Miss Mei Mei

[miss-meimei]

Cursed to Come When Called

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The curse bound to the house you’ve inherited has been the perfect solution to your sleepless, needy nights. Every evening, you call upon a spectral lover to sate your deepest, most desperate cravings…only to want for more the next day. But when your usual summoning ritual doesn't work one night, you learn that even supernatural lovers can get jealous—and that lesson comes with consequences you may be more than willing to endure.

*JJK Anime-only spoiler!!

Rating: Explicit | MDNIFandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime & Manga) Relationships: Curseya/ Reader; Zenin Naoya/Reader; Curse Naoya/fem!Reader Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ghost Sex, Spectrophilia, Tentacle Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Verbal Degradation, Praise, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Zenin Naoya, Submissive Reader-Insert, Teasing, Orgasm Edging, Rough Sex, Clothed Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Spanking, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Oral Fixation, Summoning, Cursed Spirit Naoya Zenin, don't worry i don't describe how he looks lol, Jealousy

4.5K words

Also on Ao3

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The Victorian house you'd inherited from your late great-aunt came with three warnings:

Don't go in the basement. Don't open the locked rooms. And never, under any circumstance, read from the grimoire in the attic.

You should have really listened to that last one.

Because now you lie awake—just as you have every night since you broke that rule—writhing and whimpering between sweat-drenched sheets, while your fingers work viciously between your soaked thighs. It's a futile attempt that leaves you gasping and desperate, no closer to the release that eludes you. Tears of frustration prick your eyes as your hips arch instinctively in a hollow memory, aching to be filled to the brim with a savage brutality. Through the window, the waning moon watches your plight with pity, silently urging you to accept the inevitable truth: there is only one way to satisfy the hunger that owns you. 

The crushing reality cuts through the haze of self-pleasure, your body stilling and hand falling away as you give up on the useless attempt. You knew this was the price, knew that such an indulgence wouldn't come without cost. You thought the grimoire would only bring you power, but what you hadn't anticipated was that every encounter would leave you feeling like a needy, empty-minded thing, craving to be pinned and used until you'd beg to be broken again.

With an exasperated huff, you toss the covers off, as if answering the call were some burdensome chore. Pride and caution have you still trying to resist, even as your feet slide into the plush slippers at your bedside. But your hurried footsteps soon betray you. You quickly make your way to the adjoining hallway, your eagerness overtaking any pretense. You hadn't even bothered to wipe yourself down or don a robe to ward off the sepulchral chill of the old house. Not that you would bother anyway…you know he dislikes you concealed by such things.

Quietly, you head down the shadowy corridor and up the narrow staircase, past the gilt-framed family portraits hanging on the walls—their painted eyes following you with ancestral judgment. You've grown used to ignoring them, just as you have the Watchful Eyes. Tiny, skittering things that blink from within the molding and the cracks, possessing a different kind of gaze entirely. Just Watching. Always watching.

You pause when you reach the top of the stairs, heart racing with anticipation. The attic door groans as you slowly push it open, the hinges you'd (perhaps deliberately) neglected to oil announcing your arrival in a way that makes the heavy, wet ache between your thighs pulse with fresh need.

But as soon as you cross the threshold, you stand still, sensing an unusual shift from the usual, sybaritic atmosphere. Your brows knit together in confusion as you attempt to decipher the empty yet expectant tension in the air, searching the star-kissed expanse with its tall gothic windows and endless rows of ancient tomes for that familiar visage. The flickering shadows provide no answer, however; there is no sign of your phantom lover anywhere. Yet a lamp sits lit, its light warm and inviting—a riddle meant just for you.

So…he’s wanting the incantation tonight? In spite of your impatience for relief, you bite back a smile, your slippers practically sliding across the worn hardwood. It’s all you can do to refrain from skipping to the antique mahogany desk in the back.

The Grimoire of Shadow Binding and Summons sits open, always ready for you to read, a spell inked on its only page filled with any writing. The book had been your solace since you'd inherited the place, never missing a night since you'd first discovered its many…powers. As if it knew you'd succumb, the grimoire had been waiting for you to eventually find it. It had been tucked between ancestral records and clan histories speaking of speed, power, and vengeful pride that transcends death—drawing you here through strange dreams you couldn't ignore despite every warning.

As your fingers delicately trace the ancient pages in reverent memory, the hairs against your neck stir. The faintest "Mine..." is breathed against your ear, sending a tingle shooting down your spine and eyelids fluttering. It seems you aren't the only impatient one tonight.

The many fruitless attempts at release suddenly catch up to you, and your finger hastily finds the first word on the page, underlining it as you begin. Slow and sure, you read from the forbidden tome aloud, making sure to pronounce each syllable to its fullest:

"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge."

You step back as the final letter of the incantation leaves your lips with a trembling breath. The worn pages seem to flutter, though the windows are barred shut against any breeze. Several pairs of curious eyes lazily appear from in between the worn leather bindings stacked high on surrounding shelves…but none are the once-glimpsed crimson orbs you'd hoped to see, burning with desire. 

"Must've spoken them too quickly," you mutter to yourself, sure you'd stumbled upon the intricate words in your haste. The hunger is fraying your composure, and it takes every ounce of your self-control not to press your achy center against the desk's edge, desperate for the friction that might finally offer some relief.

Tucking a wayward strand behind your ear, you clear your throat and recite the spell once more, your gaze searching the corners of the room as you allow each memorized word to ring clear—no longer pretending you don't know them by heart.

"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge!"

The silence stretches once again, broken only by the distant settling of the old house. A soft rustle of something moving behind the stacked trunks in the corner catches your attention.

But still. Nothing.

Puzzled, you gnaw at your lip, not knowing what else to do. Usually by now, you'd be bent over the desk, having the best orgasms of your life while an invisible touch claimed every inch of your trembling form. Now, you're more worried than anything, unsure if your ever-hungry appetite (only growing with each passing day) has finally worn out the binding vow that had bound the curse to this place.

Right then, as if sensing your very thoughts and worry, a slight brush—lighter than air—caresses your cheek. The touch sends a shiver down your spine, familiar yet maddeningly brief. So he is here!

In your haste to look around, you nearly topple one of the standing shelves loaded with dusty volumes and curiosities, but catch yourself at the last moment. A few loose papers flutter to the floor and a book tumbles from its perch, the Watchful Eyes multiplying between the book spines at the disturbance. You ignore it all, your glee (and unfulfilled pleasure) taking precedence.

"Did I do it wrong again?" you ask the seemingly empty room, awaiting the helpful yet petulant response—usually in the form of whispers and teasing nibbles against your ear—that usually manifests. The lamplight flickers as if something passed through its glow, and deep down, you know you didn't imagine that touch. In fact, you now understand exactly what this is.

He's toying with you.

Careful to hide your eagerness at the prospect of further teasing by the vengeful spirit, you allow a wicked thought to take root. Quickly, your fingers flick through the other scattered books on the shelves until you find exactly what you're looking for. Two can play this game, after all.

You set the spells book down purposely over the grimoire with a satisfying thud that echoes through the dusty attic. The Watchful Eyes observe curiously as you flip through its brittle pages, stopping when you find the one titled: Of Pleasure, Bliss, and How to Make Spectres Most Agreeable to One's Desires

It's risky, but you're desperate enough not to care.

"This should do the trick if you won't," you mutter loudly enough for any lurking presence to hear, already mouthing the spell where it reads in faded ink. Meanwhile, you lean over the desk seductively, one foot gliding over the calf of the other leg in a sensual twist that makes the silk of your short nightgown ride up your thighs. Your rear is perched up in the air of course, palms braced against the weathered wood to bear the pressure of your weight as you bend over tantalizingly, presenting yourself like an innocent offering to what's lurking in the shadows.

Not even halfway through the spell's first verse do you feel that familiar spiritual pressure magnify instantly, crushingly. Before you can even finish the next word, an invisible force is already gripping each of your wrists with iron intensity, followed in rapid succession by two more tendrils snapping around your ankles like rope.

Your half-gasp, half-moan rings out in the attic, the suddenness of his arrival never failing to leave you breathless. Around you, the skittering eyes pulse and crowd every corner, hungrily devouring the sight of your bound form as they acknowledge what's to come.

You try to test the binding by pulling back on the restraints, but the hold is unyielding, fingers of pure energy that seem to pulse with their own heartbeat. Before you know it, the pressure forces your arms back until—robbed of support—you fall face first onto the open spells book in front of you.

Cheek pressed sideways into the musty pages, you breathe in the scent of ancient parchment and magic, your heart racing. The grip on your ankles holds your legs steady—mercifully, as you're shaking near-violently from head to toe.

Shaking with excitement. 

"I always knew you were a greedy little thing," a languid voice whispers, the words seeming to manifest directly against the shell of your ear. He's so close, so real, you can feel the phantom warmth of a breath that shouldn't exist. 

Your lids flutter, skin already flushing with heat from his proximity alone. Happiness floods through you so completely, that tears of relief prick at your eyes. You're so starved for him, so overwhelmed by his presence that you barely notice when another set of tendrils appear, writhing teasingly beside you in ribbons of violet energy before disappearing behind where your eyes cannot follow.

Not that he's ever let you have a proper look.

The solid-smokey trails retreat beneath the delicate material of your nightgown, seeking your most sensitive places with aching slowness. "Do I need to remind you of what happens when you get impatient with me, my pretty summoner?"

He ignores your squirming, your choked sobs of need and broken pleas as he quickly finds what he's looking for. Your vision blurs, mind going hazy with need when the faintest vibration teases at that first touch over your needy bud. You clench around emptiness when he retreats much-too-quickly, instead, dragging another tendril along your spine until you bow, arching into his touch. He ignores how you strain backwards against the bindings desperately, needing nothing more than to be filled. You know that infuriating pause means he's waiting for you to answer his silly question.

"No," you gulp. "I—I mean. What did I even do? I was just trying to—"

"I don't recall allowing you to speak," he proclaims, the careful composure in his voice barely masking the petulant smile underneath. Though you have to refrain from rolling your eyes even as your walls spasm hard at his words, never able to take him seriously when he gets in these moods. He is a vengeful spirit after all, and so it comes with the territory, you suppose. "Are you going to behave for me? Or do you need me to put you in your place?"

Your plan to respond with even more defiance dissolves into a yelp, as soon as he suddenly presses against both your entrances. The blunt tips of his spectral appendages push past the initial resistance with steady, unrelenting pressure, drawing out each moment of your submission, taking his time despite himself. He's not usually one to be patient.

Unsurprisingly, you don't worry about the slow pace, your mind (and holes) practically melting around the spectral invasion. Not that your body needed much more preparation, either. Your pussy already clenches desperately, arousal from your earlier futile attempts dripping steadily down your thighs—more than enough to completely drench through your panties…had you bothered with any.

Your hair is suddenly wrapped in a fist of spectral energy, pulling your head back until your spine arches beautifully. While he continues to stretch you open below with other appendages, your scant negligee is lifted with agonizing care, the black lace silk gliding over the heated softness of your skin until it's bunched at your lower back. You're surprised to hear what sounds like a hitched breath. "Such a perfect body. Perfect little holes. I know how much you love having them stretched for me."

The graceful curve of your exposed form draws a deep, possessive growl from behind—a sound so primal it makes several books tremble on their shelves as he fills you even deeper than you knew possible. For all your summonings, you'd never once considered whether he actually felt anything—pleasure, want, need—or if he was simply cursed to fulfill your desires without reward. 

"What a pretty slut, always ready to get used by me every night," he murmurs appreciatively with a grunt. The press against both your entrances immediately becomes more demanding, more possessive. "It almost makes me sad to have to teach you a lesson." The width feels thicker than you're used to—much thicker than what he usually gives you—as if he's determined to stretch your limits from the very start. 

At least he paces himself as he enters your rim, wise enough to test until you can open up for him more easily. Yet that only makes you arch your back and mouth fall open, a soft whimper escaping as you savor the exquisite torture. "Yet still so tight even though you're such a needy desperate whore," he breathes, pulling out momentarily. You feel the warm sensation as he trickles a spectral slick drip down between the plump flesh of your rear, the ethereal fluid coating your pussy before gravity can claim it.

Only then does he push back in with noticeably less resistance, the supernatural lubricant easing his way without pause. Yet none of the overwhelming stretch diminishes; if anything, his essence seems to heighten every nerve ending it touches. As if that weren't torturous enough, you feel ridges begin to form along the length, grinding against your sensitized walls with agonizingly slowness.

You clench around him with shameless need, your walls gripping him with greedy hunger. "Mmm. P-lease." You're already begging aloud, knowing how unconvincing your next words will sound. After all, this is exactly what you climbed those ancient stairs for. Prepared your skin with jasmine oils in a bath where you'd cleaned every inch of yourself—inside and out—with painstaking care. Practiced the incantation until your tongue knew every syllable. "I didn't do anything wrong. I said your words perfectly—"

"Then let me take care of you properly. Isn't that why you're here, after all?" His strange accent colors every syllable, but it's the uncaring tone that makes your nipples peak beneath the silk of  your gown and walls clasp even more tightly, gripping him like a vise. He groans, the sound booming and strained as if he's fighting for control against the overwhelming grip threatening to undo him. The Watchful Eyes flicker back and forth rapidly from their hiding spots, practically vibrating with anticipation at the heat of promise in his voice. "Just relax for me so I can make you feel good."

His phantom touch doesn't let up, and a light sheen of perspiration forms along your brow as the dizzying stretch finally pauses and settles into place, your walls fluttering around the pulsing heat of his appendages. The all-consuming sensation of being so thoroughly occupied, so overwhelmingly full as you're stretched and filled in a way that sends dizzying sparks through every nerve, leaves you trembling and already wrecked—skin flushed and burning, your pussy aching heavily with need. You're fighting the urge to rock back against him and beg for the friction you desperately crave, already coming apart at the seams before he's even begun to move. But you know better than to push your luck.

"There you go. There's my good girl," he coaxes, the words suspiciously honey-sweet as your tight grip on him gradually loosens at his beckoning. But just as soon as you do... "So pretty before I wreck you." 

The first thrust tears a raw cry from your throat, loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes scurrying. The tendrils wrapped around your ankles pulse at the sound, climbing higher to coil around your trembling thighs like living restraints, anchoring you perfectly in place for what's to come. 

And just in time, as he doesn't wait for you to adjust. He pulls halfway out, only to drive back into both your now-ready openings with brutal, merciless force in one, grunted go. "Thought you'd be greedy, hm?"

You cry out again against the pages beneath your face in a shattered moan, bound hands clenched into fists. Muscles tensed, you brace yourself for the next devastating one. And it doesn't disappoint. "You'll take exactly what I give you when I give it to you, and you're going to thank me for it."

He thrusts again and again. All the way until he's pressed snuggly against your barrier. Until you're a wreck of gasping whimpers, tears of overwhelming sensation streak down your cheeks and onto the pages beneath.

"Getting bored with me were you, my sneaky fuckdoll? Thought you'd try something new, hm?" Another deliberate push deeper. "That pathetic little act doesn't work on me, my pretty whore." More stretches you open as the appendages swell with each word, until the sheer pressure pushes you completely over the desk, breasts pressed against the scattered tomes beneath you. "You're going to learn some patience, aren't you?"

"Unhh!" The overwhelming fullness of him scrambles your thoughts entirely. Yet to neither of your surprise, you can't help yourself—helplessly starting to push back and meeting his thrusts despite the tight bindings. Your eyes roll back as waves of hedonistic sensations wash over you, the Watchful Eyes peering more obviously from between book spines. Knowing how tantalizing your body must look, especially responding to his possessive control, only serves to heighten your arousal—a delicious bonus for the exhibitionist desires you'd never admit aloud.

The ancient floorboards creak ominously beneath the force of his relentless pace, each brutal thrust driving you harder against the desk until the heavy wooden surface groans in protest. Each pounding stroke as he builds a steady rhythm sends your toes curling into your slippers, fingers digging painfully into your palms, nearly bringing the house tumbling down around you with your sobs of pleasure when he glides mind-numbingly fast, quick to find that one spot.

The flesh of your rear slaps repeatedly against the vengeance behind you, the graphic sounds of your squelching and his lewd, slick hammering making you squeeze forcefully around the fullness inside. With it, a fresh wave of slick arousal escapes and trails down your inner thighs, evidence of your need that he drinks in with starved and possessive eyes, hidden from your view. Not that he would ever show it, preferring to continue taunting and punishing your trickery instead.

"Had your fill, yet?"

He doesn't relent, repeatedly pistoning with a roughness that stokes the fire—until your rimmed opening feels like it will take no more. Despite that, only needy words spill unapologetically from your lips. "Please. Please…don't…stop."

"Don't stop? Look what a desperate slut you are for me."  Thrust. "So fucking—" Thrust. "Perfect—" Thrust. "For me" Thrust. "To break."

The purr and slight smile in his possessive voice at that last one is almost what sends you spiraling over the edge. It's clear he's not just fucking you; he's ruining you for anyone or anything else. Yet the way his rhythm falters just slightly, the barely perceptible tremor in his next thrust, tells you that you're not the only one teetering on the brink. You're both throbbing and leak uncontrollably, a gush of sticky wetness that spreads slickly between your joined forms.

"Fuck, you're such a perfect little plaything for me. Always so eager. Always ready to take whatever I give you, aren't you?" he asks surprisingly sounding breathless, and you nod frantically despite knowing full well it's the other way around—that he's the one who appears whenever you call, who fills you exactly how you crave. "I knew you'd take every bit for me like the desperate toy that you are."

But before you can even process the irony of his words, he's already repositioning you. One leg is lifted upward until your bent knee is placed at the edge of the desk—opening you up, exposing you even more to his greedy gaze, as he feasts his eyes on your unknowing form from behind. There's a tight grip on your hips and shoulders now, pulling your body back repeatedly onto his form. Simultaneously, another, more delicate tendril materializes, brushing feather-light over your swollen clit from beneath. The tendril splits open to reveal a warm, wet surface that latches onto your clit with gentle suction, a forked tongue flicking and swirling against the swollen nub in maddening patterns. Tears of overwhelming sensation escape as he toys with the sensitive bundle of nerves, knowing just how you like it.

"Please—fuck…please—I can't take anymore!" you sob brokenly, your voice barely recognizable as tears of pleasure stream down your face. Even the Watchful Eyes seem entranced by your desperate state, their gaze flickering rapidly back and forth as they drink in every tremor of your tightly-restrained body, gorging themselves on your helpless whimpers, the way you shudder with each deep thrust and rub of your clit, biting your lip raw in an attempt to stifle your cries.

You're teetering so close to the precipice. In fact, you'd promise him just about anything if he would finally let you tumble over that edge and find the release that will let you sleep peacefully afterward. You'd sell your very soul in this moment, ready to pledge yourself to him for eternity if it meant he'd finally grant you mercy. 

"I need it. Please. I need t-to come. I'll do an…ungh. Anything you want," you beg without regret, despite knowing the rules. He doesn't take the bait anyway, his rhythm suddenly slowing to an agonizing crawl until you're reduced to broken pleading even more. "I only want you. I can't think about anything else—"

Your desperate words fade into muffled sounds as your mouth is suddenly and sensually filled with smoky, ethereal energy. Instead of protesting further, the familiar weight on your tongue soothes you, and you begin to suck softly on the phantom appendage, the well-practiced motion gradually tempering your burning need into something more manageable.

"Is that better, princess?" he asks and you give him a muffled affirmation and a sniff, fearful he will stop if you don't.

Yet there's nothing that could have prepared you for how your skin turns feverish, heat radiating from every pore. How tears of powerlessness stream down your flushed cheeks. How your inner walls grip desperately, clamping down harshly at the impossibly thick tendril stretching your core, while you're stuffed completely full in all other ends, clit getting abused into numbness. The Watchful Eyes flick back and forth rapidly in excitement, sensing the edge of your pleasure is near.

So as soon as phantom palms materialize to cup your breasts through the silk—spectral fingers escaping to roll and pinch your hardened nipples—while another delivers sharp, repeated slaps to the curve of your ass, you shatter completely.

With a shriek loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes retreating into the deepest shadows between book spines, you cry out a name into the muffling tendril. Your walls clench rhythmically around the fullness within you as waves of release crash through your trembling, shaking form. Every muscle goes taut before dissolving into liquid pleasure, your body convulsing, rocking back greedily onto him for more even as the climax tears through you with an intensity that leaves you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.

The dual sensations of being so thoroughly filled send aftershocks rippling through you, each one making you gasp and shake anew as he gives you more, letting you take more and more and more as you crest over again while he whispers encouraging, sweet words into your ears to guide you each and every time.

Until finally, the last one.

As your trembling begins to subside once you've finally had your fill, and your body stills from the rocking, you feel the thick tendrils slowly withdrawing from your oversensitive body with an obscene squelch that makes you shiver. The spectral bonds around your thighs and ankles gradually loosen their grip too, dissolving back into the shadows like silk ribbons falling away.

"You did so good for me." His voice is thick and gravely as he whispers praise with genuine warmth, no longer rough with dominance—but soft with satisfaction. The irony never fails to amaze you: he's cursed to come when called—but it's always only you that does.

A gentle phantom touch pats your head tenderly, fingers combing through your disheveled hair with surprising affection before eventually, everything fades back into the ether. You're left there for a few precious moments, coming down from your high in blissful exhaustion. The Watchful Eyes have retreated too, now that they've had their fill of the spectacle, though you know they'll be back the next time.

When your breathing finally slows to an even rhythm and your lids droop heavily, a slight sting across your ass—a playful slap that makes you yelp—awakens you and signals it's time to return to bed. Free of all constraints, you place your hanging foot down and sit up, shaking the slight numbness from your legs and smoothing down your rumpled nightgown.

Taking the lamp to guide your way back down the creaking stairs, you pause, taking in the scene and recalling how it all started. Perhaps that's why, before you head out, you reach down to pick up the grimoire, slipping the thick book under your arm. Then, after chewing thoughtfully on your inner cheek, a devious smile spreads across your face before you reach down and take the other spells book too. 

After all, you might need them both again tonight.

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a/n: clearly I can't get enough of Naoya, human or otherwise 😌 This was my first time writing anything remotely like this so hope it does what it needs to! Thanks for reading and I would love to know what you think!!

[lizajane2]

Listen we need to have a serious talk about Kakashi’s side profile and when they give detail to how fucking muscular he is...

And to add, why is he serving face here when he’s all depressed and feeling guilty? Like this is a very serious scene and all i can think of is, “Fuck he’s hot.”

You’re not supposed to look that handsome when sad. Not when Naruto and Sasuke almost just killed each other. AND YOU’RE SERVING FACE AT A TIME LIKE THIS?!

