♡ Desperate to avoid an arranged marriage with Naoya, you seek refuge in Yuuta—unaware that he may be the most dangerous curse of all, especially when he’s been secretly and hopelessly in love with you all along.♡
ft. Yuuta x reader, Naoya x reader, Sexual Content. Dark Romance. Arranged marriage.
Naoya x Reader x Yuuta (Part 3)
Warning tag: Arranged Marriage AU!, Possessive! Naoya, Love-Drunk! Yuuta, Hurt/Comfort, Dark Romance, Explicit Sexual content, Lots of Smut, Love Triangles, Unrequited Lust, Sexual Tension, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Obsessive Behavior, Yuuta is a love-struck sweetheart, Jealousy, horny sorcerers, Possessive Behavior, Pining, Possessive sex, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Cock Warming, Enemies with Benefits, Porn with Feelings, Zenin Clan Drama, Manipulation, Naoya Zenin is his Own Warning, Uncontrollable thirst for Reader, Manipulation, Thigh Riding, Cock Riding, Fucking, cock-drunk, gaslighting, HEAVY plot.
Naoya’s eyes were locked on you, drinking in every thought that flickered behind your furrowed brow — patiently awaiting the reward your ineptitude had earned him.
You hated the smugness of his expression. The faint curl of his mouth. The unbearable weight of his stare. The heat radiating from his closeness. His hand remained at your throat, broad thumb gliding up and down with infuriating leisure — a touch far too intimate to be accidental, far too deliberate to ignore. It raised goosebumps along your skin, and his smile widened in response.
“Anticipation only makes it sweeter,” Naoya murmured, deeply amused.
He licked his lips again, and your eyes betrayed you — following the motion without permission. Hypnotic. Obscenely suggestive. A shiver you couldn’t name ran through you.
“Are you enjoying the closeness, (Y/N)?” he asked, tilting his head just enough to better savor the sight of you.
“Is my fiancée taking advantage of the moment to linger near her husband?”
His warm breath brushed your lips — far too close. His grip on your wrists tightened just slightly as he tugged you upward, distracting you while his knee slid between your thighs, forcing a better angle. More invasive. Impossibly close. Your lower halfs pressed together, aligned, kissing in this new position.
“Much better,” he murmured. “Don’t you think?”
Your quick response earned you a curious look. Heat rushed to your cheeks under his scrutiny. You could feel everything— as though clothing were not part of this equation. His solid torso pressed against your breast like a relentless source of heat and uncertainty.
Your breathing humiliatingly uneven betrayed you before you could stop it.
“…You’re not my husband,” you forced out. “And I’m not your fiancée.”
A blond brow arched before he pressed his forehead against yours — deliberately invasive.
“That venomous tongue of yours,” he said lightly, “it doesn’t suit you, darling.”
He looked immensely amused. Offensively so. He was enjoying this far too much.
You wanted to silence him. To hit him hard enough to wipe that smile clean off his face. You gathered your nerve… and then—
You stood on your toes and brushed a light, barely-there kiss against his lips. Surprise flickered across his face, rendering him momentarily speechless. The kiss was brief. A taste. A ghost. Empty of intention, stripped of passion.
“There,” you said, pulling back. “Now let me go—”
His hook eyes scraped down to your mouth for a beat, then flicked back up so that he stared at you.
“So dissapointing,” he breathed suddenly, running his tongue over his lips. “If that’s how you kiss Yuta, it’s no wonder he fled the country.”
For some uknowkn reason, it stung.
Thin tendrils of irritation clawed through you, burrowing beneath your skin. You hated the feeling — hated that he put it there.
“My frigid little fiancée,” Naoya mocked.
He released your wrists abruptly, letting your arms fall… but he didn’t step away.
“Now I almost pity Okkotsu,” he continued. “Poor bastard—”
Hot ire hastily grew inside of you. Your fists clenched at your sides, and without warning — without control — you grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down to you.
Your lips collided like a spark meeting fire. The kiss was forceful. Claimed. Struck rather than given. Naoya had provoked — and you had snapped. If his lips hadn’t been pressed to yours, he would’ve smirked. Nastily victorious.
Blood rushed through your veins, adrenaline and forbidden pleasure crashing violently together. You felt his heart hammering against your chest — wild, exhilarated.
