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“N-Not there-” You cover your face when she pushes two fingers in your tight little cunny, “A-Ah... but they’re watching, Quanxi?” Your eyes drift towards the other girls, who eagerly sit by and watch you, they are impatient and ready to play with their new friend... to see how long they can play with you before you need a break. They’re very accepting of new girls, the more the merrier, and they’re so fascinated by your sudden arrival.

Quanxi brings you to look back at her, kissing you on the laps whilst her palm grinds against your clit with every flick of her wrist. The feeling of her long and slender fingers, so soft but jabbing at just the right spots has you moaning her name and gripping the sheets. you can hear the other girls giggling, complimenting how cute you look, how wet you are, how you take it like a good girl.

One dark eye peeks open, there is no barrage of overhead lighting as he expects. You have kept the lights off, as dim as you could manage, the only evil light that spears in is from the window opposite the bed, a window that he would smash right now, would it not bring about more sunlight. He distantly remembered you saying something about wanting to purchase curtains, to which he could barely remember his excuse of wanting spectators when he would take you against that very window. It had sounded like sound logic at the time.

He lets his eyes adjust, taking in the sight of you in front of him; You knelt at the bedside, your hands presenting a ceramic plate housing one perfectly golden, thick, pancake, a single white candle stuck in its center, flickering amber light over your face. Your plump, soft lips, the lip oil or cream or whatever it was reflecting the bead of orange light back to him. Your big eyes, wide in wait, urging him awake. He pushed himself up onto his hip, the woosh of blood and fluid swirling around his head throbs painfully. Kishibe blinks and refocuses.

Your pretty, manicured, hand guards the birthday candle’s flame as he moves. He watched you take care of your nails day after day; using those wood sticks to push back the seams of waxy nail bed, how you would lotion and oil and trim and file your nails while watching television or relaxing on the patio with him. You hadn’t painted them recently, disregarding the pinks and purples that he could recognize from a half glance as your favorites, claiming the nail polish was suffocating them and that they needed a break. But still, every night he watched you drown them in harsh smelling serums one after the other. He liked them long and bare like this, soft white tips thick and strong to scratch against his scalp, or down his back. Shiny, pearly tips wrapped around his cock. Not jagged or bitten like his own. He took your hand in his own, noting the difference in your skin. 

The back of his hand had a patch work of thinly covered veins, scarred over nicks and folded, creased skin. Your hand is still plump and collagen filled, practically elastic. Currently, the nail of his ring finger is half torn away. He had removed it himself after getting his hand caught on a job, the blood swelling under the surface bulging with pressure and starting to raise the end of his nail. You hadn’t been able to stay in the bathroom with him while he removed it. Opting to sit outside the door cringing at what your imagination is conjuring every suck in of breath he made. He barely felt it, but he liked when you felt it for him. and when you kissed him better. When it was over and the sink was clean, you felt brave enough to wrap his finger in a towel, dress it in gauze, kiss him gently and insist upon adding one of your oils to his routine. 

It sat in a dark blue dropped bottle on his bedside table, mostly untouched, but not unappreciated. Kishibe kissed the back of your hand, before reallocating your palm against his cheek. You open your hand, holding the side of his face, watching him lean into your palm, his eyes fluttering closed again. You admire him for a moment, the rare moment of peace that you can see coat his features. 

Kishibe is a creature of stillness, not peace. A glassy sea's surface churning with life and current, just a league or two beneath its foamy surface. 

  You scratch the stubble of his cheek and your chest warms at the gentle sound your contact makes. Kishibe opens his eyes, a dreamy, heart-eyed gaze locks on you. Your heart skips, it makes you think about the night you fell, really fell for him; only a few months in to your secret, flirty affair, which had been solely relegated to your apartment walls. Up until the night that he had had one too many out in public, some outing for some coworker that may or not still be alive, and he kissed you on the walk back to his apartment. Right there on the sidewalk, the streetlights cast a neon yellow and gold hue across his face, and yours. He looked down at you as your lips separated, and wordlessly, gave you a gentle smile. Prior to that moment, you weren’t even sure if he could offer such tenderness. If he was even capable of it. And in a single momentary act of gentility and earnestness, you felt your heart swell to accommodate him, in everything that he was and everything he would come to show you. You loved him, and you knew he loved you.

“You have to make your wish.” You remind him, tapping your finger against his temple, bringing his attention to the wax slipping down the neck of the candle. 

Kishibe’s eyes open again, meeting yours. He held you in his gaze, a gentle smile picking at the side of his lips and blows. The flame extinguishes and you give a small cheer, cognoscente of his ailing head. You set the plate on the bedside table and lean in to kiss him. He pulls you in by the back of your neck. You climb into the bed with him, settling over his hips. Kishibe’s hands are always prone to roam over your hips and back. You had gotten dressed to pick up his favorite birthday breakfast from the bakery at the corner of your block, along with two hot black coffees and the bottle of collectors whiskey, clad in a light blue ribbon that had taken you three tries to tie into a bow that sat on your coffee table in your living room. 

You knew last night that this morning he would be sunk. Only an hour into the night, he was eight beers in, a glowy pink flush veiling his face. Most of Kishibe’s birthdays began in bars. You assured him that this year would be no exception. Although fifty-four didn’t mean anything for him. Fifty-three hadn’t either. His father died at fifty-one, so there was a sick relief that came with turning fifty-two. But he hadn’t had a significant birthday since he turned forty-two, as that was the previous oldest devil hunter’s age when he had died. Well, that was still with the organization. That was when he became the oldest in his profession. But he would never be older than Quanxi, not until he outlived her. When he drank down that thought, he could never tell if it was guilt for hoping he did, or guilt for hoping he didn’t.

The drinks stack up until Kishibe can only slink back against the chipping red vinyl of the booth, letting his head loll back and watch. Watch you on the dance floor. Gin and vodka coursing through your veins, freeing your hips as you twist and sway in front of him. He's drunk, he can feel it behind his eyes. A gentle weight that would push them outward, if the lids themselves were not heavy enough to hold them back. He admires you from his not-so-private viewing box. You're putting on a show for him, he can tell by the way your fingers card through your hair; bunching it up to show off your neck, the subtle blooms of teeth he left on you in the cab over, or maybe the night before, and letting it fall back down just before he's gazed enough. You always know how to leave him wanting more. And he does, he watches your lips curl into a coy smile, then split into a giggle, and he feels his heart swoon. How had he ever landed such a beautiful creature. Something full of so much joy and love, all for him. You twist your hips, the skirt you wore curling around you, showing off the backs of your thighs, the smooth, gorgeous skin.

The young men around you have taken notice, beginning to slink closer to you, hoping for the chance of your perfect ass rubbing against the front of their stupid jeans. Any other time, Kishibe would have felt a flicker of irritation, or protectiveness, or annoyance, but it would have passed as quickly as it came. Maybe on some nights he wouldn't have given it a thought at all, these barely-no-longer-adolescents practically drooling at the chance to sweat on you. But tonight…he could write it off as the drinks, or the hours stretching on, but both would be a lie. An excuse. He knows why the sight of young men—really—men your age, circling around you makes something inside him deflate.

He's jealous.

If you heard him say such a thing, you would assure him that you were all his, that you would never stray, that he was enough for you. But your assurances would be misplaced. It was not jealousy of the touch these men could share with you, or the idea that you would actually fall for one of these jokers. No, he looked at them, the smooth backs of their hands, the unfettered skin of their faces, the full tufts oh hair that had yet to go thin, or fall out entirely. And his jealousy burned barium nitrate green. But not for you. For himself.

For the young man he once was. For the full cheeks and uncreased lips, for nimble fingers and the endless potential. More time ahead of him than behind him. Mistakes yet unmade. Losses yet unmourned. Body undamaged. He longed for the time before the unending regret weighed him down. Before he adopted the many vices that kept him on his feet. Before he soaked up enough alcohol to sterilize this blood filled business, were he to just spill his own.

Whiskey slipped down his throat easily, and out the side of his mouth and down his chin. He follows its trail back up with the back of his hand, having to blink hard before he can sit up properly. The dance floor has changed completely, for a moment he loses sight of you completely. How long had he been staring? When had you moved? He tries to fix his drunk eyes on you, looking for your silhouette.

"Hey handsome, don't look so panicked." You chirp beside him, having appeared with a half sunk drink in one hand and your purse loose in the other.

The roving, flashing lights of the bar turn you into a rainbow ghost before him. Or maybe an angel. You're glowing, the sweat and steam of the bar giving you a glossy finish. He swoons and can't catch himself before he slumps back and slides down into the booth seat next to him. He's trashed.

"Whoa there, birthday boy. Don't pass out on me. We gotta get you home, baby."

You collected him from his slump, getting him onto his feet and guiding him toward the exit. Maybe its his liquor soaked brain, but he thinks he sees a few of the young men take notice of his exit on your arm, but he can't place the reactions he sees. Their envy certainly isn't for his age. Or his hangover.

Presently, you climb into his lap, kissing him onto his back. Kishibe is grateful for the respite on his lower back, and the comforting weight of your body on his. The smell of your skin, the soft powder fresh scent of your shower cleaned body soothes him. The city hadn't gotten to you, you must have been fast this morning. He's grateful that kissing you allowed him to keep his eyes closed. You were already curing his headache. Siphoning out the poison he dosed himself with 400 yen at a time.

