The question is no longer whether Naoya wants you. It's what happens now that you've finally heard him admit it.
And whether either of you are capable of surviving the fallout.
Warnings: Toxic relationships, Naoya being Naoya, heavy flirting/suggestive themes, misogyny, threats of abuse/taking advantage, alcohol consumption, being under the influence, friends to lovers kinda, breeding kink, dom Naoya sub reader. It's okay to be a virgin and it's okay to be a slut but Naoya and reader tease each other for it.
Song inspo/mood: Tove Lo - I'm Your Girl Right?
Divider: @cafekitsune
The sake bottle empties slowly between you as the hours pass by, its contents measured out in careful increments, not enough to dull reflexes, but just enough to loosen tongues. Time slips by unnoticed, the lanterns burning low as Naoya leans back onto his palms watching a moth circle the dimming flames.
"The old man," he starts, voice clipped, "is a drunken fool." His jaw works briefly before he adds, quieter, "You shouldn't have had to to endure that." He sounded slightly pained to be giving you some sort of apology, the sake appearing to make him more tolerable than he usually is.
You laugh, tossing your head back just enough to let the flittering lights catch the curve of your throat. "Doesn't matter," you say, waving a hand dismissively. The sake lingers warm in your veins, loosening your words just enough to let the truth slip through. "Honestly, I don't envy the pressure they put on you for that shit." You swirl your cup, watching the liquid cling to the porcelain. "Might be foreign, might not have some vaunted bloodline, but at least nobody's measuring my worth by how many heirs I can pop out. What a pain in the ass."
Naoya's gaze flicks to you before he takes another slow sip, "Don't pretend you're above it," he mutters, setting the cup down. "Clans like ours don't keep strays unless they're useful." His smirk is all teeth, "And you, foreigner, are very useful."
You swirl the sake in your cup, watching the liquid catch the lantern light like liquid gold. "I guess," you muse, voice pitched low enough that only Naoya can hear, "Naobito-sama's practically my sugar daddy at this point." You pause, then grin. "Minus the sugar, of course. But you guys do treat me very well, for that I am greatfu-"
Naoya's face twists in visceral disgust, his nose scrunching like he's just stepped in something foul. "That's fucking gross," he snaps, but there's a betraying twitch at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of amusement he can't quite suppress.
Naoya leans back on one elbow, the fabric of his jinbei stretching taut across his shoulders as he regards you with something between amusement and disdain. "Though," he drawls, pouring himself another drink, "knowing my father, it probably isn't beneath him, if you were stupid enough to put out." His smirk doesn't falter. "Luckily for you, stupidity isn't your defining trait."
You laugh, tossing your hair over one shoulder as another sip of sake warms your tongue. "Oh, he doesn't seem to be in the market for a mistress at the moment," you muse, tapping your chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
Naoya's fingers pause mid-air, his cup tilted just shy of spilling. His smirk as it falters for a fraction of a second long enough for you to notice, not long enough for him to admit it. "Ew." he murmurs, voice dripping with mock warning. "I take it back. That almost sounded like you were considering it."
You tilt your head, studying him over the rim of your cup, "Jealous, Nao-kun?" you tease, letting your voice drop into a whisper.
Naoya’s barks out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Jealous?” he repeats, rolling the word around his tongue. “Of what?”
You shrug, “Dunno. Maybe that your daddy probably gets more action than you from women. You're hardly approachable."
His eyes narrow. "You’re joking,” he says flatly.
You tap your chin, letting your grin widen as Naoya's grip tightens around his cup. "Well, I never see you with girls, I bet you scare them all off." you muse, swirling your sake.
The silence stretches between you for three slow heartbeats before Naoya’s cup hits the wood with enough force to send sake sloshing over the rim. His smirk freezes into something sharp enough to draw blood. "You never see me with girls," he repeats, voice dangerously calm, "because I don’t parade my conquests like some common dog marking its territory." His fingers twitch toward the sake bottle, but he doesn’t pour, just grips it hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
You lean forward, as the sake buzzes pleasantly behind your ribs and the urge to push his buttons increases. "You know," you muse, "there was another theory I considered." The pause stretches just long enough to make Naoya's eyebrow twitch. "Maybe you're not interested in women at all." You tease, oh that'll do it.
Naoya's expression doesn't change, not exactly, but the air between you crackles with sudden, dangerous tension. "You're a cheeky bitch," he says finally, voice low and measured. "And wrong."
You tilt your head, "Am I?" The question hangs between you, weighted with playful challenge.
Naoya exhales sharply through his nose, leaning forward, filling your space. His fingers twitch toward your wrist but don't quite make contact. "Let me assure you," he murmurs, voice dripping with venomous amusement, "my tastes run very, very female." His smirk returns, but there's something predatory in it now, "Would you like a demonstration?"
"Ew, you're making me cringe. You're so virgin coded." You tease, rolling your eyes.
"Shut up," Naoya snaps, but you just grin wider, because the way his fingers twitch toward your wrist again, the way his pulse jumps visibly at the base of his throat, tells you everything you need to know. "It isn't rocket science," he mutters, though the way he shifts ever so slightly closer betrays him.
You stretch your legs out, the slit of your dress riding up just enough to expose a little more thigh as you nudge Naoya’s thigh with your bare foot. “Theory is easy,” you murmur. “Execution? Simple enough.” Your toes trace idle patterns against his leg, feeling the muscle tense beneath thin fabric. “But the art of good sex?” You click your tongue, shaking your head with exaggerated pity. “Lost on most, I’m afraid.”
“And you’d know all about art, wouldn’t you?” he drawls, but his voice lacks its usual bite, the words landing somewhere between challenge and concession.
You lean back onto your palms as you regard Naoya with a slow, knowing smile. "Oh, I'd know," you murmur, letting your voice drop into a husky register "I've got far more experience than you, that's for sure."
His gaze drags over you with deliberate slowness, lingering on the curve of your collarbone, the way your dress dips just low enough to hint at cleavage.
The air between you thickens, Naoya’s smirk doesn’t waver, "Experience?" he echoes, voice dripping with faux amusement. "Don’t confuse quantity with quality."
"Quality?" You let your gaze drag down Naoya's frame with deliberate leisure, lingering where the loose fabric of his jinbei gaps to reveal the taut lines of his collarbone. "Wouldn't know, you've never shown me any."
Naoya's cup hits the wood again with a sharp clack. "Because you're not worth the effort," he lies smoothly, but the way his fingers curl into his palm betrays him.
You click your tongue, shaking your head with exaggerated disappointment. "Poor Nao-kun," you sigh, "All that potential and no idea what to do with it." His muscle tenses under your foots lingering touch, warm even through the fabric.
His hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising force. "You talk out of your ass," he murmurs, thumb pressing into the delicate bone with enough pressure to make your breath catch. His smirk is knife-edged, pupils blown wide in the dim light. "Maybe I should shut you up."
You let yourself go lax in Naoya’s grip, your smile lazy as spilled sake. "Oh?" you murmur, tilting your head just enough to let your hair slide over one shoulder. "And how exactly do you plan to do that, Nao-kun? With more of that charming personality of yours?" His fingers tighten around your wrist, but you don’t flinch, just arch a brow, watching the way his eyes gaze over your lips. "Though," you continue, "I might be inclined to let you have your first taste of a woman... if you were ever honest with me for once."
Naoya yanks you forward with a force that sends the sake splashing across the wood as you find yourself sprawled halfway into his lap, your breath coming sharp and quick between parted lips. His free hand catches your other wrist before you can brace yourself, pinning it against his chest where you can feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
"Could take it if I wanted to, no need to play nice, or get feelings involved." he murmurs, the words curling hot against the shell of your ear as his breath ghosts over your skin. His smirk is predatory, but his pulse thrums wild beneath your fingertips, betraying him. "Wouldn’t even be difficult." His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, deliberate, testing, as if tracing the path of a vein he might sever.
Your laugh is breathless, half-strangled by the way his grip forces your spine to arch, pressing your chest flush against his. The fabric of his jinbei is rough beneath your palm, the heat of his skin bleeding through as his fingers tighten around your wrist. "Interesting," you murmur, tilting your head just enough to let your lips brush the sharp line of his jaw. "Who said anything about feelings?" You tease, catching him out.
Naoya's breath hitches, just once, before he recovers, his grip still tight like a vice around your wrist. "Shut up," he growls, but the command lacks its usual bite, his voice roughened at the edges. He releases one of your wrists to tangle his fingers in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp prickle as he forces your head back, exposing the line of your throat. The scent of the expensive sake clings to him as he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as a small moan escapes you.
Naoya's fingers freeze mid-motion, for a heartbeat—just one—he goes perfectly still, the tension in his body shifting from predatory to calculating. His grip on your hair loosens slightly, not enough to free you, but enough to let you feel the deliberate drag of his fingertips against your scalp as he tests your reaction. When you arch instinctively into the touch, his breath hitches audibly against your throat.
"Interesting," he murmurs in a mocking tone, voice roughened with something darker than amusement. His thumb traces the shell of your ear, feather-light, watching the way your breath catches. "You like this, don’t you?" The realisation dawns in his smirk, sharpening it into something dangerously close to triumph. His next tug is deliberate, just shy of painful, and the sound you make is embarrassingly eager.
Naoya's breath hitches when you press yourself down onto his lap, desperate for friction where you need it most. His grip tightens instantly in your hair, but he doesn’t pull you away. Instead, his lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Cheeky," he murmurs, voice rough.
"Honest," you correct, pressing your palm flat against his chest where his heartbeat thunders beneath your fingertips. "Unlike you." You grind against him, feeling the unmistakable hardness that was growing by the second. His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop you. "Your body’s honest, at least. Why aren’t you?"
Naoya exhales sharply through his nose, His fingers remained firm, not quite painful, but hard enough to make your breath catch. "Because," he says slowly, as if weighing each word, "you’re annoying. Arrogant. A foreigner from nowhere who talks too much and—"
"And?" you prompt, tilting your head just enough to let your lips graze the sharp line of his jaw.
"And I’ve wanted you since the first time you opened your fucking mouth," he snaps, the admission ripped from him like it hurt.
"The old man," he says slowly, each word measured like poison in a teacup, "is a drunken fool." His thumb continues to brush the shell of your ear, deliberate, savoring the way your breath hitches. "But he's not wrong."
You arch a brow, your pulse jumping where his fingers continue to dig into your wrist. "About what?" you murmur, letting your free hand trail down his chest, lower, until his breath stutters against your throat. "Enlighten me."
Naoya's smirk is reath warm against your parted lips. "Marrying you," he admits, "would be... strategic." His grip shifts, dragging you flush against him until the hard line of his cock presses insistently against your thigh. "Your technique," he continues, voice dropping lower, "your blood—strong enough to strengthen the clan without diluting it." His slides down from your wrist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. "And these," he adds, squeezing just shy of bruising, "perfect for breeding heirs."
You laugh, breathless, sharp, as Naoya’s fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your head back to expose your throat. His teeth graze the delicate skin there, not biting, not yet, but testing—like a predator gauging the best angle to tear into its prey. "Strategic?" you echo, voice thick with mock admiration. "Is that your way of saying you like the idea, Nao-kun?"
"Guess it is," Naoya murmurs against your throat, the admission after all this time, finally dragged out of him. His lips linger too long on your pulse point before he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, dark, hungry, stripped of its usual arrogance. "I'd give you the world if you said yes," he adds, the words rough-edged with something perilously close to sincerity.
"Flattering," you murmur, dragging your nails down the front of his robe just hard enough to make him twitch, "but there are dozens of pliant little noblewomen who'd suit the role better." You tilt your head, watching the way his pupils dilate. "Less trouble, too."
Naoya exhales again, the sound sharp with impatience, or maybe something closer to desperation. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers pressing into the softness there like he’s mapping the shape of you, committing it to memory. "Unfortunately for my fucking sanity," he mutters, voice ragged at the edges, "it's you I want."
Naoya’s smirk twists into something dangerously indulgent as his thumb traces the ridge of your hipbone, his breath hot against your ear. “Fine,” he concedes, the word gritted out like it pains him. “I’ll even let you prance around being a modern woman or whatever it is you do.” His lips curl around the phrase like it’s a joke, but his grip tightens, as if he’s already bracing for your retaliation. “Run your little missions. Dress however you please. Just—” His teeth nip at your earlobe, sharp enough to sting. “Come home to me after.”
Naobito's drunken matchmaking exposes more than either of you and Naoya would like to admit.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Misogyny, sexist behaviour, clan politics, kinda? Racism, kinda? Only a little (reader is depicted as foreign) toxic relationships, smut in later chapters, not proof read.
I wanted to write a one shot and this turned into like, 140 pages in my drafts so it's gonna be like 4 chapters at least I think. Reader is depicted as foreign but I don't go into much detail beyond that she isn't Japanese. So imagine those details how you like! I envisioned this with a younger pre-blone dyed hair Naoya so set a few years before the current events of the show. I stuck with a clairvoyant technique since I think the Zenins would lap that up and keep someone like that close, but it can be an add on to your own oc/self ship technique. Enjoy!
Banner: @cafekitsune
Your cab pulls up to the painfully grand estate, the warm summer evening illuminated by lanterns casting their warm glow accross the path. The air alive with chatter and laughter, the scent of grilled meats mingling with the aroma of blooming hydrangeas. You smooth the silk of your dress as you enter the garden, acutely aware of the eyes that flicker your way, some curious, others dismissive. Before you can adjust to the weight of attention, a server materialises at your side, balancing a tray of drinks with practiced ease.
He offers a glass filled with something chilled and faintly citrus, yuzu, maybe? You take it with a murmured thanks, heaven knows you're going to need it, letting the condensation bead against your fingertips. The drink is a welcome distraction as you scan the crowd, noting clusters of Zenin relatives and other powerful family members draped in their fine summer kimonos, their postures stiff even in revelry. And just like clockwork your eyes meet a familiar gaze.
Naoya Zenin, in all his arrogant glory, emerges from the throng of guests. Unhurried, deliberate and as always, impossible to ignore. With his lazy stride and wolfish grin, he’s dressed in a slate gray yukata, the fabric loose enough to be casual, but tailored enough to remind you he’s still a Zenin. The lantern light catches the silver threads woven into the hem as he stops just shy of arm’s reach, his smirk a fraction too practiced.
"Took you long enough to show up," Naoya drawls, flicking a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve. "I was starting to think you would be rude enough to turn down our invitation." His tone is all lazy arrogance, but there's a flicker in his gaze, something that might almost be relief that you're here.
You take a deliberate sip of your drink, letting the flavour bloom on your tongue before meeting his gaze. "And miss the chance to watch you pretend you don’t care whether I came or not?" You tilt your head, the lantern light catching the sheen of your dress. "Absolutely not."
Naoya’s smirk twitches, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he schools his expression back into its usual languid disdain. “Whatever,” he repeats, “You’re giving yourself too much credit.” But the way his fingers flex at his side, just once, barely noticeable, betrays him.
The moment stretches between you until Naoya exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, if he were the type to indulge in such things. “You-” he starts, but the sentence dies abruptly as a heavy arm slings itself around his and your shoulders, the scent of sake flooding the space between you. Naobito Zenin, cheeks flushed with drink, “Ah, there she is!” he booms, giving Naoya an affectionate shake that makes the younger man’s teeth click. “Our little jewel. Tell me, how many of these stuffy bastards have you already predicted will drop dead before the years end?”