[miss-meimei]

Cursed to Come When Called

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The curse bound to the house you’ve inherited has been the perfect solution to your sleepless, needy nights. Every evening, you call upon a spectral lover to sate your deepest, most desperate cravings…only to want for more the next day. But when your usual summoning ritual doesn't work one night, you learn that even supernatural lovers can get jealous—and that lesson comes with consequences you may be more than willing to endure.

*JJK Anime-only spoiler!!

Rating: Explicit | MDNIFandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime & Manga) Relationships: Curseya/ Reader; Zenin Naoya/Reader; Curse Naoya/fem!Reader Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ghost Sex, Spectrophilia, Tentacle Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Verbal Degradation, Praise, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Zenin Naoya, Submissive Reader-Insert, Teasing, Orgasm Edging, Rough Sex, Clothed Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Spanking, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Oral Fixation, Summoning, Cursed Spirit Naoya Zenin, don't worry i don't describe how he looks lol, Jealousy

4.5K words

Also on Ao3

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The Victorian house you'd inherited from your late great-aunt came with three warnings:

Don't go in the basement. Don't open the locked rooms. And never, under any circumstance, read from the grimoire in the attic.

You should have really listened to that last one.

Because now you lie awake—just as you have every night since you broke that rule—writhing and whimpering between sweat-drenched sheets, while your fingers work viciously between your soaked thighs. It's a futile attempt that leaves you gasping and desperate, no closer to the release that eludes you. Tears of frustration prick your eyes as your hips arch instinctively in a hollow memory, aching to be filled to the brim with a savage brutality. Through the window, the waning moon watches your plight with pity, silently urging you to accept the inevitable truth: there is only one way to satisfy the hunger that owns you. 

The crushing reality cuts through the haze of self-pleasure, your body stilling and hand falling away as you give up on the useless attempt. You knew this was the price, knew that such an indulgence wouldn't come without cost. You thought the grimoire would only bring you power, but what you hadn't anticipated was that every encounter would leave you feeling like a needy, empty-minded thing, craving to be pinned and used until you'd beg to be broken again.

With an exasperated huff, you toss the covers off, as if answering the call were some burdensome chore. Pride and caution have you still trying to resist, even as your feet slide into the plush slippers at your bedside. But your hurried footsteps soon betray you. You quickly make your way to the adjoining hallway, your eagerness overtaking any pretense. You hadn't even bothered to wipe yourself down or don a robe to ward off the sepulchral chill of the old house. Not that you would bother anyway…you know he dislikes you concealed by such things.

Quietly, you head down the shadowy corridor and up the narrow staircase, past the gilt-framed family portraits hanging on the walls—their painted eyes following you with ancestral judgment. You've grown used to ignoring them, just as you have the Watchful Eyes. Tiny, skittering things that blink from within the molding and the cracks, possessing a different kind of gaze entirely. Just Watching. Always watching.

You pause when you reach the top of the stairs, heart racing with anticipation. The attic door groans as you slowly push it open, the hinges you'd (perhaps deliberately) neglected to oil announcing your arrival in a way that makes the heavy, wet ache between your thighs pulse with fresh need.

But as soon as you cross the threshold, you stand still, sensing an unusual shift from the usual, sybaritic atmosphere. Your brows knit together in confusion as you attempt to decipher the empty yet expectant tension in the air, searching the star-kissed expanse with its tall gothic windows and endless rows of ancient tomes for that familiar visage. The flickering shadows provide no answer, however; there is no sign of your phantom lover anywhere. Yet a lamp sits lit, its light warm and inviting—a riddle meant just for you.

So…he’s wanting the incantation tonight? In spite of your impatience for relief, you bite back a smile, your slippers practically sliding across the worn hardwood. It’s all you can do to refrain from skipping to the antique mahogany desk in the back.

The Grimoire of Shadow Binding and Summons sits open, always ready for you to read, a spell inked on its only page filled with any writing. The book had been your solace since you'd inherited the place, never missing a night since you'd first discovered its many…powers. As if it knew you'd succumb, the grimoire had been waiting for you to eventually find it. It had been tucked between ancestral records and clan histories speaking of speed, power, and vengeful pride that transcends death—drawing you here through strange dreams you couldn't ignore despite every warning.

As your fingers delicately trace the ancient pages in reverent memory, the hairs against your neck stir. The faintest "Mine..." is breathed against your ear, sending a tingle shooting down your spine and eyelids fluttering. It seems you aren't the only impatient one tonight.

The many fruitless attempts at release suddenly catch up to you, and your finger hastily finds the first word on the page, underlining it as you begin. Slow and sure, you read from the forbidden tome aloud, making sure to pronounce each syllable to its fullest:

"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge."

You step back as the final letter of the incantation leaves your lips with a trembling breath. The worn pages seem to flutter, though the windows are barred shut against any breeze. Several pairs of curious eyes lazily appear from in between the worn leather bindings stacked high on surrounding shelves…but none are the once-glimpsed crimson orbs you'd hoped to see, burning with desire. 

"Must've spoken them too quickly," you mutter to yourself, sure you'd stumbled upon the intricate words in your haste. The hunger is fraying your composure, and it takes every ounce of your self-control not to press your achy center against the desk's edge, desperate for the friction that might finally offer some relief.

Tucking a wayward strand behind your ear, you clear your throat and recite the spell once more, your gaze searching the corners of the room as you allow each memorized word to ring clear—no longer pretending you don't know them by heart.

"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge!"

The silence stretches once again, broken only by the distant settling of the old house. A soft rustle of something moving behind the stacked trunks in the corner catches your attention.

But still. Nothing.

Puzzled, you gnaw at your lip, not knowing what else to do. Usually by now, you'd be bent over the desk, having the best orgasms of your life while an invisible touch claimed every inch of your trembling form. Now, you're more worried than anything, unsure if your ever-hungry appetite (only growing with each passing day) has finally worn out the binding vow that had bound the curse to this place.

Right then, as if sensing your very thoughts and worry, a slight brush—lighter than air—caresses your cheek. The touch sends a shiver down your spine, familiar yet maddeningly brief. So he is here!

In your haste to look around, you nearly topple one of the standing shelves loaded with dusty volumes and curiosities, but catch yourself at the last moment. A few loose papers flutter to the floor and a book tumbles from its perch, the Watchful Eyes multiplying between the book spines at the disturbance. You ignore it all, your glee (and unfulfilled pleasure) taking precedence.

"Did I do it wrong again?" you ask the seemingly empty room, awaiting the helpful yet petulant response—usually in the form of whispers and teasing nibbles against your ear—that usually manifests. The lamplight flickers as if something passed through its glow, and deep down, you know you didn't imagine that touch. In fact, you now understand exactly what this is.

He's toying with you.

Careful to hide your eagerness at the prospect of further teasing by the vengeful spirit, you allow a wicked thought to take root. Quickly, your fingers flick through the other scattered books on the shelves until you find exactly what you're looking for. Two can play this game, after all.

You set the spells book down purposely over the grimoire with a satisfying thud that echoes through the dusty attic. The Watchful Eyes observe curiously as you flip through its brittle pages, stopping when you find the one titled: Of Pleasure, Bliss, and How to Make Spectres Most Agreeable to One's Desires

It's risky, but you're desperate enough not to care.

"This should do the trick if you won't," you mutter loudly enough for any lurking presence to hear, already mouthing the spell where it reads in faded ink. Meanwhile, you lean over the desk seductively, one foot gliding over the calf of the other leg in a sensual twist that makes the silk of your short nightgown ride up your thighs. Your rear is perched up in the air of course, palms braced against the weathered wood to bear the pressure of your weight as you bend over tantalizingly, presenting yourself like an innocent offering to what's lurking in the shadows.

Not even halfway through the spell's first verse do you feel that familiar spiritual pressure magnify instantly, crushingly. Before you can even finish the next word, an invisible force is already gripping each of your wrists with iron intensity, followed in rapid succession by two more tendrils snapping around your ankles like rope.

Your half-gasp, half-moan rings out in the attic, the suddenness of his arrival never failing to leave you breathless. Around you, the skittering eyes pulse and crowd every corner, hungrily devouring the sight of your bound form as they acknowledge what's to come.

You try to test the binding by pulling back on the restraints, but the hold is unyielding, fingers of pure energy that seem to pulse with their own heartbeat. Before you know it, the pressure forces your arms back until—robbed of support—you fall face first onto the open spells book in front of you.

Cheek pressed sideways into the musty pages, you breathe in the scent of ancient parchment and magic, your heart racing. The grip on your ankles holds your legs steady—mercifully, as you're shaking near-violently from head to toe.

Shaking with excitement. 

"I always knew you were a greedy little thing," a languid voice whispers, the words seeming to manifest directly against the shell of your ear. He's so close, so real, you can feel the phantom warmth of a breath that shouldn't exist. 

Your lids flutter, skin already flushing with heat from his proximity alone. Happiness floods through you so completely, that tears of relief prick at your eyes. You're so starved for him, so overwhelmed by his presence that you barely notice when another set of tendrils appear, writhing teasingly beside you in ribbons of violet energy before disappearing behind where your eyes cannot follow.

Not that he's ever let you have a proper look.

The solid-smokey trails retreat beneath the delicate material of your nightgown, seeking your most sensitive places with aching slowness. "Do I need to remind you of what happens when you get impatient with me, my pretty summoner?"

He ignores your squirming, your choked sobs of need and broken pleas as he quickly finds what he's looking for. Your vision blurs, mind going hazy with need when the faintest vibration teases at that first touch over your needy bud. You clench around emptiness when he retreats much-too-quickly, instead, dragging another tendril along your spine until you bow, arching into his touch. He ignores how you strain backwards against the bindings desperately, needing nothing more than to be filled. You know that infuriating pause means he's waiting for you to answer his silly question.

"No," you gulp. "I—I mean. What did I even do? I was just trying to—"

"I don't recall allowing you to speak," he proclaims, the careful composure in his voice barely masking the petulant smile underneath. Though you have to refrain from rolling your eyes even as your walls spasm hard at his words, never able to take him seriously when he gets in these moods. He is a vengeful spirit after all, and so it comes with the territory, you suppose. "Are you going to behave for me? Or do you need me to put you in your place?"

Your plan to respond with even more defiance dissolves into a yelp, as soon as he suddenly presses against both your entrances. The blunt tips of his spectral appendages push past the initial resistance with steady, unrelenting pressure, drawing out each moment of your submission, taking his time despite himself. He's not usually one to be patient.

Unsurprisingly, you don't worry about the slow pace, your mind (and holes) practically melting around the spectral invasion. Not that your body needed much more preparation, either. Your pussy already clenches desperately, arousal from your earlier futile attempts dripping steadily down your thighs—more than enough to completely drench through your panties…had you bothered with any.

Your hair is suddenly wrapped in a fist of spectral energy, pulling your head back until your spine arches beautifully. While he continues to stretch you open below with other appendages, your scant negligee is lifted with agonizing care, the black lace silk gliding over the heated softness of your skin until it's bunched at your lower back. You're surprised to hear what sounds like a hitched breath. "Such a perfect body. Perfect little holes. I know how much you love having them stretched for me."

The graceful curve of your exposed form draws a deep, possessive growl from behind—a sound so primal it makes several books tremble on their shelves as he fills you even deeper than you knew possible. For all your summonings, you'd never once considered whether he actually felt anything—pleasure, want, need—or if he was simply cursed to fulfill your desires without reward. 

"What a pretty slut, always ready to get used by me every night," he murmurs appreciatively with a grunt. The press against both your entrances immediately becomes more demanding, more possessive. "It almost makes me sad to have to teach you a lesson." The width feels thicker than you're used to—much thicker than what he usually gives you—as if he's determined to stretch your limits from the very start. 

At least he paces himself as he enters your rim, wise enough to test until you can open up for him more easily. Yet that only makes you arch your back and mouth fall open, a soft whimper escaping as you savor the exquisite torture. "Yet still so tight even though you're such a needy desperate whore," he breathes, pulling out momentarily. You feel the warm sensation as he trickles a spectral slick drip down between the plump flesh of your rear, the ethereal fluid coating your pussy before gravity can claim it.

Only then does he push back in with noticeably less resistance, the supernatural lubricant easing his way without pause. Yet none of the overwhelming stretch diminishes; if anything, his essence seems to heighten every nerve ending it touches. As if that weren't torturous enough, you feel ridges begin to form along the length, grinding against your sensitized walls with agonizingly slowness.

You clench around him with shameless need, your walls gripping him with greedy hunger. "Mmm. P-lease." You're already begging aloud, knowing how unconvincing your next words will sound. After all, this is exactly what you climbed those ancient stairs for. Prepared your skin with jasmine oils in a bath where you'd cleaned every inch of yourself—inside and out—with painstaking care. Practiced the incantation until your tongue knew every syllable. "I didn't do anything wrong. I said your words perfectly—"

"Then let me take care of you properly. Isn't that why you're here, after all?" His strange accent colors every syllable, but it's the uncaring tone that makes your nipples peak beneath the silk of  your gown and walls clasp even more tightly, gripping him like a vise. He groans, the sound booming and strained as if he's fighting for control against the overwhelming grip threatening to undo him. The Watchful Eyes flicker back and forth rapidly from their hiding spots, practically vibrating with anticipation at the heat of promise in his voice. "Just relax for me so I can make you feel good."

His phantom touch doesn't let up, and a light sheen of perspiration forms along your brow as the dizzying stretch finally pauses and settles into place, your walls fluttering around the pulsing heat of his appendages. The all-consuming sensation of being so thoroughly occupied, so overwhelmingly full as you're stretched and filled in a way that sends dizzying sparks through every nerve, leaves you trembling and already wrecked—skin flushed and burning, your pussy aching heavily with need. You're fighting the urge to rock back against him and beg for the friction you desperately crave, already coming apart at the seams before he's even begun to move. But you know better than to push your luck.

"There you go. There's my good girl," he coaxes, the words suspiciously honey-sweet as your tight grip on him gradually loosens at his beckoning. But just as soon as you do... "So pretty before I wreck you." 

The first thrust tears a raw cry from your throat, loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes scurrying. The tendrils wrapped around your ankles pulse at the sound, climbing higher to coil around your trembling thighs like living restraints, anchoring you perfectly in place for what's to come. 

And just in time, as he doesn't wait for you to adjust. He pulls halfway out, only to drive back into both your now-ready openings with brutal, merciless force in one, grunted go. "Thought you'd be greedy, hm?"

You cry out again against the pages beneath your face in a shattered moan, bound hands clenched into fists. Muscles tensed, you brace yourself for the next devastating one. And it doesn't disappoint. "You'll take exactly what I give you when I give it to you, and you're going to thank me for it."

He thrusts again and again. All the way until he's pressed snuggly against your barrier. Until you're a wreck of gasping whimpers, tears of overwhelming sensation streak down your cheeks and onto the pages beneath.

"Getting bored with me were you, my sneaky fuckdoll? Thought you'd try something new, hm?" Another deliberate push deeper. "That pathetic little act doesn't work on me, my pretty whore." More stretches you open as the appendages swell with each word, until the sheer pressure pushes you completely over the desk, breasts pressed against the scattered tomes beneath you. "You're going to learn some patience, aren't you?"

"Unhh!" The overwhelming fullness of him scrambles your thoughts entirely. Yet to neither of your surprise, you can't help yourself—helplessly starting to push back and meeting his thrusts despite the tight bindings. Your eyes roll back as waves of hedonistic sensations wash over you, the Watchful Eyes peering more obviously from between book spines. Knowing how tantalizing your body must look, especially responding to his possessive control, only serves to heighten your arousal—a delicious bonus for the exhibitionist desires you'd never admit aloud.

The ancient floorboards creak ominously beneath the force of his relentless pace, each brutal thrust driving you harder against the desk until the heavy wooden surface groans in protest. Each pounding stroke as he builds a steady rhythm sends your toes curling into your slippers, fingers digging painfully into your palms, nearly bringing the house tumbling down around you with your sobs of pleasure when he glides mind-numbingly fast, quick to find that one spot.

The flesh of your rear slaps repeatedly against the vengeance behind you, the graphic sounds of your squelching and his lewd, slick hammering making you squeeze forcefully around the fullness inside. With it, a fresh wave of slick arousal escapes and trails down your inner thighs, evidence of your need that he drinks in with starved and possessive eyes, hidden from your view. Not that he would ever show it, preferring to continue taunting and punishing your trickery instead.

"Had your fill, yet?"

He doesn't relent, repeatedly pistoning with a roughness that stokes the fire—until your rimmed opening feels like it will take no more. Despite that, only needy words spill unapologetically from your lips. "Please. Please…don't…stop."

"Don't stop? Look what a desperate slut you are for me."  Thrust. "So fucking—" Thrust. "Perfect—" Thrust. "For me" Thrust. "To break."

The purr and slight smile in his possessive voice at that last one is almost what sends you spiraling over the edge. It's clear he's not just fucking you; he's ruining you for anyone or anything else. Yet the way his rhythm falters just slightly, the barely perceptible tremor in his next thrust, tells you that you're not the only one teetering on the brink. You're both throbbing and leak uncontrollably, a gush of sticky wetness that spreads slickly between your joined forms.

"Fuck, you're such a perfect little plaything for me. Always so eager. Always ready to take whatever I give you, aren't you?" he asks surprisingly sounding breathless, and you nod frantically despite knowing full well it's the other way around—that he's the one who appears whenever you call, who fills you exactly how you crave. "I knew you'd take every bit for me like the desperate toy that you are."

But before you can even process the irony of his words, he's already repositioning you. One leg is lifted upward until your bent knee is placed at the edge of the desk—opening you up, exposing you even more to his greedy gaze, as he feasts his eyes on your unknowing form from behind. There's a tight grip on your hips and shoulders now, pulling your body back repeatedly onto his form. Simultaneously, another, more delicate tendril materializes, brushing feather-light over your swollen clit from beneath. The tendril splits open to reveal a warm, wet surface that latches onto your clit with gentle suction, a forked tongue flicking and swirling against the swollen nub in maddening patterns. Tears of overwhelming sensation escape as he toys with the sensitive bundle of nerves, knowing just how you like it.

"Please—fuck…please—I can't take anymore!" you sob brokenly, your voice barely recognizable as tears of pleasure stream down your face. Even the Watchful Eyes seem entranced by your desperate state, their gaze flickering rapidly back and forth as they drink in every tremor of your tightly-restrained body, gorging themselves on your helpless whimpers, the way you shudder with each deep thrust and rub of your clit, biting your lip raw in an attempt to stifle your cries.

You're teetering so close to the precipice. In fact, you'd promise him just about anything if he would finally let you tumble over that edge and find the release that will let you sleep peacefully afterward. You'd sell your very soul in this moment, ready to pledge yourself to him for eternity if it meant he'd finally grant you mercy. 

"I need it. Please. I need t-to come. I'll do an…ungh. Anything you want," you beg without regret, despite knowing the rules. He doesn't take the bait anyway, his rhythm suddenly slowing to an agonizing crawl until you're reduced to broken pleading even more. "I only want you. I can't think about anything else—"

Your desperate words fade into muffled sounds as your mouth is suddenly and sensually filled with smoky, ethereal energy. Instead of protesting further, the familiar weight on your tongue soothes you, and you begin to suck softly on the phantom appendage, the well-practiced motion gradually tempering your burning need into something more manageable.

"Is that better, princess?" he asks and you give him a muffled affirmation and a sniff, fearful he will stop if you don't.

Yet there's nothing that could have prepared you for how your skin turns feverish, heat radiating from every pore. How tears of powerlessness stream down your flushed cheeks. How your inner walls grip desperately, clamping down harshly at the impossibly thick tendril stretching your core, while you're stuffed completely full in all other ends, clit getting abused into numbness. The Watchful Eyes flick back and forth rapidly in excitement, sensing the edge of your pleasure is near.

So as soon as phantom palms materialize to cup your breasts through the silk—spectral fingers escaping to roll and pinch your hardened nipples—while another delivers sharp, repeated slaps to the curve of your ass, you shatter completely.

With a shriek loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes retreating into the deepest shadows between book spines, you cry out a name into the muffling tendril. Your walls clench rhythmically around the fullness within you as waves of release crash through your trembling, shaking form. Every muscle goes taut before dissolving into liquid pleasure, your body convulsing, rocking back greedily onto him for more even as the climax tears through you with an intensity that leaves you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.

The dual sensations of being so thoroughly filled send aftershocks rippling through you, each one making you gasp and shake anew as he gives you more, letting you take more and more and more as you crest over again while he whispers encouraging, sweet words into your ears to guide you each and every time.

Until finally, the last one.

As your trembling begins to subside once you've finally had your fill, and your body stills from the rocking, you feel the thick tendrils slowly withdrawing from your oversensitive body with an obscene squelch that makes you shiver. The spectral bonds around your thighs and ankles gradually loosen their grip too, dissolving back into the shadows like silk ribbons falling away.

"You did so good for me." His voice is thick and gravely as he whispers praise with genuine warmth, no longer rough with dominance—but soft with satisfaction. The irony never fails to amaze you: he's cursed to come when called—but it's always only you that does.

A gentle phantom touch pats your head tenderly, fingers combing through your disheveled hair with surprising affection before eventually, everything fades back into the ether. You're left there for a few precious moments, coming down from your high in blissful exhaustion. The Watchful Eyes have retreated too, now that they've had their fill of the spectacle, though you know they'll be back the next time.

When your breathing finally slows to an even rhythm and your lids droop heavily, a slight sting across your ass—a playful slap that makes you yelp—awakens you and signals it's time to return to bed. Free of all constraints, you place your hanging foot down and sit up, shaking the slight numbness from your legs and smoothing down your rumpled nightgown.

Taking the lamp to guide your way back down the creaking stairs, you pause, taking in the scene and recalling how it all started. Perhaps that's why, before you head out, you reach down to pick up the grimoire, slipping the thick book under your arm. Then, after chewing thoughtfully on your inner cheek, a devious smile spreads across your face before you reach down and take the other spells book too. 

After all, you might need them both again tonight.

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a/n: clearly I can't get enough of Naoya, human or otherwise 😌 This was my first time writing anything remotely like this so hope it does what it needs to! Thanks for reading and I would love to know what you think!!

[miss-meimei]

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Letters Left Unsent

Chapter 2

by: Miss_MeiMei

fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (manga / anime) pairing: Zenin Naoya/Fem Reader rating: Explicit | MDNI

tags: Traditional Setting, Clan Politics, Power Play, Emotional Manipulation, Fighting As Foreplay, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings, Female Gaze, Zenin Naoya is a Little Shit, misandrist reader, Zenin Naoya is His Own Warning, Semi-Public Sex, Rough Sex, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Masturbation Interruptus, Mutual Masturbation, Sex games, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

7.2K words, two of four chapters; also on ao3

< chapter 1

a/n:

New chapter is here! It's a bit longer than the first (okay, more like double😅), but I'm lowkey proud of how it turned out so hope you lovelies enjoy 🖤

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## Chapter 2 - The Art of War

You sit at the hanafuda table with grace, your cherry-blossom pink silk sleeves arranged just so as you carefully study your playing cards. Your finger flicks repeatedly at the edge of the fox card in polite thought, uncertain whether to pursue the moon sequence, or to play it safe.

