The last few days had been unbearable.

Life within the Zen’In estate wasn’t physically demanding. Naoya preferred you remain within its walls, attended to, indulged and spared from duties he deemed unfit for his wife. Your days passed in relative stillness, softened by luxury yet weighted by expectation, every comfort a reminder of the cage it came with.

Your days passed in relative stillness touched only by the rhythm of the estate, the sharp glances of clan members who never fully welcomed you, and Naoya’s tendency to spoil you in ways that made it clear the favor was his to bestow. Jewels, silk and sweet words whispered against your ear when he felt indulgent, always a reminder of what he thought you should be grateful for.

Yet even with all the luxury and stillness, you were exhausted. Partly because Naoya had made it his nightly routine to claim what was his and you had long since grown accustomed to the weight of his hands, his lips, his voice muttering against your skin. But lately… the weariness you felt lingered long after he had fallen asleep beside you.

It was different.

Meals turned your stomach. Fatigue clung to your limbs even after a day spent sitting in the gardens. And your body carried new discomforts you couldn’t quite explain such as an odd heavy feeling and even tenderness in places you’d never known before.

At first, you ignored it.

Hid it, even.

Forced yourself to move as though nothing had changed even when your hand pressed instinctively to your lips to hide a sudden wave of nausea.

But this morning, silence no longer seemed enough.

The moment Naoya left, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead before departing for his duties in the Jujutsu world, you knew you couldn’t keep pretending. You waited until the sound of his footsteps faded, certain he wouldn’t return. Only then did you rise, drawing your haori tight around your shoulders and made your way through the estate’s quieter halls in search of the healer.

The Zen’In clan kept them close, midwives and women of medicine who had served for generations trusted with secrets of childbirth and health that cursed energy could not mend. It was to her you went, your voice unsteady as you explained the changes you’d felt.

The examination was swift, clinical.

Practiced hands pressing lightly, questions asked in that calm and disarming tone. And then came the words that pierced through every thought you’d tried to suppress:

“You are with child.”

Four words.

No hesitation.

Yet they shattered through you as though the estate itself had collapsed.

Pregnant.

You're pregnant.

You had suspected, of course. How could you not? It was a nightly thing for Naoya to consummate your marriage, his pride evident every time he touched you and every time he claimed you as though it were his right.

A part of you had expected this to happen eventually. But expectation was not the same as reality and not the same as hearing the truth from the lips of someone who had no reason to lie.

A child.

His child.

Your fingers curled into the folds of your sleeve as the healer spoke on things about rest, herbs, care and whatever God knows what.

But the words were a blur.

Your mind had already wandered, tangled in thoughts you could barely contain.

What would Naoya say?

Would he lay a hand on your stomach and call it his triumph?

Would he even… care?

And beneath all of that, a darker fear stirred. What kind of father would Naoya Zen’In be?

You were still tangled in your thoughts when a soft knock came at the door. One of your attendants slipped inside, bowing lightly before informing you that your husband would be returning soon. The words startled you more than you expected.

Had time truly passed so quickly?

What felt like only moments of sitting with the weight of the healer’s verdict had somehow stretched into hours.

Summoned, of course. It was unthinkable to meet Naoya looking anything less than perfectly composed. So you returned to your chambers where your attendants immediately began the familiar ritual of preparation.

First, a bath, the steam rising gently around you as their practiced hands washed away any trace of fatigue. The water should have been soothing but you found yourself staring blankly at the ripples, your mind far from the tiled floor and polished wood. Their voices blended into a hum, words slipping past you unheard as you sank deeper into the haze of your thoughts.

You barely registered being lifted from the bath, dried with care, and settled before the dressing screen. Oils were pressed into your skin, your hair combed and arranged with the same meticulousness as always. It was all routine, a ceremony performed daily yet today it felt distant and unreal as though you were watching someone else being prepared in your place.

Even now, as silken layers of your nagagi were draped over your shoulders, you could not help but zone out. The fabric was cool against your skin, the attendants’ fingers deft as they adjusted the folds and tied the sash but your mind drifted. You thought of the healer’s voice, of the weight those words carried.

Pregnant.

The knowledge pressed against your ribs, making it hard to breathe, even as your outer appearance was polished into flawless composure.

You snapped back to reality when one of the attendants reached forward to smoothen the silk of your nagagi. Composed on the outside and a storm on the inside, you let them fuss over the fabric, each stroke binding you tighter, readying you to face the man who had unknowingly placed this secret within you.

But another layer could be set in place, the door slid open.

All heads turned, attendants stiffening at the breach of etiquette. Naoya stood framed in the doorway, robes still pristine from his duties, sharp eyes locking instantly on you. He was earlier than expected and his sudden presence sent a ripple of unease through the room.

The attendants scrambled into bows, murmuring apologies for not having finished their work. Naoya, however, dismissed them with a flick of his wrist, his voice smooth but brooking no protest.

“Leave us. I’ll take over from here.”

They hesitated, glancing at you for direction but one sharp look from him had them gathering their tools and slipping quietly out, leaving only the faint scent of oils and the quiet rustle of fabric behind. The shoji slid shutand the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

His eyes returned to you. The way he looked at you made heat crawl up your neck like he could strip the layers from your body with nothing more than that gaze. His lips curved into a slow smirk as he stepped closer, each stride deliberate and every ounce of him radiating confidence and possession.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” he murmured, the words low and laced with something sultry.