Your kisses travel down his neck, a melody of purring breaking apart for words, "How's your head?"

"You haven't complained yet." He chuckles, smoothing his hands over your ass, pulling your hips flush together.

"ha ha." You roll your eyes, "I mean your headache. You were barely conscious when we got back last night."

Kishibe shrugs, looking out from under his lashes, moving his hands down your legs, " Now you didn't try taking advantage of me in my state, did you honey?"

"Oh please, you practically begged me to." You tease, "Thought you might actually die of heartbreak last night."

Kishibe's gut twists as he doesn't remember, "That bad huh?"

"Not really just a lot of 'come on baby, i love you, don't you know it my birthday" and "how many more birthdays do you think an old man like me really has" that kind of thing." You play into the gentle prodding, putting on a horrible imitation of his voice.

Kishibe scrunches his nose, "Oof, maybe I'm not hungover, i think I just made myself sick."

You laugh, sitting up in his lap, "No it was cute. You're never like that when you're drunk. You're usually so….."

You look at him for a moment beneath you, trying to figure how to phrase this, "Guarded. I don't know, You seemed…really open last night."

Kishibe watches the soft smile spread across your lips, and the wariness of his pride seems to wane. You're pleased by this show of vulnerability. This is something he has known you to reward. Hell, it was the nineties, women of your generation wanted something completely different than the women thirty years prior. The sixties demanded suave and level. But you and your end of the millennia sisters weren't entertained by the shows of strength of calm. You wanted things like honesty, vulnerability, openness, and partnership. He had learned early on that you had very little in common with the women he had dated before you were born. You had no interest in asking him to settle from his line of work and start a family, or keep house with you, or meet your family. You had your own career, had barely mentioned the idea of children and when he told you he was no longer virile, you had accepted it without issue. You had your own money, your own place to live, your family wasn't local, he had never met your parents. He wasn't even sure if they knew about him. And what would they think if they did.

This line of thinking was beginning to accelerate his headache.

"What's on your mind? You're distracted." You wiggle your hips against his, hoping to bring him back to you.

Kishibe looks at you above him, everything in him willing his mouth to shut, to be a man who just thanks the universe fo this blessings and enjoys the beautiful young woman who has taken up residence in his bed, in his lap. But he can't stop himself.

"You don't think I'm getting too old for you?"

You laugh. It stings.

But you look down at him with a sympathetic cock of your head, "Oh Kishi…is that whats got you all torn up since last night? You don't wanna get older? I'm getting older too. I'm not a spring chicken anymore, I'm almost thirty."

"Oh shut—-"

You push his chest to cut him off, shit eating grin now taking up more and more of your face, "You know what I mean. I knew you were older than me when i started fucking you, baby. You're always going to be older than me, so what?"

"You don't care what people think of me when they see us together?"

"Do you? Kishibe, come on, You can't tell me that you actually care about what people on the street think. And anyway those guys are wetting themselves with envy to be you and the women are just as bad."

You see him flick his eyes up in disbelief.

"You don't believe me? You should see the way some of these women look at me. Its either I don't exist next to you, or they want to run me over for the chance to comfort you through your grief. Baby," You run a finger across his bottom lip, "Don't tell me you're getting insecure about how sexy you are…"

Kishibe rolls his eyes, and your voice takes on a sultrier, heavier tone. You grind your hips on his, "Don't you feel it, baby? How wet you make me? Just laying there, still all sleepy-eyed. Your voice is so sexy when you first wake up, i love when you say my name like that. I used to try and call you and wake you up just to hear you say my name like that."

Kishibe begins to come to life under you, dormant sex beginning to stiffen as you rock above him.

"You know I had the biggest crush on you before you asked me to your place."

"I did know. You made it pretty clear." Kishibe moved his hands over your hips, slipping under the hem of your shirt and inching it upward, remembering the mornings you would accidentally have been given two coffees and thought he just might need one so you just swung by his office to see! It was always very accidental and very convenient. It wasn't until a few months into hooking up that he got you to admit you didn't have a very generous convenience store cashier, you were just a very bad liar.

You let him pull your shirt over your head, "But I guess I'm not making it as clear now?"

You unclipped your bar and pulled it away, letting your perfect, perky breasts fall freely in front of him. His hands find them immediately, running his thumbs over your nipples, watching your arch into his touch. Your eyelashes flutter, thick and heavy over your lustful eyes. Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, your own hands smooth down his arms, feeling the soft hair of his arms, the muscles of his forearms, the crossing radius and ulna strong under his skin.

"Don't you know how bad I want you, Kishi? How sexy you are to me?"

Sensing your tone, he give a small shake to his head, wanting to see far you'll take this. He feels your nipples peak under his fingers and pinches gently.

"Everything about you drew me in. How handsome you were. How different you felt. Your presence, no one can miss you in a room, unless you want them to. You have that power, to be unmissable, and to disappear. You drove me crazy before you took me home the first time. I thought I might never be okay again. Every night I would go home and I couldn't stop touching myself. Wishing it was you instead." You take one of his hands and move his fingers over your lips, while the other stays kneading your breast, "Thinking about you, when you would grab me in training, and I could feel how strong you really were. I would picture you holding me down, fucking me into your mattress, holding my body against yours, using me however you wanted. You always said I was too distracted. Of course you were right. I couldn't keep my panties dry around you. I eventually dropped the devil hunter track and went to analytics to try and give myself respite. But I couldn't stop thinking about you."

You slipped one of his longer fingers into your mouth, sliding your tongue across his fingertip.

"Pretty girl…" He swallows, his lips suddenly heavy and wet.

"Kishi, I thought I would be ruined before you ever touched me. I wanted you so bad. I thought there was no way I could ever have you, and I would drive myself crazy. I was sure I was going crazy. I had never wanted anyone like this before. I used to pray that you would fuck me, just once, even once would be enough to break the spell you had over me." You lap at his fingers more, "The first night you came home with me, I thought I was dreaming. I couldn't believe how wrong I was. Once you fucked me, I realized how ruined I was. I knew nothing in the world could ever make me feel like you do. No one could touch me like you."

The pace of your hips had grown faster, you wished you had disrobed after you got back form the bakery, instead of this awkward half clothed dry hump that you were actively soaking through. Kishibe's cheeks had been dyed scarlet by your story, his mouth open and wanton, heavy breaths falling freely.

"You want to take my panties off? Or do you want to talk more about what people on the street might disapprove of?" You pop his thumb into your mouth, and before you can begin to suck, he has you on your back and your pants down to your knees, on their way down your ankles.

Kishibe has been reignited, whatever alcohol infused self doubt had taken hold of him in the last twenty four hours was long gone. You recognized the killer's confidence in his eyes as he peeled your panties away, marveling at the sticky threads of wet that shamefully begged to be hidden before snapping as he pulled the flimsy cotton away. He pulls your right leg over his shoulder, delighting in the sight of you spreading open as he moved your left leg over his shoulder as well.

"Kishi…"You whined, "It's your birthday shouldn't I—?"

Two dark, dangerously sharp eyes shot up at you,"You brought my breakfast in bed and you don't want me to eat?"

He didn't wait for you to respond. Kishibe had to taste you, his tongue felt swollen and hot in his mouth, weighted with desire for you. He licked into your pussy, parting the sensitive labia with his tongue and rounding your clit. You both moan into the bedroom's air, your hands dig into his hair, gripping hard at his sanded, silvering roots. You turn your face to one side, smelling the residual smell of his sleep on the pillow. An unreplicable smell of comfort that intoxicated you as his lips joined the messy kiss between your legs.

Kishibe's hangover was cured in an instant. One sip between your legs enough to clear his bill of health completely. He lapped at your drooly cunt, his hands kneading up your body, reaching for your perfect, soft tits once more. One hand full of your tit, the other clasped over your leg, keeping it shackled to his shoulder, and his mouth devouring everything your pussy offered him, he couldn't believe his birthday wish had come true already. He worked his tongue over you in winding routes that you couldn't predict, and just when you thought maybe you had the rhythm figured, he would change it. You began to whine, a wimpy sound that made him hum pridefully into you, vibrating against your inner thighs.

"Ki…Kishiii…Please, please," You pant out, one hand having abandoned his hair and clamped into your mouth.

"Hm?" He hums while still burying his face into you, your slick coating his nose, down his chin, dripping down his neck.

Your voice crackles around something that almost sounds like, "fuck." before falling into breathy pants once more.

He can't help but smile. You feel his the corners of his mouth curl upward against your swollen flesh. You pull his hand from your breast and bring his fingers to your mouth once again; tasting the skin, the traces of tobacco left behind. He rocks his head up and down, following the seam of your sex, unafraid to coat himself entirely in you, as though he was trying to mask his own scent with yours. Maybe he was, maybe this predation of insecurity could be quelled if he were to completely lose himself between your legs. Hell, he could try at least. The hand on your leg travels from your thigh, down to your calf, and pushed back, beginning to extend your leg in toward your chest, pushing you further into the mattress and into a deep hamstring stretch, bringing your hips even more to his mouth. His hand is so sturdy on your leg, pushing firm, keeping you in place as he pulls his hand from your mouth, and with your spit soaked fingers, dips them between the lips of your pussy, combining your drool, his own saliva, and the significant pussy wetness that has collected and even begun to pool out under you. His eyes roll back momentarily at the sight, the feeling, the taste he collects from his lips.