Much like tonight's broader game, the hand teeters on the edge of triumph or disaster.

At your table, the evening's most influential players have gathered for precisely this kind of strategic dance. Hayashi Reiko from the textile dynasty speaks about trade agreements, while Fujiwara Kenji mentions his family's expanding shipping interests under the guise of casualness. The Ishida heir, meanwhile, discusses rice subsidies as if commenting on the weather. Though you know each word has been carefully chosen to elevate their clan's prospects.

"The north has been particularly…receptive to new partnerships this season," Hayashi murmurs during a moment of silence, discarding her dragon card with nonchalance. 

You nod thoughtfully, maintaining studied attention on your cards, while deciphering the coded reference to military alliances. Fujiwara's slight smile across the table confirms your suspicion—his shipping routes would prove invaluable for moving supplies.

"And what of the southern territories?" you ask carefully, setting down the nine-tail card. "I hear they've been less open-minded to change."

Fujiwara's response drips with diplomatic honey. "All will eventually see reason. When given proper encouragement, of course."

Your lips quirk to the side at the cryptic response. You'll need to be patient for clearer intelligence.

While these intimate negotiations unfold, you can at least monitor the festivities of your family's annual Autumn Equinox Gala—the most anticipated gathering of the season—as it continues seamlessly beyond.

The autumn evening is perfection. Crisp air carries the scent of chrysanthemums through the manicured gardens of your family's estate, where paper lanterns cast amber light across mirror-still koi ponds. Attendants glide between guests in pristine uniforms, offering select mouth-watering delicacies arranged on lacquered trays. Traditional koto music drifts softly through the evening air, weaving between animated conversations and polite laughter. And unlike other hosts who delegate such matters to servants, every seating arrangement, every carefully curated dish, every diplomatic protocol that could make or break an alliance—you've overseen personally to ensure nothing goes amiss. The tireless nights and meticulous planning have been worth it, however.

So far, the night has been a resounding success.

As you thoughtfully choose your next card move, an attendant refilling your tea leans close, voice barely above a whisper as your tablemates exchange amused glances over Hayashi's latest quip. "Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but the staff thought you should know—the Zenin table has requested extra sake twice tonight, and voices are carrying. Meanwhile, that young Gojo lord keeps asking Cook which sweets the Kamo princess favors?"

You nod and resist the urge to roll your eyes, unsurprised by the familiar patterns. The same tired dance plays out every season—men posturing over politics while pursuing women through intermediaries and gifts. Fortunately, your house has chosen a wiser, different path. While other clans auction off their daughters like prized livestock, you will get to choose when and who will be your consort to continue your maternal lineage. A privilege you are in no hurry to exercise.

"Perhaps some calming tea for the Zenin table," you murmur back to the waiting attendant with your hostess smile fixed in place. "And ensure our Gojo guest receives whatever information he seeks. Discretely, please?"

The attendant inclines her head respectfully before disappearing back to carry out your instructions.

With the fires put out for the moment, your focus returns to the conversation, and you catch the tail end of Ishida's comment. "But of course, one must always be prepared for disruptions during the coming winter," he says, twirling the end of his mustache with theatrical innocence.

Your eyes narrow, intuition suddenly sharpening as this mention takes on new significance. Rice storage facilities positioned along Fujiwara's shipping routes, combined with Hayashi's textile partnerships that could easily supply military uniforms...they're discussing a coordinated military campaign disguised as trade negotiations! Finally, a concrete tell of their true agenda.

Yet you pause, your hold on the cards faltering as dread settles in your chest. If word of this conspiracy reaches the wrong ears, or if any of these clans decides to preemptively strike against the others, the resulting war would devastate not just the noble houses, but also every village, farm, and innocent family caught in the crossfire. Left to their own devices, these people would initiate an all-out-war before the sake finished flowing. At the moment, the burden of preventing this catastrophe falls squarely on your shoulders.

Just as you're considering your words carefully, small hands tug at your sleeve. You look down to find little Emi, the groundskeeper's daughter, clutching a white rose between her tiny fingers.

"F-for you, big sister," she whispers shyly, offering her treasure with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

"Ohh. For me?" You set your cards down and accept the flower with genuine warmth, lifting it to smell its soft perfume before tucking it behind your ear. "Oh why, thank you, little lady."

Emi beams at your praise, swaying back and forth on her feet.

You reach out to brush a smudge of dirt from her cheek, chuckling at her earnest expression as she rubs her sleepy eyes with her tiny balled-up fists. You pull the soft shawl from your lap, tucking it snugly around her. "So tell me, what are you doing up so late, hm?"

"Mama's s-serving tea to th' kitchen staff. Jus' like you asked," she says, expertly deflecting the question with childish cunning. Then, her eyes grow wide with admiration. "She says you fixed the roof on 'ur house. And tha' you're the kindest lady in the whole world."

You laugh softly at the proclamation, though you shift in your seat, knowing that your private charity has become household knowledge. "Your mama exaggerates, little one. Now run along before the other guests see you, hm? We don't want you getting in trouble, now do we?"

She nods and scampers away, leaving you with an unexpected lightness in your chest. In fact, her innocent presence had reminded you exactly why you work so hard to prevent these power-hungry fools from destroying everything decent in the world.

You purse your lips and return your attention again to the table, drawing a new card from the deck. The silent guardian card. How perfectly fitting.

It must be little Emi's luck. 

"I wonder if such preparations might draw unwanted attention from certain governors...?" you start, placing the card beside your growing sequence. The subtle warning to Ishida about oversight lands exactly as intended when you raise your gaze sharply to meet his. You draw another card slowly, adding it to your formation while maintaining steady eye contact, savoring the way his smugness dissolves into nervous fidgeting. Because nothing terrifies the wealthy quite like those with actual authority. "After all, such things tend to raise questions about compliance." The cards align beautifully as you arrange them in your hands. 

The final card slides from the deck like destiny itself, completing your sequence with satisfying inevitability.

"Of course, I'm certain all parties involved are well-versed in maintaining appropriate discretion," you conclude with diplomatic pleasantry that carries an unmistakable edge. Your gaze shifts deliberately to Fujiwara, whose practiced smile tightens almost imperceptibly as he realizes the warning applies to him as well. Sure enough, when you turn to fix Reiko with the same pointed stare, her confident expression falters. Beads of sweat form on her brow which she shakily dabs at with her silk handkerchief. But your message is clear; they and their cronies will now understand that you'll be watching their every move.

With flourish, you lay your cards face-up one by one across the silk tablecloth, revealing the complete Eight Gates of Death sequence that little Emi's fortune helped you achieve.

"Oh my, what incredible luck," you say with feigned surprise as the others offer hesitant but polite applause. You press your hands to your chest in humble delight and bow your head in appreciation. Smoothing over the moment with practiced diplomacy, you lift your goblet in an elegant toast. "Well. I do believe we've covered quite enough business for one evening. Tonight is for celebration after all, is it not?"

Urging them to move past the unpleasantness, you motion gracefully for them to join you in the toast. The silvered goblets reflect the lantern light like scattered stars as the guests raise their glasses with relieved laughter, appeased by both the warning and the graceful exit you've provided.

Another round of cards is dealt, the atmosphere lightening considerably as the evening wears on. You do your best to enjoy it (the group is surprisingly good company when they're not scheming) but unfortunately for you, every subtle shift to reach for your cards sends fire lancing through your back. A punishment no amount of time in the scalding hot springs this afternoon could erase or help you forget this morning's match. And while the persistent ache between your shoulder blades serves as Naoya's brand...something more dangerous begins to throb between your thighs.

The heat has been simmering all evening, triggered by recollections of how he had practically burned holes through your clothing with his stare during sparring, more so with his touch later. The memory keeps returning despite your attempts to focus, growing more insistent each time. Thankfully, you have plans to remedy this after the festivities.

Not that they involve him either, despite his overt invitation. Knowing men, the Zenin will just prove to be another disappointment wrapped in pretty packaging. His tardiness already has left much to be desired, proving your point about masculine reliability. No matter. You'll find your own amusement tonight, thank you very much.

With your duties at the gaming table winding down, you can now allow the Kamo heir whose dark hair and substantial, tattooed build certainly suggests promise (as well does his remarkable dedication to studying your décolletage) to escort you for the rest of the night. If not, there's been a dancer among the entertainers whose graceful movements have her doing far more than her choreography requires. Her lingering glances and provocative gestures are clearly intended to capture your attention, and you find yourself increasingly tempted by the...artistic flexibility of her form.

Knowing you have such enticing choices spread before you, you allow yourself to finally relax on the Kamo's arm and savor the fruits of your planning for the first time tonight. A secret sense of accomplishment warms you, though you maintain your composed exterior, since unbeknownst to your family, you've transformed this into a charity event of sorts.

The entry fees fund your network of safe houses for women fleeing abusive marriages, dozens of shelters across three provinces will find their coffers mysteriously full come morning. Yet the feeling is fleeting. Perhaps deeper changes are needed, something as radical as your ex-lover's theories perhaps? All those nights he spoke of cutting out corruption at its root while you dismissed his words as pillow talk, playing with his long, onyx hair instead. Now you wonder if eliminating problems at their source might translate to purging the world of men's poison entirely. You certainly have the tools.

The Kamo heir is whispering some jest in your ear (amusing enough for male humor, you suppose), when you catch sight of a figure emerging from the sun gate near the formal gardens. Your pulse quickens despite yourself—those distinctive dark and golden streaks of hair catching the amber glow of paper lanterns unmistakable in their familiarity.

The moonlight seems to favor him, casting those handsome, Zenin looks in an almost divine glow, while that easy smile transforms his face into something that belongs into something far too holy for the likes of him. The rich midnight silk of his ceremonial kimono and hakama complement his coloring beautifully, fitting him with such perfection it seems heaven-sent.

So stricken by the sight of him you are, that it takes you a moment to notice the woman draped on his arm.

She glides beside him, her elaborate attire of deep purple marking her as someone of considerable means, painted face tilted toward Naoya with adoration (though feigned, you're certain). One delicate hand resting possessively on his forearm as if she's afraid he might slip away.

But she's clinging to Naoya like he's her own, personal treasure.

Naoya moves through your family's gardens as if he owns every stone and carefully pruned branch. You watch him guide her through the garden paths, pointing out various features: toward the ancient maple tree where musicians play, then the viewing pavilion where elder guests have gathered to admire the moon's reflection on the pond. Not once does his gaze drift toward your direction. Not once does he acknowledge your presence, despite the fact that your vibrant robes and jeweled ornaments make you impossible to miss.

You lift a cup of sake from a passing tray and take a measured sip, turning your attention to the dancer performing near the musicians—her graceful form suddenly far more appealing than whatever predictable theater is playing out in your peripheral vision. Maybe tonight will be for exploring all of what the evening offers.

"Everything alright?" Naoya's concerned voice cuts through your annoyance, his hand squeezing yours on his arm. You look down in surprise, brows furrowing at how fiercely you've been holding onto him.

His face turns toward the garden, that defined, captivating profile as he follows your gaze, tilting his head in confusion.

Your fingers relax their hold as you try to steady yourself, blinking in bewilderment. When did Naoya come to be by your side? Yet even with your heart pounding and mind muddled, your eyes trace his features. Those devilish lips with that knowing smile. That razor-sharp jawline and those piercing eyes that seem to see straight through you. How those earrings glint mockingly in the cozy lantern light.

You swallow the lump in your throat, ready to chastise him for trying to cheat his way to victory this morning and immediately demand a proper rematch. 

Yet all that comes out is... "I..."

He squeezes your hand again in understanding, that crooked smile making you more light-headed than you feel. Yet your shoulders relax despite yourself when he speaks up again.

"Is everything alright?"

Then, all-too-soon, those chestnut-colored eyes transform into darker ones. Bright, short hair into long and midnight. Even that cruel smile melts into something sweeter, gentler.

You shake your head, not knowing what came over you. It hadn't been the Zenin, just merely your imaginations.

You school your features, gracefully removing his hand from your sleeve and paste on your most radiant social smile. "Why, of course. I was simply admiring the evening's turnout." You turn back with renewed focus, banishing thoughts of arrogant clan heirs.

The Kamo eyes you warily, but gracefully allows the spell to pass. "I'm sure they'll be announcing their marriage contract soon enough," he casually comments after a moment with a nod toward Naoya and his escort.

Your stomach tightens but you push the feeling back down. The premium junmai must really be catching up with you. You'll need to watch your indulgence for the rest of the evening, even if the gala is winding down. "I wish them well, then."

But even with the promise to take it easier, the conversation feels stilted now. Each of his responses grate against your nerves like silk catching on a nail, and you excuse yourself from his company to circulate among the other guests—hoping the change in scenery will do you good. Yet when someone makes a particularly witty joke about how marriages are arranged faster than the evening's card games, you laugh a beat too late. The tea you force yourself to drink to clear your head suddenly tastes too sweet, the evening air too warm. You tug at your collar despite the perfectly comfortable temperature as you hope for an escape.

Perhaps it's the long evening and the sparring exhibition you had to endure before that, or maybe you're simply tired from managing so many delicate egos tonight. 

Which is why when a clumsy servant happens to splash a drink across your silk sleeve, forcing a wardrobe change, you almost want to kiss them in gratitude. The stain had been unfortunate on the exquisite, hand-woven kimono, but it provides the perfect excuse to retreat to your chambers and compose yourself away from whatever bizarre malaise has overtaken you. You wave away offers of assistance, moving as quickly as your binding attire and wooden geta allow, making your way to your personal chambers in the east wing of the family manor.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief as soon as you reach the sliding door, shutting it behind you and leaning against the thin frame. You can barely contain your relief as you slip off the geta and slip off a layer of clothing with a near-moan, tossing them onto the nearest stool, looking forward to the silence of your sanctuary.

Now that you're alone, you pause, pressing your hand to your forehead with a frown, hoping you're not falling ill at such an inopportune time. But it's the only thing you can think of that would make sense.

Yet you're far more sober than you'd expected; your hands aren't trembling, your sight is clear, and you can still think with perfect clarity.

You shrug off the worry. Surely whatever this is will pass by morning.

You reach up to release the kanzashi holding up your hair, only to freeze when suddenly, you hear something that makes your pulse quicken. Your brows knit together as rough sounds drift toward you, low and rhythmic in a way that sends heat flooding your cheeks. Perhaps the evening's festivities have somehow spilled into areas they shouldn't?

But no...the sound is too intimately close. Far too carnal to be overflowing in from the gala.

Your heart begins to race as you move deeper into your abode, cautiously avoiding making any noise with your footsteps just in case it's a couple who's sneaked away from the festivities and stumbled upon your chambers of all places. The ornate folding screen draped with your robes and other discarded garments blocks the inner area from view, hiding whoever lies beyond as you edge closer. Yet it's not enough to dampen the shaky, suppressed groans that vibrate through the paneled walls. The ragged, heavy breaths. The unmistakably masculine timbre of someone lost in pleasure.

And worst of all. Your name—whimpered aloud in needy, desperate prayer.

Oh. Well this is unexpected...but flattering, you suppose?

You should leave. Turn around and pretend this never happened. But curiosity wins out, and you find yourself creeping closer to confront whoever has made themselves so comfortable in your private space. As you step around the partition, a man comes into view. His broad silhouette trembles in the moonlight streaming through the window, head thrown back in abandon as one hand braces bruisingly against the wall. The other moves with frantic, quick strokes—desperation that speak of utter ruin and despair as he loses himself completely in his fantasy.

"Perfect little doll for me...taking all of me so well..." Before you can recover from the surprise, his words then turn mean, cruel with frustration as he slows his pace, panting more evenly. "Desperate little whore...begging for it even in my dreams."

His hand moves to tangle in his disheveled hair, silver moonlight filtering through the window and catching those telltale blonde slivers. The ethereal glow accentuates his profile, that way his defined jawline hangs slack and the way his lips part with each labored breath.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening in recognition. "Naoya...?"

Not that he offers a response through the tortured whimpering that fills the chamber...unless you count the strangled groan that tears from his throat. He seems completely lost in his own world, too far gone to register your presence. "Mmm. Greedy little thing...can't get enough huh, can yo—"

"Naoya!" you repeat, sharper this time, crossing your arms and tapping your foot, ready to deliver a scathing dismissal. The audacity of it all. Shouldn't he be charming some eager noblewoman instead of sullying your personal quarters? 

Slowly, as if finally emerging from a trance, his movements falter then stop. He finally turns to look at you, eyes wide in mortification, the color draining from his face as reality crashes over him. 

A few choice curses tumble from his lips as he looks down in horror, realizing what's about to happen. His grip tightens around himself with white-knuckled desperation, fighting against his own release, trying desperately to stop what's already begun.

"Please, please..." His breathing becomes ragged, his whole body trembling, muscles straining as his hand shakes with the effort of holding back. "N-no, no—" he stutters breathlessly, his voice breaking with the effort as his control visibly crumbles.

Your hand flies to cover your mouth, watching this unfold in stunned silence, doing your best not to laugh at his plight. Even then, a jolt of heat shoots through your body, settling deep and low, as you watch him frantically scramble, deviously hoping you can watch him completely lose control.

It's not that you're easily rattled—you've navigated court politics and clan dynamics with steel composure for years. But this is Naoya Zenin—powerful, arrogant heir, the man who had the audacity to demand your attention this morning and the same audacity to discard it carelessly—now reduced to this primal display of need, barely able to contain himself. And it's your name he's whispering like a prayer. Your image in his mind that's driven him to seek out your most private sanctuary for this intimate performance. 

It's devastatingly erotic.

After what feels like an eternity, his breathing begins to steady and he nods to himself, certain he's past the point of danger. He makes no move to adjust his disheveled haori as he turns to you, seemingly unconcerned that there's nothing else beneath or restore any semblance of propriety. Instead, those predatory golden eyes rake over your form with brazen appreciation now that he's regained some composure, taking in your state of partial undress—barefoot, silk undergarments clinging to your curves without the formal outer layer to conceal them before he straightens slowly, shoulders rolling back with that insufferable confidence.

"Oh. It's just you," he says with casualness, as if you hadn't just caught him in the most compromising position imaginable. He strolls over to your vanity, wiping his hand on a cloth and pouring water from the pitcher into the goblet. He drains the cup in a single gulp, his heavy eyes locked on yours throughout.

No acknowledgment of your name falling from his lips.

No mention of what you actually witnessed.

The sheer arrogance of his casual dismissal shatters whatever trance had momentarily held you captive. "Making yourself right at home, are we?" you ask, nostrils flaring, uncrossing your arms and placing your hands on your hips.

With your eyes locked determinedly north on his face, you observe the crimson flush staining his cheeks as he sets the empty goblet down. You came here seeking refuge...not to deal with this maddening example of male entitlement.

"Needed some air. These chambers were unlocked," he shrugs, as if that simple explanation covers everything, and swipes an errant drop of water from his lips with his thumb. He chuckles as your tongue darts across your own lips in mindless response, and takes a step toward you.

In the space of a heartbeat, he's crossed the room, standing mere inches away, still completely exposed.

"Anyway. What took you so long?" he tuts back.

His voice carries that familiar arrogant tone once more, the deep, husky voice from moments before transformed back into that nasally, caustic tone that explains why you didn't recognize him earlier. Though there's a slight tremor beneath it.

"What?" you ask, attempting to grasp his meaning. You instinctively take a step back, but he follows smoothly and closes the gap effortlessly.

"I said..." His voice drops to a purr that has no business sounding so delicious from someone as pompous such as him. "What took you so long? I thought I made my invitation clear this morning. Or do you not understand subtlety?" He taps your head playfully with mock condescension.

Your mouth opens and closes like a startled fish as your brain struggles to process what he's implying. Here he stands, caught red-handed in your private chambers in a state of undress, pleasuring himself while moaning your name, and somehow he's managed to make you feel like the one who should be explaining herself? You scoff, and clear your throat pointedly.

"How presumptuous," you say with razor-sharp calm despite the fury building within. This time, you move closer, jabbing your finger into his bare chest to punctuate your words. "Though I imagine this is exactly the sort of behavior that keeps you second-best in your own clan."

His expression darkens instantly, fury flashing across his features as he grips your hand with lightning speed. He's close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, to see the dangerous glint in those gleaming eyes. His robe hangs open between you, the silken haori barely clinging to his shoulders, hakama discarded somewhere, and you can smell the intoxicating mixture of that heady bergamot scent, mixed with arousal.

Your lashes flutter despite yourself as you find your back pressed suddenly against the wall. If he hadn't already bested you with his foul trickery in the morning's match, he would have already been pinned and eating the tatami at your feet.

Even then, it will take a lot more than that to shake you. You refuse to be distracted or intimidated, lifting your chin defiantly despite the proximity.

"Perhaps you should return to your duties," you continue, your voice taking on a taunting edge that surprises even you with its boldness as you pile on the insults. "You know, the woman you escorted here tonight? Or does abandoning your companion to pleasure yourself in someone else's chambers count as proper Zenin etiquette these days?"

You smile smugly, hoping to see that vein pulse beneath the golden strands on his forehead at your barb. Sure enough, his nostrils flare and his jaw works tightly.

But instead of the explosive anger you'd expected, that you'd been ready for...he throws his head back and laughs.

A full, hearty laugh.

"And what's so funny?" you snap, hands settling firmly on your hips as his rich laughter bellows.

He brushes away a tear with the back of his hand. "Apologies. I just understand now..." he says mysteriously.

"Understand what?" you say, though your stomach clenches with dread, knowing it can't be anything good. Nothing good ever comes from a man.

"Well. It's just that...Don't tell me you're jealous, little keeper?" The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey and you bristle, annoyed at the nickname the nobility decided to give you in passing since childhood.

You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze as he looms over you, sheer rage tinging your vision with red haze. "Don't be ridiculous." You look to the side, unsurprised that yet another man thinks so highly of himself.

"Which is rich," he continues smoothly, "since you weren't short on company yourself, little keeper. Or is it that you have such a greedy appetite?" That golden gaze flicks back and forth between yours, studying your expression intently before he eases back slightly, enough to give you breathing room as you refuse to meet his eyes. He sighs. "But of course, you're right. I don't want to presume it was for me. You were occupied all evening, after all..."

So he did notice you then.

