Levi Ackerman simp. Smut lover. Sonamy shipper.

⟢ At first, Naoya is frankly displeased that the stylist he requested is a woman. He demanded the most in-demand senior stylist at the salon with the most prestigious client list, and lo and behold, you were the one who appeared.

⟢ “You’re the senior stylist?” he asks, with thinly-veiled condescension. It’s not that he doesn’t think a woman isn’t suited to serve him professionally. He just doubts your abilities and makes it clear he’s going to be scrutinizing your every move. If you somehow prove excellent at your job, well, he’ll ultimately tolerate you. For pragmatic reasons, obviously.

⟢ There’s a very transparent evaluation phase he puts you through where he tests your competence. And to his mild surprise, you are as good as your reputation suggests.

⟢ You handle his consultation with the right mix of confidence and deference. You treat him the way a VIP client ought to be treated. And you don’t waste his time.

⟢ Turns out, you do actually know what you’re doing. It doesn’t hurt his pride to admit that. Naoya can concede that it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for a woman to be good at styling hair.

⟢ It takes a handful of visits, but eventually he’s got standing appointments booked with you for months in advance. He’s stingy with his praise. When he does compliment you, it’s arrogantly framed. “Don’t want someone else to butcher it.”

⟢ You have clients who like to yap, some who you can even chat with like you’re lifelong friends. Others are practically silent. Naoya Zenin likes to listen to himself talk.

⟢ Mostly, he talks at you about things you find inane. He likes to humblebrag and name-drop and complain about people he finds incompetent. He enjoys having a captive audience and thrives on being listened to.

⟢ In the beginning, you respond when you need to and mostly stick to the professional salon service script: “Would you like another drink?” “Is this temperature okay?” “Can you tilt your head a little?”

⟢ Meanwhile, you’re internally rolling your eyes at the stuff he says. But you’re a professional, so you know how to handle difficult clients and just let him talk without directly challenging him.

⟢ Instead, you remember certain details he mentions for his next appointment and try to anticipate his needs and preferences. As a result, he’ll keep talking because he assumes you’re impressed by him (like everyone else).

⟢ Eventually, deep down, some part of Naoya realizes he’s fallen into a bit of a trap. Namely, if he manages to cross a line or burn that bridge, he’d be losing your services. And sure, he could go out and find a new stylist, but you already know his exact bleach formula, he’d have to explain his hair history to someone new, and he’d be taking a chance on that somebody overprocessing his hair and making him look bad for weeks.

⟢ It’s not him making excuses; it’s just not ideal in the slightest. And to be honest, it scares him a little straight.

⟢ So, Naoya keeps it to himself whenever you shows up to his appointments looking especially slutty. He honestly wonders how your boyfriend lets you out of the house like that. Plunging necklines, body-hugging tops, tight little pencil skirts.

⟢ You’re obviously not wife material for a Zenin, not dressing like that. But that’s not necessarily a reason why he can’t appreciate the view. Neither is the fact that you’re taken. It’s really just that he’s not sure if you’re one of those sensitive women who can’t take a joke or would get all up in arms about a misplaced comment.

⟢ Thing is, though, you’ve got eyes. It’s hilariously easy to tell, despite his best efforts, when Naoya is pretending not to ogle your tits through the gap in your blouse as you lean forward to check his roots.

⟢ You never comment on it because, as sad as it is to admit, you’ve had more egregious clients in the past—creeps who got grabby or tried to follow you to the station that had to be outright banned from the salon.

⟢ Plus, if you’re being honest, you actually finds Naoya a little entertaining. You’ve long gotten used to being little more than professional wallpaper for the rich and spoiled, so Naoya’s particular flavor of pretty-boy entitlement isn’t the worst you’ve had.

⟢ He may be arrogant, but he tips well and (most importantly) always, always books through you, no matter how many weeks in advance. He’s loyal to his own convenience, which, for a stylist, is as much as one can hope for.

⟢ As months go by, the dynamic between you starts to actually get more familiar. It’s not friendly, exactly, but it is dry and comfortable.

