♡ Desperate to avoid an arranged marriage with Naoya, you seek refuge in Yuuta—unaware that he may be the most dangerous curse of all, especially when he’s been secretly and hopelessly in love with you all along.♡
ft. Yuuta x reader, Naoya x reader, Sexual Content. Dark Romance. Arranged marriage.
Naoya x Reader x Yuuta (Part 4)
Warning tag: Arranged Marriage AU!, Possessive! Naoya, Love-Drunk! Yuuta, Hurt/Comfort, Dark Romance, Explicit Sexual content, Lots of Smut, Love Triangles, Unrequited Lust, Sexual Tension, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Obsessive Behavior, Yuuta is a love-struck sweetheart, Jealousy, horny sorcerers, Possessive Behavior, Pining, Possessive sex, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Cock Warming, Enemies with Benefits, Porn with Feelings, Zenin Clan Drama, Manipulation, Naoya Zenin is his Own Warning, Uncontrollable thirst for Reader, Manipulation, Thigh Riding, Cock Riding, Fucking, cock-drunk, gaslighting, HEAVY plot.
Moving through abandoned buildings and unfinished black skeletal structures at the outskirts of Tokyo—left half-built after five construction workers died and two more simply vanished in ways no one had ever properly explained—you walked beside your team with that strange tension missions sometimes carried before anything had even gone wrong.
Megumi led as if he had been born doing it, shoulders set, gaze always moving. Nobara drifted at your flank, bored and alert in equal measure, while Yuji hung behind everyone with the loose, deceptively easy posture of someone who looked far too cheerful to be dangerous.
It was supposed to be manageable. Dangerous, yes, but manageable.
A Grade One curse shouldn’t have been beyond four sorcerers only weeks from graduation. And yet something about the place made your skin feel too aware.
Even Ijichi looked worse than usual.
His hands twitched as he set the veil, fingers hesitating in those tiny almost invisible ways nervous people think nobody notices. Or maybe, you thought, he always looked one breath from a panic attack, and you had only just started paying attention.
“I wish Gojo-sama were here too,” he muttered, scratching awkwardly behind his neck after the barrier settled. “He was supposed to be, but… he had to leave the country yesterday. Some emergency.”
Your jaw tightened before you could stop it and you looked away too fast. That little private guilt only accomplices know slid warm and poisonous through your chest.
Megumi noticed. Of course he noticed.
His eyes flicked once to the scarf wrapped around your neck—thoroughly suspicious on a spring day warm enough to make Nobara complain—and lingered just long enough to make you suddenly aware of your pulse.
Meanwhile Yuji, mercifully oblivious, was reassuring poor Ijichi with all the confidence of a man who had never once understood the concept of caution.
“We’ll be fine,” he said brightly. “This’ll be easy.”
Ordinarily his optimism was infectious. Unfortunately, your peace had recently been infected by something much worse. A blond, arrogant, deeply punchable disease. A far deadlier virus—one gnawing through your composure, leaving only flushed cheeks in its wake and very specific flashes of Tourette-like internal outbursts.
Damn him. Idiot Naoya. That bastard did it on purpose. I should’ve kneed him in his stupid balls—
“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” Megumi asked, cutting clean through your internal spiral.
He didn’t even turn when he said it, which somehow made it worse.
“I love the scarf,” Nobara added, gathering her hair up off her neck, “but if you pass out from heatstroke, I’m not carrying you, bestie.”
Before you could answer, Yuji leaned over with exactly the kind of intrusive curiosity that should have gotten him killed years ago and slipped a finger beneath the edge of the fabric. You slapped his hand away so fast it cracked.
He sounded deeply unbothered. You stuck your tongue out. He grinned.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” you lied. Much too fast. Much too poorly. Perhaps you could have done a better job.
“Some precaution,” you added weakly.
“Precaution?” he repeated, deadpan.
“At this rate you’re more likely to boil alive than catch a cold.”
Then Nobara did what Nobara did best and made things worse. She stepped far too close, slung an arm over your shoulders and began idly toying with the scarf in a way that immediately made you suspicious.
“If I didn’t know better,” she said, voice dripping malicious delight, one finger sneaking beneath the fabric to tap lightly against your neck, “I’d say you were hiding something.”
That was when Megumi finally looked over his shoulder. Your eyes met. You looked away at once. Which, naturally, confirmed his suspicion.
Then Yuji gasped. Not a normal gasp. The kind of revelation gasp that could wake the death.
