‧₊˚ ୧ ‧₊˚ 𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 and the pretty waitress at his local tavern ⋅ ✰
☆ ──꒰𝓢𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧!꒱ ❞
div creds to @/angeliicide and art creds to @/kentobreads
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა is the town’s most infamous rancher— tall, loud, and impossible to ignore with his snow-white hair under a black cowboy hat. He rides into town on his massive white stallion every few days just to sit in your section at the little sunflower-yellow diner.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა The first time he saw you, you were humming while pouring coffee and accidentally did a little happy spin after delivering a big tip. He nearly fell off his chair laughing and declared you “the brightest thing in this dusty town.”
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა He always takes the same booth by the window so he can watch you move around the diner like a ray of sunshine. He calls it “prime sunshine viewing.”
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა His order is always the same: black coffee, two slices of pie, and “whatever smile you’re givin’ out today, darlin’.”
You once brought him a slice of pie with a little whipped cream smiley face on it. He’s been whipped ever since.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა Gojo tips ridiculously well.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა The other ranch hands tease him endlessly because he, the six-foot-four menace who can out-rope anyone in the county, gets flustered when you call him “Mr. Gojo” in your sweet voice.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა On slow days, he’ll linger for hours, spinning his hat on his finger and telling you dramatic (mostly exaggerated) stories about chasing bandits or taming wild horses just to keep you at his table longer.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა He started calling you “Sunshine” unprompted and now the whole town knows you by that nickname thanks to him.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა You taught him how to fold paper flowers during your break one day. He now leaves them on the counter for you with little notes like “For the prettiest waitress in the West.”
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა He’s convinced you’re magic because “no one should be allowed to be that warm and bright in a town this dusty.” He says it completely seriously.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა On your day off, he showed up at your door with two horses and took you on a picnic to his favorite hilltop. He was so proud when you told him it was the best day you’d had in months.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა Gojo lets exactly one person touch his hat — you. You once put it on your head while teasing him and he went bright red under his tan.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა started helping around the diner on busy days without being asked — carrying heavy trays, fixing the loose step out front, and charming all the old ladies who adore him.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა Every time you laugh at one of his dumb jokes, he looks at you like he just won the biggest prize in the county.
૮₍ cowboyjo ⑅₎ა He’s already decided (and loudly told his best friend Geto) that he’s going to marry “that sunshine waitress” one day. He just hasn’t worked up the courage to say it to you… yet.
toji had never expected you'd come with such a high libido.
all he has to do is breathe funny and the next second he'll catch you giving him that look.
he never thought he'd get tired of having sex. even as he’s confiding in shiu the words feel wrong leaving his throat.
of course shiu wouldn't understand, he tells toji he should be thanking the universe for bringing him a girlfriend like you, says he'd give an arm and a leg to have his own living breathing 'fleshlight' waiting for him at home.
"god, don't call her a fleshlight."
"what? you told me yourself that when you get home her hands zip down your fly before you can even lock the door. if that's not a living fucktoy i don't know what is."
it wasn't always like this, but looking back on it he finds that the signs were there from the start.
when he was meeting your parents for the first time and you 'accidentally' kept resting your hand on his dick under the table.
when you'd beg to sit on his lap any chance you got, using the excuse of 'getting comfortable' to grind your ass down on his bulge—and when confronted about it you played dumb.
the first time you met him you gave him the greatest head of his life in a cramped and sticky club bathroom. of course he’d do all he could to push your relationship further than just a one night stand, but this? this is getting to be a problem.
it’s gotten so bad that the man hides his morning wood from you, his dick is too tender from your actions the night prior. and it’s not like he can jerk off either, his rough and calloused hands feel like he’s stroking his sensitive dick with sandpaper.
in an attempt to send a sign your way he had told you about his whole ‘sandpaper’ situation. it went the exact opposite way he intended it to. you saw it as a good thing in your eyes, interpreting his predicament as your pussy getting him so utterly whipped that it’s the only way he can cum.
he’ll just have to communicate it in a way you’ll truly understand.
