has of you in his head, belly swelled, tits growing, body changing, it drives him crazy. he wants nothing more than to make it a reality, going at it multiple times a day, multiple rounds.
“gonna look so sexy pregnant for me baby”
yuta:
the idea of you getting and being pregnant is hot, but being knocked up by him? getting to watch you raise his kids? oh it’s doing crazy things to him. it started when you jokingly held your bloated tummy after a big meal, introducing him to your food baby, he laughs at the time, but seeing your hands clasp around your tummy, rubbing your belly is making him feral. loves having you in mating press, you can’t get away when it’s too much, his thighs keeping your legs spread while he pounds into you. he’s gonna have you like this until that positive test is in his hands
“gonna make me a daddy baby?”
doyoung:
he’s already very paternal, he’s great around kids, so you are definitely the first one with the breeding kink, wanting to see him with your babies, caring for them. want to see his face in theirs. when you confess your feelings, it has him going nuts, making love to you whenever he can, slow and heavy strokes as he burries his cum as deep as it’ll go, shooting ropes and ropes past your cervix into your womb. even when you’re not actively having sex you and him are constantly talking about the future and what your kids will bring to your life. and he’s so excited, every morning, after he’s had you practically swinging from the chandelier, he’s got his hands on your tummy, in hopes that there’s a mini you in there.
“can’t wait to make you a mommy baby, gonna be so amazing”
jaehyun:
oh we know he said he always wanted to be a teen dad. it’s too late for that now he’s almost 30, but he’s still doing it for the love of the game. still hell bent on putting that baby or babies in you. obsessed with the idea of him knocking you up, buying you pretty maternity clothes, showing of you and your big bump to the world. oh he wants it so bad, after sex he likes to plug you up, keeping his hot fertile seed in you as long as possible, watching you writhe around the dildo he has shoved in you. doesn’t jerk off anymore, not wanting to waist a single drop, only cums inside.
“keep it in there baby, don’t push it out, let it marinate”
jungwoo:
has a sick obsession with it, he’s real freaky and nasty, dirty talk through the roof now. constantly telling you to bend over so he can fill you up, doesn’t matter what either of you are doing, he’s getting horny and he’s not about to shoot blanks into the toilet or shower. if he’s gonna cum it’s gonna be as far deep inside you as it’ll go. if you guys have taken the conventional route and had sex in bed instead of over the kitchen counter, he’s cock warming you, keeping his seed and dick stuffed in holding you firm against him
“gonna be nice and round soon baby i promise”
mark:
although he’s a little young, he’s still a man, and the idea of going at it with you unprotected and raw, watching you hold his cum in as long as you can, it drives him wild. you’ve talked about kids and you both established that you want them with one another, so if and when it happens, it happens, not actively trying for a baby like some of the others, but not preventing it either. he loves nothing than being into the hilt watching his cum bubble around his balls, trying to escape as you moan out for him. he’s right where he wants to be.
“look so fucking sexy like this baby, so fucking full”
haechan:
loves the idea of knocking you up, he has an otherworldly obsession with you, and the idea of baby trapping you, it has his mind going crazy. he knows you love him and never plan on leaving, but having a kid or a few will definitely secure your place in his life forever. you hadn’t had the whole kids conversation with him, but when you don’t ask him to pull out when he’s hitting raw it’s enough confirmation for him. definitely has you on board with him, loving the idea of being full of him and keeping him and a little mini version of him by your side for the rest of your life.
“gonna knock you up real good baby, gonna be stuck with me”
long distance
about; random text messages between you and your long distance boyfriend genderneutral!reader x 127!boyfriends
setting; nowhere specific- different time zones
warnings; suggestive themes in jaehyun’s and mark’s. minors dni!
note; not entirely sure that this is gender neutral but if it isn't please lmk. not proofread, hope you enjoyed!
YUTA 'Off The Mask' MV TEASER (x)
NCT 127 – When You Tell Them to Sit Down After They Say They Can’t Stand You
Johnny
Immediately bursts out laughing. "Okay, that was a good one." He’ll actually sit down, leaning back dramatically like, "Well, I guess I have no choice now."
Taeyong
Blinks at you in shock. He wasn’t actually mad, but your response completely throws him off. After a moment, he just sighs and obeys, mumbling, "Fine. But only because that was funny."
Yuta
Smirks instantly. "Damn, alright." He loves a clever comeback, so now he’s extra amused. He’ll definitely test you more often just to see what other things you come up with.
Doyoung
He stops mid-sentence, staring at you like, "Did you just…?" Then he sighs so dramatically. "I hate that that was actually funny." He sits down, but he’s shaking his head the whole time like he’s fake disappointed in himself for laughing.
Jaehyun
Gives you that look—the one where he’s clearly impressed but trying not to show it. He sits down without a word, resting his chin on his hand like, "Okay, continue. I’m listening now."
Jungwoo
Gasps. Then immediately sits down like, "Fair. That was fair." He’s grinning the whole time, though, and now he’s just waiting to see what else you’ll say.