You felt pinned under his stare, your half finished nagagi leaving more skin bare than usual. He reached out, fingers brushing the sash at your waist, tugging it just enough to make the silk whisper open as his eyes traveled the length of you, drinking in the sight.

“You’re back early,” you managed, voice softer than intended. Your hand lifted, almost automatically to cup his chin. His skin was warm beneath your palm, the line of his jaw sharp as you tilted his face toward yours and pressed a kiss against his lips.

He responded immediately and hungrily, chasing the kiss as though he had been starved of it. Soon his mouth trailed lower, pressing heated kisses along your jaw and down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You felt the scrape of his teeth just before his lips settled against the hollow of your throat. His hands were not idle, one cradled the side of your face, the other tugged insistently at the folds of your nagagi, loosening the silk as his kisses trailed lower, lower still, toward the swell of your chest.

Your breath caught, the storm of earlier colliding with this rush of intimacy. Your hand pressed lightly against his arm, urging him back just enough to make him face you. His brow furrowed faintly at the interruptionbut his gaze remained fixed on you, sharp and questioning.

“Naoya…” The word slipped out unsteady and heavier than you intended. You swallowed hard, gathering your nerve before blurting the words you had been carrying like a stone in your chest. “We need to talk.”

His brow lifted though his smirk didn’t falter. He leaned in, lips grazing the corner of your mouth as if he hadn’t heard the weight in your tone.

“Then talk,” he murmured, his hand sliding lower, brushing over the edge of your nagagi as though the conversation was nothing more than another game to play between you.

“I haven’t been feeling well lately…” Your voice wavered, thick with hesitation.

Naoya’s gaze flicked down your body and instead of pausing, his thumb pressed lazily over your nipple through the thin silk with a deliberate slowness that stole the air from your lungs.

“Go on,” he urged, his tone maddeningly calm as though he were perfectly content to toy with you and listen at the same time.

You shivered, your thoughts scattering under his touch but forced yourself to continue. “I-I’m not sure if I’m ready… or if you’re ready… I don’t know...”

His smirk deepened. The hand at your chest drifted down, tracing languidly over the plane of your stomach before slipping lower still, settling between your thighs. His fingers pressed at your core, coaxing a soft gasp from your lips.

“You’re stalling,” he drawled, rubbing slow circles as though he could unravel you without even trying.

Your nails dug lightly into his arm, desperate to anchor yourself. The words were heavy on your tongue, hard to force past the heat curling in your body under his touch. “Naoya… I’m… pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, he stilled then a low chuckle slipped past his lips, his fingers lazily dragging against your core like he hadn’t quite registered it.

“Pregnant, huh?” he muttered, smirking down at you. “Tch. And here I thought you’d say you’ve had enough of me or somethin’.” The laugh that followed was soft, almost careless like he was teasing a ridiculous idea.

But your silence, your wide eyes and the way your chest rose and fell unevenly cut through his arrogance.

His hand froze.

The smirk faltered.

“Wait…” His eyes searched your face, his voice losing the edge of mockery. “…You’re not joking?”

The weight of your hesitation and the trembling in your grip on his arm, it all sank in at once.

Naoya’s throat bobbed with a swallow, his fingers pulling back from your body as if suddenly aware of where they’d been. His jaw tightened, a rare crack in his composed front as he absorbed the words, really absorbed them this time.

The silence between you stretched, heavy as stone until Naoya finally moved. Slowly and almost absently, he reached for the loosened edge of your nagagi and began to fix it, fingers deliberate as he smoothed the silk back into place. For once, his touch wasn’t like the usual but it was careful.

When he finished tying the sash, his hands rose, cupping your face in his palms forcing you to meet the intensity of his gaze. His voice dropped, steady but edged with something new like something uncertain.

“Since when was this?”

Your lips parted but the answer felt too small for the weight of his question. “…I found out this morning.” The confession trailed off as your eyes fell to the floor, unable to withstand the sharp glint of gold staring back at you.

“Hey. Hey, hey.” His fingers tilted your chin back up, firm yet strangely gentle. “Why the long face?”

You tried to steady your voice but the words cracked anyway. “I don’t know, Naoya…”

Your body moved before your mind caught up, a quiet instinct pulling you from his hands. You turned and slipped away a few paces, the soft brush of your silk nagagi whispering against the floor as you stopped near the balcony doors. The air seeped in from the narrow opening, cool against your skin.

Behind you, you heard the faint rustle of fabric as Naoya shifted. His tone carried that familiar mix of annoyance and amusement though softer now, the bite dulled.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

Before you could answer, his arms slid around you from behind, pulling you into the solid wall of his chest. His chin dipped to your shoulder, lips brushing against the fabric of your sleeve before pressing a lingering kiss there. The touch was enough to make you shiver, to remind you that even when his words stumbled, his presence never did.

Then came another rustle, his hand firm at your waist as he guided you to turn and face him. You blinked up at him, startled by the suddenness but his grip didn’t waver. His eyes searched yours, sharp yet steadier than you expected as though anchoring himself in your gaze.

