#this man is trash but ig i’m dumpster diving for him 😭 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

suguwu · 3 years

Text

rules of engagement

all’s fair in love and war.

you have no intention of marrying zen’in naoya.

he finds this out the hard way.

pairing: naoya zen’in x f!reader

wc: 3.5k

notes: i used terminology from omiai for this but it is in fact run very differently from omiai, which i am hand-waving by virtue of sorcery clans doing things differently, which i have Thoughts about.

warnings: 18+ for allusions/mentions of smut. one brief pov change, naoya is his own warning, misogyny, arranged marriages & (failed) arranged marriage negotiations, parental death from a vague illness & a brief non-explicit deathbed scene, borderline dubcon kissing(?) and a brief moment of dubcon touching, pregnancy mentions/mild descriptions throughout.

“She’s old,” Naoya drawls, tossing the rirekisho aside. “Thought ya were supposed to be good at this.”

“Zen’in-sama,” the nakōdo says, wincing, “she’s not that much older than you a—”

“Ya deaf? She’s old. Next one.”

The nakōdo hands over the next rirekisho silently.

Naoya slides the picture out first; pretty is the most basic of his requirements.

And you are pretty. There’s a hazy familiarity to you, too, especially with the way the silk of your hōmongi drapes over your form. The understated wisteria motif sweeps over your shoulder like a path, and he follows the soft cascade of flowers to the swell of your breasts. Perfectly accented, perfectly framed.

But it’s the sweet timidity to the tilt of your lips that snares his attention.

It’s easy to imagine you wide-eyed in his bed, being molded to his touch, his wants, his needs. He can shape you as a sculptor does clay.

Because Naoya knows you’re malleable. The promise of it is in the elegant positioning of your hands, the downward tilt of your shining eyes. He can press you into easy compliance, leave his fingerprints on more than just your skin.

“What clan’s she part of?”

The nakōdo straightens in his seat, his slender shoulders unknotting, just a bit. He names your clan with an expression that’s likely more hopeful than he means it to be.

“Tch. Not the best lineage,” Naoya grumbles.

The name serves to clear the fogginess, though, and the familiarity becomes a set of brief memories - you behind your father, your eyes hidden beneath the fan of your eyelashes, a soft greeting spilling from your lips with a perfect bow. The pearly sheen of your kimono glimmering as you step back to let the men pass, your hands elegantly folded. It’s the type of quiet obedience in a woman that’s harder and harder to find these days, to his disgust.

It doesn’t completely erase that your clan falls a bit short, but you’ve clearly been raised correctly.

He scans the rest of your rirekisho idly, pausing at your highlighted cursed technique. More powerful than he’d thought, and familiar, too. “That’s her technique? You're tellin’ me that she’s got Threefold?”

“Yes, she’s one of the few to inherit it.”

“What a waste, a woman gettin’ that.”

“She’s a Grade Two sorcerer, and it’s likely she’ll eventually receive the recommendations for Grade One.”

Naoya raises a brow. “What’s that matter fer? She’ll be at home.”

“Yes, of course, Zen’in-sama.”

Naoya glances over the rirekisho again, taking in the rate of inherited techniques appearing, both yours and the techniques of clans that have married into your family. Higher than he would have thought. You’re fertile, too, if the birth rate in your clan holds true. You would give him plenty of strong sons.

He considers your stomach growing heavy with his child, rounding like ripe, sweet fruit, that same docile little smile on your lips. The idea of it coils hot in his chest, spreads beneath his skin like forest fire.

He brushes his thumb against the edge of your picture.

“She’ll do,” he says. “Tell her clan.”

The cicadas are calling.

Their song echoes through the courtyard, lingering melancholy in the twilight. An eerie, haunting choir. You stare out into the courtyard as it darkens, the heavy blooms of the luxuriant flowers going dusky, deepening into rich plum silhouettes as the shadows stretch.

Light spills around you, golden and without warmth. You listen to the cicadas, to the encompassing hum of them. Your fingers ache. They’ve gone wooden, stiffened around the fabric they’re knotted in. You pull in a soft breath as you let go of your yukata, flexing your fingers carefully. You smooth away the wrinkles you’ve left behind.

Your name rattles in your father’s chest.

The engawa creaks as you rise. Your uncles step out of your path as you enter the room, their eyes downcast; your cousin moves away to let you settle at your father’s side. The cloth your uncle hands you has the ocean’s touch in it, all deep, cold water.

“Father,” you say, laying the cloth over his clammy forehead. “You called for me?”

His gaze is cloudy, but it does little to reduce its strength. “I’d ask if you are prepared for this weight,” he says, “but I know better.”

“Good.”