You hated that oh instantly.
“(Y/N)… are you hiding a hickey—”
The explosion saved your life. Quite literally. The building ahead seemed to cave under the weight of something enormous before splitting apart as a curse dragged itself into daylight, all eyes and jaws and wrongness, like a nightmare giving birth to itself.
Then its abdomen split open and birthed, lesser creatures began crawling out from inside. One. Five. Twelve.
Nobara recoiled. “Oh, absolutely not.” Quickly drew her hammer, nails glittering between her fingers.
Combat didn’t begin so much as erupt and then everything became movement.
Megumi summoned Divine Dogs, Yuji’s fists became blurs, Nobara exorcised without pause. Your cursed energy cut through the air in spectral arcs bright enough to sting the eye—
And still they kept coming. Like endless rain, as if driven by purpose. Not random. As if they wanted one thing. To divide you. Force you apart. Separate you, and, horribly, it worked.
“They’re surrounding us,” Megumi called, fighting and calculating at once.
“The summons are tied to the main curse. Pull them away from the source and they weaken. Split up.”
Everyone saw it once you pointed it out.
Even as you said it, something dark twisted in Megumi’s instincts. Wrong. This is wrong. You saw him hesitate. Only for a heartbeat, then necessity overruled intuition.... and all of you ran. Different directions. Unaware you were moving exactly where someone else wanted.
Because this had never been chaos. It was choreography. Someone was moving pieces across a board none of you had realized you were standing on.
High above the ruined skeleton of the tallest unfinished tower, Naoya watched all of it unfold with the lazy satisfaction of a man seeing a trap close.
The desert heat shimmered in waves, but Gojo crossed the sand with deceptive ease, perhaps moving a little faster than usual, though he would have denied that to his grave. He would deny a great many things. Including the fact that your last conversation had been sitting in him like a splinter.
Disasters, he had learned, did not always announce themselves with thunder. Sometimes they began with smaller things. A pause held too long. A student suddenly too quiet...for example, you not arguing back.
That had bothered him more than he liked, because you always had something to say.
“You’ve been getting quiet far too often.”
Gojo had said it, sprawled in his chair, boots on his desk, hands folded lazily behind his head, looking entirely carefree. Lounging in his chair with all the falseness he could wore when he was actually paying the most attention.
Megumi had asked you to fetch a mission report so he could finish some assignments.
And so there you were, pretending to read the report even though your mind refused to process a single word. Your mind was somewhere else. Somewhere blond. Somewhere dangerous.
“I’m reading,” you muttered.
“Do you think you can hide from me behind the report?”
His tone was lazy. Merciless. You still didn’t look up, but that tiny twitch your nose made, almost invisible, the one Gojo recognized better than his own reflection— appeared.
“I’m not hiding, I’m j-just reading…” You grumbled. “Stop overthinking and—”
Your words died because suddenly—
—Knuckles brushed your neck and everything in you stop. The large, warm hand of your sensei was around your neck.
One second, he had been across the room. The next he was crouched beside you, fingers grazing your skin with almost forensic concentration. Since when had he moved? No one alive could say.
His large hand tilted your chin, his gaze sharpened and then he lifted the blindfold. And bewilderment crossed those impossible blue eyes.
He asked it then corrected himself.
Your heart skipped more than a couple of beats and faster than the speed of light, you shot up from the chair so clumsily the report exploded across the floor.
Damn you, Naoya. How did I not notice?
“What o-observation skills,” you mumbled weakly, covering the bruise with your palm, staring at your shoes as heat climbed into your cheeks. Your mind felt moments from hemorrhaging from embarrassment.
“It’s my worst quality,” Gojo hissed.
The silence after that was terrible.
You dropped to your knees gathering papers in frantic handfuls. Gojo tilted his head.
Your hand tensed, flying instinctively to cover the hickey as if concealing a crime while the other continued gathering papers… And that told him everything. Your breathing betrayed you. He didn’t need the Six Eyes. He knew. Of course he knew.
Something restless moved behind his expression.
“So,” he said, dangerously calm, as if concealing something far deadlier underneath.
“It’s nothing.” You insisted.
The way the nickname rolled down his tongue, stony cold, made you look up. He wasn’t playing anymore. Not remotely.
“Don’t lie to me.” The words landed harder than shouting and you swallowed hard when crouched in front of you, wrapped your hands in his with a tenderness that did not match the edge in his gaze, and asked in a voice much too level to be healthy. “…Was it consensual?”