“wanna get fucked so bad? want this dick so bad? better take it cause you won’t be able to think about it—ngh—or anything else when i’m done with you.” he whispers the filthy string of words into your ear.
you can’t respond. not because you’re planted face down on a pillow—while that is a part of it, the main cause is that he’s fucking you dumb.
when toji says something he means it, it’s near impossible for your brain to form a thought like this. the force he’s using to pound his cock into you is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, yet you love every part of it.
even with the way your skin feels raw in the spot his heavy balls keep smacking against you—the numbness in your legs amplifies the state of pure ecstasy you’re in.
and the way every harsh thrust from him pushes your face deeper and deeper down into the mattress, and how the pillow beneath you is soaked with your tears.
a particularly harsh thrust knocks you out of your daze. you yelp as you feel the head of his cock hit your cervix, scrambling with wobbly legs to move further up the bed you cry out, “toji!”
the second you hear the laugh that comes from his chest you know he’s not about to take pity on you. “we’re not doin’ that.” chuckling, he removes the hand atop your head, using it instead to—SMACK!—it down onto your hip and yank you backward onto his dick, he knocks the air out of your lungs and you let out a sound that can only be described as a mix of a guttural moan and a loud gasp.
your legs begin to shake as he hastily continues to hammer his dick into your sopping cunt at the same brutal pace, not giving you any opportunity to recover from the pain of him bruising your cervix, “t-too—mmph—mmuuuch!” you’re left a babbling mess as a result.
“mm—mm.” he shakes his head, “if you’re taking it you’re—fuck—taking it all.” turning your head to the side you see a smirk creep up on his face through your teary eyes, the scar on the side of his lip curling as he snakes a hand down your stomach, reaching down to pinch your clit.
the world around you goes dark as your eyes instantly shut tight with the overwhelming stimulation, the coil in your stomach snapping, “c-cumminggg!!” you wail, drool seeping through the corners of your mouth and onto the bedsheets as you feel your pussy gush around him.
he fucks you through your high and pulls his girthy dick out when your walls stop contracting around it, finally showing you the tiniest bit of sympathy.
after your breathing has settled into something semi-regular you attempt to pull the covers over yourself and pass out, but he tugs them out of your grip. “what’re you doing that for? didn’t say i was finished.”
a/n : i apologise if theres any mistakes i went out last night and i might still b buffering
i have to block like 5 uk numbers now idk how i ended up in a harem of tea and crumpets i dont live in england
Naoya is a food after sex kinda guy. It doesn't matter what time of day or if he'd eaten just before, you'll always find him in the kitchen - hair still a mess, wearing only boxers - looking for a post-fuck snack.
It's a trait you find endlessly endearing - chubby chipmunk cheeks stuffed full of last night's cold leftovers, eaten directly from the container you put it away in. A smile stretches your lips as you approach, footsteps light on the cool tile floor. You lean on the counter next to him, batting your lashes up at him.
"What?" he asks around a mouthful of food. His brows furrow and his lips down turn in general displeasure at being observed by you, his overly clingy and obnoxious partner. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I just think you're cute, Nao." You wrap your arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder, still beaming at him like he hung the moon itself.
"Gross," he says with a slight shake of his head, but he kisses your forehead anyway. He shovels another bite of food into his mouth, mumbling about it being delicious, about how he's going to ‘marry you one day’ based on your cooking skill alone.
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…
WHY HIM? - or, sleeping with Naoya Zenin is the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done
featuring: naoya zenin x fem!reader
word count: 1.7k
contents: n/sfw, explicit sexual content, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, mild dubcon ig bc of drunk sex, post-nut clarity lmaoo
masterlist
At first, everything you had heard about Naoya Zenin was merely hearsay. It wasn’t flattering hearsay, to be sure. The Zenin clan was full of unpleasant men; everyone knew that much. Their heir, apparently, was one of the worst.
“Don’t really know him,” Satoru had said once with a shrug. Satoru Gojo had been an upperclassman of yours at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Then, maybe thinking he shouldn’t downplay things after all, he added, “Our clans’ve got a lot of bad blood between us, you gotta understand. So, it’s not like I hang out with the guy. But I’d stay away from him, if I were you.”