He wheezes a laugh at your bluntness; the curve of his lips is unbearably fond. “Show the other clans those who have always been our backbone,” he tells you. “For all of the women who came before you.”

Across the room, your aunt’s eyes are dark, polished stone, gleaming in the low light. There is a hunger crackling beneath her skin.

“I will,” you tell your father, but it is your aunt’s gaze that you hold. “I will.”

Her smile is full of teeth.

“What will you do?” your father asks.

“About?”

“The Zen’in clan’s offer.”

In the cavernous quiet, the cicadas’ song filters through the shoji.

When you close your eyes, Zen’in Naoya’s name is seared behind your eyelids, the kanji firework bright. He lingers in your memory too—the sharp cut of his jaw; the elegant swoop of his eyeliner, a bird’s wing curve; the gold of his hair, like the autumn wheat fields; the smug curl of his lip.

There’s a certain type of power in conservative propriety. If you’re quiet, demure, men shroud you with their dismissal. Blind themselves to you, until you can step wraith-like into their world, pulling threads of information close and spooling them around your fingers. You weave them together and whisper a tapestry of politics into your father’s ear.

It comes at a cost. In your quiet compliance, the softest parts of you are on display, and there is a reason that tender morsels are coveted.

You know what men like Naoya see in you.

He’d watched you once, as you’d silently poured tea for a meeting of the clans at your estate. You’d kept your hands steady even with the heat of his sly eyes tracing over your figure. He’d lingered at the arch of your wrists, the softness of your hips.

Was startin’ ta think that there weren’t any pretty women who knew to keep their mouths shut anymore, he'd said to the table. Good ta know some still know their place.

You know what you would lose to him.

Zen’in Naoya’s name sounds like teeth clicking shut around you.

You take your father’s hand in yours, press your lips against the blazing, papery skin of his knuckles. “I won’t let them swallow us,” you murmur.

Swallow me, you think.

He studies you. “I might have.”

“No,” you say, matter-of-fact. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, his laugh lines etched deep. “True,” he concedes. His voice cracks, like river ice breaking beneath spring’s unyielding advance. He turns his head, as if it hides the way his muscles go taut, cording against the pain. You blink away the tears before they can truly form.

Your aunt comes to kneel with you. She puts a hand on your knee, her touch heavy with tenderness, and part of you takes refuge in it.

Together, you wait.

Only a few hours later, your kinsmen bow low to you. The curve of their backs remind you of weeping willow branches: slender, flexible, durable. You allow yourself a single unsteady breath.

You rise to your feet as the head of your clan.

“Zen’in-sama,” the manservant says, hesitating for a brief moment at the shoji. “We’ve received an answer regarding the clan’s offer of an arranged marriage, now that the new clan head has been confirmed.”

“Took ‘em long enough,'' Naoya scoffs. “Have the women start preparin’, then. I don’t wanna be bothered with it.”

“Ah,” the manservant says, his voice wavering. “Zen’in-sama, I’m afraid they’ve said no.”

Naoya stills.

“What?”

“Zen’in-sama! Please, if you would just wait—”

“I ain’t waiting,” Naoya snaps, already halfway down the engawa. He’s waited long enough, hindered by begrudging respect for your clan’s mourning period. “Where is she?”

The servant hurries after him, sweat beading at his brow. “Zen’in-sama, please. Y-you can’t—”

“Where is she.”

The servant flinches, and shows him.

When he slams the shoji open, he spots you immediately, tucked away near the far wall. You’re settled on your knees by a low table, flowers strewn across it, a wildflower meadow all the brighter against the obsidian of your mofuku kimono. You’re plucking at the verdant leaves of a thin branch with careful intention, stripping them away to better frame the dainty clusters of pearly flowers.

Your kinsmen come to their feet. It’s a finely-honed reaction, a quicksilver slip into loose, defensive positions around you. Better than he’d expected from a lower clan. Absolutely worthless against him, but still of note, something to tuck away.

“Out,” Naoya orders, his eyes on you. They hesitate. “Now.”

“Leave us, please,” you say to your kinsmen, without even deigning to glance up at them.

This time, they do not hesitate.

It burns, seeing men respond so quickly to a command from a woman. To see them honor your command over his. The only balm is that your kinsmen bow to him first, and they bow deeply.

The shoji slides shut with a little click. You still haven’t looked up from your work, your fingers wrapped firmly around the thin, flower-laden branch as you use the heat of your hands to mold it. You are patient with it, soft with it, but there is iron to you. You do not yield until the wood curves. It bends to your will, forced beneath a gentle hand.

It’s spirea, he realizes. Victory.

