how do you think naoya would act if his wife cried because of him? would he comfort her? or would he be like “the hell are you crying for🤨” 😊
tw dacryphilia mdni 18+
he’d gently cup your face in both hands, stare into your wet, shiny eyes, and bluntly inform you that crying makes you ugly and to knock it off.
that, or he’d tilt his head in feigned innocence and go “eh? crying already?”
the truth is, those first fifty, sixty seconds of waterworks accentuate your beauty—your skin takes on a soft, fevered sheen, lashes clumping under the weight of pearled tears, oh and that trembling lower lip…. the sight makes his dick stiffen under his hakama, and naoya has to bite down on his tongue. if he intends to be inside you afterward, he knows better than to be too mean to his pretty crybaby.
Toji didn’t believe in shaving. He found it was a waste of time, absolutely unnecessary because „it’ll grow back anyway“
So he didn’t shave. Sure, maybe trim his bush a bit, shave away his stubble because it irritated him. But never his happy trail.
Oh he kept that dark patch of hair on him. He wore it like a trophy. Not because he wanted it— quite frankly he didn’t give two fucks about it. But because of *you*.
You who eyed his dark patch of hair so intently every time it peeked from underneath his shirt. You who let her hands go straight at it while feeling him up. You who rubbed herself against it until it was coated in slick arousal.
And gods, he lived for that shit. Watching the mess after a good fuck. How sticky and slimy his pubes got, how the mixture of your juices and his cum made it seem even darker than it usually was.
you call another guy hot and now naoya’s a pussy drunk loser who humps your mattress and asks if he’s better <3
you say it without thinking. something about the guy from your orgo class. maybe it’s the slope of his shoulders, or the way he leans in when he talks. maybe it’s nothing. just a throwaway comparison muttered into naoya’s collarbone when you’re bored and undressing him. you say, he kinda reminded me of you, which is to say: he was your type before you decided naoya was. his reaction is subtle—at first. he doesn’t snap, doesn’t bite. just pauses for a second longer than usual, his shirt halfway off, expression unreadable in the dim light of your bedroom.
"mm?" he hums. too light. too casual. "you’ve got shit taste, then. unless you’re saying i’m hotter."
you give a slow blink. "i’m saying you’re replaceable."
he barks a laugh. walks you backward like it’s a game he’s already won. "that right? so why’s it me you keep crawling back to?" his mouth twitches, not quite smiling. "bet he doesn't even know how to get you wet."
you roll your eyes. “you think you do?” you hum. shrug. careless. and that’s what does it.
he watches you closely. too closely. still smiling. you scoff, turning your back on him, reaching for your water like the conversation is over. but the shift is there. it’s in the silence. in the way his hands find your hips again, possessive in that familiar, infuriating way. in the way his mouth finds your throat like he needs to mark it before someone else does.
he pushes you back onto the bed like he’s correcting a posture. climbs between your thighs, drags them open with his forearms, eyes already darker than before. “take your panties off,” he says, and you do, watching him closely now. something’s off. not anger—urgency. he’s breathing heavier than he should be.
old naoya would’ve fucked you first. very little foreplay, quick, selfish, hard thrusts and smug satisfaction. old naoya didn’t eat pussy. not unless he was drunk. not unless he was bored. not unless it was a power play.
but this naoya, right now in this moment, drops to his knees. it’s abrupt enough to make you blink. he doesn’t even look up when he presses his mouth to you. just exhales, long and shaky, like he’s bracing himself, and then he’s licking—slow at first, almost reverent. tongue flattening, dragging up through you like he’s searching for something. his hands grip your thighs tight, thumbs digging in, holding you open like he’s afraid you’ll close.
"bet he’s never even seen it up close,” he mutters, lips brushing your clit, “let alone made it drip like this.”
you blink down at him, startled by the suddenness of it—by the sincerity behind the insult. but you don’t say anything. don’t give him the satisfaction. which only seems to spur him on.
he eats you like he’s trying to overwrite a memory. tongue working faster now, deeper, messy, chin already slick. he alternates between long strokes and sharp little flicks that make your thighs twitch, like he’s watching your reactions and adjusting on the fly. learning. adapting. trying to be better. every sound you make pulls a response out of him—another groan, another desperate lap, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them.
