Look at Me
𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐘𝐀
SYNOPSIS: At first, he just wanted a reaction. Now, he’s not sure he wants you to stop looking at him at all. Because the moment you finally do, he realizes it’s not enough—and it never will be. WORD COUNT: 13.7k
The Zenin Clan compound sprawled across the rolling hills just outside Kyoto like a fortress carved from old money and older pride. High walls of weathered stone and dark timber enclosed courtyards lined with meticulously raked gravel, ancient cherry trees, and training grounds where the air always hummed with the faint crackle of cursed energy. Inside the main hall there was vast, tatami-floored, and lit by paper lanterns that cast long, golden shadows. Every pillar and sliding screen whispered of hierarchy. Strength was currency here. Weakness was erased.
You had been assigned to the clan three months ago as a contracted Grade 1 sorcerer. Your technique, Reverse Cursed Technique with an unusual affinity for stabilizing others’ cursed energy during high-stakes missions made you useful. Not family. Not heir. Just… useful. The elders tolerated your presence because you delivered results without asking for glory. The younger sorcerers mostly ignored you. And Naoya Zenin?
He had yet to decide what to do with you.
The hall was crowded tonight. Naobito’s youngest son had just returned from a solo extermination in the mountains north of the city. A Grade 1 cursed spirit that had been terrorizing rural villages for weeks. Word spread fast. Servants moved like ghosts, laying out low tables with sake and small plates of kaiseki. Clan members in traditional robes or crisp modern suits clustered near the center, their voices a low, reverent hum.
You stood near the back wall, half-hidden behind a lacquered pillar, clipboard in hand. The mission report you’d been asked to review rested on the wooden surface, but your eyes weren’t really on the words. You were watching the room the way you always did. Detached, cataloguing exits, cursed energy signatures, potential threats. Habit. Nothing more.
The heavy sliding doors at the far end whispered open.
Naoya Zenin stepped through.
He was exactly as the rumors painted him: tall, slim but powerfully built, the kind of athletic frame that moved like it had never known hesitation. His dyed blond hair with roots a deep, living green swept back from his forehead in that signature undercut, the longer top strands catching the lantern light like polished gold. Sharp brown eyes scanned the room with predatory ease. Three silver piercings glinted in his left ear. The arrogant grin was already fixed in place, as natural to him as breathing. He wore the clan’s traditional attire with effortless arrogance: a white long-sleeved shirt buttoned high under a teal kimono that shifted like liquid shadow with every step, light hakama, and waraji sandals that barely made a sound on the tatami.
The room reacted instantly.
Heads bowed. Shoulders straightened. A ripple of murmured praise washed through the crowd “Naoya-sama,” “Well done,” “As expected of the heir.” A few of the younger sorcerers practically vibrated with admiration. One woman who’s a daughter of a branch family actually flushed when his gaze flicked her way. An elder clapped him on the shoulder, voice booming about how the Zenin bloodline continued to produce perfection.
Naoya accepted it all like oxygen. He rolled one shoulder, the grin widening just enough to show teeth.
“Obviously,” he drawled, voice carrying across the hall with that lazy, cutting confidence. “Did you really think some half-rate curse would slow me down? Projection Sorcery makes short work of anything that doesn’t know its place.” He flicked a hand dismissively. “Though I will admit the thing had decent speed. For a worm.”
Laughter. More bowing. Someone pressed a cup of sake into his hand; he took it without looking, eyes already drifting over the crowd as if searching for the next source of validation.
You didn’t move.
Your pen kept scratching notes on the clipboard. Small, precise handwriting detailing the energy signatures from the report. You didn’t glance up. Didn’t straighten. Didn’t offer the polite smile or the deferential nod everyone else seemed programmed to give. He was background noise, like the distant chirp of crickets outside or the soft clink of porcelain. Present. Irrelevant.
Naoya’s gaze landed on you.
It lingered.
You felt it. The weight of those sharp brown eyes, the way they narrowed just a fraction when you failed to react. Most people would have at least looked. A quick bow. A murmured “Congratulations, Naoya-sama.” Something. Anything.
You turned a page.
He took a slow step forward, still speaking to the group but clearly directing the next words toward the back of the room. “The technique’s getting faster every time. Twenty-four frames per second, flawless execution. No one else in this clan could have handled it so cleanly.” A pause. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Several heads turned your way expectantly.
You finished your note, capped the pen, and finally lifted your gaze. Just enough to meet the elder who had asked you to review the report earlier. “The stabilization matrix held,” you said evenly, voice calm and professional. “No residual damage to the surrounding area. Efficient work.” You gave a small, polite nod to the elder. Nothing more.
Not to Naoya.
Not a single glance in his direction.
The silence that followed was microscopic, it was barely a heartbeat, but you felt it crackle.
Naoya’s grin didn’t falter on the surface, but something behind his eyes shifted. Confusion, maybe. Mild irritation, like a speck of dust on an otherwise pristine blade. He was used to eyes on him. Used to people orbiting him like satellites. Women especially would have been flustered, eager, desperate for even a scrap of his attention. Men respected him or feared him or both. No one simply… continued existing in his presence as if he were furniture.
He took another step, closer now, the hem of his hakama brushing the tatami. The crowd parted slightly, giving him space. “You’re the transfer, right?” His tone was light, almost conversational, but edged with that unmistakable Zenin superiority. “The one with the healing trick. Useful little ability. Must be nice, riding the coattails of real sorcerers.”
A few chuckles from the sycophants.
You adjusted the clipboard under your arm, eyes already drifting back to the report. “The technique is Reverse Cursed Technique, specialized for field stabilization,” you corrected mildly, without heat. “And yes, it’s proven effective on joint missions.” Still no eye contact. Still no acknowledgment of the subtle barb.
Naoya’s fingers tightened around the sake cup. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But he noticed the way his own pulse kicked up, just a fraction. Confusion sharpened into something closer to annoyance. She’s doing it on purpose, he thought. No one is this dense. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone reacts.
He waited.
You didn’t.
After a beat, he let out a low chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “ Acting professional.” He turned back to the group, but the grin was tighter now. “Anyway. The mission was flawless, as expected. Drinks are on the clan tonight.”
Cheers went up. The moment passed, or seemed to.
But as the crowd surged forward again, offering more praise, more sake, more deference, Naoya’s gaze kept sliding back to you. You had already moved toward one of the side doors, slipping out of the main gathering like a shadow that refused to be pinned down. No backward glance. No lingering. Just… gone.
He drained the sake in one swallow, the liquid burning pleasantly down his throat.
Who the hell does she think she is?
The thought lodged in his mind like a splinter. Small. Irritating. Impossible to ignore once it was there.
Later that night, long after the lanterns had been dimmed and the hall emptied, Naoya stood alone on the engawa overlooking the moonlit training grounds. The cool spring air carried the faint scent of blooming wisteria. His kimono hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms. He should have been basking in the afterglow of victory. Instead, his mind kept circling back to that one indifferent face in the crowd.
She hadn’t even looked at him.
Not once.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Naoya Zenin did not get ignored. He was the center. The standard. The one everyone measured themselves against. And yet some contracted nobody with a clipboard and a flat voice had treated him like background noise.
His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no amusement in it.
“Interesting,” he murmured to the empty night, voice low and dangerous. “Very interesting.”
He flexed his fingers, cursed energy flickering faintly around them like static. Projection Sorcery hummed under his skin, ready at a thought.
She wanted to act like he didn’t exist?
Fine.
He’d make sure she couldn’t look anywhere else.
Three days had passed since the welcome banquet, and the Zenin Clan compound had settled back into its usual rhythm of rigid discipline and simmering ambition. Dawn painted the eastern sky in bruised pinks and golds, casting long shadows across the gravel paths that crisscrossed the training grounds. The air smelled of dew on moss and the faint ozone tang of cursed energy being honed like blades. Servants moved silently between the low wooden buildings, carrying trays of rice and miso for the early risers. In the main dojo, a vast, open-air pavilion with tatami mats worn smooth by generations of feet, sorcerers gathered for morning drills.