"I was simply concerned for her safety—being escorted by someone so clearly desperate they resort to breaking into private chambers for relief."

His low laughter sends an unwelcome shiver down your spine, rich and warm and entirely too pleased with itself. He gently tilts your chin up with a brush of his finger, guiding your gaze back to meet his.

"Breaking in?" His voice turns gravelly. "These are hardly grounds for breaking and entering when you leave your window unlocked."

He's close enough that his breath fans across your face with each word, eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker, more dangerous as he leans down, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. You don't like where this is going. That he thinks he has the upper hand.

"I would almost venture to say that it's almost..." he draws out the word, letting it hang in the very narrow space as he leans closer, mere breaths between your lips. "Like you were..." another pause as his gaze drops to your mouth before returning to your eyes, "expecting..." his hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, effectively caging you into his space, his solid frame, "company?"

You lift your lashes up at him, heart hammering against your ribs.

It frustrates you to no end, catching you off-guard for the second time today, how much more striking the Zenin is up close. If he were a woman, you might have even called him breathtaking. Your gaze doesn't know where to settle—his features are almost too perfect—so you focus on those molten amber, almond-shaped eyes framed like natural liner by impossibly long lashes that would be criminally unfair for any man to possess. Anything to avoid that ever-present smirk curving lips that belonged more on a conniving courtesan than a clan heir, or what lies even lower beneath the very open lines of his robe.

"I..." You lose the thread of whatever clever retort you'd been formulating as his hand reaches up, toying with the flower nestled in your hair. He repositions it carefully, fingertips lingering against your skin as he ensures every petal is perfectly in place. "I...want you to leave," you finish, with forced confidence.

He carefully nestles the blossom into place, tapping it once before pulling away, though not before languidly letting his knuckles graze your cheek.

"Hm. Are you sure?" His gaze drops pointedly to your lips. 

The audacity in his tone snaps your patience. Faster than the fastest Zenin, you whip your hand to the back of your head and rip a kanzashi pin free, sending strands of hair tumbling loose as you aim its sharp point directly at his abdomen. Typical man—never understands the first time around.

"Get. Out."

But instead of backing away, he surprises you by pushing forward, purposely pressing forward until it pricks his skin. A thin line of crimson appears, and you stare down at the small wound in shock. Only then do you realize—to your horror—that's exactly what he wanted.

Your gaze involuntarily drops lower, finally taking in the full view of his half-hard arousal exposed between the curtained fabric of his haori. The length of him is impressive even in this state, flushed a pretty pink, veiny, and beginning to thicken as he watches you struggle to swallow.

The deliberate way he'd courted the pain, the sight of his blood, how it drifts in a thick rivulet down onto the defined v of his intricately etched torso...

"I will leave," he says slowly, reaching down to gently extract the kanzashi from your hand, allowing it to fall forgotten as he weaves his fingers through yours in a gesture that's surprisingly tender. His other hand comes up to softly tilt your chin upward, ensuring your focus is on his words. "But I'd like to finish what I started first."

You search his eyes back as he traces slow, relaxing circles against the tension in the center of your palm, fingers still interlaced with yours.

"And though, I wish it were your touch instead..." His chestnut eyes study your flushed face before he reluctantly drops your hand. "You seem resistant, little keeper." 

You stay quiet, knowing any raised voice would draw unwanted attention from the ever-present staff loitering about. Not to mention, curiosity is getting the better of you despite your better judgment.

His other hand trails softly through your hair, gathering a wayward strand and tucking it back into place. "So what do you say we play a little game instead?"

You're well aware this is all calculated charm—you've heard whispers about his conquests throughout the clans. Still, that predatory gleam in his eye promises something dangerously enticing. 

That heat thrumming between your thighs now throbs, becoming impossible to ignore thanks to his nearness and those calculated touches. Your overactive imagination certainly isn't helping, wondering what deviant fantasies the bastard can come up with.

"It's simple really. We each pleasure ourselves—from a respectable distance, of course. No touching the other." His smirk widens at your scandalized expression, but at least he doesn't wink. "I'll even make it fun for you. First one to finish...loses."

Loses? "And what exactly does the loser forfeit?" you ask, once more, knowing it can't be good. Sure enough, his eyes sparkle at the question and you curse yourself for walking straight into his trap.

"The loser has to...clean up the winner." The way his tongue traces his lower lip with obvious intent makes it so he doesn't even need to clarify how.

You squirm inconspicuously, thighs squeezing together against the ache that's starting to become a nuisance. You really should have taken the Kamo heir up on his offer when you had the chance and settled for something a bit more respectable. "No chance. You're—"

"Don't hide it," he interrupts, eyes trailing over the deepening flush on your cheeks and then pointedly down to where your legs shift restlessly. "You're clearly worked up. So why not indulge?"

The worst thing is, he's right. You gnaw at your lip as that persistent and heavy need, combined with his intoxicating proximity and the heady scent emanating from his skin, threatens to overwhelm your senses entirely. It would help to have something beautiful and rippled to feast your eyes on while you lose yourself in blissful pleasure.

When you take too long to answer, Naoya shifts closer. The movement appears casual but places his hardness directly against your hip, and you know he's attempting to systematically destroy your rational thoughts. But despite it making your nipples peak beneath the silk and skin feel flush, you want to brush him off. You refuse to be just another conquest melting at his feet, another story whispered in parlors about the Zenin heir's prowess.

But then again, what's the harm in playing his game?

Besides. You've never been one to back down from a challenge, especially when the opponent piques your interest. And especially since you need to even the score after he got the better of you this morning.

Aside from setting women's place in society back centuries and allowing for a generous helping of embellishment…there also has to be some merit to the stories you'd heard about him, surely? Of course, they barely compare to the melancholy tales of your own rejected pursuers, though admittedly for far different reasons, but you were curious about the tales you'd heard—the parade of hopeful women who presented themselves at his doorstep seeking his hand in marriage.

One story of a prospective bride, who offered to forgo all her wealth if it meant matrimony to him. Another who bankrupted her family's holdings in an attempt to win his favor through increasingly extravagant gifts after she'd spent a single night with him. And the third, sadly, who met her end when she threw herself from the cliffs after he refused to acknowledge her devotion from a single night of passionate love-making.

What can't be exaggerated is that persistent heat you're feeling, wetness surely soon to follow. So persistent, that the giant bruise your ego should be sporting over the loss of the match has been pushed to the back of your mind. Release was your priority now, and being the pampered princess you are proud to be, you rarely say no to indulging temptation.

Your eyes roam him up and down appreciatively, tongue clicking against your teeth. Especially when the temptation comes wrapped in such a tall and pretty package. Even if what's underneath is thoroughly rotten—which speaking of, you'll need to deal with that before anything.

"The girl first," you insist.

His expression shifts from flirtatious to momentarily frustrated at your persistence, the mask slipping just enough to reveal something genuine beneath.

"It's not what you think," he rushes to say, absently rubbing the back of his neck, unaware of how the motion draws his defined chest muscles taut. He's so oddly comfortable around you. "She's...It's...complicated. But she's safe and well taken care of, I assure you. And I'm entirely yours." The words seem to surprise even him as he says them—his throat working as he swallows. "For tonight, I mean." he quickly adds.

A flustered Naoya was not something you'd expected to see, and you eye his nervous fidgeting, hiding how much you're enjoying watching him squirm. Not that vulnerability in his voice matters to you. Humph. As if you of all people would believe a mere man's protestations.

Yet there's sincerity in his tone and his eyes, and you're no saint yourself after ditching your escort, unable to fault him for the same. Unfortunately, the desire coursing through your veins, brought on by the way that gaze of his has continued hungering for you since this morning, was starting to cloud your reasoning, either way.

"Fine," you finally manage evenly. All it takes is a single deep inhale and slow exhale to regain your composure. This is no different than negotiating a trade agreement between clans and you're well equipped to best him at his own game after all. You continue, ignoring the flash of triumph in his eyes. "But I have conditions."

His hand drops from his neck to his side, as if he hadn't expected you to negotiate. "Huh, why? It's not like—"

"Rules, Naoya," you reiterate immediately, fighting back a smile at how thoroughly you've caught him off guard. You brush past him to the center of your chamber and begin pacing with purpose, your fingers working at the ties of your juban, not wanting to waste any more time now that the promise of release was here. The thin robe parts like water—offering tantalizing glimpses of the soft, naked curves beneath, granting you what you want to hear.

Sweet silence at last, broken only by his sharp intake of breath as he watches you move.

As you turn, his gaze burns into you, following the way your silken locks catch the lamplight with an ethereal shimmer, the sway of your hips. Good. This should be easy then.

"First. This stays between us. Our clans have enough to gossip about without adding fuel to their fires."

Your fingers trail along your collarbone absently, lids growing heavier as anticipation thrums beneath your skin, already relishing the upcoming release.

"Second," you continue, allowing the rest of the undergarment to slip down one shoulder as you pivot again, "no assumptions about what this means. We're both adults with...appetites." The word rolls off your tongue, sweeter than the plum cakes your favorite chef makes.

Finally, when you're done circling him like prey, you stop directly in front of him. For once, he's kept his mouth shut, which only serves to make him look even more attractive.

"And lastly..." 

His jaw goes slack at the sight of you parting the fabric to strategically expose the upper swell of your breasts. Victory is as good as yours when you see his pupils dilate until only thin rings of amber remain, and you have to discreetly hide a smile. 

If reducing a man to speechless hunger is what it takes to claim control, you'll wield every weapon your beauty affords.

"Any questions?" you ask with mock innocence. You may be serious about your rules, but you're fair enough to give him an out. This is his chance to back away, claim sudden propriety if this proves too much for his ego.

He moves closer, close enough that his lips are mere inches from yours. Your body tenses for a moment.

A kiss? He wouldn't.

Your breath catches despite yourself—part of you pulling back from that kind of intimacy, the dangerous tenderness that doesn't belong here, while something deeper tugs you forward.  

Instead, his voice drops to something dark and smooth, breath ghosting over your lips, hands roaming over your curves, even with no touch. His eyes burn with ravenous need, yet he holds back. As if to remind you, despite all your rules, that this isn't romance, just pure indulgence. He's close enough that your bodies draw to one another, close enough to catch that pulse point at his throat you're dying to trace with your tongue. 

Even if you hadn't walked in on him nearly spilling himself to thoughts of you, the hunger radiates between you like heat from a fire. 

"Understood. But let's get one thing straight..." That carefully maintained clan heir mask has completely slipped, revealing something wild and starving underneath. "Victory is all I know."

You mutter something about that being easy as he always finds a way to stack the deck in his favor under your breath. Aloud you say, "There's always a first time for anything."

He pulls back and smirks that pretty smile, his laughter a moment after surprising you. Rich and unguarded—showing appreciation for your cleverness rather than offense at being challenged.

You purse your lips, thinking this might actually be enjoyable with the tension finally broken between you. What if the Zenin heir turns out to be decent company after all? Though you have to wonder—what does friendship even mean to someone like him? Does someone in his position ever get to have relationships that aren't built on fear, obligation, or what he can provide? 

Curious. Has anyone has ever simply enjoyed his company, without wanting something from him? You shake off the thought, it hardly being your concern. Right now, you need to concentrate on what actually matters: ensuring victory. Because cheater or not, losing to him again simply isn't an option.

"In fact." You pause, the idea coming to you suddenly, and your expression brightens with mischief. "I'll even give you a head start," you say with deceptive sweetness.

Before he can question your intent, you kneel down and tuck your hair behind your ear, parting his haori, exposing more of his bare torso and the powerful lines of his thighs.

Despite the glimpses from earlier, you weren't prepared for this. That hard-to-miss, pretty cock aside, the rest of him is as equally impressive—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, his entire form a study in masculine perfection. The pampered heir you'd imagined dissolves at the sight of a his strong build; all defined muscle and taut skin that tells stories of years of hard training and rigorous discipline.

Your gaze grows heavy, lingering a moment longer to savor what’s before you. At least you chose your distraction well for what's to come. 

When you look up to meet his eyes, he raises a brow, that familiar arrogant tilt to his lips returning. 

"See something you like?" 

But then something flickers across his expression—shyness? Perhaps even uncertainty…as if he hadn't expected such genuine admiration, the cocky facade wavering just long enough for you to want to test more of that hidden earnestness beneath.  

Slowly. Ever so slowly, you lean in, your tongue finding the long, crimson line where your pin had drawn blood.

The metallic taste blooms across your palate, mingling with the salt of his skin as you trace upward with deliberate slowness, savoring both his essence and the sharp hitch of his breath.

You work with obvious pleasure, your tongue following the defined ridge of his v-line as a low moan escapes your lips. With growing eagerness, you hum against his skin, your thighs squeezing together as the heady taste overwhelms your senses. 

He holds himself motionless throughout, his control admirable—brows already knitted together, the strong muscles of his thighs and legs flexed, already coiled with barely contained restraint—until a particularly thorough stroke of your tongue near the base of his sprung yet neglected cock draws a rough grunt from deep in his chest. Satisfied with his response, you conclude your performance, sealing the wound with the soft press of your swollen, puckered lips.

You return your gaze to his with feigned innocence as you lick your glistening lower lip, offering a small, knowing smile while cursed energy hums over his skin, staunching the bleeding for good.

When his eyes meet yours, they burn with hunger as his palm brushes uselessly over his arousal, seeking relief. Seeking you. The look on his face is of complete intoxication as he struggles to cling to what little composure remains, jaw clenched and golden eyes dark with barely restrained desire.

Good. Just like the winning hand you'd held earlier tonight, this should be a piece of plum cake.

But then something fractures, stopping you cold. All pretense dissolves as his eyes search yours with determined focus, then nodding slight, as if finally confirming what he knows.

His hand lifts to brush against your cheek with reverent tenderness, and you instinctively want to pull back, caught off guard by the unexpected intimacy. But seeing something in his expression—raw and unguarded—makes you still, letting his fingers find your skin. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. Achingly vulnerable. As if the words have been waiting far too long to escape.

"You've always been so beautiful for me." 

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thank you so very much for the love on chapter 1 ahhh I am not worthy but thank you thank you!! Would love to hear your thoughts on this one as it’s the fuel that keeps the fire burning 😋

[miss-meimei]

Guilty Pleasures

by: Miss_MeiMei

fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (manga / anime) pairing: Higuruma Hiromi/Succubus!FemReader rating: Explicit | MDNI tags: Succubus Reader-Insert, Lawyer Higuruma Hiromi, Alternate Universe - No Curses, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Gentleman kink, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Play, Lactation, Hand Jobs, Bathtub Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Paddling, Missionary Position, prone-bone position, Doggy Style, Cowgirl Position, Multiple Orgasms, Marathon Sex, Emotional Sex, Mating Press Position, Smut, Porn With Plot, Feelings Realization, Mutual Pining, Power Play, minor dark and supernatural elements, he's hot. he's tired. he's hot and tired., but at least we get a bathtub scene

3.6K words; also on ao3. Art by u/canxtanwe

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Summary:

As the town's most sought-after succubus, you've mastered the art of seduction. But your regular client—an exhausted, principled lawyer who visits only for conversation—proves frustratingly gentlemanly. It's a good thing you feast on delicious challenges. Yet when passion finally breaks through his restraint, you realize too late that some prey are more dangerous than any predator for a reason...and that perhaps you're the one who's been caught in the hunger you were meant to satisfy.

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Your kind had always been drawn to complexity. The more tortured the soul, the sweeter the feast. Yet as all things, such indulgences come at a price. The strong silent type was the most dangerous.

Or at least, that's what your experience as the town's most sought-after succubus taught you.

This one was a regular. Handsome, exhausted, disheveled in his lawyer's suit, the darkness beneath his eyes speaking volumes about his burdens. His life force flickered like a candle in the wind, yet somehow burned brighter than most. Aside from two times when he slipped, he had always been a gentleman—never asking you for intimate favors. He just spent his coins on your company and for you to listen to his tired ramblings—making you curious about what he really wanted from you.

Yet tonight feels different. Even now, as you wait for his punctual arrival (always at sundown—the end of mortal toil, when humans were most vulnerable to temptation), your legs twist thinking of what had happened when that gentleman facade was dropped.

The first time, you had been holding him in your arms as usual, his head nestled against your chest while you petted his messy dark hair. He'd been quiet this time—no complaining about the injustice of the justice system, no annoyance at his powerlessness in it all. As usual, he smelled divine, his natural scent causing your nipples to harden without control beneath your bustier, your body responding to him in ways that defied succubus nature. Usually, you controlled the arousal, not the other way around.

As astute as he was, he noticed, and as if that weren't enough, he undid the first few hooks until your breasts spilled free. Your heart pounds now, just as it did then, remembering that dark, unapologetic look in his eyes when his long tongue rolled out and the tip teased those peaks before he captured them in his mouth. Encouraged by the moan that couldn't help but escape, he sucked on your breasts raw—lavishing attention on one for hours and then another—until they poured with milk. The milk had appeared unbidden—a sign of deep emotional bonding that your kind rarely experienced. It should have terrified you.

Even then, you climaxed helplessly as he sucked them raw, down to the last drop. It was a small glimpse of what your customers feel after you've drained them dry.

The other time was when you had been preparing a meal for the both of you in the kitchen. Feeding him had become ritual, almost protective—strange behavior for a creature meant to consume, not nourish. After you'd seen how poorly the man had been taking care of himself, you'd made it your mission to feed him at each visit.

You'd been at the stove, with the kettle on the stovetop and the fire beneath lit to heat it, when you felt that tall, strong presence behind you, enveloping you. One large hand wrapped around your hips, the other higher—loosely around your neck. You let him nibble at your ear as the hand below lifted your dress up to find that bare womanhood wet and wanting. He wasted no time, wordlessly sliding his fingers into that needy space and roughly pushing deeper—long fingers making your eyes roll back as you clamped tightly around them in desperation. He pushed on your back until your face was almost scorched from the kettle's steam, yet you were too far gone to care—the roughness with which he worked your walls making you scream as you climaxed, louder than the squeal of the boiling kettle. Your climax came easily and without feeding from him—another impossibility. Succubi climaxed from the drain, not from mere touch.

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring how you had to steady yourself as you pulled your dress back down, simply washing his hands in the sink and leaving, as if nothing happened.

Usually your customers are the ones that you have to shoo from your front steps, yet that's what got you hooked on this man for a change. The pretending. The way he acted like nothing happened. The holding back, too. He was reversing the natural order—making the predator chase the prey.

That's why today, you've decided you will test the limits. It is your job after all, one that you take great pride in given your many skills. It's also the reason you endure this dangerous profession, having to change locations every few weeks so that the authorities will stay off your trail with all their tiresome concerns. Too many men have lost their senses because of you. Too many have left their wives because of you. Too many have been wandering the streets, as if their very soul has been drained—which it had been, of course.

Empty husks were the price of doing business.

The familiar knock at the door interrupts your thoughts and you hurry to answer. You take a moment to make sure your hairstyle is neat and in place, smoothing down your classy yet curve-hugging dress before swinging it open. Your natural glamour would usually shimmer around you like heat waves—but with him, you'd long since stopped relying on supernatural allure.

He stands, hands in pockets, looking more worn than usual. More fragile. You clench your fists to restrain yourself from reaching out and yanking him in by that dark necktie, thinking how delicious it will be when you finally seduce him for a change. Your teeth momentarily bite down on your lips, wishing to mark him as yours in the ancient way.

"Hello," you say instead, hesitantly, playing with the necklace at your throat. Are you nervous? He doesn't respond, just eyes you up and down with such a heated look that sends your toes curling in your heels before he pushes his way past you and inside.

Before he settles down on the chaise as he usually does, you call out—"I've prepared a bath for you today if you'd like to head upstairs!"

He pauses in his tracks, and without turning, nods and climbs the stairs. You let out a breath of relief; not that he's a fickle man but, he did seem commanding sometimes.

You shut the door and hurry to finish arranging the scones and tea on a tray, carrying it with you as you follow him up. Nudging the door open with your hip and entering the bathroom, you nearly drop it at the sight of him.

He's lounging in the claw-foot tub, arms draped over the sides, eyes shut, head tilted back over the edge. But it's not the strong lines of his throat that captivates you. Nor that strong, pronounced aquiline nose that adds to his appeal. It's the fact that he's still in his suit, fully clothed as he awaits your arrival. Trust. Complete, vulnerable trust. The rarest delicacy.

Few sights can shake you to the core after years of this hardened work. Yet this has you gulping hard to swallow the lump in your throat, shakily setting the tray down on the end table by the tub. You quickly settle down on the stool next to it lest your legs give out, and before you can lose the bravery you started with when planning this whole thing, you reach in steadily and scoop some water in your cupped palm.

As you ladle some of it onto that taut chest—dress shirt, loosened tie, jacket and all—he does what he usually does: tell you of his day and his troubles.

The judge denied the appeal again. The prosecution wants a retrial. The client is a dick, but he's innocent...

And so on, while you listen without saying a word, until the sun's rays peeking from the window nearly disappear—when the veil between worlds grew thin and your power peaked.

Why is it then that draining him is the last thing you want to do? You pour some more heated water to warm the cooling bath as he finally grows silent, the clothed elephant in the room seeming more normal as you gaze upon his now-slumbering form. So what if your heart aches with unfamiliar longing for this mysterious, nameless man who always finds your hideouts even when you never tell him where they are? So what if he's there neither for pleasure nor gain, but just to be? So what if you're starting to fall for those gentlemanly manners, him putting your needs above any that he might have—not to mention that strong line of his jaw, that broad physique and gravelly voice?

Can you blame yourself?

In a way you do, and the emotions have you grabbing the untouched tray as an excuse to carry it out and leave. Emotion was weakness for your kind—it clouded the hunt, complicated the feed. But then, before you can even reach for its handle, the hand hanging over the edge of the tub shoots out and wraps around your wrist.

You startle, eyes flicking to where he still appears asleep. But he pulls you closer, until your knees hit the wooden floor at the side of the tub, positioning you kneeling beside him. The position was one of worship—fitting, since he was quickly becoming your new religion.

He places your hand on his chest—then lower, along what you're surprised to find is a firm, etched belly—and leaves it there, not yet pressing you for anything more. Nervously, you lick your lips, then flatten your tense fist, slowly edging it lower. Your enhanced senses picked up every nuance of his arousal—the quickening pulse, the shifting pheromones, the building heat.

Surprised yet pleased by the manly groan in response, you keep going, until you reach the belt at his waist. The sound of the metal unbuckling solicits another grunt, one that sends you into a flurry of action—unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, pulling down his briefs—until you reach your heart's desire.

Just then, his head tilts up and one eye peels open. You're sure he can see how your own eyes widen like saucers as you behold the magnificence of his manhood. He's endowed well beyond your expectations and—you well, you know what you can and can't handle.