“We’ll figure this out together, alright?” The words were low, certain, less a question and more a declaration.

Only then did he shrug off his haori, slipping it from his shoulders and draping it over yours, cocooning you in his warmth. The scent of him clung to the cloth, grounding and inescapable. He held it closed over you with one hand, the other tightening at your waist as if to say: you’re not going anywhere.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of his haori, clutching it close as you dared to voice the question that had been gnawing at you since morning. “…You’re not mad?”

Naoya’s brows furrowed as if the thought itself were absurd and without hesitation he drew you firmly into his chest. “Why would I be mad?” he murmured against your hair, the embrace solid and warm.

Then, his lips curved into that all too familiar smirk. “Told you I’d fuck a brat into you, didn’t I?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks at his bluntness, and despite yourself, a laugh escaped. “Yeah… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I was just scared the moment I found out.”

“Me too.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, surprise flickering across your face. “What?”

His expression softened, rare and fleeting but genuine. “I’m scared too. It’s a first time, after all. That’s why we’ll figure this out together, yeah?”

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

They married at dawn.

Not for sentiment, not for love, and certainly not for joy.

It was strategy. It was calculated. A merger of names and legacies brokered in hushed conversations behind doors, with elders and advisors whispering predictions like gamblers hedging their bets.

The ceremony itself was short, mercilessly so. No grand declarations. No romantic rites. Just the exchange of vows laced with duty, and the quiet approval of two clans desperate to keep their bloodlines relevant in a world that had already begun to forget them.

There were no fireworks. No soft glances. Not even the warmth of hands held too long.

Only ink. Paper. And power.

You were born into prestige, a daughter of the Kamo clan, legitimate in blood and brutal in expectation. Your upbringing was a paradox: you were taught to kneel and to kill in the same breath. Your etiquette was flawless, your posture immaculate, your knowledge of clan history exhaustive. But beneath the silk of your ceremonial robes and the demure curve of your smile, there lived a tempered flame. You were a girl raised to be a weapon, sharpened not with cruelty, but with purpose.

Your role was never to love. It was to serve. To strengthen. To stand beside the man who would wear your family's name like armor.

And that man was Naoya Zen’In.

Naoya, the so-called prodigy of a once feared clan, walked like the world owed him something. He was everything the whispers said: handsome, sharp tongued, impossibly proud. His cruelty was not the loud kind. It was casual, easy, the kind that crept into conversations like a toxin, leaving no room for rebuttal. He had never needed to raise his voice to command attention. He only needed to look at someone like they were beneath him and often, they were.

He did not want a wife. He only wanted an extension of himself. An ornament to flaunt when politics called for softness, and discard when his pride demanded silence.

Still, he accepted the union. Because Naoya Zen’In may have been many things, but he was not a fool. He knew the worth of your name, and the weight it carried behind closed doors.

So he married you. Well, primarily because he had to.

Not out of desire or fondness, but because the weight of legacy demanded it. Because centuries of carefully preserved bloodlines and whispered expectations bore down on his shoulders like armor he never asked to wear.

You weren’t a woman to him then, you were a strategy. A neatly wrapped solution to the slow erosion of the Zen’In name. A move on the board dictated by elders who believed tradition was strength, and strength was everything.

To Naoya, marriage was not intimacy. It was allegiance. A binding of names, of clans, of political promises exchanged in the flicker of ceremonial candles and the clink of porcelain teacups. Love had no place in that kind of union. Not when power was the only currency that mattered.

And so, he married you. Because he had no choice. Because it was what the clan demanded. And after all, you seemed promising.

Sharp where others were dull. Composed where others fawned. A woman molded for diplomacy but carved from something far less yielding. If he was to bind himself to someone, it might as well be someone who knew how to play the game.

And from that morning on, the estate became a cold and an elaborate cage, its halls filled with servants who didn’t speak unless spoken to, its walls too wide to feel anything close to home.

The two of you shared a house.

You shared responsibilities.

On occasion, you shared a room.

But not a bed.

Well, not yet.

The early months were built on restraint.

You fulfilled your duties to perfection, smiling at the right guests, pouring tea at the right temperature, bowing with just the right angle of humility but there was no warmth between you and Naoya. No flicker of tenderness. Only glances exchanged like chess moves, where every silence was a dare and every word a blade tucked beneath the tongue.

And from that morning on, the Zen’In estate became something else entirely. A cold, elaborate cage. Gold trimmed, paper thin walls. Servants who bowed lower than necessary but never dared meet your eyes. Tatami mats that creaked under weight that wasn’t yours. Every door you opened felt like a test. Every hallway you crossed, watched.

It was a house you lived in together, yes.

A name you shared. Responsibilities, too.

But not a life. Not really.

You were ornamental by design, he liked to say as much.

“That’s your color,” Naoya remarked one morning, leaning lazily against the doorframe of the receiving room as his eyes swept over you. “Black suits you. I’ll tell your attendants to burn everything else.”

You didn’t flinch. Just refilled his cup, the scent of tea wafting through the air like smoke before war.

“And here I thought you didn’t notice,” you replied smoothly.

He scoffed, taking the tea without thanks. “Hard not to, when the Kamo Clan wasted so much training on someone who ended up pouring tea.”