Serves him right, you thought.
You wanted to teach him a lesson — leave him aching, frustrated, blue balled and then walk away. But when you tried to break the kiss, he didn’t let you.
Instinctively, your hands shoved against his broad chest, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his yukata without thinking. But his prerogative to keep eating your mouth made him dangerously indifferent to your resistance. His other hand went for your waist, squeezing into your clothes and wrenching you impossibly closer.
“Getting cold feet, (y/n)?”
Naoya taunted between kisses. The addiction he’d developed to your lips in such a short time made even speaking a challenge — breathing properly even more so — but he managed.
What had started as a provocation twisted quickly into something far hotter. A kiss that turned into tongue and teeth and burning, scorching, melting. Fire coiled low in your stomach, guilt and pleasure erupting together in dizzying waves.
“I-…I…I’m- in c-control… h-here....”
You weren’t sure if the words were meant for him or for yourself, but the moment you said them, you knew you’d made a mistake.
His voice wasn’t breathless. It wasn’t strained. It was calm. Amused. In control.
He chuckled softly against your lips when you stifled a moan, your frantic heartbeat betraying you — telling him a very different story. One you refused to acknowledge. One that only fueled him further, fanning the flames of his arousal.
He gave you just enough space to obey — pinning you between the wall and his body while he watched you struggle to steady yourself. Your face flushed as if fevered. Eyes glassy. Hair disheveled.
The image pleased him. It spoke volumes about the power he held over you. It didn’t surprise him. He was older. More experienced. He knew exactly which strings to pull to hear the symphony he liked best.
“You think I’m going to forget to do it? You think too highly of yourself…” you snapped, heat still trembling in your voice.
He shrugged lightly, unbothered.
“It’s just that you seem so easy to rattle—” Naoya began, and you cut him off sharply.
“You don’t make me nervous, Zenin.”
He looked at you then — that sharp, cutting gaze that raised goosebumps along your skin without permission.
You refused to let him win — not more than he already had — and nodded.
Naoya’s grin was slow. Lethal and corrosive.
“Let’s test that,” he said.
His mouth drifted to your neck — hot, hovering — but he didn’t kiss you. He didn’t caress. He simply pressed his lips to your skin and breathed you in, slow and deliberate, savoring the way your breath stuttered at the mere contact.
“Such a poor liar,” he murmured.
His free hand rose to your breast and pressed — the movement not calculated, not planned, but instinctive, as if seeking proof rather than permission. The frantic beat of your heart thudded beneath his broad palm.
“I’m driving you crazy,” he said calmly. “I can feel it. Right here.”
The bluntness stole your voice. The kiss had been agreed upon — but his exploring hands were not. Yet all your indignation, all your fury, was swallowed whole by the shock.
Naoya caught your wrist in his firm grip and guided it upward, pressing your palm flat against his solid chest. He held it there, forcing you to feel the unsteady, violent rhythm of his heart — mirroring your own in its intensity.
“Feel that?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your silence spoke volumes, and the blond knew it. He had you — rapt, suspended, exactly where he wanted you.
“This,” he shared smoothly, “is how your husband’s chest should come alive beneath your palm.”
“And tell me, (Y/N)… who could possibly be more fitting for the role than me?”
He wasn’t thinking beyond the itch he needed to scratch so badly. All he felt was the heat coiling inside his loins. All he saw was your lips: parted in dumbfoundment, dry, and begging to be wetted by his tongue–
Slowly, he leaned down, intent on stealing one more taste before letting you go—
Your voice cut through the moment — firm, unwavering. You met his eyes, unflinching.
“He’s better at that than you.”
For the first time, irritation cracked through him.
“Such a poor liar,” he snapped, fingers digging into your chest. A sound tore from you — shock tangled with unwanted pleasure — yet, quickly, muffled beneath his big palm.
And then he looked at you. Really looked at you.
He tilted his head just enough for his lips to brush your cheek — not your mouth. The contact was light. Calculated. Intimate in a way that felt far more invasive than a real kiss.
“I’ll show you,” he whispered.
His palm released you, and for a split second you were certain he was going to strike—
—but his lips returned to yours instead.
Your mind screamed at you to push him away. Your body didn’t listen.