You were already there, as always.
Positioned at the far edge of the mats near a row of wooden practice dummies, you wore the standard field uniform: dark, reinforced jacket over a fitted shirt, pants tucked into sturdy boots. Your hair was pulled back neatly, out of the way. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing that drew attention. Just a contracted Grade 1 doing her job. You were reviewing a mission briefing scroll the elders had assigned you last night. Something about stabilizing a team during an upcoming Grade 2 incursion near Osaka. Your Reverse Cursed Technique made you the perfect support; you didn’t need praise for it. You didn’t seek it.
You didn’t seek anything from anyone here.
Especially not him.
Naoya Zenin arrived exactly on time, because of course he did. He never allowed himself to be late; tardiness was for the weak. He strode onto the training grounds in his usual attire. White button-up open at the collar just enough to show the sharp line of his clavicle, teal kimono draped over one shoulder like a casual afterthought, hakama swaying with each purposeful step. The dyed blond hair caught the morning light, green roots visible at the scalp like a reminder of the raw power beneath the polish. Three silver piercings winked in his left ear. His expression was the same arrogant half-smirk he wore like armor, but his sharp brown eyes scanned the dojo with a new intensity.
They found you immediately.
He’d spent the last three nights replaying that banquet in his head. The way you’d turned a page on your clipboard without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment. The way his words and his very presence had slid right off you like water on oiled steel. At first it had been amusing. A novelty. Then irritating. Now it festered.
No one ignored Naoya Zenin. Not the elders. Not the branch families groveling for favor. Not the women who practically tripped over themselves to catch his eye. And certainly not some outsider with a fancy healing trick.
She’s doing it on purpose, he’d decided by the second night. Playing some long game to make herself interesting. Well. Two could play.
He didn’t head straight for the center of the dojo where the main group waited, bowing and murmuring greetings. Instead, he veered toward the edge, toward you.
You felt him coming before you saw him. The shift in cursed energy was unmistakable: Projection Sorcery humming like a live wire, controlled but always ready to snap forward in those perfect twenty-four frames per second. You kept your eyes on the scroll, pen scratching notes in the margin.
“Morning briefings already?” His voice cut through the quiet dojo like a blade, loud enough for the nearby sorcerers to hear but pitched just for you. He stopped directly in your path, close enough that the hem of his hakama brushed the edge of your boot. “How dedicated. Or is it just an excuse to avoid real training?”
You finished the line you were writing. Then, without lifting your gaze, you stepped sideways, it was smooth and unhurried. You then continued toward the next dummy. “The briefing is for the Osaka team,” you said evenly, voice neutral as still water. “I’m support, not frontline. Efficiency matters.”
No eye contact. No deference. No reaction to the way he’d planted himself like a wall.
Naoya’s smirk twitched. He moved again, faster this time, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Hust enough to close the distance in a blur most eyes would miss. He was in front of you once more, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly as if studying a mildly defective tool.
“Efficiency, huh?” He leaned in, invading your space without touching. You could smell the faint scent of his soap. It was something sharp and expensive, like citrus and smoke, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. “That’s cute. Most people would kill for a chance to train under me. Projection Sorcery isn’t something you just watch from the sidelines.” His voice dropped, laced with that signature Zenin condescension. “Or are you scared you’ll look weak next to perfection?”
A few of the younger clan members nearby exchanged glances, smirks hidden behind hands. They knew the game. Naoya was toying with the new girl. It was entertainment.
You simply sidestepped again, circling around him as if he were a misplaced training post. Your shoulder nearly brushed his arm, but you adjusted at the last second to avoid it. “I’ve stabilized worse than Grade 2s,” you replied, still not looking at him. “Fear doesn’t factor into the technique.” You reached the dummy and began channeling a thin thread of Reverse Cursed Technique into its core, testing the wood’s structural integrity. The faint blue glow of your energy was precise, controlled. Professional.
Naoya’s fingers flexed at his sides. No reaction. Not even a flicker of annoyance on your face. No flush, no stammer, no wide-eyed deference. Just… nothing. It was like shouting into a void.
He hated it.
The irritation coiled tighter in his chest, hotter than any curse he’d ever crushed. He was Naoya Zenin. The heir, prodigy, the one who made the clan’s future look inevitable. People orbited him. They begged for scraps of his attention. And this woman treated him like static in the background.
Fine.
He’d make himself impossible to ignore.
The rest of the morning drill became a slow, deliberate game. Naoya didn’t join the main formation. He prowled the perimeter instead, always finding reasons to cross your path. During partner drills, he “accidentally” positioned himself so you had to maneuver around him to reach your assigned station. When you moved to retrieve a set of cursed tools from the rack, he was already there. Leaning against it, long legs stretched out, blocking the way.
“Looking for something?” he drawled, eyes locked on your face even though yours stayed fixed on the tools behind him. He didn’t move. “These are clan-grade. Might be a little advanced for support work. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”
You paused for half a second, then reached past him. Arm brushing the open collar of his shirt, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but never lingering. You selected the tool you needed without comment and stepped back. “They’re standard issue,” you said flatly. “I’ve used them before.” Then you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with the echo of your indifference ringing in his ears.
By midday, the game had spread through the compound like wildfire among the gossiping younger sorcerers. “Naoya-sama’s got it out for the transfer girl,” they whispered. “She won’t even look at him.” Some laughed. Others watched with wary fascination.
Naoya noticed none of it. His focus had narrowed to a single point: you.
He told himself it was still just irritation. A challenge to his authority. But as the afternoon wore on and he found excuses to interrupt your solo stabilization drills. Leaning over your shoulder to “correct” your form (his breath warm against your ear, voice a low taunt: “Too slow. You’d be dead in a real fight”), standing so close in the narrow corridor leading back to the main hall that you had to turn sideways to pass. He felt something darker stirring beneath the annoyance.
Curiosity.
A sharp, gnawing need to crack the shell of your indifference and see what was underneath.
She has to react eventually, he thought, watching from the engawa as you disappeared into the archive building without a backward glance. No one sustains this forever. Not with me.
That night, long after the compound had quieted and lanterns flickered low, Naoya stood alone in his private quarters. The room was sparse by clan standards. Only the essentials, because excess was for the weak, but the sliding doors opened onto a private garden. He hadn’t slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that same neutral expression. Heard that same flat voice.
He paced, bare feet silent on the tatami, cursed energy crackling faintly at his fingertips like restrained lightning.
Tomorrow he’d push harder. Stand closer. Say things that cut deeper. Force her into a corner where ignoring him became impossible.
Because the alternative that she truly didn’t care, that he was background noise in her world was unacceptable.
It was starting to feel like a game he was losing.
And Naoya Zenin did not lose.
He stopped at the edge of the engawa, staring out into the moonlit garden where your quarters lay on the opposite side of the compound. A faint light still glowed in your window.
His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
“Keep pretending I don’t exist,” he murmured to the night, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. “See how long that lasts.”
The days blurred into a deliberate campaign.
Naoya Zenin had never needed to chase anyone in his life. People came to him, drawn like moths to the sharp, blinding light of his confidence, his power, his name. Yet here he was, three days after the morning drills, rearranging his entire schedule around one indifferent woman who refused to play the game correctly.
It started small. Logical, he told himself. He simply needed to observe the anomaly up close.
He learned your routines with the precision of a hunter mapping prey paths.
You rose before dawn, always. A quick run along the outer perimeter path that circled the wisteria garden, then straight to the auxiliary training hall for solo Reverse Cursed Technique drills. Breakfast was taken alone in the small side courtyard near the archives. Usually rice balls and green tea, eaten while reviewing reports. Mid-mornings were spent in the main archive building, cross-referencing mission data or stabilizing cursed tools for the next excursion. Afternoons involved accompanying lower-grade teams on practice missions or handling stabilization requests from the elders. Evenings: you disappeared into your modest quarters on the eastern wing, light burning late as you wrote detailed logs in that neat, unemotional handwriting.