The politics of jujutsu society had always seemed rather tiresome to you. There was no real reason, as far as you could see, to involve yourself with the big, elite clans. The Zenin were based in a different prefecture and were more affiliated with the sister school in Kyoto. And god helped whichever unlucky soul ended up catching the Gojo heir’s eye. All in all, being a participant in clan matters sounded like more trouble than it was worth.
Suffice it to say, you weren’t really expecting to cross paths with Naoya Zenin anytime soon.
That spring, you’d been pursuing a semi-grade one curse from a mountain village, where it’d been left to fester for too long. By the time you had tracked its patterns and narrowed down its location, it had very clearly outgrown the initial estimate of its grade. What had once been manageable for one sorcerer now required two, which would have been inconvenient enough on its own. Unfortunately, the curse had also crossed into Zenin territory.
The higher-ups contacted you that a clan representative was en route before you could even ask. Lo and behold, the man that appeared not long after (out of seemingly nowhere) was young and bleached blond, wearing a simple bomber over his black T-shirt and jeans—Naoya Zenin.
I’d stay away from him. Helpful advice, if you’d had any say in the matter. He looked nothing like the conservative, power-obsessed elite you imagined. There was no traditional robe, no austere heir-of-an-ancient-clan air about him. Just a regular guy who looked more like he’d stepped out of the nightlife district than the estate of one of the most powerful jujutsu families in Japan.
Perhaps more confusing still, he seemed perfectly normal. He wasn’t humble, but then, neither was Satoru. Naoya was easy to talk to and quick with his remarks. He seemed more amused by the politics surrounding the mission than invested in them. If anything, he treated the whole “Zenin territory” issue with a casual irreverence that made you wonder if half the stories you’d heard were exaggerations.
Naoya was, unfortunately, hot. The blond hair and the piercings were, admittedly, a little distracting. But beneath that, he had fine, sharp features and an athletic build and broad shoulders under that black shirt. And his voice had a bit of a lilt that immediately disarmed you whenever he spoke.
On the first day, he looked over, cocked his head at you, and asked, “You ain’t a student, are ya?”
“Graduated,” you replied. “A couple years ago.”
He’d hummed. “Same year as Satoru Gojo, then?”
You blinked. “No, he was an upperclassman.”
“Ah. Figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothin’. Just—if you were in his year, I’d probably remember you.”
You stared at him. “…Excuse me?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, ever so slightly. “Pretty thing like you?” Naoya said, tone almost offhand. “Woulda stuck.”
You flushed, heat prickling at the tips of your ears, and didn’t answer. You weren’t sure how to respond to that sort of line; you weren’t even sure if it was a line. You told yourself it didn’t matter because you’d signed up for cursed spirits, not clan heirs who gave you whiplash. So, you’d simply pressed on with the mission, trying not to let Naoya’s little faintly mocking smirk or the heat in your face distract you further.
It didn’t stop there, of course. The things he said often made you almost wonder if you’d hallucinated the words. You’d catch the tail end of a phrase, turn, and Naoya would be looking straight ahead like he hadn’t said a thing. Or he’d make some sly, half-buried comment about “girls from Tokyo” and follow it up with a perfectly respectable tactical suggestion. You kept catching yourself double-taking, as if maybe the mountain air was playing tricks on you.
Instead of overt arrogance or derision, Naoya lobbed offhand, teasing observations and compliments at you with the same casualness he seemed to reserve for kicking rocks down the trail. He was efficient. He took the lead when it made sense to make use of his incredible speed and fell back and covered you without complaint. The picture of the perfect colleague from a respectable family.
You spent the better part of three days tracking the curse together through the mountains. It was, in retrospect, the worst possible amount of time two reasonably compatible adults could spend working in close proximity while sleep-deprived and intermittently adrenaline-high from fighting something that wanted them dead. There were late-night discussions about strategy over convenience store coffee. The kind of half-serious arguments that happened when two competent sorcerers both thought their plan was better. The quiet camaraderie that formed when someone proved, repeatedly, that they could handle themselves in a fight.