Coincidence, maybe, but it sears through him anyway, twists ugly and hot beneath his skin.

“Zen’in-sama,” you say, and for all that your measured composure pricks at him, the deference of his title between your lips, sweet on your tongue, satisfies more than he’d thought. You set down the delicate foliage and turn your attention to him. “To what do we owe this honor?”

Like this, hands folded prettily on your lap and your voice a spring brook, soft and flowing, he remembers why he found you an excellent candidate to be graced with the gift of being his wife.

“Ya know why I’m here,” Naoya bites out. “Because ya seem to have misunderstood what yer answer is.”

You look docile. On the surface, you have all the delicate tenderness of a fawn on the verge of fleeing, aware of your place in this dangerous world.

But you meet his eyes steadily, coolly. A predator’s challenge.

“Zen’in-sama,” you say. “I think it may be you that misunderstands. No woman in my clan will have you, least of all me.”

It takes him a moment to register the bite of your words, cloaked as they are in the gentle cadence of your voice. He rounds the low table with a few quick strides. You don’t move. You gaze up at him from your knees, poised and unyielding. Part of his rage splits off into lightning, a bolt of heat that crackles through him.

“Have me?” he snarls. “No, you’ll serve me, and yer gonna thank me for it. Yer uncles shoulda taken you in hand the second ya tried to make a decision.”

“I’m the head of my clan,” you say mildly. You rise to your feet with honeyed grace. “All decisions are mine to make, in the end. Including marriage offers.”

“Ya really think you can say no? To me?”

You blink. Naoya watches the slow sweep of your eyelashes, the soft curl of them like unfurling summer ferns. It’s demure, that little blink. And yet, beneath the fan of your lashes, the delicacy of them, your eyes are wintry. His fingernails bite little crescent moons into his palms, pinpricks of pain.

You’re his. You’ve belonged to him from the moment your name was written down as a prospect, since you were offered up to him like freshly plucked fruit, ripe and sweet. His for the taking, his to consume.

The only one who doesn’t seem to realize it is you.

“I don’t think I can say no to you, Zen’in-sama,” you say coolly. “I know I can.”

You look at him, and the silk of you unfurls to show the iron beneath.

“I already have.”

He catches you by the chin, long, heavy fingers splaying out across your jaw. The startled little noise you make—a hiccuping, breathy gasp—curls through him, sparks more heat to simmer beneath his skin. He tightens his grip without thought. Presses his fingers harder into the plump flesh of your cheeks, just enough to make your lips part.

You’re warm. Gently so, like early spring sun, and to Naoya’s frustration, he likes it. Likes the way the heat of you soaks into his fingertips as he forces you to look at him.

“Ya don’t wanna test me like this,” he snarls. “I’m being generous. Marryin’ me? Carryin’ my heirs? It’s an honor fer a nothin’ clan like yers.”

You laugh. It resonates against the pads of his fingers. A sweet, polite little laugh that slides between his ribs, a bone shard sound that’s sharper than any whetted blade.

“Yes, it is,” you agree. “And yet, my answer is no.”

“I can take yer clan apart.”

“It would gain you nothing.”

His fingers flex against your jaw. You suck in a soft breath, and he feels it, the flutter in your cheeks as they hollow out for a second.

Your breath is ghosting across his lips, heated little puffs of air. He’s drawn you closer without realizing it. Your lips are still parted, and there’s something about that little sheen of wetness in that tiny gap. The hint of the soft pink of your tongue.

“Yer mine,” Naoya growls, and then he’s pushing forward, catching you in a biting kiss. You make a little noise of surprise, and he swallows it down, greedy for more. He lets go of your jaw to curl a hand around the nape of your neck. He uses it to mold you to his desire, to make you yield to him. His kiss is devouring.

But you’re kissing back.

He’s unforgiving, even though you’re soft against him, your mouth lush and warm. Your hands knot in the front of his kimono. But you do nothing, as if you can’t even think of anything but clinging to him. He can feel the surrender in you, and the possessive thing lurking behind his ribs snarls.

You’re panting into his mouth now, all those polite, keen-edged words of yours trapped beneath his tongue. He’s silenced you. It curls hot in his chest and arrows down his spine.

He tightens his grip. He wants his fingerprints to sink through your skin, into the marrow of you, so that every inch of you is his. He’ll fuck that infuriating aloofness right out of you, until your lashes are clumped into damp spikes, until you’re whimpering for him. He’ll fill your pretty cunt with his cum, over and over again, until you’re dripping with him.

He’ll remind you what you’re made for.

Naoya pins you back against the wall, knocking your grip on his clothes loose. He pushes a hand beneath the heavy silk of your kimono to palm your tit roughly. You fit perfectly into his hand, your skin soft despite the raspy cotton of your hadajuban, the only thing still shielding you from his touch.

