Can you write about Naoya and a top male reader who’s a lot bigger than him? Who’s also obsessed with with forced feminizing Naoya as he worships him. Think a breeding think.
status: edited + not proofread (ts too long)
synopsis: the domestication of naoya zenin.
cw: porn WITH plot, naoya lives AU, AMAB reader, top!reader, brat tamer!reader, muscular reader, implied widow reader, sub!naoya, brat!naoya, face-slapping, dubious consent, forced feminization, anal fingering, loss of anal virginity, belly bulge, breeding kink, mating press, creampie, lowk fluffy at the end
note: anon, i might owe you an apology because i wrote this in a sweaty stupor and might not have achieved what you are looking for. 🙂↕️ i put pen to paper and shit just flew out. either way, i hope you enjoy my word vomit. ♥︎
you wake before dawn, as always, expecting a quiet morning and the familiar routine of tending your fields. but as you cross the furrows, boots squelching in the dew-soaked earth, you spot something unnatural among the neat rows of young rice. something that shouldn’t be there.
it’s a man, sprawled face-down in the mud, his once-white shirt ruined, fabric torn and soaked through with dark streaks of blood. his fingers dig into the earth, nails cracked and black with dirt, one arm trembling as he tries to pull himself forward. up close, the details are almost too much to take in: blood streaks his scalp, matting down hair that might once have been glossy and proud; dirt cakes his skin in thick layers, hiding bruises that blossom purple and yellow beneath. the left half of his face is a ruined landscape, swollen and filthy, the flesh puckered around a ragged, blood-crusted scar where his eye should be. even in collapse, there’s a harshness in his posture, a stubborn refusal to be helpless, his shoulders squared, jaw set, as if he could hold himself together through sheer will, even as his body betrays him and sinks deeper into the mud.
he blinks up at you with his right eye, the blue cutting through the grime, sharp even now—a glower composed of pain, pride, and something on the verge of breaking. his jaw works as if he wants to speak, but only a guttural sound comes out, a wordless growl, more animal than human. he tries to push himself upright, muscles trembling violently, but his body is a mutinous, aching cage; his arms buckle, and he sags back, breath rattling. the stubbornness flickers in the hollow of his cheeks, in the way his good eye refuses to look away from yours, even as defeat and humiliation threaten to swallow him whole. everything about this encounter is wrong, as if fate itself is pressing him into the mud to see how much he can withstand before he cracks, testing the limits of his pride and endurance, and finding them wanting.
you don’t know who he is, not yet. all you see is a man on death’s doorstep, and that is enough to set your course. you kneel beside him, the mud soaking through your trousers, and try to lift him. he’s heavier than you expect—solid muscle gone slack with exhaustion, but every inch of him tense with resistance. as you haul him over your shoulder, mud and blood smear across your chest, the iron tang sharp in your nose. he stiffens at the contact, a shudder running through his battered frame, but the fight is out of him; he’s too weak to protest, his dignity stripped away with every step you take toward the farmhouse. each footfall is awkward, your arms straining to keep him balanced, but you grit your teeth, determined not to let him fall again.
inside, you lay him out on the old wooden table, its surface a graveyard of knife scars and water rings, stained darker in places by years of spilled broth and medicine. the smell of camphor and old rice straw lingers in the air, mixed with the sharper tang of sweat and blood. the light is dim, a single bulb humming overhead, flickering every so often as moths batter themselves against the glass. you work quickly, setting out your supplies: boiled water in a chipped metal basin, bandages torn from old petticoats, the blunt needles of your grandmother’s sewing kit, and a battered tin of ointment that smells of herbs and whiskey. each tool is familiar, but tonight their weight feels different, heavier somehow, when pressed into service for a stranger who looks more corpse than man. you hope it doesn’t bite you in the ass later.
