Chapter Text

You were late.

And you were never late. Not once in the months since this whole thing with you started.

Naoya sat on the private balcony looking over the expanse of the glittering river and huffed.

6:25pm.

Naoya: Where the hell are you?

Of course, you wanted to sleep with him. Get close to power. Fuck the future heir of the Zenin clan. That’s what women wanted, right? Powerful men to provide for them. Someone to protect their inherently weaker bodies and minds. Safety. And he could deliver that in spades. It’s why he had to be careful with who he selected as a future wife.

He rolled his eyes and went inside the hotel room. The view wasn’t soothing him.

You were a stuck-up bitch. All proud of your abilities as a sorcerer and a teacher. Why the school insisted on hiring women was beyond him. You laughed at him when he told you that you should settle down, stop working such a dangerous job that you’d inevitably fail at and wind-up dead. Produce the most powerful of the next generation with him. Stop doing a man’s job. Start doing a woman’s.

“You can’t be serious?”

He was offended by your stupid, annoyingly cute laugh. What a waste of a pretty face. Waste of your strong but softly edged body. Waste of a womb.

Most women, most people, left him alone which was a good thing. Most people were beyond redemption, not worth a damn. You weren’t worth much either.

Until he fucked you.

That made you a little more worthy. At least you had good taste.

At first, he thought you might be a gold digger. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Security and luxury in exchange for providing heirs and being a proper wife seemed reasonable to him. No one did something for nothing. But then you offered to pay for the hotel, buy drinks, take care of costs – not that he’d ever let you. He was a gentleman, even if you were just a convenience. So, if you didn’t want money – you constantly insisted that you had your own – then what the hell did you want?

He thought next that you wanted information about his family. Some sort of spy. A femme fatale. So, he told you a small lie about his family. Waited for it to get back to him. He’d nail you on it. But it never got out. You kept it to yourself.

Who knew what your endgame was? It was fun for now. You knew your place in bed.
Bratty then submissive.

You always giggled at him whenever he brought it up. That you should’ve married him, made children, stop this whole working nonsense, and settle down into the quiet amenities he could provide. You’d be happier fulfilling the role for which you were designed.

“Naoya, your dick is good, but not that good.”

He’d usually fuck you into the mattress after that. Until you moaned his name, made the sheets wet, until he filled you up.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t want it.”

Yeah. He liked those moments. Always did it for him. Strong fucking sorcerer conceding that beneath him, cock deep inside, that you were his. Couldn’t be taught shit when it came to your proper place in the world, but you knew your place in bed. And you got off on it. Who knew it would be so fun, so satisfying, to have someone be gratified by what he liked to do to them?

6:31pm.

Naoya: This is done if I don’t hear from you. Get here. Now.

Maybe he should end it. Why waste himself on you? Especially if you were going to arrive late. Take his precious time for granted.

He’d done it before. Gone two weeks without seeing you until the universe conspired against him and you both wound up at the same restaurant. You were there with another man. He decided to tolerate his plain date - who couldn’t even see cursed energy – entirely unworthy of him - just to stay and see if you actually liked this idiot.

Every time you laughed at whatever that asshole said his face burned. You touching his arm? Jealousy braced his body. You smiling at him? Eye roll. Come on, how could you even think of this man after being with him?

When you got up to go to the bathroom, he quickly got up too. His date was yammering on about the ways of a good wife. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to marry her. Left her mid-sentence.

“I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore.” You were in a small alcove just beyond the bathroom, leaned against the wall.

“I don’t know where you got that idea from.”

“Because you said,” you pulled up the text he sent. When he inevitably ended things with you again, he made a note to call, not text. “’You’re a good lay but I need to focus on finding a woman who knows her place. One that I can marry.’”

You smirked at him.

He rolled his eyes. And moved closer to you.

“You like that idiot?”

You shrugged and started playing with his tie, “Is that the future Mrs. Naoya Zenin?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Did you look at her?”

You scoffed at him, “She’s pretty, Naoya. Seems nice.”

“She’s a nobody. I don’t want her,” he said taking one final step closer to you.

You crossed your arms, sly crooked smile on your pretty face, and took a step closer, “and who do you want?”

He paid the attendant to the private dining rooms for 10 minutes. You pulled his jacket, both your mouths hungry, and hooked your legs around his waist. He fucked you fast and hard.

You were trying so hard to remain quiet. It only encouraged him to fuck you harder. Let other people know that he fucked you. Let your date find him fucking you – that would be perfect.

When you were done you straightened his jacket. He smoothed your hair.

And didn’t give your underwear back. A reminder of who you belonged with.

Your nobody of a date shot him a look after he came out of the back, closely following behind you. He smirked at as he sat down with his own. At the end of the night, you left with him.

Since you insisted that you weren’t going to marry him, Not with that attitude.
He decided the universe owed him a good hook-up.

Things continued from there. He met you once, twice, sometimes more during the week. It made sense. He was virile man. And if you happened to get pregnant at some point, well, he supposed he could live with that. Getting your technique into his bloodline would be a nice bonus.

It was getting annoying though. The way he was beginning to compare other women to you.

A while back, after rekindling your arrangement, he was introduced to a woman who could actually see cursed energy. Sadly, she didn’t have the unique beauty that you did. Oh, he could fuck her, but it would be a chore. Not enjoyable. And he was more than entitled to enjoying his wife.

He met you afterwards. He didn’t mention his date to you. You had to know he was scouting potential wives. You were an enjoyable lay. Pretty beneath him, holding onto his shoulders for stability, your sex gripping his, hips rolling and circling, pulling him deeper inside.

The next one had some sort of vague loveliness about her. Her body seemed promising from the little of it he could see. But, of course, there was something wrong. At first things were going well. She was quiet, only speaking when spoken to, offered praise – never criticism, deferred to his opinions on any given matter. But he felt restless. He kept glancing at his phone. Time was passing slowly.

Most of the things that came out of your mouth were annoying or incorrect (or filthy). But your opinions were slightly interesting to think about. Sometimes you had decent insight into a dilemma or a mission he was planning. But the best moments were when the air became so thick with the tension and heat of debate that you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

He laughed to himself.

“You always end up back in bed, beneath me. Right where you belong. You’re mine.”

It was entertaining to hold that over your head. Watch your cute nose scrunch up and your brows furrow. You tried to look disgusted but there was always a small smile on your face.

You rolled your eyes, “See, when you say shit like that it makes it so much more difficult to sleep with you. Maybe,” you said straddling him, “I should just tape your mouth shut. It’d be easier that way.”

Your little games were amusing.

The second woman, he sighed, she was too boring and too dull to converse with. A woman should be able to hold her man’s attention in conversation. But at least she knew her manners, so he thanked her for dinner and declined further contact.

The most recent one, what a goddamn disaster. She was a second grade sorcerer from an insignificant clan. Had your beliefs about women in sorcery, which was already one strike against her, but, fuck, was she so damn shrill and angry when he told her she would be a mother and wife – nothing more. There was no charm about her. No wit. No playfulness. He dropped her quick. Left after one drink. She was at best a poor imitation of you.

Were there seriously no beautiful, interesting women who knew how to support a man left?

It wasn’t practical to turn down so many potential wives. But then again, it was hard to find someone perfect for him. As perfect as he was for any woman that would have the privilege of marrying him. Naturally, he had to take his time.

His wife would bear him heirs, oversee the women of the clan, be a role model like him. She had to meet the high standards of the clan. If men had to be perfect women had to surpass perfection.

It wasn’t an easy task.

He could make you a mistress. He was entitled to multiple women after all.

But dealing with more than one woman?

And you?

Nothing but trouble.

Besides mistresses, second wives, whatever you wanted to call them, were only taken if the first one failed to produce heirs.

7:03pm.

Fuck this. He made his way down to the bar. He’d get a drink. How long would he wait for you? He’d punish you for this. That was a nice thought, though. Punishment.

He wasn’t going to let you cum tonight. Or better you’d really have to make it up to him. He thought about how you might do that. Tying you to the bed so he could watch the arch of your hips, the way you began to circle ever so slightly as you got close. You became breathy. Edge you until you were dark and lush. He smiled just thinking about it.

Or you could kneel in front of him. Spit on your chin, eyes on him. You were thorough using your hands and mouth. Almost like you were obsessed with getting every last drop from him. When you first took him in your mouth you wouldn’t even spit him out. More recently you swallowed – after he’d made you cum with his mouth and fingers. Maybe this time he’d tell you exactly where he wanted to cum. There were so many tempting places. Maybe -

His phone dinged. It was from the sorcery alert system.

KYOTO: Special grade mission complete. Sorcerer status unknown. Two sorcerers deployed to locate. If found, please advise.

Wasn’t that your mission? The one that was supposed to be finished over an hour ago? It wasn’t unusual for missions to take longer than anticipated, but it was unusual to receive an alert that the status of a sorcerer was unknown.

His jaw clenched.

He opened his contacts. Yes, you were in his favorite contacts. It was convenient. Efficient. You two slept together often. That too was a more recent development. Sleeping together.

You weren’t picking up.

Right to voicemail.

“There’s an alert that you’re missing. Call me back. Now. If you’re not dead already I’ll kill you myself.”

He swallowed his drink. This should be routine for you. You were strong, one of the rare women who was competent at sorcery. Even he had to admit that. This better not be due to incompetence. Or stupidity.

He re-read the notification. Special grade mission complete. So, you exorcised the curse. He leaned against the mirrored elevator wall. Where were you?

Another alert. His eyes went wide.

Sorcerer located. Transported to Kyoto University Hospital.

He felt his fingers curl into fists. What the hell were those imbeciles the higher ups sent even doing? Shot but no intel on who did it? Sending you to the hospital? They only did that if a sorcerer was seriously injured and couldn’t wait to be seen by a doctor with a reverse curse technique.

But you could self-heal.
But if you couldn’t bring up the cursed energy to manage a self-heal, then -

Shit.

He began dialing. The hospital attendant rudely refused to give him any information, even after yelling at her, reminding her who he was. She just repeated some bullshit about patient privacy and confidentiality. He nearly threw his phone.

He called the President of the hospital board.

Old family friend.

The Head of the OR called back 5 minutes later.

“I can’t tell you much, but from a cursory review it appears she’s sustained major injuries. She’s lucky she was found quickly. She’s lost a lot of blood though. She’s in surgery right now.”

“When will she be out?” Naoya snapped.

“It’s difficult to say,” he paused.

“Explain.”

“Right now, there are concerns about her ability to survive the surgery given the amount of blood she’s lost,” the Head of the OR’s voice trailed off and he paused, “I’ve shared all the information I can right now. In order to share more, I need to understand your relationship to her. I need a more compelling legal reason to share infor – “

Naoya ran his free hand through his hair, “Get one of the private suites ready.”

“I can only do that after surgery is comp – “

“Just do it!” He shouted, “Call me with any updates.”

Fucking hospital.

“And put me down as her emergency contact.”

Chapter Text

He hung up and called Riku, pacing as he waited in the marbled hotel lobby.

“Yeah, boss?” Riku asked.

“Turn around.” He commanded.

“Where we going?”

“Hospital.”

“On my way.”

Who the fuck shot you? Another sorcerer killer? For fuck’s sake, this was going to be Toji all over again, wasn’t it? Why else would you have been shot? But how did you not anticipate it? Not see it coming? What was wrong with you? How could you let this happen?

He never saw you fight. He may have asked around, to people who were more accepting of the whole “women in sorcery” thing. People beneath him in terms of prestige and grade. They all said the same thing.

Strong. Sharp. Terrifying.

But he didn’t care about the meaningless opinions of the weak. Even if they were flattering.

So, he asked the only sorcerer whose power he respected. The strongest.

Why do you care, Naoya? She’s a Special Grade for a reason. You can feel her cursed energy can’t you? Or are you that weak?

Looked like even Gojo could be wrong. “The strongest” didn’t mean the smartest.

He wondered if he could convince the higher-ups to ban women from sorcery. And if not, at least bar them from high level missions.

This - you injured, too injured - is exactly why women shouldn’t be sorcerers.

He didn’t know what he would do if -

His heart was thundered in his chest. Jaw and throat clenched and taut. He paused his pacing and looked out the large windows of the marble floor lobby. Cars pulled into the hotel drop-off, but none were his.

Where the FUCK was Riku?

He took a deep breath, turned around, and resumed striding along the windows of the lobby.

You were not permitted to die. Namely, because he was going to kill you. He'd kill you for being late. For not calling him. For letting your guard down for one second. For jeopardizing your safety and causing such… excruciating feelings inside of him.

He checked the time again.

7:31pm.

No car. Goddamn this traffic. Riku wasn’t an incompetent clan goon. He’d hired Riku for exactly that reason. Smart. Private. His. Not the clan’s. Not some idiot cousin.

He made a note to call the head of the police commission. Law enforcement was going to give drivers some sort of special permission to bypass ordinary traffic in emergencies like these. At this point, running to the hospital would be faster. Probably a better way to get this adrenaline out.

“I’ll be fine, Naoya. I always am.”

It’s what you always said after he told you that missions were too much.

“These kinds of mission are too dangerous for a woman.”

The last mission you two argued over in the hotel bed ran through his mind.

You sipped your tea and smacked his bicep, “I’m a Special Grade, Naoya. I’m higher ranked than you are. I know how to fight. Stop it.”

“If that’s how hard you hit then I should definitely come with you. Or at least train you better.”

You rolled your eyes, irritated little expression on your face. You hit him again. Harder. You made him want to rub his bicep a bit. Maybe you were a little strong, but he was not going to let you have the satisfaction.

“I’ll hit you at full force sometime, Naoya. Make you regret saying that.”

 You were folded up next to him in his undershirt. He looked down at you, scoffing. How could anyone – let alone, any cursed spirit - be intimidated by you? Eyes looking up at him - half annoyed, half amused.

He wanted to tickle you, pinch you, trap you in his arms.

Oh no.

Fuck. No.

He’d looked this up. The way he wanted to hurt - well, not actually hurt you - but felt a strange, hostile desire toward you when he found you cute. Which was already a disturbing revelation.  

Turned out there was a term for it.

Cute aggression.

Humiliating. He wanted to die when he read about it. He concluded it was your fault. Apparently, manipulating men was deeply embedded in female genetics. This so-called “cute aggression” - if it was real - the BBC published an article on it, but even still so-called experts could be wrong - was just something that weaker creatures did to survive. Babies. Animals. Women. Be all cute so men would save them. Protect them.

He held the firmness of his jaw, lowering his voice, “You could try, but women are the weaker sex. It’s a biological fact. Even if you hit hard, I’d hit harder.”

“Oh my god,” you rolled your eyes. “This sexist bullshit makes it so hard to be around you. Will you just admit you don’t want me to die.”

“I don’t care if you live or die. I have no special feelings towards you.”

“If I died who would talk to you? Who would fuck you?” You huffed. “You know, I’d be sad if you died.”

He was taken aback.

Literally. His neck flinched backwards.

Fuck you for sharing your totally insignificant feelings.

“I don’t care if you’d feel sad. Your opinion doesn’t matter to me.”

“I mean, I’d miss a decent hook-up. That’s all.” You giggled at him.

“Decent?” He pinned you down. You little shit.

“Yeah, decent,” your pupils were blown wide, grin crooked.

“Fuck you,” he said, biting into your neck.

“Please.”

The car finally arrived. The Lexus. Black, luxurious, understated. Naoya ripped the door open.

His tone was a growl, not a shout. “Riku. I need you to break every law between here and the hospital.”

His foot was shaking, fingers rapping on the side panel. Clearly, the two sorcerers sent to look for you were utterly worthless. If they were any good, they would’ve found you sooner.

He’d call the higher ups about this later. Not because of you. This was a great case study of the of so-called sorcerers. Of most sorcerers. Growing up he’d been told that most people were beneath him. Now he had the evidence. Letting a Special Grade like you languish, bleeding out.

You might die.

His face was warm. Heart pounding. He was going to murder them. Incapable, useless fucking shit-for-brains-fake-sorcerer-scum.

“So. Hospital. Your family ok?” Riku asked, caution in his voice.

“As if I’d waste time on family. Faster, Riku.”

“Traffic is hell, but I’ll try.”

You were never going on a mission alone. Ever again. Fuck your objections. Fuck your insistence that you’re “strong” and could “do things alone” and “deserve to be treated like any other Special Grade sorcerer”.

You weren’t just like any other Special Grade.

And if he couldn’t stop you, then fine. He’d go with you. Accompany you every single time. It’d be an honor, to be accompanied by him. Clearly you needed someone skilled to oversee you.

If he were there you would’ve been at the hospital immediately.

If he were there you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

Shot and alone.

Bleeding out.

He gazed out the window. Swaths of black. Blue. Red. White cars. Windows mirroring the sunset ombre blending together.

If those idiot sorcerers couldn’t get to you quickly, they probably couldn’t apprehend the person who did this to you. He needed someone else at the scene.

He’d settle for weak, but competent.

He called Jinichi.

“Yes?”

“What do you know about the Special Grade Mission where the sorcerer was shot?”

“Dunno much.”

“Get to the scene. Find out.”

“Can we not do this, Naoya?”

“Just fucking find out. Find out who did it. We don’t need another sorcerer killer.”

He hung up.

The insolence. Jinichi was family. And, even he had to admit, sharper – more perceptive – than the others. And discreet.

But where was his sense of duty? And more importantly, he was Naoya Zenin. Chief of the Hei. Heir to the clan. There should be no questioning of his decisions. Jinichi, the staff, no one needed to think or question. They just needed to DO AS THEY WERE TOLD.

The hospital.

Finally. Riku pulled the car over. Naoya opened the door before the car had a chance to fully stop.

“I need you to grab some clothes for me. Loungewear for tonight. Casual for tomorrow.”

Riku gave a curt nod. “Understood. Call me if you need anything else.”