In short, there was just enough time for you to make a catastrophic misjudgment. Because for those three days, Naoya Zenin behaved like a man whose reputation had been greatly blown out of proportion. He was even occasionally charming, in an offhand way that caught you off guard. Looking back, you would later conclude that the problem had not been that he’d deceived you. He’d simply been on his best behavior, and you’d woefully let your guard lapse.
The curse was exorcised on the third day. By every professional measure, the mission was a success. And that night, after a long day of fighting and far too little sleep, you made what you would come to regard as the single most regrettable decision of your short professional career.
You’d gone to his room. Just to talk, you told yourself at the time, though even then, it was a weak excuse. There were half a dozen rationalizations: you needed to debrief before returning your report, you had to discuss evidence you’d found, it was a courtesy to check if he’d been injured after the fight. All of it nonsense; both of you probably knew it.
He’d opened the door in sweatpants and a towel around his neck, hair still damp from the communal bath. He barely looked tired, despite the exhaustion in your bones. And the way his mouth quirked up when he saw you in the hallway made it immediately, painfully clear that he’d known you would come. There were beers from the corner store, a few too many that conveniently “needed to be finished” before you both checked out, and the next thing you knew, you were folded up under him with your ankles dangling over his muscled shoulders, writhing as he slowly ground the hard ridge of his cock against you.
You were so wet already, folds puffy from the embarrassingly little amount of preparation, that he sank into you without much trouble, stretching you wide enough to feel like you might break in half. You stayed quiet only as long as it took for him to get a rhythm going, and then, you couldn’t anymore. Not with the angle of his hips bullying the thick head of him straight into that sweet spot inside you that made your vision spark white.
Your fingers between your thighs where your bodies met brought you to toe-curling orgasm too many times for your beer- and adrenaline-addled mind to keep track of before Naoya finally pulled out and deliberately spilled all over your tits with a low, rough groan—perhaps the only sound he made during the whole session that wasn’t a filthy, murmured remark about what a good slut you were.
You woke up the next morning with your face pressed into a too-soft pillow, and a headache splitting your skull right between the eyes. Every muscle in your body ached with the telltale soreness of overusing both your cursed energy and your… other resources. The haze of pleasure had long receded, leaving only the clarity to set in with slow, creeping inevitability: you had made a terrible, possibly career-ending, mistake.
For a second, you allowed yourself to stay perfectly still. Maybe, if you didn’t move, you’d open your eyes and find yourself back in your own room, the whole thing a stress-induced hallucination. But unfortunately, you wouldn’t be let off that easy. You’d slept with Naoya fucking Zenin. Everything everyone had ever said about him came crashing back in that moment. True or not, to say the thought of anyone finding out was mortifying was an understatement at the very least.
You already knew, if Satoru, if any of your colleagues found out about this, you’d never hear the end of it. Possibly not for the rest of your professional life. You could already picture the reactions—the mocking, the teasing, the judgmental side-eyeing. You might as well confess to taking a low-grade curse as a pet. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. Who would know? The mission had concluded. You would each report to the higher-ups and be paid for your trouble. Naoya would return to wherever the Zenin clan kept its heir, and you would go back to Tokyo. There was no reason this needed to become anything more than a private mistake between two people who would, with any luck, never see each other again.
For his part, Naoya didn’t act like it needed to be anything more than what it was. He treated the incident exactly as expected—like an inconsequential notch in his belt. Perhaps, you’d simply lost your intrigue now that he’d proven he could get in your pants. Not that you cared. It was for the best, though it would have been easier, you thought, if he’d been awful from the start. If he’d lived up to the rumors immediately and said something insufferable or arrogant or unmistakably Zenin enough to remind you that Satoru’s warning had not been hypothetical.
Well. Lesson learned. All you had to do was never see Naoya Zenin again.
a/n: lolll genuinely he's so embarrassing. thanks for reading!
You and Gojo Satoru keep ending up in absurdly romantic situations, as if the universe itself is playing matchmaker.
So the universe apparently ships you and Satoru Gojo. Five attempts at sailing that ship. Wonder if it worked.