“say i’m better,” he pants, licking fast now. sloppily. like it’s for something. “say he couldn’t make you cum like this.”
you give him nothing. he whines into your cunt like a kicked dog.
you grind against his mouth and call him a good boy just to be cruel. it rolls off your tongue like an insult. and the moment you say it, something short-circuits.
his breath catches. his body stiffens. hips pressing down into the mattress like a reflex, like shame isn’t enough to stop it. he’s panting now, face still buried in your cunt, his cock rutting desperately into the sheets, leaking thick into his boxers without a single touch. he’s so quiet about it, it almost doesn’t register. no pride. just a stuttered gasp and a full-body twitch as he cums like he’s never done it before.
you feel it happen. feel it in the tremble of his shoulders. the humiliating warmth blooming beneath your thigh. the pathetic little moan that slips out when you curl your fingers into his hair and push his mouth back down like you’re rewarding a dog for a trick he finally learned. his lips twitch. his jaw goes slack. but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even flinch. just breathes through it, swallowing the taste of you like penance.
he doesn’t move. not even after it’s over. he stays between your legs, forehead pressed to your skin, mouth sticky, eyes unfocused. thighs still twitching like the pleasure’s short-circuited something in him. you shift your weight, expecting him to rise. he doesn’t. his breath comes in soft, shaky pulls, like he’s still catching up to the reality of what just happened.
then, finally—quietly, like it shames him to say it out loud—he speaks. “…fuck,” he whispers. “what the fuck is wrong with me.”
you don’t answer. he wouldn’t believe you if you told him.
jerking naoya off in front of mirror so he can see how pathetic he looks #sluttysubnaoyapropaganda
he doesn’t even know when he started crying. might’ve been when you made him take his shirt off. might’ve been when you told him to kneel. might’ve been the second he looked in the mirror and really saw himself—cock leaking all over your hand, breath hitching every time you gave a cruel little twist of your wrist, mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot. he doesn’t look powerful. doesn’t look like the guy everyone else sees. no smirk. no bark. just flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and a pathetic twitch in his thighs every time you whisper something low behind him.
you don’t say much. you don’t need to. it’s in the way you breathe against his neck, slow and patient, like you’re enjoying this more than you’ll admit. it’s in the way your fingers stay wrapped around the base of his cock—tight enough to keep him from even thinking about cumming but not tight enough to hurt, not really. you make him feel it. every second. every stroke. every time you remind him to keep looking at himself.
“don’t look away,” you say, quiet, like a warning, but not cruel. just tired, like you’re sick of telling him things twice.
his throat bobs, adam’s apple jumping, and you see it reflected there in the mirror—how hard it is for him to keep eye contact with himself when he looks like this. flushed and glassy-eyed, lips swollen from biting back too many sounds, the edge of a tear sitting stubborn in the corner of his eye.
his cock jerks in your hand when you squeeze again, dragging your thumb across the slit like you’re trying to smear shame into his skin. he breathes out a little sob when you twist your wrist and lean closer, mouth brushing behind his ear, the way you always do when you want to unravel him completely.
“is that really how you look when you beg?” you murmur, and he shudders like it’s the most painful thing you’ve said all night. “no wonder i laugh at you.”
he grips his thighs to stop from rocking forward, from fucking into your hand like he wants to, and his eyes flick down, just for a second.
you stop everything. the silence is worse than your voice. worse than the burn in his stomach. worse than the need pooling sticky between his legs.
and then—your voice, soft again. “look.”
he does. instantly. desperately. like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll forgive him.
you start again, slow, just two fingers stroking lazily over the vein of his cock while the other hand drags up his stomach, your nails scratching light enough to make him twitch. you hum a little, like you’re thinking.
“you gonna cum like this?” you ask. “crying? making that ugly face? fuck, naoya, if i’d known you were this pathetic i would’ve started doing this ages ago.”
his hips jerk forward before he can stop them. you let him. just once. just enough to watch his expression crumble in the mirror.
“go ahead,” you whisper, voice sticky with amusement. “say it. beg. let me hear what it sounds like when a pretty boy like you gives up.”
“please,” he breathes, the word barely there, like it hurts to say it. like it takes something out of him. his mouth is parted, spit-slick and trembling, and the sound catches in his throat as he forces himself to keep looking. his reflection is a mess—hair sticking to his forehead, eyes unfocused, chest rising and falling in these shallow, desperate bursts. there’s a smudge of your lip balm on his jaw from earlier, glowing faintly under the light, like a mark he didn’t earn.
your fingers don’t stop moving.
he swallows hard. tries again. “please… i’ll be good. i swear—just let me—” his voice breaks, goes soft at the end like even he’s ashamed of how badly he means it. “let me cum. please. i can’t—fuck, i can’t take it.”
you hum behind him, lips still close to his ear, your breath fanning against the sweat-damp skin of his neck. he’s shaking now, thighs tense, toes curling against the bathroom tile like he’s holding on for dear life. he presses his palms to them, trying to ground himself, but it only makes his muscles twitch harder under your touch.