Naobito’s breath is warm against your cheek, his grip firm enough to make Naoya stiffen beside you. You laugh, polite but edged, turning your face slightly away from the sake-laden exhale. “Now, now, Zenin-sama,” you chide playfully, tapping his wrist lightly with your fingers. “Even if I knew, it would be poor form to say so at a celebration.”
Naobito barks a laugh, loud enough to draw glances from nearby guests, though none dare linger. “Ha! Always so diplomatic,” he slurs, swaying slightly as he leans in closer. His grip tightens around Naoya’s shoulder, and you catch the way Naoya’s jaw tenses, like he’s resisting the urge to shrug him off. “That’s why I like you. Sharp tongue, sharper mind.” He winks, then flicks his gaze to Naoya. “Unlike this brat, who’s all bark and no bite.”
Naoya’s eyes narrow at Naobito’s words, his fingers twitching like he’s weighing the merits of shoving the older man off versus maintaining some semblance of decorum. “If you’re done embarrassing yourself,” he mutters, voice low but razor-edged, “maybe consider sobering up before you start drooling on guests.”
Naobito guffaws, shaking Naoya harder until the younger man’s teeth click again. “Embarrassing? Boy, the only embarrassment here is you, why haven't you asked her out?” He jabs a finger at Naoyas chest, “Look at her! Sharp, witty, beautiful. And those—” He gestures broadly at your torso with a leer, “—assets don’t hurt either.”
Naobito’s grin widens as he leans in, the stench of sake thick enough to curl your toes. “Speaking of,” he slurs, nudging you with an elbow that nearly knocks your drink from your hand, “this one—” he jerks a thumb at Naoya, who looks like he’s mentally calculating the quickest route to patricide, “—was pacing the courtyard like a caged animal earlier. Checking the gate every five minutes.” He waggles his eyebrows, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Obviously waiting to see if you’d show.”
Naoya’s expression goes lethally still. His fingers twitch once, like he’s imagining wrapping them around Naobito’s throat, but all he does is exhale sharply through his nose. “You’re drunk,” he says flatly, “and delusional.”
Naobito throws his head back with another booming laugh, the sound ricocheting off the garden’s stone pathways like a misfired curse technique. “Delusional?” He slaps Naoya’s back hard enough to make him stagger half a step forward. “Boy, don't lie to your old man!” His grin turns wolfish as he leans toward you, though his grip on Naoya’s shoulder keeps him from toppling over. “Tell me, little jewel, how many sons do you think this one could give you? Three? Four? Five? With your technique and our bloodline, they’d be monsters before they could walk.”
You arch a brow, swirling your drink as Naobito’s words hang in the air. Naoya’s expression is a masterpiece of controlled fury, his lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking like a metronome set to murder. You decide to poke the bear. “Five?” you muse, tapping a finger against your chin. “you overestimate his stamina.”
Naoya’s head snaps toward you so fast you swear you hear his neck crack. The look in his eyes is pure, undiluted violence. But you’ve seen that look before, and you know exactly how far you can poke the bear before he actually snaps. “Careful,” he says, voice low enough that only you and Naobito can hear. “I might start thinking you’re curious about my stamina.”
Naobito wheezes with laughter, sloshing his sake cup so violently that half of it spills onto Naoya’s sleeve. The younger Zenin doesn’t flinch, his glare locked onto you like a curse technique honed for a kill shot. “Oh-ho!” Naobito crows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s got you there, boy. Never seen someone rattle you so easy.” He jabs a finger at Naoya’s chest again.
You take another slow sip of your drink before flashing Naobito a smile. “Zenin-sama,” you hum, tilting your head just enough to feign innocence, “you flatter me, but let’s not pretend I’d make a proper Zenin bride.” You gesture loosely at yourself, the curve of your hips, the foreign cut of your dress, the way your vowels curl just a little too warmly for Kyoto’s frosty aristocracy. “I’m a stray cat you let in for the mice I catch, not some pedigreed showpiece.” you pout playfully.
Naobito waves his cup dismissively, sloshing more sake onto the pristine gravel. “Pedigree? Pfah.” He leans in, his breath hot and sour against your cheek. “You think these inbred relics prancing around here could sniff out a cursed spirit if it bit them in the ass? Bloodlines rot without fresh meat.” His gaze slides to Naoya, who’s gone eerily still, the kind of stillness that comes right before a massacre. “And this one,” Naobito adds, “needs a woman who won’t let him get away with that godawful personality of his.”
You let your gaze drag lazily over Naoya, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his yukata hangs just loose enough to hint at the taut muscle beneath, before shrugging one shoulder in deliberate nonchalance. "Well, he is easy on the eyes, I suppose," you muse, tapping your chin as if evaluating livestock at auction, since that seemed to be how you were being treated. Naoya's fingers freeze around his cup, his smirk slipping for half a breath before he catches himself. You file that reaction away for later.
"Easy on the eyes?" Naoya's smirk falters for half a second, but he recovers fast, tilting his chin up with a scoff.
Naobito’s grin widens as he watches the exchange. “See?” he slurs, gesturing between the two of you with his half-empty cup. “This is exactly what I mean. You two bicker like an old married couple already.” He hiccups, then adds, “Might as well make it official.”
Naobito chuckles, swaying slightly as he raises his cup in a mock toast. "Ah, but don't limit yourself, my dear," he slurs, waving a hand toward the crowd. "The Zenin clan has plenty of fine sons, strong, capable, obedient, if this one's too much of a headache." He winks at you, deliberately ignoring the way Naoya's fingers twitch toward the tanto at his waist. "Might I recommend—"
Naobito barely gets the words out before Naoya's fingers clamp around your wrist, his grip firm, there it was, the final poke of the bear. "Enough old man," he snaps, yanking you forward with a force that nearly sends your drink flying as Naoya drags you away from Naobito's drunken laughter, his strides long and punishing.
The moment Naoya's fingers close around your wrist, the world narrows to the heat of his grip and the taut line of his shoulders as he drags you through the crowd. Guests part like waves before a ship, their murmurs fading into the hum of lantern-lit night. You don't resist, not because you can't, but because the fury rolling off him is electric, thrilling in its predictability. "Naoya," you chide, letting your voice drip with false sweetness as you stumble half a step behind him, "if you wanted me alone, you could've just asked."
Naoya doesn't slow down, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump against his fingers. "Shut up," he mutters, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. "I was doing you a favour." As he drops your wrist.
You rub your wrist lightly, the ghost of Naoya's grip still humming against your skin. The garden air feels cooler now, the lanterns casting long shadows as you step back, tilting your head with a slow, knowing smile. "Dragging me off like that in front of half the clan?" You click your tongue, the sound deliberate. "Naoya, you’ll really give people ideas."
His scoff is immediate. "As if I care what those relics think," he mutters, running his hand through his hair.
"Well, whatever the case, this has been delightful, but I should go mingle before the clan thinks you’ve scared me off." You take a deliberate step back, "Unless you’d rather keep me all to yourself?"
Naoya’s smirk is sharp, lethal, and utterly predictable. "Don’t flatter yourself," he drawls, though his gaze tracks the sway of your hips as you turn away.
You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder with feigned innocence. "Oh, but Naobito-sama did say I should consider all my options." You tap a finger to your lips, letting your gaze drift pointedly toward brothers scattered amongst the crowd.
"Do what you want," he mutters, voice thick with disdain that doesn’t quite mask the undercurrent of something you could almost call jealousy.
The moment you turn away from Naoya, you don’t look back, but you feel his gaze like a brand between your shoulder blades, searing through the silk of your dress. The crowd swallows you whole, their chatter rising in waves as you weave through clusters of Zenin relatives, their eyes tracking your movement with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain. A server materializes at your elbow, offering a fresh cup of yuzu-infused sake, and you take it with a murmured thanks, letting the chilled glass anchor you to the moment.
The night stretches on without much event. You drift through the garden like a specter, your presence noted but unremarked upon, foreign enough to be intriguing, useful enough to be tolerated. The Zenin clan's laughter rings hollow in your ears as you sip your drink slowly, letting the tartness linger on your tongue as you observe the ebb and flow of power, who bows, who sneers, who lingers just a little too close to Naobito's drunken orbit.
Sometime around eleven you opt to reside to your quaters for the night. The servant's sandals whisper against the polished wood as they lead you away from the dying hum of the party, deeper into the Zenin estate's labyrinthine corridors.
"Your quarters," murmurs the servant, sliding open a door with practiced deference. The room yawns before you, all dark wood and crisp linens, smelling faintly of cedar and the ghost of old incense. A single lamp flickers on the low table, illuminating a tray bearing tea and round, pale mochi. You step inside, fingertips brushing the sliding frame. "The bathhouse is—"
"I know where it is, you're excused. Thank you." you interrupt softly, watching the servant's shoulders stiffen. Their bow is deeper than necessary as they retreat, footsteps fading down the corridors.
You step out into the evening air and take a seat on the engawa facing the smaller courtyard adjacent to your room, the wood cool beneath you as you settle onto the edge. The night air is thick with the scent of damp moss and the distant murmur of cicadas, their song rising and falling, a welcome contrast from a Zenin party. The courtyard is pretty, a single crooked maple leaning over the koi pond, its leaves trembling whenever a breeze slips through. You watch the moonlight fracture across the water’s surface, the occasional flash of orange scales breaking the stillness.
The knock comes just as you're peeling the last bit of mochi from your fingertips, three sharp raps that don't wait for permission before the shoji slides open. Naoya lingers in the threshold like a shadow given form, the lantern light carving the sharp angles of his face into something almost predatory. He's swapped his yukata for a black jinbei, the loose fabric doing nothing to disguise the lethal grace of his movements as he steps inside, a bottle of something dangling from his fingers.
Naoya kicks the door shut with his heel, the shoji rattling in its frame. "You're still awake," he observes, voice flat, as if he hadn't deliberately timed his arrival for the hour when even the most dedicated revelers would be drunk or unconscious. The bottle clinks against the wood as he sets it down, you can't see the label clearly, but it is no doubt expensive.
You don’t look up from the koi pond, where moonlight ripples across the water’s surface. "Creeping to my room at this hour." you murmur, plucking a stray fleck of mochi from your sleeve. "Should I be flattered or suspicious?"
Naoya exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your skin prickle. "Flattered," he says, sinking down beside you, first pouring a drink before passing you a sake cup. His lips curl as he pours his own and takes a sip, his throat working in a slow, deliberate swallow. "Definitely flattered."
Naoya sets the cup down, the porcelain clicking against the lacquered wood. His gaze lingers on your profile, the curve of your cheek catching dim lamplight, the way your lashes cast faint shadows when you blink. “Sure, you’re annoying,” he says finally, voice low and rough, like he’s confessing to a crime. “But still more tolerable than most of the sycophants milling around out there.”
You turn your head slowly, meeting his stare with a smile. “Oh?” you hum, “Is that your way of admitting you enjoy my company, Nao-kun?” you purr.
Naoya's fingers twitch against the sake cup at the nickname, his smirk sharpening into something dangerously close to genuine amusement. "Don't push your luck," he murmurs, but there's no bite to it, just the faintest rasp in his voice that makes your pulse skip. "Drink," he orders, pouring with a precision that borders on ritual. "Before I change my mind about sharing."
Can someone help me understand the ending of Firefly Wedding (Hotaru no Yomeiri)?
*SPOILERS AHEAD*
I genuinely loved this manga, I read it in 3 days and was fully ready to call it a 10/10… until the ending, which has really thrown me off.
I don’t feel any sense of closure, and I’m struggling to reconcile the ending with the characters we spent the whole story with.
Shinpei and Satoko were intensely devoted to each other, obsessive in a way the story clearly leaned into. They risked their lives multiple times just to stay together, to save each other, so I’m finding it hard to accept that:
Shinpei seemingly believed she was dead (or at least never confirmed otherwise) and they didn’t try to contact or find each other for decades, then only reunite when they’re elderly to his suprise when she's still alive?
It just feels disconnected from the people they were earlier in the story. That level of devotion doesn’t feel like it naturally leads to that kind of long separation without even trying.
Honestly, I almost feel like I would have accepted the ending more if Satoko had actually died, because at least that would feel consistent with the intensity and tragedy of their relationship.
I really want to like this ending because I loved everything else so much, so I’m very open to different interpretations.
If anyone has a perspective that makes this feel more in-character, or helps it emotionally “click,” I’d really appreciate it.
featuring: naoya zenin x fem!reader
synopsis: you’re a high-end hair stylist, and one of your best clients has the hots for you
word count: 3.8k
contents: n/sfw, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, misogyny, naoya is his own warning, reader has a bf but they break up before naoya makes a move, titplay, fingering, unprotected sex, tit slapping, degradation, semi-public, creampie
a/n: whoops. This was supposed to be a short headcanony drabble about what it would be like to be naoya’s colorist and it morphed into a smut one-shot i guess. Asdflkjjhajsdk
masterlist
⟢ Naoya Zenin is the type to professionally maintain his bleached hair at an expensive salon. His appearance is tied to status for him, so cheap bleach that fries his hair is out of the question. He grew up wealthy and expects high-end grooming; he wants an appointment-only salon where he gets a quiet, private room and sees the same excellent stylist every time.
⟢ He gets his roots touched up every 3-4 weeks like clockwork and pays extra for expensive toning shampoo to maintain the exact shade and hue he wants. He’d probably lose his mind if someone pointed out his root growth, so he stays very much on top of it. And he refuses to let anyone except his stylist touch his hair.
⟢ The lucky stylist in question? You.
⟢ At first, Naoya is frankly displeased that the stylist he requested is a woman. He demanded the most in-demand senior stylist at the salon with the most prestigious client list, and lo and behold, you were the one who appeared.
⟢ “You’re the senior stylist?” he asks, with thinly-veiled condescension. It’s not that he doesn’t think a woman isn’t suited to serve him professionally. He just doubts your abilities and makes it clear he’s going to be scrutinizing your every move. If you somehow prove excellent at your job, well, he’ll ultimately tolerate you. For pragmatic reasons, obviously.
⟢ There’s a very transparent evaluation phase he puts you through where he tests your competence. And to his mild surprise, you are as good as your reputation suggests.
⟢ You handle his consultation with the right mix of confidence and deference. You treat him the way a VIP client ought to be treated. And you don’t waste his time.
⟢ Turns out, you do actually know what you’re doing. It doesn’t hurt his pride to admit that. Naoya can concede that it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for a woman to be good at styling hair.
⟢ It takes a handful of visits, but eventually he’s got standing appointments booked with you for months in advance. He’s stingy with his praise. When he does compliment you, it’s arrogantly framed. “Don’t want someone else to butcher it.”
⟢ You have clients who like to yap, some who you can even chat with like you’re lifelong friends. Others are practically silent. Naoya Zenin likes to listen to himself talk.
⟢ Mostly, he talks at you about things you find inane. He likes to humblebrag and name-drop and complain about people he finds incompetent. He enjoys having a captive audience and thrives on being listened to.
⟢ In the beginning, you respond when you need to and mostly stick to the professional salon service script: “Would you like another drink?” “Is this temperature okay?” “Can you tilt your head a little?”
⟢ Meanwhile, you’re internally rolling your eyes at the stuff he says. But you’re a professional, so you know how to handle difficult clients and just let him talk without directly challenging him.
⟢ Instead, you remember certain details he mentions for his next appointment and try to anticipate his needs and preferences. As a result, he’ll keep talking because he assumes you’re impressed by him (like everyone else).