First attempt
It starts at a rooftop party on Shoko’s birthday, everyone’s slightly drunk, fairy lights everywhere like the setting itself is trying to be a romcom.
You’re standing at the railing, drink in hand, genuinely having a nice time, when the music changes to something embarrassingly slow and suddenly it’s just you and Gojo standing side by side.
Romantic isn’t it” he says, clearly fishing for a reaction.
“Shut up”
“We could slow dance.”
“I will pour this drink on you.” you look at him like you’re seconds away from committing a crime.
He grins and leans on the railing next to you, shoulder almost touching yours “You look pretty when you’re annoyed.”
“I will pour this drink on you and then push you off this roof.”
He puts a hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him personally.
The lights flicker… and in the three seconds of semi darkness, someone in the crowd shoves someone else and you get knocked directly into him.
His hand catches your waist. The lights come back and you’re six inches from his face.
“Hi,” he says, and he’s smiling, the bastard.
You push off him and go find Shoko. She takes one look at your expression and hands you her drink without a word. You love her.
Second attempt
Second time is more elaborate, which means the universe leveled up, she’s committed to this bit.
You’re grocery shopping.
This is not a place Gojo Satoru should exist because he doesn’t do things like grocery shop, he probably has someone do it for him, and yet.
There he is.. in the cereal aisle. Holding a box of the limited edition cereal you specifically came for.
“Put it down,” you say, already annoyed.
“I got here first.”
“You don’t even eat cereal.”
“How do you know what I eat.” he smirks, clearly enjoying this.
“You eat things that cost more than my rent, Gojo, put the cereal down.”
He doesn’t.
You reach for it and he raises it higher.
You end up basically climbing him trying to reach it and at some point his arm comes around your back to stop you from falling and the elderly woman in the aisle makes a sound like awww and you both go still.
“We’re not together,” you tell her.
“Of course not,” she says, with the look of someone who has seen seventy years of bullshit and recognizes yours specifically.
He gives you the cereal and doesn’t say anything smug about it. Which is deeply suspicious. You watch him the entire walk to the register like he’s going to pull something.
He doesn’t.
He just says “see you” and leaves and you stand there for a second being inexplicably annoyed about it.
Third attempt
Third time you should genuinely sue someone.
You’re supervising the training exercise while Gojo runs the students through something, which means you’re standing far away from him.
Then Megumi’s shikigami glitches… you don’t know how, you didn’t see it happen… and it comes at you fast enough that you don’t fully dodge, and Gojo wraps himself around you, and takes the impact against a tree instead.
You’re basically pressed against his chest, his arms around you, and the training ground has gone completely silent.
You look up.
He looks down.
Fifteen students watching. Nobara with her phone out. Yuji looking genuinely emotional about it.
“I could have dodged,” you say.
“Sweetheart, you were not going to dodge.” he tilts his head, smirking.
“Don’t call me… what did you just…”
“Eyes on the shikigami, everyone” He cuts you off and turns back to the students like nothing happened and you stand there facing his back having something close to an aneurysm.
Nobara sends you the photo later that night. He looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Absolutely shameless.
You save it in a private folder
Utahimé calls you to ask how the training went and you say “fine” and she says “mhm” and you say “stop that” and she mhms again and you hang up.
Nobara sent the pic to the group chat.
Fourth attempt
Fourth time the universe really said let me cook.
Group dinner… loud, crowded, perfectly normal until the table arrangement gets shuffled because Nanami and Haibara take one end and Shoko and Utahime take the other.
You get the middle table which should have two more people in it but those two more people got caught in traffic and now it’s just you and Gojo at a table for six with a candle in the middle.
A fucking candle.
You stare at it. He stares at it. You both look up at the same time.
“I will eat and leave,” you say.
“Same,”
You don’t leave. The food’s too good.
You end up there two hours, talking shit about everyone you know, rating cursed spirits on a scale of annoying to actually threatening, and he steals food off your plate and you stab his hand with your chopstick.
He acts wounded and you tell him you’ll aim better next time, and somewhere around the second round of drinks he’s laughing at something you said and you think oh this is so bad.