⟢ Naoya lets this happen because you seem to know where to draw the line still. You’ll insert a few remarks while you work like, “Your hair grows fast. You shouldn’t have waited so long this time.” And he’ll throw out a comment like, “What is it your boyfriend does again? He ain’t a bum, is he?”

⟢ You learn quickly that he enjoys these little jabs and expects you to volley back. “He’s a bartender. I think that counts as a real job.”

⟢ “Tch. As long as he ain’t living off your tips.”

⟢ Things go on like this for a while, and it just works.

⟢ Then, about a year and a half after going blond, Naoya gets the phone call from the salon. It’s the receptionist calling very apologetically to say his appointments from here on out will have to be switched to a new stylist. At first, he can only pause silently as the words process. Then, he tersely asks why.

⟢ “She’s leaving. Personal reasons,” the receptionist tells him nervously. Typical of a high-end salon to keep things vague. But it’s not good enough for Naoya.

⟢ “She sick or somethin’? When is she coming back?”

⟢ Again, the receptionist demurs. So, Naoya hangs up and makes his way to the salon to find the answers himself.

⟢ The receptionist blanches a little when she sees Naoya striding in just before close. He ignores the nervous little bow she offers and is halfway through the salon already before she can even protest, scanning for signs of you.

⟢ The receptionist is sputtering behind him, trying to keep up, but Naoya’s not about to let some flustered desk girl slow him down. He wants answers, and he plans on getting them.

⟢ The first thing he notices when he reaches the back is that the lights are on in the private room in the back. He doesn’t knock. He just swings the door open and is immediately greeted by the sight of you sweeping up after your last client.

⟢ You’re not in your usual form-fitting clothes, instead opting for a baggy sweatshirt and modest skirt. Your feet are clad in an old beat-up pair of tennis shoes rather than the customary heels, and your hair is down today, a little messy.

⟢ You look up, a bit startled before quickly recognizing him, and offering the receptionist a small smile. “It’s alright, Ichika. You can close up. I’ll finish here soon.”

⟢ The receptionist hesitates, but she seems relieved to have an excuse to bolt. Her heels click quickly away down the hall, and then it’s just the two of you in the quiet, fluorescent-lit room.

⟢ Naoya’s not used to seeing you like this. No lipstick, no cleavage, no tight skirt. He stares for a bit as you lean the broom against the counter and dust your hands off with his brows drawn together, as if trying to reconcile this version of you with the one he’s used to. "Didn't know they let you dress like that here.”

⟢ You reply in a tone that somewhat betrays your exhaustion that, if you’re being honest, you prefer to dress comfortably like this. “It was my boyfriend who wanted me to dress like that all the time. Well, ex-boyfriend now.”

⟢ Naoya continues to stare from where he’s still standing in the doorway, not quite understanding. But then, it clicks. “You’re quitting this place ‘cause of that idiot?”

⟢ You cough and look away, carefully explaining that you’d been dumped and kicked out of the apartment. “I’m staying with a friend for now, but I can’t impose forever. I’ll be moving back in with my folks in Inabe.”

⟢ Naoya scoffs. “So, that’s it? You’re just ditching your whole client list and running home?”

⟢ You laugh and try to sound breezy as you reply. “It’s not like I have a choice. I can’t afford Kyoto rent on my own, not without someone to split it with. And the commute would be insane. That’s just how it goes sometimes.”

⟢ Naoya’s livid. In his mind, you’re throwing away something valuable—your position, your clientele—and sacrificing status for personal feelings. Now, he’s just expected to lose someone who knows how to handle his shit? Whose expertise he’s come to depend on? It’s unacceptable.

⟢ He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Were you even going to tell me personally if I never came in? I always knew that guy was a damned loser, and now, it’s directly inconveniencing me.”

⟢ You can’t help but bark out a laugh at that. Because of course, he’s more concerned with how your breakup affects him. “You’re not the only client who’s upset. Anyway, I left your bleach formula in your client notes for whoever takes over.”

⟢ He really goes off on you after that. “I ain’t risking some random turning me orange. Didn’t I tell you not to let that bitch bum off your tips? Maybe if you listened, you could afford your own fuckin’ place. It ain’t enough that he made you dress like a damn whore all the time but now he gets to screw you over, too?”