“look at yourself,” you whisper. “begging like a little slut. like it’s the only thing you know how to do.”
“please,” he whispers, voice cracking like he’s already halfway gone. “please, can i—fuck, i need—”
“you need what?” your tone doesn’t shift. still calm. still bored. like none of this matters to you. like you’re just here because he asked so nicely.
you tighten your grip, just a little. not to help—just to hear the sound he makes. and he gives it to you. a low, broken whimper that sounds like it hurts. you smirk, slow and mean, like you’re savoring it.
“pathetic,” you murmur, close to his ear. “just look at yourself. is this really what you wanted? crying all over my hand like a little bitch?”
he nods, desperate, glossy-eyed and flushed, mouth parted like he can’t decide whether to beg again or apologize.
“say please,” you tell him. “say thank you. say whatever the fuck you think will make me care.”
“please—thank you, i—i’ll do anything, i swear, just let me—”
“go ahead then,” you sigh, like you’re giving him a mercy he didn’t earn. “ruin yourself.”
and he does. violently. shamefully. he cums with a choked little sob, thick spurts of it spilling over your knuckles, staining the inside of his thighs, the floor, the mirror he’s still forced to stare into as his whole body shudders and curls in on itself. his mouth trembles around your name. not even coherent. he’s drooling. crying. leaking down his own legs, breath coming in short, shallow gasps like his brain forgot how to function.
you don’t soothe him. you don’t say he did good. you just hum, dragging your slicked fingers along his twitching length until he flinches.
“god, you’re such a fucking mess,” you mutter, wiping your hand on his bare thigh like a rag. “no wonder no one takes you seriously.”
he doesn’t even argue. doesn’t speak. just stares at himself in the mirror with tears running down his cheeks, chest still heaving like he might break again if you told him to.
cw: he eats you out while on your period, that’s it that’s the fic.
For someone who hates women so much, I could see Naoya with a nasty period kink.
He’s obsessed with it, the scent, the sight, the taste.
It’s vampiric almost—the crimson trickling from your husband’s chin, running down his throat and over his bobbing adam’s apple. His cheeks and nose and teeth are stained red with you, as are the soft white linens under you.
Your body writhes against the sheets, a hand locked in his hair as he devours you, lips latched around your clit sucking hard, tongue dipping down your slit to tease your dripping hole. You’ll be scolded for pulling his hair later, but, as for now, nothing is more important than his favorite meal of the month.
His arms wrap around your thighs to hold you still, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed you keep trying to squirm away from. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and buries his face further into your slick pussy, lapping his tongue over your folds and drinking down everything you have to offer him.
A particularly loud moan causes him to pull away, landing a harsh slap on your cunt, hissing, “shut the fuck up,” before pushing his tongue deep into your sopping, bleeding hole.
It’s sick, it’s gross, but it’s the best pain relief for the intense cramps in your lower abdomen, clenching and convulsing until they fade into nothing with each orgasm that crashes through your system.
NOTE — face card so lethal i’m willing to look past the misogyny.
“Wait, wait, wait… I was just—”
A large hand clamps over your mouth before you can finish, and he drives into you hard, again and again. Every shift of your hips drags a loud, messy sound from you. Your leg is hoisted on the kitchen counter, hands gripping it as he pounds relentlessly from behind.
“Shouldn’t have been arching like a slut.” He breathes hot against your ear, and your walls tighten around him. The sound drags a low, cruel laugh out of his chest, sharp and unrestrained.
“I just wanted to make cookies and you—” Your annoyingly whiney words are cut off again, muffled against the rough palm covering your mouth. His other hand digs into your hip, using your body as leverage to drive into you. Any hobby, any pointless little chore, means nothing to him. Nothing exists for you outside of this—outside of carrying his children, producing heirs for the Zenin clan. That is your purpose. That is your place.
And if it means he has to teach you that lesson again and again, slamming into you, filling you until your walls clamp around him each time, it’s a lesson he will deliver without hesitation. After all, it’s his duty as your husband.
Tears streak your rounded cheeks, your body trembling under the weight of him, hips jerking with every merciless thrust. Your fingers dig into the counter, nails scraping wood, while he hammers into you with precision, each movement claiming you more thoroughly than the last.