Naoya memorized it all.
He told the elders he wanted to “personally oversee the support division’s efficiency.” They didn’t question it. Why would they? Naoya-sama’s standards were famously high.
He began appearing where you were.
Everywhere.
That first morning after the dojo incident, he was already on the perimeter path when you started your run. Leaning against a cherry tree, arms crossed, blond hair still damp from his own training. He didn’t greet you. Just watched as you approached, eyes tracking every stride with predatory focus.
You didn’t slow down. Didn’t glance his way. You simply adjusted your route by a few meters, passing him at a wider arc as if he were another tree in the landscape.
Naoya’s jaw tightened. He fell into step beside you anyway. Long legs eating up the distance effortlessly. Projection Sorcery let him match your pace without breaking a sweat.
“Running alone again?” His voice was smooth, mocking. “No partner? Afraid they’ll see how mediocre your little healing trick actually is when there’s no one to impress?”
You kept your breathing even, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Solo runs improve focus,” you answered after a measured beat. Nothing more. No denial. No defense. You veered left at the next fork, leaving him behind without another word.
He let you go that time. But only because he already knew where you’d head next.
The auxiliary training hall.
He was waiting inside when you arrived, standing in the exact center of the mats like he owned the air itself. A few lower-rank clan members were present, but they scattered the moment he waved a lazy hand. “Out. I’m using this space.”
They bowed and fled.
You entered anyway, setting your water bottle down near the wall. Without hesitation, you moved to the far corner and began your drills. Channeling thin threads of Reverse Cursed Technique into a series of damaged practice dummies, repairing micro-fractures in the wood with precise, glowing blue energy.
Naoya didn’t join you. He simply… watched.
Leaned against the wall, arms folded, sharp brown eyes never leaving your form. He catalogued everything: the way your shoulders moved with controlled power, the faint sheen of sweat at your temple after twenty minutes, how your cursed energy flowed clean and steady without waste. Most sorcerers faltered under his stare. They’d stumble, blush, try too hard.
You didn’t even acknowledge he was there.
After thirty minutes of silence broken only by the soft hum of your technique, he pushed off the wall and stalked closer. Close enough that his shadow fell over the dummy you were working on.
“Your output is stable,” he commented, tone dripping superiority. “Boringly so. No flair. No ambition. Just… adequate.” He tilted his head, leaning in until his breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Tell me. Does it get you off, being this forgettable? Or are you saving all that energy for when someone finally forces you to react?”
Your hands didn’t pause. The blue glow brightened slightly as you reinforced a deeper crack. “The technique doesn’t require flair,” you said quietly, professionally. “It requires precision. Results speak for themselves.” You finished the dummy, stepped back, and moved to the next one.Circling around him without brushing a single thread of his kimono.
Naoya’s fingers twitched. The urge to use Projection Sorcery to freeze you mid-step, force you to face him in twenty-four perfect frames was almost overwhelming. But he held back. Not yet. Making her acknowledge me by force would be too easy. Too cheap. He wanted the crack to come naturally. Wanted to see the exact moment her indifference shattered.
He started creating situations instead.
During lunch in the side courtyard, he appeared at the entrance just as you unwrapped your rice balls. Sat down on the opposite bench, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours under the low table, without invitation. He didn’t eat. Just stared.
“Quiet type, aren’t you?” he said after five full minutes of silence. “Most women in this clan can’t shut up around me. They simper. They laugh at every half-witted joke. They beg for a look.” His voice lowered, edged with frustration he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “You? You act like the air I breathe is beneath your notice.”
You took a slow sip of tea, eyes on the scroll beside your plate. “I have reports due by evening,” was all you offered. Then you stood, gathered your things, and left the courtyard through the opposite gate.
He followed you to the archives that afternoon.
You were deep in the stacks, pulling ancient texts on cursed energy stabilization. The narrow aisles between the tall wooden shelves left little room for two people. Naoya made sure to take up all of it.
He stepped into the aisle behind you, so close his chest nearly brushed your back when you reached for a higher shelf. One hand braced on the wood beside your head, caging you without quite touching. The scent of him filled the confined space.
“Need help reaching that?” he murmured, voice velvet over razors. “Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself on something so… beneath you.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t press back into him. You simply turned sideways in the tight space. Your shoulder grazing his arm for the briefest second, and pulled the book down yourself. “I’ve got it,” you said, voice steady. Then you slipped past him, pages already flipping open as you walked away.
Naoya stayed there for a long moment, hand still pressed to the shelf, breathing harder than the minor exertion warranted.
This was no longer mild irritation.
It was becoming an obsession.
He started watching you even when he didn’t approach. From rooftops. From shadowed engawa. From the training grounds’ perimeter. He told himself it was strategy. Learning weaknesses, finding the perfect pressure point. But the truth gnawed at him in the quiet hours: he was seeking you out because the compound felt wrong when you weren’t in his line of sight.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the compound in blood-orange light, he cornered one of the archive assistants. “The transfer sorcerer. What does she do after hours?”
The young man bowed low, nervous. “She… usually writes logs in her quarters, Naoya-sama. Sometimes walks the eastern garden if the weather is clear.”
Naoya dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.
That night, he found himself on the engawa overlooking the eastern garden. Your light was on again. He could see the faint silhouette through the shoji screen. Head bent over papers, pen moving steadily.
His chest tightened with something ugly and unfamiliar.
Why her?
Why did her refusal to look at him burn hotter than any praise ever had?
He flexed his hand, cursed energy sparking. Projection Sorcery could bridge the distance in an instant. He could be in front of her door before she finished her next sentence. Force the interaction. Make her see him.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, he stayed in the shadows, eyes fixed on that small window like a man possessed.
“She’ll break,” he whispered to the night, voice rough with the edge of something dangerously close to need. “Everyone does. And when she finally looks at me… she won’t look away again.”
The game had shifted.
It wasn’t about winning her attention anymore.
It was about making sure no one else could ever have it.
The afternoon sun hung heavy over the Zenin training grounds, turning the gravel paths into shimmering ribbons of heat. A light breeze carried the scent of blooming wisteria and sweat-soaked fabric. The main courtyard had been cleared for a joint drill between the main family’s elite squad and several contracted sorcerers including you.
You stood near the edge of the formation, clipboard in hand as usual, noting energy output readings for the support team. Your expression remained calm and focused, the same professional mask you wore every day. No smiles for the crowd. No nervous energy. Just quiet competence.
Naoya watched from the elevated platform where the elders sometimes observed. He wasn’t supposed to be there today. His own training schedule had him elsewhere, but he had rearranged it. Again. His sharp eyes tracked your every movement with increasing fixation. The way you moved between stations, offering precise adjustments to cursed energy flow without fanfare. The way you never once glanced toward the central group where he stood, arms crossed, teal kimono draped perfectly over his shoulders.
He had grown used to the burn of your indifference by now. It no longer surprised him; it fueled him. Every time you stepped around him in the archives, every time you answered with that flat, minimal voice and walked away, the splinter in his chest twisted deeper.
Today, though, the splinter would snap.
The drill involved paired stabilization exercises. One sorcerer would push their cursed energy to the limit while the other maintained balance with support techniques. You were assigned to assist a mid-rank clan member named Kaito. A tall, easy-going man from a branch family with a wind-manipulation technique. He wasn’t particularly powerful, but he was competent, friendly, and had a habit of cracking dry jokes during downtime.
Kaito approached you with a casual wave. “Hey, looks like we’re paired up. Try not to make me look too bad out there, yeah?”
You glanced up from your notes. For the first time in weeks, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Not wide, not flirtatious, just easy. Natural. “I’ll keep the feedback constructive,” you replied, voice lighter than Naoya had ever heard it. “Your wind bursts are strong, but the dispersion at the edges needs tightening. We can work on that.”