“And Riku – no one. I mean no one, is to be told. I’ll deal with them.”

“Same rules as always then,” Riku answered.

Naoya shut the door and strode towards the door. His shoulders square and tall, daring anyone inside to get in his way.

Chapter Text

He was careful not to sprint. He’d scare the nobody non-sorcerers if he did. Look like he warped there.

Inconvenient normies.

He marched through the hospital, blowing doors open, hinges whining. He cut a clear line to the OR administrative desk and bypassed the trash already in line. A few scoffs were silenced with a flash of his furious face.

The attendant was typing on her computer, “Sir, I ask that you wait a moment and then I’ll attend – “

“I’m Naoya Zenin.”

The messy-haired, baggy eyed attendant looked up from her computer, pushed her glasses up and took a deep breath.

“Yes, I see a note here,” she cautiously relayed, “I’ve been told to ask you what your relationship to the patient is. It’s hospital policy that we don’t allow strangers or non-family members to see patients or have access to their private informa - “

“I’ve already spoken with the Head of the OR -”

“Sir,” she said lowering her shaking voice, “the note is from the Head of the OR and our Legal Department. We can only release information to family or verified emergency contacts. Otherwise, we are liable for illegally releasing confidential patient information.

She lowered her voice further. “That being said,” and motioned for him to come closer, “our Legal Department has approved an exception for you. Your attorney called. In this circumstance we will waive some of the typical requirements – if you are able to tell us the nature of the relationship. And it is a qualifying relationship.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He couldn’t say he was your husband. You didn’t have his name.

Was there a word for the only person he minimally detested being around?

He’d go with the next best thing.

“I’m her fiancé. We’re engaged.”

“Oh. So that’s why we made…” Her dumb eyes went deer doe-eyed and resumed her typing. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Zenin. I’m so sorry this happened to your fiancé. That must be why you’re so…” she paused, noted his vengeful expression, and chose her words carefully, “concerned. Let me pull up her information.”

This was better. She should be sorry. They should all personally apologize after this.

But concerned?

About the quality of sorcerers on the whole? Obviously.

You though?

He supposed if he was posing as your fiancé, it would be appropriate to show something like concern.

Even if that was the incorrect term for what he felt.

He permitted himself a frown.

“Put me down as her emergency contact,” he commanded, “My fiancé was critically injured, and I wasn’t notified in a timely manner. I already have my attorney looking into legal remedies for what’s already happened. I don’t want to have to contact him again in the future.”

“Okay, sir, one moment. I’ll do that right now. As I’m doing that, I’m afraid I don’t have much of an update. She’s still in surgery.”

Un-fucking-believable.

“Who is the surgeon? What’s their experience with this level of trauma?” he barked, “I want to know who to name in a lawsuit if they fail to perform their duty.”

“I’ll get that information to you shortly,” she said with a small quiver, typing hastening, “I can print her chart and have it brought to you. The hospital suite you requested is being prepared and I’ll have someone escort you to it when it’s ready. You’ll be notified the second that she is out of surgery.”

Good.

“Print her chart. I’m not waiting. This hospital has already proven that it consistently fails to notify family in a timely manner.”

Only one of the losers in line behind him had the audacity to glare. He sneered. You were more of a priority. There were billions of weak imbeciles in the world. No one would miss them if they were gone. You protected these weaklings so they could go about their unimportant lives.

The attendant printed out your chart and within 5 minutes – he timed it – he was escorted to the “suite”.

One medical room. A large space with a couch, cushions and a TV, and another room that had a bed. Tiny bathroom. This was supposed to be a good hospital, but this was its best suite for family members waiting? Nobility deserved better than this. A donation would remedy this catastrophe.

He sat down on the couch, reading through your chart. Gunshot wounds to torso. 5. Your ribs were broken although apparently that meant your lungs and heart had been saved. Three torso wounds that contributed to much of your blood loss. The scope of your injuries remained unclear.

Uncertainty in battle was thrilling. Only because he already knew the outcome: he’d win. It was just a question of how.

Uncertainty with your life, however, was decidedly unsettling.

8:40pm.

Fuck this. He turned on the TV and paced.

His cellphone went off.

Jinichi: At the scene. She wasn’t robbed. It’s not clear why it happened. No traces of unfamiliar cursed energy so it was likely a civilian. 

Naoya: Find them. 

Jinichi: We’ve eliminated a sorcerer as the suspect. The police will take it from here.

Naoya: And what would you like the police to do? How are they supposed to do that when they don't understand the motivation could be her position as a sorcerer? Find the person who did this. Use our usual contacts to have them released to us. And interrogate them. Keep them there until I arrive. Whoever it is, is not to be let out of your sight. 

He huffed and began composing an email to the head of the police commission. Traffic was ridiculous and sorcerers needed some sort of special permission or route to attend to emergencies. And on top of that he was stuck on this couch that was too fluffy, beneath fluorescent lights that he swore flickered just to make him go insane in a room that smelled lightly of bleach -  

He stopped himself.

Why the fuck was he here?

He didn’t need to be.

On the one hand, fuck it. Who cared? It didn’t matter why he was doing this. He didn’t have to answer to anyone save his father and the elders who were past their expiration date.

And the answer was simple.

He was the heir, and he did as he pleased.  

“I’ll be fine, Naoya. I always am.”

He felt his heart float in his chest.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, took a steadying breath, and began to pace again.

That aside, really, the response to a Special Grade Sorcerer potentially dying had been utterly bungled. Not found quickly enough. Not rushed to the hospital fast enough. Communication was poor. No one knew why you’d been shot. Hell, your assassin could come to the hospital and try to finish you off. And if the Sorcery World couldn’t protect and care for their own, who were they to protect anyone at all?

Of course, this was a special circumstance. A rare real test of their response. Highly graded sorcerers were treated as if they were immortal. But they weren’t. Toji likely would’ve been Special Grade. And even he lost. And if Grade 1 sorcerers or a heap of lesser grades couldn’t coordinate some effective response - even after the danger subsided - to care for a fellow injured sorcerer, then what use were they, really? 

This was an opportunity.

This was about the Zenin showing who was reliable in an emergency.

This would be fully under his review. He, being among the strongest, would be the one to point out every error and provide solutions, theoretical and practical. Obviously to obtain that information he had to get it from you, the injured party. And if he happened to ensure that you were properly cared for and safe? Well, that was just a display of what thorough coordination and delegation looked like. Perhaps after documenting all the flaws, he could argue that the Zenin clan should be the sole responders in emergencies such as these. They had the manpower and expertise, obviously.

And though you shouldn’t have been in this kind of danger in the first place, another point for his lengthy report, he’d use this opportunity to remind everyone else of their place.

Beneath him.

Chapter Text

11:30pm

The doctors were still operating. According to some nurse, the wounds to your abdomen had been taken care of, which stopped the majority of the bleeding. Your chest wounds, however, were a different story. Still being identified and attended to. Supposedly, things were looking up.

Naoya had his laptop on the coffee table, drafting emails and documenting observations for his various incompetency reports.

There was a knock at the door and then it cracked up.

Riku.

“Okay if I come in, boss?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah. Just me.”

“Got what you need.” Riku said handing Naoya the overnight back. “Got ‘em at that fancy place downtown. Said your name and they put it together fast. Charged the clothes to your Amex. Not the clan tab."

Naoya nodded, “Good.” He headed to the bathroom to change.

He’d hired Riku because his former attendant, Kamon, was clan scum. Long time retainer and loyal to the elders and Naobito. Not to him. Always had a moral parable or trite saying for him about “the ways of an heir” or “proper, young men”. Drone, judge, condescend.

Naoya hated him.

And so.

He’d gotten rid of him.

Riku was a referral from a friend. Ex-military, competent, private, loyal – bit of a dry, sometimes annoying sense of humor. But never some moralizing bullshit. And there was no question about who he was loyal to.

“You want me to keep the car close?” Riku called.

“With the way things are looking I’ll be here all night. You should go home. I’ll call if I need you.” Naoya said slipping into the cashmere sweatpants, soft handsewn tee.

He walked out of the bathroom pulling the thick black hoodie over his head and landed back on the couch.

“So, uh, not that it’s any of my business….”

Naoya frowned, “It’s not.”

Riku ran a hand threw his hair, “But, whoever this is. They gonna be ok?”

Naoya let out a long sigh, “They think so. Still in surgery.”

Riku nodded. “All right. You need anything you let me know. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Hey, uh,” Naoya started, “thanks.”

“Thanking me? Do I need to have some nurse come in here and check you out? You pay me enough so that you never have to thank me, remember?” Riku ribbed.

“Tch. Get out of here before I actually start meaning it.” Naoya waved Riku off.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

He returned to his emails. He completed the email to the Police Commission and sent his attorney a thorough report of all the errors the hospital had made, sparing his small lie that you were his betrothed. He’d begun crafting an email containing his observations of all the errors in the response, but he was distracted. He hadn’t heard from Jinichi in a while. That fucker should be giving him hourly updates.

He picked up his phone and stalked over the dinky window overlooking the city.

“Hey Chief Asshole, what’s up?”

Naoya ran a hand over his face, “I don’t have time for this, Jinichi. You should’ve called me two hours ago. What’s going on?”

“We’ve been looking but haven’t found anything. Normal level of residuals so probably human. The hospital notified the police.”

An ordinary person took you down? For fuck’s sake.

“Did anyone see anything? Someone must’ve seen something.”

“The curse was exorcised in an old, abandoned building. Not much around. We spoke with the transients, but no one saw anything. Most were drunk, digging through trash, or passed out. They heard the gunshots and hid. Up until that point, they hadn’t seen anything unusual. None of them had any guns. We searched for a weapon, but the perp most likely took it.”

“Anything from ballistics? Any security cameras?”

“No, old shitty building. Not worth the cost of cameras. Ballistics is on it but it’s going to take time. There were other crimes that are more pressing.”

"Then rush it.”

“Naoya, that only happens in TV shows– “

“Unacceptable. Make them push it up. I want results in an hour.”

“Naoya, no one saw anything. I don’t know what ballistics could tell us that we don’t already know. Why is this so important? You know her or something? And where are you?”

“Jinichi, I don’t have time for this. It doesn’t matter why I want this done. Your job isn’t to ask irrelevant questions. It’s to do what I say. Get to ballistics. Bribe them, kill them, I don’t care. Just do it! NOW!”

“All right, all right, baby dictator. I’ll do it. But chances of finding who did this are slim.”

“And the more time you waste by questioning my orders makes it even slimmer. Seriously. Fuck off and do what I say.”

Nothing about the person who did this to you. He should’ve done this himself.

He laid back down on the couch and checked the time.

1:36am.

He never understood it. Who wouldn’t want to be taken care of and protected? And look at where feminism got you. Shot up in a hospital.

Fuck feminism.

Of course, despite your biological inadequacy, you had a cursed technique that granted you a special place. But you were still a woman. Better to have your bloodline passed down to a boy than risk it.

He crossed his arms behind his head and tried to find some semblance of comfort on the cheap polyester couch which was nearly impossible.

At least he had time to think.   

You weren’t robbed. So that explanation was out. Which meant random crime explanation was out.

It was more likely that this piece of shit knew who you were. It was smart to use a gun on you. You’d be biased to track for cursed energy consistent with a curse or sorcerer or curse user – not the nominal levels of normie CE.

But how did he get it? Guns were notoriously hard to come by.

And how did he know about you? Where to find you? That implied surveillance.

And why try to kill you?

Did you have enemies? Everyone seemed to like you but that didn’t mean shit. He could come across as charming if someone was worthy of it. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill them if they crossed him.

Sorcerers didn’t maintain much of a social life outside of other sorcerers. Too messy.

Not that you were seeing anyone else. He smirked to himself as he wrestled the lumpy throw pillow into a comfortable position.

He may have had one of his private investigators follow you. He couldn’t catch any STIs if you were sleeping around. Disgusting. And he still had to make sure you weren’t playing some long con game. If there was any chance you were actually trying to get pregnant – though it wouldn’t be the worst outcome - he wanted to make sure it was his.

And, yeah, if he had “competition” he deserved to know.

You went out on dates, although you hadn’t gone out with anyone for about 6 weeks. Right around the time you two rekindled things. And you didn’t sleep with any of them.

He couldn’t blame you there. The PI report was a long parade of losers. That finance guy? Suave looking prick. The wimpy and pathetic librarian? A soft nerd. The college professor was his only real competition – attractive and accomplished – but you didn’t see him after the first date.

Frankly, none of them were worthy of you. Good on you for recognizing you were above them.

He smiled to himself. For all the shit you gave him, it seemed like he was the only one you were with. That satisfied him and his chest swelled a bit.

The air conditioning in the hospital kicked back on. Humming.

Did this sorcerer killer 2.0 know that you were alive? Hopefully, whoever did this just assumed you were dead. But what if they had watched and saw you were attended to? What if they were surveilling the hospital?

He was here now. In your room. You’d be safe for now.

Though how to keep you safe after the hospital was nagging at him.

He shifted, yet again.

Fucking couch was so uncomfortable. Polyester piece of shit. He sat up and turned on the TV. Flipping through whatever low-budget cable TV channels the hospital provided.

He sipped the lukewarm tea a nurse brought him earlier.

Surely, after nearly dying, you’d listen to reason. Staying at the estate under the protection of the Hei and Kukuru - that was the only solution. If you wouldn’t do that, then he’d lower himself to staying with you, accompany you everywhere.

You could not be alone.

Not until you both knew the person who did this was dead.

The sound from TV made his chest tight.

It was the opening song from that stupid show you watched together.

This was not how tonight should’ve gone.

It was a pleasant little routine you two had going. Away from his family and the prying and conspiring eyes of elders, gossip-mongering aunties, impish cousins, and his father. Sex that was worthy of him. Decent food and surprisingly decent conversation and company. If this had gone as planned, you both would be post-orgasm chill, under the covers, sipping tea, bellies full of room service, probably debating something.

Or, quiet. About to fall asleep.

For the first few weeks, one of you would leave afterwards. Didn’t matter if it was 10pm or 2am. But after a while –

After talking about your respective days –

After ordering room service -

After laughing at something dumb on TV –

You two just started falling asleep together.

Sleeping with women was usually a disaster. He only slept with them if he was especially exhausted. First, it was too intimate. It wasn’t something they deserved – sleeping in the same bed as the heir to the Zenin clan.

Second, they always ruined his sleep. They’d rudely turn over in the middle of the night. Or “just happen” to sleep close to him. Their schemes so obvious. Hoping that he’d hold them.

He imagined they thought, “Maybe if he holds me, it means he’ll marry me!” Ridiculous. Or be so brazen as to try to cuddle with him. He was accustomed to swatting wanting hands and limbs away. He didn’t sleep with women; he only slept with them.

But it was frustratingly easy to sleep next to you. You never moved around, or if you did, he never woke up. And sure, sometimes, you slept so close that he happened to rest an arm around your waist. That was your fault. Too damn close. How else was he supposed to stay comfortable?

He sat up and began pacing. Stupid couch. If that thing was a curse he would’ve exorcised it.   

Things were very pleasant but getting a little dull. The food. He’d been thinking that you two should go out for dinner.

You’d object, but he’d already choreographed the argument in his head.

He’d open with a compelling point that this was a practical matter. Room service was becoming boring and repetitive - bolstered by evidence that you’d said so yourself last week.

Since you couldn’t argue that point, you’d squawk – as you’d done before, repeatedly – that this arrangement needed to remain private.

He understood. If the clan got word of your relationship they’d start scheming, interfering.

What you two had  - it was something just for him.

He’d offer to say you two were consulting about sorcery work. Easy enough cover. You’d have to agree.

He was toying with what he might say if someone happened to catch you two together at the restaurant and inevitably wonder what you two were doing together. He might say something like you simply couldn’t figure out what to do on your mission alone and were consulting him.

He chuckled to himself. That would outrage you. It would be fun to see your face rage red and acquiesce to the lie or blow up. Menacing others was one of his favorite pastimes.

And you were quickly becoming one of his favorite people to tease.

He smiled thinking about it. Staring out the tiny window. Rainbow of city lights below.

Afterward he’d take you back to the hotel.

You’d do the foreplay dance you both mastered.

The steps worked like this:

Step One: You liked to play all, “No, I don’t want you – even though I texted you and I came to the hotel to meet you – at the specified day and time– and made out with you in the elevator – and moaned a little and pulled you closer– but no, please don’t fuck me, you horrible man”.

Sure.

Whatever.

Step Two: He’d get closer to you. Run his hand up your thigh, down the nape of your neck. Get even closer and whisper what he wanted to do. Run his hands close to every place you wanted to be touched, the places he wanted to touch, but wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

Sometimes Step Two was fast and furious. Sometimes, “You’re so fucking infuriating. Fuck me already.” Or some variation of, “I hate you. Get inside me”. Sometimes you’d challenge him, “God, can you fuck me harder already?” He liked proving he could. Or sometimes, his favorites, when you’d say his name with “yes” or “please” or occasionally, “I want it”.  

And then he’d take you.

Fun as remembering was – it wasn’t doing it for him right now.

Not under the angry fluorescent hospital light and sterile white walls. Not with the drone of the air conditioning. Or the misery of trying to be comfortable on the couch.

He sat back. Put a pillow behind his head. And closed his eyes.

He may as well try and rest.

Chapter Text

3:24am “Mr. Zenin?”

He shot up from the couch.

“What is it?” he snapped, “There’d better be an update.”

The tired-eyed nurse nodded, “She’s out of surgery. We’re bringing her up shortly. She’s still out from the anesthesia. We intend to give her enough pain medication so that she’ll continue to sleep.”

He exhaled and felt his shoulders finally unbrace. He checked his phone. No updates from Jinichi. What a failure. He barely deserved to be a Special Grade 1 sorcerer.