⟢ Eventually, deep down, some part of Naoya realizes he’s fallen into a bit of a trap. Namely, if he manages to cross a line or burn that bridge, he’d be losing your services. And sure, he could go out and find a new stylist, but you already know his exact bleach formula, he’d have to explain his hair history to someone new, and he’d be taking a chance on that somebody overprocessing his hair and making him look bad for weeks.
⟢ It’s not him making excuses; it’s just not ideal in the slightest. And to be honest, it scares him a little straight.
⟢ So, Naoya keeps it to himself whenever you shows up to his appointments looking especially slutty. He honestly wonders how your boyfriend lets you out of the house like that. Plunging necklines, body-hugging tops, tight little pencil skirts.
⟢ You’re obviously not wife material for a Zenin, not dressing like that. But that’s not necessarily a reason why he can’t appreciate the view. Neither is the fact that you’re taken. It’s really just that he’s not sure if you’re one of those sensitive women who can’t take a joke or would get all up in arms about a misplaced comment.
⟢ Thing is, though, you’ve got eyes. It’s hilariously easy to tell, despite his best efforts, when Naoya is pretending not to ogle your tits through the gap in your blouse as you lean forward to check his roots.
⟢ You never comment on it because, as sad as it is to admit, you’ve had more egregious clients in the past—creeps who got grabby or tried to follow you to the station that had to be outright banned from the salon.
⟢ Plus, if you’re being honest, you actually finds Naoya a little entertaining. You’ve long gotten used to being little more than professional wallpaper for the rich and spoiled, so Naoya’s particular flavor of pretty-boy entitlement isn’t the worst you’ve had.
⟢ He may be arrogant, but he tips well and (most importantly) always, always books through you, no matter how many weeks in advance. He’s loyal to his own convenience, which, for a stylist, is as much as one can hope for.
⟢ As months go by, the dynamic between you starts to actually get more familiar. It’s not friendly, exactly, but it is dry and comfortable.
⟢ Naoya lets this happen because you seem to know where to draw the line still. You’ll insert a few remarks while you work like, “Your hair grows fast. You shouldn’t have waited so long this time.” And he’ll throw out a comment like, “What is it your boyfriend does again? He ain’t a bum, is he?”
⟢ You learn quickly that he enjoys these little jabs and expects you to volley back. “He’s a bartender. I think that counts as a real job.”
⟢ “Tch. As long as he ain’t living off your tips.”
⟢ Things go on like this for a while, and it just works.
⟢ Then, about a year and a half after going blond, Naoya gets the phone call from the salon. It’s the receptionist calling very apologetically to say his appointments from here on out will have to be switched to a new stylist. At first, he can only pause silently as the words process. Then, he tersely asks why.
⟢ “She’s leaving. Personal reasons,” the receptionist tells him nervously. Typical of a high-end salon to keep things vague. But it’s not good enough for Naoya.
⟢ “She sick or somethin’? When is she coming back?”
⟢ Again, the receptionist demurs. So, Naoya hangs up and makes his way to the salon to find the answers himself.
⟢ The receptionist blanches a little when she sees Naoya striding in just before close. He ignores the nervous little bow she offers and is halfway through the salon already before she can even protest, scanning for signs of you.
⟢ The receptionist is sputtering behind him, trying to keep up, but Naoya’s not about to let some flustered desk girl slow him down. He wants answers, and he plans on getting them.
⟢ The first thing he notices when he reaches the back is that the lights are on in the private room in the back. He doesn’t knock. He just swings the door open and is immediately greeted by the sight of you sweeping up after your last client.
⟢ You’re not in your usual form-fitting clothes, instead opting for a baggy sweatshirt and modest skirt. Your feet are clad in an old beat-up pair of tennis shoes rather than the customary heels, and your hair is down today, a little messy.
⟢ You look up, a bit startled before quickly recognizing him, and offering the receptionist a small smile. “It’s alright, Ichika. You can close up. I’ll finish here soon.”
⟢ The receptionist hesitates, but she seems relieved to have an excuse to bolt. Her heels click quickly away down the hall, and then it’s just the two of you in the quiet, fluorescent-lit room.
⟢ Naoya’s not used to seeing you like this. No lipstick, no cleavage, no tight skirt. He stares for a bit as you lean the broom against the counter and dust your hands off with his brows drawn together, as if trying to reconcile this version of you with the one he’s used to. "Didn't know they let you dress like that here.”
⟢ You reply in a tone that somewhat betrays your exhaustion that, if you’re being honest, you prefer to dress comfortably like this. “It was my boyfriend who wanted me to dress like that all the time. Well, ex-boyfriend now.”
⟢ Naoya continues to stare from where he’s still standing in the doorway, not quite understanding. But then, it clicks. “You’re quitting this place ‘cause of that idiot?”
⟢ You cough and look away, carefully explaining that you’d been dumped and kicked out of the apartment. “I’m staying with a friend for now, but I can’t impose forever. I’ll be moving back in with my folks in Inabe.”
⟢ Naoya scoffs. “So, that’s it? You’re just ditching your whole client list and running home?”
⟢ You laugh and try to sound breezy as you reply. “It’s not like I have a choice. I can’t afford Kyoto rent on my own, not without someone to split it with. And the commute would be insane. That’s just how it goes sometimes.”
⟢ Naoya’s livid. In his mind, you’re throwing away something valuable—your position, your clientele—and sacrificing status for personal feelings. Now, he’s just expected to lose someone who knows how to handle his shit? Whose expertise he’s come to depend on? It’s unacceptable.
⟢ He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Were you even going to tell me personally if I never came in? I always knew that guy was a damned loser, and now, it’s directly inconveniencing me.”
⟢ You can’t help but bark out a laugh at that. Because of course, he’s more concerned with how your breakup affects him. “You’re not the only client who’s upset. Anyway, I left your bleach formula in your client notes for whoever takes over.”
⟢ He really goes off on you after that. “I ain’t risking some random turning me orange. Didn’t I tell you not to let that bitch bum off your tips? Maybe if you listened, you could afford your own fuckin’ place. It ain’t enough that he made you dress like a damn whore all the time but now he gets to screw you over, too?”
⟢ Your annoyance flares. You don’t hold back on your retort and match his energy, because how dare he speak to you that way? “I didn’t hear you complaining about how I dressed while you were in my chair, staring at my tits! Besides, I’m not gonna beg him to take me back just because you want me to touch up your hair.”
⟢ Naoya just sneers down his nose at you. He can’t believe he wasted all that energy holding himself back just to avoid accidentally offending you, and now, he feels like it barely matters since you’re leaving anyway. So, he doesn’t bother filtering himself. “I don’t want him to take you back, moron. And if you must know, I prefer you like this. That dumbass ex of yours was actually stupid if he got off letting other men look at what should’ve been his.”
⟢ You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm with some mix of irritation and something else. “Oh, so now you’re gonna tell me how a woman should dress huh? Well, save it. It’s not your business anyway.”
⟢ Naoya presses forward confidently, until you have no choice but to back into the counter. “I’m just sayin’,” he drawls. “That guy clearly didn’t know what to do with you.” His eyes rove over your form without shame, and you can practically feel the weight of it on your prickling skin. “I mean, he was really okay with you being around real high-status men?”
⟢ You scoff. “What, like you?”
⟢ Naoya’s grin is sharp and mean. “Damn right. I wouldn’t trust you around a guy like me.”
⟢ Stubbornly, you lift your chin, but your fluster is painfully obvious even under the shitty fluorescent lights. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not my boyfriend, then.”
⟢ He laughs lowly and leans in until you can smell his expensive cologne and the faintest trace of salt. “If you were mine,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t let anyone else get within a mile of you.”
⟢ “That sounds exhausting,” you huff, trying to keep your voice from wavering. “I don’t need some jealous freak breathing down my neck.”
⟢ His hand comes up deliberately, and tugs at the hem of your sweatshirt. “You’re full of shit. You like it.”
⟢ You bat his hand away out of reflex, but it’s a weak motion with barely any conviction behind it. Naoya’s standing so close now that you have to tip your chin up to meet his eyes. He clicks his teeth.
⟢ “You’re not denying it.”
⟢ Your pulse patters a little faster. “Maybe I just put up with it because you tip better than the other creeps.”
⟢ He smirks, shifting his hand under the sweatshirt and splaying it wide over your bare stomach. "Don't kid yourself. If that was the case, you’d have gotten me banned already. You could, if you wanted to.”
⟢ Fuck, he’s right. You can’t even argue, and he knows it. The next thing you know, Naoya’s on you, one hand on the back of your neck, roughly tilting you as his mouth crashes against yours.
⟢ It’s actually shameful, realizing how much you wanted this. How much you wanted the distraction from your whirlwind of emotions, the rough handling, Naoya himself.
⟢ You suck in a startled gasp, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding in greedily. He takes from you demandingly, pinning you against the counter’s edge until you have nowhere to go. Your hands move on their own, curling urgently into the front of his shirt.
⟢ “Knew it,” he breathes smugly before tearing your sweatshirt up over your head and making short work of the bra underneath. Fuck, he’s been dreaming about your tits for months, and now that he’s got them bared in the harsh light, they’re even better than the fantasy. “You got pretty tits, ya know that?”
⟢ It’s honestly unbelievable, how perfect they feel in his hands, soft and perked to attention from the cool air. Naoya doesn’t waste time easing into it, harshly palming your breasts, flicking his thumb across the nipples until they stiffen tight. He likes the way you gasp and squirm as he teases you mercilessly, giving your nipples a sharp little twist just to hear you squeal. “You’re a sensitive little thing, ain’t you? Guess your ex wasn’t giving you what you need.”
⟢ You can barely bite out a breathy, “Asshole,” before he ducks his head and closes his mouth around one nipple. Naoya rolls your other nipple between his fingers while sucking hard, teeth scraping. You’re almost certain he’s not even concerned with making you feel good; he’s playing with your tits for his own pleasure, not yours. But fuck, you’re wet already, heat pooling between your legs, and throbbing hard.
⟢ Naoya’s greedy as hell and fixated, biting at the soft flesh until you’re arching into him, sucking hard enough to leave marks. It’s almost agonizing how good it feels.
⟢ Just when you think you can hardly stand it anymore, he’s dragging you off the counter by the hips and toward the chair. Skirt hiked up haphazardly around your thighs, he settles you atop his lap, straddling his legs, only to continue his assault on your chest once it's closer to eye-level with him. His tongue lashes your nipple as you grasp his shoulders, keening and mewling at the sensations.
⟢ “Fuck, these fucking tits,” Naoya groans, shoving his hand between your thighs and hooking his fingers into your panties to yank them aside. You shudder as he slides his digits through your folds. “Your pussy’s already this soaked?”
⟢ He grins as he works you between your legs, using your own slick to stroke along your slit and circle your clit. When he shoves two fingers into you, he does it without warning, and your thighs spasm around his hand, face flaming. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re tight. Bet your ex never made you drip like this.”
⟢ You can only moan needily, clinging to him as he fingers you. The stretch is thick and perfect, exactly what you’re starved for. Naoya fucks his fingers in deep, chuckling at how you grind down against him, chasing that friction while he’s still got you by the tits.
⟢ He wants to see them bounce while you fuck yourself on his cock. He can’t help it. The idea nearly makes him delirious. He’s already hard, straining in the front of his expensive slacks, cock pulsing every time you moan or writhe against his hand. “Look at you, making a mess all over me. You want it so bad, don’t you? Like a needy little slut.”
⟢ Naoya all but rips open his belt and zipper and pulls his cock free. You practically choke at the sight of it, thick and flushed and already leaking. He fists it, gliding the head through the abundant wetness of your arousal. “C’mon, let’s see if you ride as good as you moan for me.”
⟢ He lines himself up and tugs you down without ceremony, making you sink onto him in one brutal stroke. The stretch is so intense and searing, all you can do is gasp and wriggle on top of him, nails biting into his shoulders.
⟢ Naoya grunts, eating up the sight of you split open and trembling on his cock. “Stop squirming and take it. Fuckin’ take all of it.”
⟢ Your hips move on their own, despite the burn, despite the all-encompassing fullness. You bounce on his cock like a woman possessed, making the blunt head of his cock drag against a spot inside you that makes you see stars.
⟢ “Oh, look at you. Panting like a bitch in heat. You really need it, huh? Acting like you don’t want a man bossing you around, but you love it. Can feel you clenching on my cock.”
⟢ His eyes are glued to your tits as your body rolls desperately over him, watching them jostle with every slap of skin. He kneads them and pushes them together just to watch the soft flesh spill between his fingers.
⟢ “Mmnh, fuck.” You finally find your voice, feverish from the sweet overstimulation. “You’re such a dick.”
⟢ Naoya just grins up at you wolfishly and slaps your tit. His palm cracks against the sensitive flesh, making you yelp. Your back arches, the sting blooming and radiating straight to your core. He drinks in the shock and pleasure mingling in your expression and does it again, harder this time, enough to make you whimper.
⟢ “Shit, you like that, don’t you?” he rasps. “Knew you’d be good. Bet you want me to mess you up, yeah? Want me to ruin you for anyone else?”
⟢ You groan and ride him harder. The chair creaks beneath you, and the room turns cramped and torrid. Your movements drive his cockhead into that delicious, spongy spot inside you over and over again, working in tandem with the ache of Naoya’s teasing.
⟢ When your orgasm slams into you, you nearly sob as a blinding rush of pleasure floods you from the inside out. Your cunt cinches so tight around Naoya’s cock it rips a long groan from his throat. “Holy shit—oh my god, Naoya—fuck—”
⟢ “Yeah, that’s it,” he goads in response. “Squeeze my cock just like that.”
⟢ He grabs your hips then and starts thrusting up into you before you can even come down from your climax. “Where do you want me?”
⟢ “Inside,” you answer deliriously. It’s safe, but it’s still absurdly inappropriate. Though, you figure that particular ship has sailed. “Want you to come inside.”
⟢ Naoya laughs. “Yeah? That’s what you want, huh? Want me to fill you up like a good little whore. Then, you better work for it.”
⟢ You whine but comply on instinct, resting the weight of your top half against him for leverage so you can bounce your ass against him. You fuck your swollen little cunt on Naoya’s steel-hard length with as much strength as you can muster as he watches you, pleased.
⟢ “Ngh, good fuckin’ girl. God, just like that. You got it in you, huh? Knew you’d fuck yourself stupid if I gave you the chance.”
⟢ You moan loud enough that if anyone was left in the salon, they’d definitely hear, slamming down on him with abandon. When your thighs are so sore from riding him that you’re not sure how much longer you can hold on to the rhythm, Naoya buries himself deep and cums in you with a broken swear.
⟢ You collapse in relief against his chest and shiver on top of him as he empties himself inside in thick, hot pulses. He lets you stay there while his breaths come in ragged, enjoying the feeling of your tits pressed to him. The moment either of you moves, he knows the mess between your legs will start to leak, so for now, he keeps you crushed to him, rubbing circles into the sore flesh of your ass.
⟢ “You’re bein’ underpaid here, ya know,” he says eventually. “This place ain’t paying you enough if you’re their best stylist.”
⟢ You look at him, surprised. He’s let his head tip back, exposing the corded muscle of his throat and the beautifully sharp line of his jaw. Naoya peers down at you and raises one well-groomed brow. “Why do you care?” you ask.
⟢ “Don’t worry about it. Just find an apartment here in Kyoto. You can start charging me double if you want. I don’t care.”