"So good, pretty girl. Thank you for my birthday present." Kishibe sinks two fingertips into your desperate pussy hole.

It has been begging for him this whole time, and the infrequent darts inside he made with his tongue were not nearly enough to satisfy. He didn't want to satisfy, he wanted to sustain, to extend, to indulge. He watches your pretty, pleasure blown eyes drift up and close as his fingers delve deeper. you try to open your mouth to speak but Kishibe doesn't let you. He pushes forward, encasing his fingers inside of you and connecting your lips to swallow the choking moan that nearly ripped through the apartment. His cunt coated tongue massages against yours, thick muscle against muscles in the narrow space of your shared breath. You adjust to your own taste on his mouth, the sweet scrape of his stubble against your cheek, his mustache pungent under your nose. You felt drunk, and. his fingers prodding against the spongy pleasure center inside of you didn't help the head rush. Kishibe fed his fingers to you again and again, and his tongue covers the gasping moans you try to leak out. He kisses you like you have stolen something from him, and he's determined to have it back. And had you taken something, it would have been returned a thousand times over at this rate. Kishibe relents on your mouth, and you shudder out a deep breath, trying to regulate your breath. But before you can get a true handle, he lowers his mouth again and closes it around your clit, continuing to pump his fingers and sucking hard around your clit.

Your moan you let out would have shamed the most prestige sopranos on any stage across the world. Even Kishibe's usually unflappable focus wanes momentarily to admire your cry of passion. You hadn't been a quick cum before him, he just knew your body. Maybe he was like this with all his partners, truthfully you never thought to ask, sure it would make you jealous, but, more truthfully, other people sort of melted away while Kishibe pleasured you. It was like he was inventing something, demonstrating it to you, rather than keeping up with long standing human tradition. You thought you had read somewhere about all lovers feeling like they were inventing something, but you couldn't place the thoughts origin. Or your own. Your body shook in aftershock against the mattress.

"Messy girl…" He chastises, without an ounce of distaste in his voice, still moving his hand slowly as your body pulses.

You know better than to try and push him off before he's ready, and you relish the sweet torture of these aftermaths so you do your best to keep your hands off of his arm. But soon you realize he is goading you. His hand moving in tiny measured movements, as though testing to see just how much you'll put up with before cracking. And you really are a pathetic thing for him,his thumb nears your clit once more, surely just for an affectionate pet, but your hands beat him there, guarding yourself from the continuation of his pleasure with a cry for mercy.

"Please! Gentle!" Is all you can manage, gripping at his wrist.

Kishibe removes his hand and is quick to lick his fingers clean, marveling at the squirming puddle of twitches you had been reduced to. And he wasn't even at the top of his game. Once he drank his fill, he joined you on the bed, using his cum and spit sullied hand to stroke his cock. He looked over the curve of your body, the swell of your hip, the dip of your waist, the shape of your legs; so delicious he already misses the sweet weight of them on his shoulders. He runs his nose over your back, laying soft, almost chaste kisses on the ball of your shoulder joint, on the hollow of your collarbone, the slope of your neck, the soft skin behind your ear.

You pant, finally out of the throws of his passion. You slump against his hard chest, coming back to your body as his tongue explores the shell of your ear. You feel him pumping his cock and your hand moves to join him before you will it. Kishibe is so hard against you, prodding against the soft meat of your ass, swelling still in your hand. You can already feel your tired pussy oozing preemptively, preparing herself to be filled.

"Think you can handle it, baby? You seemed pretty out of it." He taunts in your ear, sliding a hand up the ticklish part of your side, delighting in how you twitch.

Kishibe loved getting under your skin, he loved any display that you were sensitive. When dogs play fight, they poke at sensitive areas as a way of showing puppies where the blood and meat lives, where to protect ones self. The same principle exists in humans with tickling. Something about all those years of training bled into Kishibe's pleasure center and made him crave these little demonstrations of weakness under his hand, uncontrollable sensitivity that even he couldn't drill out of you, that made you a shit devil hunter, but also made you the lay of his dreams. He blows cool air over your sweat sticky neck, watching the soft dusting of gooseflesh emerge under your skin, gentle texture revealing itself at his mere breath. He smiles at how reactive you are.

You roll your neck forward and use its momentum to bring yourself up onto your knees. His hands don't leave your body, petting your hips, sliding them over your back, circling over your waist as you move to straddle his hips. A satisfied purr comes from his chest as you settle over him. His cock is swollen underneath you, with your pleasure sensitive sex, you can feel the veins that snake along the underside, igniting delicious sensations along the puffy flesh of you vulva.

You slide your hands up his torso, feeling the inviting muscles underneath the skin. Scatterings of scars web together a network of pathways for your fingers to follow, taking you all over the expanse of his body. On more than one occasion you had wasted hours trailing the railways of his traumas and seeing if you could make it all across the plains of his body. Kishibe cups one side of your face, the scarred side of his mouth curving up in a content smile. You press down on his chest, hinging your hips up and he moves to help align himself with you. His hands behind your legs support you on your descent, core falling weak as his fills you in by inch. Kishibe hisses as you dig your nails into his chest, the sweet sting threatening to make his hips jolt upward. But he holds strong, delighting in the feeling of your pussy stretching to accommodate him.

You moan out a sultry whine, dropping your ass working your way until your hips meet again and you are completely full of him. You try to catch your breath, lungs expanding in desperation to adjust, but Kishibe is not that patient. Kishibe's hips meet you, rocking both your bodies together. Your clit grinds down on his pelvis, his cock presses into your g spot with every lurch. Kishibe pushes himself up to meet you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding your hips over and over. He ducks his head down and kisses your breasts, leaving wet trails along your sternum as he travels between both of them. His abs curl deliciously as he holds himself up with one defined, muscled arm and holds you in the other. His skin flushes with a delicious pink blush.

Your head keens back as you bounce on him, "Fuck me Kishi, yes, baby."

You feel him smile against your chest and the scrape of the scruff on his cheek makes your soak around him. You use his shoulders for support to bounce your hips faster, but really his strong hand at your back gives you the real support. You fuck yourself on him harder, He turns his head back to you and you rush to meet his mouth with a kiss. The kiss is sloppy and wet, your tongue dives into his mouth. Massaging his tongue with yours, you slip it against the silky soft line of scar tissue on the inside of his mouth. Kishibe's hip jerk into you alongside a choppy grunt. You kiss along his scar's inside once again, drawing out increasingly shuddering moans out of him. You drink them up as well, not willing to be parted from his kiss for even a moment. You press your sweaty chests together, Kishibe's arm around your your waist clasps tighter, you can feel his bicep drawing up against your back. You still burn for closeness, you want to be even closer to him. Your hips move faster, driving him deeper inside of you, the moments between thrusts agonizing with their emptiness and distance.

Kishibe grows similarly desperate. He paws at your back, gripping at your flesh like he would find an entry point. Like he could meld your bodies together, if he could just find a way in. His search continues up the back of your neck and into your hair, using his grip to guide your mouth against his. Your hips meeting, your bodies pressed together, your mouths sharing desperate breaths, this collection of sensation brings you both to a state of intoxication. Enough that his hangover seems to have evaporated alongside the cooling, pleasure latent sweat covering your bodies. Kishibe hitches you backward, pulling out for a single moment to lay you down on your stomach and reenter you from behind. You try and bury your head in the pillow but he pulls your hair back too kiss him again.

"Don't run, baby. I'm right here." His voice is low and rough in your ear.

You reach behind your head, behind his, and grip the back of his neck. Without having to hold himself up, Kishibe can fuck into you even deeper, one large, strong hand clapped over your hip, moving counter to his thrusts. You rock as he fucks into you, you grip at the sheets, pulling them free from the opposite corner, the elastic bunching into your palm. Kishibe laps at your neck, leaving kisses and brushes of teeth along the skin.

Pathetic babble begins to leave your mouth, "Kishi, yes, yes, please. Oh Kishi, you're so good. fuck, you're so deep. yes, yes, yes, careful, careful, fuck, please be gentle. fuck be gentle. please, fuck. ah, ah, ah…"

He joins you, grunting out sparser praises, "Take it, take it. You can take it. You always take it. Fuck, look at me. look at me."

He grips your throat, and you roll your neck over your shoulder to face him. Dark eyes narrowed in effort and focus, widening as they catch yours. A look of euphoria fills his features, his panting mouth forming an O, skin flushed and dewy making him seem to glow and shimmer, the glimpses of teeth behind his lips seem sharper and animalistic. The sight of him knocks your breath loose and your attempt to crumple into him, your eyes fluttering, but his hand at your throat gives you a terse shake, and you snap your eyes back open and to his.