naoya’s breaths are shallow and furious as you clean the mud from his face, each exhale hot and sharp with indignation and pain. the mud is caked into every crease of his skin, clinging stubbornly even as you work at it with careful, practiced motions. you wince at the carnage where his left eye should be—a gaping, angry wound rimmed with infection, the flesh puckered and raw. your hands are steady, practiced from years of mending broken things—fences, animals, yourself—but there is a tremor in your chest as you peel away the filthy bandage, the stench of rot and blood filling the cramped kitchen. he flinches, jaw clenched so tight the muscles jump beneath your fingers, as you douse the wound in water, scrubbing gently to clear away the worst of the grime, then stitch it closed with thread that smells faintly of mothballs and old perfume. the needle bites deep, drawing fresh blood, and you murmur apologies which he doesn’t bat his one eye at, your voice low and soothing even as he trembles with humiliation and agony. he doesn’t bother to tell you how he got like this, and you didn’t bother to ask.
he is silent, but every muscle in his body is coiled, vibrating with humiliation and resentment from just hours before, reduced to this. the heir of the zenin clan, reduced to a broken animal on your kitchen table, enduring the indignity of your care. even your touch—a farmer’s touch, practical and impersonal—is a reminder of how much he’s lost. when you finish, he’s slick with sweat, his jaw locked tight, but the bleeding has stopped. resentment lingers on his face, mingling with exhaustion and the dull, animal pain of survival.
you patch up the rest of his wounds—bruised ribs, a split lip, cuts up and down his arms. he smells of smoke and death, blood and something unfamiliar, like foreign incense. you dab ointment onto his cuts with a rag that still holds the faint scent of lavender from its past life as a woman’s handkerchief. each touch makes him tense, a silent fury in his jaw. naoya zenin, heir to a clan that worshipped power and perfection, is reduced to this: stitched up in a peasant’s kitchen, the legacy of his name meaningless among the mismatched, hand-me-down supplies. he’s used to crisp uniforms, servants who bowed their heads and never made him wait, the quiet terror his name commanded in every room. here, nothing is as it was—no sliding doors or lacquered floors, no disciplined silence, just the chirr of cicadas and the soft thud of your boots on the packed earth. the indignity festers in him with every ointment dab, every reminder that he is no longer feared. you realize with a chill that whatever happened to him was no accident, and that the prideful, bitter man before you is clinging to shards of a shattered legacy.
he sleeps for hours, barely stirring even as you check on him. only when the sun is high and the air thick with the scent of turned earth does he finally open his eye and fix you with a look that’s both wary and arrogant.
"name’s naoya. naoya zenin," he says, as if that name alone could part the clouds and command obedience. there’s a glitter of self-satisfaction in his eye—he’s certain you’ll recognize the name, that you’ll be grateful just to be in his presence. the bratty lilt in his voice is unmistakable, expecting you to flinch or bow for some reason. unfortunately for him, you don’t.
he waits for recognition, some flicker of awe, or fear, or the deference he’s been fed since childhood, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. you only nod and offer him a chipped bowl of rice and a cup of lukewarm water. his frown deepens, a shadow crossing his face as the realization settles in: here, his name means nothing, and his old tricks fall flat. the silence is thick and suffocating, filled with things neither of you will say. he expects reverence, or at least curiosity, but receives only the blank patience of someone who has long ago learned how to outlast storms. he blinks at you.
"eat or starve. it makes no difference to me." you turn away, your back a silent rebuke. he glares, but when he finally picks up the food, his hands shake. the sound of his eating is small, almost animal—half-starved, half-defiant. you tend to your chores.
it’s only later, when you catch the whispers in town and see the headlines at the corner store—zenin clan massacred, no survivors found—that you realize who’s sleeping under your roof. the last scion of an esteemed clan, broken and half-blind, clinging to life in your room. that night, you keep an eye on his as he sleeps, curled on his side with a thin blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, shivering even in the stuffy dark.
days blend into weeks as you settle into an uneasy routine, each day blurring into the next with the monotony of your work. you wake before dawn, slipping from the house to tend the fields—your hands raw, your back aching from the labor. naoya sleeps late at first, his body demanding rest to heal, the bed that was once yours now given over to him. even then, he complains about how rock solid it is. for now, you sleep on a folded blanket by the stove, the night air biting at your back. he never thanks you, but sometimes you catch him glancing at the empty space beside him when he thinks you aren’t looking. the hours crawl by in a pattern of work, silence, and strained proximity.