You had braced yourself for a struggle, for violence. What you received was something far worse: softness. Almost tenderness. A kiss far too gentle for someone like him. As if that moment of resistance had never been an obstacle at all. Part of his ritual.
A slow, deliberate brush of his mouth, precise, unhurried. Not exploring—confirming. Like he was tasting you for the first time and deciding that you were his favorite flavor.
His tongue slipped out like velvet, barely grazing your lips, a low hum vibrating in his throat as he traced his raspy tongue down your neck. He tasted you there, lingered, leaving careful little marks—souvenirs meant for a boyfriend who didn’t exist, a warning no one would ever receive… If he was right about your deceit. Better be safe than sorry.
You bit down a cumbersome moan, feeling awfully intoxicated by his feat.
His mouth moved with quiet confidence. Never clumsy. Never desperate. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He assumed he already had.
When he deepened the kiss, he did it by tilting you forward just enough—setting the angle, dictating the rhythm. Lips dancing at the same tune, tongues interlacing like ribbons in the air. He was dismantled you first. Then he pulled back only a fraction. Just enough to make the lack of air ache. His forehead rested against yours, breath warm, controlled, yet highly intimate.
His face hovered mere millimeters from yours, close enough that his minty breath mixed with yours—and he waited.
With a patience entirely uncharacteristic of him, he waited for your gaze to falter. For your eyes to drop. To find his shiny lips.
He wanted to see it happen—the hesitation, the confusion flickering behind your orbs. He needed to witness the turmoil this brief pause was already unleashing inside your still-fragile mind. Proof that he had moved you. That he was under your skin.
And the moment you gave him what he wanted—that single, betraying glance—he dived into your lips again.
This time with more pressure. More need.
There was no sweetness left in it. What passed for intimacy was nothing but control in disguise. This was Naoya stripped bare—raw, possessive, unfiltered. Jealousy drowning out whatever restraint he pretended to have.
Suddenly, you felt it—the unmistakable shape of something hard and thick beneath his pants, something that hadn’t been there before, pressing and grinding against your stomach in slow, deliberate intervals.
Naoya smirked, lifting a knowing eyebrow, playfully. Thrilled by the stunned haze in your lowered gaze.
He seized the opening and guided you onto his thigh, to ride him, nudging your body into position like he’d rehearsed this exact moment a thousand times.
“N-Naoya…” you breathed, barely a protest.
He silenced you instantly. “Give me three minutes,” he murmured, voice smooth and indulgent, “and I’ll show you heaven.”
As if that weren’t enough, his thigh began to move—slowly, lazily—dragging against a very specific bundle of nerves, that laid between your legs, with such cruel precision that your stomach flipped violently. It didn’t feel accidental. It felt studied.
Your clit vibrated as alive as his cock felt.
“Breathe, (y/n). I’ve got you…” he repeated, over and over, brushing possessive, almost reverent kisses along the side of your face.
“I always take care of what’s utterly… mine.”
The words barely registered before he adjusted his thigh just right— the exact angle, the exact pressure, and soon, your body betrayed you, like the dopamine seeker that it was.
You leant in closer without realizing it, pressing yourself harder against his thigh, rocking unconsciously at the rhythm of his thrusts, he noticed immediately. He always did.
Temptation sank its claws into you, warm and invasive. Being held so tightly inside his arms felt wrong—indecent—yet devastatingly good. The slick heat between your legs against his thigh made your mind short-circuit.
GOD. Fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck….
Everything blurred together—pleasure and shame, guilt and need—until your body drowned out your thoughts entirely.
Aiming to finish you, taking you hand in hand into blessed orgasm, he angled his thigh upward, locking you in place. There was no space left between you. Not even the fucking air. Just relentless, holy friction—ruinous and consuming. It affected him too. You could feel it. But he didn’t care.
All you could hear was your own heartbeat roaring in your ears, the obscene sound of your panties rubbing against his pants, and Naoya’s occasional approval—low, rough growls rasped directly against your ear; to make you shiver uncontrollably every time.
“You’re close,” he said calmly. Confident. Awfully certain. “I can feel it.”
And then you were abruptly cut off by your own gasp when a soft, dexterous heat slowly enveloped your clit. The pressure simmering inside you became unbearable. Embarrassment. Guilt. Shame. Want. Too many emotions crashing at once. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes as your mind scolded you mercilessly—while your body urged you on, desperate for the release he had promised.