Kaito laughed. It was a warm, open sound that carried across the courtyard. “Straight to the point. I like it. Most people here just nod and hope I don’t embarrass the family. Let’s do this.”
They moved to their station.
Naoya’s fingers dug into his forearms hard enough to leave faint crescents.
He watched as you worked with Kaito. You gave clear, patient instructions. When Kaito overextended and his cursed energy spiked unevenly, you stepped in smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder to channel Reverse Cursed Technique. The blue glow stabilized him instantly. Kaito grinned at you, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Damn, that feels way better,” he said, voice carrying. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously, most support types are either scared or sucking up. You just… fix it. No drama.”
You let out a soft laugh. Quiet, but real. It wasn’t loud or performative. It was the sound of someone relaxing for half a second because the interaction required no performance. “It’s literally my job,” you said, still smiling faintly. “But thanks. Your control improved on that last set. Keep the rotation tighter next time.”
Kaito bumped your shoulder lightly with his fist, it was friendly and brotherly. “You’re good at this. We should grab tea after drills sometime. I know a spot in the village that doesn’t suck.”
You nodded once, easy agreement. “Sure. If schedules line up.”
Another laugh from Kaito. Another easy exchange.
Naoya felt it like a curse tearing through his ribs.
She can react.
The thought slammed into him harder than any physical blow. She can smile. She can laugh. She can offer casual conversation and light touches and future plans like it’s nothing.
Just not to me.
His vision narrowed. The rest of the courtyard faded into a dull hum. All he saw was you, smiling at someone ordinary. Someone who hadn’t earned it. Someone who hadn’t spent weeks pushing, invading, obsessing just to get a single scrap of acknowledgment.
The ego damage was visceral. Deeper than jealousy. This wasn’t about wanting what another man had. This was the realization that your indifference wasn’t a universal trait. It was targeted. Deliberate. You chose to give warmth and attention to others while treating him—Naoya Zenin, the heir, the prodigy—like he was less than the gravel under your boots.
His chest burned. Projection Sorcery flickered involuntarily around his hands, twenty-four frames of restrained violence itching to be unleashed.
How dare she.
How dare she have that in her and withhold it from him.
The drill continued for another twenty minutes. Every laugh, every easy word between you and Kaito scraped against Naoya’s nerves like sandpaper on raw skin. When the session finally ended and Kaito gave you another friendly wave before heading off, Naoya didn’t wait.
He descended from the platform in a blur, Projection Sorcery carrying him across the courtyard faster than anyone could track. He reached you just as you were gathering your clipboard.
You sensed him coming, his cursed energy crackling like a storm, but you didn’t look up. You simply turned toward the exit path.
Naoya stepped directly into your way. No teasing lean this time. No mocking drawl. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something sharper than irritation.
“You seem chatty today,” he said, voice low and edged with ice. No smile. No arrogance masking the cut. Just raw, unfiltered confrontation. “Laughing. Making plans. Touching. All that warmth for a branch family nobody who can barely hold a Grade 2 on his own.”
You paused, finally lifting your gaze, but only to his chest, not his face. “The exercise went well,” you replied evenly. “Feedback helps the team.”
He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head slightly if you wanted to avoid looking at him. His hand came up not grabbing, but hovering near your arm, fingers trembling with the effort not to close the distance. “Team,” he repeated, the word dripping venom. “You give them smiles. You give them laughs. You give them your time like it costs nothing.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl. “But me? I get nothing. Not a glance. Not a reaction. Not even basic fucking courtesy.”
The air between you thickened. A few lingering sorcerers glanced over, sensing the shift in tension, but they quickly looked away. No one interfered with Naoya Zenin when he looked like this.
You didn’t back down. Didn’t step away. You simply adjusted your grip on the clipboard. “I respond when it’s necessary, Naoya-sama.”
The honorific felt like a slap.
His eyes darkened. For the first time, the obsession cracked open fully in his chest, no longer disguised as mere provocation.
“So you can react,” he said, almost to himself, the words bitter. “Just not to me.”
He wanted to grab your chin. Force your eyes up. Make you see exactly who was standing in front of you. But he held back, barely. The restraint only made the fire worse.
You sidestepped him again, the movement smooth and unhurried, and continued toward the archives.
Naoya didn’t follow immediately. He stood there in the courtyard, fists clenched at his sides, blond hair shifting in the breeze as the green roots seemed to darken with his mood.
The game had changed.
No more testing.
No more waiting for you to slip.
He would corner you. Force the reaction. Make you understand that ignoring him was no longer an option.
Because the thought of you laughing with anyone else. Giving even a fraction of that easy warmth to someone beneath him made something possessive and ugly uncoil in his gut.
He wanted your attention.
He wanted your reactions.
He wanted you.
And he would have them. All of them.
Even if he had to break his own rules to get there.
The archive building was quiet after sunset. Most of the clan had retired to their quarters or the main hall for evening sake and strategy talks. Only the faint glow of lanterns and the occasional rustle of turning pages broke the silence in the long, narrow corridors lined with towering shelves of ancient scrolls and cursed tool ledgers.
You were alone in the restricted section at the back, a small reading alcove tucked behind a sliding shoji screen. A single lantern cast warm light over the low table where you sat cross-legged, surrounded by open texts on advanced Reverse Cursed Technique applications. Your pen moved steadily across fresh paper, logging observations from the day’s drill. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and the faint cedar of the wooden beams.
You didn’t hear him approach at first.
Naoya moved like a predator who had already decided the hunt was over.
Projection Sorcery carried him through the empty halls in near-silence. Twenty-four flawless frames per second, each step calculated so that the tatami barely whispered under his waraji. He had waited until the last assistant left. Until the compound settled. Until there was nowhere left for you to slip away.
He stopped just outside the alcove, one hand resting on the wooden frame of the shoji. His shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the lantern light. The teal kimono hung open at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his chest and the faint sheen of sweat from hours of restrained tension. Blond hair fell slightly messier than usual, green roots stark in the low light. His sharp brown eyes locked onto you with burning intensity.
You felt the shift in cursed energy immediately. Heavy, crackling, barely leashed. But you kept writing. One more line. One more note.
Naoya slid the shoji screen shut behind him with a soft click. The sound was final. No escape route. No audience. Just the two of you in the confined space.
He didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, staring down at you. The silence stretched, thick and charged.
Then, voice low and rough, edged with weeks of festering frustration:
“You ignore me on purpose.”
It wasn’t a question.
You paused, pen stilling on the paper. For the first time in all these encounters, you slowly lifted your gaze and meeting his eyes directly. Not wide-eyed. Not fearful. Just… calm. Steady. As if you had been waiting for this moment to arrive.
You didn’t deny it.
The lack of denial seemed to snap something inside him.
Naoya took one step forward, then another, until he was towering over the low table. His presence filled the alcove, the heat of his body cutting through the cool night air. He dropped into a crouch in front of you close, too close, his knees bracketing the edge of the table so you couldn’t easily stand without brushing against him.
“Look at me,” he demanded, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Right now. Stop pretending I’m fucking background noise.”
Your eyes stayed on his. Unflinching. “I’m not pretending anything, Naoya-sama.”
The honorific sounded hollow again. It only fueled the fire.
He leaned in further, one hand planting on the table beside your notes, the other gripping the edge of the wooden surface so tightly the grain creaked. His face was inches from yours now. Close enough that you could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his piercings caught the lantern light, the raw, obsessive hunger burning in those sharp brown eyes.
“You laugh with that branch-family idiot,” he hissed, the words spilling out sharper than he intended. “You smile. You touch him like it’s nothing. You make plans. But when I speak, when I stand right in front of you, you act like I don’t exist.” His breath ghosted across your lips. “Why? What makes me so fucking beneath your notice?”
You held his gaze. Your voice remained even, but there was a new undercurrent. Something quieter, almost curious. “Because everyone else wants something from you. Praise. Favor. A reaction. I don’t.”