“She’s your fiancé, right?” the nurse inquired.

He looked up from his phone, “Yes.” Why the hell was she asking? Had someone said something? Why confirm his status? He’d better call and wake his attorney.

“We typically don’t do this, but -” she hesitated.

Spit it out, hospital scum.

“If you would like, we can move the bed in your room to the medical room. Just, please don’t say I suggested it,” she offered.

He furrowed his brow and cocked his head, “All night, all I’ve heard is ‘we can’t do this’ or ‘we can’t do that’ because of hospital policy. Has the hospital approved this?”

He wasn’t going to be liable for this.

“Technically speaking,” she paused, “no. But our policy states that we need to be able to respond to emergencies in a timely manner, with space for any equipment, and, of course, in a manner that meets our high standards of care. If we maneuver the beds properly then there should still be enough room that if an emergency arises, we can comply with our protocols. Although her surgery went well so I don’t anticipate any emergencies coming up.”

What was this woman’s game? Was she setting him up so that he couldn’t sue the hospital?

She gave him a disgustingly doe-eyed look. “It’s just that I’m recently engaged myself.” She said flashing a pathetic ring. Tiny, stupid ‘diamond’. Probably not even real. “If I was going through what you’re going through, I’d want to sleep in the same room as the person I love.”

He almost didn’t let himself smile. But since he was playing the part of your concerned fiancé, smiling was allowed.  

He stood up. “Fine.”

“All right. We need to be quick,” she requested and moved to one side of the bed, “can you help me with the bed?”

The mattress and frame were easy enough to move. All of it was cheap for a hospital with a good reputation.

“That looks good. There should be enough room to accommodate any staff if an emergency comes up. But as I said before, she did well in the surgery and is stable in recovery. And,” she smiled, “as she recovers, you might be able to push your bed next to hers, if you’d like.”

He felt the corners of his lips, the soft part of his cheeks, wanting to turn upwards into a big, ridiculous smile.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He must be exhausted. Delusional and weary.

“How long will she be here?” he said and then took a long inhale, regaining his composure.

“Well, depends on her recovery. They’ll probably want to monitor her for 24-36 hours. But she’s stable. Her recovery will take months, though. They’ll give you both more information when assessed as ready for release.”

“She’ll be released into my care,” he said, “I can make arrangements to have a full medical staff available to her at my – our - home. Would that allow for her to be discharged, say, tomorrow?

You wouldn’t need a full medical staff once you could self-heal which was likely soon. But until that occurred, and likely even after, given the lack of information about your assailant, you’d need some protection. His estate could easily offer that.

“A full medical staff, huh?” She said while tucking the sheets into the bed, “That’d be pretty pricey, but if you can swing it then we could look into releasing her a little earlier. Especially if she’ll be medically monitored.”

“Do that. Anything that’s needed, I’ll take care of it.” He said smiling.

She finished making the bed and smiled at him, “She’s so lucky to have you.”

Now here was a woman with a brain. The only competent person he’d encountered in the past few hours.

Soon after, a nurse arrived with you on a transport bed. IV in your arm, bandages covering your torso, oxygen tube around your nose. Thin hospital slip over your body.

“I’ve got her from here,” the nurse said wheeling you to the center of the room.

The transporting nurse eyed the second bed and shot her a look. She waved him off. She covered you in a blanket, carefully tucking it into your sides.

The medical monitors hummed to the slow rhythm of your heartbeat. Beneath the stark glow of the overhead light, you uncharacteristically looked fragile.

And he didn’t like how his chest sank.

After she was done, they carefully lifted and gently settled you into your bed. The nurse then gently pushed your bed and the accompanying medical equipment, so it was flush against the side of his.

He shot her a questioning look.

“I know I said you could think about it, but I thought you might want her close tonight,” she smiled, “if there’s anything urgent just separate the beds.”

The nurse stepped in front of your vitals monitor to record them. He followed and towered over her, watching her record every vital. No mistakes could be made - not anymore.

“The surgery went well,” she reassured, "her vitals look good. You should get some rest. It’s been a long night. She’ll be awake in the morning.”

“Check on getting her released into my care.” He said getting into his bed. “Of course,” she cooed, dimming the lights, “sleep well.”

He exhaled.

Your profile was faint in the glow from the monitoring equipment. He reached out and gently placed his hand over yours, soft but cold. The OR must’ve been freezing.

You stirred, head slightly nodding, inhaled then winced. He hadn’t meant to wake you. You squinted and turned your head, looking at him through narrowed, anesthetized eyes, “Naoya?”

It was hearing you quietly rasp his name that did it. Whatever remaining adrenaline he had left shot straight - hot and true - to his heart.

He was suddenly kneeling over you.

His hands were in your hair, “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m going to kill you for this,” his voice cracking, “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

He tore himself away from you and turned over in his bed.

Embarrassment was not a feeling he liked. Feelings in general, did not serve him well. And he hated – hated – that he had lost control of himself. In front of you. In front of anyone.

He checked the time. A little past 4 in the morning. It must be the exhaustion. This aberrance, this show of weakness and affection…this was your fault. Making him stay up late, rush to the hospital with poor preparations from his staff. That’s what caused this.

His intent was to remain turned away from you.

But given everything that happened tonight, a cursed spirit would probably use this moment to attack you. Or your would-be killer.

He rolled over and looked at you. Chest slowly rising and falling. Body bandaged, but intact. Asleep. Delicate.

You were alive.

He placed a hand back over yours.

And closed his eyes.  

Chapter Text

“Mr. Zenin,” a gentle voice said, rousing him.

He grimaced and opened his eyes. An old hag of a nurse was leaning over him, nudging his shoulder.

He sat up, checking the wall clock. Almost 8:30. Four hours of sleep. What the hell did this woman want?

“What’s going on?” he barked, “Is something wrong? If something’s wrong, I swear I’m going to -”

“No, dear. I woke you because it looks like she’s about to wake up.” The ancient nurse smiled at him and then began drawing the curtains, letting the soft morning light into the room.

He peered over at you. You looked terrible. Thin blankets were covering you. They weren’t enough to keep you warm in this frigid room. What? Not enough money to heat the damn place?

“Get her more blankets immediately,” he snapped.

The crone smiled at him and chuckled, “Of course, dear. I was just going to change them out.”

Your eyes were still closed, but you were fidgeting, eyes fluttering. His hand had tightened around yours.

He wanted to be irritated, but the heat crawling up the back of his neck felt like nothing like irritation.

The nurse hobbled over to what looked like a small refrigerator across the room. It was full of neatly folded blankets. She pulled out two.

Why did they have such a frail old lady as your attending nurse? If something went wrong, what could she possibly do? Where was the one from last night? The competent one?

“This is our blanket warmer. The blankets feel like they just came out of the dryer. You can always add more if she gets cold.”

He continued to inspect you. Your face looked pale and what the hell was that? Oxygen tube still attached to your nose? You had it in last night, but he thought that it was temporary. Had the bullet actually pierced your lung? Why had no one told him?  

“Why is she still on oxygen?” he scoffed, shooting her a withering look.

“Just a precaution,” she said carefully draping blankets over you, “It will also be difficult for her to breathe, given her broken ribs, so the oxygen is supplementary.”

He glared at her, “They should’ve been certain that her injuries were fully treated when she left the OR. They should’ve known whether or not she’d be able to breathe upon waking.”

Forget the donation and the phone call. This was beyond repair. He was going to do the world a favor and sue this trash heap out of existence.

“Oh sir,” the old nurse chuckled, “I know it’s painful to see the woman you love injured. But she’s okay.”

She smiled softly at him, tottering over to him.

He scowled.

Love? Seriously this old lady -

“She’s going to survive,” she repeated and then gently squeezed his hand.

He recoiled like her touch might curse him.

He hated that this old woman perceived, very wrongly, that he was weak for you. Zenin men were weak for no one. Especially not a woman and especially not him. Even if you were his faux fiancé. Feelings like worry and concern were beneath him.

Even if the tightness in his chest and his elevated heart rate dared to suggest otherwise.  

He tilted his chin up and scowled at the old hag.

The old bat walked over to you, “Good morning, my dear,” she said, gently clasping your hand in hers, “You’re at Kyoto University Hospital. You were injured but you’re safe now. Your fiancé, Naoya, is here.”

“Good morning, fiancé,” he said, scooting even closer to you, giving you a winning smile and brushing your hair aside.

Physical affection was permitted.

Since he was your fiancé.

“Fiancé?” you said, dazed eyes meeting his. You gave him a look of furrowed-brow confusion and then it registered. Your expression morphed into a lazy, knowing smile.

Even post-anesthesia you were still sharp.

How annoying.

“Yes honey, your fiancé, Naoya,” she laughed. “Oh, my dear,” she cooed, “it’s the anesthesia and morphine. You might feel a little hazy for a while. If you feel pain, you can press this button to receive more pain medication. But it will only allow you to press it one time per hour.”  

“Hi honey,” you said in a sleepy saccharine tone, eyes narrowed mischievously.

His shit eating grin widened.

You playing along was a surprise. 

“Oh, he’s been very concerned about you.” The nurse said turning to the vitals monitor, making notes as she chattered. “You have quite the future husband. He was a little demanding.” She chuckled and winked at him. “He’s a very strong advocate for you. Threatened to sue us out of existence. He really loves-“

“That’s enough.” Naoya cut her off so fast he nearly tripped over his own words.

Ancient bag of bones just gave him an irritating, all-knowing, old lady smile. Like she knew exactly how fast his stupid, pathetic heart leapt when your eyes fluttered open.

“It’s okay, dear. She’s your beloved! She should know how valiant you were in spite of your fear.”

Fear?

Fear?

Afraid that this poor excuse for a hospital might give you sepsis!

Not…whatever it was she was implying.  

“I’d like some time alone with my fiancé,” he said.

Get this old maid out of here and stop talking about imaginary feelings.

The nurse shuffled towards the exit. She paused and turned, lingering in the doorway, giving you both a wide, creasy smile.

“I’ll be back in an hour. It’s nice to see two people so in love.”

The door closed.

“So, I’m your fiancé now?” You smirked at him.

“They wouldn’t let me see you unless I told them that I was family. Ridiculous hospital policy.”

“Uh-huh. Have you called your family to let them know of our engagement? Sent out the invitations for our wedding? Contacted a wedding planner?” you teased.

“Oh yes,” he mocked clapping his hands together, smirking back, “the engagement announcement is set to hit the Times tomorrow. I even found a sorcerer who can summon the dead so Toji will be there. But we still need to get you a dress,” he replied, “I was thinking something really princess-y. Kilometer long train.”

“Well, if Toji is being resurrected to attend, how could I ever say no?” You said with a restrained chuckle, bracing through broken ribs. “You want to tell me what exactly you’re doing here?”

“You first,” he replied, “How could you let something like this happen?”

“Oh. Didn’t I tell you? It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to be shot. And now it’s finally been fulfilled.”

Naoya rolled his eyes and begrudgingly altered his question, “Fine. How did this happen?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…I finished exorcising the curse. Early, by the way,” you started, “I texted the Sorcery System and let them know the mission was complete. I hadn’t eaten much. I was walking back to the car. Thinking about what we should do for food.” 

He wasn’t naturally patient, or maybe it was that he never had to be patient that he hadn’t developed it. He wanted to seize the opportunity to win an argument. But it wouldn’t be satisfying to watch you wince in pain.

And he couldn’t distract you.

For his report, of course.

You continued between labored breaths, “I was walking back to the car. Distracted. That’s when some asshole shot me. Never suspected a normie, you know? He appeared to be a man. He was shorter than you. Smaller too. Mask covering the bottom half of his face and sunglasses. Brunette. Do you know if they’ve found him?”

“They haven’t. Everyone, predictably, has been incompetent and disappointing.”

“Guess that makes sense. It all happened fast. There wasn’t any sort of confrontation. I remember hearing the gun. He shot me in the back, I turned, and he continued shooting,” you said focused, trying to remember, “Do you know if he robbed me?”

What a coward – shooting you in the back.

“He did not.”

You hummed, eyes down, wheels turning in your head, “He wasn’t a sorcerer. Ordinary human amount of cursed energy. Had decent gun discipline. Wasn’t his first time shooting a gun. He looked over me after he shot me as I was bleeding out. I’m pretty sure he took a photo on his phone. I wanted to move but couldn’t. Couldn’t connect with my cursed energy. Otherwise, he’d be dead.”

“What freeze him or trip him or whatever your clutzy technique is?”

You snorted. “It’s more complicated than that and you know it.” You smiled deviously. “Anyway, after that I tried to call Sorcery Alert. I don’t remember much after that.”

Your story confirmed what he knew from Jinichi. Not a robbery. A non-curse user. Though some details were new – this person knew how to wield a gun. Had experience.

And took a photo.

For proof? Was this a hired hitman or something?

What the hell was happening?

“I think he knew you were a sorcerer,” he said.

“If he didn’t rob me then it seems likely. Could always be some misogynistic serial killer taking photos as trophies.”

“This isn’t one of your true crime specials,” he dismissed the idea but privately made sure to note it.

Maybe there was some psycho running around killing women for fun. Unlikely, but not totally improbable, based on the stalker-rapist-murderer-torture crime documentaries you occasionally watched together.

He let out a small, exasperated exhale. There wasn’t enough to try to identify who your would-be murderer was.

“Everyone has been so damn useless. Law enforcement still hasn’t gotten me ballistics. We might be able to match it to a particular gun if it’s been used before, but the longer it takes, the more time we lose, the harder it will be to find him.”

“I’m sure they’re doing their best, Naoya. Gun might not even be traceable.”

“When we find him, we’re going to murder him.”

“’We,’ huh? Thank you for acknowledging that I can fight, too,” you said faintly smirking.

“I’ll be there to make sure he dies, since you couldn’t finish the job the first time.” He huffed.

You smacked his chest.

Your body might be injured but your pride certainly wasn’t, though your wince did not go unnoticed.

“Did they let you know when I can leave?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it. You’re being released into my care. You’ll come stay with me, fiancé,” he said.

“You’re lucky that it causes me pain to move,” you protested, “otherwise, I’d slap you again. I’m not staying with you.”

“It should cause you physical pain to slap your fiancé,” he said gleefully, “You know? That was a good idea you had earlier,” he taunted, “Announce our engagement. Maybe I should send out those invites. You can’t fight back now.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, and you huffed – a small huff – and he almost felt bad seeing you try to mask your pained grimace.

“One day. That’s all I need.”

“Oh, come on, now. It’d be fun. You could stay safe at the estate. You’d get to fuck me every night, not have to worry about dying constantly.”

“Daily contact with you? No thanks.”

“Fine,” he said relaxing a bit. Best to show confidence in the face of your protests, a skill he’d learned and refined from his father, “but you’re staying with me.”

“No,” you insisted.

He locked eyes with you. Iron will behind yours. Fortunately, he anticipated this pushback. Time for the alternative. 

“Then I’ll stay with you,” he said, “They’re releasing you to me, fiancé. My place or yours?”

He let that one land.

You rolled your eyes.

“So, send someone from the Hei or Kukuru. I’m sure the Heir to the clan has more important duties than to watch over a Special Grade sorcerer. Let alone a woman,” you said smiling as though you’d gotten one over him.

“I am the Head of the Hei. You should be honored that someone of my status would take pity on you and protect you. I can do what I want as heir to the clan.”

“The heir to the clan only attends to the most important duties of the clan, right?” you replied.

“Of course, that should be obvious.” His tone implying an unspoken are you stupid?

“So, among all of the important duties you have, you think the clan’s most important duty is protecting me? Your hook-up?” you retorted with a self-confident eyebrow raised. 

 He smirked. “I prefer the term concubine, actually. Don’t think yourself so important. If I want to protect you then I will. Not everything the heir does reflects the priorities of the clan,” he said, “Though,” he paused and was pleased with this explanation, “protecting a strong sorcerer is something that is expected of us. We can be counted on in times of need.”

You looked as though you were about to argue, say something about his arrogance and your strength, likely, but then your mouth closed, and your face contorted.

“Naoya,” you said with a sharp inhale, blood draining from your face, hand over your middle, “can you find the pain med drip?”

Shit.

He got up and looked for the pain medication button. You were braced. The pain must’ve been considerable. Given the wounds to your torso, turning your body likely was very painful. He almost felt guilty.

He found the drip tangled in the blankets and pressed the button.

“How exactly do you think you’re going to take care of yourself on your own?”

“I’ll manage,” exhaling slowly.

“No. You won’t. That’s an insane idea. You can barely move. You can’t defend yourself. You can barely breathe on your own. Let me stay with you until you can self-heal.”

He didn’t like being persuasive, permissive even. This was not what he was familiar with. But he shouldn’t have been arguing with you. Well, you shouldn’t be arguing with him, but you were, well, you. So what did he expect?

You looked up at him, pain fading, scowling more from annoyance, “Fine.”

“Good girl,” he smirked.

One of your pillows smacked him squarely in the face.

He smirked, but his eyes lingered a moment too long on the spot where your hand pressed onto your ribs.

“Worth it,” you smiled as you winced.  

Stupid.

You were going to be fine.

Obviously.

Chapter Text

Jinichi sat on his favorite cushion. Shoji doors open to let the end of summer breeze in. The orangey sun settling in for the evening with him. Before him was the dinner a servant had kindly brought him, a fine sake he kept for quiet nights in – never to be shared with the young bucks – and a rich, purple bellflower he secretly plucked from the garden. Just because it was beautiful.

He also set down his newest purchase. A book on Tai Chi. His body wasn’t what it used to be. Old battle scars had begun to ache. And sleep hadn’t come easy these days. It surprised him – that in his 40s his mind was still restless.

He’d always had a mind for politics. Once Naoya was born, practically glowing with cursed energy, he knew he and the rest would be relegated to Hei positions. Naobito’s final son would be the heir.