⟢ You let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re ridiculous. You’re only saying that because you don't wanna risk getting stuck with someone who’ll make you look like a cantaloupe.”
⟢ “Don’t test me,” he warns. “If you leave, what’re you gonna do? Give perms to old ladies in the countryside? I’ll hunt you down in Inabe myself.”
⟢ You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to laugh again. He’s completely insane. You’re too wary to delude yourself into thinking Naoya Zenin would want you to stay out of any real kindness or sentimentality. At best, he thinks he can throw money at an inconvenience and make it go away. At worst, he wants to keep you around as a fucktoy. And fuck if you can’t even decide if you mind one bit…
As the reality of an illegitimate daughter forces its way into his world, Naoya finds himself caught between the ideals he was raised to uphold and unfamiliar feelings he doesn’t know how to confront. Pride, frustration, reluctant admiration and a growing attachment he refuses to name begin to blur the lines he once believed were absolute.
A/N: Request ft I had this idea about Naoya discovering he's got an illegitimate daughter on the way and it absolutely messing with his head and ideals. He's such a rigid, arrogant character who’s been raised inside the Zenin clan’s very specific worldview, so the thought of him being forced to confront something that doesn’t fit neatly into those beliefs was fun to write. Especially the idea that the child is a girl, which by Zenin standards should make the situation even more complicated. Naobito is awful in this. Naoya is a hypocrite. Not proof read. Enjoy!
The knock at the door came precisely at 8 PM—two sharp raps, the rhythm unmistakable. Naoya didn’t turn. "Enter."
The door slid open, his father’s shadow stretched long across the floor, the silhouette of his broad shoulders. "You requested an audience," Naobito said, voice measured. Behind him, the silhouettes of two other elders loomed, Naobito’s advisors, men who’d spent decades sharpening their tongues into weapons for the sake of the clan.
Naoya finally looked up sheepishly, his spine straightening into the perfect line they’d beaten into him since childhood. The scan photo burned against his chest. "I did."
Naobito stepped fully into the room, taking a seat opposite his son, his sharp eyes missing nothing, the tension in Naoya’s shoulders, the way his fingers twitched near his pocket, the unnatural stillness of a man who’d spent three days wrestling with something unspeakable. The elders flanked him like silent sentinels, their expressions carefully neutral. "Well?" Naobito prompted, tilting his head slightly. "You’ve been avoiding clan business since you returned. Uncharacteristic of you, and unbecoming of the heir."
Naoya's thumb traced the edge of the folded scan through his pocket lining, a subconscious habit he'd developed like a nervous tic. The elders' gazes weighed on him. He could already hear the script they expected: mission reports, curse assessments, clan politics. Not this. Never this.
Naoya exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before reaching into his pocket. The men watched with mild curiosity as he unfolded the scan photo with deliberate care, smoothing the creases against the low wooden table between them. The grainy image caught the dim lamplight, a faint, ghostly outline of a tiny curled form.
Naobito's eyes dropped to the ultrasound image, his expression flickering from confusion to dawning realisation before settling into something unreadable. The elder to his left, a man with a face like cracked leather leaned forward, squinting at the scan. "What is this?"
Naoya watched the elder's confusion twist into recognition. Naoya's fingers pressed flat against the scan, pinning it to the table with deliberate ownership. "My child," he said, voice cold. "The woman I'm involved with is pregnant." He says referring to you.
Naobito Zenin didn't move. Not a muscle. The silence in the room thickened, pressing against Naoya's eardrums until he could hear his own pulse. The elder to Naobito's right, leaned forward, his breath sour with the scent of cheap sake as he squinted at the scan. "A bastard?" he spat.
Naobito’s laughter cut through the tension, sharp, unexpected, and utterly devoid of warmth. He leaned back on his palms, the fabric of his olive green yukata stretched across his shoulders as his amusement filled the room. "Is that all?" he said, shaking his head as if Naoya had brought him a minor accounting discrepancy rather than the seismic shift of an heir. "Marry her into the clan. Problem solved. You'll need an heir anyway."
The elder with gnarled hands scoffed, his lip curling. "Sir, she’s not even of one of the big clan-"
Naobito's grin widened, the lamplight catching the sharp edges of his teeth as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Her technique is stronger than half the idiots in this clan," he said, flicking a dismissive hand toward the scowling elders. "And let's be honest—" His gaze slid back to Naoya, something knowing and crude glinting in his eyes. "Those tits of hers are how we got into this situation in the first place, aren't they? Marry her in and keep her around."
Naoya's jaw tightened, his fingers pressing harder against the scan until the edges dug into his palm. The crassness of the remark shouldn't have surprised him, his father had never been one for delicacy—but the casual dismissal of centuries of Zenin doctrine did. The elder with gnarled hands sputtered, his face purpling. "Strength isn't just raw power! She's not—"
Naobito cut him off again with a sharp laugh, waving his sake cup lazily. "Please. You'd trade your left nut for a fraction of her technique." He turned back to Naoya, his smirk fading into something more calculating. "Strong heirs are always something to be celebrated."
Naoya's fingers flexed against the scan photo still pinned to the table. He didn't lift his gaze from the grainy image, his daughter, your daughter, curled small and defiant in black-and-white, when he spoke. "She'll refuse marriage." The words came out flat, factual, as if he were reporting a mission outcome rather than the unraveling of centuries of Zenin tradition.
Naobito's grin faltered for the first time, his sake cup pausing halfway to his lips. One elder barked out a laugh. "Refuse? A woman refuses the Zenin name?" His yellowed nails tapped against the table. "She's carrying your bastard and thinks she has a choice?"
Naobito waved his hand, the golden rings on his fingers catching the lamplight as if punctuating his dismissal. "Plenty of Zenin' bastards lurking around I supoose" he said, shrugging with the ease of a man who'd fathered his share. His smirk returned, edged with something sharper. "Difference is, this one's your blood and hers. Imagine that cocktail." He leaned forward, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, elbows propped on his knees, eyes glinting like polished obsidian.
Naoya’s face was near unreadable except for the slight flare of his nostrils. The scan photo beneath his palm felt suddenly too warm, like a living thing pulsing with the weight of what he hadn’t said yet.
Naobito's fingers tapped against his knee, the rhythm uneven, a rare crack in his otherwise impeccable composure. He studied Naoya's face, searching for weaknesses, for tells. "So," he said, voice deceptively light, "why doesn't this girl want the Zenin name?" He gestured lazily with his sake cup, the liquid sloshing perilously close to the rim. "Women usually beg for it."
Naoya lifted his gaze from the scan slowly, meeting his father's stare with a precision that made the elder to Naobito's left shift uncomfortably. The silence stretched—three heartbeats, four—before Naoya spoke. "Because she knows what it means to be a woman in this clan. She's not the type to yield."
Naobito's sake cup hit the table with a sharp clack. The lamplight caught the sudden tension in his jaw, the way his fingers lingered on the porcelain a heartbeat too long before withdrawing. "Doesn't sound like the type of behaviour you've insisted on expecting from a woman." He teases his youngest son. The elder with gnarled hands sucked air through his teeth, a wet, disapproving sound, but Naobito silenced him with a glance. "She's certainly not what I'd envisioned as a prospective wife." Naoya admits, the sheer humiliation dawning on him of in so many words, admitting he was absolutely down bad for a woman who didn’t bow or yeild to any of the things he's been so vocal about being desirable qualities.
Naobito leaned back, the wood creaking beneath his weight as he studied his son with the detached curiosity of a man examining an insect pinned to a board. "And yet," he mused, swirling the dregs of his sake, "she chose you to spread her legs for." The deliberate crudeness hung in the air like smoke. "Seems she's not entirely opposed to Zenin influence."
The elders’ murmurs faded into static as Naobito’s smirk widened—a predator sensing blood in the water. "Ah," Naobito drawled, tilting his head with theatrical realization. "This isn’t about her refusal at all, is it?" His rings clinked against the table as he tapped one gnarled finger against the ultrasound image. "You’re the one who's cracking."
Naoya's breath hitched, just once, before his fingers pressed flat against the scan photo, smearing the grainy image beneath his palm. The elders' whispers stilled as Naobito leaned forward, his shadow swallowing the lamplight between them. "Interesting," Naobito murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. "The great Naoya Zenin, undone by a woman's womb. What's become of you, son?"
Naobito's chuckle was low. He leaned forward as he jabbed a finger toward the crumpled scan. "See?" His breath smelled of fermented rice and decades of unchecked power. "This is what happens when you stick your dick in a woman who talks back. Pussy’s good, but they’ll ruin you with their thinking. Why do you think we drill that into you? Submissive women won't mess with your head, how can you run a clan when you'redistracted by sirens?"
The silence that followed was thick. Naoya knew he had nothing to say for himself, he watched his father’s grin falter, just for a second, before the man barked out another laugh, slapping his knee like it was all some grand joke. Naobito’s eyes never left Naoya’s face. There was a question there, buried beneath layers of liquor and disdain.
Naoya’s fingers curled around the scan photo, the edges crumpling in his grip. The elders’ laughter grated against his skull, dry and withered. He exhaled slowly, the sound deliberate, measured, a silent countdown beneath the drunken cackles. When he spoke, his voice was lethally quiet, each word precision-cut. "Enough, please. "
The laughter died instantly. Naobito's smirk lingered a second too long, a predator sensing the shift in the air—before his fingers tightened around his sake cup with uncharacteristic tension. "So, when's your bastard due?"
He didn't look at his father, couldn't—when he spoke. "Five months." The admission hung between them, weighted with everything he hadn't said.
Naobito’s cup froze halfway to his lips, his smirk slipping into something sharper. The elder with gnarled hands hissed through his teeth. "Five—? You mean she's been hiding it this entire—?"
Naobito's cup hit the table with a clatter. "Five months?" His voice cracked—an imperfection Naoya had never heard before. The lamplight caught the sudden pallor beneath his father's weathered complexion, the way his fingers twitched toward his sword belt out of habit. The elder with gnarled hands made a sound like a dying crow, his yellowed nails scraping the tabletop. "She's been—all this time—"
Naoya watched as realization slithered across his father’s face, the exact moment Naobito Zenin understood that his prized heir had been outmaneuvered for months. The elder with gnarled hands sputtered, but Naobito raised a single finger. The room fell silent.
Naobito laughed again, a sharp, jagged sound that ricocheted off the shoji screens like a misfired bullet. The elders flinched, but Naoya didn’t move, watching as his father’s mirth dissolved into something darker, the way ink spreads in water. Naobito wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing sake across his knuckles. "Five months," he repeated, shaking his head. "And you only just found out?" His grin was all teeth, no humor. "My son, outwitted by a woman."
Naoya’s fingers tightened around the scan until the laminate crinkled beyond repair. The elders’ murmurs rose like static, but Naobito’s gaze remained locked onto him, expectant, amused, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Instead, Naoya smoothed the photograph against the table again with a precision that bordered on reverence. The gesture was so uncharacteristic that even the elder with gnarled hands fell silent.
Naobito’s gaze drifted back to the scan, his expression sharpening with sudden interest. “And?” he asked lazily, tapping the edge of the photo with one ringed finger. “Do we at least know what it is?” The question hung in the air a moment before Naoya answered. “A girl.” The shift in Naobito’s reaction was immediate—subtle, but unmistakable. The tension bled from his shoulders as he leaned back with a dismissive hum, swirling the last of his sake. “Ah. A daughter.” His tone cooled into casual indifference. “Then it’s hardly a crisis, is it?” One of the elders snorted in agreement, but Naobito only waved a hand, already losing interest in the matter.
Naobito leaned forward suddenly, his shadow swallowing the crumpled scan. "Well?" His rings scraped against the table's edge. "What are you going to do about it?" The question hung between them—not curiosity, but a challenge.
The overhead light buzzed, a dying insect trapped in its own flickering demise—as Naoya lifted his gaze to meet his father's. "She'll be raised outside the clan, I'll respect her wishes." he said, voice devoid of inflection. Not a request. A declaration. The elders inhaled sharply in unison, their outrage palpable, but Naobito merely raised an eyebrow, his amusement curling like smoke around his sake cup.
Naobito's sake cup paused mid-air, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. His grin didn't waver, but something in his eyes hardened. "Outside the clan?" He repeated the words slowly, tasting them like spoiled wine. The elder with gnarled hands made a strangled noise, but Naobito silenced him with a glance.
Naobito set his sake cup down with exaggerated care, the porcelain clicking against wood like a warning shot. His fingers lingered on the rim, tracing the edge as if measuring its potential as a weapon. "Let me understand this," he said, voice dripping with mock patience. "You want to abandon your bloodline’s legacy, our centuries of power—because some woman’s gotten it into her head that she knows better?" His chuckle was a dry, rasping thing. "Tell me, boy, did she fuck the sense out of you, or was it always this lacking?"
Naobito's grin widened, as he leaned back against the cushions. "Must be some divine cunt," he mused, swirling his sake with deliberate slowness. The elder beside him choked on his drink, but Naobito continued, undeterred. "To make you forget centuries of doctrine over a wet hole and a bastard daughter." His laughter was a rough, jagged thing.
Naobito's laughter dissolved into a wet chuckle as he leaned forward. "Ah, I see now," he mused, fingers tapping against his sake cup. "That foreign cunt of hers must ride you like a fucking warhorse if you're willing to throw away your common sense over it." The elder with gnarled hands wheezed appreciatively, but Naobito's gaze never left Naoya's face, studying, probing for weakness. "Fine. Keep your whore. Let her be raised wherever the mother wants for now. But the moment that bastard manifests a technique worth a damn, she becomes clan business. Just like that Fushiguro brat."
Naobito's fingers drummed against the table, his rings leaving faint crescent marks in the polished wood. "That being said," he mused, voice dripping with the kind of casual cruelty that came from decades of wielding power like a blunt instrument, "you should still work on marrying her." His gaze flicked to Naoya's face, searching for cracks. "Would be a waste not to breed a few proper heirs out of her."
-
The room emptied eventually, the elders’ voices fading down the corridor until the silence returned, thick and undisturbed. Naoya remained where he was, the dim lamplight catching the creases of the scan photo still lying on the table. His gaze lingered on the faint outline of the tiny curled shape longer than he would have ever allowed anyone to see. This should have been simple. Everything in his life had always been simple. The Zenin doctrine had carved the rules into him since childhood, women were tools for heirs, children were extensions of the clan, sentiment was weakness. Yet somewhere between the moment you refused him and the moment he saw that blurred image on the paper, something had shifted in a way he couldn’t neatly categorise. What irritated him most was the realisation that, buried somewhere beneath his pride and stubborn irritation, there was something else, something dangerously close to happiness. The idea of the child should have felt like an inconvenience, especially knowing it was a girl, but the thought didn’t provoke the disappointment the clan would expect. Instead, it stirred a quiet, stubborn pride he refused to examine too closely. That part unsettled him more than anything his father had said tonight. Naoya Zenin had spent his entire life certain of what mattered and what didn’t. Realising those convictions were bending because of you, because of a daughter he hadn’t even met yet—was deeply uncomfortable. And perhaps what disturbed him most was the truth he would never admit aloud: somewhere in the depths of his chest, beyond the reach of pride and doctrine, he was glad.
SUMMARY: being naobito zenin's wife is not quite as horrible as you expect, considering the man wants nothing to do with you. except, there's one small issue: his sons are assholes, and his youngest is the worst of them all.