He looks frenzied, the lines of his face all furrowed together towards the center. The deep line of his forehead, the elevens between his eyebrows, the laugh lines that are unexpectedly deep for a man of his disposition— all creasing harshly as he drives himself into you again and again. A beefy vein on his forehead bulges in effort, seeming to pump in time with his pistoning hips. A fleeting thought of concern races through your mind before another squeeze of his hand at your neck drowns it out. Your hands reach for his hips, feeling down the tops of his thigh, the hard line of his hip, the v into his pelvis, the soft hair dusting along his skin. You grasp at him, trying to reach for any inch of him you could hold on to, any handhold that could offer you a chance at stability. Kishibe covers your mouth with his own, giving you a sloppy, wet kiss. One with immediate tongues and shared breath and spit. His hand releases your throat, feeling his way down your body, feeling the tip of his cock pressing against the inside of your stomach, pride surges in his chest. He presses against your lower stomach, feeling himself from inside and out. You gasp shakily, but he kisses you again, delighting in your breathlessness. Needing you gasping and desperate and pliable for him.

Kishibe moves his hand lower, bracketing your clit with two of his fingers, your hips shaking against his, briefly ruining his set rhythm. But it's worth it for the delicious clench around him that the added sensation causes. Your lips separate as you crumple forward on the bed, still on your side, your lower half being supported by his hands, but you bury your face in the crumpled sheets, biting down to cover your screams.

Kishibe circles your clit faster, feeling how the muscles of your cunt begin to shake, clamping down harder and trembling. He moves your hair off your back, pushing you down against the bedding, admiring the muscles of your back, the shadows of your skin.

"Hold out for me, you'll wait won't you?" His voice is surprisingly syrupy, affection superseding domination despite his physical actions.

You mewl into the sheets.

"You will." He says, firmer, "I know you will. You'll wait for me."

You nod, still continuing your whiny protest.

Kishibe does not relent on your clit. Massaging the sweet bundle of nerves, bringing you stomach-shakingly close to orgasm. You pull all your muscles taut, and you hear him cry out behind you. His hips slow for a moment as the pressure becomes almost too much to bear. He can barely get through to fuck completely into you. But the silky vice of your cunt can't be abandoned, Kishibe pushes hard in once more, bottoming out completely and pulling your body back up to become flush with his own. His other hand claps across your chest and Kishibe buries his face in your neck, the smell of your pulse point sending him careening over pleasure's edge. Together you are in free fall. You sink your teeth into his forearm, his hand between your legs works you through your peak, feeling you fuck yourself back onto him, or attempt to, his hold on you too tight for you to get a real range of movement.

Kishibe lets out a humid moan into your neck as he cums. Spilling what feels like the first orgasm in years into your waiting, perfect womb. He thanks the doctors who kept him from impregnating you now, he thanked every progression of science that allowed him to feel the blinding heat of your raw pussy.

You release your teeth from his arm, puny moans leaking out from your mouth, the sparkling waves of climax washing over you and leaving you in the amber afterglow of your shared bedroom. Kishibe's hips and hand still completely, leaving you with just his breath in your ear and his pulse against your skin. You pant together in your embrace, bodies quivering together. You reach behind your head and card through the hair at the back of his, feeling the soft sweaty strands, he hums into your neck.

Kishibe kisses behind your ear, then lays another kiss, and another; dusting kisses across the slope of your shoulder. Slowly, as though this all was some dream that with one wrong move it would fall apart, he shifts behind you, making space for you to roll to face him and lie on his chest. Kishibe looks up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of your body on him, the heat of your combined exertion, and he lets his head fall to the side, looking at the plated birthday pancake, its candle dormant. Flamelessly, it stands proud still, bearing witness to the love that he waited for, decades before you were even born, wading through false connection and rejection until you arrived. He pulled you tighter to him, kissing your forehead, a content purr coming from you.

"Happy birthday, Kishibe." You kiss his sternum.

Kishibe pets a hand down your back, "Thank you, my love."

Early afternoon light breaks through the window, throwing natural white shafts of light along the bedroom floor. Ordinarily the hours of his birthday, if acknowledged at all would slip by in a drunken haze, gone before they had the chance to be agonized over. But today, he is grateful that the hours seems to drag. He prays the night will take its time arriving, and that the next year will follow in turn.

before he can decide on the appropriate reaction, you sidle up to him, linking an arm through his—a gesture so at odds with the chilly distance that has defined your entire marriage that, for a moment, he simply stares down at the point of contact, unsure whether to view this as insolence or delusion. affection has never grown naturally between you unless he set the terms. even then, it tended to feel obligatory, the expected performance of a dutiful wife rather than any true desire. the notion that you would voluntarily reach for him in public is so foreign, he tells himself that the rampant hormones must be clouding your judgment.

(you are only a few months along, the small swell beneath your kimono still subtle enough that no one else suspects. the secrecy suits the both of you, though for different reasons. to him, withholding this information is his small act of spite towards his family; to you it is a shield that grants you small liberties you would not dare attempt otherwise. what he would normally crush with unhesitating severity becomes excusable if it is traced back to the child he put inside you.)

seemingly encouraged by his lack of resistance, you rub your cheek against his bicep, a gesture so affectionate it throws him for a bit. almost immediately, he anticipates a complaint about nausea or fatigue; he has always assumed pregnant women are quick to whine. it does not come. instead, you rise slightly on your toes and place a timid kiss against the line of his jaw, trusting the angle of his shoulder to obscure the act from anyone who might glance your way. the kiss itself is quick and furtive in a way that is almost chaste, delivered with the innocent belief that no one else is watching.

that is the moment he gives in. rather than peeling you off, naoya adjusts his stance so your body settles against him more comfortably. he can tolerate the impropriety, he decides. you are carrying his child after all, and this new… clinginess is something he finds unexpectedly gratifying.

he lowers his voice so only you can hear him as he asks whether you feel alright. the veneer of irritation remains out of habit, yet beneath it lurks a reluctant concern he tells himself is practical rather than sentimental. (inside, he is nothing short of exalted.) his hand settles at the small of your back, a gesture that permits whatever affection you feel inclined to give. cling as much as you like; i will allow it for now. his other hand drifts lower until his palm meets the faint swell of your bump.

he’s been the sleeper build type for as long as you’ve known him, but the recent change is impossible to miss when, as his wife, you’re conscripted each morning into playing mommy: guiding his arms into sleeves. smoothing the haori over his shoulders. fussing with collars. kneeling to tie his sandals while he sits there, idle and impatient. when you fasten his hakama, the waistband is definitely snugger than it used to be.

and then there are his arms: biceps swollen against the fabric, your fingers can no longer meet when you try to encircle them with both hands. naoya preens internally when you comment on the added thickness, accepting the praise without even a token show of modesty, letting you look your fill as though it were your due.

(come summer, he intends to strip away every superfluous pound and sculpt into a physique worthy of the hero he venerates in memory. toji’s imposing silhouette is seared into his mind, a benchmark he pursues with fidelity. hell, he’s already invested in ten black compression shirts for the occasion.)

however, the process is not without its vexations; naoya is super self-conscious about the extra pudge around his midsection. you can tell how much it bothers him by the way he sucks in his gut whenever he’s having sex with you.

no matter. a bruised ego must be soothed somehow, and he does so by taking it out on you.

Naoya wants to get one thing straight before anything else: he is not following you.

The idea alone irritates him. He has better things to do than to pine after some woman who can’t brew a proper cup of tea, and he’d be caught dead before trailing an ex who couldn’t even bother to end things properly. He knows his schedules. He knows his habits. Nothing has changed since the two of you broke up, not really, and you were the one who used to ask him where he’d be, what time he’d leave, whether he’d eaten yet—so, if anyone’s overlapping with anyone, it’s obviously you.

You’ve always been a conniving little bitch anyway, so it would be just like you to go out of your way to engineer these little coincidences for the sole purpose of antagonizing him. Corner cafes, the same stairwell at the office, the elevator that takes just long enough to get up to his office for your perfume to cling to him for the entire rest of the day. It’s ridiculous, and Naoya is becoming entirely fed up with it.

(“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks through his teeth as he waits for his coffee. Usually, he would send that runt Ranta to go get it for him, but Ogi pissed him off at a meeting this morning, and he thinks if he has to look at another incompetent face before noon, he might actually kill someone. 

He doesn’t turn toward you as he speaks, angles his head just enough to acknowledge your existence. His fingers drum once against the counter, impatient. The barista hesitates, and Naoya clicks his tongue, looking down at the empty cup in front of her pointedly as he waits for her to get on with making his order. He glances at you again.

You’re not even looking at him.

Naoya’s eye twitches. 

“I’m talkin’ to ya,” he says, finally turning to face you more directly. 

You look… fine. Annoyingly so. Not falling apart, even though you definitely should be, because no man worth a damn is going to put up with the shit you made him go through. He doesn’t know where you get off standing there like you haven’t already hit the ceiling of your own appeal and didn’t just fumble the best thing that was ever going to happen to you. Naoya had polished all your rough edges by sheer proximity—anyone else would’ve dropped you the second you got difficult. He’d been generous. Patient, even. Far more than you deserved. 

You look at him from the corner of your eye, not even bothering to give him your full attention. “I’m getting matcha, Naoya. What’s your problem?”

“Zenin, to you,” he corrects spitefully, turning his head away to look ahead again once he’s sure you’re looking at him. “My problem is that ya keep fuckin’ following me. Quit it already. Ain’t you embarrassed pining over someone who don’t want ya? Have some shame.”