⟢ Your annoyance flares. You don’t hold back on your retort and match his energy, because how dare he speak to you that way? “I didn’t hear you complaining about how I dressed while you were in my chair, staring at my tits! Besides, I’m not gonna beg him to take me back just because you want me to touch up your hair.”

⟢ Naoya just sneers down his nose at you. He can’t believe he wasted all that energy holding himself back just to avoid accidentally offending you, and now, he feels like it barely matters since you’re leaving anyway. So, he doesn’t bother filtering himself. “I don’t want him to take you back, moron. And if you must know, I prefer you like this. That dumbass ex of yours was actually stupid if he got off letting other men look at what should’ve been his.”

⟢ You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm with some mix of irritation and something else. “Oh, so now you’re gonna tell me how a woman should dress huh? Well, save it. It’s not your business anyway.”

⟢ Naoya presses forward confidently, until you have no choice but to back into the counter. “I’m just sayin’,” he drawls. “That guy clearly didn’t know what to do with you.” His eyes rove over your form without shame, and you can practically feel the weight of it on your prickling skin. “I mean, he was really okay with you being around real high-status men?”

⟢ You scoff. “What, like you?”

⟢ Naoya’s grin is sharp and mean. “Damn right. I wouldn’t trust you around a guy like me.”

⟢ Stubbornly, you lift your chin, but your fluster is painfully obvious even under the shitty fluorescent lights. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not my boyfriend, then.”

⟢ He laughs lowly and leans in until you can smell his expensive cologne and the faintest trace of salt. “If you were mine,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t let anyone else get within a mile of you.”

⟢ “That sounds exhausting,” you huff, trying to keep your voice from wavering. “I don’t need some jealous freak breathing down my neck.”

⟢ His hand comes up deliberately, and tugs at the hem of your sweatshirt. “You’re full of shit. You like it.”

⟢ You bat his hand away out of reflex, but it’s a weak motion with barely any conviction behind it. Naoya’s standing so close now that you have to tip your chin up to meet his eyes. He clicks his teeth.

⟢ “You’re not denying it.”

⟢ Your pulse patters a little faster. “Maybe I just put up with it because you tip better than the other creeps.”

⟢ He smirks, shifting his hand under the sweatshirt and splaying it wide over your bare stomach. "Don't kid yourself. If that was the case, you’d have gotten me banned already. You could, if you wanted to.”

⟢ Fuck, he’s right. You can’t even argue, and he knows it. The next thing you know, Naoya’s on you, one hand on the back of your neck, roughly tilting you as his mouth crashes against yours.

⟢ It’s actually shameful, realizing how much you wanted this. How much you wanted the distraction from your whirlwind of emotions, the rough handling, Naoya himself.

⟢ You suck in a startled gasp, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding in greedily. He takes from you demandingly, pinning you against the counter’s edge until you have nowhere to go. Your hands move on their own, curling urgently into the front of his shirt.

⟢ “Knew it,” he breathes smugly before tearing your sweatshirt up over your head and making short work of the bra underneath. Fuck, he’s been dreaming about your tits for months, and now that he’s got them bared in the harsh light, they’re even better than the fantasy. “You got pretty tits, ya know that?”

⟢ It’s honestly unbelievable, how perfect they feel in his hands, soft and perked to attention from the cool air. Naoya doesn’t waste time easing into it, harshly palming your breasts, flicking his thumb across the nipples until they stiffen tight. He likes the way you gasp and squirm as he teases you mercilessly, giving your nipples a sharp little twist just to hear you squeal. “You’re a sensitive little thing, ain’t you? Guess your ex wasn’t giving you what you need.”

⟢ You can barely bite out a breathy, “Asshole,” before he ducks his head and closes his mouth around one nipple. Naoya rolls your other nipple between his fingers while sucking hard, teeth scraping. You’re almost certain he’s not even concerned with making you feel good; he’s playing with your tits for his own pleasure, not yours. But fuck, you’re wet already, heat pooling between your legs, and throbbing hard.