WARNINGS: cheating technically (altho naobito don’t want anything to do with you anyway), stepson!naoya, semi-public, fingering, naoya is his own warning & he has a filthy mouth, very controversial age gap w her and naobito LOL, naoya calls her ‘okaasan’ mockingly & then also tries to get her to call him nii-chan LOLL, a bit dubcon in the beginning, zenin typical misogyny (WC: 3.1k)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: this is not going to be the last we see of stepson naoya i fear .......... KAIHDFUIASHDFUSADUHFSDUFH this boy drives me insane
Being Zenin Naobito’s second wife is easier than you expect.
He wants nothing to do with you for the most part. You’d been upset with your father for selling you off to a man who was nearly twice his age, and part of a clan that tends to treat women as servants at best and objects at worst. You’d braced yourself for a life of cruelty and abuse, counting down the days until the old man croaked before you even met him once, but instead, you are met with absence.
Naobito doesn’t seek you out often. You have separate bedrooms in the same wing of the estate, but he rarely crosses the threshold of yours. The first night, you sit awake long after the servants leave for the night, back straight, listening for footsteps that never come. The next morning, his servants wake you for tea and bring you to his quarters, where he is already seated by the open shoji, morning light cutting clean lines across the tatami. He doesn’t look at you for a long while, reading through a stack of papers, so you kneel where indicated, proper distance, proper angle, eyes lowered.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
It almost catches you off guard. You answer carefully, “Yes, Zenin-sama. Thank you.”
He hums, neither pleased nor displeased, still not looking at you. “Good.”
And that is all, and that is how it stays. Some mornings you are summoned, some mornings you are not. When you are, he asks you something small. Did you sleep well? Are the attendants sufficient? Do you need warmer clothes for the winter? You answer, he nods, and the conversation dissolves. For the most part, Naobito pretends you don’t exist, and you prefer it this way, until you start to realize his indifference is beginning to cause problems.
He does not visit your bedroom at night—not once, and everyone knows it. The servants know, the elders know, the whole clan knows, but most importantly, your father knows. Letters begin arriving before the first frost fully settles, written in his stiff, formal hand. Polite inquiries at first about whether you’ve adjusted well, and if the clan is treating you properly, and if the clan head has expressed satisfaction.
You know what he’s really asking: Are you pregnant yet?
Your father did not sell you off simply to place you in a prestigious clan. He sold you to secure blood—to tie his lineage to the Zenins permanently. A grandson with the Zenin name and your clan’s blood would have cemented alliances and ensured influence over Jujutsu society for decades, but Naobito makes no move toward that outcome, and the longer he doesn’t, the louder the silence becomes.
Eventually, the rest of the clan starts to whisper.
“Too young to understand the weight of this household.”
“Younger than all of his sons.”
“A child in silk playing wife of the clan head.”
You try not to let yourself be bothered. You’re not a child, you’re an adult, and you have spent years learning everything you possibly could about the Zenin clan in preparation for an eventual marriage into the main branch. Learning is not the same as living, but you have been quick to adapt to their everyday life. And yet, it’s still not enough for them—your hands are too smooth, your face too unlined, you have not learned to carry yourself with the practiced balance of demurity and authority the way the rest of the women of the clan have learned through years and years of experience.
You think that if Naobito had taken you to bed immediately, if rumors of pregnancy had begun circulating within the first month, your youth would have been framed as fertility or strategy, at the very least. Then, maybe, there wouldn’t be so much doubt. Instead, you remain untouched, and untouched means unnecessary.
Unnecessary means can be annulled.
The clan begins testing you in quieter ways, trying to find reasons to bring this sham of a marriage to an end, so the Zenins are not tied to a lesser clan through a useless girl. An aunt questions your knowledge of clan history during a meal, voice sweet as poison. A cousin asks about your cursed technique with faintly mocking curiosity. An elder’s wife comments on your “inexperience” with a veiled jab. It infuriates you, but all you can do is smile and let it slide off your shoulders, because anything else would be a display of weakness that you can’t afford to show in front of these hyenas.
His sons are the worst. Eight of them—even the youngest is almost five years older than you are. They make no effort to hide their disdain.
The eldest barely acknowledges you at all, offering the bare minimum of courtesy required by etiquette. He bows shallowly and addresses you formally when necessary, never lingering around too long.
The middle sons are more blatant—they test you the same way the elders do. One asks for tea and critiques the temperature, another corrects your tone and phrasing in front of clan elders, voice mild but eyes bright with anticipation. They ask you questions they already know the answers to, questions that you shouldn’t know the answers to, waiting for you to slip up, but you don’t. You kneel properly, answer evenly, and when corrected, you thank them, even if the words taste bitter on your tongue. You’re only able to take joy in the fact that it infuriates them that they can't seem to force you into making a mistake.
It’s the youngest who is the issue. Naoya. Golden-eyed and sharp-mouthed, all pride and casual cruelty. He looks at you the same way one looks at a new toy, grinning easily, standing far closer than propriety demands. It makes you livid—he’s the only one of the eight who manages to get under your skin—and you think he knows it from the way his eyes glitter every time he approaches you.
“Good morning, okaasan,” he says lightly, tilting his head in a mockery of filial respect. He and his brothers never get along, but two of them snort at his words now. Clearly, they’re only united when it comes to their disdain for you.
“Good morning, Naoya-kun,” you answer with a thin smile, inclining your head just the right amount. If he’s going to drop the formality, you can as well without it being considered improper. His gaze flickers briefly with irritation, but it smooths out too quickly into that lazy, infuriating smile.
He steps closer, reaching out to trace the inside of your underlayer, knuckle brushing against your bare collarbone. Your breath hitches, eyes widening slightly as your gaze snaps up to his face. It’s an intimate gesture, wildly improper, but there’s nowhere for you to back away. His finger slides lower, lower, dangerously close to skimming the swell of your breast.
“You’re wearing it too high,” he finally says, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “It makes ya look younger. You’ll never be taken seriously if ya present yourself like a child… Or is that the point? Should be more careful who ya let around ya, okaasan. Not everyone wants what's best for you like I do, y’know?”
You don’t answer, trying not to swallow the lump that suddenly forms in your throat as you look up at him. Your gaze shifts over to your attendants, who stand a short distance away, heads bowed just a little too deeply. One avoids your gaze entirely, and the other shifts her weight, nervous. You look back at Naoya, and his lips curve up into a satisfied smile when he realizes you understood what he was getting at. He steps away, finally putting proper distance between the two of you
“Adjust your collar,” he adds casually over his shoulder as he walks away. “You’re a wife, not a daughter.”
After that, he becomes relentless.
He calls from the training yard, “Okaasan, will ya watch me train today?” when he sees you passing by on the engawa, eyes lidded, lip curling up into a smug smile when he sees the way your gaze drifts down to his bare torso as he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. You continue on to where you were going without letting your attention linger too long, and if you find yourself exceptionally frustrated that night—well, that’s no one’s business but your own.
When his father is in earshot, he asks, “Am I gonna have a younger brother soon, okaasan? I’m so bored of being the youngest, y’know?” He ignores the side-eye that Naobito casts in his direction, raising his eyebrows at you as he waits for a response. You don’t give him one—you know better than to speak when in your husband’s presence. If there’s something for you to say, then he will say it for you. He does not say anything, which only serves to worsen your standing in the clan. Naoya knows this from the way his lips curl up into a smug smirk.
“Okaasan, does the old man visit ya often?” he asks you now, standing much too close to you. You can feel his chest brushing your back, his fingers grazing your hips as he leans in. His lips press against your ear, and you shiver slightly when he purposely lets his breath drag hot and slow against the shell of it. “Y’must get so lonely, okaasan. I can keep ya company, if ya want.”
Your eyes widen, gaze flicking around to make sure that no one can see the two of you, but you’d gone out to the garden to watch the sunset alone. This stretch of the garden is deliberately secluded, bordered by high stone walls and thick clusters of camellia. At this hour, the servants have withdrawn to prepare the evening meal, and the training yard is distant enough that not even the sound of sparring carries. You are alone—sans Naoya—and you know that it is intentional.
Naoya hums lightly, undeterred by your silence. He lowers his face, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck before he inhales deeply. “Y’smell different today,” he murmurs. “Rose?”
“This is inappropriate,” you say stiffly, but your breath catches when he presses his lips against your pulse point, tongue dragging across it as though trying to lap up the oil you’re wearing. “Naoya—”
He exhales through his nose, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Inappropriate,” he echoes, and your lips part in shock when he kisses slowly up your neck. “Okaasan, you’re lonely. Everyone knows it. The old man don’t touch ya. I’m just tryna help.”
Naoya’s mouth drags across your skin, wet, open kisses that set your skin ablaze. Your head feels dizzy, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing properly, suddenly very aware of how shallow each inhale is—you’ve never been touched like this before. Every brush of his mouth is unfamiliar and overwhelming. The warmth of it, the pressure against your skin, the way his tongue drags against you and his teeth graze your skin. Your knees feel unsteady beneath you.
You should push him away.
You know how this ends if you’re caught in the garden with someone other than your husband like this—with Naobito’s youngest son, nonetheless. The marriage will be annulled, you will be shamed, cast out from Jujutsu society, and disinherited by your father for humiliating the clan and insulting the Zenins.
You don’t.
“You’re wasted,” he murmurs. “All dressed up, all quiet, all proper. And he ain’t even look at ya. Y’know what I would do if I got ya as my wife?”
You exhale, lashes fluttering when you feel his palm slide from your hip to flatten against your abdomen, pulling your back flush to his chest. You feel something hard pressing against your ass, and Naoya lets out a low moan into your skin, and your breath catches when he drags his palm down your body, slipping his fingers into your kimono. You need to stop this, you think desperately, but your head falls back against his shoulder, eyes wide, heart racing as his fingers slide against your panties, hips instinctively rocking against him.
“Lookit ya,” he breathes out. “Fuckin’ drenched, and I ain’t even barely touch ya. It’s fucked up, him takin’ ya all for himself when the old fuck ain’t even know what to do with ya anymore. When’s the last time y’got yourself off, okaasan? Bet you’re so pent up. Lemme help ya. I’ll make ya feel real good.”
“Don’t—don’t call me that,” you spit out, flustered, hand dropping down to wrap around his wrist, but you don’t yank his hand away the way you should. You feel Naoya smile crudely against your skin, his other arm coming up to snake around your chest, holding you close to him. You’re letting this go way too far. “Naoya, we—”
“You’re right,” he agrees, kissing up your neck, and you bite down hard when he rolls your earlobe between his teeth, hand groping at your chest, thumb rolling over your clothed nipple. “Betcha hate when I call ya that. You’re young enough to be my little sister. Hah, bet you’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Callin’ me nii-chan instead of me callin’ ya okaasan.”
“What?” you gasp, head all foggy, not even fully sure what he’s rambling about anymore with his hands and lips all over your body. This is so dangerous, you think, tears stinging at your eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away or even tell him to stop. It’s like your body has a mind of its own, hips rocking against his hand, head lolled back against his shoulder. Your tongue feels heavy as you force out, “We—we can’t do this. Naoya, you need to—”
“Quit whinin’,” he mutters, and you’re barely able to bite back a pitched noise when he slips his fingers beneath your panties, dragging them between your wet folds. Your heart is pounding, and your ears are ringing—your whole body prickles as heat curdles low in your stomach. “We both know I’m only given’ ya what ya want. See the way ya be lookin’ at me when ya think no one’s payin’ attention. How many nights have ya gone to bed with your hand between your thighs, princess?”
None, you want to snap, just to be spiteful, even if it is a lie, but your breath hitches into something small and helpless when he stops moving his fingers. You rock your hips instead, desperate for friction, and he huffs out a laugh against your skin, dragging his tongue up the curve of your neck before sucking at the underside of your jaw.
“See?” he murmurs. “You’re the one movin’, okaasan.”
Tears blur your vision, breath ragged, shame and desire twisting together until you can’t separate them. This is wrong, you think desperately, this is ruin. If anyone sees, if anyone hears… Your father’s face flashes through your mind, the elders, the servants, your husband—Naoya’s father. You can’t afford this, you can’t, and yet, your hips rock again, and you can barely bite back a whine when the tip of his finger presses against your cunt, circling your hole but not pushing in.
“He ain’t ever gonna touch ya like this,” he continues, nipping at your pulse. “He ain’t even look at ya, but I do. I look at ya. Every day. He don’t know how good he got it. If ya were my wife, I’d have you spread open and stuffed full of cock every night. This pretty little head of yours ain’t have to worry ‘bout anything but keepin’ your cunt wet and ready for me.”
He sinks two fingers into you, and you choke over a relieved sob—that awful, humiliating relief of being wanted so openly it leaves no room for doubt. God, you’ve been craving this for months. All the time you spent dreading having to share your bed with his father, bracing yourself for duty and obligation—you hadn’t realized how much worse neglect would feel like. The ache between your legs that your fingers could never ease, the emptiness of not being wanted by the man who calls himself your husband, and the mortification of everyone knowing. When Naoya moves inside you now, the relief is so intense that it almost feels like pain for a split second.
“That’s it.” You hear him coo, hand sliding up to cover your mouth, muffling the lewd sounds that spill from your lips as he fucks his fingers deep inside of you, thumb circling your clit as his fingers plunge in and out of you. “C’mon, okaasan, sing for me.”
Your thighs are shaking so badly that you can’t even hold yourself up—one of his legs slides between yours to keep you standing, weight heavy in his arms. You can’t breathe, you can’t even think. This is so messed up, it’s so—
Your eyes roll back when Naoya’s fingers drag against that spongy spot deep inside you, body tensing before you cum hard on his fingers with a muffled whine of his name. There are tears streaming down your cheeks, a prickly sensation spreading through your limbs. Your lungs burn, shallow breaths hardly reaching them, and your nails drag weakly against Naoya’s wrist, desperate for leverage.
You feel him laughing against your neck as he slows the thrusts of his fingers, letting you ride out your high. It takes you a moment to regain the strength to stand without him holding you up, heartbeat slowing, and the reality of what you’ve just done slowly begins to hit you.
Did you just—
“Y’know,” he says slowly, circling until he stands in front of you again, forcing you to face him. The smile on his lips is smug, and the look in his eyes is crude as his gaze drags over your body. He lifts his hand to tilt your head up, making you look him in the eye, and he swipes the two fingers he had deep inside of you against your bottom lip. “If you’re worried about being annulled… there are ways to fix that.”
Your lips part as you stare up at him.
What the hell did you just do?
He winks at you. “Make sure to fix yourself up before ya leave, okaasan. Wouldn’t want anyone to start askin’ questions,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away, lifting his fingers to his mouth to suck your cum off of them lewdly. “I’ll come visit ya later tonight.”
♡ spawned from this ask which was inspired by this fic.
｢𝓬𝔀: smut ﾉ MDNI 18+ ﾉ naoya x milf!reader ﾉ canon au ﾉ brief mentions of toji x reader situationship/marriage ﾉ reader has a baby girl with toji (tomie) ﾉ naoya also becomes our baby girl ♡ ﾉ heavy lactation kink ﾉ reader bullies naoya until he breaks ﾉ dommy mommy reader ﾉ naoya tears ﾉ dirty smut ﾉ cowgirl ﾉ fluffy bits ﾉ naoya got lots of mommy issues to heal ﾉ reader is a kamo and has blood manip CT ﾉ there's a bit of plot too sprinkled in too ﾉ tiny mentions of choso and gojo as well ﾉ art: fateshatter ﾉ 𝔀𝓬: 9714｣
Someone will die soon.