The candle is still there. Very romantic…. Very unnecessary.
Walking out he bumps your shoulder and says “you’re funny when you’re not being mean to me”
You scoff, though your mouth betrays you with the smallest smile.
Then his cab comes and he leaves
You stand there for a second and notice you’re still smiling and your chest is doing something it has absolutely no business doing over Gojo Satoru of all people.
oh no. Oh no no no. You’re so fucked.
Final attempt
Summer festival. Shoko mentioned it, six people said yeah, and now you’re all here.
Somewhere around the second hour the group seperate the way groups do and you end up walking next to Gojo because the crowd pushed you together and you’re both too stubborn to reroute.
“You look nice,” he says, and the way he says it is so annoyingly sincere that it’s somehow worse than if he’d been a dick about it.”Yukata suits you,”
You don’t say anything because there’s nothing to say to that that doesn’t make it weird. “You’re welcome,” he says, to your silence.
You’re mid sentence about something when the fireworks start without warning, just suddenly the whole sky goes boom and everyone around you looks up.
You look up too, for a second. Then you glance at him.
He’s not looking at the fireworks.
He’s looking at you. Soft eyes, that small smile, the fond look he gets sometimes that you’ve been successfully pretending you haven’t noticed for months.
He’s just…. looking at you… with the fireworks going off behind his head.
You laugh, trying to act normal while everything inside you is screaming.
“You have fireworks behind your head,” you tell him.
“I know,” he says, still looking at you. Doesn’t glance back even once.
“They’re pretty good ones.” You try to change the subject before your face gives you away.
“Uh huh.”
“You’re missing them.”
“Mhm.”
You shake your head, still smiling, and open your mouth to say something stupid but it doesn’t come out. Because he’s still looking at you like that and your brain stops working.
Your cheeks heat up, even though you refuse to meet his eyes.
He steps closer. Slow enough that that you could absolutely say something sarcastic and ruin it, slow enough that you have every opportunity to step back.
You don’t move.
He kisses you soft and gentle and the fireworks are still going and you think in your head that this is so embarrassing and also you don’t care even a little bit.
When you pull back he’s still got that look on his face.
“Stop it,” you roll your eyes and hope your flushed cheeks aren’t obvious.
“I’m happy,” he says, and it lands exactly where he meant it to, right in the middle of your chest, and you look at him for a second and then shove him by the shoulder, though your heart won’t stop racing.
He grabs your hand when you try to pull it back.
Your phone buzzes.
Utahime has sent a photo to the group chat.
It’s you two. Mid kiss.
Fireworks perfectly framed behind you both like she’s been standing in this crowd with her phone ready.
Utahimé : I’ve been waiting 4 months to send this. You’re welcome. Also Shoko owes me 3000 yen.
Shoko replies: worth every yen honestly
You look at him for a long second. The fireworks are winding down. He’s still holding your hand.
𝖓𝖆𝖔𝖞𝖆 𝖟𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓 would rather swallow glass than confess that he was in love with you.
he hated the word itself. love. it sounded weak. naive. something lesser men felt. but every time you walked into a room, every time you looked at him like you actually saw him past the arrogance, past the pedigree, past the centuries of zenin rot something in his chest pulled tight like a leash snapping.
it infuriated him beyond belief, because you were the only bitch he ever truly loved.
not that he’d ever say it. no, he acted like he barely tolerated you. he insulted you, picked apart your technique, criticized your clothes, your tone, your smile. anything to keep you from noticing how his eyes always lingered a second too long. anything to hide the fact that he sat awake at night, jaw locked, furious that no one else made his pulse hit that dizzying stutter.
naoya didn’t know how to court a woman he respected. how could he? everything he’d been taught was predation wrapped in etiquette.
so he hovered instead like a silent, glowering shadow. stepping between you and danger before you could blink. gripping your wrist too tight when another man spoke to you. buying you expensive gifts then claiming they were ‘leftovers’, as if naoya zenin ever settled for leftovers.