“Whatever, Zenin,” you reply blandly, and Naoya’s lips pinch, because he doesn’t like the sound of his surname on your lips. He much rather prefers his given one. Whatever. You don’t deserve to address him by it anyway. It’s your loss. “You’re as delusional as ever. What makes you think I’m following you?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he scoffs, sharp and humorless. “It makes ya ugly.” His gaze flicks over you again because he can’t help himself, tracing down the slope of your nose, your lips—you’re wearing his favorite shade of red, he notes scornfully, another attempt at getting his attention—and then lower, lingering there. You’re not wearing the necklace he bought you anymore. His teeth grind together. “You’re always where I’m gonna be. Same places, same times—we both know it’s not a coincidence. If ya want me back so bad, try apologizing, then maybe I’ll consider giving ya another chance.”

You lift your hand to your lips to smother a laugh at his words, and Naoya inhales sharply in irritation, ignoring the barista as she places his coffee down in front of him.

“You really think everything I do has something to do with you?” you ask, and you have the audacity to sound amused. “That’s kind of sad.”

Something tightens behind his ribs.

“Sad?” he echoes with a bark of laughter. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m just observant.” His fingers curl around his cup of coffee, knuckles whitening as the heat seeps into his skin. He welcomes it. Keeps him from saying something that might give you the satisfaction of knowing your blase attitude is actually getting under his skin. He leans in just enough to get in your space, enjoying the way you finally give him an annoyed look. “You really think you’re better off like this? Walkin’ around like ya didn’t lose the only guy willing to put up with your bullshit?”

“I didn’t lose anything, Naoya,” you say with a sweet smile. “I dumped you, or has your tiny brain forgotten that little detail?”

“You—” he starts to say through gritted teeth, but you turn your back on him before he can finish, picking up your matcha and thanking the barista before leaving the cafe without another word. 

He stares after you, furious. You don’t look back once.)

—————————

Naoya thinks he should make a second thing clear: you were not the one to dump him. 

Zenin Naoya does not get dumped. It doesn’t matter what words were used and who spoke them, and it certainly doesn’t matter that you were the one to turn on your heel and leave. Facts are facts. You couldn’t have walked away from him unless he let you, and he let you, so he let you go, and therefore, he was not dumped. 

He’d already been fed up that week—the constant attitude, the way you kept pushing, asking for things he didn’t feel like giving. You were needy. You were needy, and selfish, and you always wanted more. He gives you a card to go buy yourself things with, and you want him to come with you, too. He makes sure you can take days off work without any of his uncles piping in with snide comments, and you want him to take days off work, too. He gives and gives and gives, and somehow it’s never enough for you.

The argument plays in the back of his head whether he wants it to or not. Your voice echoing, that awful expression that crosses your face when he snaps at you to fuck off and leave if what he’s giving you isn’t enough because he’s not giving you more. He remembers the way you said okay, small and quiet and very unlike you. He didn’t say anything as you left, and he wonders now if maybe you wanted him to, because you looked back at him once, and you don’t do that anymore.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t pine after anyone, much less a woman, much less you. 

Good riddance, he thinks. He was smart to let you go.

(“Whatever happened with that girl of yours, hm?” one of Naoya’s brothers asks as he sits in the boardroom with them, waiting for their father to arrive. Naoya doesn’t even know why they’re here. They’re all useless, and they never contribute anything worthwhile. It’s a waste of everyone’s time. “The… ah, shit, I don’t remember her name. The cute one who works in finance. You know who I’m talking about—the one you were gonna bring to the charity event.”

Naoya’s eye twitches. He doesn’t want to think about the charity event, and he doesn’t want to think about the dress he bought you that’s still hanging in his closet, and he doesn’t want to think about the matching necklace sitting on his dresser, and he doesn’t want to think about you.

“Dumped her,” he replies flatly.

“Really?” Naotaka, Naoya’s oldest brother, leans forward, interested. “No wonder you’ve been so unbearable lately. You were actually decent to be around when you were with her.”

Naoya finally lifts his gaze, one brow arching slightly, unimpressed. “You really gotta lot of opinions for someone barely hanging onto his inheritance, don’t ya?” Naoya notes boredly, enjoying the way Naotaka bristles.

Naotaka clearly doesn’t know how to take a hint, because he continues talking, “Relax. I’m just surprised. Thought you liked her.”

Naoya scoffs. “Liked that she knew when to keep quiet,” he says, which is a lie. You never knew when to keep quiet. You and your stupid mouth and your stupid attitude and your stupid, incredibly not funny, sense of humor. “Unfortunately, that didn’t last.” He shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, scrolling through his phone. “If I wanted a woman who needed constant reassurance and quality time, I’d get a dog. At least those are honest about it.”

Naotaka exchanges a look with one of his other brothers. “Well, if she’s fair game, then I guess you won’t mind if someone else takes a shot,” he notes casually. Naoya pauses mid-scroll. “Naohiro had his eyes on her for a while. And she’s pretty enough—nice face, nicer tits. Maybe we can make a game out of it, ‘hiro, whadya think?”

“You can’t be serious,” Naoya cuts in with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes when Naohiro starts to make a derogatory comment about how you’d look good spread on something Naoya refuses to allow him to finish saying out loud. Something hot and ugly curls in his stomach, chest tightening. Both Naotaka and Naohiro glance at each other, then at him, amused. “Ya really think you’re in my league enough to joke about my ex? She wouldn’t even look twice at either of you after having me.”

“Thought you were done with her,” Naotaka notes, eyes too calculating.

“I am,” Naoya agrees easily, “that don’t mean you get to go around embarrassin’ me by tryna pick through my scraps.”

Before Naotaka can snap something back, the door opens, and their father steps into the room. Conversation dies, and everyone besides Naoya straightens. He lets out a soft puff of air through his nose, gaze lingering on the picture of the two of you he hasn’t bothered to change from his home screen—too much work, not enough time, he tells himself—and then he locks his phone, smoothing his expression out into something unreadable, and tells himself, firmly, that whatever tightness that lingers in his chest has nothing to do with you.)

—————————

Naoya would like to make a third thing known: he does not want you back.

If he did, he would’ve done something about it by now. That’s how it works. Wanting leads to action, and he isn’t the kind of man who hesitates once his mind is made up. He doesn’t circle old decisions, doesn’t second-guess himself, and certainly doesn’t reopen doors once they’re shut, especially not for someone who walked out the way you did.

Besides, wanting you back would mean admitting something was missing—that he miscalculated in some manner, because wanting you back would mean that you mattered to him in a way that wasn’t convenient or replaceable, and that would mean he shouldn’t have let you walk away the way he did. And that’s ridiculous. First of all, Naoya doesn’t make mistakes. Second of all, you were far too much trouble. You were demanding. Difficult. Always asking for more than you’d earned. He’s not about to chase that kind of headache again.

So, the fact that he still notices your absence—in stupid ways and stupid things, like how quiet his place feels at night, or how he always expects you to come barging into his office to complain about your supervisor at lunch—doesn’t mean anything. It’s natural, he convinces himself. It’s just habit, residual noise; people don’t just disappear without leaving something behind, especially someone as annoying as you were. 

Wanting you back would be weak, and Zenin Naoya is not weak, so he doesn’t want you back.

He just hasn’t figured out why everything feels wrong without you yet.

(“What is it?” he asks coldly, not looking up from the vicious email he’s sending his uncle for screwing up another deal with the Kamos. At this rate, the company will never secure the acquisition of their subsidiary—another day wasted cleaning up other people’s incompetence. When no one immediately responds, his gaze flicks up, a loaded insult on his tongue that immediately falters when he realizes that it’s you standing awkwardly in the middle of his office. He pauses and then asks again stiffly, “What?” 

This is your first time being back in his office since the breakup, he realizes dully after a moment. When you used to come up here, you would be grinning, usually with some snack to share with him, and you’d worm your way right into his lap despite his complaints about needing to do work. He’d pretend to bristle and be annoyed, but his arms slunk around your waist, and his chin settled on your shoulder as he continued to try to get some emails out while you sat with him during your lunch break.

Now, you stand tense and awkward, gaze flitting to the side, not meeting his. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the way you hardly look at him. The way you’re standing there, like just another employee instead of something that belongs. His fingers curl against the arm of his chair, and he forces his expression into something cool and distant before it can betray him. He doesn’t like anything about this.

“Well?” he repeats, harsher this time. “You plannin’ on explainin’ why you’re here, or did ya just come to stare at the floor?”

You clear your throat. “I… am having an issue with my supervisor,” you say after a moment. You’re never quiet. Never unsure. He does not like this side of you, he decides, which is ridiculous, because he was always bitching about how you were too loud and too demanding. 

It takes a second for your words to register. Naoya blinks once, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “And you came to me?” he asks coolly, leaning back in his chair. “Whadya want, exactly? Me to file a complaint for ya?” His gaze drifts over you—dismissive, he tries to be, but can’t help the way it lingers. You have a new bracelet, and a sour thought crosses his head as he wonders who bought it for you, because it’s definitely out of your pay range. “Do I look like HR? Go cry to them.” 

Your jaw tightens, gaze flicking up to the ceiling. “They won’t take me seriously,” you finally say, voice low. “And I don’t really… know who else to go to.”

He hesitates. He doesn’t like the way that something warm settles in his chest at the idea of you still coming to him, even now, even if it is as a last resort. He also doesn’t like the way he finds himself irritated at the idea of HR blowing you off when you come to them with a problem. He tells himself that it’s because now he has to deal with it, but the lie rings hollow. 