Naoya scowls, glaring up at the ceiling in his bedroom.
The slated bamboo above him offers zero consolations to the fact that the universe is, personally and specifically, out to get him.
Fate has decided he should share a wing of the Zenin estate with Toji's latest scandal—a pretty wife and a newborn daughter—the latter of whom has declared war on his sleep schedule.
Flipping onto his stomach, Naoya crushes two pillows over his head to no avail—the piercing wails cut straight through.
Tsk. This entire situation is a special grade clusterfuck.
All thanks to Toji "deflowering" and knocking up the Kamo clan's most precious eldest daughter—yet another scandal he’d dragged back to the Zenin household.
Truthfully, you are equally at fault.
A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.
As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.
So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.
Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."
So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.
The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.
But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.
No—this situation is special.
Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.
Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.
Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.
Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.
Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)
Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.
And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.
Fine.
However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived.
Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?
There. Will. Be. Bl—
The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought.
A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.
That’s fucking it!
Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides.
You had to be awake.
Not even the dead could sleep through this.
So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?
How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up?
You’re its mother aren’t you?!
Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.
And immediately freezes.
As he expects, you’re wide awake.
Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.
Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.
You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.
From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.
You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter.
That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.
The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.
Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries.
A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away.
You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.
Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.
Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence.
Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.
"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."
You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.
However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else.
Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.
“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”
Nao-chan?!
The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.
You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?
It makes him sound soft.
Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.
Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.
She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.
Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.
Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.
You snort under your breath at the scene.
Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.
Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.
"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter.
"Not you being the mature one, my girl."
Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.
“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in.
Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.
Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation.
To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas.
Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.
Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.
Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.
However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours.
Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.
Fuck.
Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.
So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish.
Or…maybe, that was just him.
The room is getting kinda stuffy.
Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—
—like handing him Tomie.
Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her.
Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.
Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.
Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.
Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on.
It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture.
“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”
Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads.
He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring.
Who the fuck do you think he is?
Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.
However…
You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that.
He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’
To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes.
She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.
Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?
"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."
Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue.
You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.
Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—
Big mistake.
You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.
A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.
He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.
But the feeling never comes.
Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.
“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”
You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.
He doesn't want to notice.
But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.
"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"
Nao-Nao?!
Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.
But your tone is too pure, too genuine.
You’re just… like this.
A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.
And that makes it all the worse.
Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.
Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.
Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer.
As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.
There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows.
No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.
And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure.
The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures.
Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.
It's obligation.
Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.
That's all.
"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.
“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’."
His words are cutting and to the point.
“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”
You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.
Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—
Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.
"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.
“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.
Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.
“Handled, huh?”
Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.
“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”
Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing.
Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?!
If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—
"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."
He stiffens.
"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat. “...he said that?"
“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”
The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.
Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.
You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.
Why’s that?
Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.
The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.
And he is.
Almost painfully so.
The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name.
It’s all too adorable, honestly.
Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.
But this type of emotionally stunted man?
Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him.
With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you.
“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”
Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.
"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."
Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury.
You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.
"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”
“Aye!”
The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.
"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."
Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.
Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.
Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.
"...Whatever."
Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face.
Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.
This is all fucking ridiculous.
Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.
"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."
Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya.
The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.
Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.
Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.
"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.
“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.
"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him.
Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.
“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."
Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.
“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?”
You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.
“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”
Naoya snorts.
You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.
"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops.
Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish.
Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.
A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.
Another escapes, then another.
Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton.
Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter.
Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile.
"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."
Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.
“I...”
You hush him.
Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.
Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog.
“Open.”
Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.
It's good. Dangerously good.
His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.
More—he wants more.
One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.
"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."
Naoya doesn't move.
But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.
So he says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.
You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.
Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.
"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."
You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.
Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.
"I'm not shy."
He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.
More worth taking.
"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.
"Just a virgin then?"
Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.
"I'm no virgin, whore."
No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.
"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.
His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.
"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.
You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth.
Shame he ever has to open it.
Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.
Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.
"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."
The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.
"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."
Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.
The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.
"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."
He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.
Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.
He nearly stops breathing.
You don't.
Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat.
Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.
You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.
"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."
Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.
His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.
The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.
Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.
Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.
Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.
"You wanna taste."
It’s not a question.
"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"
But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.
Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.
This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.
His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.
Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.
"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.
Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.
Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.
"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."
Naoya freezes.
He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.
"Don't—"
Croaking on his own spit.
"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"
"I'm not a child."
But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears.
You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.
"No?"
Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:
"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"
His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face.
Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.
A moment passes.
Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.
You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.
Need won. Clearly.
Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.
He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.
Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.
Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill.
Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.
Damn. This wasn't the plan.
You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.
You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was.
Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.
Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.
"N-Naoya…?"
You call him, but he doesn't answer.
His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.
What this is—what he’s feeling? It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.
Naoya rarely finds himself lacking.
An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.
But now?
Your gentle words.
You warm embrace.
Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to.
Like his worth was never something he had to earn.
It's driving him mad.
Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.
“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”
Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.
Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.
Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.
You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.
"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"
That finally gets you a reaction.
Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip.
He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.
Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you.
Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.
It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.
"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.
You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.
“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”
Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.
You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.
"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?"
Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock.
You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.
Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin.
God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.
See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.
"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"
Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.
“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”
Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric.
He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.
Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.
A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.
Naoya gasps.
Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.
Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.
"L-Let me fuck y-you."
Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.
You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.
"Mm. No."
"I need—"
Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion.
"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.
"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.
You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.
"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."
"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut."
But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.
"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours.
"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."
Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.
He won't though.
Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.
"I bet you'd cum just like this…"
Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you.
"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."
The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.
You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.
"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."
Naoya’s eyes go wide.
Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark.
The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this.
On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.
His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.
His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.
"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."
You raise a brow, waiting.
Oh, he’s so close.
He knows it too. He knows what you want.
Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.
"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."
You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead.
"That’s my Good boy."
Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.
You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.
You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more.
Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off.
That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall.
You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last.
Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.
You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.
Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.
"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"
He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.
Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.
"Behave."
"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."
You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.
"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"
You don't wait for his response.
You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.
The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.
Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.
Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"
Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.
"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."
Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.
"Atta boy."
Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move.
Shit—Not bad.
Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.
"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."
Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation.
And yet?
He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.
Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.
Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close.
Fuck, already?!
“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”
Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.
"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."
Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.
The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.
Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.
Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.
"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."
You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.
"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."
You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.
"Nod if you understand."
Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.
He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.
You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.
Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.
"F-Fuck—"
You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful.
You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.
Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.
He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.
You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.
“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.
"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.
You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce.
Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—
"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"
You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.
Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.
You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.
"Cum."
And he does.
With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.
You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.
All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise.
This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.
When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you.
A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.
His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.
He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.
It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.
Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.
You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.
And then—
A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again.
Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.
You smile.
"Still hungry?"
He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.
You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.
"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."
"I didn't say I wanted—"
You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.
Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.
"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."
Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.
Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since.
Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.
Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.
You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.
Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.
"You did well, Naoya."
It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.
⟡
Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.
His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.
A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger.
He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck.
A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.
Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.
Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.
You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.
Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.
You roll your eyes at the display.
Give men an inch and they will always take a mile.
You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.
Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.
"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."
Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.
You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.
"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."
A pause. Then snort.
"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."
You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.
Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.
"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple.
Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure.
He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.
"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."
Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.
"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."
Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.
He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.
But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.
He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.
"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."
And there it is.
Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.
"Sure."
"Anddddd, he's charging you by the pint for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"
You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.
Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now.
"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.
Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.
Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.
Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.
"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.
"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."
You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.
Whatever.
Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face.
He'd just pull out next time.
Simple. Problem solved.
It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—
♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol!
also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here
Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
Grief is complicated. And Higuruma, ever patient and unreadable, he doesn’t pity you. He admires you. And while he would never disrespect what you had, he can’t deny the quiet, growing certainty in his chest: that he’s grateful for this second chance to stand across from you, to reconnect, and maybe — if you’ll let him — to be the one who chooses you out loud..
Warnings: Angst, unrequited love, canon character death, grief, confessions of love, slightly ooc for Naoya, moving on.
This chapter is Naoya x reader but the next chapter will be Higuruma x reader SMUT.
"You know, I always thought Naoya would die rich and alone—not rich and regretful," you sighed, tapping your nails against the café table. The sound was sharp, deliberate, like you were counting down to something. Across from you, Higuruma Hiromi didn't flinch, just sipped his coffee like this was any other Tuesday. Truthfully, this wasn't his usual area of work, but he was happy to help Megumi work through some if the Zenin assets following his inheritance of the clan. And he was even happier to have the opportunity to reconnect with you, albeit over a dead mans half assed final will.
Higuruma set his cup down with deliberate precision, the ceramic barely making a sound against the saucer. His dark eyes flicked up to meet yours—steady, unreadable. "Regretful isn't the word I'd use," he mused, thumb brushing along the rim of his cup. "More like... unprepared. The man had a will of sorts drafted two years ago, but never signed it. Just left everything in a vault with a sticky note that said 'contingencies.'" A dry chuckle escaped him, and you couldn't help the smirk tugging at your lips.
That did sound like Naoya—too proud to admit he cared, but too sentimental to let go completely, and far too arrogant to think he would die.
"Contingencies," you repeated to yourself, rolling the word around in your mouth like it was a piece of hard candy—sweet at first, then sharp at the edges.
Higuruma reached into his briefcase and slid a manila folder across the table. The edges were crisp, untouched—no coffee stains, no dog-eared corners. Of course he'd keep it pristine. "Fushiguro had me pull everything from the vault," he said. "Most of it’s land deeds, stock portfolios... and this." His fingers lingered on the folder before pulling away, like he wasn't sure you'd want to see what was inside.
You stared at the folder, the weight of Higuruma's pause settling between you like a held breath. The café's ambient chatter faded into a dull hum, the clink of silverware suddenly distant. Your fingers itched to flip it open, but something—maybe pride, maybe fear—kept you still. "Let me guess," you said, forcing a lightness into your voice that didn't quite reach your eyes. "A prenup for a wedding that never happened? Or maybe a receipt for the ugliest engagement ring he could find, just to piss me off one last time."
Higuruma exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Open it," he said, nudging the folder closer with two fingers. "It’s not what you think.
Your fingers hovered over the folder, the faint scent of aged paper and something vaguely metallic—ink, maybe, or you could convince yourself that you could still smell the ghost of Naoya’s cologne. Higuruma watched you with that infuriatingly patient look of his, the one that said he’d wait all day if he had to. You flipped it open.
Inside the folder was a single photograph—not some legal document or financial record, but a candid shot of you and Naoya taken during one of those rare moments when he’d let his guard down. You were laughing, head thrown back, while he glared at the camera, but his arm was slung around your shoulders in a grip that bordered on possessive. The edges of the photo were slightly crumpled, as if it had been shoved into a pocket more than once. Tucked behind it was a folded piece of stationery with your name scrawled across the front in Naoya’s messy, impatient handwriting.
Your breath hitched as you picked up the photograph, the edges curling slightly under your fingertips. You remembered that day—some stupid festival in Kyoto, the kind Naoya would’ve scoffed at but you dragged him there anyway. The way his fingers had dug into your shoulder when you’d laughed too loud, like he was terrified you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough, even if he’d never put a label on your relationship, let alone admit it.
The café’s noise blurred into static as you traced the edge of the photograph, the pad of your thumb brushing over Naoya’s scowling face. Higuruma stayed silent, letting the moment stretch, but you could feel his gaze—heavy, assessing—like he was waiting for you to crumble. You didn’t. Instead, you set the photo down with deliberate care and reached for the folded stationery, your name staring back at you .
Your fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before unfolding the letter, the paper stiff from years spent pressed and tucked away. Naoya’s handwriting sprawled across the page—no formalities, no preamble, just the raw, jagged honesty of a man who’d never learned how to soften his edges. "If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Don’t look so surprised; you always said I’d piss off the wrong person someday." You snorted despite yourself, the sound tearing through the quiet like a gunshot. Higuruma’s eyebrow arched, but he said nothing.
The letter continued, each word a punch to the gut. "And if I’m dead, that means I never got around to telling you the rest of it." Your grip tightened, the paper crinkling under your fingers. Naoya’s voice—sharp, sarcastic, unbearably his—echoed in your head as you read. "You’re the only person who ever looked at me like I was worth something. Not the Zenin name, not the money, just me. And I hated it. Hated how much I needed you in my life."
You swallowed hard, the words blurring for a second before you forced yourself to keep reading. "So here’s the part where I’m supposed to say I loved you," Naoya’s letter continued, "but you already knew that. You just waited for me to say it out loud like the stubborn asshole I was. Consider this me finally getting my shit together—posthumously." A wet laugh escaped you, unexpected and raw. Higuruma shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup like he was resisting the urge to reach across the table and comfort you.
The letter’s next lines hit just a little harder. "If you’re reading this, it means we never got married. Which is bullshit, because if I’d lived, I would’ve dragged you to a shrine by your hair the second you stopped laughing at my proposal." Your throat tightened. You had laughed—the first time he’d slurred it drunk against your collarbone, the second time spat like an insult during an argument. Neither counted as romantic.
"I wanted kids," the letter continued, the ink smudged in one corner like he’d hesitated. "Loads of them. They would have my hair, with your eyes, at least one with your attitude so you’d finally understand what a brat you are. I wanted to buy you stupid shit—entire streets in Ginza, that ugly vase you pretended to like at Kyoto’s antique market. Pride’s a fucked-up thing. Mine got me killed before I could admit any of this to your face. It's easier to write this than to ever say it out loud to you."
Your fingers trembled slightly against the paper, the weight of Naoya’s words settling into your ribs like a dull ache. The letter wasn’t finished—his messy scrawl continued down the page, the ink darker in some places, as if he’d pressed the pen down harder at certain moments. "The Zenin vault has enough to keep you comfortable for three lifetimes," he’d written, "but knowing you, you’ll just donate half of it to some orphanage or animal charity for dogs with one leg and no eyes, then use the rest to buy that ridiculous ugly ass house you always talked about. Do it. And when you’re standing in front of that koi pond you wanted, don’t you dare feel guilty about it." You blinked hard, the edges of your vision going blurry.
The café’s hum faded into a distant buzz as you stared at the letter, Naoya’s words burning into your retinas. The paper trembled in your grip—not from sadness, but from the sheer, audacious nerve of the man to write something like this and then die before you could yell at him for it. A laugh bubbled up in your throat, sharp and unsteady. "God, he was such a dick " you muttered, swiping at your eyes with the back of your hand before the wetness could spill over.
You exhaled sharply, the paper trembling between your fingers. Higuruma’s coffee had probably gone cold, but he hadn’t looked away once. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it. "He left instructions for the clan accountants. A trust fund—for you, and for any children you might’ve had together." He paused, tapping the folder. "Megumi honored it. Naoya’s shares in the Zenin estate are yours. No conditions."
The silence stretched between you and Higuruma, thick with the weight of Naoya's words still echoing in your skull. You folded the letter carefully along its original creases, your fingers lingering on the smudged ink where his pen had hesitated. "Of course he'd deliver his grand confession after dying," you said, voice rough around the edges. "Typical fucking Naoya."
Higuruma's fingers twitched around his coffee cup, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Would you have married him?" he asked, the question so blunt it startled a laugh out of you.
You leaned back in your chair, the café lights catching the faint shimmer of unshed tears you refused to let fall. "In a heartbeat," you admitted, tossing the letter back onto the table like it burned.