You never used his name without a suffix. That alone startled him.
“N-no— not… not that.” You rushed to clarify. Making emphasis in that, and his stare turned incredulous then humorless.
“No ‘that’,” he echoed. “But something happened.”
His voice firm but calm, too calm to be organic. Dangerously calm.
He leaned closer. Dead serious.
“Do you want me to kill him?”
Your breath caught. Because terrifyingly— you didn’t know what answer might leave your mouth. Gojo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Adjusted the blindfold over his eyes and decided something.
He stood and turned for the door.
“Fine what?” you squeaked.
“If you won’t let me protect you… I’ll bring someone you will let.”
A smile, dangerously witty.
“In my absence, Megumi leads tomorrow’s mission.”
Now desert sand crunched under Gojo’s shoes, rough and dry in a way that felt almost hostile, as if even the ground had been tainted by the cursed residue still dissolving in the wind. The remains of an exorcised curse were evaporating in ugly black ribbons when he found Yuta standing there with his katana half-lowered, cleaning the blade with the calm precision of someone who made ritual out of violence.
For a moment Gojo only watched him.
Yuta had always moved like that when he was thinking. Quiet. Controlled. Too controlled. Then something in the air shifted, and Yuta felt him before he saw him.
Gojo appeared almost offensively casual, as if he had stepped out of sunlight itself.
Under any other circumstance Yuta might have thought this was one of Gojo’s inexplicable social visits, one of those appearances where he arrived unannounced only to be unbearable for an hour and vanish.
But Gojo did not cross continents without reason. And something in the urgency of his recent messages had already been sitting wrong. Seeing him here made that unease harden.
He asked it calmly, but his grip had already tightened around the hilt. Not again. The thought came instantly, viciously. Not again. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like memory refusing to stay buried.
Gojo didn’t joke. Didn’t soften anything. Didn’t even pretend. He only looked at him with an uncharacteristic seriousness and said,
“That favor I mentioned.” Something changed. Subtle. But unmistakable. “I need it now.”
Yuta went still in that way he did when emotion went so deep it froze instead of surfaced, and realization moved across his face before he said a word.
Gojo watched him understand.
“Naoya Zenin is playing an interesting game,” he said, sounding faintly disgusted. “And I hate admitting when a Zenin does anything interesting.”
It wasn’t a question. Gojo nodded once. That was enough.
Yuta sheathed the sword in one fluid motion and was already gathering the few things he’d need.
Gojo watched, like a proud papa. No hesitation. No why. Just when. He almost smirked.
“Not even going to ask if I’m exaggerating?”
He was testing him. Needed to hear it. Yuta looked up, almost offended he would ask.
And finally, Yuta said, very quietly, “Not when it concerns her.”
There he was. That gentle monster. Gojo felt a grin tug at his mouth.
“I assume getting your hands dirty won’t bother you.” Gojo said. “They have pieces already positioned. Her family isn’t much help. Maybe her older brother, maybe.”
“Then we don’t give them time to make another move.”
Something in his voice had changed. Gojo caught it.
So did the desert wind, probably. And then Yuta said, slower, as if forcing something dangerous into words.
“If someone thinks they can use her as a piece…” He swallowed around the knot in his throat and forced his rampant thoughts into words. “…I’ll break the board.”
That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.
Yuji kicked through a curse hard enough to turn it into ash. Megumi barely looked up.
“Your tactical insight is stunning.”
Even while his Divine Dogs ripped through another wave, something kept clawing at his instincts.
Wrong. This was wrong. The buildings around them felt too still, too watchful, as if the empty structures themselves were holding their breath. Too much silence. Too much cursed energy and none of it felt accidental.
“I don’t like this.” Megumi frowned.
Yuji snorted. “You never like anything.”
“No,” Megumi said, narrowing his eyes. “This is different.”
And then Yuji felt it too. That prickling sensation at the back of the neck. Being watched. Because they were.
High above them, half-hidden among ruined concrete and rusted steel, Naoya watched with the languid pleasure of a man seeing every move fall into place.
Your friends were too far. Too scattered. Too late. And weren’t traps beautiful when they closed exactly as intended.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, slow with anticipation. Just a little longer. He could almost taste it already.
You cornered. Wounded. Dependent. Maybe grateful. His mouth twitched. After all, once he saved your life… well. Surely a woman owed a man something after that. A spring wedding drifted lazily through his mind. And really— that had a lovely ring to it.