Your heart pounds in your chest as the soothing slosh of the water does little to calm your excitement when you first wrap your fingers around that swollen cock. He remains passive, only observing you as you run your fist loosely along the long shaft. He's thick, heavy in a way that has you immaturely wondering how he manages to walk around with it without drawing suspicion. But your thoughts are quickly banished as he releases a shuddering breath when your thumb begins to circle the slit at the head.

His life force pulsed beneath your palm—rich, complex, and so, so intoxicating. You could feed for months on what he offered freely, if only he let you. He pushes deeper into your hand, lifting himself slightly while being careful not to make the water spill over the edge. He's intent on watching your hand as it caresses him steadily, pulling the loose skin over the head again and again until sweat beads beneath the hair on his forehead.

With all your expertise, he's already close—you can feel it—and you haven't even used the charm in your necklace yet. Haven't even wanted to. For the first time in your long existence, you wanted a man to come apart from your touch alone, not your magic.

He covers the sides of his face with one both hands, eyes wide, rolled back, tilting his head back in surrender. All it takes is one final, firm tug and he's gone—heat spilling over your hand as he comes with a loud, sensual groan. He continues gasping as the droplets of his release float on the water, but all you can do is fix your gaze on him, his chest rising and falling as his eyes flick down to your lips, lower to your breasts, then back to settle on the necklace at your throat.

The necklace—your focus stone—pulses warm against your skin, responding to him in earnest. And when his eyes snap to yours again, the message is loud and clear.

Use it.

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The slow and steady motion of him rocking into you has you slowly losing your sanity.

Never have you witnessed such endurance, such prowess as this suddenly revitalized man possesses. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer from where he has you splayed beneath him on your bed, but all it accomplishes is making him sink deeper and hold out even longer. The steady rhythm should have allowed you to work your influence gradually, but instead you find yourself completely at his mercy.

The way he hovers only a breath from your lips has you clenching desperately, your walls wrapping around him as if promising never to let go. How he gazes deep into your eyes only makes you want to worship that face with reverent kisses, thread your fingers earnestly through that tousled hair.

He leans down, cock throbbing heavily inside you as he takes your breasts between his lips, circling the soft flesh with his tongue before he suckles the peaks in earnest. His eyes remain fixed on you as his expert ministrations coax your milk to flow. He grunts in pleasure, driving his length deeper as he drinks his fill.

With a soft release he pulls away, swiping his tongue over his lips for one final taste before leaning back. This time he lifts one of your legs to open you wider and you arch wantonly in need, wondering if for the first time, you will climax before a client does. But he's not a client anymore is he now? He's—

"Higuruma."

He finally whispers his name and it's what undoes you completely. You push back onto the cock nearly splitting you apart with voracious need and he accepts the challenge, pounding into you with renewed vigor as your wetness floods around him. He pulls your other leg back to join the first over your head, thighs pressing against your belly and breasts, and still connected—braces himself on his knees for leverage to make you lose complete control. The angle has him striking your sweet spot achingly, devastatingly perfect: all it takes to shatter you entirely.

Your fingers grip the sheets desperately as waves of ecstasy crash over you in relentless succession, your body convulsing around him as pleasure burns through every inch of your body until you're sobbing his name. But still, he holds back. Even in the throes of climax, some distant part of your mind marvels at his control—no mortal should possess such restraint.

Only his soft kisses along your neck and beneath your jaw anchor you back to reality. It's clear neither of you is finished as, when he flips you over, you're already arching to take him wholly again. He flattens you instead, pushing you down with a roughness that should no longer surprise you. Sure enough, by the time he's buried deep again, you're welcoming the brutality, even as his strong hand wraps around your throat, driving into you like he's punishing you for some unknown transgression.

His other hand comes around, slipping between the mattress and your breast to torment them once more. You feel the edge approaching again—yet the swiftness has your pride flaring. You draw upon your necklace's power gradually, not wanting to end this too quickly...just enough to heighten his pleasure. A string of explicit curses slips from his lips, the ever-composed attorney finally losing control. He grips your hair as he ruts into you without restraint, raw until your walls burn and nearly tear, yet you take it all, welcoming the dark pleasure like salvation itself.

The flesh of your backside slaps repeatedly against him before he buries himself completely one final time. He finally empties into you with a soul-shattering groan, all his pent-up desire finally releasing as he fills you utterly—like his very life depends on it.

You barely have time to utter the spell that would prevent seed from taking hold as he takes no respite, hand moving down to torment your sensitive bud and making you follow soon after. Your walls are still fluttering around his thickness from your orgasm when he pulls you up to all fours, landing slap after slap on your rounded flesh with a paddle he must have retrieved from your collection. Like a judge hammering his gavel, he never relents, delivering pleasurable strikes that have you writhing beneath him and chasing climax after climax.

Later, when you finally straddle him with purpose, something shifts. Your movements become fluid, hypnotic—calling upon the Old Knowledge as you roll your hips in patterns that would drive saints to madness. His hands grip your waist as you rise and fall, your hair cascading around you both like a curtain, and for the first time tonight you feel truly in control.

Then his eyes find yours; not glazed with lust or emptied by pleasure as you see night after night. But warm, tender, completely present—and you realize with startling clarity that this isn't conquest. When he reaches up to cup your face with trembling hands, whispering your name like a prayer, you see it there in his gaze: love, pure and devastating and entirely real.

Only when you're lying on his chest, breathing softly, sheets damp and tangled around your entwined bodies as dawn approaches, do you both finally still. The necklace lies cool against your throat, unused for hours now, you realize with wonder.

Whatever happened between you transcended magic entirely. For the first time in more years than you can count, you feel genuinely safe, cherished, whole.

Then, as soon as your breathing evens, your pulse steadies—

"I can't let you do this anymore."

The haziness of your mind barely allows you to process his words, spoken so softly and with such regret that you're certain you've misheard them.

You turn your face to the window, savoring the rays of the next day's sunshine warming your skin as you nestle your cheek against him. His heart beats steadily, convincing you that the moment remains undisturbed.

Only when his fingers find your chin, turning your face to meet that resolute expression in his eyes, do you realize something is terribly wrong. Your skin prickles and your muscles tense at what you see there. He should look drained, depleted, but he appears exactly as always—tired yet unmistakably himself. No mortal should retain such clarity after what you'd shared all night.

"I'm going to have to turn you in."

Your eyes search his desperately, breath caught. Had you always noticed how beautiful they were? How despite the profound sadness there, how he still gazed at you with such love and tenderness?

Wordlessly, you hide your face against his chest and he wraps his arms around you protectively, fingers stroking through your hair even as tears flow freely down your cheeks.

Despite your weeping—or perhaps because of it—you feel him hardening beneath you again. And you, with nothing left to lose, respond with desperate passion. You move together, every motion slow and reverent as he settles atop you one final time. He whispers of your beauty, of your strength, that despite everything, he'll never abandon you. He promises many things you don't believe, even as you're wrecked, completely shattering around him in gentle waves.

True to his word, he dresses you afterward with infinite care, remaining by your side when the constables arrive to escort you away. He's there during the interrogation too, as they ask about your victims while he interjects sharply, ensuring you reveal nothing further that might damn you.

When your hands are shackled and you're being led to your cell to await trial, he walks alongside you, fingers briefly brushing yours. And finally, when iron bars separate you both, he gives you something precious, something you've been waiting since that first time you've set your eyes on him.

Your first, and perhaps, your last kiss.

"You'll be okay. You're strong."

You nod, understanding without needing to ask. You'd listened to those ramblings, knew his sense of justice prevailed over all. But as he always does, he surprises you, turns to address the guard. "Time for my confession, I suppose." Before you can jump in to stop him, he starts, "I, Higuruma, admit to the crime of solicitation. I willingly sought the services of this woman, knowing full well her nature. I..."

The words fade as you study that noble profile you've come to adore, to love, and to yearn for. Only when he finishes and turns to give you one final look—tender and heartbreaking and full of promises—do you emerge from your shock and give him a small smile.

"See you on the other side?" he asks.

His smile back is sad but certain, and you realize that somehow, impossibly, he'd known what you were from the very beginning. Not just your profession or your ways, but truly who you are beneath it all. Perhaps that's why your powers never fully worked on him. Perhaps that's why this feels less like an ending than a strange, twisted beginning.

And against all reason, all logic, all hope, you nod.

Perhaps you will.

A/n:

Well that ending was quite the emotional rollercoaster to write! Idk about you guys, but I'm rooting for them🥲 Anyways thanks for reading and I would absolutely love to know what you guys think💕

[miss-meimei]

Cursed to Come When Called

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The curse bound to the house you’ve inherited has been the perfect solution to your sleepless, needy nights. Every evening, you call upon a spectral lover to sate your deepest, most desperate cravings…only to want for more the next day. But when your usual summoning ritual doesn't work one night, you learn that even supernatural lovers can get jealous—and that lesson comes with consequences you may be more than willing to endure.

*JJK Anime-only spoiler!!

Rating: Explicit | MDNIFandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime & Manga) Relationships: Curseya/ Reader; Zenin Naoya/Reader; Curse Naoya/fem!Reader Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ghost Sex, Spectrophilia, Tentacle Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Verbal Degradation, Praise, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Zenin Naoya, Submissive Reader-Insert, Teasing, Orgasm Edging, Rough Sex, Clothed Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Spanking, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Oral Fixation, Summoning, Cursed Spirit Naoya Zenin, don't worry i don't describe how he looks lol, Jealousy

4.5K words

Also on Ao3

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The Victorian house you'd inherited from your late great-aunt came with three warnings:

Don't go in the basement. Don't open the locked rooms. And never, under any circumstance, read from the grimoire in the attic.

You should have really listened to that last one.

Because now you lie awake—just as you have every night since you broke that rule—writhing and whimpering between sweat-drenched sheets, while your fingers work viciously between your soaked thighs. It's a futile attempt that leaves you gasping and desperate, no closer to the release that eludes you. Tears of frustration prick your eyes as your hips arch instinctively in a hollow memory, aching to be filled to the brim with a savage brutality. Through the window, the waning moon watches your plight with pity, silently urging you to accept the inevitable truth: there is only one way to satisfy the hunger that owns you. 

The crushing reality cuts through the haze of self-pleasure, your body stilling and hand falling away as you give up on the useless attempt. You knew this was the price, knew that such an indulgence wouldn't come without cost. You thought the grimoire would only bring you power, but what you hadn't anticipated was that every encounter would leave you feeling like a needy, empty-minded thing, craving to be pinned and used until you'd beg to be broken again.

With an exasperated huff, you toss the covers off, as if answering the call were some burdensome chore. Pride and caution have you still trying to resist, even as your feet slide into the plush slippers at your bedside. But your hurried footsteps soon betray you. You quickly make your way to the adjoining hallway, your eagerness overtaking any pretense. You hadn't even bothered to wipe yourself down or don a robe to ward off the sepulchral chill of the old house. Not that you would bother anyway…you know he dislikes you concealed by such things.

Quietly, you head down the shadowy corridor and up the narrow staircase, past the gilt-framed family portraits hanging on the walls—their painted eyes following you with ancestral judgment. You've grown used to ignoring them, just as you have the Watchful Eyes. Tiny, skittering things that blink from within the molding and the cracks, possessing a different kind of gaze entirely. Just Watching. Always watching.

You pause when you reach the top of the stairs, heart racing with anticipation. The attic door groans as you slowly push it open, the hinges you'd (perhaps deliberately) neglected to oil announcing your arrival in a way that makes the heavy, wet ache between your thighs pulse with fresh need.

But as soon as you cross the threshold, you stand still, sensing an unusual shift from the usual, sybaritic atmosphere. Your brows knit together in confusion as you attempt to decipher the empty yet expectant tension in the air, searching the star-kissed expanse with its tall gothic windows and endless rows of ancient tomes for that familiar visage. The flickering shadows provide no answer, however; there is no sign of your phantom lover anywhere. Yet a lamp sits lit, its light warm and inviting—a riddle meant just for you.

So…he’s wanting the incantation tonight? In spite of your impatience for relief, you bite back a smile, your slippers practically sliding across the worn hardwood. It’s all you can do to refrain from skipping to the antique mahogany desk in the back.

The Grimoire of Shadow Binding and Summons sits open, always ready for you to read, a spell inked on its only page filled with any writing. The book had been your solace since you'd inherited the place, never missing a night since you'd first discovered its many…powers. As if it knew you'd succumb, the grimoire had been waiting for you to eventually find it. It had been tucked between ancestral records and clan histories speaking of speed, power, and vengeful pride that transcends death—drawing you here through strange dreams you couldn't ignore despite every warning.

As your fingers delicately trace the ancient pages in reverent memory, the hairs against your neck stir. The faintest "Mine..." is breathed against your ear, sending a tingle shooting down your spine and eyelids fluttering. It seems you aren't the only impatient one tonight.

The many fruitless attempts at release suddenly catch up to you, and your finger hastily finds the first word on the page, underlining it as you begin. Slow and sure, you read from the forbidden tome aloud, making sure to pronounce each syllable to its fullest:

"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge."

You step back as the final letter of the incantation leaves your lips with a trembling breath. The worn pages seem to flutter, though the windows are barred shut against any breeze. Several pairs of curious eyes lazily appear from in between the worn leather bindings stacked high on surrounding shelves…but none are the once-glimpsed crimson orbs you'd hoped to see, burning with desire. 

"Must've spoken them too quickly," you mutter to yourself, sure you'd stumbled upon the intricate words in your haste. The hunger is fraying your composure, and it takes every ounce of your self-control not to press your achy center against the desk's edge, desperate for the friction that might finally offer some relief.

Tucking a wayward strand behind your ear, you clear your throat and recite the spell once more, your gaze searching the corners of the room as you allow each memorized word to ring clear—no longer pretending you don't know them by heart.

"Umbra spiritus, ex tenebris veni, carnis desiderium implere, noctis amator surge!"

The silence stretches once again, broken only by the distant settling of the old house. A soft rustle of something moving behind the stacked trunks in the corner catches your attention.

But still. Nothing.

Puzzled, you gnaw at your lip, not knowing what else to do. Usually by now, you'd be bent over the desk, having the best orgasms of your life while an invisible touch claimed every inch of your trembling form. Now, you're more worried than anything, unsure if your ever-hungry appetite (only growing with each passing day) has finally worn out the binding vow that had bound the curse to this place.

Right then, as if sensing your very thoughts and worry, a slight brush—lighter than air—caresses your cheek. The touch sends a shiver down your spine, familiar yet maddeningly brief. So he is here!

In your haste to look around, you nearly topple one of the standing shelves loaded with dusty volumes and curiosities, but catch yourself at the last moment. A few loose papers flutter to the floor and a book tumbles from its perch, the Watchful Eyes multiplying between the book spines at the disturbance. You ignore it all, your glee (and unfulfilled pleasure) taking precedence.

"Did I do it wrong again?" you ask the seemingly empty room, awaiting the helpful yet petulant response—usually in the form of whispers and teasing nibbles against your ear—that usually manifests. The lamplight flickers as if something passed through its glow, and deep down, you know you didn't imagine that touch. In fact, you now understand exactly what this is.

He's toying with you.

Careful to hide your eagerness at the prospect of further teasing by the vengeful spirit, you allow a wicked thought to take root. Quickly, your fingers flick through the other scattered books on the shelves until you find exactly what you're looking for. Two can play this game, after all.

You set the spells book down purposely over the grimoire with a satisfying thud that echoes through the dusty attic. The Watchful Eyes observe curiously as you flip through its brittle pages, stopping when you find the one titled: Of Pleasure, Bliss, and How to Make Spectres Most Agreeable to One's Desires

It's risky, but you're desperate enough not to care.

"This should do the trick if you won't," you mutter loudly enough for any lurking presence to hear, already mouthing the spell where it reads in faded ink. Meanwhile, you lean over the desk seductively, one foot gliding over the calf of the other leg in a sensual twist that makes the silk of your short nightgown ride up your thighs. Your rear is perched up in the air of course, palms braced against the weathered wood to bear the pressure of your weight as you bend over tantalizingly, presenting yourself like an innocent offering to what's lurking in the shadows.

Not even halfway through the spell's first verse do you feel that familiar spiritual pressure magnify instantly, crushingly. Before you can even finish the next word, an invisible force is already gripping each of your wrists with iron intensity, followed in rapid succession by two more tendrils snapping around your ankles like rope.

Your half-gasp, half-moan rings out in the attic, the suddenness of his arrival never failing to leave you breathless. Around you, the skittering eyes pulse and crowd every corner, hungrily devouring the sight of your bound form as they acknowledge what's to come.

You try to test the binding by pulling back on the restraints, but the hold is unyielding, fingers of pure energy that seem to pulse with their own heartbeat. Before you know it, the pressure forces your arms back until—robbed of support—you fall face first onto the open spells book in front of you.

Cheek pressed sideways into the musty pages, you breathe in the scent of ancient parchment and magic, your heart racing. The grip on your ankles holds your legs steady—mercifully, as you're shaking near-violently from head to toe.

Shaking with excitement. 

"I always knew you were a greedy little thing," a languid voice whispers, the words seeming to manifest directly against the shell of your ear. He's so close, so real, you can feel the phantom warmth of a breath that shouldn't exist. 

Your lids flutter, skin already flushing with heat from his proximity alone. Happiness floods through you so completely, that tears of relief prick at your eyes. You're so starved for him, so overwhelmed by his presence that you barely notice when another set of tendrils appear, writhing teasingly beside you in ribbons of violet energy before disappearing behind where your eyes cannot follow.

Not that he's ever let you have a proper look.

The solid-smokey trails retreat beneath the delicate material of your nightgown, seeking your most sensitive places with aching slowness. "Do I need to remind you of what happens when you get impatient with me, my pretty summoner?"

He ignores your squirming, your choked sobs of need and broken pleas as he quickly finds what he's looking for. Your vision blurs, mind going hazy with need when the faintest vibration teases at that first touch over your needy bud. You clench around emptiness when he retreats much-too-quickly, instead, dragging another tendril along your spine until you bow, arching into his touch. He ignores how you strain backwards against the bindings desperately, needing nothing more than to be filled. You know that infuriating pause means he's waiting for you to answer his silly question.

"No," you gulp. "I—I mean. What did I even do? I was just trying to—"

"I don't recall allowing you to speak," he proclaims, the careful composure in his voice barely masking the petulant smile underneath. Though you have to refrain from rolling your eyes even as your walls spasm hard at his words, never able to take him seriously when he gets in these moods. He is a vengeful spirit after all, and so it comes with the territory, you suppose. "Are you going to behave for me? Or do you need me to put you in your place?"

Your plan to respond with even more defiance dissolves into a yelp, as soon as he suddenly presses against both your entrances. The blunt tips of his spectral appendages push past the initial resistance with steady, unrelenting pressure, drawing out each moment of your submission, taking his time despite himself. He's not usually one to be patient.

Unsurprisingly, you don't worry about the slow pace, your mind (and holes) practically melting around the spectral invasion. Not that your body needed much more preparation, either. Your pussy already clenches desperately, arousal from your earlier futile attempts dripping steadily down your thighs—more than enough to completely drench through your panties…had you bothered with any.

Your hair is suddenly wrapped in a fist of spectral energy, pulling your head back until your spine arches beautifully. While he continues to stretch you open below with other appendages, your scant negligee is lifted with agonizing care, the black lace silk gliding over the heated softness of your skin until it's bunched at your lower back. You're surprised to hear what sounds like a hitched breath. "Such a perfect body. Perfect little holes. I know how much you love having them stretched for me."

The graceful curve of your exposed form draws a deep, possessive growl from behind—a sound so primal it makes several books tremble on their shelves as he fills you even deeper than you knew possible. For all your summonings, you'd never once considered whether he actually felt anything—pleasure, want, need—or if he was simply cursed to fulfill your desires without reward. 

"What a pretty slut, always ready to get used by me every night," he murmurs appreciatively with a grunt. The press against both your entrances immediately becomes more demanding, more possessive. "It almost makes me sad to have to teach you a lesson." The width feels thicker than you're used to—much thicker than what he usually gives you—as if he's determined to stretch your limits from the very start. 

At least he paces himself as he enters your rim, wise enough to test until you can open up for him more easily. Yet that only makes you arch your back and mouth fall open, a soft whimper escaping as you savor the exquisite torture. "Yet still so tight even though you're such a needy desperate whore," he breathes, pulling out momentarily. You feel the warm sensation as he trickles a spectral slick drip down between the plump flesh of your rear, the ethereal fluid coating your pussy before gravity can claim it.

Only then does he push back in with noticeably less resistance, the supernatural lubricant easing his way without pause. Yet none of the overwhelming stretch diminishes; if anything, his essence seems to heighten every nerve ending it touches. As if that weren't torturous enough, you feel ridges begin to form along the length, grinding against your sensitized walls with agonizingly slowness.

You clench around him with shameless need, your walls gripping him with greedy hunger. "Mmm. P-lease." You're already begging aloud, knowing how unconvincing your next words will sound. After all, this is exactly what you climbed those ancient stairs for. Prepared your skin with jasmine oils in a bath where you'd cleaned every inch of yourself—inside and out—with painstaking care. Practiced the incantation until your tongue knew every syllable. "I didn't do anything wrong. I said your words perfectly—"

"Then let me take care of you properly. Isn't that why you're here, after all?" His strange accent colors every syllable, but it's the uncaring tone that makes your nipples peak beneath the silk of  your gown and walls clasp even more tightly, gripping him like a vise. He groans, the sound booming and strained as if he's fighting for control against the overwhelming grip threatening to undo him. The Watchful Eyes flicker back and forth rapidly from their hiding spots, practically vibrating with anticipation at the heat of promise in his voice. "Just relax for me so I can make you feel good."

His phantom touch doesn't let up, and a light sheen of perspiration forms along your brow as the dizzying stretch finally pauses and settles into place, your walls fluttering around the pulsing heat of his appendages. The all-consuming sensation of being so thoroughly occupied, so overwhelmingly full as you're stretched and filled in a way that sends dizzying sparks through every nerve, leaves you trembling and already wrecked—skin flushed and burning, your pussy aching heavily with need. You're fighting the urge to rock back against him and beg for the friction you desperately crave, already coming apart at the seams before he's even begun to move. But you know better than to push your luck.

"There you go. There's my good girl," he coaxes, the words suspiciously honey-sweet as your tight grip on him gradually loosens at his beckoning. But just as soon as you do... "So pretty before I wreck you." 

The first thrust tears a raw cry from your throat, loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes scurrying. The tendrils wrapped around your ankles pulse at the sound, climbing higher to coil around your trembling thighs like living restraints, anchoring you perfectly in place for what's to come. 