His words dripped with mockery, but his gaze lingered a little too long.

“What a waste of talent,” he drawled. “Such a shame,” he said, tone almost bored. “All that training, and now? Just my wife.”

That was how it always was. Wordplay. Swordplay. He tested you, and you never gave him the satisfaction of yielding. In private, your conversations were lined with friction, your silences louder than most arguments.

But in public? You were flawless. The ideal couple, an alliance painted in perfection.

When guests visited the estate, you played your part with poised elegance, your hand resting lightly over his, your laugh chiming at just the right moment. You spoke of the future like it was shared, even if it felt like separate destinations on the same broken map.

In the early months, restraint defined everything. You danced around each other in your shared roles, appearing united while remaining distant.

You fulfilled your duties to perfection. Hosting with grace, answering elders with wisdom far beyond your years, kneeling beside Naoya during meetings with the kind of stillness that unnerved even the most seasoned clan heads.

But in the quiet, when the guests had left and the sliding doors shut, the warmth disappeared as if it had never existed at all.

You shared a room, yes.

But not a bed.

Well… not yet.

The nights were built on a fragile sort of silence. Most times, you turned your backs on each other, neither of you willing to acknowledge the weight of the other’s presence.

You slept on opposite schedules like it was intentional. He’d come in late, loosen the collar of his robes and find you already turned to the wall, breathing slow. Or you’d crawl into the sheets just as he was leaving, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation.

Some nights, he’d glance your way and say something half hearted, “Don’t die in your sleep. It’d be too convenient.”

To which you’d grumble into your pillow, “Fuck off, Zen’In.”

He never apologized. You never looked back.

Despite the tension, despite the way your nightgowns sometimes slipped off one shoulder too easily, he never touched you. Not really.

Well… not yet.

But there were glances that lingered too long. Eyes that dragged over skin like fingertips, even across the room. Pauses thick enough to choke on, heavy, charged and waiting to snap.

Sometimes, your fingers would brush when you both reached for the same teacup, too slow to pull away. Sometimes, his gaze dipped lower than it should’ve, lingering on the curve of your throat or the sway of your hips when you walked past. And when you caught him, he never looked away.

Maybe he didn’t touch you…

But the silence between you was loud.

Too loud.

Almost obscene.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

It only happened once- this... feeling. You weren't sure what to call it.

Possessiveness? No, that didn’t sound like him.

Jealousy? Maybe.

But whatever it was, it crept up on him sharp and bitter the moment his older brother laid a hand on the small of your back, guiding you into the room like you were his.

“And this,” the man announced proudly to a circle of esteemed guests, “is the wife of Naoya. A real beauty, isn’t she? You’d think she’s one of ours with how well she carries herself.”

You smiled politely, bowing as expected. A perfect wife, a perfect doll. Soft spoken. Regal in that way the Kamo had always trained you to be. You gave no protest, no sharp tongue. After all, that wasn’t your role. Not here. Not in front of them.

And Naoya? He didn’t give a shit about things like this, did he?

Well, that’s what you thought.

Until he stepped forward.

“Oh, brother,” Naoya drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward but it wasn’t a smile, not really. It was that condescending smirk he wore like armor. “It's almost inappropriate how you're touching a married woman.”

The room dipped into silence, just for a second. Just enough to notice. The older Zen’In laughed, brushing it off, but his hand dropped from your back.

Naoya’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“What's with the show and tell?” he continued, cool as ever. “You proud of settling to leftovers now?”

“Come now, Naoya. I was just being welcoming.”

“You can welcome your own wife like that,” he said, voice calm, eyes sharp. “Oh- wait. You’d need balls for that, wouldn’t you?”

That got a few polite, awkward and nervous strained laughs from the crowd. The kind that made your spine lock straight, made your lips twitch in practiced etiquette. His brother gave a breathy chuckle, clearing his throat as though the words hadn’t cut deeper than intended. And just like that, the topic was let go.

But Naoya wasn’t done.

As he stepped past you, slow and unhurried, he dipped his head close enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. No one else noticed, no one else heard it.

“I left instructions for your attendants,” he murmured, voice low and even. “Make sure you’re ready.”

You blinked, clearly confused, but he was already gone, disappearing back into the thrum of laughter and conversation, leaving you to politely smile through the rest of the night with a strange weight clinging to your chest.

You later found out what he meant.

Because the moment you returned to your shared chambers, a full entourage of attendants was already waiting.

They bowed upon your entrance, silent and poised, almost too still. Like they had been given specific instructions they didn’t dare deviate from.

Before you could utter a word, they began. Hands all over you, removing your layered silks with an efficiency that unnerved you. You weren’t even given the liberty to speak, to question, to breathe. There was no gentle chatter this time, no asking which oils you preferred or which scent soothed you most.

They were precise and strangely focused on a different level.

You sat in the chair they guided you to, unsure what to make of the warm towel they pressed to your skin, the fine oils brushed across your limbs. You opened your mouth to ask what the occasion was, but no one answered. No one looked at you directly.

When they slipped the robe over your shoulders, fine silk, sheer and impossibly delicate, you began to grow suspicious. It was the kind of robe reserved for intimate ceremonies. A honeymoon gift. A tradition bound garment you weren’t even sure was still practiced.