Mark
Mans is flabbergasted cause like when did you become bold? But honestly he is secretly super proud of the witt! He sits back down without a word because you left him totally speechless. However it won't last for long just know he's gonna have a better comeback just wait for him to stop buffering
Haechan
Throws his hands up like, "Okay, okay, damn." He sits down but fake sulks about it for at least five minutes. Eventually, he just grins and goes, "That was actually kinda good, I’ll give it to you."
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝒐 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒖! | 𝒚𝒖𝒕𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒐
[⋆☕︎ ˖] conteúdo: yuta nakamoto × f!reader, relacionamento estabelecido, slice of life, 0.6k palavrinhas e acho que é só isso!!
[⋆☕︎ ˖] notinha da sun, a mais mais: agora que eu percebi que o título é tipo aquela música da ludmilla KKKKKKKK enfim, não é nada muito grandioso, tava um tempinho querendo escrever com o yuta e já tava acumulando dois pedidos. espero que vocês gostem!! beijinhos com gostinho de bala fini!! 💘
— Eu estava pensando que a gente podia assistir a um filminho… pipoquinha, um cházinho, quem sabe? Eu já me recuperei da gripe, mas não é por isso que vou tomar uma coquinha trincando — você sugeriu, observando Yuta passar um dos cremes novos no próprio rosto.
Você estava na cama, com um pijama quentinho — nem um pouco sexy, mas certamente fofo —, especialmente com o cabelo limpo preso num rabo de cavalo solto e os óculos de leitura enquanto relia um livro aleatório. Só naquele momento percebeu o título: Morro dos Ventos Uivantes. Não era nem para pagar de culta; você realmente gostava de Crepúsculo.
— Acho que hoje não, amor. Tô cansado — Yuta disse, sem nem olhar para você.
Você suspirou. Fazia uma semana que vocês não passavam a noite juntos. Não queria necessariamente transar — embora não se importasse se o seu esforço levasse a esse resultado —, mas a última semana, repleta de tosses catarrentas e muito catarro, deixando seu nariz irritado, impossibilitou qualquer encontro. Na verdade, Yuta veio a semana inteira só para medir sua temperatura e te trazer sopinha. Felizmente, você trabalhava em casa.
— Só um filminho, mor… Eu escolho um rapidinho. A gente pode assistir alguma animação, sei lá… Procurando Nemo? Eu só quero…
— Amor, já disse que tô cansado.
Ele te deu um beijo na testa, afastou as cobertas para se deitar e aproveitou o interruptor ao lado da cama para apagar as luzes, deixando apenas a sua luzinha de cabeceira acesa. Yuta nem te beijou na boca, nem disse que te amava. Como ele pôde?
— Quando você terminar de ler, pode apagar essa luzinha? Ela me incomoda.
Você queria socá-lo. Arrastá-lo pelo asfalto. Dormir sem beijinho e sem um “eu te amo” era motivo de término para você. E, além disso, passou a semana inteira ansiando por carinho — beijinhos e abraços calorosos — e recebeu o quê? Um selinho na testa. Na testa!
— Yu…
— Amor, fica quietinha, fica.
Você abriu a boca. Tinha cutucado-o de leve e se arrependeu de não ter usado toda a força para um tapa bem dado nas costas daquele safado — o que fez segundos depois.
— Por que você tá sendo seco comigo?!
Yuta acendeu a luz novamente e já não conseguia segurar a própria risada. Você já estava com as bochechas vermelhas de raiva — felizmente, ou não, ficava vermelha com facilidade — e, igualmente fácil, era contagiada pelo sorriso do namorado. Quando percebeu, já sorria junto com ele, abraçada a Yuta do jeitinho que tanto quis na última semana. É claro que ele tinha tentado fazer isso antes, mas você o impediu — não queria passar qualquer vírus que tivesse tomado conta do seu corpo para a pessoa que mais amava no mundo. Embora, se ainda restasse algum resquício… Yuta estava oficialmente infectado agora.
— O que você quer assistir?
— Velozes e Furiosos: Desafio em Tóquio.
Yuta fingiu ficar sério, embora os cantinhos dos lábios o denunciassem. Provavelmente era o pior filme da saga, mas ele sabia que:
— Eu tinha um crush no Sung Kang.
— Posso colocar minha mão dentro da sua calça quando eu ficar entediado?
— E isso vai ser…?
— Nos primeiros quinze minutos de filme.
Você riu. Yuta tirou seus óculos e os colocou na mesinha ao lado, acariciando seu rostinho antes de deixar um beijo demorado na sua boca. A língua dele encontrou a sua, o corpo dele se posicionando sobre o seu — e, de repente, nenhum dos dois, ou melhor, só você mesmo, se importava mais com o filme.
— Isso foi uma armadilha? — Yuta questionou, a boca a centímetros da sua, os olhos fechados, a mão já invadindo o elástico da sua calça.
Você sorriu, afastando-o só um pouquinho para respirar diante da excitação e encará-lo com atrevimento.
— Você quis me sacanear, mas eu sou mais esperta. Mulheres são, no geral, amor.
Você piscou, e Yuta sorriu, livrando-se da própria blusa. Já começava a ficar calor debaixo daquele edredom pesado — mas era muito melhor do que todos os dias de febre que você enfrentou.
— Depois o danado sou eu.
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