And just in time, as he doesn't wait for you to adjust. He pulls halfway out, only to drive back into both your now-ready openings with brutal, merciless force in one, grunted go. "Thought you'd be greedy, hm?"

You cry out again against the pages beneath your face in a shattered moan, bound hands clenched into fists. Muscles tensed, you brace yourself for the next devastating one. And it doesn't disappoint. "You'll take exactly what I give you when I give it to you, and you're going to thank me for it."

He thrusts again and again. All the way until he's pressed snuggly against your barrier. Until you're a wreck of gasping whimpers, tears of overwhelming sensation streak down your cheeks and onto the pages beneath.

"Getting bored with me were you, my sneaky fuckdoll? Thought you'd try something new, hm?" Another deliberate push deeper. "That pathetic little act doesn't work on me, my pretty whore." More stretches you open as the appendages swell with each word, until the sheer pressure pushes you completely over the desk, breasts pressed against the scattered tomes beneath you. "You're going to learn some patience, aren't you?"

"Unhh!" The overwhelming fullness of him scrambles your thoughts entirely. Yet to neither of your surprise, you can't help yourself—helplessly starting to push back and meeting his thrusts despite the tight bindings. Your eyes roll back as waves of hedonistic sensations wash over you, the Watchful Eyes peering more obviously from between book spines. Knowing how tantalizing your body must look, especially responding to his possessive control, only serves to heighten your arousal—a delicious bonus for the exhibitionist desires you'd never admit aloud.

The ancient floorboards creak ominously beneath the force of his relentless pace, each brutal thrust driving you harder against the desk until the heavy wooden surface groans in protest. Each pounding stroke as he builds a steady rhythm sends your toes curling into your slippers, fingers digging painfully into your palms, nearly bringing the house tumbling down around you with your sobs of pleasure when he glides mind-numbingly fast, quick to find that one spot.

The flesh of your rear slaps repeatedly against the vengeance behind you, the graphic sounds of your squelching and his lewd, slick hammering making you squeeze forcefully around the fullness inside. With it, a fresh wave of slick arousal escapes and trails down your inner thighs, evidence of your need that he drinks in with starved and possessive eyes, hidden from your view. Not that he would ever show it, preferring to continue taunting and punishing your trickery instead.

"Had your fill, yet?"

He doesn't relent, repeatedly pistoning with a roughness that stokes the fire—until your rimmed opening feels like it will take no more. Despite that, only needy words spill unapologetically from your lips. "Please. Please…don't…stop."

"Don't stop? Look what a desperate slut you are for me."  Thrust. "So fucking—" Thrust. "Perfect—" Thrust. "For me" Thrust. "To break."

The purr and slight smile in his possessive voice at that last one is almost what sends you spiraling over the edge. It's clear he's not just fucking you; he's ruining you for anyone or anything else. Yet the way his rhythm falters just slightly, the barely perceptible tremor in his next thrust, tells you that you're not the only one teetering on the brink. You're both throbbing and leak uncontrollably, a gush of sticky wetness that spreads slickly between your joined forms.

"Fuck, you're such a perfect little plaything for me. Always so eager. Always ready to take whatever I give you, aren't you?" he asks surprisingly sounding breathless, and you nod frantically despite knowing full well it's the other way around—that he's the one who appears whenever you call, who fills you exactly how you crave. "I knew you'd take every bit for me like the desperate toy that you are."

But before you can even process the irony of his words, he's already repositioning you. One leg is lifted upward until your bent knee is placed at the edge of the desk—opening you up, exposing you even more to his greedy gaze, as he feasts his eyes on your unknowing form from behind. There's a tight grip on your hips and shoulders now, pulling your body back repeatedly onto his form. Simultaneously, another, more delicate tendril materializes, brushing feather-light over your swollen clit from beneath. The tendril splits open to reveal a warm, wet surface that latches onto your clit with gentle suction, a forked tongue flicking and swirling against the swollen nub in maddening patterns. Tears of overwhelming sensation escape as he toys with the sensitive bundle of nerves, knowing just how you like it.

"Please—fuck…please—I can't take anymore!" you sob brokenly, your voice barely recognizable as tears of pleasure stream down your face. Even the Watchful Eyes seem entranced by your desperate state, their gaze flickering rapidly back and forth as they drink in every tremor of your tightly-restrained body, gorging themselves on your helpless whimpers, the way you shudder with each deep thrust and rub of your clit, biting your lip raw in an attempt to stifle your cries.

You're teetering so close to the precipice. In fact, you'd promise him just about anything if he would finally let you tumble over that edge and find the release that will let you sleep peacefully afterward. You'd sell your very soul in this moment, ready to pledge yourself to him for eternity if it meant he'd finally grant you mercy. 

"I need it. Please. I need t-to come. I'll do an…ungh. Anything you want," you beg without regret, despite knowing the rules. He doesn't take the bait anyway, his rhythm suddenly slowing to an agonizing crawl until you're reduced to broken pleading even more. "I only want you. I can't think about anything else—"

Your desperate words fade into muffled sounds as your mouth is suddenly and sensually filled with smoky, ethereal energy. Instead of protesting further, the familiar weight on your tongue soothes you, and you begin to suck softly on the phantom appendage, the well-practiced motion gradually tempering your burning need into something more manageable.

"Is that better, princess?" he asks and you give him a muffled affirmation and a sniff, fearful he will stop if you don't.

Yet there's nothing that could have prepared you for how your skin turns feverish, heat radiating from every pore. How tears of powerlessness stream down your flushed cheeks. How your inner walls grip desperately, clamping down harshly at the impossibly thick tendril stretching your core, while you're stuffed completely full in all other ends, clit getting abused into numbness. The Watchful Eyes flick back and forth rapidly in excitement, sensing the edge of your pleasure is near.

So as soon as phantom palms materialize to cup your breasts through the silk—spectral fingers escaping to roll and pinch your hardened nipples—while another delivers sharp, repeated slaps to the curve of your ass, you shatter completely.

With a shriek loud enough to send the Watchful Eyes retreating into the deepest shadows between book spines, you cry out a name into the muffling tendril. Your walls clench rhythmically around the fullness within you as waves of release crash through your trembling, shaking form. Every muscle goes taut before dissolving into liquid pleasure, your body convulsing, rocking back greedily onto him for more even as the climax tears through you with an intensity that leaves you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.

The dual sensations of being so thoroughly filled send aftershocks rippling through you, each one making you gasp and shake anew as he gives you more, letting you take more and more and more as you crest over again while he whispers encouraging, sweet words into your ears to guide you each and every time.

Until finally, the last one.

As your trembling begins to subside once you've finally had your fill, and your body stills from the rocking, you feel the thick tendrils slowly withdrawing from your oversensitive body with an obscene squelch that makes you shiver. The spectral bonds around your thighs and ankles gradually loosen their grip too, dissolving back into the shadows like silk ribbons falling away.

"You did so good for me." His voice is thick and gravely as he whispers praise with genuine warmth, no longer rough with dominance—but soft with satisfaction. The irony never fails to amaze you: he's cursed to come when called—but it's always only you that does.

A gentle phantom touch pats your head tenderly, fingers combing through your disheveled hair with surprising affection before eventually, everything fades back into the ether. You're left there for a few precious moments, coming down from your high in blissful exhaustion. The Watchful Eyes have retreated too, now that they've had their fill of the spectacle, though you know they'll be back the next time.

When your breathing finally slows to an even rhythm and your lids droop heavily, a slight sting across your ass—a playful slap that makes you yelp—awakens you and signals it's time to return to bed. Free of all constraints, you place your hanging foot down and sit up, shaking the slight numbness from your legs and smoothing down your rumpled nightgown.

Taking the lamp to guide your way back down the creaking stairs, you pause, taking in the scene and recalling how it all started. Perhaps that's why, before you head out, you reach down to pick up the grimoire, slipping the thick book under your arm. Then, after chewing thoughtfully on your inner cheek, a devious smile spreads across your face before you reach down and take the other spells book too. 

After all, you might need them both again tonight.

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a/n: clearly I can't get enough of Naoya, human or otherwise 😌 This was my first time writing anything remotely like this so hope it does what it needs to! Thanks for reading and I would love to know what you think!!

[bunnying-182]

🖤🤍

[gumicons]

character kakashi hatake

anime naruto

ig: tojicons

[kakasaku-polivka-art]

My dear girls) For everyone who knows about the March 8th holiday and for those who don’t — happy holiday to all! 🌸

For present I decided to redraw my old artwork inspired by the cover of «painter of the night»

Love u all!)

[missmeimeimei]

Hubba hubba 🥵

[miss-meimei]

Guilty Pleasures

by: Miss_MeiMei

fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (manga / anime) pairing: Higuruma Hiromi/Succubus!FemReader rating: Explicit | MDNI tags: Succubus Reader-Insert, Lawyer Higuruma Hiromi, Alternate Universe - No Curses, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Gentleman kink, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Play, Lactation, Hand Jobs, Bathtub Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Paddling, Missionary Position, prone-bone position, Doggy Style, Cowgirl Position, Multiple Orgasms, Marathon Sex, Emotional Sex, Mating Press Position, Smut, Porn With Plot, Feelings Realization, Mutual Pining, Power Play, minor dark and supernatural elements, he's hot. he's tired. he's hot and tired., but at least we get a bathtub scene

3.6K words; also on ao3. Art by u/canxtanwe

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Summary:

As the town's most sought-after succubus, you've mastered the art of seduction. But your regular client—an exhausted, principled lawyer who visits only for conversation—proves frustratingly gentlemanly. It's a good thing you feast on delicious challenges. Yet when passion finally breaks through his restraint, you realize too late that some prey are more dangerous than any predator for a reason...and that perhaps you're the one who's been caught in the hunger you were meant to satisfy.

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Your kind had always been drawn to complexity. The more tortured the soul, the sweeter the feast. Yet as all things, such indulgences come at a price. The strong silent type was the most dangerous.

Or at least, that's what your experience as the town's most sought-after succubus taught you.

This one was a regular. Handsome, exhausted, disheveled in his lawyer's suit, the darkness beneath his eyes speaking volumes about his burdens. His life force flickered like a candle in the wind, yet somehow burned brighter than most. Aside from two times when he slipped, he had always been a gentleman—never asking you for intimate favors. He just spent his coins on your company and for you to listen to his tired ramblings—making you curious about what he really wanted from you.

Yet tonight feels different. Even now, as you wait for his punctual arrival (always at sundown—the end of mortal toil, when humans were most vulnerable to temptation), your legs twist thinking of what had happened when that gentleman facade was dropped.

The first time, you had been holding him in your arms as usual, his head nestled against your chest while you petted his messy dark hair. He'd been quiet this time—no complaining about the injustice of the justice system, no annoyance at his powerlessness in it all. As usual, he smelled divine, his natural scent causing your nipples to harden without control beneath your bustier, your body responding to him in ways that defied succubus nature. Usually, you controlled the arousal, not the other way around.

As astute as he was, he noticed, and as if that weren't enough, he undid the first few hooks until your breasts spilled free. Your heart pounds now, just as it did then, remembering that dark, unapologetic look in his eyes when his long tongue rolled out and the tip teased those peaks before he captured them in his mouth. Encouraged by the moan that couldn't help but escape, he sucked on your breasts raw—lavishing attention on one for hours and then another—until they poured with milk. The milk had appeared unbidden—a sign of deep emotional bonding that your kind rarely experienced. It should have terrified you.

Even then, you climaxed helplessly as he sucked them raw, down to the last drop. It was a small glimpse of what your customers feel after you've drained them dry.

The other time was when you had been preparing a meal for the both of you in the kitchen. Feeding him had become ritual, almost protective—strange behavior for a creature meant to consume, not nourish. After you'd seen how poorly the man had been taking care of himself, you'd made it your mission to feed him at each visit.

You'd been at the stove, with the kettle on the stovetop and the fire beneath lit to heat it, when you felt that tall, strong presence behind you, enveloping you. One large hand wrapped around your hips, the other higher—loosely around your neck. You let him nibble at your ear as the hand below lifted your dress up to find that bare womanhood wet and wanting. He wasted no time, wordlessly sliding his fingers into that needy space and roughly pushing deeper—long fingers making your eyes roll back as you clamped tightly around them in desperation. He pushed on your back until your face was almost scorched from the kettle's steam, yet you were too far gone to care—the roughness with which he worked your walls making you scream as you climaxed, louder than the squeal of the boiling kettle. Your climax came easily and without feeding from him—another impossibility. Succubi climaxed from the drain, not from mere touch.

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring how you had to steady yourself as you pulled your dress back down, simply washing his hands in the sink and leaving, as if nothing happened.

Usually your customers are the ones that you have to shoo from your front steps, yet that's what got you hooked on this man for a change. The pretending. The way he acted like nothing happened. The holding back, too. He was reversing the natural order—making the predator chase the prey.

That's why today, you've decided you will test the limits. It is your job after all, one that you take great pride in given your many skills. It's also the reason you endure this dangerous profession, having to change locations every few weeks so that the authorities will stay off your trail with all their tiresome concerns. Too many men have lost their senses because of you. Too many have left their wives because of you. Too many have been wandering the streets, as if their very soul has been drained—which it had been, of course.

Empty husks were the price of doing business.

The familiar knock at the door interrupts your thoughts and you hurry to answer. You take a moment to make sure your hairstyle is neat and in place, smoothing down your classy yet curve-hugging dress before swinging it open. Your natural glamour would usually shimmer around you like heat waves—but with him, you'd long since stopped relying on supernatural allure.

He stands, hands in pockets, looking more worn than usual. More fragile. You clench your fists to restrain yourself from reaching out and yanking him in by that dark necktie, thinking how delicious it will be when you finally seduce him for a change. Your teeth momentarily bite down on your lips, wishing to mark him as yours in the ancient way.

"Hello," you say instead, hesitantly, playing with the necklace at your throat. Are you nervous? He doesn't respond, just eyes you up and down with such a heated look that sends your toes curling in your heels before he pushes his way past you and inside.

Before he settles down on the chaise as he usually does, you call out—"I've prepared a bath for you today if you'd like to head upstairs!"

He pauses in his tracks, and without turning, nods and climbs the stairs. You let out a breath of relief; not that he's a fickle man but, he did seem commanding sometimes.

You shut the door and hurry to finish arranging the scones and tea on a tray, carrying it with you as you follow him up. Nudging the door open with your hip and entering the bathroom, you nearly drop it at the sight of him.

He's lounging in the claw-foot tub, arms draped over the sides, eyes shut, head tilted back over the edge. But it's not the strong lines of his throat that captivates you. Nor that strong, pronounced aquiline nose that adds to his appeal. It's the fact that he's still in his suit, fully clothed as he awaits your arrival. Trust. Complete, vulnerable trust. The rarest delicacy.

Few sights can shake you to the core after years of this hardened work. Yet this has you gulping hard to swallow the lump in your throat, shakily setting the tray down on the end table by the tub. You quickly settle down on the stool next to it lest your legs give out, and before you can lose the bravery you started with when planning this whole thing, you reach in steadily and scoop some water in your cupped palm.

As you ladle some of it onto that taut chest—dress shirt, loosened tie, jacket and all—he does what he usually does: tell you of his day and his troubles.

The judge denied the appeal again. The prosecution wants a retrial. The client is a dick, but he's innocent...

And so on, while you listen without saying a word, until the sun's rays peeking from the window nearly disappear—when the veil between worlds grew thin and your power peaked.

Why is it then that draining him is the last thing you want to do? You pour some more heated water to warm the cooling bath as he finally grows silent, the clothed elephant in the room seeming more normal as you gaze upon his now-slumbering form. So what if your heart aches with unfamiliar longing for this mysterious, nameless man who always finds your hideouts even when you never tell him where they are? So what if he's there neither for pleasure nor gain, but just to be? So what if you're starting to fall for those gentlemanly manners, him putting your needs above any that he might have—not to mention that strong line of his jaw, that broad physique and gravelly voice?

Can you blame yourself?

In a way you do, and the emotions have you grabbing the untouched tray as an excuse to carry it out and leave. Emotion was weakness for your kind—it clouded the hunt, complicated the feed. But then, before you can even reach for its handle, the hand hanging over the edge of the tub shoots out and wraps around your wrist.

You startle, eyes flicking to where he still appears asleep. But he pulls you closer, until your knees hit the wooden floor at the side of the tub, positioning you kneeling beside him. The position was one of worship—fitting, since he was quickly becoming your new religion.

He places your hand on his chest—then lower, along what you're surprised to find is a firm, etched belly—and leaves it there, not yet pressing you for anything more. Nervously, you lick your lips, then flatten your tense fist, slowly edging it lower. Your enhanced senses picked up every nuance of his arousal—the quickening pulse, the shifting pheromones, the building heat.

Surprised yet pleased by the manly groan in response, you keep going, until you reach the belt at his waist. The sound of the metal unbuckling solicits another grunt, one that sends you into a flurry of action—unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, pulling down his briefs—until you reach your heart's desire.

Just then, his head tilts up and one eye peels open. You're sure he can see how your own eyes widen like saucers as you behold the magnificence of his manhood. He's endowed well beyond your expectations and—you well, you know what you can and can't handle.

Your heart pounds in your chest as the soothing slosh of the water does little to calm your excitement when you first wrap your fingers around that swollen cock. He remains passive, only observing you as you run your fist loosely along the long shaft. He's thick, heavy in a way that has you immaturely wondering how he manages to walk around with it without drawing suspicion. But your thoughts are quickly banished as he releases a shuddering breath when your thumb begins to circle the slit at the head.

His life force pulsed beneath your palm—rich, complex, and so, so intoxicating. You could feed for months on what he offered freely, if only he let you. He pushes deeper into your hand, lifting himself slightly while being careful not to make the water spill over the edge. He's intent on watching your hand as it caresses him steadily, pulling the loose skin over the head again and again until sweat beads beneath the hair on his forehead.

With all your expertise, he's already close—you can feel it—and you haven't even used the charm in your necklace yet. Haven't even wanted to. For the first time in your long existence, you wanted a man to come apart from your touch alone, not your magic.

He covers the sides of his face with one both hands, eyes wide, rolled back, tilting his head back in surrender. All it takes is one final, firm tug and he's gone—heat spilling over your hand as he comes with a loud, sensual groan. He continues gasping as the droplets of his release float on the water, but all you can do is fix your gaze on him, his chest rising and falling as his eyes flick down to your lips, lower to your breasts, then back to settle on the necklace at your throat.

The necklace—your focus stone—pulses warm against your skin, responding to him in earnest. And when his eyes snap to yours again, the message is loud and clear.

Use it.

----

The slow and steady motion of him rocking into you has you slowly losing your sanity.

Never have you witnessed such endurance, such prowess as this suddenly revitalized man possesses. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer from where he has you splayed beneath him on your bed, but all it accomplishes is making him sink deeper and hold out even longer. The steady rhythm should have allowed you to work your influence gradually, but instead you find yourself completely at his mercy.

The way he hovers only a breath from your lips has you clenching desperately, your walls wrapping around him as if promising never to let go. How he gazes deep into your eyes only makes you want to worship that face with reverent kisses, thread your fingers earnestly through that tousled hair.

He leans down, cock throbbing heavily inside you as he takes your breasts between his lips, circling the soft flesh with his tongue before he suckles the peaks in earnest. His eyes remain fixed on you as his expert ministrations coax your milk to flow. He grunts in pleasure, driving his length deeper as he drinks his fill.

With a soft release he pulls away, swiping his tongue over his lips for one final taste before leaning back. This time he lifts one of your legs to open you wider and you arch wantonly in need, wondering if for the first time, you will climax before a client does. But he's not a client anymore is he now? He's—

"Higuruma."

He finally whispers his name and it's what undoes you completely. You push back onto the cock nearly splitting you apart with voracious need and he accepts the challenge, pounding into you with renewed vigor as your wetness floods around him. He pulls your other leg back to join the first over your head, thighs pressing against your belly and breasts, and still connected—braces himself on his knees for leverage to make you lose complete control. The angle has him striking your sweet spot achingly, devastatingly perfect: all it takes to shatter you entirely.

Your fingers grip the sheets desperately as waves of ecstasy crash over you in relentless succession, your body convulsing around him as pleasure burns through every inch of your body until you're sobbing his name. But still, he holds back. Even in the throes of climax, some distant part of your mind marvels at his control—no mortal should possess such restraint.

Only his soft kisses along your neck and beneath your jaw anchor you back to reality. It's clear neither of you is finished as, when he flips you over, you're already arching to take him wholly again. He flattens you instead, pushing you down with a roughness that should no longer surprise you. Sure enough, by the time he's buried deep again, you're welcoming the brutality, even as his strong hand wraps around your throat, driving into you like he's punishing you for some unknown transgression.

His other hand comes around, slipping between the mattress and your breast to torment them once more. You feel the edge approaching again—yet the swiftness has your pride flaring. You draw upon your necklace's power gradually, not wanting to end this too quickly...just enough to heighten his pleasure. A string of explicit curses slips from his lips, the ever-composed attorney finally losing control. He grips your hair as he ruts into you without restraint, raw until your walls burn and nearly tear, yet you take it all, welcoming the dark pleasure like salvation itself.

The flesh of your backside slaps repeatedly against him before he buries himself completely one final time. He finally empties into you with a soul-shattering groan, all his pent-up desire finally releasing as he fills you utterly—like his very life depends on it.

You barely have time to utter the spell that would prevent seed from taking hold as he takes no respite, hand moving down to torment your sensitive bud and making you follow soon after. Your walls are still fluttering around his thickness from your orgasm when he pulls you up to all fours, landing slap after slap on your rounded flesh with a paddle he must have retrieved from your collection. Like a judge hammering his gavel, he never relents, delivering pleasurable strikes that have you writhing beneath him and chasing climax after climax.

Later, when you finally straddle him with purpose, something shifts. Your movements become fluid, hypnotic—calling upon the Old Knowledge as you roll your hips in patterns that would drive saints to madness. His hands grip your waist as you rise and fall, your hair cascading around you both like a curtain, and for the first time tonight you feel truly in control.

Then his eyes find yours; not glazed with lust or emptied by pleasure as you see night after night. But warm, tender, completely present—and you realize with startling clarity that this isn't conquest. When he reaches up to cup your face with trembling hands, whispering your name like a prayer, you see it there in his gaze: love, pure and devastating and entirely real.

Only when you're lying on his chest, breathing softly, sheets damp and tangled around your entwined bodies as dawn approaches, do you both finally still. The necklace lies cool against your throat, unused for hours now, you realize with wonder.

Whatever happened between you transcended magic entirely. For the first time in more years than you can count, you feel genuinely safe, cherished, whole.

Then, as soon as your breathing evens, your pulse steadies—

"I can't let you do this anymore."