Your fingers ghosted over the fabric as it clung to your damp skin. You frowned. “Why… this?”

But again, no answer. Only shallow bows as they silently gestured for you to rise.

You were escorted down the hall, but it wasn’t toward your dressing room or even the usual private bath they sometimes prepared. Instead, you were brought toward the inner sanctum of the estate reserved for the head of the clan. A bathhouse not merely built for cleanliness or relaxation, but for decadence, power and control.

The closer you got, the more heat you felt through the polished floors, steam seeping beneath the threshold of the ornate wooden doors.

When you reached them, your attendants bowed once more… and left you there.

You blinked, stunned. “Pardon, aren’t you going to…?”

Nothing. Not even a glance back.

They disappeared down the corridor, leaving you with a robe barely shielding your form and your heartbeat climbing far too fast.

You exhaled shakily, hand hovering near the door before you finally slide it open.

And there he was.

Naoya.

Your husband.

Seated lazily in the center of the grand cypress soaking tub, heat rising from the surface like mist curling through air, thin petals drifting on water as if the gods themselves had chosen the aesthetic. A small lacquered table was perched beside the bath, bearing a half empty wine glass and a bottle cradled in a silver bucket.

He looked relaxed, head tilted and temple resting against his fisted hand as he watched you from beneath dark lashes.

Smiling.

Smirking.

Like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he had stirred in your chest.

“Come,” he said simply, voice velvet smooth in the echoing silence.

Your feet didn’t move. “What the hell is this, Naoya?”

His grin widened, lazy and wicked. “I said come.”

“You had them prep me up just to sit in hot water?” you scoffed. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” His eyes dragged down the robe clinging to your damp skin, entirely see through now under the steam and heat. His gaze was dark, heavy with heat, amusement dancing in the curve of his mouth. “You’re practically naked already.”

He didn’t wait for your answer this time.

“Come.” His voice dropped lower, like the crackle of fire just before it roars. “Now.”

Something in your spine straightened. The heat in his gaze, the steam curling around his shoulders, the way he lounged like a king in that cypress tub, it pulled you forward despite the irritation bubbling in your chest.

The scent of hinoki wood, sweet florals, and the faintest whiff of expensive cologne filled the space.

Naoya’s gaze dragged over you slowly. He took a sip from his wine, then tilted his head like he was deciding what part of you he wanted to taste first.

Then, he spoke. “Strip.”

The word barely left his mouth before your fingers were already pulling at the silk sash, slow and deliberate. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. The robe slipped from your shoulders and whispered down your skin like a secret, pooling at your feet in a soft, glimmering puddle.

You stood there bare under the soft golden light, eye contact sharp and unbroken, chin tilted the slightest bit higher as if daring him to say something more.

Naoya sipped his wine.

His lips twitched.

The silence stretched.

“I like you better when you obey,” he said. “Makes you look more fuckable. Should’ve skipped the attitude and bent you over months ago.”

You didn’t grant him a reaction, though your jaw ticked. The heat between your bodies thickened like the steam curling through the room.

Without a word, you stepped into the tub. Warm water kissed your skin, enveloping you inch by inch. But it didn’t rise high enough, not nearly. Your breasts remained exposed above the surface, slick, glistening, and unbothered by your own boldness.

Naoya was staring brazenly. Shamelessly, even.

You arched a brow. “Eyes up here, Zen’In.”

His gaze lifted, unapologetic, and you watched as he slowly set the wine glass down on the lacquered table beside the tub. Then he leaned back, arms spreading along the rim behind him like a man settling in for a show he’d paid good money to see.

His voice was smooth, low, and full of expectation. “Now don’t make your husband wait. Be a good wife.”

He tipped his head, motioning for you to come closer right into his lap.

Without a word, you straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, your bare cunt pressing right against his growing length. Your palms found the edge of the tub for balance, but your eyes never left his.

“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” you murmured, deadpan, “but your attitude isn’t exactly making me wet.”

A lie. And you both knew it.

Naoya smirked like he could see through your bones. “Then you better keep sitting right there until it does.”

His hands found your sides, slow and greedy. Thumbs dragging along the slope of your ribs, fingers dipping beneath the soft underside of your breasts, brushing your skin like he had all the time in the world.

He was eye fucking you so hard, you could feel it crawl over your skin.

His voice dropped. “Remind me again what your duties are, hm?”

A thumb grazed the peak of your nipple.

You sucked in a quiet breath. One hand clutched the tub rim tighter.

“You’re mine,” he said, tone smug and deep with promise.

“All of this,” another drag over your nipple, slower this time, watching your mouth twitch as you tried not to whimper, “belongs to me.”

Your hips twitched, his cock stirring beneath you. His mouth tilted in amusement.

“And you’ll bear my heir,” he added with finality, voice brushing hot against your throat as he leaned in and pressed a kiss against the soft swell of your breast, tongue flicking briefly over damp skin.

Your head tipped back slightly, another soft moan escaping despite your best efforts.

Naoya chuckled, dark and low, hands gripping your hips now, holding you firm.

“Look at you,” he drawled, voice thick with smug amusement, “acting like a proper wife for once.”

One of his hands slid along the curve of your back, from the base of your spine to the nape of your neck. You shivered at the contrast of his warm palm against your skin. Then, a sudden tug. His fingers curled into your hair, fisting a good amount, forcing your face closer until your noses were barely apart.

His breath fanned across your lips, eyes locked on yours like he was trying to crawl into your head.

You refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. "Felt generous and sorry for you."

His eyes narrowed, jaw twitching like you’d just challenged him and in a way, you did.

“Tch. Should’ve ruined you the second we got home from that damn ceremony.”

“Asshole,” you said, the word slipping out low, shaky, too full of heat to really count as an insult.

Naoya didn’t even blink.

He just smirked like he liked it, like the sound of your defiance was foreplay. He leaned in, breath brushing your lips, warm and deliberate. His hand stayed curled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, your throat exposed to him like some kind of offering. His other hand slid up your side, pausing just beneath your chest, the weight of it grounding you but not gentle.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice low, maddeningly close. “Go on.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Not with the way his mouth hovered over yours like a fucking threat.

It was that tension where time stretches, breath catches, and all you can feel is him. Lips grazing but not kissing. Noses brushing. The charged stillness of it, like the air itself is holding its breath.

You could feel him smirk again, barely, and then...

He kissed you.

Just once.

A fleeting ghost of a kiss, cruel in how light it was. Barely there and almost tender.

And then he pulled back.

But not before his teeth caught your bottom lip and bit it slow, then sharp. Not enough to tear, but enough to sting. Enough to leave something behind.

A mark. A taste.

You gasped softly, lips parting, and he licked his own like he could already taste blood. “Tch.” His eyes burned into yours. “Guess it’s not that hard to keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut after all.”

You grab a fistful of his hair at the nape, yanking just enough to tilt his head back, exposing his throat. Your voice? Low, sharp, laced with venom. “You talk too much for someone so desperate to fuck me.”

He exhales, amused and breathless, his lips twitching into that cocky smirk you’ve grown to hate as much as you crave.

“Mm. There she is,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “My pretty little wife.”

His hands trail up the backs of your thighs, deceptively gentle, until they clamp hard around your waist. You feel the shift before you even react. It was sudden and fast.

In a flash, he jerks you down onto him, sinking into your heat with one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

You gasp, your body jolting at the sudden fullness, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you a second to adjust.

Naoya grabs both your wrists, gathering them easily in one hand and forcing them behind your back. The other hand clamps down on your hip, grounding you in place as he fucks up into you, hard and unrelenting, each thrust forcing a gasp from your throat.

“Thought you were in charge?” he grunts, voice rough with effort, jaw tight as his hips snap up into you again and again. “Look at you. Already fucked dumb and clenching around me.”

You squirm, moan and try to grind down harder for relief, but his hold on you only tightens. You’re his to use now, spine arched, wrists pinned behind you and body trembling with each pounding thrust.

“A wife like you,” he breathes against your throat, tongue flicking out to taste your skin, “should know better.”

He nips your neck hard, not enough to break skin but enough to bruise because of course he wants the mark there, to mark you as his.

You whimper half from pain, half from pleasure and he only fucks you harder, hips rutting up without mercy.

“So you better not disappoint me,” he snarls through gritted teeth, voice dropping lower, filthier. “You better take everything I give you.”

His hand leaves your hip just long enough to splay across your lower stomach, pressing down slightly to feel the way his cock drags inside you.

“Gonna fuck a brat like you full,” he growls, panting now, movements starting to lose rhythm from how tight you’re squeezing around him. “Make sure you bear my child and learn what a real wife’s duty is.”

Your head drops back with a ragged moan, his filthy words sinking deep into your core, and this time, instead of resisting, you move with him. Your hips grind down and roll, greedy and slick, syncing to the brutal thrusts of his cock. He groans sharp and low, both surprised and pleased.

“That’s it,” Naoya breathes, lips parted as he watches the way you ride him now, chest bouncing, flushed, ruined, and finally giving in. “There she is. That’s a proper Zen'In wife.”

His hand loosens around your wrists, finally releasing you and you immediately plant your palms on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin for support as you ride him harder. The shift in control is brief, heated, and earned. You bring one hand up to his face, gripping his jaw with authority, thumb dragging slow and mocking down his lower lip until it catches.

He licks it without thinking, breath hitching.

“Fuck you,” you bite out, voice husky, eyes half lidded.

Naoya smirks like the bastard he is. “By all means, please.”

And just like that, you're both moving in a rhythm that’s almost obscene, sweaty skin slapping, moans melting into one another, the heat between your bodies near unbearable. He lets you take what you need, his hands tight on your waist but his hips snap up into yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“Shit! Naoya-” you gasp, jaw trembling as he hits that spot over and over.

“Yeah, keep talking,” he mutters, breath ragged, lips dragging against your jaw. “You hear yourself? So much prettier when you're full of me.”

Your forehead falls against his, breath hitching, eyes barely open. His own are dark, blown wide and locked on yours with such intensity it makes your spine arch. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers digging into the back of his shoulders, grounding yourself.

Then you kiss him.

It was not sweet. It was not soft.

It’s hungry and messy like you’re both trying to devour the other, tongues clashing, teeth grazing. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it down like he’s starved for the sound.

"That's it," he pants into your lips, hips bucking harder now, rhythm erratic. "Ride it out with me, doll."

You cling to him tighter, the heat in your belly finally snapping, body trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave, pulsing around him as you cry out into his kiss.

"Fuck- good girl," he growls against your mouth, hand gripping your hip so tight it might bruise. “Fuck, you’re so much better like this, huh sweetheart?"

You nod weakly, lips brushing his. “Wanted it- wanted you-”

“You’re getting it,” he groans, spilling deep inside you with a violent shudder, his mouth never once leaving yours. You swallow his broken moans between the kiss, your fingers tangled in his hair, clutching him close like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

Naoya's hips twitch once, twice more, burying it as deep as he can. You feel it, and all you can do is hold on, forehead still pressed to his.

His breath fans hot across your lips as he pants out, “Fuck… that’s it. Took me so well. Knew you would.”

You whimper into his mouth, legs still trembling around his waist.

He leans in, tone quieter now, but rougher, meaner and what is this? Maybe even proud.

“My perfect little Zen'In wife.”

──── ⋆.⋆˚꩜｡ ˚ ──── ──── ⋆.⋆˚꩜｡ ˚ ────

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

my blondie corrupted brain will definitely be posting more fics soon aaaaaa

naoya gooners, standby ! you're in good hands ʕ•ᴥ•ʔو

The crackle of burning wood devoured the night.

Screams tore through the air, jagged and raw until they dissolved into the hungry roar of the fire. You ran barefoot over splintered earth as the smoke clawed down your throat. Your mother’s voice called your name once, twice, before it was swallowed whole by the collapse of your home.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The stench of charred flesh stuck to you like a curse.

And then, nothing.

You jolted awake, breath tearing in and out of your lungs, the phantom heat still clinging to your skin. The room was dark, lit only by the slow burn of braziers in the corners. Shadows clung to carved pillars, the air heavy with incense and something metallic beneath it. The walls seemed to press in, not claustrophobic but watchful like the place itself knew who ruled here.

Ryomen Sukuna’s chambers were not meant for rest. It is a place where only the worthy lingered, and only at his will.

You had earned your place here.

A cook, a cleaner, a strategist, someone sharp enough to keep pace with his mind, and someone skilled enough in your own cursed technique to make yourself indispensable.

He had taken you under his wing when he found you, the sole survivor crawling through the ashes of the village he’d just burned. Since then, you had been many things to him. Sort of a weapon, a company, someone to bear the brunt of his temper and someone to warm his bed when it pleased him. You cooked, you cleaned, you thought fast, you fought faster.

Above all, you endured him.

Tonight, you were here for another reason: guard duty. Your technique heightened your senses beyond the ordinary. You're able to catch the faintest disturbances before they breached the threshold.

Sleeping in his chambers meant you could react before a threat even existed. But tonight… the threat had been only in your head.

You shifted on your mat near the door, heart still refusing to settle. It was ridiculous, you knew, to be this rattled over a dream when you had seen far worse in waking life. Still, your gaze drifted to the futon in the center of the room, the faint rise and fall of the figure sprawled there.

You stood before you could stop yourself.

“Lord Sukuna-”

His eyes snapped open, red cutting through the dark like a blade. “What the hell?”

“I… it was a bad dream, and I thought I should-”

“You woke me up because of a fucking bad dream?” The words were a growl, incredulous and edged with irritation, as if the very idea offended him.

You froze, then gave the smallest nod.

He studied you, the stiffness in your posture and the faint tremor in your hands. His lip curled, a sliver of amusement breaking through the irritation. “Seriously? You’re paranoid again, aren’t you?”

“It felt real,” you murmured, gaze falling to the floor as if the weight of your own words shamed you.

“I told you that shit’s just in your head.” He let out a low and humorless laugh, the sound dripping with mockery. “Pathetic.”

You bowed your head, the instinct to retreat kicking in. He was right, you were here to protect him, not burden him with childish fears. You turned back toward your mat.

“Come here."

You stopped, glancing over your shoulder.

“I said,” his voice dropped lower, “come here. Let me prove you’re safe.”

You approached, tentative steps crunching against the silence. His gaze tracked you the whole way, unblinking, like a predator indulging a trembling prey. When you reached him, you half expected him to pull you in at once but instead, he shifted just enough to make space beside him, the smallest invitation.

You sank down, wordless, the air between you thick. His eyes never left yours, and you could feel them even as you tried to glance away. Slowly, two of his hands rose to your shoulders, heavy and grounding.

“It’s just a dream,” he murmured, voice a low rumble. “You get that?”

You nodded, a small and reluctant tilt of your head.

He leaned in, not enough to kiss but close enough for the barest brush of his lips to ghost against your temple. The warmth of him lingered there for a beat, and then he eased you back, guiding you to lie down. When your head touched the pillow, his touch withdrew.

Guilt prickled at you. Waking him for this suddenly felt foolish. The irrational fear still coiled in your gut though, the reminder that you were stuck here with him in moments like these.

You turned away, curling on your side, facing away from him. The mattress dipped with your weight, but the air around you grew still again. Sleep threatened to reclaim you.

And then..

A firm tug on your waist pulled you backward until your spine met the solid heat of his chest. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, each exhale warm and deliberate. His arms encircled your waist, both of them, until you realized there were more.

His third hand slipped beneath the fabric of your yogi, hooking under your top leg and pulling it up until your foot found the mattress for balance. The position left you open and helpless, his fingers dragging over your folds with maddening patience.

The fourth hand slid to the curve of your neck, palm spanning it, thumb under your jaw, the weight and pressure coaxing your head back toward his mouth.

“Close your eyes… I’ll give you something better to dream about.”

When he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud, it was intimate. Every syllable sank into your skin before it reached your ears, the kind of tone that made your pulse stumble. You could feel the weight of him shift closer until the heat of his body was a solid wall against your back, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

A breath hitched in your throat, spilling out as a soft, involuntary moan. “Lord Suku-”

“Feel that?” His whisper was molten, dragging slow over your nerves. “You’re warmer when you’re scared… I like that.”

Two fingers traced along your folds with a practiced familiarity, unhurried yet certain as though he’d memorized every way your body reacted. The rough pads of his fingers caught on the slickness there, knowing exactly how to coax your muscles into tightening under his touch. Your legs threatened to close the gap, instinctively trying to push away from the overwhelming sensation, but his grip kept you open, forcing you to take every stroke.

His lips lingered beside your ear, pressing a trail of messy, noisy pecks along the sensitive skin just behind it, each one damp and deliberate. The wet sounds mingled with your ragged breaths, his mouth dotting your neck like he wanted to mark every flinch and shiver that ran through you.

On the other hand (literally), his fingers slid deeper between your folds, sinking in just enough to make your hips twitch. The slow press made it impossible to think straight, your walls fluttering helplessly around him, his chest pressed flush to your back, arm hooked around your waist to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

“Please sukuna.. I can’t hold it anymore-” the admission slipped out between ragged breaths.

“Pathetic little thing,” he murmured almost to himself, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You’re not gonna come until I say so.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened, thumbs pressing into your clit just enough to make you gasp.

“I’m gonna- fuck.. just move, please.”

“Ah-ah,” he drawled, “don’t start squirming now. I said you’ll come when I let you.”

His hands loosened from your waist only to find the knot of your yogi, tugging it free in one sharp pull. The fabric parted under his touch, slipping from your frame until it hung loose at your shoulders, baring you entirely. His eyes darkened at the sight, a smirk curving his lips.

“Going around with nothing under this… just for me?,” he murmured, the words dripping with approval. “Good. Saves me the trouble of tearing them off you.”

Your thighs twitched against the grip of his hands, muscles trembling with the effort of keeping still. Every nerve screamed for release, your hips shifting despite yourself, chasing friction only for his hold to tighten in warning.

A choked whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his forearms.

“I.. I won’t,” you gasped, shaking your head, voice breaking with need. “I won’t do it again.. please..”

His mouth curved into something cruel, eyes glinting like he already knew you were lying.

“What was that?” he taunted, voice deep and unhurried. “Can’t hear you when you’re whining like that. Speak properly.”

You tried again, hips jerking despite the punishing hold on you. “Please, Sukuna, I’ll be good- I..I promise.”

“Beg,” he ordered, and you realized he hadn’t slowed for even a second. If anything, his pace was merciless. Heat coiled tighter and unbearable, until he slid another thick finger inside you, stretching you wide.

"That’s cute," he drawled. In one swift motion, both of the hands gripping your waist slid to the back of your yogi hunging loose on your shoulder before tearing them apart, the fabric splitting open under his strength. The seam gave way first, then the rest followed, shredded in seconds, scraps falling onto the mattress, some scattering across the floor. With the back ripped wide, you were left completely bare, nothing between you and him. "Try again, brat."

"Suk- Lord Sukuna, m-may I please come?"

The hand on your neck gripped tighter, cutting off just enough air to make your vision spark. You squirmed under him, muscles trembling, but you persisted, voice breaking into desperate gasps. "Please… Lord Su..kuna. I-I’ll do anything you need, just let me-"

A slow and cruel smirk curved his mouth. "Pathetic little thing… you sound just right when you’re begging." His grip eased just enough for you to gasp for breath. "Go on then, make it messy."

The flood of sensation was overwhelming, every touch, every stroke, every whisper driving you closer to the edge. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling unevenly, your body trembling under the weight of all the pleasure.

Then without warning, the two large hands that had been gripping your waist slid upward settling firmly over your breasts. The added pressure, the slick glide of his fingers sent sparks shooting straight through you, intensifying everything tenfold.

You could feel it building, the tight coil inside you winding faster and faster, until finally with a shuddering gasp, you came undone, your whole body folding into the delicious release.

Panting still, chasing ragged breaths that wouldn’t come fast enough to calm your racing heart, you thought it was over.

But just when you thought it was over, the dark, amused voice rumbled low beside your ear, “Good girl...”

Your breath was still ragged when you felt the shift, no time to rest. Without a word, his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you up and spinning you around sharply. Before you could react, he shoved you forward, chest pressed to the mattress, ass raised high.

“On all fours,” Sukuna commanded. His wicked grin spread wide as his eyes darkened with hunger and control. “You haven’t taken my cock yet.”

── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

this one's inspired by a tiktok video i saw and since i'm a certified sukuna gooner through and through, i can't let this idea slide.