Higuruma exhaled through his nose, something between amusement and resignation. "Figures," he murmured, pushing the folder the rest of the way toward you. His fingers lingered near yours for a fraction of a second before retreating, the warmth of his skin lingering like a phantom touch. You didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped to your mouth before he caught himself, clearing his throat and reaching for his coffee like it was a lifeline.
Higuruma studies you for a long moment before speaking, voice quieter than usual. “Based on everything I know about Naoya… and the Zenin clan,” he says carefully, fingers steepled beneath his chin, “I’m not sure how a strong-willed woman like you was ever supposed to be his type.” You blink at him — then laugh, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Oh, I wasn’t, so he said” you admit easily. “I’m pretty sure he hated how much he cared about me. I wasn’t meek, wasn’t submissive, didn’t nod and smile when he talked. I argued. I won. Frequently.” Higuruma’s mouth twitches. “That must have driven him insane.” You shrug, a small, knowing smile curving your lips. “It did. And it scared him. I think loving someone he couldn’t control — someone who wouldn’t fold — terrified him more than he ever let on.” You glance down at the letter, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “But love like that was never going to be quiet. He didn’t want someone smaller than him. He just didn’t know what to do with someone who wasn’t.”
Through it all, Higuruma can’t quite reconcile it — how someone like you ever chose someone like Naoya Zenin. In his eyes, you’ve always been incisive, composed, fiercely intelligent; beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with symmetry and everything to do with strength. Even now, more than a year after Naoya’s death, grief hasn’t diminished you — it’s only carved you sharper, steadier, more resolute. Higuruma doesn’t pity you. He admires you. And while he would never disrespect what you had, he can’t deny the quiet, growing certainty in his chest: that he’s grateful for this second chance to stand across from you, to reconnect, and maybe — if you’ll let him — to be the one who chooses you out loud.
You flipped the letter over, half-expecting some postscript in Naoya’s jagged handwriting—some final jab or ridiculous demand—but the back was blank. The absence felt deliberate, like he’d run out of words for once in his life. "I guess that it." you muttered, tossing it back onto the table. "Even his ghost’s a drama queen."
Your fingers drummed against the tabletop, the rhythm uneven—just like your pulse. The folder sat between you and Higuruma like a live grenade, its contents still humming with Naoya’s stupid, arrogant ghost. "So," you said, dragging your gaze up to meet Higuruma’s. "What now? Do I sign something? Light a ceremonial candle? Throw his money into the sea out of spite?"
Higuruma's thumb brushed the edge of the folder, his gaze dropping to where your fingers still hovered near Naoya’s letter. "Legally, you don’t have to do anything," he said, voice low. "It’s already yours. But—" He hesitated, a rarity for a man who dissected arguments for a living.
Higuruma's fingers twitched against the folder before he finally leaned forward, the sharp lines of his face softening in a way you'd rarely seen. "But," he continued, voice dropping to something almost gentle, "if you want to honor it—or spit on it, frankly—there's paperwork. Megumi made sure you could do either."
You stared at the folder, then at Higuruma’s hands—long fingers, the faint calluses of someone who’d fought as much as he’d litigated. "Spit on it?" you repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Tempting. But Naoya would haunt me just to bitch about that too."
Higuruma’s laugh was a quiet, rasping thing—like he hadn’t used it in years. "By the sounds of him, he would," he agreed, watching you with that unreadable lawyer’s gaze. "And probably bill you for the haunting." You snorted, flipping the folder shut with more force than necessary. The sound echoed through the café, drawing a few curious glances from nearby patrons.
The folder made a satisfying thwack as it hit the tabletop. You leaned back, crossing your arms over your chest, the weight of Naoya’s confession still sitting heavy in your heart. Higuruma’s gaze flicked from the folder to your face, that infuriatingly patient look still in place. "So?" you said, tilting your chin up. "What’s the catch? There’s always a catch with Zenin money."
Higuruma leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. "No catch," he said, fingers steepled in front of him. "Just a choice. Take it, leave it, set it on fire—Fushiguro doesn’t care. Though arson might complicate my paperwork." The dry humor in his voice didn’t quite mask the way his eyes tracked your reaction, sharp as a blade.
Higuruma slid the folder back across the table with deliberate precision, his fingertips brushing against yours for half a second too long. "Take it," he said, voice rougher than usual. "Sleep on it. Or burn it. Just don't decide now." His gaze dropped to your mouth again—quick, almost accidental—before he schooled his expression back into that infuriatingly neutral lawyer's mask. "My office is in the same building as before. Drop it off whenever you're ready. Or don't."
Your fingers curled around the folder’s edge, the stiff cardboard digging into your palm. The café’s ambient noise rushed back in—a clatter of dishes, the hiss of an espresso machine—like the world had been on pause and someone had just hit play. Higuruma’s gaze lingered on your hand, the ghost of his touch still warm against your skin.
The folder’s edge bit into your palm as you tightened your grip, the weight of Naoya’s words—his only honest words—settling into your bones. Higuruma’s gaze didn’t waver, but his fingers twitched against his coffee cup, the only tell in his otherwise impeccable composure.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, flipping the folder open one last time to glare at Naoya’s handwriting like it might rearrange itself into something less infuriating. It didn’t. "You know," you said, tapping the edge of the photograph, "he once told me love was just a chemical imbalance. Said it made people stupid."
Higuruma’s mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile before he schooled his expression back into neutrality. "And yet," he murmured, "here we are." He didn’t elaborate, but the implication hung between you—Naoya, the man who’d scoffed at sentimentality, had died with a love letter in a vault. The irony wasn’t lost on you.
arranged marriage w/ naoya starring toji
𝐜𝐰: mdni. 18+ dirty, filthy, hopin' dick smut. 𝐰𝐜: 1358
Naoya, if anything, is prideful.
So when, during your first meeting, you huffed under your breath that you doubted a smug little worm like him could make you cum, he had to prove you wrong.
What Naoya didn't expect was that asking his cousin Toji to give him some pointers for his wedding night would turn into a full, hands-on demonstration.
"AYE! Ya seein' this?" Toji barks, sweat dripping from his brow as his hips slam into you, his thick cock punching into your guts for the umpteenth time.
Noaya nods dumbly, blinking down at you.
Sprawled out beneath Toji, your legs shaking, a mess of drool and smeared lipstick as you mewl uncontrollably. Bleary eyes fluttering, only the whites visible as your pupils remain lodged in your skull.
Naoya is utterly mesmerized by how just a few rough strokes turned your haughty remarks into slack-jawed moans.
From defiant brat to complacent dripping slut in mere seconds.
Naoya's own sweat slicked palms hold your trembling ankles up, spreading you wide for Toji's access and also wide enough so he can see a bird’s eye view of everything—and fuck, was your slutty cunt a delectable sight—you'd make him such a good wife by how obediently your swollen, weepy pussy clings to Toji's cock training you. Your hungry pussy so greedily sucking Toji back in the second his thrusts have him pulling out.
"The bitchy ones are the messiest—remember that for next time, kid. Gotta have a towel ready f'er 'em." Toji says it like an afterthought, although it's too late now, your sticky drool, squirt and probably piss too is practically everywhere.
Toji hoped you weren't thinking about passing down that pretty wedding kimono of yours as it's thoroughly stained with your creamy juices gushing down the crack of your ass in a vulgar mixture along with his nut.
Fuck—he probably shouldn't have cum in you so much but as long as you had a Zenin, Toji knew his family really didn't care whose it was. Thankfully too, he knew Naoya would be more than happy to raise it regardless, heh, he looked up to him so much the chump might even love it more if it was his.
“Look here ” Toji mutters, smirking. “Even y'er runt ass can do this.”
Reeling his head back, Toji hawks and spits a thick loogie right onto your swollen clit, smearing it in as your slutty button throbs beneath the weight of his hand.
“She’s already a fuckin’ fountain, but you can never get it too wet. Gives it a gud sting when ya—” Toji slaps your puffy clit hard. "—do this."
You twitch violently, your hips bucking up but Toji's powerful thrusts jackhammering into your cunt quickly fuck them back down to the floor.
The flood of sensation has your tears finally breaking, running down your pretty cheeks, further ruining your bridal make-up to match the fucked out state of the rest of your body.
Although Naoya, for what it's worth, thinks you've never looked more perfect for him. Ruined. Compliant. Just how he expects his future wife to be for him and he is eagerly soaking up all of Toji's notes, watching your every reaction so he could do it, and do it better.
He'd have all the time in the world to break you all on his own.
Naoya had always been a quick learner and you'd be his after this.
"Stop daydreamin' ya cuck!" Toji growls out, "Now just look at the way them cute lil’ tooties curl, fuckin' slut. She can't get enough. Bet she'd squirt if ya sucked on em a lil’ too."
The butt of Toji's heavy palm comes down on your clit again, harder this time, a squishy audible 'SMACK' echoing off the walls as Naoya's tongue experimentally slips between your manicured toes.
"NRGHH! PUHLLEEASEE!" you cry desperately, thinking you just might go crazy from the pleasure.
One of your hands pushes against Toji’s chest, the other scrambles for Naoya’s thigh as if begging for mercy from the overwhelming assault on your pussy and feet. It's too much, too good, too humiliating all at once and you think you just might die from it all.
“Heh, yeah,” Toji snorts. “A lil' runner like ‘er definitely feelin’ it now. But she's y'er wifey, so ya gotta teach her to take it.”
Toji's dick slams into your womb for emphasis, your choked moans dribbling over your lips, coalescing with tears and spittle as the men above you turn you into the pathetic little mess they desired you to be.
Your mind finally blanks, overwhelmed with the one lingering thought of—
What kind of den of devils did you walk into by marrying into the Zenin clan?
In turn, Naoya’s nearly at his limit too.
You look so beautifully fucked out—eyes glassy, mouth parted, legs trembling—and he can still taste you on his lips. A hint of salt from your toes and the sweetness from the squirt that hit his face earlier still lingering on his tongue.
He never thought merely watching you get destroyed would turn him on this much.
But he can’t take it anymore. Jaw clenched, one hand starts to slip from your ankle, reaching down toward his waistband—
"Fuck ya doing, boy? Nuh-uh, none of that shit."
Toji snaps, his senses from heavenly restriction alone alerted him but he's not even looking up either to confirm it.
He's also too entranced by the way your body is falling apart underneath him. Following the sight line of his visible dick print pounding into your tummy up to the view of the sweat bouncing off your cute bitten up tiddies. More drops flying off the harder he ruts into you, room filling with the intoxicating musk of your well fucked-out cunt.
“Better not catch ya tryin' to stroke that lil’ pecker while I’m graciously givin’ ya a lesson. This is about her pleasure. Watch and learn, runt.”
Toji groans through his teeth as his thrusts start to falter, becoming heavier and more erratic. Something deep in his balls tells him this next load will knock you up for sure, but he doesn’t even consider pulling out. Hell, if he did put one in you he'd have the perfect excuse to keep fucking your pretty pussy after this too right up until it finished cookin’ in ya.
But, you are Naoya's wife, after all. Toji thinks his cousin has been a good student up until this point, Toji would throw him a lil' bone for his patience, he supposes.
"...tsk, hold her right ya lil' cuck and I might let ya have first go at her ass next. Gotta get that lesson in too."
"Y-Yes, Toji-kun!" Noaya responds eagerly, swallowing thickly.
Naoya feels his dick throb painfully in his pants, resisting the urge to rut into his own thigh like a dog in heat, more excited than he expected at the prospect of getting to fuck you at the same time as Toji.
However, you just continue to whimper, thighs trembling harder as the men above you speak like you are not even in the room despite being the object of their lust as you are used like a fancy fleshlight they are breaking-in.
The threat, no—the promise—of being tag-teamed by both men makes your cunt pulse, clenching tighter around Toji’s cock, as you cum in erratic spasms of ecstacy, nearly causing Toji to bust in you. Toji is a goner regardless and his hips manage a few final pulses before another wave of vicious white paints your walls.
“Whew…” Toji exhales, chest heaving as his muscles twitch and his hips give one last lazy thrust—burying the final creamy dredges of his release deep inside you.
He pulls out with a wet pop to view, your pussy fluttering so obscenely around nothing, legs still stretched wide by Naoya’s tightening grip (who, by the look of him, is about to burst too).
With a smug grin, Toji finally locks eyes with you—addressing you directly for the first time—as he rather gently brushes a sweat-damp strand of hair from your face.
𝐚𝐧: no one save me i'm exactly where i want to be. 😇
busted this out quickly to hold y'all and myself over until i can finish incel!naoya. this was also inspired by a very unhinged conversation major shoutouts to @kamiflix for sparking this idea. NAOYA GIRLIES RISE!!!
tagging the naochan luvvers:
@yenayaps @madamechrissy @veejiez @sytorusdoll
and the haters:
@uhnosav @jaibunni 😘
𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (no tags under 2k) or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.
He’s addicted to the taste of your sweet, wet cunt on his tongue, to the way your thighs pull him in and practically suffocate him.
After all the shit he’s dealt with at work, this is his reward.
You grip his blonde hair, head tipping back as you weakly try to push him off. You’re already on your fourth orgasm when the pleasure starts turning into something almost painful. Your legs tremble as you mewl and beg for him to stop.
His grip on your thighs doesn’t loosen, holding you in place while his tongue works on you with practiced ease, head moving side to side.
“Enji—ah—it’s too much,” you babble, tears streaming down your cheeks.
You can't even remember what led to any of this.
One moment you had your arms around his neck, kissing him softly after a long mission away. The next, you’re falling apart, pinned beneath him, his mouth on you like a man starved.
He pulls away just long enough for a thick drop of spit to hit your messy pussy—the wet sound loud and vulgar in the dimly lit room, making your face twist before you can stop it.
“So fucking sweet,” he murmurs. “Just a little more, yeah?”
“I can’t take it—please.”
He laughs cruelly. “Don’t lie to me.” His hand presses down on your stomach, hard enough to make you cry out.
“I know my girl can fucking take it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Just cum again f’me.”
Your mouth falls open, a choked whine slipping out as he eases two fingers into you, eyes fixed on your face as he feels your body tighten. He doesn’t stop, he goes slow and steady as his thumb traces lazy circles over your swollen clit to ease the discomfort.
You looked so pretty from this view, he couldn't help but stare in awe. Laid out and exposed, body twitching as your pretty toes curled, his name leaving your sweet lips in whiny whimpers.
That flushed, dazed look on your face especially—it really fucked him up.
His eyes drop lower, chest rumbling with a low growl at the sticky mess in his hands—your pussy red and leaky, just for him.
His free hand slips away to unzip his pants, needing to ease the pressure before the taste of you pushes him over the edge. His thick fingers keep working your oversensitive walls as he picks up the pace, mouth latching back onto your clit, sucking and slurping with urgency.
“Enjin—wait” you cry out, the sound barely making it past your lips. Soon after, you feel it—that familiar pressure building low in your abdomen, different this time, heavier,
You manage to pull your head up, gasping for air as if it had been knocked out of you. You feel your whole body burning as your thoughts scatter—too much, too fast—as you throw him one last plea. He ignores it, forcing his fingers deeper and faster, his whole arm tensing as the movement turns rough and relentless. You grab his wrist with what little strength you have left, trying to slow him down, wondering if your body can take any more.
“Don’t try to stop me,” he growls, barely audible as he slaps your hand away and buries his face deeper into you, pushing the tip of his tongue hard against your clit, swirling it with a low moan.