The haziness of your mind barely allows you to process his words, spoken so softly and with such regret that you're certain you've misheard them.

You turn your face to the window, savoring the rays of the next day's sunshine warming your skin as you nestle your cheek against him. His heart beats steadily, convincing you that the moment remains undisturbed.

Only when his fingers find your chin, turning your face to meet that resolute expression in his eyes, do you realize something is terribly wrong. Your skin prickles and your muscles tense at what you see there. He should look drained, depleted, but he appears exactly as always—tired yet unmistakably himself. No mortal should retain such clarity after what you'd shared all night.

"I'm going to have to turn you in."

Your eyes search his desperately, breath caught. Had you always noticed how beautiful they were? How despite the profound sadness there, how he still gazed at you with such love and tenderness?

Wordlessly, you hide your face against his chest and he wraps his arms around you protectively, fingers stroking through your hair even as tears flow freely down your cheeks.

Despite your weeping—or perhaps because of it—you feel him hardening beneath you again. And you, with nothing left to lose, respond with desperate passion. You move together, every motion slow and reverent as he settles atop you one final time. He whispers of your beauty, of your strength, that despite everything, he'll never abandon you. He promises many things you don't believe, even as you're wrecked, completely shattering around him in gentle waves.

True to his word, he dresses you afterward with infinite care, remaining by your side when the constables arrive to escort you away. He's there during the interrogation too, as they ask about your victims while he interjects sharply, ensuring you reveal nothing further that might damn you.

When your hands are shackled and you're being led to your cell to await trial, he walks alongside you, fingers briefly brushing yours. And finally, when iron bars separate you both, he gives you something precious, something you've been waiting since that first time you've set your eyes on him.

Your first, and perhaps, your last kiss.

"You'll be okay. You're strong."

You nod, understanding without needing to ask. You'd listened to those ramblings, knew his sense of justice prevailed over all. But as he always does, he surprises you, turns to address the guard. "Time for my confession, I suppose." Before you can jump in to stop him, he starts, "I, Higuruma, admit to the crime of solicitation. I willingly sought the services of this woman, knowing full well her nature. I..."

The words fade as you study that noble profile you've come to adore, to love, and to yearn for. Only when he finishes and turns to give you one final look—tender and heartbreaking and full of promises—do you emerge from your shock and give him a small smile.

"See you on the other side?" he asks.

His smile back is sad but certain, and you realize that somehow, impossibly, he'd known what you were from the very beginning. Not just your profession or your ways, but truly who you are beneath it all. Perhaps that's why your powers never fully worked on him. Perhaps that's why this feels less like an ending than a strange, twisted beginning.

And against all reason, all logic, all hope, you nod.

Perhaps you will.

A/n:

Well that ending was quite the emotional rollercoaster to write! Idk about you guys, but I'm rooting for them🥲 Anyways thanks for reading and I would absolutely love to know what you guys think💕

[missmeimeimei]

HOLD ME BACK

[the-hokage-of-peace]

If you think Kakashi reads porn, you’ve only watched Naruto through TikTok videos.

[An other long post because this is one of those misconceptions again that take me out.]

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There is a difference between a running gag and a character flaw. And somewhere along the way, fandom decided to collapse that difference... which honestly makes me a little sad.

Yes, Kakashi reads the Icha Icha series written by Jiraiya. That is canon.

But what those books are, and how the narrative frames them, matters a lot.

So let's look at them - what they are:

They are adult romance novels.

They are text-based fiction (yes, with erotica in them, but also with plot, emotional arcs, longing, and melodrama woven into the story.) They are publicly sold and serialized.

They are treated in the Naruto universe as mildly embarrassing comedy.

What they are NOT:

They are not depicted as graphic magazines (everything's based on the reader's imagination)

They are not framed as moral corruption hidden behind a cute cover.

They are not presented as something dark or predatory (They really aren't)

The joke about the books is simple.

Kakashi reads them at the worst possible times - during missions, during conversations, in moments that demand seriousness.

The humor comes from the contrast: An elite, battle-hardened jonin calmly holding a smutty romance novel while chaos unfolds around him.

That’s the punchline.

Not that he’s depraved. Not that he’s secretly sick. Not that he’s a predator.

If that were the intent, the framing would be entirely different.

Canon even reinforces how harmless they are.

When Naruto returns from training with Jiraiya after three years, he brings Kakashi the newest volume of the Icha Icha series as a gift.He also penly admits that what’s inside the book is boring. He says he doesn’t understand why Kakashi likes it. But he gives it to him anyway, because he knows Kakashi enjoys reading them.

And what's also important is that:

He isn’t disgusted. He isn’t scandalized. He isn’t disturbed by the content - and he clearly knows it to some extent.

If these books were meant to signal predatory behavior, the narrative would not treat them this way. Naruto, the teenage protagonist, would not casually hand one over with mild annoyance and a shrug.

The story frames Kakashi's reading habits as a character quirk. Nothing less, nothing more.

And from the Kakashi retsuren novels we also get to know that he genuinely enjoys reading in general... these books just happen to be his favorites.

Then there’s how Kakashi relates to women based purely on what we actually see in the canon materials.

(Yes, i do consider the novels canon as Kishimoto supervised them.)

He respects Tsunade.

Not just formally as Hokage, but genuinely. He listens to her. He trusts her judgment. There is no condescension in how he speaks to her.

He is consistently kind to Sakura.

He mentors her. He protects her. He acknowledges her growth. He takes her potential seriously - not as "the girl on the team," but as a capable fighter and medic.

And No - I don’t think that moment where Kakashi warns Sakura about soldier pills was meant to be inappropriate.

He is cautioning her. The context of the scene is about the physical consequences of using soldier pills. When he says, “especially for a girl your age…” and Sakura reacts before he finishes the sentence, the phrasing creates room for interpretation. Temari responds to how it sounds - and from her perspective, the wording could be taken the wrong way. But the narrative does not give us any confirmation that Kakashi intended it that way. We never see a follow-up that supports a body-shaming or sexual meaning. The scene moves on.

Actually we see a similar pattern in a scene where Kakashi tries to express appreciation toward Naruto and phrases it in a way that sounds unintentionally strange - something along the lines of, “I’m really starting to take a liking to you, Kiddo.

Naruto immediately reacts as if it sounds weird. And all the teenagers start to speculating about their sexuality.

Again, the awkwardness of it comes from the delivery, not from hidden romantic intent.

Kakashi consistently struggles with articulating care in a smooth, emotionally polished way. When he tries to express concern, appreciation, or attachment, it often comes out bluntly or ambiguously - and other characters react to how it sounds rather than what he means.

Now, moving on to Rin.

What Kakashi carries for Rin lasts a lifetime. It shapes him in his youth, haunts him for years, and follows him into adulthood.

Even after a long while, even when his trauma becomes integrated and quieter - he still remembers her, but now from a place of quiet acceptance.

And most importantly:

He never catcalls women.

He never makes sexual comments toward them.

He never disrespects women because they are women.

He never treats women as inherently weaker or lesser.

There is no canon moment where Kakashi belittles a woman’s capability simply because she is female. There is no casual sexism. No entitlement. Nothing.

His “Icha Icha” gag never spills into how he interacts with actual women in his life. The boundary is absolute there.

And when you move into post-war canon - Kakashi Hiden - the direction becomes even clearer.

His romantic interest there is not naive. He doesn't fall for a young and easily influenced women or someone who would be dazzled by his power.

He quietly falls to a mature woman, who is politically competent, emotionally complex, carries her own trauma and strong in her own right.

If Kakashi were written as a shallow pervert archetype, that would not be the narrative choice in the novel either.

Instead, he is drawn to someone who mirrors him in depth and resilience, to an equal in age, experience, and strength.

That is why reducing Kakashi Hatake to a “funny porn addict” ignores the framing, the consistency of his behavior, and the emotional depth of his character.

If we’re going to critique characters, let’s critique what is actually there.

Because canon Kakashi is many things: mildly detached, grieving, guarded, sarcastic, deeply loyal, profoundly shaped by trauma.

But a predatory pervert?

That’s a ridiculously wrong fandom take.

And if his only "perversion" is reading smutty romance novels publicly without harming anyone, without disrespecting anyone, without objectifying the women in his life? Then that says more about how fandom chooses to frame him than about how he is actually written.

Especially when you consider who Kakashi is early in the series.

He is carrying unresolved trauma. He is living with active survivor’s guilt. He is emotionally isolated because he avoids connection out of fear of loss.

It is not unreasonable to read his attachment to those romance novels as escapism - as longing filtered through distance. Stories about connection, intimacy, and emotional closeness consumed safely on a page.

For someone struggling with intimacy because of complex PTSD, that interpretation makes far more narrative sense than the caricature people reduce him to.

You can dislike the gag. That's fair. You can critique Kishimoto’s humor.

But turning Kakashi into a meme about porn addiction isn’t all right.

It’s a wild fan take that collapses nuance for the sake of exaggeration.

And Kakashi - as he is written - deserves much better than that.

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Sorry again for posting such a long take on this one, but my nerves catch on fire when i hear someone casually calls him a pervert because they were too lazy to actually get to know the story and the narrative around the character.

Also: I added some scenes for reference. Please share the post if you like it. And thank you for visiting my blog. 🥰

[missmeimeimei]

RT!!

[miss-meimei]

Guilty Pleasures

by: Miss_MeiMei

fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (manga / anime) pairing: Higuruma Hiromi/Succubus!FemReader rating: Explicit | MDNI tags: Succubus Reader-Insert, Lawyer Higuruma Hiromi, Alternate Universe - No Curses, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Gentleman kink, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Play, Lactation, Hand Jobs, Bathtub Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Paddling, Missionary Position, prone-bone position, Doggy Style, Cowgirl Position, Multiple Orgasms, Marathon Sex, Emotional Sex, Mating Press Position, Smut, Porn With Plot, Feelings Realization, Mutual Pining, Power Play, minor dark and supernatural elements, he's hot. he's tired. he's hot and tired., but at least we get a bathtub scene

3.6K words; also on ao3. Art by u/canxtanwe

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Summary:

As the town's most sought-after succubus, you've mastered the art of seduction. But your regular client—an exhausted, principled lawyer who visits only for conversation—proves frustratingly gentlemanly. It's a good thing you feast on delicious challenges. Yet when passion finally breaks through his restraint, you realize too late that some prey are more dangerous than any predator for a reason...and that perhaps you're the one who's been caught in the hunger you were meant to satisfy.

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Your kind had always been drawn to complexity. The more tortured the soul, the sweeter the feast. Yet as all things, such indulgences come at a price. The strong silent type was the most dangerous.

Or at least, that's what your experience as the town's most sought-after succubus taught you.

This one was a regular. Handsome, exhausted, disheveled in his lawyer's suit, the darkness beneath his eyes speaking volumes about his burdens. His life force flickered like a candle in the wind, yet somehow burned brighter than most. Aside from two times when he slipped, he had always been a gentleman—never asking you for intimate favors. He just spent his coins on your company and for you to listen to his tired ramblings—making you curious about what he really wanted from you.

Yet tonight feels different. Even now, as you wait for his punctual arrival (always at sundown—the end of mortal toil, when humans were most vulnerable to temptation), your legs twist thinking of what had happened when that gentleman facade was dropped.

The first time, you had been holding him in your arms as usual, his head nestled against your chest while you petted his messy dark hair. He'd been quiet this time—no complaining about the injustice of the justice system, no annoyance at his powerlessness in it all. As usual, he smelled divine, his natural scent causing your nipples to harden without control beneath your bustier, your body responding to him in ways that defied succubus nature. Usually, you controlled the arousal, not the other way around.

As astute as he was, he noticed, and as if that weren't enough, he undid the first few hooks until your breasts spilled free. Your heart pounds now, just as it did then, remembering that dark, unapologetic look in his eyes when his long tongue rolled out and the tip teased those peaks before he captured them in his mouth. Encouraged by the moan that couldn't help but escape, he sucked on your breasts raw—lavishing attention on one for hours and then another—until they poured with milk. The milk had appeared unbidden—a sign of deep emotional bonding that your kind rarely experienced. It should have terrified you.

Even then, you climaxed helplessly as he sucked them raw, down to the last drop. It was a small glimpse of what your customers feel after you've drained them dry.

The other time was when you had been preparing a meal for the both of you in the kitchen. Feeding him had become ritual, almost protective—strange behavior for a creature meant to consume, not nourish. After you'd seen how poorly the man had been taking care of himself, you'd made it your mission to feed him at each visit.

You'd been at the stove, with the kettle on the stovetop and the fire beneath lit to heat it, when you felt that tall, strong presence behind you, enveloping you. One large hand wrapped around your hips, the other higher—loosely around your neck. You let him nibble at your ear as the hand below lifted your dress up to find that bare womanhood wet and wanting. He wasted no time, wordlessly sliding his fingers into that needy space and roughly pushing deeper—long fingers making your eyes roll back as you clamped tightly around them in desperation. He pushed on your back until your face was almost scorched from the kettle's steam, yet you were too far gone to care—the roughness with which he worked your walls making you scream as you climaxed, louder than the squeal of the boiling kettle. Your climax came easily and without feeding from him—another impossibility. Succubi climaxed from the drain, not from mere touch.

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring how you had to steady yourself as you pulled your dress back down, simply washing his hands in the sink and leaving, as if nothing happened.

Usually your customers are the ones that you have to shoo from your front steps, yet that's what got you hooked on this man for a change. The pretending. The way he acted like nothing happened. The holding back, too. He was reversing the natural order—making the predator chase the prey.

That's why today, you've decided you will test the limits. It is your job after all, one that you take great pride in given your many skills. It's also the reason you endure this dangerous profession, having to change locations every few weeks so that the authorities will stay off your trail with all their tiresome concerns. Too many men have lost their senses because of you. Too many have left their wives because of you. Too many have been wandering the streets, as if their very soul has been drained—which it had been, of course.

Empty husks were the price of doing business.

The familiar knock at the door interrupts your thoughts and you hurry to answer. You take a moment to make sure your hairstyle is neat and in place, smoothing down your classy yet curve-hugging dress before swinging it open. Your natural glamour would usually shimmer around you like heat waves—but with him, you'd long since stopped relying on supernatural allure.

He stands, hands in pockets, looking more worn than usual. More fragile. You clench your fists to restrain yourself from reaching out and yanking him in by that dark necktie, thinking how delicious it will be when you finally seduce him for a change. Your teeth momentarily bite down on your lips, wishing to mark him as yours in the ancient way.

"Hello," you say instead, hesitantly, playing with the necklace at your throat. Are you nervous? He doesn't respond, just eyes you up and down with such a heated look that sends your toes curling in your heels before he pushes his way past you and inside.

Before he settles down on the chaise as he usually does, you call out—"I've prepared a bath for you today if you'd like to head upstairs!"

He pauses in his tracks, and without turning, nods and climbs the stairs. You let out a breath of relief; not that he's a fickle man but, he did seem commanding sometimes.

You shut the door and hurry to finish arranging the scones and tea on a tray, carrying it with you as you follow him up. Nudging the door open with your hip and entering the bathroom, you nearly drop it at the sight of him.

He's lounging in the claw-foot tub, arms draped over the sides, eyes shut, head tilted back over the edge. But it's not the strong lines of his throat that captivates you. Nor that strong, pronounced aquiline nose that adds to his appeal. It's the fact that he's still in his suit, fully clothed as he awaits your arrival. Trust. Complete, vulnerable trust. The rarest delicacy.

Few sights can shake you to the core after years of this hardened work. Yet this has you gulping hard to swallow the lump in your throat, shakily setting the tray down on the end table by the tub. You quickly settle down on the stool next to it lest your legs give out, and before you can lose the bravery you started with when planning this whole thing, you reach in steadily and scoop some water in your cupped palm.

As you ladle some of it onto that taut chest—dress shirt, loosened tie, jacket and all—he does what he usually does: tell you of his day and his troubles.

The judge denied the appeal again. The prosecution wants a retrial. The client is a dick, but he's innocent...

And so on, while you listen without saying a word, until the sun's rays peeking from the window nearly disappear—when the veil between worlds grew thin and your power peaked.

Why is it then that draining him is the last thing you want to do? You pour some more heated water to warm the cooling bath as he finally grows silent, the clothed elephant in the room seeming more normal as you gaze upon his now-slumbering form. So what if your heart aches with unfamiliar longing for this mysterious, nameless man who always finds your hideouts even when you never tell him where they are? So what if he's there neither for pleasure nor gain, but just to be? So what if you're starting to fall for those gentlemanly manners, him putting your needs above any that he might have—not to mention that strong line of his jaw, that broad physique and gravelly voice?

Can you blame yourself?

In a way you do, and the emotions have you grabbing the untouched tray as an excuse to carry it out and leave. Emotion was weakness for your kind—it clouded the hunt, complicated the feed. But then, before you can even reach for its handle, the hand hanging over the edge of the tub shoots out and wraps around your wrist.

You startle, eyes flicking to where he still appears asleep. But he pulls you closer, until your knees hit the wooden floor at the side of the tub, positioning you kneeling beside him. The position was one of worship—fitting, since he was quickly becoming your new religion.

He places your hand on his chest—then lower, along what you're surprised to find is a firm, etched belly—and leaves it there, not yet pressing you for anything more. Nervously, you lick your lips, then flatten your tense fist, slowly edging it lower. Your enhanced senses picked up every nuance of his arousal—the quickening pulse, the shifting pheromones, the building heat.

Surprised yet pleased by the manly groan in response, you keep going, until you reach the belt at his waist. The sound of the metal unbuckling solicits another grunt, one that sends you into a flurry of action—unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, pulling down his briefs—until you reach your heart's desire.

Just then, his head tilts up and one eye peels open. You're sure he can see how your own eyes widen like saucers as you behold the magnificence of his manhood. He's endowed well beyond your expectations and—you well, you know what you can and can't handle.

Your heart pounds in your chest as the soothing slosh of the water does little to calm your excitement when you first wrap your fingers around that swollen cock. He remains passive, only observing you as you run your fist loosely along the long shaft. He's thick, heavy in a way that has you immaturely wondering how he manages to walk around with it without drawing suspicion. But your thoughts are quickly banished as he releases a shuddering breath when your thumb begins to circle the slit at the head.

His life force pulsed beneath your palm—rich, complex, and so, so intoxicating. You could feed for months on what he offered freely, if only he let you. He pushes deeper into your hand, lifting himself slightly while being careful not to make the water spill over the edge. He's intent on watching your hand as it caresses him steadily, pulling the loose skin over the head again and again until sweat beads beneath the hair on his forehead.

With all your expertise, he's already close—you can feel it—and you haven't even used the charm in your necklace yet. Haven't even wanted to. For the first time in your long existence, you wanted a man to come apart from your touch alone, not your magic.

He covers the sides of his face with one both hands, eyes wide, rolled back, tilting his head back in surrender. All it takes is one final, firm tug and he's gone—heat spilling over your hand as he comes with a loud, sensual groan. He continues gasping as the droplets of his release float on the water, but all you can do is fix your gaze on him, his chest rising and falling as his eyes flick down to your lips, lower to your breasts, then back to settle on the necklace at your throat.

The necklace—your focus stone—pulses warm against your skin, responding to him in earnest. And when his eyes snap to yours again, the message is loud and clear.

Use it.

----

The slow and steady motion of him rocking into you has you slowly losing your sanity.

Never have you witnessed such endurance, such prowess as this suddenly revitalized man possesses. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer from where he has you splayed beneath him on your bed, but all it accomplishes is making him sink deeper and hold out even longer. The steady rhythm should have allowed you to work your influence gradually, but instead you find yourself completely at his mercy.

The way he hovers only a breath from your lips has you clenching desperately, your walls wrapping around him as if promising never to let go. How he gazes deep into your eyes only makes you want to worship that face with reverent kisses, thread your fingers earnestly through that tousled hair.

He leans down, cock throbbing heavily inside you as he takes your breasts between his lips, circling the soft flesh with his tongue before he suckles the peaks in earnest. His eyes remain fixed on you as his expert ministrations coax your milk to flow. He grunts in pleasure, driving his length deeper as he drinks his fill.

With a soft release he pulls away, swiping his tongue over his lips for one final taste before leaning back. This time he lifts one of your legs to open you wider and you arch wantonly in need, wondering if for the first time, you will climax before a client does. But he's not a client anymore is he now? He's—

"Higuruma."

He finally whispers his name and it's what undoes you completely. You push back onto the cock nearly splitting you apart with voracious need and he accepts the challenge, pounding into you with renewed vigor as your wetness floods around him. He pulls your other leg back to join the first over your head, thighs pressing against your belly and breasts, and still connected—braces himself on his knees for leverage to make you lose complete control. The angle has him striking your sweet spot achingly, devastatingly perfect: all it takes to shatter you entirely.

Your fingers grip the sheets desperately as waves of ecstasy crash over you in relentless succession, your body convulsing around him as pleasure burns through every inch of your body until you're sobbing his name. But still, he holds back. Even in the throes of climax, some distant part of your mind marvels at his control—no mortal should possess such restraint.

Only his soft kisses along your neck and beneath your jaw anchor you back to reality. It's clear neither of you is finished as, when he flips you over, you're already arching to take him wholly again. He flattens you instead, pushing you down with a roughness that should no longer surprise you. Sure enough, by the time he's buried deep again, you're welcoming the brutality, even as his strong hand wraps around your throat, driving into you like he's punishing you for some unknown transgression.

His other hand comes around, slipping between the mattress and your breast to torment them once more. You feel the edge approaching again—yet the swiftness has your pride flaring. You draw upon your necklace's power gradually, not wanting to end this too quickly...just enough to heighten his pleasure. A string of explicit curses slips from his lips, the ever-composed attorney finally losing control. He grips your hair as he ruts into you without restraint, raw until your walls burn and nearly tear, yet you take it all, welcoming the dark pleasure like salvation itself.

The flesh of your backside slaps repeatedly against him before he buries himself completely one final time. He finally empties into you with a soul-shattering groan, all his pent-up desire finally releasing as he fills you utterly—like his very life depends on it.

You barely have time to utter the spell that would prevent seed from taking hold as he takes no respite, hand moving down to torment your sensitive bud and making you follow soon after. Your walls are still fluttering around his thickness from your orgasm when he pulls you up to all fours, landing slap after slap on your rounded flesh with a paddle he must have retrieved from your collection. Like a judge hammering his gavel, he never relents, delivering pleasurable strikes that have you writhing beneath him and chasing climax after climax.

Later, when you finally straddle him with purpose, something shifts. Your movements become fluid, hypnotic—calling upon the Old Knowledge as you roll your hips in patterns that would drive saints to madness. His hands grip your waist as you rise and fall, your hair cascading around you both like a curtain, and for the first time tonight you feel truly in control.