⟢ Naoya’s greedy as hell and fixated, biting at the soft flesh until you’re arching into him, sucking hard enough to leave marks. It’s almost agonizing how good it feels.

⟢ Just when you think you can hardly stand it anymore, he’s dragging you off the counter by the hips and toward the chair. Skirt hiked up haphazardly around your thighs, he settles you atop his lap, straddling his legs, only to continue his assault on your chest once it's closer to eye-level with him. His tongue lashes your nipple as you grasp his shoulders, keening and mewling at the sensations.

⟢ “Fuck, these fucking tits,” Naoya groans, shoving his hand between your thighs and hooking his fingers into your panties to yank them aside. You shudder as he slides his digits through your folds. “Your pussy’s already this soaked?”

⟢ He grins as he works you between your legs, using your own slick to stroke along your slit and circle your clit. When he shoves two fingers into you, he does it without warning, and your thighs spasm around his hand, face flaming. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re tight. Bet your ex never made you drip like this.”

⟢ You can only moan needily, clinging to him as he fingers you. The stretch is thick and perfect, exactly what you’re starved for. Naoya fucks his fingers in deep, chuckling at how you grind down against him, chasing that friction while he’s still got you by the tits.

⟢ He wants to see them bounce while you fuck yourself on his cock. He can’t help it. The idea nearly makes him delirious. He’s already hard, straining in the front of his expensive slacks, cock pulsing every time you moan or writhe against his hand. “Look at you, making a mess all over me. You want it so bad, don’t you? Like a needy little slut.”

⟢ Naoya all but rips open his belt and zipper and pulls his cock free. You practically choke at the sight of it, thick and flushed and already leaking. He fists it, gliding the head through the abundant wetness of your arousal. “C’mon, let’s see if you ride as good as you moan for me.”

⟢ He lines himself up and tugs you down without ceremony, making you sink onto him in one brutal stroke. The stretch is so intense and searing, all you can do is gasp and wriggle on top of him, nails biting into his shoulders.

⟢ Naoya grunts, eating up the sight of you split open and trembling on his cock. “Stop squirming and take it. Fuckin’ take all of it.”

⟢ Your hips move on their own, despite the burn, despite the all-encompassing fullness. You bounce on his cock like a woman possessed, making the blunt head of his cock drag against a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

⟢ “Oh, look at you. Panting like a bitch in heat. You really need it, huh? Acting like you don’t want a man bossing you around, but you love it. Can feel you clenching on my cock.”

⟢ His eyes are glued to your tits as your body rolls desperately over him, watching them jostle with every slap of skin. He kneads them and pushes them together just to watch the soft flesh spill between his fingers.

⟢ “Mmnh, fuck.” You finally find your voice, feverish from the sweet overstimulation. “You’re such a dick.”

⟢ Naoya just grins up at you wolfishly and slaps your tit. His palm cracks against the sensitive flesh, making you yelp. Your back arches, the sting blooming and radiating straight to your core. He drinks in the shock and pleasure mingling in your expression and does it again, harder this time, enough to make you whimper.

⟢ “Shit, you like that, don’t you?” he rasps. “Knew you’d be good. Bet you want me to mess you up, yeah? Want me to ruin you for anyone else?”

⟢ You groan and ride him harder. The chair creaks beneath you, and the room turns cramped and torrid. Your movements drive his cockhead into that delicious, spongy spot inside you over and over again, working in tandem with the ache of Naoya’s teasing.

⟢ When your orgasm slams into you, you nearly sob as a blinding rush of pleasure floods you from the inside out. Your cunt cinches so tight around Naoya’s cock it rips a long groan from his throat. “Holy shit—oh my god, Naoya—fuck—”

⟢ “Yeah, that’s it,” he goads in response. “Squeeze my cock just like that.”

⟢ He grabs your hips then and starts thrusting up into you before you can even come down from your climax. “Where do you want me?”

⟢ “Inside,” you answer deliriously. It’s safe, but it’s still absurdly inappropriate. Though, you figure that particular ship has sailed. “Want you to come inside.”

⟢ Naoya laughs. “Yeah? That’s what you want, huh? Want me to fill you up like a good little whore. Then, you better work for it.”