He’s about to make a snide comment about how you still come crawling back to him, just to try to feel better about the various emotions currently warring in his brain and heart, but he pauses, teeth grinding together.

‘Why can’t you just do anything nice without being an asshole about it?’ you demanded one night, voice raised, frustrated to tears when he made snide comments after indulging your wish to go out to dinner with him. Always so needy, always wanting more. Annoying. You were so annoying. Good riddance that he’s done with you. 

Still, he bites back the commentary.

His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Who the hell is your supervisor again?” he asks after a moment. 

“Your brother, Naohiro,” you say quietly.

Naoya suddenly understands why HR isn’t going to do anything about it. Rage flares hot in his chest, a visceral snap that momentarily leaves him red-eyed and breathless. Nice face, nicer tits—Naotaka’s lazy grin and Naohiro’s voice talking about you like you’re a prize to be passed around. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he finally says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you su—” you start to ask, and Naoya takes in a sharp breath, looking away.

“I said I’ll take care of it. Go.”

You linger for a second, and Naoya hates the most that he wants you to say something, wants you to stay, but you only give him a quiet thank you—so unlike you, he thinks critically, furiously, why are you acting like this?—before turning on your heel to leave. His lips part when you open the door of his office, your name on his lips, but before he can call after you, he stops himself. The door shuts behind you, and Naoya’s shoulders slump, eyes sliding shut.

Whatever, he thinks, at least he’ll be able to enjoy putting Naohiro in his place.)

—————————

A final thing that Naoya considers worth stating outright: he does not need you.

He’s done fine without you. Better, even. Work is cleaner and quieter. Deals close. People listen.. There’s no one hovering in his office and trying to curl up in his lap like a cat when he’s busy, so he gets out more scathing emails much quicker. There’s no one tugging at his sleeve when they’re bored, even though he clearly has things to do, so he can focus on more important matters. There’s no one wanting more and more and more from him, taking time from his day that he doesn’t have to spare for silly things like errands and dinners and, worst of all, cuddling. His days run on a boring, monotonous schedule. Nothing essential falls apart in his life during your absence, and that alone should be proof that he does not need you.

He doesn’t need the noise. He doesn’t need the distraction. He certainly doesn’t need the way you used to look at him, like he’s worth something more than his last name, more than his money and inheritance. Doesn’t need the way you wanted him for him when everyone else in the world only cares about what he can do for them. Doesn’t need your smile. Doesn’t need your laugh. Doesn’t need your arms after a long day of work. 

He doesn’t need it.

He doesn’t need you. 

Good riddance.

(He had plans with you today.

Naoya stares at the date on his phone, lips curved down. He thrums his fingers against his desk steadily, foot tapping the floor a little too fast to pass as impatience. The reservation sits there in his calendar like it’s been waiting. 

He never canceled it.

He tries to tell himself that he just forgot to, but Naoya doesn’t forget things like that. He remembers numbers, names, dates, slights. He remembers you mentioning the place once, offhand, how you’d said you’d always wanted to try it. He remembers making the reservation three months ago, already annoyed at himself for giving in so easily to your whims, even though you hadn’t even asked for anything, and then never canceling it when everything fell apart.

He told himself that it didn’t matter. Canceling would be a hassle, and he’d just wait until it got closer to deal with it because he was too busy. It would’ve only taken a few seconds of his time, really, so it’s a bullshit excuse, and even if he didn’t want to deal with it, he could’ve had that runt Ranta handle it. 

The truth is simpler and far more annoying, because everything that has to do with you is always annoying: some part of him was certain that you would come back. You’d show up after a few days, cooled down, curling back up in his lap and being annoying in the way you always were, running your mouth and being annoying in the way you always were, pressing your lips to his and his cheek and his jaw and his neck and all over his face and being annoying in the way you always were. 

But you did not come back. 

You did not show up. You did not return to him and take back that annoying place you made for yourself at his side, fill the annoying space you carved out for yourself in his life. He does not come home to find you lounging in his apartment like you own the place, demanding his attention like it was something he owed you, stealing his time as if it belonged to you. 

There is a you-sized hole in his life that he cannot fill up, no matter how hard he tries. There’s no denying it anymore—he’s stubborn and prideful, but he is not stupid. Zenin Naoya has never been stupid, and he cannot deny any longer that he misses you desperately. Misses the annoying music that you play far too loud when you’re showering and he’s trying to get work done. Misses the annoying way you would smile secretly at him when you had a surprise for him and wanted him to guess. Misses the feeling of you curled up in his arms, misses the feeling of being curled up in your arms, misses you—he misses you and every annoying thing that has to do with you.

He wonders, briefly, why he was so fucking resistant to every simple thing you ever asked of him. You didn’t want grand gestures, and it was never about his money. Not about jewelry or status or his name. Not with you, never with you. You wanted time. His time. Because you wanted him. Dinners he didn’t cut short. Evenings where he didn’t keep one eye on his phone. Mornings where he didn’t already feel halfway gone before he’d even kissed you goodbye.

He rubs his face hard and slumps in his chair. 

It would’ve been easy. Embarrassingly so. He could’ve gone with you, sat across from you, let you talk, let you exist next to him without acting like it was some kind of concession. Which it never was, anyway, so what the fuck was the matter with him? What did it really cost him to take a night off? What point was he trying to prove? That he was above it all, above you, above wanting you, above needing you—how the fuck did that work out for him? He’s here three months later, still thinking about you, still hung up on you, and you don’t even care. Hardly look at him, hardly speak to him, he doubts you even really think about him anymore. 

Naoya swallows, throat tight, irritation—no, this is something else—blooming hot and directionless. You were supposed to come back. That was just how things were between the two of you. Fights happened, doors slammed, there were dramatic pauses and words flung at one another, but you’d always come back to one another. Nothing ever fundamentally changed between the two of you. 

Except this time, something had.

He rises to his feet, gaze flicking to the clock. It’s only four. You’re still here for another hour, and the reservation he made for the two of you isn’t until seven. Naoya has never been indecisive—when he realizes he wants something, he immediately sets out to make sure he gets it. He can fix it all still. He’ll get you back—swallow his pride, if that’s what it takes, because he can’t stay hung up like this anymore.  

He will fix it.)

—————————

“What do you mean she left early?” Naoya asks, mouth a bit dry as he stares at your new supervisor, the one he hired himself. The man keeps his eyes lowered, back straight in Naoya’s presence, and Naoya only finds himself growing more irritated. “The fuck d’ya mean she left early? We don’t pay people to clock out whenever they feel like it.”

Your supervisor swallows. “She put in the time,” he says carefully. “Stayed late all last week. I approved it.”

Naoya scoffs. He has half a mind to fire the man on the spot. “You approved it,” he drawls, voice dripping with condescension. “That’s generous of you. Must be nice, lettin’ people drift in and out like this is a hobby instead of a job.”

He leans back, jaw tight, irritation flaring yet again. You’d asked him for afternoons like that before—just a few hours, nothing urgent, just time—and he let you go with a wave of his hand, said he’d handle it. You’d always lingered, disappointed in a way that would piss him off, because why was nothing ever enough for you? Except, it wasn’t time alone that you ever wanted; it was time with him. You wanted him to leave with you, you wanted him to come with you to run whatever boring errands you had to run, you wanted him to join you at your annoying appointments so you didn’t have to suffer through them alone. You only ever wanted him.

He wonders, briefly, if you found someone else who will give you the time that he wouldn’t.

Suddenly, he feels very nauseous.

“Where did she go?” he asks flatly. 

The man hesitates. “I—she said she had plans. A dinner. It’s Valentine’s Day, Zenin-sama, I assumed—”

Naoya might throw up.

“Get out of my sight,” he hisses, and Naoya turns on his heel to leave the building before anyone can speak another word to him. 

If he’s fast enough, he can get to your apartment before you even leave.

He can still fix this.

Right?

—————————

Naoya is drenched by the time he gets to your apartment. That useless brat Ranta didn’t bring his car to get serviced like Naoya asked him to the other day, and he didn’t have time to wait around for one of his family’s drivers to get to work to pick him up. 

Luckily, he’s not far from your apartment building when his car decides it’s time to turn against him.

Unluckily, it is torrentially raining. 

His fist raps sharply against your door, once, twice, impatient and uneven. His clothes cling uncomfortably, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the back of his collar and onto the floor outside your apartment. This is humiliating, he realizes distantly—exactly the kind of spectacle he’s mocked others for in the past, desperate and undignified, soaked through to the bone for someone who might not even answer. Your neighbor cracks her door open at the commotion, and he shoots her a dirty look that has her instantly retreating. Then, he knocks again harder this time, like he can bully the door into opening for him.

Naoya’s pulse inexplicably roars in his ears, teeth grinding together as he tries to force himself to calm down, to get some control over himself. He already looks and feels like an idiot—he doesn’t need to act like one too.

He wonders, for a second, if he’s too late—if you’ve already left for whatever date you have planned for Valentine’s Day. The idea makes his chest tighten. Angry. It has to be anger. Because what the hell are you doing with a date already? It hasn’t even been that long. A few months, barely enough time for the dust to settle. You’re supposed to still be… recalibrating, sad. Not dressing up for someone else. 