You nearly combust when the spark finally reached dynamite, your body won.
You jerked and trembled, chasing the white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine and crashing back down again. You couldn’t think. You clung to him, clawing at his strong biceps for balance, shaking so violently he was half-convinced you might faint.
“Breathe,” he reminded you, amused.
“Fuck you, N-Naoya,” you gasped. Your words barely discernible.
You could’ve sworn he groaned—pleased, not offended—but the haze was too thick to be sure.
The orgasm hit like a live wire—brutal, raw, merciless—draining every ounce of strength from your limbs. Stars exploded behind your eyes. Your body shook itself empty, your panties were soaked, lips parting as a cry threatened to spill—
“No need to hold back,” he whispered. “You can sing pretty to me. I know you want to.”
He devoured every expression you made greedily, memorizing you in your ruined state with those calculating eyes.
When it was over, you sagged against his chest, panting—relieved and humiliated in equal measure. The steady drum of his heartbeat lulled you, reducing you to little more than a trembling sack of bones in his arms.
Eventually, you tried to untangle away from him on jelly, unsteady legs. You felt flattened.
You blinked up at him twice, still slouched over against the wall, underwear sticking to your juicy cunt. You slapped his hand away as well as his offer, refusing to meet his eyes. Resentful of the lively throbbing between your legs.
“Don’t. You’ve done enough.”
When he finally stepped back, it was with a faint smirk—one that suggested this hadn’t been a demonstration.
It had been confirmation.
“If Yuuta can leave you this destroyed,” he stated lightly, gaze lingering on your shaking knees, your uneven breath, your flushed skin, clearly pleased with himself, “then by all means… go to him.”
He turned and walked away without a second glance, utterly certain you’d stay exactly where he left you. Alone in the winding halls of the Zenin estate—
Not lost. Kept. Almost as kept as you would be as his wife.
Because Naoya Zenin never needed to lock doors. He only had to make sure you understood that wherever you ran, whatever name you clung to— You would always measure your freedom against his need to own you.
The classroom was flooded with light. Too much of it — the kind that made your eyes ache.
Gojo stood at the board, sketching crooked diagrams of cursed energy like they were meaningless doodles. His voice drifted in and out of your awareness, muffled, distant — like you were underwater.
“…synchronization doesn’t depend on strength,” he said lazily, chalk scratching. “It depends on intent—”
The word latched onto your mind with cruel precision. Because that was exactly what Naoya had shown you. Not force. Not urgency. Intent.
That damned second agenda of his — always two steps ahead — was as unsettling as it was impressive. The Zenin bastard had touched you like a goddamn instrument, coaxing sound from places you didn’t know could resonate.
You lost all sense of focus as the memory clung to you again, sharp and relentless, bleeding shame and guilt into thoughts that were already too crowded.
—and for a second, the classroom vanished.
You couldn’t recall his face in full, only fragments — but they were vivid in a way that felt unfair. The ease with which he’d pinned you to the wall without breaking a sweat. The brush of his mouth against yours. The pressure of his thigh, deliberate, exact — trespassing into a valley you had never offered anyone before. He hadn’t rushed it. He hadn’t asked twice. He had simply known when you would fold. Exploiting both your consent and your volatile temper.
His hands — large, assured — moving you where he wanted, twisting you like a freaking pretzel to his will, murmuring indecencies into your ear until your body betrayed you, purring like a kitten offered cream.
The memory wasn’t a picture. It was a sensation.
The sick certainty of having been read, understood, anticipated — catalogued — by that blond demon with a knowing smile.
The sharp crack of chalk against the board snapped you back.
“And you?” Gojo asked suddenly. “What do you think, (y/n)?” Gojo’s voice hit you like a gunshot.
Megumi glanced at you, brows barely drawn together. Yuji tilted his head, openly confused. Nobara watched you with a sharp, knowing half-smile.
“I asked,” Gojo repeated, resting his chin in his hand, “what would you do if your opponent stopped just before attacking?”
Your stomach tightened because Naoya had stopped. And made you feel his heart, frantic and alive, under your hand.
“This,” his voice echoed in your memory, smooth and deliberate, “is how your husband’s chest should come alive under your palm.”