You were breathing blood by then. Every breath scraped. Every movement cost. The main curse kept driving you back into fractured stone until channeling cursed energy into your legs felt less like fighting and more like drowning badly.
Your weapon slipped from your hand, hit the ground and stayed there. No way out.
The curse smiled. Too many teeth, too many eyes.
And absurdly, with death breathing on your throat, what visited you wasn’t fear first—
but the memory of Naoya’s unfairly soft and sweet kisses, that forbidden sensation he managed to force on you by his mere thigh in all his unbearable arrogance. Did you just sigh?
This was humiliating, because absolutely not.
You refused for that to be your final thought.
“At least,” you muttered hoarsely, “I won’t have to worry about marriage anymore.”
A weak, almost morbidly satisfied smile touches your lips—
“What dramatic last words.”
Your heart nearly stopped. You knew that voice. Of course you knew it.
Naoya dropped in front of you as if arriving late to a celebration. Immaculate. Arrogant. Insufferably irritating. Glorious in a way almost offensive. You let out a broken sound somewhere between relief and rage.
“What are you doing here…?”
Blood made everything taste like iron.
“…Would you rather I leave?” He looked almost curious as if genuinely considering it. “I’d say I arrived right on time.”
The curse roared behind him. Naoya didn’t even turn. He was too busy looking at you. Really looking. The injuries, too many wounds. Broken breathing. The pitiful way you’re still forcing yourself upright through pride alone. It amuses him. It excites him. To imagine that under his care… you may not be able to deny him.
Something in his gaze sharpened. Possessive and hungry.
“What a miserable sight,” he murmurs.
At this point death was looking increasingly attractive.
Naoya stepped in close, too close, crowding you against broken stone as if danger itself ought to wait politely while he flirted.
“Only if I can take you with me.”
You don’t know whether that was cute or threatening, your heart no longer distinguishes. It has too few beats left. And somehow, ridiculously, your eyes flicked to his mouth. Just once. Fast. But of course, he noticed. He always noticed.
His smile deepened and his hand slid into your hair, almost absent-mindedly, as if touching you steadied him. Thank God for blood loss. It keeps you from blushing.
“Don’t die,” he murmured against your lips. Close enough for mint on his breath. Close enough to ruin concentration. “…And I’ll reward you with a kiss.”
You were preparing an insult— when he vanished. Not stepped away. Not moved. Vanished.
One moment he was crowding your air with that infuriating smirk and the next the world cracked open around you. Something detonated.
The curse was torn sideways with such violence your eyes couldn’t keep pace, and for a few impossible seconds everything moved too fast to understand, as though time itself had slowed in embarrassment trying to contain him.
Naoya laughed. Actually laughed. The bastard sounded entertained.
“That,” he said, glancing toward the curse as though mildly disappointed, “is what nearly killed you?”
And then he was moving again.
Impact after impact folding into one another so fast they almost became rhythm. Not a fight. A performance. Each strike warped the air. Stone ruptured. The creature, moments ago monstrous, suddenly looked stupid, heavy and clumsy.
And Naoya, between blows, kept talking as if this were all happening during a pleasant afternoon stroll.
He said it almost fondly. The bastard. Then landed between you and the curse with all the subtlety of a man expecting applause. Showing off. Obviously showing off. As if every movement were asking: Are you seeing this? Look what I can do for you. Tell me I’m not perfect.
The curse shrieked and lunged. Naoya lifted one hand, casual as a king dismissing a servant, clearly ready to end the spectacle, collect his reward, drag you into the debt he had scripted for you— and then something changed.
A monstrous pressure crushes the field. Naoya felt it first. Turned— almost in slow motion.
For the first time all day… surprise. No. No, it can’t—
A white flash. Steel followed. One motion, just one. Precise enough to be insulting and the curse began dissolving before anyone had fully processed it had been struck, unraveling in a merciless death so clean it was almost obscene. No spectacle. No theatrics. As though it had never been a threat at all. Sepulchral silence settled. Then— you saw him. Katana in hand. White uniform. Those gentle, tired eyes.
Your lungs forgot how to work.
“You’re late,” you whispered. It came out weaker than intended.
His smile—small, unbearably kind, almost apologetic—nearly undid you.
And before your knees betrayed you, he caught you.