⟢ You whine but comply on instinct, resting the weight of your top half against him for leverage so you can bounce your ass against him. You fuck your swollen little cunt on Naoya’s steel-hard length with as much strength as you can muster as he watches you, pleased.

⟢ “Ngh, good fuckin’ girl. God, just like that. You got it in you, huh? Knew you’d fuck yourself stupid if I gave you the chance.”

⟢ You moan loud enough that if anyone was left in the salon, they’d definitely hear, slamming down on him with abandon. When your thighs are so sore from riding him that you’re not sure how much longer you can hold on to the rhythm, Naoya buries himself deep and cums in you with a broken swear.

⟢ You collapse in relief against his chest and shiver on top of him as he empties himself inside in thick, hot pulses. He lets you stay there while his breaths come in ragged, enjoying the feeling of your tits pressed to him. The moment either of you moves, he knows the mess between your legs will start to leak, so for now, he keeps you crushed to him, rubbing circles into the sore flesh of your ass.

⟢ “You’re bein’ underpaid here, ya know,” he says eventually. “This place ain’t paying you enough if you’re their best stylist.”

⟢ You look at him, surprised. He’s let his head tip back, exposing the corded muscle of his throat and the beautifully sharp line of his jaw. Naoya peers down at you and raises one well-groomed brow. “Why do you care?” you ask.

⟢ “Don’t worry about it. Just find an apartment here in Kyoto. You can start charging me double if you want. I don’t care.”

⟢ You let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re ridiculous. You’re only saying that because you don't wanna risk getting stuck with someone who’ll make you look like a cantaloupe.”

⟢ “Don’t test me,” he warns. “If you leave, what’re you gonna do? Give perms to old ladies in the countryside? I’ll hunt you down in Inabe myself.”

⟢ You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to laugh again. He’s completely insane. You’re too wary to delude yourself into thinking Naoya Zenin would want you to stay out of any real kindness or sentimentality. At best, he thinks he can throw money at an inconvenience and make it go away. At worst, he wants to keep you around as a fucktoy. And fuck if you can’t even decide if you mind one bit…

Being Zenin Naobito’s second wife is easier than you expect.

He wants nothing to do with you for the most part. You’d been upset with your father for selling you off to a man who was nearly twice his age, and part of a clan that tends to treat women as servants at best and objects at worst. You’d braced yourself for a life of cruelty and abuse, counting down the days until the old man croaked before you even met him once, but instead, you are met with absence. 

Naobito doesn’t seek you out often. You have separate bedrooms in the same wing of the estate, but he rarely crosses the threshold of yours. The first night, you sit awake long after the servants leave for the night, back straight, listening for footsteps that never come. The next morning, his servants wake you for tea and bring you to his quarters, where he is already seated by the open shoji, morning light cutting clean lines across the tatami. He doesn’t look at you for a long while, reading through a stack of papers, so you kneel where indicated, proper distance, proper angle, eyes lowered. 

“Sleep well?” he asks.

It almost catches you off guard. You answer carefully, “Yes, Zenin-sama. Thank you.”

He hums, neither pleased nor displeased, still not looking at you. “Good.”

And that is all, and that is how it stays. Some mornings you are summoned, some mornings you are not. When you are, he asks you something small. Did you sleep well? Are the attendants sufficient? Do you need warmer clothes for the winter? You answer, he nods, and the conversation dissolves. For the most part, Naobito pretends you don’t exist, and you prefer it this way, until you start to realize his indifference is beginning to cause problems.

He does not visit your bedroom at night—not once, and everyone knows it. The servants know, the elders know, the whole clan knows, but most importantly, your father knows. Letters begin arriving before the first frost fully settles, written in his stiff, formal hand. Polite inquiries at first about whether you’ve adjusted well, and if the clan is treating you properly, and if the clan head has expressed satisfaction.

You know what he’s really asking: Are you pregnant yet?

Your father did not sell you off simply to place you in a prestigious clan. He sold you to secure blood—to tie his lineage to the Zenins permanently. A grandson with the Zenin name and your clan’s blood would have cemented alliances and ensured influence over Jujutsu society for decades, but Naobito makes no move toward that outcome, and the longer he doesn’t, the louder the silence becomes. 