Rather than stewing in resentment like Ogi or scheming like the others, he decided to make use of his position. Being the heir came with pressure and responsibility he didn’t want anyway. He turned his eye towards mentorship. An older brother for those who needed one. To be what he should’ve been to Toji. And hopefully raise up the next generation to make the clan well, something different. 

Right now, it would be hard to shake things up, he mused, sipping his sake.

The sorcery world had entered a period of relative stability. Gojo seemed to be amassing his own family of Special Grades. With his partner Geto at his side, Megumi as his ward – sure to be a prize someday – it wouldn’t hurt for the Zenin become friendly again. Or at least at peace with each other. The question of howate at Jinichi. With Naoya as heir apparent, well – peace with the progressive faction seemed unlikely. Without something to shake Naoya up – or oust him – the Zenin clan seemed to be headed for stagnation and rot.

Tonight, though, he allowed himself to put those thoughts aside.

The younger cousins were headed to the city. He’d seen a pack of them – the younger gentleman of the Kukuru - commandeer a car, dressed for clubbing.

He recalled those days. They were young, dumb, full of – well - cum and a whole lotta dumb.

Still, they should go and have fun. Enjoy the world and all it had to offer – especially away from the clan. With the raucous boys out and Naoya still gone on a mission, the estate relaxed into quiet maturity. The aunties and elders would turn in early. Naobito would smoke his pipe on his veranda, contemplative and mysterious.

After his meal and reading about Tai Chi he’d take a long, salty bath and turn in early. Maybe even stroll around the garden and enjoy the stars.

A perfect night.

He smiled to himself.

He took another sip of the sake. Hints of melon and rice. Really a thing of -

His pocket vibrated.

Naoya?

He should’ve been done with his mission by now. And if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t call Jinichi. Naoya would rather end up in the hospital than ask for help.

It was nearly an hour after the alert about the Special Grade going to the hospital. The timing pricked the hairs on his neck and his instincts.

He answered smoothly, “Yes?”

Naoya’s tone was sharp, hurried. “What do you know about the Special Grade mission where the sorcerer was shot?”

Jinichi blinked. Not injured. Not attacked.

Shot.

He hadn’t seen the word anywhere in the official alert. His eyes narrowed.

How the hell did Naoya know that?

He kept his answer simple, “Dunno much.”

There was a pause, and then the order. “Get to the scene. Find out.”

Jinichi hesitated. He looked at his book, his untouched dinner, his fine cup of sake, the regal bellflower and sighed. “Can we not do this, Naoya?”

“Just fucking find out. Find out who did it. We don’t need another sorcerer killer.”

Sharp, irritated, and – not typical heir -  just a little frantic.

Click.

Little shit hung up.

Naoya was the Head of the Hei. And the Heir. Superior. Technically.

And oddly, asking for help.

If it wasn’t intruding on his perfect night Jinichi might’ve been proud of the little asshole. But instead, he felt annoyed. He supposed it wasn’t any different from how Naoya normally made him feel.

He started shoving food into his mouth.

Naoya trusted him more than the others. Made sense. Jinichi knew his reputation. He was discreet, trusted among the clan. And Naoya actually listened to him. Even if he was conceited and insulting before, during, and after every conversation. Even if he pretended not to.

And that’s how this would remain – discreet. With discretion came trust or at least leverage. Influence followed.

And influence over Naoya was rare.

Rarer still that Naoya knew something that Naobito hadn’t given to him. And about a Special Grade? A teacher and…a woman?

Jinichi gulped down his soup.

It reeked of politics. If the clan offered support to the investigation of a powerful, injured sorcerer – and a teacher nonetheless – that may ingratiate some goodwill.

But Naoya didn’t have a mind for politics. At least not in the broader sense. Didn’t seem to come naturally to him. And if it wasn’t political….

Was it possible that Naoya could be frantic over…another human being?

Jinichi snorted into his sake. Impossible. Naoya hated everyone.

Naoya had been staying in the city more – late, sometimes overnight. More than he should, though he was always on time and his work completed. When he returned, he looked a little rumpled and loose, easy.

Jinichi laughed to himself.

Naoya interested in a woman who worked? And higher ranked than himself? Ha! Yeah right!

His city absences were probably frequenting some hostess clubs, picking up women for a few flings before he’d be confined to some clan sanctioned marriage with a very pretty, politically expedient woman with whom he’d spend his time making a litter of possible future heirs.

He got up and went to his bedroom to change.

He stared at the bellflower, soft and beautiful, just like his night was supposed to be.

Before Naoya Zenin ruined it.

Chapter Text

With the permission of your doctor, the ‘promise’ of a full medical team, and a brief medical transport driving attendant training session, you were released from the hospital a few hours later. Not before repeatedly harassing the staff to get your exit paperwork. Seriously? How long did it take to have someone come by, confirm your address, and deliver discharge paperwork?

Naoya went to the car and Riku to secrecy again.

“Not a fucking word.”

“So do I get to know who this person is?” Riku asked, leaning up against the car, finishing a cigarette.

Naoya rolled his eyes. “You get to know she’s alive.” He smirked. “Don’t think we’re gossiping girlfriends.”

Riku shook his head and blew out a long, slow stream of smoke, amused. “Glad she’s alive.”

“Yeah. She. Now drop it.”

The hospital doors hissed open. The nursing team rolled you out, pale in some hospital-issue sweats. An oxygen tank was provided just in case – you refused it, idiot -  a small bag of medications, and a folder of discharge instructions.

“What the hell is that?” you asked him, looking at the car. Even when you were pale, tired, and drugged you still fought him.

“Transportation.” Naoya smirked.

“A Maybach? Transportation for who? A diplomat? A billionaire’s son? An annoying heir?”

“Transportation for an extremely ungrateful and injured woman. Would you prefer an ambulance?” Naoya rolled his eyes. “Riku, get the rear seat reclined and the heat up to 72.”

“An ambulance with full sirens blaring would be more subtle than this.” You said and then turned to look up at the nurse, “I’d like to be numb for this experience. Is it too late to be prescribed a tranquilizer? Extra painkillers?”

The nurse chuckled as she wheeled you closer.

“Do they make prescription heroin?” You joked, “Can I have that, too, please?”

The nurse giggled and shook her head. “Sorry honey, just the boring stuff today.” 

“Damn,” you muttered, “In that case, can I take double of whatever you’ve already given more or – “

“Get in before I ask for painkillers myself,” Naoya said then glanced at the nurse, “We’re done here.”

Naoya gingerly lifted you and placed you in the car, putting a pillow between you and the seat belt. Riku folded up the wheelchair and placed it in the trunk.

“Drive like a normal human, Riku.” He ordered.

“In this thing? Even if I drove like Max Verstappen, you two wouldn’t feel a thing.”

Riku drove and you two chatted. Connecting with your cursed energy was apparently challenging. The nurse had said the pain meds would impact your digestion so perhaps that was part of it. Even so, reverse curse technique was a notably difficult skill that few mastered.

“I’ve practiced using RCT a handful of times, but to be honest I was practicing my technique and refining my domain. I’ve never healed using it before. Mainly because I don’t have to.” You said, flicking through the hotel’s channels to find something to watch, “My cursed technique makes it easier in theory, but RCT has a totally different feel and concept. Multiplying two negatives to make a positive and the feeling is different. Instead of using your stomach as the generator, you use your brain.”

“Ah, yes, using your brain, I now understand why it’s such a struggle for you,” he deadpanned.  

“We should duel some time. I think it would be instructive for you,” you snapped back.

“I, too, am a Special Grade,” he replied.

“Special Grade 1 is not the same as Special Grade!”

“That may be true, but here’s how it would go. Your technique activation probably works only as fast as your reaction time, right? I’ll bet on me being faster than that. Get to you before you can activate your technique.”  

“That’s possible. If I don’t sense your movement first. If I do, I’ll just trip you and it’ll be over. You’ll be frozen in a frame, right?”

The argument continued from there.

Your apartment was shockingly far from the school, given your status as a teacher. It was in a small, what some might call “up-and-coming” neighborhood. Not terrible, but not exactly nice either. Upon arriving at your apartment, he conducted a routine security check of the lobby, elevator, and your entryway. Of course it was severely lacking.

“There’s no one in the lobby checking people in? Do you live in a hovel?”  

“No security cameras anywhere! Does this building even care about the security of its residents? Do they want you to die?”

“Your entry way doesn’t even have a doorbell camera? Are you averse to new technology? Have a death wish?”

He added a doorbell camera with motion detection, to text you and him an alert him of all passers-by (after you demanded he remove his ability to track your comings and goings after you were healed). 

He slowly studied your apartment. With him inside any potential security issues were moot. Special Grade 1 Sorcerer and all.

He occasionally wondered about where you lived. Sure, it was in a somewhat decent neighborhood but come on.

“This is your place?” he said, wheeling you into your apartment. You were so damn annoying about the wheelchair. Thank God a medical “professional” intervened and talked some sense into you.

“Yes, jackass. Remember you insisted on staying with me,” you said sternly.

Only two bedrooms? One bathroom? Tiny. You were practically living in squalor. All pre-fab cabinets and mediocre appliances. Not even real wood floors – probably laminate or vinyl. Though you seemed to enjoy art. There were prints on the wall – they looked mostly like local, amateur art but not half bad. Some house plants, books strewn around. A Switch lite and an old mug of tea (didn’t you clean?) on the coffee table. Too many blankets and throw pillows for his taste.

“You know, you really should’ve taken me up on my proposal. This place is quaint but it’s nothing compared to what I could offer,” he said, strolling towards you.

This was fun already. And that you had to look up at him from so far below, let him lead you around, was pure poetry in motion.

“Though you’re sadly too late,” he continued.

“Is it sad for you,” you asked, looking up at him, giving him a sly smile, “that it’s too late?”

He rolled his eyes, “It’s sad for you, idiot. Could’ve had better but, no, must ‘do things yourself’ and ‘make your own choices.’ Idiots shouldn’t be permitted to make their own choices.”

“You say that as if you aren’t an idiot, Naoya.”

“I liked you better when you were drugged up,” he said, half teasing.

“Want the official tour?” You asked.

“Why when I can stand here and see everything?”

You shot him a look and put your hands on the sides of the chair, threatening to stand.

“Do not stand,” he said, marching towards you.

Self-destructive and stupid.  He didn’t need a tour, but he’d humor you. Although, he’d always been a little curious about your home.

He wheeled you forward.

“The first place I want to show you is called a kitchen. May be hard for you to believe, but this is where people cook. It’s where all your food comes from,” you mocked.   

“I know what a kitchen is,” he said lowering his face to yours, “It’s where you belong.”

You almost managed to smack him before he snapped up, dodging your hit and laughed.

“That’s such an old and tired sexist joke, Naoya,” you said, “I expect more from you. Something creative and original.”

“It’s a classic for a reason,” he replied, “some truths are just eternal. Women in kitchens, men out fighting. Women staying home and being mothers, men out working and being fathers - ”

“Oh my god, please stop.”

He snickered and relented, “Shall we continue?”

“Fine,” you continued, “This is the living room. We will be watching terrible re-runs and movies here. Only because I cannot forcibly remove you from my home,” you said motioning to your right.

“To the left is the guest room and office,” you said motioning to your left.

He leaned to the side and briefly scanned the room.

Boring.

A laptop on the desk. And a guest futon with a simple quilt. Window overlooking the street below. More art, but this time prints of more renowned artists. And a few small wooden sculptures done in Showa tradition – birds that looked a lot like imitations of Takamura’s – which was another surprise. You really seemed to like art – painting, sculptures. You didn’t discriminate, traditional, modern or contemporary.

“And finally, this is my bedroom,” he wheeled you inside.

You didn’t have bad taste. If you ever married, not that you ever would in all likelihood, but if you did your husband should let you decorate the home. With some restrictions, fewer damn pillows and blankets, and with things of a higher quality. It was one decent wifely thing about you.

Interesting.

He left your side and lay down on the bed.

“This mattress is of inferior quality,” he said staring up at the ceiling.

“You’ve laid on it for 2 seconds, Naoya,” you exclaimed.

“Nobility and wealth. I can assess quality quickly. And this,” he said sitting up on his elbows, smirking, “is trash. I’m not sleeping on this.”

“Fine. Then sleep on the guest bed,” you said annoyed, “or better yet the couch.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. And that tiny thing in the guest room? I’m sure it’s somehow worse than this. Sleeping on the couch is beneath me. Staff will bring a new mattress over,” he paused hastily texting, “and” he said scanning the room, “new linens, and a frame. The bed will be larger.”

“For one night, Naoya? Really?” you retorted indignantly, “I can’t – and more importantly – won’t pay you back for some unnecessary mattress and frame.”

“I don’t expect you too. You can keep it afterwards,” he smiled, self-satisfied expression on his face, “Text has been sent. Everything will be here later this afternoon.”

“Great,” you said with that adamancy in your eyes that he liked, “I’ll take the new mattress, and you can still sleep on the couch. Have fun.”

“Oh no,” he chuckled, “I’m sleeping with you. The bed will be larger and up to my standards.”

“If you really wanted to protect me, you’d know that the most vulnerable part of my apartment is the living room. Big window and the entry way. Sleep on the couch,” you replied.

“The most vulnerable place in the apartment is wherever you are.”

“You take the new bed, and I’ll take the guest room,” you tried.

“Same bed,” he said firmly, “where you go, I stay. And if you stay in the guest room, I’ll order another mattress and bed for that room, too.”

He raised his eyebrows at you, daring you.  

You let out a long and defeated exhale, “Fine. But for one night – “

“Maybe more,” he interjected playfully.

“For one night and you’re never staying here again.”

“We’ll see,” he smirked. 

“This is a such waste of resources.” you said, shaking your head.

“My comfort is never a waste of resource,” he held your gaze, “and you benefit from it.”

You rolled your eyes, “Altruism as justification for your selfishness. What a saint. They should have a day named after you.”

“A day where people are required to worship me? Sounds delightful. Perhaps I will stay here again since the bed will now be satisfactory,” he grinned mischievously, “to break it in. It wouldn’t be a waste of resources if it’s well used. Cost per use. We could calculate how many times we need to – “

“Keep my old mattress and take your new one with you when you leave,” you interrupted, “you’re not staying here again.”

“The hotel is a little out of your way. More convenient,” he needled.

“Naoya,” you said, exasperated.

He laughed, “One night, when you’re tired, and you want me, just know we have another option.”

Your annoyance was splendid.

He sat up. Curious about the rest of your room.

“May I look in your closet? I’m sure there are some hideous things waiting.”

“By all means, go through my clothes and tell me they’re terrible. That sounds like a fascinating way to spend our time,” you said.

He sifted through your clothes, “This isn’t bad. You should wear this when we go to dinner.”

Fuck, you would definitely look good in it. He wanted you on his arm in this. It would be difficult to keep his hands off you but damn all eyes would be on the two of you. Maybe you shouldn’t. The eyes of other men on you? He considered for a moment, smug smile forming, that’d be even better. Let everyone see how beautiful you were, but more importantly that you were with him. They could look on with envy but at the end of the night you’d leave with him.

“When did I agree to go to dinner with you?” you asked.

“You didn’t. But you said so yourself, room service is getting boring,” he smirked.

“Not that boring, Naoya.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “you’re bored. Don’t lie to me. You’re not very good at it. You complained about it last week. And besides, we can say we’re consulting about a mission if anyone happens to see us.”

“We’ll see,” you mustered, “But not in that dress. We’ll look like we’re on a date.”

Naoya raised an eyebrow at you. Something about the mention of you two looking like you’re on a date made him feel a little too satisfied. He supposed it was a simple possessiveness – just didn’t want you fucking anyone else.

“Like anyone we know would believe I’d date you,” he sniped.

“Like anyone we know would believe that I’d date you!” you sniped back.

His smile widened.

“Then there’s no reason to not wear the dress.”

You huffed and did your signature dismissive eye roll. And smiled for a moment.  

“And that completes the tour. Ready to watch something?”

You’d do it. Maybe not in that dress. But he’d be free of boring room service.

Victory number one.

Victory number two would arrive this afternoon with the mattress. He would relish in your silence as you laid on the new bed – an admission of defeat.

It would be wonderful.  

This was turning out to be a very fruitful visit.

He helped you back out to the living room and onto the couch. You perched yourself at one corner to lean on and put your feet up on the coffee table. He cleared the middle of the couch of blankets and several pillows, but took one to rest his head on, placed it next to you, and laid down.

“If any baddies show up you won’t be able to get to them quickly like this,” you protested.

“You should know better than to underestimate my speed,” he said snatching the remote and turning on the TV, “And I’ll pick, I’ve had enough of the garbage you watch.”

You let out a pain-stilted chuckle, “And what do you want to watch?”

“Succession. There’s a new season out.”

“It’s been out for years, Naoya.”

“And I’ve been busy.”   

“Isn’t that the show with a wildly dysfunctional family that’s fighting over who gets to lead the family business?” you asked tilting your head back, “is that something you can relate to?”

“Tch, please. I’ve already been named heir. The rest are barely competent. No one would dare contest it. And if they did, I’d kill them.”

“Scroll over a bit. It’s on HBO.”

“I’m shocked you can afford HBO.”

You sighed, “Just hurry up and find it.”

Chapter Text

The mattress and frame arrived later that afternoon. Later than he would’ve liked. The movers took away your cheap mattress and rickety frame and assembled the elegant wooden frame, settled the micro-plastic-free, plush mattress he’d purchased into place, and dressed it in the new linens. A huge improvement. Shortly after, Riku returned with clothes for tomorrow.

You two were taking a break from your little TV marathon. You were sprawled on the couch with your phone. His laptop was in his lap.