You catch him by the wrist.

“Enough,” you say, pulling back as far as you can with the wall behind you, your lips spit-slick and swollen. You’re panting, but even still, your composure holds.

Naoya wants to shatter it.

He squeezes at your tit, molds it in his palm. You make a quiet noise that nestles itself into his chest like an ember. “Ya don’t sound like you’ve had enough,” he sneers.

Your fingers tighten, compressing on his wrist like iron. You’re stronger than he thought; it aches, like a bruise being pressed.

“Tell me, Zen’in-sama,” you say, eyes glittering. “What do you think the clans will think of you, should they learn that a nothing clan spurned you? Wouldn’t even give you one of their daughters - you, the heir to the Zen’in clan?”

He digs his fingers into the softness of your breast. “They’d never listen to ya.”

“Are you sure, Zen’in-sama?”

He isn’t. The three great clans are always chasing the scent of each others’ blood, circling like sharks. And the exact reasons he chose you are what would make it believable—the power of your technique; the fact that three of your aunts and cousins have birthed children with the inherited techniques of their husband’s families; and you yourself, with your quiet grace and pretty features.

His answer must be on his face, because you drag his hand out from underneath your kimono.

You smooth the silk back into place. He watches the way your fingers press delicately into the black material, his own fingers flexing at his side as his mind races.

There is a quiet, reverent call of your title.

You turn towards the servant lingering near the shoji. The girl’s dark eyes flutter between you and Naoya, taking in how close you are.

“Yes?” you prompt.

“Ah,” the girl says, bowing low. “Please forgive my disruption, but the head of the Inumaki clan has arrived.”

“Inumaki-san,” you say, brushing past Naoya to greet the man lingering just beyond the shoji, ignoring Naoya’s quiet snarl. “Please, forgive me. I’m afraid we lost track of time. Come, please sit.”

Inumaki inclines his head to you as he steps inside. His attention flickers to Naoya next, and he bows low. Naoya pays him little mind, his focus on you and the way your obi is just slightly askew from his hands.

You turn your attention back to him, that cool, gracious serenity shrouding you like a veil. Naoya grits his teeth.

“Thank you, Zen’in-sama, for your condolences,” you say, as you dip into a shallow, polite bow. He itches to force you lower. “It was kind of you to come all this way. We are honored. Kimura will take you to your things.”

He clicks his tongue, all too aware of Inumaki’s presence. He gives the other man a short nod before crossing the room with sharp, menacing strides.

Naoya halts next to you, wrapping a tight hand around your bicep. Your warmth soaks through the silk, and something curdles sour in his chest. He leans in close, his lips hovering by your ear. “This ain’t over,” he hisses.

You peer at him through your lashes, your lips curving slightly, a tranquil crescent moon of a smile.

“Yes, Zen’in-sama,” you say quietly. “It is.”

And then you slip through his fingers, just as you have this entire time.

Naoya leaves your estate with fury brewing in his chest like a summer storm, dark and heavy.

He is not used to his possessions evading his grasp.

But you are young, a woman, and inexperienced. It will not take long for your clan to begin to collapse beneath you. Naoya is not a patient man, but he can recognize when time is on his side. You’ll kneel to him, and he’ll train that willfulness out of you, until you’re the perfect, pliant wife that you masquerade as.

In the end, it will be easy.

It is not easy.

Naoya grits his teeth as you sweep into the clans meeting for the first time. You’re clad in a silk kimono of exquisite make. It’s the soft color of the pearly dawn, tailored to you perfectly. It is not far from something he would have put you in. Feminine and elegant.

In this room, it is a statement.

It is you who goes to sit at the table. Not him. His father’s presence prevents it. And so he watches you, prim and pretty, settle between two of the other clan heads. The men acknowledge you quietly, inquiring politely about your recently received recommendations for promotion. You cover your embarrassed little laugh behind a manicured hand.

Your rise in jujutsu society has been meteoric. He’s heard it all—how you have threads of information spooled around your fingertips; how your sweet, sharp tongue spins them into shield and sword alike; the masterful way that you wield your technique.

You still fall short of the Zen’in clan’s political sway, but you are infuriatingly evasive.

Your eyes find his, and the small smile that curls across your lips cuts hot through him. It’s a sweet little curve, and it is full of teeth.

He sneers. Your smile grows sharper.

You only look away from him when the clan head next to you murmurs something. You turn your head with your usual grace. Naoya clenches his fists, his chest flaring white-hot as he sees it.

There’s a sprig of spirea tucked into your hair.

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