it’s impossible not to notice how out of place naoya seems in every aspect of country life. he holds his chopsticks too delicately, as if expecting someone to serve him, and when he eats, he sometimes turns his head just so, as if hoping to catch his own reflection and reassure himself he still looks good doing it. his hands, though roughened now by weeks of toil, retain a certain fineness—long fingers that once knew only calligraphy brushes and lacquered fans, not hoes and heavy buckets. the first time you handed him a shovel to finally pull his weight after all of this time, he gripped it all wrong, recoiling at the blisters it raised, then spent an hour examining his palms for damage, muttering about how he was never meant for such menial labor. he winces at chipped bowls, sneers at rough linens, and whenever he thinks you’re not watching, you catch him examining his reflection in the cloudy window, fussing with his hair, as if searching for the handsome face he once wore and mourning every small imperfection. even the way he walks, back straight, head held high—marks him as someone raised in a world you had no access to. he knows this and seemingly can’t help but make it your problem one way or another.
his complaints about the food are endless, he struggles with the knots on his borrowed apron, the way he scowls at the uneven floorboards, the way he fumbles with the pump handle at the well, muttering curses under his breath. he doesn’t even know how to mend a tear or light a fire, and on the rare occasions he tries, he does so with a sullen, frustrated grace that only makes the gaps in his upbringing more obvious. the farm’s routines are foreign to him, and for all his bravado, it’s clear he’s never lifted a finger for himself—not until now.
sometimes, as you pass in the cramped kitchen or out in the yard, he offers a barbed comment about your clothes, your hands, your meager meals. but more and more, naoya is forced to notice the details: the faded blouses he wears, the shirts cinched in at the waist, the hems just a little too short or the sleeves a little too narrow. some are patterned with delicate flowers, some button from the wrong side, all of them unmistakably feminine in cut and feel. all of it smells faintly of soap and lavender.
at first, he refuses to acknowledge it, wearing the clothes defiantly and making crude jokes about peasant thrift. each day, he delays dressing, sometimes outright refusing,, until you have to tussle with him, having to physically force his arms through the sleeves, your grip leaving red marks on his skin. the resistance is stubborn, bitter, and loud—shouted protests, empty threats he has no way of acting on. over the weeks, the resistance doesn’t so much disappear as it is worn thin by futility. there are no other options, no new shirts arriving from kyoto, no tailor to take his measurements anew. this is all you have to offer him. his choices shrink until there are no choices at all; he gets used to the way the fabric clings to his body, the way the neighbors look at him, the way you quietly hand him a freshly laundered blouse and expect him to roll up the sleeves and get to work. his body, his posture, even his movements start to shift to accommodate his new wardrobe. hips sway a little more as he hauls water, hands folded the way he’s seen the market women do as they wait in line for rice. the transformation is subtle at first, forced by necessity and the awareness that resistance achieves nothing, but soon he finds himself falling into these roles simply because there is nothing else left for him.
the prideful zenin heir is gone, replaced by a figure draped in someone else’s softness—a woman’s ghost, clinging to his skin. when he tries to protest now, the words come out weak, uncertain; it’s easier to keep his head down and let the routine swallow him. even the neighbors’ whispers fade, replaced by nods and small smiles, as if he’s become just another woman toiling in the fields. the humiliation stings, but it’s dulled by the comfort of belonging, however artificial. it amuses you.
your days fall into a rhythm: you work the land, naoya sulks and snaps, sometimes helping, sometimes refusing. you tolerate plenty from him, from his snide remarks about your food to his sneers at your calloused hands, even the bratty little games he plays to get a rise out of you. half the time he’s daring you to lose your patience, pushing at your boundaries just to see what you’ll do. you let him have his tantrums, let him throw his sharp words and roll his eyes, but you always make it clear you’re the one in charge, never rising to his bait, always answering his petulance with icy calm or a quiet, knowing smirk that only frustrates him more.
but you have no patience for his contempt toward the people who make this place home. his barbs come often in the beginning, each insult a desperate act of defiance—mocking the neighbors, spitting venom at the muddy boots and sunburned faces that pass by your porch. he tries to regain some of his old authority, barking orders at you and the neighbors, expecting the deference owed to a man of his name.