Naoya scoffs under his breath, jaw tight. It’s not like he’s been out there either. He hasn’t needed to be. He could, easily—he’s just been busy, he has priorities. He didn’t jump into bed with the first warm body that smiled at him just because things ended. That would be pathetic. 

So what the hell are you doing?

He lifts his hand to knock again, irritation shifting into something more frantic—

—and then he hears movement on the other side of the door.

Naoya stills, heart hammering unpleasantly against his ribs.

The lock clicks, and he hears you saying, “Sorry, I know I’m late, I—” 

You cut yourself off, freezing when you realize that it’s not your date standing at your door, but Naoya. He straightens instinctively, mouth curling up into something sharp and defensive as if he isn’t standing outside your door like a wet animal with his heart in his throat and his nails biting into his palms.

“Naoya?” you breathe out, blinking once, stunned as your gaze shifts over him, taking in the sight of him, sloppy and unpresentable, hair plastered to his forehead, suit drenched and dripping onto your annoying welcome mat that you wanted to bring to his apartment a few months ago because you thought it was funny. “What are you doing here?”

You look—

Naoya exhales through his nose, and a heavy feeling settles in his stomach.

You look beautiful, Naoya thinks bitterly as he glances away. He hates it. Hates that you look put-together, that you’re already halfway out the door, that you don’t look like someone who’s been waiting. He hates that you’re wrapped up in his favorite fur coat, hates that you’re wearing his favorite red dress, hates that you’re all dolled up, and it has nothing to do with him. 

Hates especially that the sight of you like this still knocks the breath out of him.

Fuck.

“Who is he?” slips out before he can stop it. It’s ugly and possessive, technically entirely none of his business anymore. He knows that the second the words leave him, and judging by the way your brows knit together, so do you.

“That’s really not your business,” you say coolly, like he expects, fingers tightening around your keys. “Answer my question. Why are you here?”

He realized that in his frantic attempt to get to you, he never actually thought this far ahead, so he stands there dumbly, staring at you, like you can answer your own question. His mouth opens, and nothing comes out. That alone pisses him off. He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening as he drags a hand through his wet hair, eyes flicking anywhere but your face.

He finally says, far too lamely, “You left work early.”

You stare at him, rightfully taken aback as you blink at him, eyes widening slightly. “You came all this way because… I left work early?”

“That’s not—” he starts to snap, but he exhales sharply, folding his arms over his chest. Water splatters to the ground obnoxiously, and his eyes slide shut in irritation. “You had plans,” he says, and the words come out rougher than he intends. “With someone.”

He didn’t mean to say that either, but he rolls with it.

Your expression shifts, becoming more guarded. “And?” 

“And it’s Valentine’s Day,” he snaps, immediately hating how that sounds.

You stare at him for a long second, incredulous, and then you laugh sharply, shaking your head. “No. No, you don’t get to do this,” you say, looking away. “You don’t get to show up unannounced and interrogate me like this. We’re not together. I don’t owe you anything.”

The words hit much harder than he expects. Naoya’s mouth tightens, irritation crossing his face before he can stop it. “Don’t act like you—” he starts, voice snapping before he can stop it, but he shuts it down before he can finish what he was going to say, watching the tired expression cross your face as you roll your eyes. He lets out a puff of air, arms uncrossing and hands falling uselessly at his sides. “... I didn’t come to pick a fight.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I mean it,” he repeats, voice stripped of his edge. “I didn’t come to make a scene. I came because—”

He stops, because I missed you sits heavy on his tongue, useless and humiliating. Because I want you sounds even worse, and I need you to come back is something that might genuinely kill him to admit. Because the truth is a mess of pride and panic and want and need, and he doesn’t know how to shape it into something that doesn’t make him want to shoot himself on the spot.

“I thought you would come back,” he finally says, and it comes out just as lamely as the excuse did before, except this is the truth, and he can hardly meet your eyes as he speaks it. “I thought y’would fuckin’ come back. I didn’t think—”

I didn’t think I was actually losing you. I don’t want to lose you.

The words hang between you, thin and naked and nothing like the sharp little weapons he usually favors. Naoya hates how he sounds. Hates how small he feels once they’re out of him, how inadequate they are to explain the ache clawing at his ribs. He’s never felt like this before. A part of him wants to turn on his heel and leave, salvage what’s left of his shredded pride, but he knows that if he does, that’ll be the end.

You don’t respond, and Naoya’s teeth grind together, gaze flicking up to the ceiling as he pushes on to fill the silence.

“I didn’t think you were actually done,” he finishes, words scraping his throat on the way out. “I thought it’d be like it always was. You’d get mad, cool off, come back. Y’always come back. But ya didn’t, so I—” His jaw tightens again, “—I thought if I stayed where you could see me, you’d remember and come back, but that didn’t work either, and—”

“I knew you were following me, you asshole,” you accuse, cutting him off, shoving your finger in his chest. His face is hot, and he instinctively parts his lips to deny the accusation, but he bites it back with a grimace. “You never get coffee from the corner cafe. You said it tastes cheap.”

“Because it does,” he mutters, but something pleasant sinks into his chest at the way you still remember all the things he bitched about to you. “Don’t know why you like their matcha. Tastes like grass.”

You roll your eyes. “You say all matcha tastes like grass—”

“Because it does,” Naoya says again, falling back into easy banter. “Theirs just tastes exceptionally grassy.”

You snort. “You are such a fucking creep,” you tell him, and Naoya’s face flames red. “I can’t believe you were actually following me, and you had the nerve to tell me I was following you. As if you ever take time out of your day to go and get yourself coffee. You always send poor Ranta.”

“It wasn’t—” he starts to argue, but then exhales deeply through his nose. “Not in a creepy way. I wasn’t trailin’ ya or anything, I just—” He gestures vaguely, helplessly. “I knew where you’d be. And I didn’t stop myself from being there, too.”

“Creep,” you mutter again, folding your arms over your chest. He inhales sharply and looks away. “So what? I dump you, you realize I was the best thing that ever happened to you, and now you’re crawling back, begging me to give you another shot.”

Naoya’s eye twitches. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, finding a small victory in the way your eyes widen slightly when he doesn’t even deny it. “Pretty much.”

You blink. “Seriously?” you ask, voice a bit stunted. “You’re not even gonna puff out your chest and do the whole, ‘I’m Zenin Naoya, I was the one who dumped you and I don’t crawl or beg for anyone.’”

He rolls his eyes slightly at the way you lower your voice to mimic him. So fucking annoying, he thinks.

“What’s the point?” he mutters bitterly. “I already ran two miles in the fuckin’ rain to show up outside your door like an idiot. Kinda past denial.”

“Oh,” you say, too quiet.

“I miss ya,” he tells you, swallowing thickly. “All of it. Even the stuff that pissed me off. Especially that stuff.”

You look skeptical, chewing the inside of your cheek like you always do when you’re uncertain. 

“I mean it,” he insists, voice strained, nails drawing blood from his palms. “I miss the shitty music you played while I was trying to work, and I miss comin’ home and knowin’ you’d be there. Lunch is fuckin’ boring without you coming up to be with me, and I hate that I still catch myself lookin’ at the clock around noon like you’re still gonna show up. I know I fucked everything up. You just wanted me, and I want you too… Need you. I'll do it right this time.”

He finally stops talking, face hot and throat unbearably tight. The silence stretches far too long. Naoya hates it. It’s worse than being yelled at, worse than being told to fuck off. This—standing here with his chest cracked open, rainwater dripping from his suit, waiting for you to decide whether or not he’s worth giving a second chance—it’s humiliation in its purest form.

He shifts his weight, jaw tight, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. The urge to fill the silence claws at him, but he bites it back. He’s said enough—too much, even. If he keeps talking, he’ll only make everything worse. 

“Tell me to fuck off if you’re gonna,” he finally mutters, voice rough, “or yell at me. Just fuckin’—”

Say something. He can handle yelling or fighting or leaving—well, actually not that last one, and he didn’t think far enough ahead to figure out what he’d do if you actually told him to fuck off—but he can’t handle this awful in-between where everything depends on you and he has no leverage left to pull at.

“You’ll start coming with me to do groceries?” you ask after a moment, suspicious.

Naoya’s gaze finally lifts to meet yours, catching the uncertain expression on your face.

“I mean, I don’t know why ya won’t just let me order them for drop off—” Your expression starts to twist, so he rushes out, “—but yeah. I’ll come. If that’s what ya want.”

“No phones at dinner?” 

“No phones at dinner,” he agrees.

“You’ll drink my tea when I make it?”

“Don’t push it,” Naoya says automatically, then catches himself when your mouth twitches. He exhales, defeated, and grimaces as he says, “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll drink it. Even if it tastes like cat piss.”

You snort despite yourself, and the tension from Naoya’s shoulder starts to slip away. Your eyes search his face still, like you’re waiting for the catch. You finish with, “And you won’t make comments about how it’s a waste of time, or act like you’re doing me a favor just by being there.”

“If anyone’s doin’ the favor now, it’s you,” he mutters after a moment, tongue pressed against the inside of his teeth. “So—”

“No, Naoya,” you interrupt. “I mean it. It’s not doing anyone a favor. I spend time with you because I want to spend time with you. It should be the same for you, and if it’s not, then I don’t want it. Just leave, okay?”

Naoya exhales through his nose, and then he says, “It is. The same for me. It is.”