The honesty hit him like a curse technique to the chest.
Naoya’s eyes darkened. He reached out and caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Not rough, but firm. Unavoidable. He tilted your face up, forcing you to keep looking at him even as you tried to maintain that careful distance.
“Then give me one,” he said, voice rough and low, vibrating with frustration and something far darker. “React. Say something. Fight back. Do anything except this… nothing.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip, barely there, but the touch sent a spark through the confined space. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed there, crouched in front of you, body caging yours against the table, cursed energy humming around him like a storm about to break.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Your eyes searched his face for a long moment. Taking in the arrogant set of his jaw, the possessive glint in his stare, the way his breathing had grown uneven.
“I see you, Naoya,” you said finally, quiet but clear. “I just don’t need to orbit you like everyone else does.”
Something in him cracked.
It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t romance.
It was raw, frustrated need.
He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But he leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to remind you he could hold you there if he wanted.
“You will,” he whispered, the words almost a threat. “You’ll look at me. You’ll react to me. You’ll stop walking away like I’m nothing.” His free hand moved to brace on the table behind you, fully caging you now. The heat of his body pressed close. Chest inches from yours, thigh brushing your knee. “Because I’m done playing this game. You’ve been under my skin for weeks, acting like you’re immune. You’re not.”
The air crackled with tension. His cursed energy flickered, Projection Sorcery ready to freeze the moment if you tried to slip away again. But you didn’t move.
You just looked at him, really looked, seeing the obsession that had taken root behind the arrogance.
Naoya’s breath hitched. The realization slammed into him harder than ever:
This wasn’t about winning anymore.
This wasn’t about ego.
He wanted you. Specifically you. Your attention. Your reactions. Your indifference broken only for him.
And he was no longer willing to wait.
“Say something,” he demanded again, voice hoarse, thumb still tracing your lip with deliberate slowness. “Anything. Or I’ll make sure you can’t ignore me ever again.”
The lantern flame flickered between you, casting shifting shadows across his sharp, beautiful, dangerous face.
The confrontation had begun.
And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting you walk away from it unchanged.
The lantern in the archive alcove flickered low, casting long, dancing shadows across the wooden beams and scattered scrolls. The air felt thicker now, heavier with the scent of old paper, ink, and the sharp, clean citrus-smoke of Naoya’s presence. His hand still held your chin. His thumb pressing lightly against your lower lip, not painful, but insistent. Unyielding. His sharp brown eyes bored into yours, pupils blown wide with a mix of frustration, fascination, and something far more dangerous.
He was close. Too close.
His knee had shifted forward between yours where you sat on the floor cushion, caging you against the low table. The open collar of his white shirt revealed the taut line of his collarbone and the faint sheen of tension on his skin. The teal kimono had slipped further off one shoulder, exposing the powerful slope of muscle. Projection Sorcery hummed faintly around him, a barely-contained vibration that made the air between your bodies feel electric.
You didn’t pull away.
You didn’t lean in either.
You simply held his gaze, steady and unafraid, as if this entire storm of obsession was something you had expected all along.
That lack of fear that complete refusal to be intimidated or impressed only twisted the knife deeper in Naoya’s chest.
His thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, deliberate and testing. The touch was rougher now, less controlled. “You’re not scared,” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost accusatory. “Not even a little. Everyone else in this compound flinches when I look at them the wrong way. Women practically melt or run. But you…” He leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth. “You just look at me like I’m another scroll on the shelf.”
He released your chin only to slide his hand along your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding. Possessing. Testing how far he could push before you finally reacted.
“Say something,” he demanded again, the words edged with that familiar arrogance, but cracked open by raw need. “React. Tell me I’m wasting my time. Tell me to fuck off. Anything but this silence.”
Your breathing remained even, though your pulse had quickened just enough for him to feel it under his fingertips. “You’re not wasting your time if this is what you want,” you said quietly, voice calm but no longer completely detached. There was a new undercurrent there. Something sharper, almost challenging. “But I won’t perform for you, Naoya.”
His eyes flashed.
The use of his name without the honorific this time hit him like a spark on dry tinder.
He moved.
In one fluid motion, Projection Sorcery blurring the transition, he rose and pulled you up with him. His hands gripped your waist, firm and unyielding, spinning you so your back pressed against the nearest shelf. Scrolls rattled softly behind you. The wooden edge dug into your spine, but his body crowded forward immediately, pinning you there with his hips and chest.
He was hard against you. Thighs bracketing yours, one hand braced beside your head on the shelf, the other still tangled in your hair. The heat of him seeped through your uniform, overwhelming. His face hovered inches away, lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he spoke.
“You think this is a performance?” he growled, voice dropping into something darker, more obsessive. “This isn’t a game anymore. You’ve been walking around this compound like you’re above it all. Above me. While I can’t stop thinking about how to make you look at me.” His hips pressed forward slightly, deliberate, letting you feel the growing evidence of his frustration. “Every time you stepped around me, every time you refused to even glance my way… it drove me insane.”
He tilted his head, nose tracing along your jawline, breath hot against your ear. “I watch you now. Your routines. Your drills. The way you breathe when you’re concentrating. I know when you take your tea. I know how long you stay in the garden at night.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. Light, testing, not quite a bite. “And still you act like I don’t exist.”
His free hand slid down your side, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, then lower to grip your hip. He pulled you tighter against him, the movement slow and intentional, grinding just enough to make his point without crossing fully into violence.
“You’re not impressed by me,” he continued, voice hoarse now, lips brushing your neck. “Not intimidated. Not trying to use me for status or power or anything the others want.” He laughed once. “That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s why I can’t stop.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes dark and burning. His hand left your hair to cup your face, thumb dragging down your throat, pressing lightly over your pulse.
“React to me,” he whispered, the command laced with desperate fascination. “Fight me. Want me. Hate me. I don’t care anymore, as long as it’s me you’re feeling it for.”
The tension in the small alcove was suffocating. His body was a wall of heat and muscle, hips still pressed flush against yours, one thigh nudged between your legs to keep you pinned. Cursed energy crackled faintly around both of you. His Projection Sorcery mixing with the steady blue glow of your Reverse Cursed Technique that had begun to flicker unconsciously in response to the proximity.
You could feel every inch of his restraint fraying. The way his fingers trembled slightly against your skin. The way his breathing had grown ragged. The arrogant heir who had never needed to chase anyone was now obsessed, fixated, unraveling because one woman refused to give him what everyone else handed over freely.
He leaned in again, lips hovering just above yours. Close enough that the slightest movement would close the distance.
“Say my name again,” he ordered, voice rough and low, almost pleading beneath the demand. “Look at me while you do it. And don’t you dare look away this time.”
His hips rolled once more. Slow, deliberate, a clear promise of everything he was barely holding back.
The spice had ignited.
And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting the fire die until you finally burned with him.
He was breathing harder now, chest rising and falling against yours, the open collar of his shirt allowing skin-to-skin contact where the fabric had slipped. His sharp brown eyes never left yours. Dark, obsessive, burning with weeks of pent-up frustration finally spilling over.
Your pulse thrummed under his thumb. You held his gaze, unflinching, even as heat pooled low in your belly from the relentless proximity. “Naoya,” you said quietly, the name slipping out softer this time, but still steady. No tremor. No submission. Just acknowledgment laced with that same calm challenge.
Something feral flashed across his face.
He closed the last inch.
His mouth crashed against yours. It was hungry, demanding, all sharp teeth and arrogant possession. There was nothing gentle about it. This was Naoya Zenin claiming what had tormented him for weeks. His tongue swept in without waiting for permission, tasting, conquering, devouring the indifference he hated so much. One hand tangled deeper into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you tighter against his grinding hips.