he snaps at the old women in the market, expecting them to cower. they only glance at him and return to their gossip, unimpressed. the men you’ve grown up with laugh when he sneers at their rustic ways. “these people are pathetic," he hisses once, loud enough for everyone to hear. that’s where you draw the line. without hesitation, you seize his jaw, make him look at you, and slap him. the sting of your hand silences him far more effectively than any words. "if you can’t keep your mouth shut, i’ll find a way to keep you quiet," you growl, your grip firm and fingers digging in just enough to remind him who’s in control. he sees, in that moment, the difference between the bratty games you’ll allow and the hard limits you enforce—he can test you, tease you, even mouth off about your cooking or your temper, but the instant he crosses that line, you shut him down. the message is unmistakable: you’ll tolerate a brat, but not a bully. after that, every time he tries to test your resolve, you shut him down with the same cold certainty, and he learns, slowly, that your discipline is something he craves as much as he resents.
over time, something in naoya starts to shift. the slaps sting everytime he says something out of place, but what wounds him deeper is the utter lack of fear or awe in your gaze. your discipline is never cruel, always matter-of-fact, as inevitable as rain, doled out with the same steady certainty as you might weed a field or shoo a stray dog from the porch. each time you silence his venom, a little of his bravado chips away, until his barbs sound more like questions than threats. he tries to rally, tries to goad you into outrage, sometimes throwing little fits, slamming doors, stomping his feet, cursing you under his breath—just to see if you’ll finally break. but you only arch a brow, sometimes giving him a warning look or word, other times simply ignoring his antics until he’s forced to come to you for direction. the more he tests, the more he learns.
after, meals are quiet affairs. rice and pickles, miso soup and bitter greens, eaten in silence or broken by his restless complaints. at night, you tend his bandages in the lamplight, your hands steady, his words sharp, but now with a wariness in his gaze, something raw and uncertain flickering behind his pride. a kind of fragile truce grows between you, built out of necessity and the slow passing of time. he is quieter, more watchful, and when he speaks, his words have lost their bite. that being said, when he thinks you are asleep, you sometimes hear him cursing to himself, or more accurately, at you, as if rehearsing old insults he might have thrown at you only mere weeks before.
eventually, when his wounds have knitted closed, and the pain is only a dull echo, you fold up your blanket for good. there’s only one bed and no more reason to keep to the floor. once upon a time, he would have never let that come to pass, but he doesn’t fuss. not much at least.
that first night, you lie beside him, the space between you thick with old resentments and new, unspoken things. he turns his back to you, shoulders tense, but doesn’t tell you to leave. the routine holds, but something subtle has shifted—the quiet at night is heavier, and sometimes, you wake to the sound of his breathing just inches away, steady and uncertain in the dark.
he’s forced to swallow his pride—and his pain—as the weeks slip by and naoya’s resistance is gradually worn down by necessity and routine, the nature of your expectations begins to shift. at first, it is enough for him to don the faded blouses and mend the household linens, his hands learning the gentle, repetitive work he once would have scorned. he fetches water, tends the stove, and folds your clothes with a carefulness that surprises you both.
but as the rhythm of your lives entwines, the boundaries of his role blur further. he looked down on women, yes—raised in a clan that taught him to sneer at softness, to treat domestic labor as something beneath him, to see femininity as weakness. he had been drilled to believe that a woman's worth was measured in obedience and silence, that the gentle work of tending, cleaning, and nurturing was something shameful, something lesser. even as a child, he'd mimicked the men in his family: laughing at the village wives, rolling his eyes at the girls who learned to sew, dismissing the quiet strength required to keep a household running.