Eventually, the rest of the clan starts to whisper.

“Too young to understand the weight of this household.”

“Younger than all of his sons.”

“A child in silk playing wife of the clan head.”

You try not to let yourself be bothered. You’re not a child, you’re an adult, and you have spent years learning everything you possibly could about the Zenin clan in preparation for an eventual marriage into the main branch. Learning is not the same as living, but you have been quick to adapt to their everyday life. And yet, it’s still not enough for them—your hands are too smooth, your face too unlined, you have not learned to carry yourself with the practiced balance of demurity and authority the way the rest of the women of the clan have learned through years and years of experience. 

You think that if Naobito had taken you to bed immediately, if rumors of pregnancy had begun circulating within the first month, your youth would have been framed as fertility or strategy, at the very least. Then, maybe, there wouldn’t be so much doubt. Instead, you remain untouched, and untouched means unnecessary. 

Unnecessary means can be annulled.

The clan begins testing you in quieter ways, trying to find reasons to bring this sham of a marriage to an end, so the Zenins are not tied to a lesser clan through a useless girl. An aunt questions your knowledge of clan history during a meal, voice sweet as poison. A cousin asks about your cursed technique with faintly mocking curiosity. An elder’s wife comments on your “inexperience” with a veiled jab. It infuriates you, but all you can do is smile and let it slide off your shoulders, because anything else would be a display of weakness that you can’t afford to show in front of these hyenas.

His sons are the worst. Eight of them—even the youngest is almost five years older than you are. They make no effort to hide their disdain. 

The eldest barely acknowledges you at all, offering the bare minimum of courtesy required by etiquette. He bows shallowly and addresses you formally when necessary, never lingering around too long. 

The middle sons are more blatant—they test you the same way the elders do. One asks for tea and critiques the temperature, another corrects your tone and phrasing in front of clan elders, voice mild but eyes bright with anticipation. They ask you questions they already know the answers to, questions that you shouldn’t know the answers to, waiting for you to slip up, but you don’t. You kneel properly, answer evenly, and when corrected, you thank them, even if the words taste bitter on your tongue. You’re only able to take joy in the fact that it infuriates them that they can't seem to force you into making a mistake.

It’s the youngest who is the issue. Naoya. Golden-eyed and sharp-mouthed, all pride and casual cruelty. He looks at you the same way one looks at a new toy, grinning easily, standing far closer than propriety demands. It makes you livid—he’s the only one of the eight who manages to get under your skin—and you think he knows it from the way his eyes glitter every time he approaches you.

“Good morning, okaasan,” he says lightly, tilting his head in a mockery of filial respect. He and his brothers never get along, but two of them snort at his words now. Clearly, they’re only united when it comes to their disdain for you.

“Good morning, Naoya-kun,” you answer with a thin smile, inclining your head just the right amount. If he’s going to drop the formality, you can as well without it being considered improper. His gaze flickers briefly with irritation, but it smooths out too quickly into that lazy, infuriating smile. 

He steps closer, reaching out to trace the inside of your underlayer, knuckle brushing against your bare collarbone. Your breath hitches, eyes widening slightly as your gaze snaps up to his face. It’s an intimate gesture, wildly improper, but there’s nowhere for you to back away. His finger slides lower, lower, dangerously close to skimming the swell of your breast.

“You’re wearing it too high,” he finally says, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “It makes ya look younger. You’ll never be taken seriously if ya present yourself like a child… Or is that the point? Should be more careful who ya let around ya, okaasan. Not everyone wants what's best for you like I do, y’know?”

You don’t answer, trying not to swallow the lump that suddenly forms in your throat as you look up at him. Your gaze shifts over to your attendants, who stand a short distance away, heads bowed just a little too deeply. One avoids your gaze entirely, and the other shifts her weight, nervous. You look back at Naoya, and his lips curve up into a satisfied smile when he realizes you understood what he was getting at. He steps away, finally putting proper distance between the two of you

“Adjust your collar,” he adds casually over his shoulder as he walks away. “You’re a wife, not a daughter.”

After that, he becomes relentless.