You tasted like tea and ink and the quiet defiance that had driven him insane. He groaned into the kiss, low and frustrated, the sound vibrating through his chest. His thigh pressed higher between your legs, rubbing with deliberate friction as his hips rocked again. Though slower this time, more intentional, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was for you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “You taste like nothing I’ve ever wanted before. And I hate how much I need it.”
He didn’t give you time to respond. His mouth moved to your neck, lips and teeth scraping along the sensitive skin, sucking a mark just below your jaw. His actions were dark, possessive, and impossible to hide. His hand slid under the hem of your uniform jacket, fingers splaying hot across your bare waist, nails digging in as he pulled you even closer. The roll of his hips became more insistent, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against you in a rhythm that made the shelf behind you creak softly.
“You feel that?” he rasped, biting down on your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “That’s what your silence does to me. Weeks of you walking away, acting like I’m nothing… and now I can’t stop thinking about bending you over every surface in this compound until you can’t ignore me anymore.”
His cursed energy flared, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Freezing the moment just long enough to make the friction sharper, more overwhelming before releasing it again. He was losing control, and he didn’t care. The arrogant heir who never chased was now rutting against you like a man starved, lips trailing back to your mouth for another bruising kiss.
But then, you shifted.
Your hands came up to his chest, not pushing him away exactly, but creating the slightest space. Your breathing was ragged now, lips swollen from his kisses, but that familiar calm was creeping back into your eyes. You started to turn your head, body angling as if to slip sideways along the shelf. The same way you had moved around him so many times before. Walking away mid-interaction. Denying him even in the heat of the moment.
Naoya’s reaction was pure instinct.
His hand shot out, slamming against the shelf beside your head with enough force to rattle the scrolls. His other arm wrapped around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back flush against him. Projection Sorcery activated fully this time, locking the frame for a heartbeat so you couldn’t complete the sidestep.
“No,” he snarled, the word torn from deep in his chest. “You don’t get to walk away. Not now. Not from this.”
He held you there, trapped against his body, his forehead pressed hard to yours, breathing ragged and hot. His hips had stilled, but his cock was still throbbing against you, heavy and insistent. The grip on your waist was bruising, possessive.
And in that frozen second when his body acted before his mind could catch up, the realization slammed into him like a curse breaking through his ribs.
This wasn’t about attention anymore.
It wasn’t about winning the game or repairing his ego or forcing a reaction just to prove he could.
He wanted you.
Specifically you.
Not the praise. Not the admiration. Not even the satisfaction of breaking your indifference.
He wanted the woman who looked at him without awe or fear. The one who moved through the compound like a quiet storm he couldn’t control. The one whose calm voice and steady hands made his blood burn hotter than any battle ever had.
He wanted your time. Your touch. Your rare smiles turned toward him. Your body under his. Your voice saying his name like it mattered.
Not because everyone else gave it freely.
Because it was you.
Naoya’s eyes widened fractionally, the obsessive fire in them shifting into something deeper, more dangerous. His grip loosened just enough to be less punishing, but he didn’t let go. His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip again, almost reverent now, though his voice stayed blunt and annoyed, pure Naoya.
“You’re irritating as hell,” he muttered, voice rough and low, forehead still pressed to yours. “Acting like I don’t exist when all I can think about is you. Stop it.”
What he meant was: Don’t ignore me. Don’t walk away. Don’t make me chase what I now realize I can’t live without.
His hips rolled once more. Slower, deeper, a deliberate grind that dragged his clothed cock along your core with aching friction. His hand slid higher under your jacket, palm hot against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric.
“I want you,” he said bluntly, the confession sounding almost angry on his tongue. “Not your reaction. Not your submission. You. Specifically you. And I’m done pretending it’s anything else.”
He kissed you again. It was now hard, claiming, but with a new edge of raw honesty beneath the arrogance. His body pressed fully against yours, thigh spreading your legs wider, hips moving in a slow, filthy rhythm that promised everything he was barely holding back.
The lantern light flickered over his sharp, flushed face. Blond hair messy, green roots dark with sweat, piercings glinting as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“Tell me you feel it too,” he demanded, voice hoarse, hips still grinding slow and relentless. “Or I’ll keep you here until you do.”
The obsession had cracked open completely.
And Naoya Zenin was no longer fighting it.
The restricted alcove in the archive building had become a pressure cooker. Lantern light flickered weakly across scattered scrolls and the low table, but neither of you paid any attention to the mess. Naoya’s body was a solid wall of heat and tension, pressing you back against the wooden shelf with unrelenting insistence. His thigh remained wedged between yours, hips grinding in slow, deliberate circles that dragged the thick, hard length of his cock against your core through too many layers of fabric. Each roll sent sparks of friction straight through you, making your breath hitch despite your best efforts to stay composed.
His mouth was on yours again. He kissed like he fought: no mercy, no hesitation, all raw dominance tempered by the obsessive need that had been eating him alive for weeks. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head exactly how he wanted. The other had pushed fully under your uniform jacket, palm hot and rough against your ribs, fingers splaying wide as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, teasing the edge of fabric without quite giving you more.
He pulled back from the kiss with a wet sound, lips swollen, breathing ragged. His sharp brown eyes, dark with lust and that deeper, dangerous fixation locked onto yours. Blond hair fell messier across his forehead, green roots visible and damp with sweat. The three silver piercings in his left ear caught the light as he tilted his head, studying you like a man who had finally stopped pretending.
“You’re still not running,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost annoyed at how much that pleased him. “Everyone else would have begged or cried or thrown themselves at me by now. But you…” He rolled his hips harder, grinding the ridge of his erection right against your clit with precise, filthy pressure. “You just take it. Look at me like you’re waiting for me to break first.”
His hand slid higher, finally cupping your breast fully, squeezing with arrogant possession as his thumb circled your nipple through the thin layer of your shirt. He pinched lightly, then harder when your body arched into him despite yourself. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest.
“Fuck… look at that reaction,” he muttered, leaning in to scrape his teeth along your jaw, then down to the mark he’d already sucked into your neck. He bit down again harder this time sucking until the skin bloomed dark under his mouth. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you? All that calm indifference, and your body’s betraying you right here against my cock.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand dropped to your hip, gripping hard as he rocked against you in a steady, relentless rhythm. The friction was maddening. Thick and hot, the outline of him rubbing perfectly with every grind. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both for a split second, sharpening the sensation until it felt like there was nothing between you.
Then he stopped.
Pulled back just enough to look at you properly, chest heaving.
Instead of another taunt or demand, his expression shifted. The arrogance was still there but beneath it was something rawer. More honest. Still very much Naoya.
“You’re irritating,” he said bluntly, voice hoarse but direct. His hand stayed on your breast, thumb lazily stroking your nipple as if he couldn’t stop touching you. “Acting like I don’t exist when I can’t get you out of my head. I watch you run in the mornings. I know exactly how long you spend in the archives. I rearrange my entire fucking day just to stand in your way… and you still treat me like background noise.”
He leaned in again, forehead pressing to yours, hips giving one slow, deep grind that made his cock twitch against you. His breath was hot against your lips.
“Stop it.”
The words were simple. Annoyed. Almost petulant in that Zenin way.
But what he meant hung heavy in the charged air between you:
Don’t ignore me anymore.
Don’t walk away mid-sentence.
Don’t make me chase what I now know I need.
His hand left your breast only to slide down your side, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. He didn’t pull them down, not yet, but the intention was clear. His palm pressed flat against your lower stomach, thumb dipping just beneath the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin there.
“I want you,” he continued, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Not the reaction. Not the ego boost. You. Specifically you. The one who doesn’t simper or beg or look at me like I’m some prize. The one who makes me lose control just by existing in the same compound.” He nipped at your lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue. “It pisses me off how much I want this. How much I want to pin you down every night until the only name you remember is mine.”
The touch became more intentional now. His fingers slipped lower, tracing the edge of your underwear before pressing firmly against your clothed heat. He rubbed slow circles, feeling the dampness there, a smug yet frustrated smirk tugging at his lips even as his eyes stayed dark with obsession.