most of all, he'd scoffed at maki and her sister, calling them useless, treating their struggles and ambitions as a joke—he'd mocked the way maki fought for scraps of respect, belittled her stubbornness, and told anyone who would listen that a woman like her would never amount to anything. in his arrogance, he'd failed to recognize the power and resilience that lived in her defiance, never imagining that she would be the one to finally break the zenin legacy apart and leave him here, stripped of everything, forced to live out the lessons he'd scorned. the irony is bitter: it was maki's rebellion, her refusal to accept her place, that brought down everything he thought untouchable. now, each time he finds himself on his knees scrubbing the floor, folding your shirts, finding himself in dainty clothes tailored for a woman, it's impossible not to remember the names he called her, the laughter he aimed towards her for being useless. the idea of being seen as anything but powerful, commanding, and masculine had always filled him with a bitter, defensive scorn—a scorn that now, day by day, you made him confront and swallow. although, it’s not as bad as he makes it. he’s forced to admit, in quiet moments, that the peace of your home is a strange comfort. it’s quieter here—no judgmental onlookers, no cruel laughter behind sliding doors, no cursed tools to train with until his hands bled, no spirits to hunt or fear. for all his scorn of domesticity, he finds himself relieved by the absence of clan politics and the constant pressure to prove himself. he doesn’t have to fight for the right to exist in your home; he doesn’t have to measure up to impossible standards to be the next clan head. there is simplicity and safety in this new life.
at some point, the relationship between you two blurred into something else—an unspoken exchange of power and need that ran beneath the surface of every shared glance and each wordless touch. the shift was gradual, but unmistakable. it began with small things: the way his posture softened when you entered the room, the subtle ease with which he accepted your direction, the way he lingered each evening as if waiting for you, when you came back late before retiring to bed. with so little time in the day, he started to anticipate your needs before you voiced them, bringing a cup of tea without being asked, smoothing the wrinkles in your shared bed before you lay down, making himself like nice in the best way he can.
as you began to delegate more and more of the evening rituals to him, you noticed the pride he took in doing things exactly as you liked—lighting the lamps in the right order, arranging your shoes by the door, messily patching up the clothes you’d ripped open just the day before. you watched with a quiet satisfaction as he moved about the house in his borrowed skirts, the hem brushing his ankles, bare feet padding softly over the old wood. it became impossible not to notice how his body had changed. a softness had worked its way into his frame where once there had been sharpness: his muscles, once tense and defined, had rounded and eased beneath his skin, his waist and hips softening under the steady diet of home-cooked meals and the absence of constant training; there wasn’t any reason to anymore. his hands, though still deft and precise, now bore the faintest traces of permanent pink from dishwater and the scent of lavender soap.
his hair, too, had started to grow out, the roots showing their true color where once there had been meticulous dye and careful grooming. he spends long minutes in the mornings fussing with it, sighing at how unruly it’s become, sometimes lamenting—loudly—about how he used to have servants to style it just right. the strands hang long and loose around his face, the ends curling a bit in the humidity, the roots a darker brown than the sun-lightened tips. as you watch him in the lamplight, you catch the glimmer of uneven growth or the way he fusses with a stubborn cowlick at his crown, muttering that he used to pay for haircuts that cost more than your week’s groceries. he tries to smooth it down with damp fingers, a small, frustrated frown pulling at his lips, and you find yourself oddly fond of the way he looks. he’s oddly pretty.
the neighbors, ever watchful, begin to treat him as just another woman in your household, too, and you, almost without thinking, begin to expect the same. you instruct him to kneel at your side and brush out your hair at night, each stroke slow and careful, his fingers trembling the first few times but growing steadier as he learns the rhythm you like. he sits behind you on the tatami, careful not to pull too hard, the scent of your hair oil lingering between you. the first time, he scowls and you gently correct him, guiding his hand until it moves just the way you want, patient and precise, lips pressed tight in concentration. after a few nights, he does it without thinking, the old sharpness in his eyes replaced by a quiet focus, his hands finding a gentle, almost worshipful rhythm.
at bath time, you have him draw your bath, and he joins you. he kneels to scrub your back with a rough cloth, pouring warm water over your shoulders, careful not to splash. and you do the same for him as the steam fogs the small room, mingling with the scent of soap and the faint blossom of camellia oil. you watch him, the way his lashes lower as he works virously to get the dirt from under your nails, the pink at the tips of his ears when you praise his effort. when you help him step out, you wrap him in a towel, more often then not, your hands lingering a moment too long at his waist. that becomes the new shape of your evenings.