He still couldn’t believe you were even thinking of managing on your own - belly stitched up, ribs broken, lucky a lung hadn’t collapsed, barely able to hobble. You couldn’t even eat normal food, or you might choke according to hospital instructions. What the hell was wrong with you? Independence was one thing.  He could understand wanting to manage your own wounds, but this was downright irresponsible. You needed help. Why didn’t you want it? He stored that question away for another time. He had another pressing matter: the clan.

Two nights away without explanation was abnormal. And it would not go unnoticed or un-gossiped about. He trusted Jinichi’s discretion, his father’s ability to smooth, and the elder’s outward loyalty to whatever Naobito declared as true. The cousins never said much, at least not in front of him, and he could easily strike fear into their hearts – or their skulls. But the aunties?

They’d start murmuring over their three o’clock tea. He’d already earned their ire - particularly the anger of Auntie Akeno, the ringleader. After he turned down her three potential brides, she told him that he’d personally insulted every ancestor in her branch of the family – which had performed matchmaking and marriage negotiations for every heir since the Edo period. She collected slights the way others collected vintage vases, jewelry, or antique scrolls. By now, in her mind, Naoya had gifted her a treasure chest’s worth of them.

She never forgot, though she usually was soothed when she found some other shiny, pretty little thing in silk to lure into marriage negotiations. Right now, though, she was still clucking and looking for any excuse to excoriate him. She’d start squawking about his absence – further evidence of his dishonor - and rile up the other hens. Then he’d have to resolve the petty dispute. Resolving minor disputes was the least favorite of his duties as heir.

Especially amongst the women.

Better to supply Naobito with an update so Naobito could head her off.

He opened his email. A few personal bills, some clan business, and – there it was - an email from Jinichi. Jinichi’s account of the facts included confidential police photos of the scene. Sent only to Naoya.

Jinichi really was good at being discrete.

Naoya had seen enough gore for one lifetime already: bodies splintered, exploded, crushed, minced, mangled. Blood and parts splattered on buildings, walls, and floors. Bodies of all ages. He’d known what curses could do since he was young. He liked to think he was desensitized by now. How bad could it be to see more blood? Especially blood from a shooting.

Even if it was yours.

He scrolled through the photos.

First, a few long shots of the crime scene. Even from distance, he could see the blood on the concrete. In closer shots, it was a thick, dark red puddle that had spilled off the sidewalk, dripped down the curb and into the road.

If the HQ sorcerers had arrived even a minute later…

He didn’t let himself finish that thought.

And took a deep breath.

He began composing an email to his father attaching the photos to the email as well as Jinichi’s summary. He then included his own report analyzing protocol pitfalls, ideas for improvement, and of course – clan positioning. With the photos and Jinichi’s record, it was clear that HQ’s goons weren’t cut out for this kind of emergency response. Letting a Special Grade nearly die was unacceptable. Providing supplementary investigative support would be necessary. And the Zenin were always willing to help in an emergency, were they not?

That should give Naobito what he needed. Evidence justifying clan involvement – they were lending expertise to a rare emergency. Naoya, as heir, was taking initiative and offering support in a politically advantageous way. You were, after all, a Special Grade and a teacher at Kyoto Tech. And, of course, it provided reasonable cover as to why he needed two days away from the clan.

It also attached himself to whatever the hell was happening that had nearly gotten you assassinated. He’d work to investigate and eliminate the threat.

He sent his email, shut his laptop and turned to you. Still propped up on the couch. Still on your phone, typing away, brows furrowed like you were annoyed, lips pursed into a thin line.

“What’s pissing you off?”

You sighed. “Trying to focus while on pain meds is harder than I thought. Gakuganji is wondering when I’ll self-heal. Gojo and Geto offered to come up and help with the investigation.” You finished typing and turned to him. “Utahime wanted to bring me food and keep me company. I’m not exactly thrilled about having to fend her off. We’re not super close but she is my friend.”

“You don’t need to fend her off. You need to rest.”

“She’s worried about me and wondering how I’m managing on my own.” You shot him a look. “She’d be a better caretaker than you. You could leave.”

“Then she's not a complete idiot. You couldn't manage this on your own. Tell her you’re fine. Or tell her I’m here investigating and that the clan has been assigned as supplementary support. She can bring food.”

You snorted and then winced. “If I told her, you were here, she’d come running. Your reputation isn’t exactly sparkling. And then you’d get interrogated. ‘How’d you know she’d been shot before me?’ That’s what she’d ask. You wanna explain that?”

Naoya huffed, “I happened to be in the area.”

“And what? Cared enough about another sorcerer to help?” You scoffed.

He rolled his eyes, “Or saw an opportunity for the clan.” He waved you off. “If you don’t want to tell her - fine. Lie to your friend and don’t let her come over. But I’m not going to leave. You need protection.”

“Utahime would be fine protection.”

“You can’t be serious. What if your assassin shows back up? Who’s a better fit to protect you? Utahime, who isn’t even a full Grade 1? Or me, a Special Grade 1?”

“She’s,” you paused, “not as strong as you but good enough protection.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Her technique is a helper’s dance. She doesn’t kill curses. She helps others do it.” He shook his head. “Of the Special Grade 1s I’m the strongest. And I’m better than all the Grade 1s combined.”.

“You’re so close to being delusional. All of them? Really?”

“I beat Nanami, Kusakabe, and Mei Mei with ease. They don’t have good enough counters for me speed or control. Nanami comes close but he’s not fast enough – he can’t obey by my frame rate. Mei Mei has her birds but those are easy to counter – and again in hand to hand combat she’s nothing. And Kusakabe has to carry a weapon to be effective like my pathetic brothers – “

“Hey. Don’t talk about Atsuya that way – I actually think he might be the strongest of the Grade 1s – “

He clicked his tongue.

Kusakabe? Atsuya? Since when were you on a first name basis with him? Heat and something else stirred inside him and warmed his face. Kusakabe wasn’t even good looking. He was avoidant bordering on cowardly. 

“Of the Grade 1s Nanami is the strongest. Not Kusakabe. I beat him. I beat all of them.”

You sighed. “I’ll tell Utahime she can come over tomorrow. That I’m fine for tonight. Hopefully I’ll self-heal by then.”

You adjusted yourself on the couch and winced again. He hated watching you grimace just for a little more comfort.

“I’m going to stop taking the pain meds. I think they’re messing with my digestion. I can feel my cursed energy but it’s pulling up weird. Watch.”

He watched your cursed energy raise. It rose slowly and unevenly and then stopped. Hovered. Almost like there was some invisible force stopping it.

“It’s like there’s an artificial limit to how much you can call up.”

“Right? I think the pain meds are the problem.”

“I don’t know. You can barely breathe as it is. I don’t think whatever the pain meds are doing to your stomach is going to help with your CE flow.”

“I think I can handle the pain of trying to breathe deeply. But if I can’t get my CE online then I won’t be able to figure out RCT. Or have enough CE to fully heal. My best bet is stopping the meds.”

Did you always walk the on the edge of bravery and reckless? Naoya didn’t want to think about what you looked like without pain meds. It seemed unnecessary.

“We could get Shoko up here. There’s no need for you to suffer. Learn RCT another time.”

“Hopefully there won’t be another time,” you smiled at him.

He sighed. You didn’t want someone else to heal you. You didn’t want protection. You didn’t want help with food or walking or with…anything. It was irrational. The emotionality of it made sense for a woman. But damn where was your sense of self preservation?

“Fine. But you tell me when you’re in pain,” he said firmly, “And why haven’t you learned RCT? Your technique should make that easy. You should’ve learned for times like this. ”

“Oh,” you raised an eyebrow at him and smiled, “you want to know the secrets of my technique, huh?”

“It’s that stupid intuition thing – “

“I believe you once tried to insult it by calling it ‘women’s intuition’? It’s actually inaccurate. Especially because there’s no such thing as men’s intuition - “

“Whatever it is,” he interrupted, annoyed, “you’re able see the lines of CE and nervous systems. Shouldn’t healing be the first thing you learn?”

“Well,” you looked as if you were weighing how much to reveal, “yes. And most in my family do learn healing first. Most only heal other people. I’m the first to take the technique and use it to harm – to protect.”

Naoya was confused. “What do you mean by that? The first to use your technique it to kill curses? That can’t be possible.”

You smiled, wide and knowing, “For using my technique to harm I’m considered rebellious and breaking tradition. Some of my family won’t talk to me.”

“Well, you do seem to disdain traditions – especially the useful ones.” He joked. “Learning RCT could’ve helped you.”

“Not all traditions are bad,” you rolled your eyes, “but not learning RCT was my way of breaking tradition. It’s probably some left over teenage rebellion. I guess I thought something like – if I never learn it or just get so good at using this technique to kill curses instead of healing – and never need RCT – it will prove to them that I was right.” You sighed. “Sounds kinda dumb, but my family really disapproved of what I was doing with our technique.” You smiled, “And I really wanted to prove them wrong.”

He understood. New forms of strength weren’t usually welcome in traditional families. Look at Toji. He was strong in a non-traditional way and what had his stupid family done? Allowed him to slip away. He snorted at the thought. You were your family’s Toji – strong, misunderstood, rebellious. Hell bent on proving them wrong. It killed Toji trying to prove the clan wrong.

And almost killed you too – in a way.

“So what? Still trying to prove them wrong? A little stunted perhaps?”

“You wear still wear eyeliner, Naoya. Who are you to call anyone stunted?”

“It’s part of my appeal.”

You scoffed, “I did prove them wrong. I’m a Special Grade. I vaporize curses. I teach others how become strong and use their technique in creative ways.”

You were right. About all of it, but something in your voice just sounded…hollow.

You sighed. “Have you heard anything about the case?”

“Nothing so far unless you want to see where you almost bled out.”

You let out a pointed exhale, “I’m familiar enough.”

“Yeah,” you reluctantly agreed, “The problem is that most normies don’t know about us. Not many, at least.”

“No ex-boyfriends?”

You side eyed him and then said, “None of my normie ex-boyfriends knew that I was a sorcerer.”

“You haven’t offended the Star Religious group? Or Q?”

“I kind of thought the Star Religious Group and Q were defunct after the merger happened. And even if they were still active, no – I haven’t. And they’d probably go after Gojo or Geto, any way.”

You paused and got that sort of cute I’m really focused look on your face, “I just don’t know why a normie would’ve attacked me.”

“Are you sure no one saw anything on your last missions involving humans? That’s the most likely explanation here."

“My missions involving humans have been well-executed.” You said with your face scrunching up even more. “Humans were cleared or knocked out per protocol. They certainly wouldn’t know who I was if they saw me. And I doubt they would have the resources to come here. And what’s the motivation anyway? Kill me out of revenge for eliminating a threat to them?” You paused in thought, “Hm. I mean, it could be law enforcement. There are a few who know something about us, but why kill me when we help them?”

Now there was a thought.

“It could be. You said he used a gun before. And they are trained in how to surveil people.  Maybe some law enforcement idiot got mad because they wanted to solve the crimes. Or one of their family members died by cursed spirit and they blame us.” He pulled his laptop back out and noted it in an email to Riku, “I’ll put a PI on it. Take a look at any law enforcement that were involved in your cases.”

“That’s…actually kinda helpful,” you said, “I have some mission files that I can forward to you right now,” you pulled out your phone, “share what you find out with me.”

Naoya nodded. “If it’s law enforcement then they know that you’re not dead and will probably try again. And even if it’s not law enforcement he’s probably still watching. You should stay at the estate. Safer there.”

“I’m not hiding away, Naoya. I’ll self-heal soon and be able to defend myself. Doesn’t matter who they are if they try to kill me again, I’ll kill them first.”

He felt heat run up his spine and his jaw tense. “Like you were so good at defending yourself before.”

“I know he has a gun now. And thanks to the security upgrade you insisted on, figuring out if he’s surveilling me will be easier. The whole damn world sorcery is on alert.”

Naoya felt the heat rise higher. “No one knows what he looks like, where he is, what his motive is, how he was following you. We know nothing. We do know that it’s likely he planned. And he planned damn well. Who knows what he’ll do next?”

“I’m not going to stay afraid, Naoya. I’m aware. I’ll be safe.”

You stubborn, reckless, idiotic woman! He’d relent for now. He needed time to think this through. Staying here alone? Even if you were a Special Grade it seemed ridiculous.

Maybe more frequent hotel visits? Daily sex would be nice. But you’d catch on. That was a little too obvious. Fucking stupid idea.

Maybe a security tail to follow you?

He wasn’t sure yet.

He was, however, very sure that your glare indicated you knew he was scheming.

He closed his laptop, grabbed the remote and resumed Succession. You couldn't stop him from scheming internally. And the opening credit song provided great background music for thinking about how to keep you safe. 

Chapter Text

He finally found the blender among the other kitchen machines reserved for servants and the working class. This is what it had come to. His hands - reserved for weapons, women, and sparring - were now going to slice and dice fruit with…a paring knife.

Humiliating.

All because of your irrationality. Not learning RCT - apparently a family specialty - to spite your family? Childish. Petty. And maybe some small, traitorous part of himself that he’d prefer to ignore thought it was bold and petty and perfect.

Amusing, at least. He’d give you that much.

The plan had been to order in or call Riku to bring some hospital-approved food, but then your stomach growled. Loudly.

“Why didn’t you say you were getting hungry?”

He popped the top off the blender and began slicing the banana. Clean. Precise. Perfect.

“Because that last episode was crazy! The dad terrorized everyone at the Board meeting while Kendall was running through the city with spotty cell service still trying to get the vote of no confidence done. I didn’t want to interrupt that.”

 “Kendall is a weak heir. Too undisciplined and emotional. He should wait for the old man to die and consolidate power against his siblings or eliminate them altogether.” He clicked his tongue as he poured the sliced banana into the blender.  “Honestly, Westerners have no sense of patience.”

You cocked your head, “Didn’t you once chew out a valet because he was five minutes early instead of ten?”

“That’s different,” he said. He found the soymilk next to a pitcher of what looked like barley tea. He scanned your refrigerator.

Glassware with what looked to be curry. Soup neatly in jars. Meals you’d prepared. Peeled hard boiled eggs in another container.

“You cook,” he observed eyes sliding downward. Usual condiments. Pickled daikon – homemade? A container of rice.

And then the  bottom shelf. A half-eaten bento in Styrofoam. What appeared to be – disgusting – forgotten about konbini mochi. Canned black coffee. A 7-11 onigiri with a few bites out of it barely re-wrapped in plastic. Who knew how old those were.

“And apparently hoard trash.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a rotting bento, crusty onigiri and mochi from before you started seeing me.” He sneered. “If the assassination attempt hadn’t worked the mold and infection would’ve killed you.”

“God, you’re right,” you said in that irritating tone that always meant you were about to mock him, “I really should spend more time cleaning out my refrigerator and less time fucking horrible men.”

He clicked his tongue and opened the freezer drawer. Ice cream. Of course. A woman’s sentimentality. Frozen stock. Vegetables. Fruit. And a few frozen potstickers. Not nearly as offensive.

“You know most people don’t have staff to make their food and watch their macros. I figure it out the best I can.” You said watching him.

He pulled the frozen strawberries out and closed the freezer drawer. The refrigerator door was cluttered with notes. Some written on sticky notes, others on the back of receipts, scraps of paper held up by cat magnets. Cute. Also: irritating that he found it cute.

Call HQ: sexist curses. Emotional hazard-pay?

Todo likes Takada. New motivation?

Mission notes to Gakuganji ASAP

Gojo – WHY?!

Geto – full tea set. Celadon or white.

“You could at least hire someone to help.” He muttered quietly, defensively.

“Relax. I’ve been taking care of myself longer than you’ve been pretending to take care of anyone else.”

Pretending to take care. It hit his gut. He didn’t want to understand why it felt like a punch, so he moved onto pouring the strawberries and soymilk into the pitcher.

“Is your clan like Succession at all?” You asked. “It’s kind of how I imagine it to be.”

“First, there is no dispute about who will inherit the clan. And if any of the cousins were to try me, I’d fast forward to the season finale.”

You smiled and shook your head – the kind of familiar look that said, you’re ridiculous but right.

“Succession’s main flaw is that it doesn’t show the frivolities of the clan. Idiots fighting over old scrolls and swords - family heirlooms. Petty disputes over who goes into the official archives. Aunties scheming marriages, squawking over the most recent faux pas at whatever tea party they recently attended. But it’s not entirely dissimilar. There are multiple factions and branches of the family. All playing different positioning games. Loads of politics, especially over wealth. Everyone vying for power.”

“Ah, I can see it now – you having to mediate arguments about the Satsuma vase one minute and then argue with progressives the next.” You smiled. “Sounds like the next prestige drama. Call it The Clan. Or maybe Inheritance.”

“Call it The Heir.” He patted the lid on the blender.

“That’s the name of a K-Drama,” you said.

“No, that one is called The Heirs,” he snapped back.

“Ha! So you have seen it! I knew you couldn’t resist a TV show that made any reference to  heirs!” You shouted, victorious.

“Shut up!” he pressed the lid onto the blender. It seemed…secure?

“Put the lid on tightly. Make sure it’s closed, or it will blow up in your face.”

He grinned. Couldn’t help it.  “I could think of something I’d like to blow up in your face.”

“Oh my god, they should’ve just let me die on the operating table,” you mumbled.

“Don’t joke about that,” he commanded.

“Fine. But talk like that and see if you ever get head again.”

“Oh, I know I will. What was it that you said to me once?” he said checking the lid of the blender again. It looked properly secured. “‘It’s kind of like an eye for an eye but head for head. You’re not getting any more unless you’re willing to reciprocate.’”

He pressed the ON button, but the cursed emulsifier refused to start. He rolled his eyes. How was it possible he was confounded by a simple kitchen appliance?

“It was a fair point,” you insisted, “and you forgot to plug in the blender.”

He grabbed the power cable and plugged the blender in.