He calls from the training yard, “Okaasan, will ya watch me train today?” when he sees you passing by on the engawa, eyes lidded, lip curling up into a smug smile when he sees the way your gaze drifts down to his bare torso as he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. You continue on to where you were going without letting your attention linger too long, and if you find yourself exceptionally frustrated that night—well, that’s no one’s business but your own.

When his father is in earshot, he asks, “Am I gonna have a younger brother soon, okaasan? I’m so bored of being the youngest, y’know?” He ignores the side-eye that Naobito casts in his direction, raising his eyebrows at you as he waits for a response. You don’t give him one—you know better than to speak when in your husband’s presence. If there’s something for you to say, then he will say it for you. He does not say anything, which only serves to worsen your standing in the clan. Naoya knows this from the way his lips curl up into a smug smirk. 

“Okaasan, does the old man visit ya often?” he asks you now, standing much too close to you. You can feel his chest brushing your back, his fingers grazing your hips as he leans in. His lips press against your ear, and you shiver slightly when he purposely lets his breath drag hot and slow against the shell of it. “Y’must get so lonely, okaasan. I can keep ya company, if ya want.”

Your eyes widen, gaze flicking around to make sure that no one can see the two of you, but you’d gone out to the garden to watch the sunset alone. This stretch of the garden is deliberately secluded, bordered by high stone walls and thick clusters of camellia. At this hour, the servants have withdrawn to prepare the evening meal, and the training yard is distant enough that not even the sound of sparring carries. You are alone—sans Naoya—and you know that it is intentional.

Naoya hums lightly, undeterred by your silence. He lowers his face, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck before he inhales deeply. “Y’smell different today,” he murmurs. “Rose?”

“This is inappropriate,” you say stiffly, but your breath catches when he presses his lips against your pulse point, tongue dragging across it as though trying to lap up the oil you’re wearing. “Naoya—”

He exhales through his nose, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Inappropriate,” he echoes, and your lips part in shock when he kisses slowly up your neck. “Okaasan, you’re lonely. Everyone knows it. The old man don’t touch ya. I’m just tryna help.”

Naoya’s mouth drags across your skin, wet, open kisses that set your skin ablaze. Your head feels dizzy, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing properly, suddenly very aware of how shallow each inhale is—you’ve never been touched like this before. Every brush of his mouth is unfamiliar and overwhelming. The warmth of it, the pressure against your skin, the way his tongue drags against you and his teeth graze your skin. Your knees feel unsteady beneath you.

You should push him away. 

You know how this ends if you’re caught in the garden with someone other than your husband like this—with Naobito’s youngest son, nonetheless. The marriage will be annulled, you will be shamed, cast out from Jujutsu society, and disinherited by your father for humiliating the clan and insulting the Zenins.

You don’t.

“You’re wasted,” he murmurs. “All dressed up, all quiet, all proper. And he ain’t even look at ya. Y’know what I would do if I got ya as my wife?”

You exhale, lashes fluttering when you feel his palm slide from your hip to flatten against your abdomen, pulling your back flush to his chest. You feel something hard pressing against your ass, and Naoya lets out a low moan into your skin, and your breath catches when he drags his palm down your body, slipping his fingers into your kimono. You need to stop this, you think desperately, but your head falls back against his shoulder, eyes wide, heart racing as his fingers slide against your panties, hips instinctively rocking against him.

“Lookit ya,” he breathes out. “Fuckin’ drenched, and I ain’t even barely touch ya. It’s fucked up, him takin’ ya all for himself when the old fuck ain’t even know what to do with ya anymore. When’s the last time y’got yourself off, okaasan? Bet you’re so pent up. Lemme help ya. I’ll make ya feel real good.”

“Don’t—don’t call me that,” you spit out, flustered, hand dropping down to wrap around his wrist, but you don’t yank his hand away the way you should. You feel Naoya smile crudely against your skin, his other arm coming up to snake around your chest, holding you close to him. You’re letting this go way too far. “Naoya, we—”

“You’re right,” he agrees, kissing up your neck, and you bite down hard when he rolls your earlobe between his teeth, hand groping at your chest, thumb rolling over your clothed nipple. “Betcha hate when I call ya that. You’re young enough to be my little sister. Hah, bet you’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Callin’ me nii-chan instead of me callin’ ya okaasan.” 