neither of you spoke of it, neither of you made any declarations or confessions. the closeness built itself from necessity and boredom—shared baths on cold nights to save firewood, the need for warmth in a house that felt too big and empty with only the two of you inside. a brush of hands while passing in the kitchen, the casual intimacy of exchanged glances while working side by side. it was never a single moment, but a series of small surrenders: the first time he let you lean against him as you both soaked in the steaming water, the first time you let your hand linger at his waist a heartbeat longer than needed as you helped him dry off. each shared ritual, each night of tired silence, wore away at the boundaries between you, until one evening his blush lingered and he didn't pull away, and your touch was bolder, and neither of you looked for an excuse to end it. from then on, everything changed.
night after night, you work him open with slow, deliberate care—thumb circling over sensitive skin, fingers slipping inside until you feel him yield beneath you, his breath coming in shaky, ragged gasps. the ritual is one of patience: at first, you find yourself holding back, worried about hurting him, moving slow and gentle even as he wriggles restlessly beneath your touch. naoya is a brat from the start—impatient, demanding, rolling his hips and huffing out curses, urging you to hurry up and do it already. he wants more, wants you to push him, but you refuse to rush, ignoring his sulky complaints. when he reaches for your hand, tries to guide you faster, you simply swat it away, as he squirms or mutters a bitter word under his breath, but you hush him with a word or a touch—occasionally, you press rougher, spreading him wider before he’s ready, letting him feel the bite of your fingers until he softens and submits, the stubborn tension in his thighs and jaw yielding with a hiss or a bitten-off curse.
with each passing night, you add more. you grip his hips, steady and firm, your forearm pressing against his thigh as you stretch him wider—first a second finger, then a third, your knuckles grazing his skin, feeling the heat and tension in his body as he shudders and squirms. he gasps, arching into your hold, his back bowing as you push deeper, drawing out new, startled sounds. your movements alternate between gentle caresses and unyielding, purposeful thrusts, attentive to every shift in his breathing and the tremble in his hips. your palm slides over his belly, pinning him down, thumb tracing slow circles as his body softens under your touch. each time he yields a little faster, the defiance melts from his eyes as he finds himself arching into your touch, the instinct to rebel fading beneath the heat of your patience and the burn deep in his core.
you praise him for every inch he gives, your voice low and steady in the hush of the room, and watch as resistance melts into need, as he grows accustomed to the fullness, to the way your palm presses against him. the air smells faintly of lavender and sweat, the quiet punctuated by the soft, wet sounds of your hands moving over him and the ragged, unguarded whimpers that escape his lips.
eventually, you begin to focus on his most sensitive spot—your callous fingertips massaging his prostate in slow, deliberate circles, learning exactly how to make his body seize and arch with pleasure. it takes time, but your patience is rewarded: night after night, you coax him closer, and soon he can find release from this alone, shuddering with shock and disbelief as the pleasure crests and spills over with nothing but the pressure of your hand inside him.
naoya’s bravado dissolves with each stroke, his hips lifting in helpless search for more, his cheeks flushed deep crimson as he tries—and fails—to bite back the broken sounds that spill from his lips. you had never thought you would hear something so sweet come from that foul mouth of his. he clings to the sheets, fingers twisting in white-knuckled desperation, every muscle vibrating with the effort not to give in. but he always does, in the end. he learns to anticipate your touch, to arch into your hand and beg for more, voice catching and eyes glistening as you push him to the brink with nothing but your fingers and the practiced patience you’ve honed. by the time you finally let him fall apart, his body is soft and pliant, trembling as you coax him to shuddering completion, his pride undone—each release wrung from him as much by surrender as by pleasure.
one night, as the rain lashes the windows and the stove casts a gentle glow across the narrow room, you lie side by side on the futon. the air is thick with unsaid things, tension humming in the space between your bodies. you reach for him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the muscles in his throat jump beneath your touch. his breath hitches, lashes fluttering, as you tilt his face up to see the flush blooming beneath the powder you dusted there earlier. your hand drifts down, smoothing the fabric of his borrowed slip, feeling the way his body shudders and arches, nipples peaking visibly beneath the thin fabric. he trembles when you guide him onto his back, legs falling open, breath coming in ragged, eager little gasps. he doesn't resist when you part his thighs, only stares up at you—eyes wide, pupils blown—while you press slow, wet kisses to his throat, his collarbone, the thudding hollow where his pulse beats wild and frantic. his skin is fever-warm, a line of goosebumps rising in your wake, his hips twitching each time your lips graze lower.