“You like it when I go down on you.”

“Your skills may have improved a little.”

“I think last time you were begging me to let you cum,” he grinned, “‘Oh! Naoya! Pleeeease!’” He mock-moaned.

You were a mess. So wet and swollen, dark with desire. The scent of you heavy in the room. He could still picture it: your thighs trembling, breath hitching.

As it turned out you were annoyingly right. It was fun watching you grip the sheets, writhe when he let his tongue ring glide over your folds and linger on your clit. It was amusing to bring you close and pull you away over and over and over. It took nothing after that. The second he put his cock inside -  you came loud and helpless.

He felt his cock twitch.

“You’re really insufferable.”

“And you’re really loud when you cum.”

He turned the blender until it locked into place. He pressed the ON button, and the blender shook on the counter. He held it down as everything whirled together.

It was ridiculous. Half hard while you couldn’t breathe properly?  Fucking was an animal instinct. But he wasn’t an animal. He could control his base desire. He stopped the blender. Seemed pureed enough.

“Where are your cups?” he asked.

“Um, above the counter. Right side,” you replied.

He poured it into the cup, observing the viscosity. Everything looked blended and relatively thin.

“It’s a smoothie, Naoya – not brain surgery. It looks fine,” you said.

“You’ll choke if it’s too thick. Do you even bother to read your care instructions?” he said, taste testing the smoothie. It was thin enough but too damn sweet. He adjusted by adding more soy milk. “I’m not taking you back to the hospital.”

He re-blended, took the lid off and -

Splash.

Smoothie all over his shirt.  

You giggled.

And promptly winced.

“You can’t even laugh without hurting yourself, idiot,” he said, sliding his shirt off. 

He poured you a cup and brought it to you. Your eyes skated down his body. He smirked.

“You’re thirsty.”

“Shut up.”

He grabbed his hoodie from his overnight bag, slipping into it. You staring at him wasn’t helping his erection. And that wasn’t helping his previous thought that he was in control.

He rounded back to the kitchen.

“Not terrible,” you said.

“Of course not. Even when it comes to women’s work, men always outperform. That’s why women are cooks and men are chefs,” he smiled widely. Sometimes he said shit just to watch you squirm.

“I will never offer you something resembling a compliment again.”

“Oh, I think you will. Even if you don’t say it out loud you say it with your eyes. I saw the way you looked at me earlier. That was admiration. Practically worship.” he went to the counter and added some protein powder to the smoothie and blended it up – making a serving for himself.

You rolled your eyes.

“How did your father react when you got the tongue ring, by the way?” you asked.

“Thinking about my body and now my tongue ring, eh?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s something I’ve wondered about. It’s just not very traditional and doesn’t seem ‘becoming’ of a Zenin, I guess.”

“I was nineteen - “ he started

“A rebellious teen when you got your tongue piercing?” you needled and took a dramatic sip of your smoothie.

 “Yes. You weren’t the only rebellious teen. At least I put my rebellious tongue to good use.”

You blushed. Perfect.

“Anyway. Naobito was furious,” he replied.

He remembered it well. The meeting room with his father and the elders. Fresh tatami, generous sake pours from the smell of it, and pipe smoke in the air.

Naobito asked him where he had been.

He stuck out his tongue.

Naobito hadn’t approved of the ear piercings either. But his tongue? That was too far.

“Disgraceful,” Naobito had declared, and struck him. Split his lip. It was his first real taste of defiance - blood, metal, and salt.

After the initial shock of it, he snapped himself back into his typical posture – straight backed and smirking.

 “Shall we get on with it?” he’d said. He thought he was so clever at the time. Look how unaffected I am.

Naobito assessed him for a moment, inhaling smoke from the old pipe, eyes sharp. Almost always unreadable. His father continued the meeting. Things always went better when he took his punishment swiftly and moved on. Punishments were temporary anyway. The tongue ring though? That was his decision. And it was permanent.

“It was worth it,” he replied.

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. He thought he saw something like sympathy? Compassion? Not pity - no pity was always some exaggerated doe-eyed expression. This was...it felt like standing still together in the room. It unnerved him. He turned away, clicked the blender back on let the whirr fill the silence. 

Chapter Text

You stubbornly did not take your next dose of long-acting painkillers.

Or the breakthrough pain killers.

Or the muscle relaxers meant to prevent spasms.

Of course you didn’t. Too proud. Recklessness bordering on stupidity. What did he expect from you?  

You agreed to take your anti-inflammatories only after he threatened to take you back to the hospital himself. And even then, he could tell you only did so to shut him up.

An hour after the effects faded, you were able to raise your CE fully. The way it was supposed to. Not blunted by medications. Clear. It was the first time he felt your power. Really felt it. It hit him like something had gone wrong with gravity. Like the air pressured had dropped, the sound dampened around the edges of his ears, and the air thinned in his lungs.

You breathed deeply – too deeply - and he watched hot tears run down your face. Not from emotion but from sheer force. You might’ve been stubborn with him, but apparently you were more stubborn with yourself.

Then felt your CE reverse. Space and sound stopped collapsing around you.

Your eyes were shut tightly and your lips pressed into a thin line. Whole face tight.

And then he heard it - a few faint clicks along your torso and then a snap. You were pressing your ribs back together.  

Your eyes popped up. You inhaled a few centimeters deeper.

“Yes!’’ you celebrated, bright and triumphant.

Of course.

Of course, you brute forced your way into healing.

And then you yelped. Sharp. Painful. Immediate.

You idiot.

You brilliant idiot.

Your face went pale. Eye squeezed shut. Your shoulders shot up to your ears. Sweat started to bead at your forehead. Your breathing was shaky.

Your CE switched off entirely. It was too much pain. Whatever RCT you managed ripped through your stamina.

“This ends,” he said ripping open the breakthrough pain meds, “now.”

You nodded – slow. And took the meds.

20 minutes later you were resting comfortably.

“I’m going to try again when these wear off.”

Of course you were. He could already feel the headache forming already.

You two repeated this stupid cycle two more times. You almost healed all your ribs through spite and self-destruction. He almost tied you to the bed and shoved extended-release pain killers down your throat. Twice.

After the last time your stamina was gone. Your body had slackened, and you settled into the couch. And then finally – thank God – you fell asleep.

You’d finished two seasons of Succession. And it was late.

“Hey,” he murmured, gently nudging you, “time to go to bed.”

You let out a soft, groggy hum of agreement.

“Last chance to whine about the new bed and demand I sleep out here,” he teased.

“I’m too tired to fight you,” you mumbled, “You’re not so bad to sleep with.”

His chest swelled, just slightly, with something he didn’t know quite what to name.

He helped you to the wheelchair and gingerly helped you stand. He carefully lifted your shirt over your head. You rested your hand rested on his forearm without thinking.

His hand brushed over your bandages, lingering at your ribs. You’d healed the bones, but the bruises remained. Purple blooming beneath them. Long jagged trails of stitches crossed your torso.

It startled him more than he’d expected.

He’d pushed your injuries - how you’d gotten them, what almost happened - to the back of his mind. Tucked them beneath irritation, blame, lectures, and all the ways he told himself that you’d brought this on yourself.

“This shouldn’t have happened to you,” he said quietly.

He would’ve liked to blame you for this. Blame was easy. Comfortable. You shouldn’t be working. Shouldn’t be going on such dangerous missions. Shouldn’t be in situations where normies with guns could shoot you.

And in a way he wasn’t wrong. If you weren’t working this wouldn’t have happened to you.

His jaw tightened, his arms clenched, and something in his chest sank.

His body told a different story.   

And even though it made no sense. Even though it was irrational. Unreasonable. He still felt that somehow -

He should’ve been there.

He should’ve stopped this.

If he’d knew where the mission was.

If he picked you up.

If he was the one who found you.

If, if, if.

The contradiction irritated him. His mind screaming this was on you. Your stupid choices. Your arrogance. Your refusal to listen. While every muscle in his body insisted it was his failure. A failure he didn’t have the vocabulary for.  

He thought he mastered this feeling. The one he hated. He learned to parry it with reason, burn it up with blame, wrap it tight in anger until it suffocated.

But the thought of you bleeding out –

alone, helpless –

was hard to think past.

It made him feel helpless. It made him feel scared. It made him feel weak.

Everything he refused to be.

“Yeah, but I survived,” you whispered.

He glanced down, met your soft eyes for a moment, and dropped it.  

He pulled his sweatshirt over his head and helped you into it. 

“Is something, wrong?” you asked.

He exhaled through his nose - too fast and dismissive.

“Your shorts,” he said, clearing his throat. As if he could also clear out what he was feeling.

He slid your shorts off and eased you into your sweatpants. Your hands rested on his shoulders. 

“Don’t strain yourself. I don’t need to see you wince again.” He snapped lightly.

When he finished, he looked at you. The city cast a warm glow through the curtains. He could see softness in your expression when you quietly said, “It’s not your fault, Naoya.”

His jaw flinched. It was worse to have a witness to his helplessness than feeling it.  

You were right, in one sense. It wasn't his really fault. Nor was it entirely yours. But still. It happened. And it burned.

The man who shot you was the one who caused all of this. It was his fault.

And he should die for it.

He helped you into bed, guiding you as you eased yourself back.

You grimaced and he bit the inside of his cheek.

Then he laid down beside you.

“Naoya,” you whispered.

He felt your hand reach over, gentle and firm on his.

“Thank you for coming to the hospital. And - ” a pause, breath catching, “for today.”

He tucked his lips into his mouth. He stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what any of this meant. He knew his body was held hostage by a tension he didn’t understand. And he also knew the one place that wasn’t tense was where your hand was resting.

Gently over his. 

Chapter Text

3:03am

You needed to pee.

Naoya lay turned over, quietly breathing his slow, unusually peaceful rhythm.  You thought Naoya would be militant sleeper – straight backed, breathing in a perfect, precise tempo, face stony and hair somehow still perfectly coiffed. Like a handsome mattress advertisement.

Instead, he looked peaceful. His hair mussed up, breathing loose, body relaxed. Still handsome, unfortunately. Probably dreaming smugly. Probably about being clan head. Probably about your listening to him.

His dream.

Your nightmare.

If Naoya knew you were awake, he’d insist on helping you to the bathroom. Probably start the lecture before he even opened his eyes.

You should’ve woken me up, you idiot!

You were advised –

By a medical professional

that you shouldn’t walk on your own without assistance!

As if you were some toddler that needed potty training. As if asking for help wasn’t worse than these damn stitches.

Control freak.

Asshole.

You eased yourself up slowly from the bed. The stitches didn’t scream, but they made themselves known in a biting, low burn.

Unfortunately, the asshole may have had a point.

That thought alone felt like another kind of injury.

You bit your lip and swallowed a whimper. A few breaths – in and out letting your abdomen adjust to being upright. The pain settled. Your head cleared.

At least you could walk. The pain was just a warning, a reminder that you were fragile. And you needed to go slow. Unless you wanted your self-appointed, cashmere-clad guard dog to lose his fucking mind.

Don’t be stupid.

Solid advice.

Annoying that your mind delivered it in Naoya’s voice.

Your palms pushed yourself to the edge of the mattress and set your feet on the cool floor. You took a few more breaths once you were on your feet – and put one foot in front of the other. Slow. Mostly steady.

One careful step and then another.

The air brushed cold against your skin as you crept into the hallway, carefully pulling the bedroom door shut behind you. You stepped over the lone squeaky floorboard in the hallway.

You shut the bathroom door with the same quiet caution, flicked on the light, and looked in the mirror. Your cheeks were tear-stained and rosy with pain.  Your eyes – heavy, dark rimmed and puffy from exhaustion. At least you didn’t look as pale as you did in the hospital. 

Small victories.

You braced a hand against the counter and let yourself rest more of your weight on one side – the side with fewer stitches from, you know, being shot. You lifted your shirt up. Bruising yellow and purple peeked out from underneath them. Stomach stitches looked like jagged switchbacks crossing your torso.

Well. Better than unstitched, blue and dead.

You gingerly lowered your shirt. Or rather, Naoya’s sweater. It was hard to be annoyed when it was so soft.

Your first instinct was to steal it. He probably had several of them. You let your fingers curl around the hem. It was soft. Obviously. Cashmere, most likely. Wasn’t like he had a shortage of money or decent taste. He could replace it easily.

Call it reparations for having to listen to his opinions.

But keeping his sweater seemed like a dangerous precedent.

First came keeping it, then what?

Sleeping in it?

Wearing it when he wasn’t around?

Letting him notice?

And of course he would notice.

He was already insufferably competitive.

This would be a win for him.

You like smelling like me, don’t you?

What? Want everyone to know who’s been keeping you alive?

Cute.

Ugh.

He wouldn’t even be wrong about the whole you keeping alive part.

No. Better to make sure he got it back. Better to not play than lose.

God, you were tired.

Not just physically.

Spiritually.

Existentially.

Metaphysically.

You turned the faucet on, grabbed a washcloth, and soaked it under the cool water. You’d have liked to wash your face, but bending over with stitches seemed like a good way to have Naoya warp to your bathroom. You brought the damp washcloth to your face and let it ground you. You felt your cheeks lose their heat and your eyes soften, relax. Seemed like your whole body braced around your injuries to keep yourself steady. Even the tiny muscles in your eyes.

Now it was time to make a healing plan. The last round of pain meds you took was probably – 5 hours ago? And they typically lasted 4-6. If you were lucky, you were in the RCT sweet spot. Just enough medication left to dull the pain, but not enough pain to kill your stamina.

You set the washcloth down.

Sat on the toilet.

Relieved yourself.

Washed your hands.

Closed the toilet cover.

Sat back down.

And began to focus.

Well, rebel teen, you told yourself, let’s finish this.

Breathing shallowly, you began tracing the shape of your diaphragm. Starting at the top – the least painful, least stiff - and descended. Down to where your ribs laced over your lungs. Down to your stitched up stomach. Down further into the bowl of your pelvis.

And then you began to inhale. Slowly, intentionally. Tracking how far you could breathe until you met the pain. You let the pain be. Tried not to judge it as good or bad. Just pain. Just sensation. Not letting it control your breath entirely. Respecting when it asked you to go slower or pause. And then exhaled through your nose.

And there it was. Emanating from your belly. A soft waft of cursed energy. Nothing pressing down on it. Nothing stifling. No artificial boundary.

Your cursed energy.

Everyone had different ways of describing how cursed energy felt. Like water – a trickle becoming a river. Or like fire – a small flame kindled into a wildfire. To you, it felt like air - a gentle breeze rattling leaves becoming a twisting, whipping current.

And when you had all your strength? Like you could pull the air from the world into yourself and create a vortex.

You focused on coaxing that small breeze into a gust. Doubling it. And then reversing its course. Instead of letting it spiral into the world you let it reverse its course towards your head. The way currents of air spun upward into a hurricane.

You continued to breathe and feel. Breathe upwards, feel repair move downwards. Your belly stitches popped out, landing with light clinking sounds onto the bathroom floor.

The stabbing and burning in your torso dulled then stopped. The strangest sensation was your skin - knitting itself on its own.

Finally, you could fully inhale and exhale. You took a few full, deep breaths, expanding from belly to chest. Your lungs filled without pain. Your ribs didn’t protest. Your belly stopped burning. Your CE pulled up with ease. You reversed it once more and cleared up the bruising and scarring.

You lifted up Naoya’s sweatshirt – just to check.

Ha! You did it!

No more bruises.

No scars.

You were okay!

You FUCKING genius!

You gave your hips a little shake just to check -  

No pain!

Ha! Your family could suck it! You could learn RCT if you needed it! And you did.

You squealed and slammed your hands over your mouth.

Celebrate quietly, damnit, you thought.

No more pain. What a relief. You smiled.

You felt a little trembling beneath your skin. Like your skin felt a little queasy. That happened sometimes after hard missions. Used to happen more when you were young and still scared of curses. Or now, after you’d been shot.

You raised your CE again and took a stabilizing breath. Everything felt normal.

Look, you’re okay. Everything is working normally, you reminded yourself.  

You decided to do your evening routine. Routine felt comforting in the chaos of the sorcery world. Prioritizing yourself through structure and predictability soothed you.

Bending over the sink to properly wash your face felt a little more exciting. You’d be able to fix whatever was going on with your hair. Put a pimple patch over the zit forming on your chin. Maybe apply a little deodorant?

Small things to be grateful for. Small things you probably shouldn’t take for granted.

It helped you remember that your body had worth outside its ability to fight. It deserved care because it was yours. And you deserved care simply because you existed.

You looked forward to getting back into bed. The new mattress might’ve actually been worth whatever exorbitant amount of money Naoya paid. And linens – they were so soft.

Damn that arrogant little princeling with lethal cheekbones. He hadn’t just inherited wealth – he’d also inherited good taste. The mattress wasn’t the only thing though.    

You thought you might be concussed when he made you a smoothie. And before that he spent the day with you. Letting you nap. Theorized about your attempted murder. Sat next to you while you watched shows. Ignored you, even.

But he chose to do those things.

Chose to spend time with you.

Even if you weren’t having sex.

You pursed your lips and shoved down a groan. Then shoved your toothbrush in your mouth. Brushing a little too aggressively. You decided that your teeth deserved an aggressive clean after two days.

And then he felt guilty? How could Naoya possibly feel guilty about what happened to you? It wasn’t his fault. And it wasn’t yours either. Sorcery was dangerous. No one could’ve seen it coming.

Not even you.

Naoya said it was a show of political force. A show of the family’s security resources. And that was probably all it was.

But even if that’s all it was –

You were the one who protected and cared for others. That was your job. You helped people by fighting cursed spirits. By nurturing your students. And you took care of yourself.

It had been a long time since someone had taken care of you. You didn’t want to be grateful.

You spat into the sink and then began applying a little lotion to the drier parts of your body.