That's enough to send you over the edge. Pleasure and pain crash through you all at once. You squirt all over his face and chest, body locking up as everything spills out of you. It’s overwhelming—embarrassing, humiliating, and so fucking intense you can’t even think straight. If you weren’t so busy moaning like a slut, nerves all fried and head empty, you’d see the shit-eating grin on his face.
“Fuuuck yeah, baby—that’s it,” he boasts, loud and proud, pulling back slowly before landing a few gentle pats on your worn-out pussy—still leaking.
If only he could take a picture of you like this.
Your tits are out on display, bite marks and hickeys trailing down your skin, body slick with sweat and still spasming beneath him. One hand settles on top of your knee, cooing softly, while the other rubs his leaking bulge. He lowers himself, pressing kisses into the sticky mess between your legs—mound, inner thighs.
"You alright, baby?" he whispers against your skin. “That last one was rough on you.”
You shiver as you look down at him through half-lidded eyes, everything blurred at the edges. You manage a weak smile, giving a small nod before letting your head fall back, chest rising and falling as you slowly come down from the high.
Just as your chest starts to even out, Enjin’s already gripping under your knees, pulling them to your chest in one swift motion. A surprised gasp tears out of you. Before you can protest, his tongue slides from your asshole back to your pussy, slurping your mess up before letting it drip onto you again.
Ya'll are so nasty ass thirsty bitches but you asked and now I don't know what to say for myself, this was written in one afternoon because I agree Naoya would have a crazy breeding kink and even bigger pregnancy kink and would never shut his dirty mouth. This is pretty dirty, not proofread. MDNI. Enjoy you dirty deprived things. I'll see you in hell.
Warnings: P in V sex, pregnancy sex, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, toxic relationships, lactation, milk drinking, misogynist meets misandrist, dirty talk, filth tbh, oral sex, fingering, kitchen sex, semi public sex.
Banner by @cafekitsune
You hadn’t married Naoya Zenin because he was a good man.
You married him because he was useful. Power, protection, silk-lined rooms where nothing ever went unanswered. Granted, he never let you want for anything, not jewels, not gowns nor money, not blood when someone crossed you. He was a misogynistic curse wrapped in pedigree and arrogance, and you’d recognized the breed immediately.
And instead of flinching, you bit back.
Somehow, that had fascinated him.
You were everything Naoya claimed women shouldn't be: sharp-tongued, willful, unyielding. You didn’t soften him—God, no—but you redirected the worst of him, aimed it outward like a blade you kept polished. You hated men with the same fervor he hated women, and in that mutual disdain you found rhythm. He never knew if you’d kiss him or cut him with a sentence, and the uncertainty left him drunk on you. Really, it was a blessing to the rest of the world you had found each other.
Marriage hadn’t dulled it. If anything, it sharpened the edges.
Now there was a ring on your finger, a Zenin name stitched into your spine, and a child growing heavy beneath your ribs—an irony that wasn't wasted on either of you. Naoya was intoxicated by it. By you. By the fact that you’d chosen him not out of obedience, but appetite.
Which was why the last time you saw your favorite fish-shaped soy sauce dispenser, it was hurling toward his head with lethal precision as servants scurried out of the room.
“You absolute fuck,” you hissed, one hand cradling your swollen belly. “Tell me again how my cravings are ‘excessive’ when you’re the one who ate my entire stash of pickled plums?”
Naoya barely dodged, the ceramic fish shattering against the kitchen wall. Soy sauce splattered like ink. His smirk didn’t waver.
“Pregnancy suits you,” he said mildly, stepping over the wreckage toward you. “Your aim’s gotten sharper.”
His fingers brushed your hip, lingering where your dress strained against new curves—possessive, unapologetic. You swatted his hand away, even as heat crept up your neck.
“Don’t,” you snapped. “I’m still pissed.”
The words lacked conviction. He heard it immediately.
Naoya laughed, low and pleased, crowding you back against the counter. His palm settled warm and familiar over your belly, where something small kicked in response—already restless, already stubborn.
The kitchen smelled like soy sauce and the ginger tea you’d been nursing all morning. Naoya leaned in, inhaling near your temple like your irritation was something he could savor.
“I’ll buy you more plums,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear. “And those seaweed crackers you threw at the cashier yesterday.”
You scoffed, even as you let him stay close.
God help anyone who thought this marriage was a mistake.
"You’re missing the point," you muttered, but your fingers were already twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His body was solid against yours, familiar and grounding, even when the world tilted with hormones and cravings. You bit his lower lip—half punishment, half plea—and he groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up to cradle your face.
His thigh pressed between yours, and you arched into him with a gasp, the counter’s edge digging into your back. "Someone’s eager," he teased, nipping at your jaw. "You sure it's just cravings driving you wild? Or are you horny again?"
You hooked a leg around his hip, relishing the way his breath hitched. "Shut up and kiss me properly." The words dissolved into a moan as his mouth crashed against yours, hungry and claiming. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your pulse spike. The baby kicked again, a sharp flutter beneath his palm, and Naoya broke away with a laugh that was more growl than amusement. "Feisty little thing. Takes after you."
The grocery bags rustled violently as you shoved them off the counter with your elbow. Glass jars clattered to the floor— a servant could worry about that later. Right now, Naoya’s teeth on your collarbone and his hands squeezing your thighs were the only things that mattered. You raked your nails down his back, grinning when he cursed into your skin.
His fingers found the hem of your dress, hiking it up just as the front door creaked open. "Oh, my apologies —" a servant's voice cut through the heated moment before retreating with frantic footsteps. You froze, lips swollen and chest heaving, while Naoya's smirk returned tenfold. "Seems like we're scandalizing the staff again," he murmured against your throat, not bothering to stop his hands from roaming.
"You're insufferable," you gasped, but the way your hips rolled against his thigh betrayed your words. Naoya's mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing the sensitive swell of your milk heavy breast where your dress had slipped. A needy whine escaped you — damn hormones, damn him for knowing exactly how to unravel you.
The servant's retreating footsteps still echoed down the hall when Naoya abruptly lifted you onto the counter, his hands were already under your dress, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your panties. "You were saying?" he taunted, mouth hovering just above yours, close enough to taste your uneven breaths.
A shudder ran through you as his thumb circled your clit—slow, deliberate strokes that made your thighs tremble. "Asshole," you choked out, gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks through his shirt. The cool air from the broken kitchen window ghosted over your damp skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly.
Naoya’s chuckle was dark, pleased. "Liar." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as his fingers slid lower, teasing your entrance. "You love it." The stretch burned just enough to make you arch, your nails scraping down his back as he worked you open with torturous patience. The counter dug into your thighs, the edge biting, but the pain only sharpened the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.
His thumb circled your clit faster, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Look at you," he murmured, voice rough. "Soaked just from this. Imagine how hard you’ll cum on my cock." The crude promise sent a shiver through you, your thighs clamping around his wrist instinctively.
You barely had time to gasp before his fingers plunged deeper, curling just right to make your back arch off the counter as he stepped closer, crowding you against the cabinets. "Naoya—" His name tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your shoulder, the sharp sting mingling with the relentless press of his fingers. The baby kicked violently, as if protesting the sudden spike in your pulse, but all you could focus on was the coil of pleasure tightening mercilessly low in your belly.
The front door slammed shut somewhere in the house—finally, privacy—and Naoya took full advantage, ripping your panties aside with a careless tug. The fabric snapped, but his mouth was already between your thighs, tongue laving a hot stripe up your slit before sealing over your clit. You cried out, fingers fisting in his hair as he sucked and lapped relentlessly.
"You taste even sweeter pregnant," he growled against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your core. His tongue delved deeper, curling just the way you liked, and your thighs trembled around his head. The baby kicked again, a sharp jab near your ribs, but the discomfort melted under the onslaught of pleasure. Naoya’s fingers dug into your ass, tilting you harder against his mouth, and you sobbed, overstimulated and desperate.
His chuckle was dark, muffled against your soaked folds. "Could get addicted to this—round belly, your tits heavy thanks to me," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your reaction as his fingers replaced his tongue. "Wanna keep you like this forever. Full of me." The crude promise sent heat flaring across your skin, his thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He smirked, pressing closer. "Already thinking about the next one, aren’t you? I can feel how tight you clench around my fingers"
You gasped as his free hand palmed your swollen stomach possessively. "Gonna breed you until this house overflows with our brats," he growled, lips brushing your inner thigh. His teeth grazed sensitive skin—not hard enough to mark, but enough to make your hips jerk. "Watch you waddle around all soft and fucked-out, belly round with another kid before the first even walks." The image shouldn’t have sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, but your body betrayed you, clenching around his thrusting fingers.
Naoya laughed—a low, filthy sound—when you moaned. "Knew you’d love that," he murmured, dragging his tongue along your folds again just to feel you shudder. "Imagine it—your tits leaking while I fuck another baby into you." His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling in time with the sinful words. "Gonna keep you full of me until you forget what it feels like to be empty."
You whimpered, thighs quivering around his head as his tongue delved deeper, lapping up every drop. The counter dug into your back, but the pain was distant, drowned out by the heat coiling tighter in your belly. "Naoya—" His name cracked in your throat as his teeth grazed your clit, the sharp sting making your hips jerk. "Fuck—yes—"
"Already so close," he murmured against your soaked folds, lips brushing your swollen skin with each word. "Just from my mouth. Pathetic." His fingers curled inside you, pressing against that sweet spot that made your vision blur. "Gonna keep you like this—always wet, always full." His thumb circled your clit faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. "Next time I knock you up, it’ll be twins."
The vulgar promise tipped you over the edge. Your back arched off the counter as pleasure crashed through you, sharp and consuming. Naoya didn't let up, his tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit until your thighs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you trembled through the aftershocks.
When you finally sagged against the cabinets, breathless and boneless, he rose with a self-satisfied smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Messy," he taunted, licking his lips deliberately. The sight of his damp chin, the way his pupils were blown wide with lust—it coiled the heat low in your belly again despite your exhaustion.
The kitchen was in shambles: shattered ceramics, spilled groceries. Naoya didn't seem to care, stepping over the wreckage to cage you against the counter again. His erection pressed insistently against your thigh, and you rolled your hips instinctively, drawing a ragged groan from him. "Greedy," he accused, nipping at your jaw. "Thought I just wore you out."
You hooked your fingers in his belt, tugging impatiently. "Don't flatter yourself." The retort lost its edge when he ground against you, the friction drawing a moan from your throat. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your legs wrapped around his waist. The counter's edge dug into your back, but the discomfort was secondary to the heat of his body, the way his breath hitched when you raked your nails down his chest. He lifted you fully onto the counter. With one hand, he unbuckled his belt, your breath hitched as he freed himself, thick and flushed, pressing against your slick entrance. "Still pissed about the plums?" he taunted, dragging his tip through your folds, slow and maddening.
You grabbed his jaw, forcing his gaze to yours. "Stop teasing," you snarled, nails biting into his skin. "Fuck me good, Naoya." The demand ripped from your throat, raw and needy. Naoya's smirk vanished, replaced by something feral. He gripped your thighs, yanking you to the very edge of the counter, and slammed into you with a groan. The stretch burned—he was relentless, no gentleness left—and you arched into it, nails scraping down his back.
Naoya's thrusts knocked more groceries off the counter—a bag of rice split open, grains scattering across the tiles. "Fuck," he growled, one hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back. "Taking me so deep." His thumb pressed against your swollen stomach.
His mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your moans before trailing lower, teeth scraping down your throat. When his lips closed around one taut nipple, you gasped, back arching off the counter. He sucked hard, tongue circling the sensitive peak until milk beaded at the tip. The sensation was electric—too much and not enough—your hips jerking against his with every pull of his mouth. "Fuck," you whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair.
Naoya groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your core. He drank greedily, one hand kneading your other breast as he worked you with his mouth. The sweet ache of relief mixed with the filthy pleasure of his tongue lapping at your leaking nipple. "So fucking sweet," he growled, switching sides without breaking rhythm. Your milk glistened on his chin when he pulled back, pupils blown wide.
You gasped when he twisted your nipple between his fingers, sending another trickle down your flushed skin. Naoya caught it with his tongue, dragging the flat of it up your chest in a slow, deliberate stroke that made your thighs tremble. The baby kicked violently beneath his palm—a sharp protest—but he only smirked and pressed down harder. "Little shit's jealous," he murmured before sealing his lips over your nipple again.
The suction pulled a ragged moan from your throat. Your hips jerked against his, desperate for friction, but Naoya kept his thrusts slow and deep, denying you the pace you craved. Every drag of his cock inside you burned just right, stretching you full in a way that made your toes curl. "Naoya—" His name shattered into a whine when he bit down lightly on your nipple.
"Where's that smart mouth gone?" he snarled, tilting your body to watch himself slide in and out of you, slick and obscene. "So fucking greedy—taking me like you’re not already full." His thumb pressed against your clit in rough circles, the pressure just shy of painful.
"Tell me what you need babygirl." His hips rolled, grinding deeper, the head of his cock pressing against that spot inside that made your vision flicker. The stretch was unbearable—perfect. You clawed at his shoulders, nails biting through his ruined shirt.
"Need you to—ah—fuck me stupid, make me cum." you gasped, arching when his thumb found your clit again. The rough pad circled mercilessly, dragging you closer to the edge with every stroke. Naoya laughed, low and dark, his breath hot against your ear. "Already halfway there, sweetheart." His teeth scraped your earlobe, the sting sharpening the pleasure coiling tighter in your belly.
"You gonna cum on my cock like this?" he murmured, lips brushing your throat as his hips snapped forward, driving deeper. "All swollen with my kid, tits leaking?" The filthy words sent a shudder through you, your walls fluttering around him. Naoya groaned, his grip tightening on your hips. "Fuck—squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go. Greedy little thing."
His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and you arched off the counter with a cry. .
"Come on, sweetheart," Naoya growled against your throat, his breath scalding. "Let go for me." His fingers dug into your hips, guiding your movements as he fucked up into you with relentless precision. Every snap of his hips sent shockwaves through your oversensitive body, the friction of his cock dragging against your inner walls just right. Your thighs trembled around him, toes curling against the small of his back as pleasure coiled tighter, unbearable.
His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling in tight, filthy strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. "That's it," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Gonna milk my cock just like this when I fill you up again." The vulgar promise tipped you over the edge—your back arched off the counter as white-hot ecstasy ripped through you, your nails scoring deep red lines down his shoulders. Naoya didn't relent, fucking you through your orgasm with brutal efficiency, his groan rough against your skin as your walls clenched around him.
"Fuck—keep squeezing me like that," he growled, hips stuttering. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips leaving bruises as he chased his own release. You whimpered, oversensitive and pliant beneath him, but he didn't slow—just dragged his tongue up your throat and bit down hard on your pulse point. The sharp pain mingled with the aftershocks, drawing another broken cry from your lips as he pistoned into you with reckless abandon.
His rhythm faltered when your nails raked down his back, his breath hitching against your damp skin. "Gonna fill you up so deep—" His voice cracked as he bottomed out inside you, his cock twitching as hot spurts of cum flooded your cunt. You gasped at the sudden warmth, your body still fluttering weakly around him, milking every last drop. Naoya groaned, forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged against your lips.
Naoya's hands trembled slightly where they gripped your hips, his usual composure shattered. You smirked, dragging a lazy finger through the mess on his collarbone. "Tired already?" you teased, voice husky.
He bared his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. "Keep talking and I'll bend you over the dining table next."