“What?” you gasp, head all foggy, not even fully sure what he’s rambling about anymore with his hands and lips all over your body. This is so dangerous, you think, tears stinging at your eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away or even tell him to stop. It’s like your body has a mind of its own, hips rocking against his hand, head lolled back against his shoulder. Your tongue feels heavy as you force out, “We—we can’t do this. Naoya, you need to—”

“Quit whinin’,” he mutters, and you’re barely able to bite back a pitched noise when he slips his fingers beneath your panties, dragging them between your wet folds. Your heart is pounding, and your ears are ringing—your whole body prickles as heat curdles low in your stomach. “We both know I’m only given’ ya what ya want. See the way ya be lookin’ at me when ya think no one’s payin’ attention. How many nights have ya gone to bed with your hand between your thighs, princess?”

None, you want to snap, just to be spiteful, even if it is a lie, but your breath hitches into something small and helpless when he stops moving his fingers. You rock your hips instead, desperate for friction, and he huffs out a laugh against your skin, dragging his tongue up the curve of your neck before sucking at the underside of your jaw.

“See?” he murmurs. “You’re the one movin’, okaasan.”

Tears blur your vision, breath ragged, shame and desire twisting together until you can’t separate them. This is wrong, you think desperately, this is ruin. If anyone sees, if anyone hears… Your father’s face flashes through your mind, the elders, the servants, your husband—Naoya’s father. You can’t afford this, you can’t, and yet, your hips rock again, and you can barely bite back a whine when the tip of his finger presses against your cunt, circling your hole but not pushing in.

“He ain’t ever gonna touch ya like this,” he continues, nipping at your pulse. “He ain’t even look at ya, but I do. I look at ya. Every day. He don’t know how good he got it. If ya were my wife, I’d have you spread open and stuffed full of cock every night. This pretty little head of yours ain’t have to worry ‘bout anything but keepin’ your cunt wet and ready for me.”

He sinks two fingers into you, and you choke over a relieved sob—that awful, humiliating relief of being wanted so openly it leaves no room for doubt. God, you’ve been craving this for months. All the time you spent dreading having to share your bed with his father, bracing yourself for duty and obligation—you hadn’t realized how much worse neglect would feel like. The ache between your legs that your fingers could never ease, the emptiness of not being wanted by the man who calls himself your husband, and the mortification of everyone knowing. When Naoya moves inside you now, the relief is so intense that it almost feels like pain for a split second.

“That’s it.” You hear him coo, hand sliding up to cover your mouth, muffling the lewd sounds that spill from your lips as he fucks his fingers deep inside of you, thumb circling your clit as his fingers plunge in and out of you. “C’mon, okaasan, sing for me.”

Your thighs are shaking so badly that you can’t even hold yourself up—one of his legs slides between yours to keep you standing, weight heavy in his arms. You can’t breathe, you can’t even think. This is so messed up, it’s so—

Your eyes roll back when Naoya’s fingers drag against that spongy spot deep inside you, body tensing before you cum hard on his fingers with a muffled whine of his name. There are tears streaming down your cheeks, a prickly sensation spreading through your limbs. Your lungs burn, shallow breaths hardly reaching them, and your nails drag weakly against Naoya’s wrist, desperate for leverage. 

You feel him laughing against your neck as he slows the thrusts of his fingers, letting you ride out your high. It takes you a moment to regain the strength to stand without him holding you up, heartbeat slowing, and the reality of what you’ve just done slowly begins to hit you.

Did you just—

“Y’know,” he says slowly, circling until he stands in front of you again, forcing you to face him. The smile on his lips is smug, and the look in his eyes is crude as his gaze drags over your body. He lifts his hand to tilt your head up, making you look him in the eye, and he swipes the two fingers he had deep inside of you against your bottom lip. “If you’re worried about being annulled… there are ways to fix that.”

Your lips part as you stare up at him.

What the hell did you just do?

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.

So he 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 pint 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