Even though you hated it. Even though your body resisted it – it was comforting to have someone, even if it was Naoya, here with you. Making sure you were okay.

You didn’t understand why he chose to do it though. Politics and protection? Sure, but it didn’t seem like the only reason.

Maybe Naoya was lonely. He didn’t have many friends. At least none that you knew of. Most people around him probably wanted to cozy up to power and that didn’t exactly breed real closeness. He also didn’t do himself any favors.

Not like he made it easy for anyone to get close.

Were you Naoya’s….friend? With benefits?

You shuddered at that thought. Friends with some sexist ass? No.

Of course there was his family. You’d heard about how the Zenin clan treated their own. Knew about it from Gojo, Utahime, and could see it in Mai’s eyes sometimes. Naoya bragged about his status in the clan, but he hated his family.

Maybe that’s why he was here. The triple win of avoiding his family, political clout, and annoying you.    

Naoya showing up for you didn’t have to change things. It didn’t have to mean anything.

To you. Or to him.

But goddamnit –

Why him?

At first, it was the rush of fighting, arguing over whatever stupid thing he said, that led to sex. You’d been with kinder, normal men before. Ones that were dominating, had all the kinks you liked but didn’t monologue about gender essentialism. Maybe one or two garden variety faux-feminist men who virtue signaled but were actually insecure meatheads. None of them afflicted with the major league misogyny of Naoya. You weren’t exactly sure what drew you to him. Probably the pretty privilege. The piercings – god, that tongue piercing - didn’t help.

Maybe it was your arrogance. You liked to think, “Oh, you think I’m less than you because I’m a woman? Why do you want me so much, asshole? Why do you want to be closer to me? Why do you continue to see me if I’m ‘trash’?”

Sure, he could dominate you in bed, but who was really in control?

There was something fun about feeling like you’d got one over him.

It was just a hook up. Something fun and consistent on the side. And besides, you were doing every woman after you a huge favor by teaching him the joys of eating pussy.

You had to teach him how to eat you out. He was reluctant, felt like it was an affront to his high-value alpha male status. You finally persuaded him after you told him that it could be a fun way to dominate you, especially if he edged you. Fortunately, and unfortunately, he was a quick study. After picking up some dental dams and a few encouragements - “yeah just like that”, “more”, “softer”, “right there”, “fuck” he looked up from you. Devious glint in his eye. He edged you hard. Got off on telling you no, making you wait, waiting until you begged. You almost regretted it until he finally let you cum.

Imagine being his wife! Spending the rest of her life with a man who expected head but never reciprocated? And having to listen to his misogynistic bullshit? What a dismal prospect.

He should at least be fun to have sex with.

He proposed to you a few times after your initial hookup at the Annual Sorcerers’ Event. Tried to persuade you to marry him. You, of course, refused.

Not that you’d marry Naoya. And not that you were terribly romantic, but shouldn’t a proposal have feelings behind it? Some kind of love behind it? Not that he could’ve loved you after a few weeks - that would’ve been crazy. But still. It was more like what you imagined a mergers and acquisitions conversation looked like between wealthy businessmen.

He debated you. You didn’t budge.

“No.”

In another life he would’ve been a great attorney.

After a few weeks, he ended things. You bruised his ego one too many times.

Too bad, you were beginning to look forward to seeing him. Also, thank God, because you were beginning to look forward to seeing him. Seeing Naoya Zenin.

It all sort of changed after you saw him on that date. You hadn’t seen or heard from him in a while. Busy finding his perfect wife.

His date looked like exactly the type of woman he lectured you about. Beautiful, quiet, smile plastered on her face. Probably agreed with everything he said. Just what he wanted. Good for him, you thought, trying to focus on your date. But your eyes always landed back on him. No matter how much you resented it, tried to push it away, you felt that small flame of jealousy.

It was embarrassing. 

Jealous over Naoya Zenin?

You were going to be sick. Might have to leave your date early.

This was a low point.

Rock bottom.

You should have taken it as a sign that you’d made a grave and stupid error by sleeping with a misogynist. God, the universe, or whatever was trying to remind you that you still had a sense of shame, still had values and that you violated them by being with that horrible man.

Until you noticed him watching you.

That was the moment you decided you’d slip away and “go to the bathroom” in a few minutes.

Just to see what he did.

He followed quickly after you. You heard his chair move seconds after you passed. He couldn’t have been more obvious.

After your…intermission, Naoya walked behind you closely as you both went back to your respective dates. Even if he didn’t care about your date, he should at least be kinder to his.

You felt it when you sat back down.

A small wet spot on the back of your dress. You crossed your legs. At first you thought you’d forgotten your underwear.

You actually did have to go clean up. It was infuriating. Embarrassing to go to the bathroom again.

Naoya smirked and let out a small “cough” - clearly a laugh - as you passed him again.

That asshole had your underwear.

Ugh, why did that turn you on?

On his way out, after Naoya finished his wife interview, he shot your date a shit-eating grin as he passed by your table.

And then your date quickly ended things too.

You supposed it was fair.

Your date walked you out and as you turned to leave, there he was. Leaned up against his car with a knowing, crooked smile on his face.  You sighed, crossed your arms and shook your head at him. Of course he was waiting.

All the reasons you shouldn’t do this ran through your mind. He was horrible, sexist, rude, egotistical, smug, awful, attractive, clever, bold and…

With a shoulder shrug of fuck-it and the limp justification of well, we’ve already had sex -  

and

I guess this is one way to get my underwear back  

(you didn’t)

things started again.

He told you he’d never marry you. That this was just sex. And, in a way, that made things easier. Lighter. You were able to relax now that you both were on the same page. Just two people who wanted to fuck, eat dinner, and sometimes hang out.

That’s all this was.

An extended hang out.

You turned off the bathroom light and carefully stepped back into the hall, heading quietly back to the bedroom. Nimbler now that you were healed.

The mattress shifted, just ever-so-slightly, as you lay back down. Naoya flipped over.

“What are you doing? What's going on?”

“I woke up to use the bathroom. Then I -”

“You got out of bed and walked without me? Are you that stupid? Defying what medical professionals instructed?” he scolded.

“I’m fine,” you interrupted, “look, I can move and breathe on my own. I self-healed.”

In the faint light from the city below could see his scowl, “Do you always have to be so, so,” he sputtered, gesturing strangely, “so – I don’t even know how to describe it, that’s how ridiculous you are!”

“Did you miss the part where I said that I self-healed, Naoya?”

“Do you always insist on doing everything on your own? Even if it means you could be hurt? You’d really rupture stitches just to prove a point? Do you even care about yourself? I was right here. You could’ve woken me,” he exclaimed.

You sighed, “Some things I prefer to do on my own, Naoya, like use the bathroom.”

“I easily could’ve walked you there – “

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you exclaimed.

“You could’ve hurt yourself and prolonged your recovery. When you can’t breathe, you know it’s harder to connect with your cursed energy. And what would’ve happened if you fell, and I didn’t wake up?”

“Given that you felt the most minor of movements, I’m certain you would’ve heard me fall. But it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get hurt. I healed.”

“You should have more regard for your safety. I was here. I would’ve helped if it meant the risk of you being hurt or re-injured was mitigated,” he said.

“Fine! You have a point! I could’ve woken you up to walk me to the bathroom. And that probably would’ve been safer,” you sniped, “Just because I do something for myself doesn’t mean it’s wrong or reckless! You need to trust me.”

“Trust someone who does reckless things like this?”

“Trust someone who walked to the bathroom and healed themselves?” you replied.

You stared at each other for a moment. His eyes, metallic, caught what little light there was in the room.

Silvery moonlight eyes.

Stupid eyes that changed in the light.

“I’m going to bed,” you huffed, turning over and settling into the bed, “It doesn’t matter. I’m healed now and you’ll go home tomorrow.”

You nestled into the new bed.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, laying down.

“No, we won’t, Naoya. Tomorrow you’re gone and things will go back to normal.”

He quickly turned over, “Your attempted murderer is still out there. And you refuse any help that’s offered even if circumstances warrant it.”

“I can protect myself now,” you said, angrily turning over, once again up in the bed, facing Naoya.

“That may be true,” he replied, “but what are you going to do about your killer? You going to investigate that on your own?”

“Stronger security measures than a Special Grade sorcerer?” You shook your head, “It’s four in the morning. I’m not arguing about this right now. You’re concerned about my health? Let me sleep.”

He wore a scheming smile and turned over.

“Good night, fiancé.”

You snorted. “I am not your fiancé.”

“Fine. Good night, concubine.”

You groaned and laid back down.

“Good night, asshole.”

Chapter Text

Chirps of birds, people murmuring in the streets below. Fuzzy sunlight through the curtains. Easy morning bliss.

You sighed. Settling deeper into the softness of the bed. And into the body behind you, wrapping you securely in warmth.

Naoya’s.

His breath was soft and even. His heart beat a slow and steady rhythm against your back.

It was comfortable.

Annoyingly so.

And then you felt it.

His hard cock pressing into you.

You stiffened and rustled. Pulling away.

“Stop. Don’t ruin this,” he said sleepily.

“Ruin this?”

“My sleep, idiot.” There it was. He had his insults down to a formula.

“I was getting more comfortable, asshole.”

“Relax.” He yawned. “If I were actually trying to do something, you’d know. I’m not going to fuck you,” he said low and smug, “but I am a man.”

“Charming,” you said pulling away, “and what’s led to this vow of sexual poverty?”

“You like to pretend that you can keep yourself safe? Fine. You want to act like everything is normal? Fine. Be in denial.” He said, voice a little sharp. “But I know it’s not. I assumed you wouldn’t want to after nearly being killed, but if you’re offering– “

“I’m not,” you stammered, “just surprised the spoiled heir of the Zenin clan deprive himself. That’s all.”

“Contrary to what you often shriek – “

“I object to that sexist use of that word – “

“I’m not a pig,” he continued, you felt his body settle, “but while we’re awake, and talking about sex, you should know I figured out how many times we need to have sex on this mattress so that you won’t consider it a waste of resources. It’s – “

“When did you have time for that?” you exclaimed, “And I assume it’s at least a decade worth?”

“Yesterday after you fell asleep. At the rate we go, half a decade. Though if we made it a daily occurrence – “

“That will never happen,” you replied.

“We’ll see,” he said, slowly running his hand down your waist, around and up your thigh, tracing the inside until his hand settled just beneath your belly button.

Your breath hitched.

“Not fucking you does come with benefits,” he said voice low and gravelly, “I know how frustrated you get when what you want is withheld.”

Damn him.

Your body couldn’t help but remember. Remember how good he’d gotten at this.

“Maybe,” he mused, “I should wait until you’re begging. I think I’d like -”

“I’ve changed my mind about sleeping in,” you interrupted, pulling yourself out of his arms, quickly getting out of bed.

“What?”  He asked. Lazy, sleepy, annoyingly sexy smile on his dumb face. “Not so tired anymore? You’re blushing.”

Your cheeks were hot beneath your glare, “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Uh-huh. I saw you have a removeable shower head. If you need my help – “

You whacked him with a pillow.

“Shut up Naoya!”

He laughed and shoved the pillow behind his head. “Know that I won’t offer any. I just want to watch.”

You stared at him. Your breathing picked up. You had planned to go to the bathroom to shower, do your normal routine and –

 Yes, deal with your body’s vivid remembrance.

And he wasn’t helping.

The idea of him watching you, saying any number of dirty things – he liked to tell you exactly what he was thinking. It was another annoying trait, but when it came to what he thought about doing with you sexually it was…frustratingly hot.  

Maybe you’d let that happen. Let him watch you. Let him look but not touch.

“I’m just going to shower, asshole.”

“Your objection is so convincing,” he said knowingly, “I have a few memories of especially fun times we’ve had. I’m happy to recount them if you’d like.”

Based on your body’s response, yes, you would like him to do that.

“I’m not going to be thinking of you.”

His smile widened, “So you’re no longer denying what you’ll be doing in the shower? I’m glad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, I will,” he drawled, “in your shower fantasy.”

You groaned at how right he was.

“You’re going home. Today.”

“We’ll see.” He turned over. “Wake me if you need assistance, fiancé,” He called as you left the room.

_______

He was too awake after that conversation.

He jerked off fast. Normally he’d take his time – enjoy himself. But he was hard, restless, and a piece of shit with a gun denied him his usual fuck.

It took everything in him to not climb into the shower with you, pull you to him, wrap one arm around your waist and mount you against the wall. Tell you that his more elaborate ideas would have to wait. Tell you he had to be inside you. He wanted to roll his hips against you. Work you into a rhythm. Feel you clench. Hear you moan. Clutch him. Hands in his hair.

Hands anywhere.

Everywhere.

He wanted to hear you say his name when you came.

He came quickly. 

He went to the kitchen, tossed the tissue in the trash and washed his hands.

He felt relaxed. And clear.

He’d have you in time. Better to deny you. This could be quite a fun game. He could wait it out.

He was fairly certain he had more self-control than you had erotic power.

He grabbed his laptop and returned to bed.

He checked his cell. One text from Riku confirming the Private Investigator looking into law enforcement. Thank god there was one competent person in the world.

And Riku wasn’t even from the clan.

His email was full. Some from HQ concerning mission requests for the Zenin. As Head of the Hei he was responsible for assigning them.  He forwarded one to Jinichi and one to Ranta. Kept two for himself.  

Another email from Auntie Akeno saying she had another potential “introduction candidate” which just meant she’d found another expensive, clan-approved debutante in expensive silk – he’d ignore that one for now.

Ballistics was complete, but they didn’t have any sort of match. No updates on the fucker who tried to murder you.

Regardless of who was behind this, the most pressing piece of information was missing: whether or not they knew you were alive.

You returned from the shower in lounge clothes and a towel in your hair.

“That took a while,” he quipped, “shower head not as satisfying as me?”

“Shut up,” you said as you began rifling through your closet.

You might be in less danger now that you were healed. In an ideal world, you’d move locations and have someone watch you 24/7. Ideally to the estate. Given everyone’s incompetence it was the safest place for you. But knowing you...

I can protect myself! I don’t need someone to watch me! No, I will not go with you! You’re being insane!

You’d never go for it.

And even though you seemed fine, you’d almost died.

And that meant trauma.

Trauma was not talked about. Not in his clan. Or among any sorcerers.

He heard about trauma from a sorcerer who he’d been paired with a few years back – some touchy-feely Brit who drank too much but had decent taste in tea. Claimed missions messed with his head. Said once he understood why, he slept better. Fought better. Had routines. Practices. Stupid shit like that.

Naoya had rolled his eyes at the time. Wrote him off as a weakling. Trauma or whatever wasn’t real.

The “symptoms” that idiot was describing?

Weakness. Lack of discipline. Obviously had a fragile constitution.  

Until he felt it.

Night sweats after particularly bad missions. The numb, distant fog after jobs that demanded too much focus. The way fear, if he let it in for even a second, made him fight harder. Faster, Like his body didn’t know how to do anything else.

And then he was injured. Badly. Stupid fucking tentacle curse. Had suction injuries, bite marks. It dragged him into the water and he fought like hell to get out.

He had nightmares. Felt like he was drowning all over again. Woke up almost screaming at 3am.

That was when he looked it up. The internet had a lot to say about trauma. Most of it was from women – horrifying. But he decided some of it made sense.

So he implemented a post-mission mitigation protocol.

It worked.

More importantly, it spared him the humiliation of anyone in his family finding out he had nightmares.

What are you? A child? he could hear his father sneer.

So he kept most of it private. Some parts could pass publicly. Meditation – a clan tradition - for post-mission decompression, breathwork “for combat efficiency.” He’d even mandated it for the men in the clan, framed as improving performance. Which it did.

Traumatized people were vulnerable against curses.

Fighting required clarity.

If he had someone tail you, without your knowledge, you’d lose your mind. His security people were good, but with how on-guard you were, you'd notice them. You might freeze (and kill him later) or you might go to fight and kill them (and kill him later).

He sent another email to the clan – a status update. Suggested strategies moving forward.

You turned and narrowed your eyes at him. Assessing like you were about to fight him.

“I’m going to make breakfast.”

His head cocked to the side.

Oh?

He should probably be happy about this. Delighted, even. You were doing things a woman should for a man. He smiled at the irony. Two months ago, you told him you’d rather deal with 20-finger Sukuna than cook for him. 

Oh, how things have changed. 

Now, you’d let him into your apartment, slept next to him, and were making breakfast.

Honestly, thought? How good could your cooking be? You worked. Probably didn’t have time to learn how to make a decent meal.

Whatever.

He’d take your attempt at a proper breakfast regardless. And maybe give you some feedback.

Something that could help you in one of future relationships.

With your future husband...

“Are you here? Stop staring off into the distance. It’s weird-ing me out,” you said snapping him back.

How embarrassing to be caught lost in thought.

He turned his attention back on you. “You were going to be an actual woman for once in your life and make a man-“

You were suddenly close and your hand was suddenly over his mouth.

You slowly brought your face close to his, "And if you don’t make some stupid joke about women in kitchens or say something insanely sexist,” you paused, your grin now matched the mischief in your eyes, “maybe you’ll get breakfast too.”

Hn. Interesting. He’d think more about your hand over his mouth later.

Right now -

He gave your palm a long lick.

“Ew, Naoya,” you cried, quickly withdrawing your hand and recoiling. You looked around and then started wiping your hand on the blanket.

“People of unimportant backgrounds, people like you, always insist they deserve respect, but then they do shit like this,” he said motioning at you, “don’t wipe it on the new blanket, you animal,” he sneered, although he couldn’t help but smile.

“Fine,” you said placing your palm square on his chest and rubbing it in.

He quickly your wrist.