When his hot release spills deep inside you, your body shudders, and he can feel it, every tightening grip of your walls, every shiver of your trembling thighs. He’s sure of one thing: you would make a perfect mother. Every moan, every quiver, every tear confirms it.
a/n: i know i’ve touched on this concept before, but it feels like it deserves its own post.
in the early days of your courtship, naoya zen’in is the embodiment of a kitsune cloaked in human form, his pretty-boy looks and deceptively cutesy mannerisms perfecting the illusion.
even when he isn’t imposing himself outright, the height difference alone means he still looms over you, an unavoidable physical fact. when he speaks to you, naoya has this habit of grabbing both your hands, enclosing them fully in his own. a childlike gesture—but also intimate in a way that would be considered improper by any respectable standard.
there is a puppylike eagerness to him, a gleefulness that makes you smile, entirely naive to the full measure of the man before you. if you were any the wiser, you might picture him with fox ears perched atop his head, bushy tail swishing behind him.
the butterflies in your stomach should bother you, and it probably would, if someone else were to point out his lack of boundaries. but there’s just something alluring about his blatant disregard for tradition, as though the rules simply don’t apply to him—or to you, when you’re with him.
Naoya Zenin the kind of man to be the picture perfect example of toxicity. He’d mock you, degrade you and leave bruises on your skin, but at the same time he’d keep you hooked to him by spoiling you. He’d have small moments that make you think he’s gotten better, that he changed for you and that maybe he wasn’t all that bad. He’d give gentle kisses to your face, hold your hand in his and keep you in his arms like he never ever wanted to let you go.
And then he’d be right back to how he was before.
It was his usual tactic. He always did this to you. Bait you, pull you in and keeping you hooked this way.
His hands would leave bruises on your skin after he handled you too roughly. He’d make fun of your face, of your imperfections. He’d push you to the point you’d cry, only for him to end up pulling you into his arms and mockingly comfort you.
Putting a leash around Naoyas throat and dragging him through the clan estates hall by the end of it, after her said something snarky and rude towards you, all but daring you to drag him around like a disobedient dog when you threatened him with it.
And you did. True to your words, unlike him.
His hair bristled like an agitated cat, cheeks flushed red in humiliation and maybe a tiny bit from how turned on he was by this. By you, dragging him around and tugging on the leash, forcing him to keep up with your pace. The tiny bell at the front of his collar kept jingling with every tug you gave him, making his cheeks flush crimson as they burned in humiliation. He moved his hands to his face, covering it in embarrassment, hoping nobody would notice him though everyone would immediately recognize him by that bleach blonde hair. His hands came up to his face, hoping to shield himself from the stares and stifled giggles the passing by servants gave him.
But you only tugged harder, forcing a whine out of his throat and an even deeper shade of red to cross his cheeks „you're humiliating me!!" he spat. Glaring at the back of your head and having half the mind to bite into the smooth expanse of your nape, maybe just to prove how much of a damned dog he really was. „I warned you. You've got nobody to haken but yourself, puppy" your response has him sneering, growling even if you listened closely enough— like a rabid dog.
It was an embarrassing sight. For him, at least. He didn't want to know all the gossip that would roam around the senate later on. The cackles and teasing from his clansmen, and that stupid look you'd probably have on your face. He could see it already, could see how his reputation was actively being flushed down the toilet. His carefully built reputation as the stupidly handsome and arrogant clan leader. Just gone. Because of you.
He was brooding silently to himself. Glaring at your feet as you walked in front of him.
I’ve had to re-write this three times because tumblr kept deleting it 😐
Naoya who secretly steals and uses your bodywash because he hates the ones fore men. Like seriously, 1 in 3 body wash and shampoo? And it’s smells horrible too?? He doesn’t know how other men willingly do that, and sure, there’s other bodywash brands that aren’t shampoo, bodywash and who knows what combos.
But he likes yours. Loves it even.
He’d steal a bottle from your cabinet every time he goes to shower, uses half of it or completely empties it, without asking or replacing it with a new one. It drove you mad. Mad because the guy just couldn’t for the life of himself admit to you that he enjoys the fruity scent of what’s considered ‚typical feminine‘ scents. You can try arguing all you want, smack him over the head for using your expensive brands before you even got to try them yourself. All he would answer with is „Tch… you can’t even prove it was me“ while very obviously smelling like a fruit basket as he walk past you.
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
gamechangershow
tangentwithtanner