“Feel that?” he murmured, voice thick. “That’s mine now. This whole fucking indifference act ends tonight. You’re going to look at me. You’re going to moan for me. And you’re going to stop pretending I’m not the only thing you think about when you’re alone in that quiet little room of yours.”
He kissed you again. Less frantic conquest, more deliberate possession. His fingers continued their teasing pressure between your legs, building the heat without rushing to the end. His hips rocked gently against his own hand and your thigh, letting you feel how painfully hard he still was.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours once more. The lantern light cast sharp shadows across his flushed face.
“No more games,” he said, blunt and final, thumb pressing firmer against your clit through the fabric. “You’re staying right here until you admit it. Until you feel it. Until you’re as obsessed as I am.”
His fingers slipped beneath the last layer of fabric, finally touching bare, slick skin. Two fingers dragged slowly through your folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with precise, torturous pressure.
“Say it,” he demanded, voice a low growl against your mouth. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me you want this, you want me, as much as I want you.”
The breaking point had arrived.
Naoya Zenin wasn’t asking anymore.
He was claiming.
And in the flickering lantern light of the private alcove, with his body pressed hot and heavy against yours, fingers working you with arrogant skill and obsessive focus, the tension finally shattered into something raw, addictive, and undeniably mutual.
“Say it,” he growled again, voice low and rough, thumb pressing harder on your clit as his fingers teased your entrance. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me this pussy is already mine.”
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed. But instead of the surrender he clearly expected, the corner of your mouth twitched into a small, defiant smirk.
“Make me,” you whispered, voice breathy but laced with clear challenge. You rolled your hips once against his hand then pulled back just enough to deny him the full friction. “You’ve been chasing me for weeks, Naoya. If you want me that badly… earn it.”
Brat.
The single word flashed across Naoya’s mind like a curse.
His eyes narrowed instantly. The arrogant set of his jaw tightened, and a dangerous smirk curled his lips sharp and predatory, it was pure Zenin superiority. The playful frustration in his expression vanished, replaced by cold, controlled annoyance.
“Oh?” His voice dropped dangerously low, the casual drawl gone. “You think you can still play games with me? After all this?”
Before you could retort, his hand withdrew from your pants entirely. You barely had time to register the loss before he spun you around with effortless strength. Projection Sorcery blurring the motion so fast your back hit the shelf again, this time facing away from him. His chest pressed flush to your back, one arm banding around your waist like iron while his free hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply so your neck arched.
“You want to act like a brat?” he hissed directly into your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fine. I’ll treat you like one.”
His hips snapped forward, grinding his cock hard against your ass through the fabric. The thick, heavy length rubbed insistently, letting you feel exactly how little patience he had left. With a rough tug, he yanked your uniform jacket and shirt up in one motion, exposing your back and breasts to the cool air. His hand immediately palmed one breast, squeezing hard, pinching your nipple between thumb and forefinger with mean precision.
“Naoya—” you started, the challenge still in your tone.
“Shut up,” he snapped, voice sharp and commanding. He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder. Hard enough to leave teeth marks then soothed it with a rough lick. “You’ve had your fun ignoring me. Walking away. Acting like I’m nothing. Now you’re going to learn exactly who owns your attention.”
He shoved your pants and underwear down in one swift, impatient motion, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked core, but it was immediately replaced by the heat of his hand as he reached between your legs from behind. Two fingers plunged inside you without warning. It was deep, stretching, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled, pumping his fingers hard and fast, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet alcove. “All that bratty mouth and your cunt is clenching around me like it’s starving. Pathetic.”
You tried to push back against him, still challenging, a breathy “Is that all you’ve got—” slipping out.
Naoya’s response was immediate and merciless.
He pulled his fingers out, spun you again to face him, and lifted you clean off the ground with Projection Sorcery assisting the motion. Your back slammed against the shelf once more as he pinned you there, your legs forced around his waist. He freed his cock with his other hand. He was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip and dragged the head through your folds once, twice, coating himself in your wetness.
“Still talking?” he sneered, eyes dark with annoyed lust. “Let’s fix that.”
He thrust into you in one brutal stroke. Burying himself to the hilt, stretching you open around his cock with zero mercy. The sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs. Naoya groaned, deep and satisfied, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he savored the tight heat.
“Shit… so fucking tight,” he muttered, then pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm immediately. Each thrust was deep, hard, and perfectly controlled. Projection Sorcery letting him hit exactly where he wanted, over and over. The shelf rattled behind you with every snap of his hips. His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he fucked you against the wood.
“You wanted me to earn it?” he taunted between thrusts, voice rough and breathless but dripping with superiority. “This is me earning it. This is what happens when you push me, brat. You get fucked until the only thing you can say is my name.”
He angled his hips, grinding deep on every stroke so the head of his cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside you. One hand left your ass to wrap around your throat. Not choking, but firm, possessive, tilting your head so you had no choice but to look at him.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered, sharp and final. “No looking away. No ignoring me. You’re going to watch me fuck the attitude right out of you.”
His pace quickened, thrusts turning shorter and harder, skin slapping against skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, blond hair sticking to his skin, green roots dark. His piercings glinted with every movement. He leaned in, biting your lower lip hard before kissing you. The kiss was messy, dominating, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock.
Every thrust drove the point home: he was in control now. Completely.
No more chasing.
No more games.
You were his, and he was going to make sure you felt it in every bruise, every mark, every deep, relentless stroke.
“Say it,” he demanded again, voice strained with pleasure but still commanding. He slammed in particularly hard, holding himself deep as he ground against your clit. “Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you’re done being a fucking brat and you’ll look at me from now on.”
His hand tightened slightly on your throat, thumb pressing under your jaw as he kept fucking you with single-minded, obsessive intensity.
Naoya Zenin had finally taken full control.
And he wasn’t stopping until you broke exactly the way he wanted.
Naoya’s cock was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing, stretching you open with every brutal snap of his hips. The wooden shelf dug into your back as he fucked you against it with relentless force, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin and the low, arrogant growl rumbling from his chest. His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he held you suspended, legs wrapped tightly around his waist.
Sweat glistened on his sharp collarbones, his white shirt hanging open and clinging to his skin. Blond hair stuck to his forehead, green roots dark and messy. Those sharp brown eyes burned into yours with pure, obsessive dominance. No mercy, no softness, only the raw need to break the last of your defiance.
And you were still pushing him.
Even as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly, even as your walls fluttered helplessly around his cock with every deep stroke, you managed a breathless, bratty smirk.
“Is that… all you’ve got?” you gasped between thrusts, voice shaky but challenging. “Thought the great Naoya Zenin would last longer than this…”
His eyes flashed with pure annoyance.
He slammed into you harder, grinding the head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you until your vision blurred. Then, he stopped.
Completely.
Buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he held perfectly still. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both, freezing the moment so you couldn’t even rock against him for friction. The sudden denial made your core clench desperately around nothing but his thick length, the orgasm that had been building crashing back down into agonizing frustration.
Naoya’s lips curled into a dangerous, mocking smirk. His hand moved to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse jump under his palm.
“Still running that mouth?” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
He pulled out almost entirely, leaving only the swollen head inside you, then thrust back in once before stopping again. The sharp spike of pleasure followed immediately by nothing made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
“You want to cum?” he taunted, leaning in so his lips brushed your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “Then beg properly, brat. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll never ignore me again. Say the words and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you fall apart on my cock.”
You bit your lip, hips twitching uselessly against his hold. The denial burned. Your body was screaming for release, walls pulsing around his cock, but he refused to move.
“Naoya…” you tried, voice strained, still trying to sound defiant.
He laughed. Short, cruel, and entirely too pleased with himself.
“Wrong answer.”
He started moving again, but slower this time. Torturously slow. Long, deep strokes that dragged the thick head of his cock against every sensitive ridge inside you, building you right back up to the edge with merciless precision. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, firm circles that had your thighs shaking around his waist.