you yank his slip up to his waist, exposing the vulnerable, trembling softness you've claimed as yours. your hands are rough as you grip his thighs, pushing them up and apart, the muscles straining beneath your fingers. you press him down, shifting his legs up and folding them tightly against his chest, pinning him in the perfect mating press. the position leaves him utterly exposed, his knees nearly touching his shoulders, thighs spread wide and quivering, your palms splayed over the warm flesh to hold him still, the mess between his legs glistening in the low light. his hips jerk at the touch, and you feel the tremor travel up through your arms. his eyes go wide, lashes trembling, his lips parting on a gasp as you spread him open—completely at your mercy, unable to hide or escape. you drink in the sight of him, flushed and helpless, hole twitching in anticipation as you stroke over the sensitive skin, your thumb circling slickly around his rim while your other hand presses down on his belly, feeling the tense flutter of his stomach as he squirms beneath you.
you tease him mercilessly, fingertips circling his entrance, letting your nails graze just enough to make him shiver. your other hand squeezes the inside of his thigh, spreading him wider, fingertips digging into the flesh until you leave faint marks. every time you dip in, barely breaching him, his body jolts—hips jerking, thighs tensing, as if he can’t decide whether to arch closer or squirm away. you grip his hip to keep him from squirming too far, thumb pressing into the soft dip just above his bone. he’s so sensitive, so desperate, that even your breath against his rim makes him gasp. the angle lets you see everything: his chest heaving, nipples red and hard, beads of sweat rolling down his sides; his cock twitching and leaking helplessly, the head flushed dark and sticky with precum; the way his muscles clench and flutter around nothing, hole twitching and sucking at your finger, begging to be filled. when you finally push two fingers deep inside, you curl them, feeling him clamp down with a broken whimper, slick heat swallowing you greedily. you work him open with slow, filthy circles, scissoring him wide, pressing hard against his sweet spot until his back arches and his voice cracks, every inch of him melting and trembling beneath your hands.
naoya's bravado shatters completely, hips grinding up in frantic, needy circles, his ass clenching greedily around your fingers as you work him open, two, then three plunging deep, scissoring him so wide his thighs tremble and twitch. his legs quiver and clamp tight around your arm, heels digging into your back or shoulders as you press into him. his face is flushed, mouth slack and wet as he moans, spit slicking his chin, eyes squeezed shut in helpless need. his cock leaks in thick, glistening ropes across his stomach, each gasp and sob sending new spurts spilling over his skin. "please, please, just fuck me, don't make me wait—" he begs, voice breaking as you rub your thumb over his stretched rim, feeling him flutter and pulse under your touch. please is a word he’s only just learned, but it seems he is utilizing it well. you take your time, savoring the way he writhes, the broken whines and desperate curses, until his body is quivering and open, hole red and glistening, twitching for you. when you finally line yourself up and push inside, it's rough, deep, and possessive—your hands gripping his hips so hard you leave bruises, his body yielding instantly, his hole swallowing you to the hilt. he screams for you, back arched so high his heels leave the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets as you grind your hips in slow, punishing circles before slamming in again, harder, the wet slap echoing between his desperate, filthy cries.
each thrust has his body jolting, the muscles in his belly rippling, thighs spread wide and trembling, heels digging into your back, desperate to keep you buried inside him. his cock bounces uselessly, drooling precum with every slap of your hips, the tip swollen and flushed, smearing slick up his torso. the slap of skin is loud and lewd, wet and hungry, echoed by the filthy, high-pitched sounds spilling from his lips—gasps, sobs, guttural moans that grow wetter and more frantic with every thrust.
you tell him you want to put a baby in him, to see him swollen and plump carrying your babies, to make sure everyone in the village knows he’s yours. your words make him groan and whimper at the thought, half-wishing he did have a womb so he could satisfy that fantasy for you, as humiliating as it was. repopulate the clan that maki zenin nearly wiped out.