Not hurriedly. Not like rescue, more like retrieval. As though gathering up something precious long misplaced. He lifted you into his arms with such instinctive care it felt almost indecently intimate, as if he had imagined doing it too many times before ever being allowed. Your head found his chest. His heart was racing. Far too fast. He prayed you wouldn’t notice.
A few feet away, Naoya was experiencing murder. Internally, of course. Because outwardly—he smiled. Of course he smiled.
Weeks of planning ruined in seconds and still he refused them the satisfaction of seeing him break. He could kill Okkotsu right now. At least that was what he told himself. Instead, he took measured steps toward him with the composure of a man arriving fashionably late to his own event.
Because in Naoya’s mind— this was his party. His stage. His claim. Psychotic? Certainly. He would have called it devotion. Ownership.
Yuta didn’t answer. Didn’t even look impressed.
And so Naoya reached for what Zenins always reached for when denied. Power. Clan Benefits.
Only then did Yuta lift his gaze and somehow the temperature dropped.
Just one word but it landed like a threat. Naoya’s smile sharpened. Yuta adjusted his hold around you and said, almost lazily,
And that— that landed. Hard.
Naoya looked almost delighted by the audacity. Something wicked lit behind his eyes. Silence settled between them, heavy enough to crush bone. Neither moved. Neither blinked. It was astonishing how much violence could fit inside stillness. Then—
Yuji and Nobara shouted so loudly it shattered the moment. They had apparently arrived in time not to help—
Nobara looked seconds from ascending. Yuji looked spiritually evicted. Megumi pinched the bridge of his nose like a man developing a migraine he did not deserve. And somehow, because the universe hated him, Gojo appeared behind him. Hand on shoulder. Looking delighted.
“Don’t you just love a happy ending, Gumi?” That smug bastard looked so pleased with himself he ought to have been arrested.
Naoya ignored all of them, only Yuta existed. If looks could kill, Okkotsu would have died several times.
“You dare say that to my face, boy.”
Anger flickered through him. Briefly. Dangerously. Yuta only tightened his hold around you. Protective. Jealous. Possessive in a way far quieter than Naoya’s. Which somehow made it feel worse.
“I said it, so you’d hear it clearly, Zenin.”
He made the family name sound filthy. A smile remained on Naoya’s mouth but something behind it cracked.
Yuta didn’t so much as blink.
Even Gojo’s smile faltered. Just once then returned. Faker than before. His arms folded. Something cautious entering his posture, because this had stopped being amusing. Now it was interesting.
Megumi noticed. Nearly rolled his eyes.
Naoya stepped back eventually. Not retreating. Repositioning. A predator circling.
“Time is on my side, boy.”
His eyes flicked to you, then back.
And then he left… like a promise.
The teacup shattered against the floor. For the first time in years, Naoya Zenin lost composure. Not publicly. Neverpublicly, but alone— the cracks showed.
His beautiful plan had gone to hell in seconds and Satoru Gojo, that insufferable bastard, had played dirty.
Breathe. His mind suggested it. It was useless. He paced like a caged lion condemned to watch another predator feed on his prey.
It wasn’t jealousy. He told himself this repeatedly, territoriality. More like possession, something primal. Anything but jealousy. And yet his mind would not stop returning to the way Yuta had looked at you.
As if holding something sacred. Something priceless. Precious. Invaluable. Shit. Not a lie. Not a farce. Not political theater. Devotion. Disgusting. Real, obscenely real.
His jaw hurt from clenching and then his mind betrayed him further. Started imagining things he did not want to imagine.
What if Yuta had taken you home… and the relationship was real... not some convenient fiction, then…
What if he was with you now. Brushing your hair behind your ear. Speaking softly into your skin. Kissing you. Undressing you. Was he in your bed or worse— were you in his. Warm limbs tangled. Bare skin. Lost in each other, warmly buried inside you. His body where Naoya imagined his own should be… Fuck!—
The thought tore through him like poison.
He said the name as if exorcising it.
“You caught me off guard.” Stillness. “But that won’t happen again.”
And for the first time in his life, Naoya understood something horrifying. He could lose and the realization opened something monstrous.
His smile returned, worse now. Tongue wetting his lips as strategy began threading itself together. Slowly. Beautifully. Madly.
“Good,” he whispered into darkness. “Then let’s play.”
The night gave no answer but something in it seemed to listen. And very far away, without any of you knowing, the next disaster had already begun.
🔞-> Spicy artwork for this chapter 👅
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