Every time your breathing hitched, every time your walls started to flutter and tighten around him, he stopped.
Completely.
Pulled out until only the tip remained, or froze with Projection Sorcery, leaving you dangling on the precipice of orgasm with nothing but aching emptiness.
Over and over.
The fourth time he edged you, tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his open shirt. Your voice cracked.
“Naoya—please—”
“Please what?” he growled, slamming in deep once more before stilling again. His cock twitched inside you, hot and heavy, but he refused to give you the final push. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your collarbone. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. “Use your words, little brat. Tell me exactly what I want to hear.”
You whimpered, hips desperately trying to grind against him, but his hold was ironclad. The pleasure was unbearable now—coiled so tight it hurt, every nerve ending screaming for release.
“I’m yours,” you finally gasped, voice breaking on the words. “I’m yours, Naoya—fuck—I won’t ignore you anymore. I won’t walk away. I won’t… I won’t pretend you don’t exist. Please—please let me cum—”
Naoya’s eyes darkened with savage satisfaction. The arrogant smirk widened, but there was something deeper in his gaze now.
“That’s better,” he murmured, voice rough and approving. “But say it like you mean it.”
He started moving again. Harder this time, faster, each thrust punishing and perfect. His cock drove into you with brutal precision, hitting that spot over and over while his thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.
“I’m yours!” you cried out, the words tumbling desperately now. “I’m yours, Naoya—only yours. I won’t ignore you again—I swear—please, I need—”
He cut you off with a bruising kiss, tongue claiming your mouth as he fucked you with single-minded intensity. The denial finally shattered.
“Come,” he commanded against your lips, voice dark and final. “Cum on my cock like the brat you are. Show me who owns you now.”
The orgasm crashed over you like a curse breaking. Violent, overwhelming, white-hot pleasure ripping through every nerve. Your walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering as you came hard, a broken moan of his name tearing from your throat. Your vision whited out, body shaking violently in his hold as wave after wave tore through you.
Naoya didn’t stop.
He fucked you straight through it, hips snapping relentlessly, drawing out every last tremor until you were oversensitive and whimpering. Only then did he bury himself deep one final time, groaning low and guttural as he came inside you. Hot, thick pulses filling you up while his fingers dug bruises into your hips.
He stayed buried inside you as you both came down, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. His hand loosened on your throat, sliding up to cup your jaw instead. Still possessive, still controlling, but with a new, darker satisfaction burning in his eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse but dripping with arrogant triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He kissed you again but slower this time, no less claiming. Then pulled back just enough to look at you with that sharp, obsessive gaze.
“No more ignoring me,” he warned, still deep inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks. “From now on, you look at me. You react to me. You belong to me. Understand?”
His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, eyes narrowing with that familiar Zenin intensity.
“Or next time, I’ll edge you for hours.”
The resolution had come.
Naoya Zenin had won.
And the possessive, obsessive fire between you had only just begun to burn.
The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of Naoya’s private quarters, painting the tatami in soft gold and shadow. The compound outside was already stirring. The distant sounds of training drills, servants moving along the engawa, the faint clash of cursed energy in the air. But inside this room, the world had narrowed to the large futon and the two bodies tangled within it.
You woke first, or at least you thought you did.
Naoya’s arm was draped heavily across your waist, possessive even in sleep. His bare chest pressed against your back, skin warm and marked with the faint scratches your nails had left the night before. His cock, half-hard and still nestled between your thighs, twitched faintly as you shifted. The marks he’d left on your neck and shoulders throbbed pleasantly. Dark bites and bruises that would be impossible to hide under your uniform collar.
You tried to slip out from under his arm, moving slowly, testing.
The arm tightened instantly.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was rough with sleep, low and dangerous, lips brushing the back of your neck. He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his hips rolled forward, pressing his growing erection more firmly against your ass. “Didn’t I tell you last night? No more walking away.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh. Still a little defiant, still testing the new boundaries. “I was just going to get water, Naoya. Not running to the archives to ignore you.”
He hummed, unconvinced. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back and loomed over you, blond hair messy, green roots visible, sharp brown eyes finally cracking open with that familiar arrogant glint. The three silver piercings in his ear caught the morning light as he smirked down at you.
“Liar,” he murmured, voice still thick. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down your body to cup between your legs. His fingers found you still slick from the night before. His cum and your own release making everything messy and sensitive. “You were going to slip out like always. Old habits.”
Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling lazily as his thumb brushed your clit. You gasped, hips jerking, but he held you down easily.
“Naoya—” you started, the challenge creeping back into your tone even as pleasure sparked through you.
He leaned down, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. “Say it again,” he ordered, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately building you up. “Tell me who you belong to. Right now.”
You bit back a moan, eyes narrowing up at him in that same bratty spark. “Make me.”
His eyes darkened instantly. The smirk turned sharper, more dangerous.
“Oh, you still haven’t learned?”
He withdrew his fingers, ignoring your frustrated whine, and replaced them with the thick head of his cock. He pushed in slowly this time inch by inch, stretching you open with deliberate control until he was buried to the hilt. Then he stilled.
Completely.
“No moving,” he warned when you tried to roll your hips. Projection Sorcery flickered, locking your lower body in place so you couldn’t chase the friction. “Not until you say it properly.”
He stayed there, buried deep, cock twitching inside you, while his free hand lazily traced circles around your clit. Light enough to tease, never enough to satisfy.
You lasted maybe thirty seconds before the words tumbled out, breathless and edged with need.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, thighs trembling against the invisible hold. “I’m yours, Naoya. I won’t ignore you again. I won’t walk away. Just—please—”
The smirk widened into something almost feral.
“Good girl.”
He released the Projection Sorcery and started moving deep, steady thrusts that quickly turned punishing. The futon creaked beneath you as he fucked you into the mattress, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust drove the point home: you were his now. Completely. No more indifference. No more slipping away.
When you came shaking, crying out his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan.
Afterward, he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing slowing.
“Better,” he muttered, voice still rough but laced with dark satisfaction. “Keep that up and I might even let you walk around the compound without me shadowing every step.”
You raised an eyebrow, still catching your breath. “Might?”
He nipped at your jaw. “Don’t push it.”
Later that morning, the Zenin compound buzzed with its usual rigid energy.
Naoya walked the main path toward the training grounds with you at his side. Not behind him. Not ahead. Right beside him, close enough that his kimono sleeve occasionally brushed your arm. His posture was the same arrogant stride as always, but his sharp eyes kept sliding toward you, possessive and watchful.
The younger clan members stared openly. Whispers rippled through the courtyard.
“Naoya-sama… with the transfer?”
“He never lets anyone walk beside him like that…”
Kaito, the branch family sorcerer from the drill, passed by and offered you a friendly nod and wave. “Morning! Still up for that tea later—”
He didn’t finish.
Naoya’s arm shot out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against his side. His gaze on Kaito was ice-cold, laced with clear warning.
“She’s busy,” Naoya said flatly, voice dripping superiority. “Permanently.”
Kaito blinked, then bowed quickly and hurried off.
You glanced up at Naoya, a small, challenging smile tugging at your lips. “Jealous?”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as you walked.
“Call it what you want,” he murmured, hand tightening on your waist. “But from now on, the only person who gets your smiles, your laughs, your attention… is me. Understand?”
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch—just slightly, enough to make his breath hitch.
“Yes, Naoya,” you said, voice soft but with that familiar spark. “I understand.”
He smirked, satisfied, but the obsessive glint in his eyes promised there would be more “lessons” later if you ever tested him again.
The dynamic had shifted.
No longer neglect versus ego.
Now it was sharp, intense, addictive fire. Bratty challenges met with ruthless control, indifference burned away into raw, possessive obsession.
Naoya Zenin had what he wanted.
You.
And he had no intention of ever letting you look anywhere else.
© 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 ; 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝
