Part two, Come Home To Me
Naobito's drunken matchmaking exposes more than either of you and Naoya would like to admit.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Misogyny, sexist behaviour, clan politics, kinda? Racism, kinda? Only a little (reader is depicted as foreign) toxic relationships, smut in later chapters, not proof read.
I wanted to write a one shot and this turned into like, 140 pages in my drafts so it's gonna be like 4 chapters at least I think. Reader is depicted as foreign but I don't go into much detail beyond that she isn't Japanese. So imagine those details how you like! I envisioned this with a younger pre-blone dyed hair Naoya so set a few years before the current events of the show. I stuck with a clairvoyant technique since I think the Zenins would lap that up and keep someone like that close, but it can be an add on to your own oc/self ship technique. Enjoy!
Your cab pulls up to the painfully grand estate, the warm summer evening illuminated by lanterns casting their warm glow accross the path. The air alive with chatter and laughter, the scent of grilled meats mingling with the aroma of blooming hydrangeas. You smooth the silk of your dress as you enter the garden, acutely aware of the eyes that flicker your way, some curious, others dismissive. Before you can adjust to the weight of attention, a server materialises at your side, balancing a tray of drinks with practiced ease.
He offers a glass filled with something chilled and faintly citrus, yuzu, maybe? You take it with a murmured thanks, heaven knows you're going to need it, letting the condensation bead against your fingertips. The drink is a welcome distraction as you scan the crowd, noting clusters of Zenin relatives and other powerful family members draped in their fine summer kimonos, their postures stiff even in revelry. And just like clockwork your eyes meet a familiar gaze.
Naoya Zenin, in all his arrogant glory, emerges from the throng of guests. Unhurried, deliberate and as always, impossible to ignore. With his lazy stride and wolfish grin, he’s dressed in a slate gray yukata, the fabric loose enough to be casual, but tailored enough to remind you he’s still a Zenin. The lantern light catches the silver threads woven into the hem as he stops just shy of arm’s reach, his smirk a fraction too practiced.
"Took you long enough to show up," Naoya drawls, flicking a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve. "I was starting to think you would be rude enough to turn down our invitation." His tone is all lazy arrogance, but there's a flicker in his gaze, something that might almost be relief that you're here.
You take a deliberate sip of your drink, letting the flavour bloom on your tongue before meeting his gaze. "And miss the chance to watch you pretend you don’t care whether I came or not?" You tilt your head, the lantern light catching the sheen of your dress. "Absolutely not."
Naoya’s smirk twitches, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he schools his expression back into its usual languid disdain. “Whatever,” he repeats, “You’re giving yourself too much credit.” But the way his fingers flex at his side, just once, barely noticeable, betrays him.
The moment stretches between you until Naoya exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, if he were the type to indulge in such things. “You-” he starts, but the sentence dies abruptly as a heavy arm slings itself around his and your shoulders, the scent of sake flooding the space between you. Naobito Zenin, cheeks flushed with drink, “Ah, there she is!” he booms, giving Naoya an affectionate shake that makes the younger man’s teeth click. “Our little jewel. Tell me, how many of these stuffy bastards have you already predicted will drop dead before the years end?”
Naobito’s breath is warm against your cheek, his grip firm enough to make Naoya stiffen beside you. You laugh, polite but edged, turning your face slightly away from the sake-laden exhale. “Now, now, Zenin-sama,” you chide playfully, tapping his wrist lightly with your fingers. “Even if I knew, it would be poor form to say so at a celebration.”
Naobito barks a laugh, loud enough to draw glances from nearby guests, though none dare linger. “Ha! Always so diplomatic,” he slurs, swaying slightly as he leans in closer. His grip tightens around Naoya’s shoulder, and you catch the way Naoya’s jaw tenses, like he’s resisting the urge to shrug him off. “That’s why I like you. Sharp tongue, sharper mind.” He winks, then flicks his gaze to Naoya. “Unlike this brat, who’s all bark and no bite.”
Naoya’s eyes narrow at Naobito’s words, his fingers twitching like he’s weighing the merits of shoving the older man off versus maintaining some semblance of decorum. “If you’re done embarrassing yourself,” he mutters, voice low but razor-edged, “maybe consider sobering up before you start drooling on guests.”
Naobito guffaws, shaking Naoya harder until the younger man’s teeth click again. “Embarrassing? Boy, the only embarrassment here is you, why haven't you asked her out?” He jabs a finger at Naoyas chest, “Look at her! Sharp, witty, beautiful. And those—” He gestures broadly at your torso with a leer, “—assets don’t hurt either.”
Naobito’s grin widens as he leans in, the stench of sake thick enough to curl your toes. “Speaking of,” he slurs, nudging you with an elbow that nearly knocks your drink from your hand, “this one—” he jerks a thumb at Naoya, who looks like he’s mentally calculating the quickest route to patricide, “—was pacing the courtyard like a caged animal earlier. Checking the gate every five minutes.” He waggles his eyebrows, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Obviously waiting to see if you’d show.”
Naoya’s expression goes lethally still. His fingers twitch once, like he’s imagining wrapping them around Naobito’s throat, but all he does is exhale sharply through his nose. “You’re drunk,” he says flatly, “and delusional.”
Naobito throws his head back with another booming laugh, the sound ricocheting off the garden’s stone pathways like a misfired curse technique. “Delusional?” He slaps Naoya’s back hard enough to make him stagger half a step forward. “Boy, don't lie to your old man!” His grin turns wolfish as he leans toward you, though his grip on Naoya’s shoulder keeps him from toppling over. “Tell me, little jewel, how many sons do you think this one could give you? Three? Four? Five? With your technique and our bloodline, they’d be monsters before they could walk.”
You arch a brow, swirling your drink as Naobito’s words hang in the air. Naoya’s expression is a masterpiece of controlled fury, his lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking like a metronome set to murder. You decide to poke the bear. “Five?” you muse, tapping a finger against your chin. “you overestimate his stamina.”
Naoya’s head snaps toward you so fast you swear you hear his neck crack. The look in his eyes is pure, undiluted violence. But you’ve seen that look before, and you know exactly how far you can poke the bear before he actually snaps. “Careful,” he says, voice low enough that only you and Naobito can hear. “I might start thinking you’re curious about my stamina.”
Naobito wheezes with laughter, sloshing his sake cup so violently that half of it spills onto Naoya’s sleeve. The younger Zenin doesn’t flinch, his glare locked onto you like a curse technique honed for a kill shot. “Oh-ho!” Naobito crows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s got you there, boy. Never seen someone rattle you so easy.” He jabs a finger at Naoya’s chest again.
You take another slow sip of your drink before flashing Naobito a smile. “Zenin-sama,” you hum, tilting your head just enough to feign innocence, “you flatter me, but let’s not pretend I’d make a proper Zenin bride.” You gesture loosely at yourself, the curve of your hips, the foreign cut of your dress, the way your vowels curl just a little too warmly for Kyoto’s frosty aristocracy. “I’m a stray cat you let in for the mice I catch, not some pedigreed showpiece.” you pout playfully.
Naobito waves his cup dismissively, sloshing more sake onto the pristine gravel. “Pedigree? Pfah.” He leans in, his breath hot and sour against your cheek. “You think these inbred relics prancing around here could sniff out a cursed spirit if it bit them in the ass? Bloodlines rot without fresh meat.” His gaze slides to Naoya, who’s gone eerily still, the kind of stillness that comes right before a massacre. “And this one,” Naobito adds, “needs a woman who won’t let him get away with that godawful personality of his.”
You let your gaze drag lazily over Naoya, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his yukata hangs just loose enough to hint at the taut muscle beneath, before shrugging one shoulder in deliberate nonchalance. "Well, he is easy on the eyes, I suppose," you muse, tapping your chin as if evaluating livestock at auction, since that seemed to be how you were being treated. Naoya's fingers freeze around his cup, his smirk slipping for half a breath before he catches himself. You file that reaction away for later.
"Easy on the eyes?" Naoya's smirk falters for half a second, but he recovers fast, tilting his chin up with a scoff.
Naobito’s grin widens as he watches the exchange. “See?” he slurs, gesturing between the two of you with his half-empty cup. “This is exactly what I mean. You two bicker like an old married couple already.” He hiccups, then adds, “Might as well make it official.”
Naobito chuckles, swaying slightly as he raises his cup in a mock toast. "Ah, but don't limit yourself, my dear," he slurs, waving a hand toward the crowd. "The Zenin clan has plenty of fine sons, strong, capable, obedient, if this one's too much of a headache." He winks at you, deliberately ignoring the way Naoya's fingers twitch toward the tanto at his waist. "Might I recommend—"
Naobito barely gets the words out before Naoya's fingers clamp around your wrist, his grip firm, there it was, the final poke of the bear. "Enough old man," he snaps, yanking you forward with a force that nearly sends your drink flying as Naoya drags you away from Naobito's drunken laughter, his strides long and punishing.
The moment Naoya's fingers close around your wrist, the world narrows to the heat of his grip and the taut line of his shoulders as he drags you through the crowd. Guests part like waves before a ship, their murmurs fading into the hum of lantern-lit night. You don't resist, not because you can't, but because the fury rolling off him is electric, thrilling in its predictability. "Naoya," you chide, letting your voice drip with false sweetness as you stumble half a step behind him, "if you wanted me alone, you could've just asked."
Naoya doesn't slow down, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump against his fingers. "Shut up," he mutters, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. "I was doing you a favour." As he drops your wrist.
You rub your wrist lightly, the ghost of Naoya's grip still humming against your skin. The garden air feels cooler now, the lanterns casting long shadows as you step back, tilting your head with a slow, knowing smile. "Dragging me off like that in front of half the clan?" You click your tongue, the sound deliberate. "Naoya, you’ll really give people ideas."
His scoff is immediate. "As if I care what those relics think," he mutters, running his hand through his hair.
"Well, whatever the case, this has been delightful, but I should go mingle before the clan thinks you’ve scared me off." You take a deliberate step back, "Unless you’d rather keep me all to yourself?"
Naoya’s smirk is sharp, lethal, and utterly predictable. "Don’t flatter yourself," he drawls, though his gaze tracks the sway of your hips as you turn away.
You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder with feigned innocence. "Oh, but Naobito-sama did say I should consider all my options." You tap a finger to your lips, letting your gaze drift pointedly toward brothers scattered amongst the crowd.
"Do what you want," he mutters, voice thick with disdain that doesn’t quite mask the undercurrent of something you could almost call jealousy.
The moment you turn away from Naoya, you don’t look back, but you feel his gaze like a brand between your shoulder blades, searing through the silk of your dress. The crowd swallows you whole, their chatter rising in waves as you weave through clusters of Zenin relatives, their eyes tracking your movement with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain. A server materializes at your elbow, offering a fresh cup of yuzu-infused sake, and you take it with a murmured thanks, letting the chilled glass anchor you to the moment.
The night stretches on without much event. You drift through the garden like a specter, your presence noted but unremarked upon, foreign enough to be intriguing, useful enough to be tolerated. The Zenin clan's laughter rings hollow in your ears as you sip your drink slowly, letting the tartness linger on your tongue as you observe the ebb and flow of power, who bows, who sneers, who lingers just a little too close to Naobito's drunken orbit.
Sometime around eleven you opt to reside to your quaters for the night. The servant's sandals whisper against the polished wood as they lead you away from the dying hum of the party, deeper into the Zenin estate's labyrinthine corridors.
"Your quarters," murmurs the servant, sliding open a door with practiced deference. The room yawns before you, all dark wood and crisp linens, smelling faintly of cedar and the ghost of old incense. A single lamp flickers on the low table, illuminating a tray bearing tea and round, pale mochi. You step inside, fingertips brushing the sliding frame. "The bathhouse is—"
"I know where it is, you're excused. Thank you." you interrupt softly, watching the servant's shoulders stiffen. Their bow is deeper than necessary as they retreat, footsteps fading down the corridors.
You step out into the evening air and take a seat on the engawa facing the smaller courtyard adjacent to your room, the wood cool beneath you as you settle onto the edge. The night air is thick with the scent of damp moss and the distant murmur of cicadas, their song rising and falling, a welcome contrast from a Zenin party. The courtyard is pretty, a single crooked maple leaning over the koi pond, its leaves trembling whenever a breeze slips through. You watch the moonlight fracture across the water’s surface, the occasional flash of orange scales breaking the stillness.
The knock comes just as you're peeling the last bit of mochi from your fingertips, three sharp raps that don't wait for permission before the shoji slides open. Naoya lingers in the threshold like a shadow given form, the lantern light carving the sharp angles of his face into something almost predatory. He's swapped his yukata for a black jinbei, the loose fabric doing nothing to disguise the lethal grace of his movements as he steps inside, a bottle of something dangling from his fingers.
Naoya kicks the door shut with his heel, the shoji rattling in its frame. "You're still awake," he observes, voice flat, as if he hadn't deliberately timed his arrival for the hour when even the most dedicated revelers would be drunk or unconscious. The bottle clinks against the wood as he sets it down, you can't see the label clearly, but it is no doubt expensive.
You don’t look up from the koi pond, where moonlight ripples across the water’s surface. "Creeping to my room at this hour." you murmur, plucking a stray fleck of mochi from your sleeve. "Should I be flattered or suspicious?"
Naoya exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your skin prickle. "Flattered," he says, sinking down beside you, first pouring a drink before passing you a sake cup. His lips curl as he pours his own and takes a sip, his throat working in a slow, deliberate swallow. "Definitely flattered."
Naoya sets the cup down, the porcelain clicking against the lacquered wood. His gaze lingers on your profile, the curve of your cheek catching dim lamplight, the way your lashes cast faint shadows when you blink. “Sure, you’re annoying,” he says finally, voice low and rough, like he’s confessing to a crime. “But still more tolerable than most of the sycophants milling around out there.”
You turn your head slowly, meeting his stare with a smile. “Oh?” you hum, “Is that your way of admitting you enjoy my company, Nao-kun?” you purr.
Naoya's fingers twitch against the sake cup at the nickname, his smirk sharpening into something dangerously close to genuine amusement. "Don't push your luck," he murmurs, but there's no bite to it, just the faintest rasp in his voice that makes your pulse skip. "Drink," he orders, pouring with a precision that borders on ritual. "Before I change my mind about sharing."