You look at him for a moment, studying him, trying to figure out if he’s being honest with you, and it almost makes him bristle, because he is being honest, even if it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. After a few moments, you shrug. 

“Alright,” you say easily. “Let’s try again then.”

Naoya’s throat feels suspiciously tight. Is it really this easy? He’s half waiting for some kind of catch, but you’ve never been this type of person. How annoying, he thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat. Why do you always make shit so easy for him? Why does he always have to be so fucking difficult? 

“Ya sure?” 

“Wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t,” you say with that annoying half-smile that he’s missed the last three months terribly. You step aside to let him into your apartment. “C’mon, you look and smell like a wet dog.”

“What about your date?” Naoya asks curiously as he steps inside, feeling so smug that the bastard is going to get stood up that he lets the insult slide right off his shoulders. 

You snort, and he gives you a frown. “I never had a date.”

“What?”

“I was meeting Shoko and Utahime, dumbass,” you say, knocking your shoulder against his.

His lips part, gaze roving over you. “Dressed like that?” he demands.

“Mhm,” you agree. “They’re gonna be pissed. They thought I was free of you at last.”

Naoya rolls his eyes, but he slips one arm around your waist, pulling you toward him until your back hits his chest. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding once you’re back in his arms, throat bobbing as he swallows, fingers pressing a bit too tight into your waist.

You yelp. “Naoya, you’re drenched, you asshole.”

He smiles easily for the first time since you walked away from him that day. It feels strange on his face, a little unpracticed. He presses his mouth to your temple anyway, eyes sliding shut as you lean back into him. He presses his nose briefly into your hair and sighs. 

“Go shower,” you tell him, elbowing him lightly. “You reek. You really did run here, didn’t you?”

“In a minute,” he hums. “Ya been depriving me of this for months, need some time to appreciate it, y’know?” 

“You’re so annoying,” you say, and Naoya thinks it’s the most hypocritical thing you’ve ever said to him, but you sink back into him, so he decides against pointing that out. “I’ll make us some tea while you shower.”

Truthfully, you are equally at fault.

A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.

As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.

So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.

Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."

So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.

The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.

But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.

No—this situation is special.

Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.

Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.

Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.

Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.

Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)

Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.

And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.

Fine.

However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived. 

Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?

There. Will. Be. Bl—

The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought. 

A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.

That’s fucking it!

Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides. 

You had to be awake. 

Not even the dead could sleep through this.

So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?

How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up? 

You’re its mother aren’t you?!

Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.

And immediately freezes.

As he expects, you’re wide awake. 

Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.

Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.

You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.

From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.

You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter. 

That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.

The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.

Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries. 

A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away. 

You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.

Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.

Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence. 

Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.

"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.

However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else. 

Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.

“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”

Nao-chan?!

The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.

You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?

It makes him sound soft. 

Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.

Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.

She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.

Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.

Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.

You snort under your breath at the scene. 

Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.

Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.

"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter. 

"Not you being the mature one, my girl."

Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.

“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in. 

Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.

Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation. 

To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas. 

Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.

Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.

Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.

However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours. 

Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.

Fuck.

Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.  

So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish. 

Or…maybe, that was just him. 

The room is getting kinda stuffy.

Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—

—like handing him Tomie.

Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her. 

Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.

Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.

Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.

Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on. 

It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture. 

“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”

Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads. 

He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring. 

Who the fuck do you think he is? 

Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.

However…

You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that. 

He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’

To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes. 

She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.

Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?

"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."

Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue. 

You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.

Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—

Big mistake.

You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.

A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.

He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.

But the feeling never comes.

Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.

“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”

You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.

He doesn't want to notice.

But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.

"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"

Nao-Nao?!

Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.

But your tone is too pure, too genuine.  

You’re just… like this. 

A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.

And that makes it all the worse.

Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.

Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.

Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer. 

As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.

There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows. 

No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.

And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure. 

The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures. 

Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.

It's obligation.

Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.

That's all.

"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.

“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’." 

His words are cutting and to the point.

“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”

You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.

Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—

Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.

"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.

“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.

Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.

“Handled, huh?”

Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.

“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”

Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing. 

Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?! 

If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—

"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."

He stiffens. 

"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat.  “...he said that?"

“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”

The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.

Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.

You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.

Why’s that?

Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.

The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.

And he is. 

Almost painfully so. 

The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name. 

It’s all too adorable, honestly.

Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.

But this type of emotionally stunted man? 

Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him. 

With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you. 

“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”

Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.

"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."

Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury. 

You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.

"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”

“Aye!” 

The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.

"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."

Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.

Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.

Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.

"...Whatever."

Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face. 

Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.

This is all fucking ridiculous.

Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.

"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."

Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya. 

The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.

Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.

Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.

"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.

“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.

"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him. 

Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.

“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."

Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.  

“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?” 

You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.

“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”

Naoya snorts. 

You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.

"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops. 

Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish. 

Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.

A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.

Another escapes, then another. 

Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton. 

Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter. 

Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile. 

"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."

Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.

“I...”

You hush him.

Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.

Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog. 

“Open.”

Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.

It's good. Dangerously good.

His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.

More—he wants more.

One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.

"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."

Naoya doesn't move.

But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.

"Go on," you simper, "...and I'll let you sample from the source... you know the proper way to feed a Zenin."

Naoya says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.

You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.

Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.

"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."

You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.

Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.

"I'm not shy."

He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.

More worth taking.

"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.

"Just a virgin then?"

Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.

"I'm no virgin, whore."

No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.

"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.

His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.

"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.

You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth. 

Shame he ever has to open it.

Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.

Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.

"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."

The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.

"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."

Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.

The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.

"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."

He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.

Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.

He nearly stops breathing.

You don't. 

Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat. 

Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.

You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.

"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."

Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.

His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.

The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.

Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A  momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.

Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.

Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.

"You wanna taste."

It’s not a question. 

"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"

But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.

Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.

This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.

His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.

Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.

"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.

Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.

Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.

"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."

Naoya freezes.

He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.

"Don't—"

Croaking on his own spit.

"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"

"I'm not a child."

But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears. 

You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.

"No?"

Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:

"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"

His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face. 

Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.

A moment passes. 

Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.

You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.

Need won. Clearly.

Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.

He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.

Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.

Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill. 

Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.

Damn. This wasn't the plan. 

You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.

You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was. 

Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.

Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.

"N-Naoya…?"

You call him, but he doesn't answer.

His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.

What this is—what he’s feeling?  It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.

Naoya rarely finds himself lacking. 

An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.

But now?

Your gentle words. 

You warm embrace.

Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to. 

Like his worth was never something he had to earn.

It's driving him mad.

Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.

“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”

Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.

Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.

Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.

You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.

"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"

That finally gets you a reaction. 

Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip. 

He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.

Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you. 

Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.

It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.

"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.

You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.

“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”

Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.

You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.

"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?" 

Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock. 

You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.

Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin. 

God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.

See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.

"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"

Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.

“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”

Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric. 

He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.

Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.

A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.

Naoya gasps. 

Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.

Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.

"L-Let me fuck y-you." 

Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.

You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.

"Mm. No."

"I need—"

Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion. 

"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.

"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.

You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.

"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."

"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut." 

But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.

"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours. 

"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."

Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.

He won't though.

Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.

"I bet you'd cum just like this…" 

Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you. 

"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."

The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.

You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.

"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."

Naoya’s eyes go wide. 

Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark. 

The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this. 

On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.

His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.

His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.

"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."

You raise a brow, waiting. 

Oh, he’s so close.

He knows it too. He knows what you want. 

Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.

"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."

You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead. 

"That’s my Good boy."

Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.

You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.

You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more. 

Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off. 

That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall. 

You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last. 

Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.

You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.

Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.

"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"

He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.

Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.

"Behave."

"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."

You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.

"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"

You don't wait for his response.

You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.

The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.

Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.

Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"

Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.

"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."

Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.

"Atta boy."

Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move. 

Shit—Not bad.

Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.

"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."

Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation. 

And yet? 

He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.

Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.

Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close. 

Fuck, already?!

“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”

Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.

"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."

Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.

The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.

Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.

Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.

"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."

You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.

"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."

You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.

"Nod if you understand."

Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.

He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.

You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.

Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.

"F-Fuck—"

You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful. 

You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.

Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.

He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.

You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.

“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.

"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.  

You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce. 

Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—

"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"

You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.

Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.

You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.

"Cum."

And he does.

With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.

You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.

All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise. 

This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.

When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you. 

A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.

His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.

He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.

It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.

Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.

You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.

And then—

A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again. 

Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.

You smile.

"Still hungry?"

He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.

You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.

"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."

"I didn't say I wanted—"

You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.

Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.

"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."

Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.

Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since. 

Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.

Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.

You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.

Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.

"You did well, Naoya."

It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.

⟡

Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.

His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.

A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger. 

He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck. 

A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.

Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.

Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.

You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.

Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.

You roll your eyes at the display. 

Give men an inch and they will always take a mile. 

You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.

Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.

"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."

Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.

You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.

"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."

A pause. Then snort.

"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."

You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.

Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.

"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple. 

Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure. 

He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.

"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."

Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.

"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."

Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.

He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.

But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.

He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.

"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."

And there it is.

Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.

"Sure."

"Anddddd, he's charging you by the ounce for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"

You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.

Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now. 

"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.

Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.

Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.

Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.

"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.

"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."

You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.

Whatever.

Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face. 

He'd just pull out next time.

Simple. Problem solved. 

It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—

...

Hold on.

What the fuck did Toji-kun mean by 'too'?

𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚋𝚕𝚔𝚔𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝 © 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹-𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼

♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol! also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here

Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next