Why were you thinking about that?! You prayed your face wasn’t giving you away.
“I…” Your voice came out softer than intended. “…it depends on why they stopped.”
Gojo smiled. Too knowingly.
The memory returned without permission — not the touch, not the act — but the way he had looked at you afterward. Like that single second had been enough to decide something irreversible.
The classroom was still there but your mind was elsewhere.
“You’re distracted,” Nobara muttered under her breath without looking at you. “Like… really distracted.”
You nodded, barely. Gojo straightened.
“Alright, enough theory,” he said lightly — dangerously so. “Sometimes, when someone stops—”
He strolled between the desks, hands in his pockets.
He stopped right in front of you.
Light flashed across his glasses.
“And that,” he added, “is usually the most dangerous kind.”
Because you knew the truth. It wasn’t the kiss that left you like this. It wasn’t the way he had brought you undone. It was realizing that, in that pause, Naoya had already decided you were his. And you…
You no longer knew if a lie would be enough to stop him.
The classroom sharpened back into focus but the noise in your head didn’t fade. Days passed. And you found yourself dragging another innocent into this mess: Your older brother.
An unexpected ally — but only for so long.
“I can keep making excuses for you to skip the Zenin meetings,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “But eventually, they’ll stop working.”
“I just need a little more time to figure something out!” you insisted.
He sighed. He didn’t want you anywhere near that misogynistic bastard either — but his hands were tied.
“I’ll buy you as much time as I can,” he relented. You threw your arms around him, and he laughed, ruffling your hair before asking—
“So. How are things with Yuta?”
“At least you told him the mess he’s dragged into, right?” he added with a low snicker. “Or does he even know he has a girlfriend waiting back home?”
You puffed your cheeks, embarrassed, and he laughed again, patting your head when you shook your head.
“Even if I tell him, that doesn’t mean he’ll come back from Africa,” you muttered. “It was said in the heat of the moment. Maybe it’s not even an option. Maybe he won’t agree—”
“He’d be an idiot not to.” Your brother used that tone — the serious one — but quickly dropped it, mischief lighting his face. “Or,” he added, “we could ask Panda for help. He is an endangered species. A wife might do him some good.”
For a moment, it felt peaceful. But peace never lasted long. Days turned into weeks. The excuses your brother fed them started sounding rehearsed.
Then your phone buzzed. It was from your brother.
‘Time’s up, bunny. Sorry.’
You sighed — loudly enough for a certain tall sorcerer to notice.
Gojo was erasing the board one-handed. Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji had already left. You’d stayed behind to clean — it was your turn.
You swept the floor with feigned interest, quiet and stiff, trying not to let the storm in your head show.
“Good news?” Gojo asked without looking at you.
You pressed your lips together.
“Nothing to report, sensei.”
He sighed — just as heavy.
“You’ve been like this for days.”
“It’s not exhaustion,” he continued casually. “Not stress either.”
Anticipation, you thought, glancing at him.
“Since when are you so observant?”
Gojo smiled — not the playful one. The dangerous one.
“Since you stopped looking me in the eye whenever I mention the Zenin.” His blue gaze locked onto you, and you shifted your weight nervously. “…a particular blond Zenin.”
You wrinkled your nose; eyes fixed on the broom you were gripping far too tightly — as if the dirty floor was suddenly fascinating.
“You’re not telling me something,” Gojo said, tilting his head, trying to read you even with those prodigious eyes. “And that’s new.”
You crossed your arms. “It’s not your problem, sensei.”
He sighed, pulling his glasses off briefly to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“When my students say that” he said dryly, “they usually end up dead two chapters later.”
He walked toward you — firm but gentle. Strong, but comforting. Like him.
“I won’t force you,” he said. His hands settled on your hunched shoulders, and despite his height, he leaned down until his forehead bumped lightly against yours — playful, then serious. “But I will move my pieces.”
Your eyes widened, meeting that sky-blue gaze — one that now held not only concern, but determination. Gojo smiled — far too confident — before pressing a loud kiss to your forehead and straightening, adjusting his glasses.
“The ones I should’ve moved a long time ago.”
<-PREVIOUS CHAPTER / COMING SOON PART 4->
🔞--> Spicy artwork for this chapter 👅
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