Then his eyes find yours; not glazed with lust or emptied by pleasure as you see night after night. But warm, tender, completely present—and you realize with startling clarity that this isn't conquest. When he reaches up to cup your face with trembling hands, whispering your name like a prayer, you see it there in his gaze: love, pure and devastating and entirely real.

Only when you're lying on his chest, breathing softly, sheets damp and tangled around your entwined bodies as dawn approaches, do you both finally still. The necklace lies cool against your throat, unused for hours now, you realize with wonder.

Whatever happened between you transcended magic entirely. For the first time in more years than you can count, you feel genuinely safe, cherished, whole.

Then, as soon as your breathing evens, your pulse steadies—

"I can't let you do this anymore."

The haziness of your mind barely allows you to process his words, spoken so softly and with such regret that you're certain you've misheard them.

You turn your face to the window, savoring the rays of the next day's sunshine warming your skin as you nestle your cheek against him. His heart beats steadily, convincing you that the moment remains undisturbed.

Only when his fingers find your chin, turning your face to meet that resolute expression in his eyes, do you realize something is terribly wrong. Your skin prickles and your muscles tense at what you see there. He should look drained, depleted, but he appears exactly as always—tired yet unmistakably himself. No mortal should retain such clarity after what you'd shared all night.

"I'm going to have to turn you in."

Your eyes search his desperately, breath caught. Had you always noticed how beautiful they were? How despite the profound sadness there, how he still gazed at you with such love and tenderness?

Wordlessly, you hide your face against his chest and he wraps his arms around you protectively, fingers stroking through your hair even as tears flow freely down your cheeks.

Despite your weeping—or perhaps because of it—you feel him hardening beneath you again. And you, with nothing left to lose, respond with desperate passion. You move together, every motion slow and reverent as he settles atop you one final time. He whispers of your beauty, of your strength, that despite everything, he'll never abandon you. He promises many things you don't believe, even as you're wrecked, completely shattering around him in gentle waves.

True to his word, he dresses you afterward with infinite care, remaining by your side when the constables arrive to escort you away. He's there during the interrogation too, as they ask about your victims while he interjects sharply, ensuring you reveal nothing further that might damn you.

When your hands are shackled and you're being led to your cell to await trial, he walks alongside you, fingers briefly brushing yours. And finally, when iron bars separate you both, he gives you something precious, something you've been waiting since that first time you've set your eyes on him.

Your first, and perhaps, your last kiss.

"You'll be okay. You're strong."

You nod, understanding without needing to ask. You'd listened to those ramblings, knew his sense of justice prevailed over all. But as he always does, he surprises you, turns to address the guard. "Time for my confession, I suppose." Before you can jump in to stop him, he starts, "I, Higuruma, admit to the crime of solicitation. I willingly sought the services of this woman, knowing full well her nature. I..."

The words fade as you study that noble profile you've come to adore, to love, and to yearn for. Only when he finishes and turns to give you one final look—tender and heartbreaking and full of promises—do you emerge from your shock and give him a small smile.

"See you on the other side?" he asks.

His smile back is sad but certain, and you realize that somehow, impossibly, he'd known what you were from the very beginning. Not just your profession or your ways, but truly who you are beneath it all. Perhaps that's why your powers never fully worked on him. Perhaps that's why this feels less like an ending than a strange, twisted beginning.

And against all reason, all logic, all hope, you nod.

Perhaps you will.

A/n:

Well that ending was quite the emotional rollercoaster to write! Idk about you guys, but I'm rooting for them🥲 Anyways thanks for reading and I would absolutely love to know what you guys think💕

[miss-meimei]

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Letters Left Unsent

by: Miss_MeiMei

fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen (manga / anime) pairing: Zenin Naoya/Fem Reader rating: Explicit | MDNI tags: Traditional Setting, Clan Politics, Power Play, Emotional Manipulation, Fighting As Foreplay, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings, Female Gaze, Zenin Naoya is a Little Shit, misandrist reader, Zenin Naoya is His Own Warning, Semi-Public Sex, Rough Sex, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

3.8K words, one of four chapters; also on ao3

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## Chapter 1 - Two Wrongs Make a Right

You've always known the Zenin heir was beautiful in a way that borders on the otherworldly.

His striking looks were impossible to ignore during your inevitable encounters, whether you crossed paths in academy corridors or found him holding court at stuffy social gatherings where your circles overlapped. Even watching him corner some poor victim to drone on about tradition in that petulant, drawling voice, you couldn't help but stare. Which made the waste of such stunning beauty on an insufferable personality all the more galling.

Leave it to a man to ruin perfection by opening his mouth.

Not that acknowledging his appeal would ever serve a practical purpose anyway. You weren't some desperate fortune hunter chasing advantageous marriages nor short of your own admirers. So you'd simply filed it away with other useless observations, ignoring him as easily as you would a buzzing fly. Nothing personal, either. Just instinctive pragmatism born from a pattern you've observed since childhood: men's insufferable assumption that simply possessing a cock granted them the right to rule.

At least today, this ridiculously beautiful man will manage to serve a purpose for a change: demonstrating why birth and bluster mean nothing against true power.

It's fitting, really. Another heir who thinks his bloodline entitles him to victory, expecting you to prove yourself worthy, even though you'll make quick work of him. Sadly, that's the problem with being born into power. Everyone expects you to prove it.

Ironic, isn't it? That wielding true power means being forever bound to something you can never truly possess. Your family learned this six centuries ago when an unbreakable vow sealed your bloodline to become eternal custodians of every cursed tool in existence—and you, as the current heir, carry the single key that grants access to these weapons that every sorcerer worth their salt covets. Since no clan can risk losing access to these weapons, this elevated your lineage above the petty squabbles of the great houses, while making you an untouchable and neutral peace-maker in a world built on ancient rivalries. Such a position has granted you luxuries and wealth the great clans can only imagine but can never claim, while your role as keeper of their most coveted weapons makes you the perfect mediator when tensions rise. 

They may forge dynasties, but you hold the very key to their destruction.

The catch? Mastering such power requires finesse. You've had to learn to wield that double-edged sword, honing it sharper than any blade in your collection. Understanding how calculated moves carry weight, how every gathering serves multiple agendas, how old bloodlines weave their schemes...the usual dance. Such tactics demand putting on a proper face at functions (you can't broker peace from afar after all), playing by at least some of their rules. Rules that include enduring tedious, theatrical exhibitions like this very one.

Of all days.

You have pressing responsibilities that actually matter, with people counting on you to ensure tonight's gala runs flawlessly—something you want to scream for every person present to hear. Yet here you stand—fury simmering beneath the polite obligation of your cordially requested participation in a ceremonial melee, trapped by the very obligations that afford you privilege. Small wonder your patience is running thin.

As if on cue, the opening gong's metallic ring resounds through the vast arena, louder than a battle cry demanding blood. Your composure remains flawless—not a creature in attendance could detect the storm brewing beneath your serene exterior. Not a single furrow creasing your brow or hint of displeasure touching your lips, mindful of dutifully representing your family well. 

Servants rush to guide the assembled nobility, ushering them to their designated places for the start of the sparring match. Dozens of distinguished spectators—weathered clan elders with calculating eyes, silk-draped heirs, ambitious cousins hungry for any sign of weakness—hurriedly settle into the ornate tiered galleries. Each guest is respectfully escorted to their seat, positioned according to rank and bloodline in a hierarchy as rigid as the ancient stones supporting this very hall, as the final reverberations of the gong fade into expectant silence.

While masquerading as a friendly exhibition match, this encounter will have the great houses vying to prove why they deserve to rule while others stay bound by duty. Luckily, you've sparred against Zenin clan members before during academy training. You know their speed, their predictable weaknesses, making this a mercifully quick match so you can return to the preparations that still demand your attention. Combined with your flawless tournament record and years of training under masters whose expertise comes at a price few can afford...? Well, victory already tastes sweet on your tongue.

The referee's whistle sounds, calling both fighters to ready positions. At once, you stride forward, bare footsteps silent on the padded mat until you reach the starting line on your side of the arena. A firm tug adjusts your obi, a loose strand of hair brushed from your face. Your fingers find the ornate key hanging from its chain at your throat and  press it briefly to your lips for luck—a habit born from countless matches—before tucking it safely beneath your uwagi. Now you're set, the ceremonial hall fading into the background around you. Still, it's hard to ignore the watchful eyes that glint in the early morning light streaming through high windows, waiting to dissect each gesture during the sparring match.

"To an honorable and clean fight," the referee declares before he steps back, and you nearly scoff at the pretense, knowing rules rarely apply when privilege and reputation hang in the balance.

With a customary bow to your opponent, executed with the grace your governess drilled into you during countless private lessons, you rise, gaze settling on where Naoya Zenin stands across from you.

He looks as insufferably confident as ever, a smirk already playing at his lips. Something about the smile seems a little different this morning, but you couldn't care less. If you have to endure this spectacle, at least you'll enjoy watching his arrogance crumble. Because regardless of how pointless this match feels, losing has never been an option.

With a steady inhale, your body flows into a natural fighting stance: one leg shifting back as your arm curves upward, palm facing sideways, and muscles coiling like a serpent preparing to strike. Each exhale comes out evenly until your heartbeat finds its controlled rhythm, your focus sharpening to a dangerous edge, standing with perfect stillness as you await the referee to signal the start.

While holding your pose, your mind already drifts to what actually matters for the gala tonight: the seasonal kaiseki with matsutake mushrooms that cost more than most people's yearly salaries will surely be a hit with the guests. Or will it be the rare, aged sake from the Meiji era reserves that required three months of delicate negotiations to acquire? It's when you're savoring your own cleverness, barely able to contain your excitement for tonight's Kyoto shamisen performances (a small wonder, considering how the master musicians schedules’ are booked years in advance), that your attention happens to fully settle on your opponent.

And what you see makes your breath catch.

Naoya Zenin is staring.

And not in the traditional pre-match stare down to size up weaknesses you'd anticipated. But drinking you in. Openly, shamelessly, with undisguised hunger, like a man starved.

And by the ancestors you surely haven't been lighting enough incense for, that pale gaze is burning.

Those chestnut eyes—far too beautiful for someone with such backward ideas to posses— delicately framed by lashes that flick darkly like brushstrokes of calligraph ink, carry something you hadn't expected lurking beneath that arrogance he's only shown toward you so far. They hold secrets you've never bothered to decode as they intimately trace your mouth, your parted lips, travel over the curve of your jaw, the hollow of your throat...as if he's memorizing every detail for some other purpose than admiration you can't fathom.

You're accustomed to men's lingering stares—it comes with the territory, sure. Whether they're after pleasure, status, or simply responding to your own bidding, you've always managed them with ease.

But this consumes you completely. Far too intimate for just a perfunctory glance. It settles into you, warming you from the inside out, smooth and heady—awakening something that transforms your detached assessment into real curiosity. For the first time, you find yourself truly seeing him. Not just his reputation, but the man himself.

And when you finally do, the effect is more devastating than you'd prepared for.

You blink hard, forcing yourself to focus, should the referee's whistle sound at any moment…but it's too late. The corner of Naoya's mouth curves upward in the faintest suggestion, as if he's caught your moment of distraction and found it amusing.

Your stance wavers, even if imperceptibly, and you have to consciously resettle your weight, annoyed at the momentary lapse in attention. He's just a man at the end of the day. Admittedly a very attractive and handsome one, but nothing more. More importantly, has the timekeeper fallen asleep at his post, or do you need to march over there and ring the damn bell yourself?

For all your impatience to see the match begin, when the second gong finally strikes, his explosive movements catch you off guard.

His opening assault comes like lightning—faster than your calculations predicted. A palm strike rockets toward your solar plexus with vicious intent. You twist left, forearm deflecting the blow, but he's already flowing into an elbow strike that drives you stumbling backward three steps. Your assured victory rapidly crumbles as his heel scythes toward your ankle.

You regain your footing, leaping back, feet hitting the mat hard as your breathing turns sharp. Perhaps the arrogant heir deserves more than the dismissive nods you've given him in passing.

But you're not one to stay on the defensive for long. You surge forward, landing a precise strike to his shoulder that sends him staggering sideways. When he recovers and lunges, you duck under his guard and sweep his legs, forcing him to roll away to avoid hitting the mat. The next exchange goes your way entirely—you catch his wrist mid-strike, pivot behind him, and nearly lock him in a submission hold before he twists free at the last second. For a moment, victory tastes sweet on your tongue again as you press your advantage, driving him back with a series of attacks that leave him breathing hard.

Despite your strategic thinking however, Naoya grants no reprieve. He flies at you, a deceptive feint right precedes his knee pistoning toward your ribs. You snare it with both hands, channeling his momentum into a throw, but he transforms the motion into graceful acrobatics—rolling through your technique to spring back upright like some predatory cat.

In that moment, you realize that even without utilizing his cursed technique, Naoya Zenin is a force to be reckoned with.

The fight compresses into brutal moments—strike, counter, grapple—relentless assaults while all you can do is block and parry. Then, something sinister creeps into his approach. His attacks turn personal, possessive. You manage to get him in a choking hold, but his eyes flash with something that looks almost like enjoyment, mixed with invitation when your fingers dig into the cords of his throat...as if daring you to tighten your grip. The unexpected heat of it throws you completely off balance and when you attempt to recover, he snares you in a vicious grapple, long fingers tangling in your hair as his other arm coils around your neck.

That's when his knee finds your spine. 

The impact slams you flat against the mat, his full weight settling across your back as his knee grinds into the valley between your shoulder blades and drags downward. You barely register the collective murmur of appreciation from spectators, more impressed by the display of dominance rather than concern. After all, this is exactly the kind of ruthless demonstration they came for.

The hold you're in is blatantly illegal, of course. Excessive force, dangerous positioning—but not worse than the crushing realization that you're actually losing as it floods your chest with something dangerously close to panic. But no referee will dare call a foul against such a prominent heir, not with so many clan representatives watching. You have to find your own way out of this.

Naoya's weight shifts, grinding deeper into your spine as he leans down, evaporating your thoughts and any maneuvers you may be trying to formulate. The pressure borders on unbearable. White-hot pain that steals your breath and leaves you clawing uselessly at the tatami. You bite down hard, refusing to release the sound that would shatter your dignity before every watching eye. Worse, you despise any man's touch that doesn't serve the singular purpose of bringing you to the crest of pleasure.

His breath brushes against your ear when he speaks, voice dropping to gravel roughened by exertion as you writhe against his hold.

"Try to actually look decent tonight, hmm?" he murmurs with a sigh. That uncaring drawl seeps through each word, and you can practically hear him stifling a yawn at the very thought of the evening ahead. "Those gatherings bore me senseless, and I'd prefer something...adequate...to occupy my attention."

Rage flares at the audacity of his words, even more so at being pinned helplessly beneath him while he voices such a casual demand. Who does he think he is, speaking as if you're nothing more than entertainment for his amusement? But being who you are, you find opportunity in this bleak end. You have other skills in your arsenal to deploy before the final whistle.

"Need help focusing, as usual?" you breathe sweetly through gritted teeth.

The words find their mark, and you turn briefly, catching how his jaw tightens visibly. Being this close, you're caught off guard by details you'd never noticed before. How muted blonde hair frames a face carved from divine, aristocratic perfection—high cheekbones that speak of sophisticated lineage. A mouth that you've glimpsed curve with delicious amusement in those rare, unguarded moments. A jawline that's chiseled and refined; anything but weak. 

Multiple ear piercings catch the dojo's light, an audacious display of rebellion that his bloodline's unassailable status permits, adding a dangerous edge to his features. The way his uwagi has come loose at the collar has you gulping, revealing glimpses of lean muscle and taut skin glistening with a sheen of light effort beneath, with the strong column of his neck and the heat radiating from his body this close being almost overwhelming. But what he says next is what really undoes you. 

"How about I have you beneath me like this tonight then to keep me focused, hmm?" he grits, his tone carrying the weight of invitation rather than command. Instead of letting up, all your words did was have him retaliate it seems, pressing his weight deeper as he grinds down onto you. "By choice, this time, little keeper."

Did he just—? Your mind stutters, trying to process what you've heard. A casual invitation to bed, spoken openly with a full hall of spectators hanging on every bit...in the middle of a sanctioned match?

Just then something shifts against you. Something unmistakable, as he presses against your hip. You're not sure, but you think you also hear a sharp intake of his breath, followed by a soft curse, leaving you with more questions.

Is he…?

Despite your compromised position and the crowd watching from above, you need to be certain—if only to hold this weakness over his head later. So you exploit the slight gap beneath his grip and shift deliberately, rolling your hips back just enough to push up against where his body meets yours. Sure enough, you feel it...and without a shadow of doubt. A slow grin spreads across your lips as in spite of your predicament, you have to suppress a chuckle.

Once more, you repeat the movement slower, shamelessly rubbing against the ridge of his hardened arousal—surprisingly thick and heavy—pressing insistently against the rounded flesh of your bottom. All the crowd above would think is that you're struggling beneath his illegal hold, not truly knowing you're orchestrating an entirely different kind of domination.

You're forcing him into an impossible choice: maintain his hold and endure your deliberate torture, or release you to escape the torment and forfeit his advantage in the match.

So when you press back harder, the gasp he lets out this time is crystal clear.

"Stop," he finally grits out between clenched teeth, gripping you beneath him even more tightly. Though you catch the strain in his voice, the barely contained need.

"Stop what?" you purr innocently before biting your lip, growing bolder with your provocation. With seconds ticking by and your body locked in place, you might as well enjoy it while you can. Besides. Who knew the man you'd dismissed so easily possessed such delicious weaknesses?

Naoya’s body trembles slightly, as if fighting the urge to press closer when you move against him again, and you spot a vein ticking in his forehead in your periphery that tells you your plan is working.

"I'm not doing anything, Naoya," you continue coyly, as if the referee and spectators don't exist. "I'm simply trying to—"

A low groan escapes him before he can hold it back, and you bite back the smile from fully blossoming as you feel his whole body go rigid with the effort of maintaining control. It’s like your great grandmother, the third key-keeper said: The present is always the best time to remind a simple man exactly who holds the real power.

"Careful," you whisper, voice still as sweet as poisoned honey. Though you're surprised by how breathless you sound. That groan was far more delicious than you'd expected.

His proximity means his scent washes over you  too with every breath, and suddenly you're drowning in it. He smells divine. It's all you can do to suppress your own moan building in your throat as pleasure shoots down between your legs.

Your voice wavers slightly, a little less sure than before, but you force yourself to power through before you lose sight of your goal. "How embarrassing would it be for the great Naoya Zenin to lose his composure now of all times?"

Luckily (before you completely lose control of the situation) your words seem to snap something back into place within him. But unluckily (and before you can savor your small victory), his grip shifts, the grasp on your hair tightening reflexively.

But then he does something unexpected—he draws back with agonizing slowness before rolling his hips forward, the thin material of your garments doing little to buffer the drag of his hardened length against you. Whether it's to stifle his need, or teach you a lesson, the effect on you is all the same.

Your fingers instinctively grip the mat beneath you as you hold your breath, desperately trying to maintain control. This is not what you had planned. 

Heat floods your cheeks as your carefully maintained composure begins to crack despite your best efforts, eyes nearly rolling back from the sensation of his length sitting heavily on your thigh. For a moment you forget where you are and what you need to do to escape his grip.

But you hear the sound of your name, unsure from who or where, and it’s enough to snap back to reality. And a good thing too, as certainly not with your pride and reputation on the line will you allow him to win.

Just as you're scrambling to regain your equilibrium and attempt a sharp elbow upward into his ribs, the referee's whistle pierces the air signaling the end of the match.

Penalty called. Match terminated.

You let out a shaky breath, grateful for the interruption and the end of the exhibition. There's no telling how far this teasing might have escalated or have gotten out of hand it could have gone—especially with the whole world watching. You're usually much more composed than this too; you'll need to examine later what made you lose your grip on the situation so thoroughly. Even if the teasing was sinfully delicious for some reason, as the persistent residual heat in between your thighs suggests.

But despite the whistle's call, and to your utter horror, Naoya doesn't move. For two heartbeats, perhaps three, he maintains his dominion—keeping you pinned and helpless while shuffling and nervous murmurs fill the hall.

He leans closer even, seemingly uncaring who notices or what they might think. His breath burns against your ear and you shiver involuntarily. 

"When you decide you want more than these games," he whispers, breathing rough with frustration rather than the smug confidence you'd expected. His free hand reaches beneath your neck to find the chain at your throat, fingers tracing the links before giving it a tug—enough to remind you exactly what power you wield and how easily it could be taken. "Find me tonight."

The casual violation of something so sacred, so symbolic of your authority, sends equal parts rage and something far more dangerous coursing through you. Yet, his offer ignites something treacherous and unwelcome in your chest, a deep throb that has no business existing. Even as his knee continues to grind harsh punishment into you, even as fury burns through your veins, there's undeniable heat spreading through your core even while feeling strangely powerless.

Damn him for reducing you to this when all you should feel is disdain.

Only when you tap twice against the mat in surrender does he finally rise. You hear the soft whisper of fabric as he subtly adjusts himself, disguising it as tidying his hakama, and you turn to look. He runs those long fingers through his hair with casual indifference, as if the entire exchange meant nothing to him. Only then, does his hand extend toward your prone form in assistance.

You expect to find cold satisfaction in his features, the usual arrogant triumph he usually wears like a second skin. Instead, his jaw is set with tension, and those pale eyes hold something that looks almost like irritation. Surprisingly, not with you, but with himself. There's a careful stillness about him that suggests he's as affected as you are. And something tells you, he doesn't like it one bit. 

What's worse, you recognize the same feelings stirring within yourself—that same careful control, that same unexpected vulnerability. All you're left with is curiosity about what tonight might bring.

Still, there's an odd sense of satisfaction, almost relief, that someone finally provided a real challenge (you can only imagine his prowess if the rules had allowed the use of techniques). When was the last time you'd actually had to work for something this hard?

So without breaking eye contact, you reach up and take his offered hand.

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Why did this pos have to be so hotttt ugh. Thank you for reading the first chapter, lmk if you enjoyed!! 🫶

[missmeimeimei]

New Kakashi illustration from the Naruto mobile game 🤩

[skykashi]

Couldn't resist not doing the Frieren angle challenge from X 😅

[ultimateanna]

Naruto Shippuuden 85 - Kakashi Hatake vs Hidan and Kakuzu

[missmeimeimei]

I’m slowly starting to appreciate this fight this fight anew.

I wasn’t a fan of the whole “Naruto needs to come and save everyone” (yes, I know it’s his now on the show) bit that downplayed the others incl Kakashi and a few other bits, but I love how Kakashi held it down regardless.