he never asked you on a date. he just showed up where you were. he never said he missed you. he just went cold and cruel when you stayed away too long. he never held your hand. he just brushed your knuckles with his thumb when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
yearning was too soft a word for what he felt. it was obsession sharpened into pride, pressed under his tongue like a secret blade.
he truly believed you wouldn’t want him if he ever dropped the act - if he ever let himself be gentle, or sincere, or vulnerable. so he kept drowning in feelings he refused to name, dying for you quietly, stubbornly, pathetically.
the only bitch he ever loved, and the only one he’d never let himself have.
utahime’s been acting strange for weeks. not outright mean, just… off.
short answers, tight smiles, eyes that flick away the second you walk into the room. you catch her staring sometimes when you’re laughing with the group, arms crossed so hard her knuckles go white. you ask if you did something wrong. she says no, and changes the subject.
you finally corner her after a mission briefing. shoko’s there too, lighting a cigarette in the corner of the lounge. “utahime, talk to me,” you say, blocking the door. “you’ve been weird around me forever. what’s going on?”
her cheeks flush the way they do when she’s angry or embarrassed. shoko exhales smoke toward the ceiling, smirking. “tell her,” shoko says. “or i will.” utahime glares at her, then sighs “it’s not you. it’s… the way he looks at you.”
you blink. “who?”
shoko snorts. “gojo, obviously.”
“what are you talking about? satoru looks at everyone like he’s plotting something annoying.”
utahime shakes her head. “not like this. not with you.” her voice drops. “he looks at you like he’s in love with you.”
the words hit harder than they should. you laugh, because it’s ridiculous. “no he doesn’t. we’re just… we hook up sometimes. that’s it.” shoko raises an eyebrow. utahime just stares like you’re missing something obvious.
that night you’re at his place, like you have been a dozen times before. friends with benefits. simple. no strings. he texts you when he’s bored or horny or both, and you come over because the sex is insane and you’re not seeing anyone else right now. that’s all.
he opens the door shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, blindfold off for once. those stupidly blue eyes crinkle when he grins. “took you long enough.”
you roll your eyes, step inside. he crowds you against the wall before the door even clicks shut, mouth on your neck, hands already sliding under your shirt. it’s easy. familiar. he knows exactly how to touch you—fingers rough, mouth hot, voice low in your ear telling you how wet you are already.
he fucks you on the couch first, your legs over his shoulders, his hips snapping hard enough to make you see stars. you come twice before he flips you over, pulls your hips up and drives back in, groaning your name like it hurts. he’s big, always has been, stretching you perfectly, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until he’s spilling deep inside you with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.
after, he carries you to bed. he slides in behind you, arm heavy over your waist, nose buried in your hair. this part always feels too intimate, but you never tell him to stop.
utahime’s words creep back in.
he looks at you like he’s in love with you.
you think about the way he kisses your temple sometimes when he thinks you’re asleep. how he stocks your favorite snacks without asking. how he texts you dumb memes at 3am just to make you laugh. how he always makes sure you come first, second, third—like your pleasure matters more than his.
no. it’s just sex. really good sex.
he’s never said he wants more. you’ve never asked.
but lying there in the dark, his breathing slow and even against your back, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your stomach… you wonder.
he fucked you slow the last round, face to face, eyes locked on yours the whole time. not smirking, not teasing—just watching. like he was memorizing you. when you came he kissed you deep, swallowing every sound, holding you like you might disappear. friends with benefits don’t do that. do they?
you turn in his arms, face to face. he stirs, cracks one eye open.
“can’t sleep?” he mumbles, voice rough.
you study his face in the dim light. he looks younger without the blindfold. vulnerable. “satoru,” you whisper. “what are we doing?”
he blinks, fully awake now. for once he doesn’t deflect. just looks at you, thumb brushing your cheek. “whatever you want,” he says quietly.
your heart stutters.
utahime was right.
he’s been looking at you like that for months. and maybe—maybe—you’ve been looking back the same way.
you lean in, kiss him soft and slow. not hungry. not fucking. just kissing. when you pull back his eyes are wide, startled. hopeful.
you don’t say it yet. but you think it. maybe this isn’t just benefits anymore.
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