his body convulses around you, his hole clenching so hard you can feel his inner walls pulse, milking you for every drop. he’s still folded in the mating press, knees pinned back nearly to his shoulders, thighs trembling and spread wide, your hands gripping the backs of his knees and forcing him open. every thrust drives him deeper into the bed, his body rocked forward with each snap of your hips, his belly taut and glistening with sweat and his own precum, smearing thick, sticky streaks across his belly, as his cock twitchs and bouncing with every possessive thrust you drive into him, untouched and aching for release.
sweat pours down his chest, collecting in the hollow of his throat, nipples so hard they ache as you fuck him through it. his whole body shakes, pinned beneath you, helpless to do anything but take and take. each time your hips slam home, a new, broken moan escapes his lips, his fingers digging into your back, desperate to anchor himself as you ruin him. he clings to you as if the promise could make him whole, babbling desperate cries—"please, more, don’t stop, want it, want all of you," voice raw and trembling, ruined by need.
you fuck him with that intent, each thrust deep and punishing, grinding your hips so he feels every inch, filling him again and again until his whole body trembles, thighs shaking, his tight hole spasming around you to try and accommodate. his moans fracture into sobs of raw pleasure, fat tears streaking his cheeks, drool glistening at the corner of his mouth as you drive him to the edge without mercy. his cock spurts helplessly to your rhythm, untouched, making a mess across his belly and chest, every climax wrung out of him by nothing but the relentless pounding of your hips. when you finally spill inside, you stay buried, cock pulsing as you flood him, your hands gripping his hips so not a drop can escape, watching as your seed leaks out around your length, staining his thighs.
it’s obscene, honestly, the way you leave him. naoya’s just sprawled out under you— ass held in the air, whole body shaking and sticky and so fucking open you’d think he was made for this. he’s a mess, ruined in a way that feels almost tragic if it weren’t for the blissed-out, dumb grin on his face, drool slicking his cheek as he tries to catch his breath. you can feel the way his hole flutters around you, still clinging tight, greedy for every drop you pumped into him. your cum’s everywhere—oozing out of him in slow, heavy drips, slicking down his thighs, making a mess on the sheets.
he’s moaning, low and broken, like he’s half gone, hips still rolling in these lazy, desperate little circles just to feel you grind deeper. it’s not enough for him to be filled—he wants to be stuffed, plugged so full he can barely keep it in, the slick squelch of your spend inside him making him shiver every time you move. his fingers are buried in the sheets, knuckles white, but he’s not trying to get away—he’s anchoring himself, pulling you closer, like he thinks you’ll disappear if you let up for even a second.
you watch your cum leak out of him, thick and slow, pooling beneath his ass, and he whines—actually whines—when some of it escapes, like he’s losing something precious. you slide your hand down his spine, nails dragging lightly over his skin, and cup the curve of his ass, squeezing, thumbing your spend back inside as he shudders. he begs you, voice all raw and hoarse, not to pull out, not yet, just one more minute, just want to feel you inside, want to be stretched and leaking and filthy, want to know he’s yours. he’s babbling, half sense and half filth, but you get the message. you settle in, keep him full, palm pressed flat against bulge of his belly as he melts into the mattress, so fucking content with the mess you’ve made of him he could cry.
he is utterly ruined, and you make sure he feels it in every moment—but it is not only pain that lingers in his body, but the memory of your touch, the gentle, relentless worship that has replaced his pride. there is nothing left of the zenin heir—no pride, no resistance, not even a spark of his old arrogance. each time you hold him, each time you fill him until he sobs and begs, it is as much devotion as domination; you coax pleasure from him until tears blur his vision, your touch tender and unyielding, your mouth leaving gentle marks where your hands have claimed. he clings to you with shameless, broken hunger, eyes glazed and pleading, desperate for both your approval and your affection. his body is marked not only by your discipline, but by the warmth of your hands and the softness of your voice in the dark. the routines you forced on him are all he has left—he moves through them docile and obedient, seeking the meaning he now finds only in your praise, your caress, the certainty that he belongs to you—every piece of his old self stripped away until only your possession remains. he’d be more than glad to play the role of your wife.
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
amandla