“Don’t be gross - ”

Your other hand was suddenly over his mouth. Being physically shut up was annoying. But also… sort of hot. Little woman trying to exert some control over him. Maybe you could do that again in a more salacious context. Maybe this could be a fun game for later…

“First, you licked my palm. That was disgusting,” your eyes narrowed, “And secondly,” you paused, eyes boring into him, “I never thought I’d be doing this for you. But you made me a meal, so I’ll make you one.”

Oh, you were absolutely doing this again. He wanted to stay in that fantasy a little longer – hand over his mouth, ordering him around, a little sharpness in your voice.

“And do not even think about licking my palm again or you’re out of my home.”

You slowly withdrew your hand.

“Fine,” he glared at you. Time to take a little power back, “but since you’re getting out of bed, bring me the rest of my things. I’m going to take that shower.”

“So high maintenance,” you said under your breath as you walked towards the door.

Did you really think he wouldn’t hear that?

“What was that?” he asked, smirking at you.

“I said,” you said, leaning in the doorway, “if you don’t thank me for bringing you your things, I’ll hold your coveted purple shampoo hostage.”

Your grin was wicked and sexy.

“You’ll get brassy.”

He liked seeing you like this. A little pissed off, a little playful – knowing that he was the source of your annoyance.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growled, although he hadn’t growled, so much as laughed while trying to sound stern. You could pour that purple shampoo down the sink. It wouldn’t matter. He’d just buy more. But it was more entertaining to feign outrage.

“Try me.”

And you bolted.

He, however, was faster.

"Gotcha," he exhaled and hoisted you over his shoulder, grabbing his bag near the entry way. 

“Let me down, asshole!” you squealed, wiggling around, trying to escape, giggling. If someone ever slung, you over their shoulder it was reassuring to know that you could put up a fight. Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go.

“In one second,” he grumbled. You weren’t making this easy.

He set you down in the kitchen. The look on your face was priceless. One of his favorites.

Furious but with a tiny smile.

He chuckled and rolled his eyes, “Just putting you where you belong.”

You were shaking your head.

But what was that behind you? A pad of sticky notes? Oh, this was too good of an opportunity. Sure, he couldn’t say any, but writing? There was no explicit ban on that, right? He grabbed the pen and notepad.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, a suspicious frown on your face. 

Having some fun, he thought to himself. He showed you what he’d written.

This kitchen smells like disappointment

This was going to piss you off.

And it was going to be delightful.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Fix it. I’m starving.

Your jaw dropped. Ha. It wasn't his best joke, but he'd pissed you off, nonetheless. He laughed lightly.

“The deal was very clear,” he said through laughter, “I think you said something like, ‘don’t say a word and you’ll get breakfast too,’” it was his turn to plaster a scheming smile on his face,

“And I didn’t say anything.”

You glared at him, “Fucking asshole,” you muttered. You were exasperated, “I said that if you didn’t make any sexist jokes then maybe you’d get breakfast. There was nothing specific about how they were made. You made a joke. No breakfast for you.”

You little shit. You wouldn’t really rob him of breakfast, would you? He needed another angle.

He’d try what some people might call guilt, he thought of it more as reciprocity, “I think the more spirit of that deal was that I made you a meal and now you’re returning the favor by making me one.”

You turned to him, frying pan in hand, glare on your face.

You wouldn't really hit him with a frying pan...would you?

You set the frying pan down and started grabbing utensils.

“I’ll think it over,” you said turning around to pull out some plates.

He liked his odds. That you were going to think it over meant there was probably an 85% chance of getting breakfast.

“Don’t think too hard. You need a few braincells left to make me breakfast,” he said grabbing his bag, heading towards the bathroom. 75% chance after that comment.

“Fuck you, Naoya.”

“You ready for the real thing after your little shower fantasy?” he said turning around.

"Get out of the kitchen before I change my mind," you said pulling two plates out of the cupboard. 

Chapter Text

The door to the bathroom clicked behind him. Silence. Then the sound of the shower.

You exhaled, opened the refrigerator, and tried to remember how to act normal.

Whatever fish you had in the refrigerator, rice and some sauteed vegetables were on the menu. The breakfast of champions and traumatized sorcerers.

You took out the leftover miso soup and gave it a quick sniff test.

It passed.

The tofu was already diced, because Past You believed in meal prepping.

Stove on. Oil warming in the pan. Rice soaking. Knife in hand. Vegetables and a cutting board. Normally, cooking was another kind of meditation, but your brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

Naoya. Being helpful.

Chop. Chop.

Unironically. Minimal mocking.

Chop. Chop.

You expected him to revel in your “weakness”. Whip out a horrid speech about women not belonging in sorcery. Or be entirely useless. Not harmful, but not helpful.

Chop. Chop.

Annoying. Confusing.

And kind of hot.

You tossed the cucumber into vinegar for a quick pickle and slid the rest into the pan. Fish were prepped. Rice straining.

It’d been how long since you two started seeing each other? You felt yourself cringe - two, maybe three months? Even with the couple of weeks between stopping and resuming your hook ups it was becoming too long.

This was supposed to be steamy hotel room sex with fast exits.

Hi. Shut the fuck up! Thanks for the sex! Bye!

Now the asshole was showing up at the hospital, buying you a new mattress, making you smoothies, and feeling bad about what happened to you?

A red flag with good banter, better dirty talk and surprisingly good dick…and maybe even the normal range of human feelings like guilt?

Maybe you were onto something with him being lonely. Maybe he was hiding from his family.

Maybe – you cringed - there was more to him than misogynist with a pretty face.

Horrible thought.

You could probably see him a few more weeks. Sharpen the boundaries. Watch yourself and it would be fine. Go back to your fuck-and-run routine.

Definitely avoid talking about it.

You froze for a moment. Your spine braced straight.

Then you were gone.

You were walking the street outside the abandoned building. Mission finished. Bright sun, cool breeze. Thinking about what food you’d like to eat.

Then -

The crack that came out of nowhere.

You inhaled sharply. Tight eyes darted to your phone.

Gakuganji was calling.

Not a gunshot. Just your ringtone. Just your boss.

Who you hated.

You steadied yourself. Set down the knife, shook your hands loose, and picked up the phone.

“Hello,” Gakuganji said slowly. He always spoke slowly and quietly when he was about to ruin your day.

As if he was approaching a bear and hoping it wouldn’t rip his face off by talking gently.

“Hi Principal Gakuganji, what can I do for you?” You cradled the phone between your ear and shoulder as you tended the fish.

“You sound well.”

“I self-healed. I’m a little busy at the moment.”

You didn’t need Gakuganji hearing Naoya in the background when he finished showering and started talking.

“The Tokyo School was attacked.”

You dropped your knife.

“Is everyone ok?”

“The students are fine. Gojo’s apartment was ransacked.”

“Was Kyoto hit as well?”

“No. We have confirmation that these attacks are related. From what the students described, it appears to be humans and curse users from the cult mission you and Gojo did a few months ago.”

Fuck.

A few months back you and Gojo had gone to a rural mountain town in Gifu. A cult had been growing up in the mountains. They apparently had cursed beads that were increasing their power. They were collecting nature lovers as “recruits”. Your task was to retrieve the beads and dismantle any curse users.

You’d returned with the aptly named “Beads of Idiocy”. Gojo took his half back to Tokyo. You took yours to Kyoto.

Both halves were on the testing backlog behind the Screaming Geta – sandals that screamed with every step, a lovesick shamisen – full effects unclear, and a sword that seemed to make the user crave human flesh - thought to be Sukuna’s.

“What’s the plan?”

“The cult did not recapture the cursed beads. We believe another attempt on Tokyo is likely. And if they obtain the beads, they will learn they have been separated. And target Kyoto next.” Gakuganji drawled. “Or perhaps because they were more successful in Kyoto, they will turn their focus to our school instead.”

The implication was clear – you made us look weak. Now our students are at risk.

Piece of shit.

Gakuganji continued. “Of course, Masamichi stupidly decided to keep their half in the school while Gojo hunts down the curse users. Despite the focus on Tokyo, we will be taking precautions.”

“And what have we decided to do? I’m happy to stay at the school and protect – “

“We are taking a more sensible step forward,” Gakuganji said. “In an effort to plan for all contingencies, the Zenin have generously offered to retain the object until things have settled down. The students will be at less risk. And if the cult does attack the school, they will not find what they are looking for.”

Of course, they had.

The Zenin and Gakuganji were long-standing allies, traditional in their thinking and fierce in their detest of Gojo.

The solution wasn’t the worst idea. It would hopefully mitigate any potential harm to the students. And at least protect them. But it would also deprive them of a real fighting experience, if it came to that.

“They have invited you to remain at the clan estate as the school representative until this crisis is over,” Gakuganji added.

House…You?

Fuck no.

Hell would have to freeze over, thaw out, and re-freeze a thousand times over before you stayed at the Zenin estate.

“Please thank them, but I’ll – “

“It is not your choice to make. I am ordering you to stay with the Zenin until this is resolved. You will be the school representative,” Gakuganji interrupted.

You inhaled deeply and let out a long, pointed I am furious sigh.

The sexism of the sorcery world. It didn’t matter that you were a Special Grade. Stronger than any of the Zenin.

You were a woman.

You’d already accepted the humiliating slights. You or Utahime were always expected to take care of the tea in meetings. Male sorcerers were always the first to know about a new mission.

But this? Being told where to live? By Gakuganji?

“I am fully healed and the strongest sorcerer in Kyoto. I will stay in my home or at the school to support the students. But not with the Zenin.” You stated. “If the concern is the safety of the students, then their Special Grade teacher should remain with them.”

“This is not a matter for debate. You will stay with the Zenin clan until this is resolved. You will act as a dignified representative of this school. As co-investigator. And you will protect the beads while you are there. If cult curse users attack, you will defend.”

Great. So, it wasn’t about the students’ safety. It was about maintaining political ties with the Zenin.

“I will do no such thing,” you seethed.

“You will or you will no longer teach at this school.”

You were caught in the political crossfire. The Zenin were involved now. And Gakuganji couldn’t bend now that they were involved.

Coward.

This was what it always came down to. Gakuganji’s trump card. You loved teaching students, watching them grow into their strengths. Especially helping the female students grow into self-sufficient sorcerers. He knew that.

You wouldn’t leave them.

And he knew that too.

“The Zenin can offer more than enough protection of the beads. Let me protect the students. Or go to Tokyo to help find them - “

Gakuganji interrupted again. “No. Gojo will take care of things in Tokyo. Utahime and I will protect the students. Until then you will reside with the Zenin. The beads will be better protected should the cult discover that we’ve moved them. And importantly, I will not allow your stubborn streak to reject generosity and sow discontent between the clans and the school.”

“Am I permitted to teach?” you asked, fury lacing every word.

There was a long pause before Gakuganji said, “That is still being determined.”

They were going to force you to live with the Zenin and order you not to work in your capacity as a teacher?

“If I am placed on leave from teaching, then you have no authority to demand I stay with the Zenin.” You said icily. “Why don’t you call me back when you know if I will be teaching and then we’ll discuss where I’ll be staying?”

Per school policy, if he placed you on employment leave, he had no right to demand what you did with your time. But if you remained a teacher, he did, unfortunately, have the power to order you protect the beads and remain with the Zenin.

You had exactly one scrap of leverage.

“Fine. You will teach,” Gakuganji snapped.

“Fine. Then when should I arrive at the Zenin estate?” you asked.

Gakuganji laughed and the hairs on your spine rose. Laughter?

“Whenever you’d like. I’ve heard you and Naoya Zenin are close. Perhaps he can escort you to the estate.”

Your blood froze.

He knew.

Implied it. Maybe he didn’t know everything.

But the laugh.

He knew enough. Too much.

And Naoya must’ve told him.

Maybe when you were in surgery in the hospital. Maybe yesterday during your Succession intermissions. But he must’ve done it.

That motherfucker.

Sexist asshole went over your head to force you to stay with him because he knew you wouldn’t.

It was over.

You weren’t going to fuck him again.
You weren’t going to speak to him again.

After this call you might throw him out of your apartment naked. Then go to the estate and make his life a living hell. Maliciously comply with this maliciously orchestrated, paternalistic bullshit plan.

And then watch it burn from the inside out.

Fuck Naoya.

“When should I plan to arrive at the Zenin estate?” You repeated.

“Later today, at your earliest convenience. And I expect you to contact me to confirm your arrival.”

“Fine,” you said, hanging up the phone and slamming it down on the counter. You let out a long, hot exhale. You were boiling with fury.

You stirred the food in the pan too hard. Set the kettle aggressively on the stove. Pulled out your favorite Geto-crafted mug like it might ground you.

Fuck Naoya.

It had to have been Naoya, right? You’d never tell anyone you were hooking up with Naoya Zenin. Not Utahime. Not Mei Mei. Not Kusakabe, who was visiting. Not anyone in Tokyo. God forbid Gojo ever find out.

It had to have been Naoya.

Fucking manipulative, entitled heir to the sexist Hell Clan. You’d let yourself forget that for a moment, hadn’t you?

He believed you were weak and in need of protection because you were a fucking woman.

Should be relegated to the kitchen.

The kitchen that you were standing in. Barefoot.

Cooking for him.

The door to the bathroom opened. Fuckface sauntered out.

“Breakfast ready yet, fiancé?”

“YOU!” You screamed.

Naoya paled.

Chapter Text

Naoya was smirking. Hands up.

You grabbed the closest thing to you, the oven-mitt on the counter, and lobbed it at him.

It smacked him in the center of his stupidly symmetrical face.

“What the hell?” he scoffed, rubbing his eye. “You could’ve scratched my cornea!”

“I wish I had!” you yelled right back.

You ripped open the drawer closest to you.

The utensil drawer.

Excellent.

There were a variety of good things to chuck at him, but the wooden spoon caught your eye first.

Aerodynamic.

Solid.

You flung it at him, hitting him just above the groin.

A warning shot.

“Damnit, woman!” Naoya said, coolly.

“Woman?” you roared, “Really, Naoya? WOMAN?”

He kicked the spoon behind him.

Naoya was still grinning. Smug, fox-faced asshole.

“And what,” he said, taking one elongated step forward, “could I have possibly done to piss you off while I was in the shower?”

You armed yourself with a rubber spatula.

“Do not come closer,” you warned, pointing the spatula like a dagger, “or I swear to god, Naoya, if it’s the last thing I do, your obituary will read that you were murdered with a spatula!”

Naoya froze. He gave you one long appraisal. Eyes slowly roaming up from your feet planted on the floor in a fighting stance and lingered on the spatula clutched in your hands. Like he was trying to gauge if this counted as foreplay.

And then he laughed.

A low, almost bored, laugh.

Like you just told an amusing joke instead of threatening his life.

“This isn’t funny!” you shouted.

“It’s just,” he said, assessing you again, “it’s such an appropriate weapon for a woman in a kitchen!”

You brandished your spatula and faked him out with one quick wave.

As threateningly as one could wield a silicone pancake flipper.

“Tell me what I did,” he said flashing you the kind of knowing smile that said, you’re not going to kill me.

“Don’t act like you don’t know!”

“I don’t know,” he drawled, hands raised again, “God, women are always so emotiona – “

The spatula went flying.

Direct.

Hit.

To his balls.

“Fuck!” He dropped to the floor and wheezed.

“I have been ordered to stay at your estate until that asshole is caught!” you spat at him.

He glared up at you, eyes dark and furious.

“What?” He winced. Crawled to the dining table. Still cupping his balls.

You, in a moment of surprising benevolence, decided to be generous and give him a moment to gather himself. No point in interrogating the asshole if he couldn’t speak.

“Fuck,” he muttered quietly.

Naoya blew out a long, pointed sigh. He set an elbow on the table and rested the side of his head on his fist. The other hand was splayed protectively over his balls. Legs spread.

“Why?” he pressed. Color was finally returning to his face. “Unless - ”

His lips curled into a sly grin.

Even being hit in the balls couldn’t keep his arrogance down.

“Something miraculous happened.” His amber eyes locked on yours, reveling in whatever horrible thing he was about to say. “You finally realized I was right, didn’t you?”

“I said I was ordered to stay. This isn’t my choice, asshole.”

“Well,” he said adjusting his seat, “Perhaps I could’ve listened better if you hadn’t HIT ME IN THE BALLS WITH A SPATULA!”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t have hit you in the balls if you hadn’t arranged this!” You shouted back.

“What are you talking about?”

He looked confused – briefly. And insulted by the implication.

It seemed sincere.

So you let him have some information. Just to see what he’d do with it.

“Gojo’s apartment was ransacked, and the Tokyo school was attacked last night. For my protection – and the cursed object - I have been ordered to stay with your clan as school representative and co-investigator until the cult is stopped.”

Naoya cocked his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “So they’re all related?”

“Yes, a mission Gojo and I did together a few months ago. Some cult idiots.” You crossed your arms. “For now, the higher ups think Tokyo is the main target. They don’t think the cult has realized that the object was separated between the schools. But still, out of concern for the safety of the students, our half of the object has been moved to your estate. Gojo is on the hunt for them in Tokyo as we speak.”

“So, we’re housing the cursed object,” his gaze flicking to you, “and you until the asshole is caught?”

Naoya had many facial expressions. You had a few names for them.

There was frequently sighted I’m going to be a little shit and will delight in it smirk.

The classic I’m disgusted by everything about this nose wrinkling frown.

But this one?

Rare.

Only showed up when the universe inexplicably handed him a win.

The I’m so pleased that I won and that you hate it grin.

“Good,” he said. Smile lazy and satisfied. “You could use the protection.”

Your blood began to boil again.

Fine.

He could have this one.

But you’d make it painful.

You tore the faucet sprayer from the sink.

His eyes locked on the sprayer, “Don’t.”

Too late. You pulled the trigger and drenched him before he could launch himself from the dining chair.

Fucking Zenins and their speed.

He appeared at the counter in an instant. “Stop it.”

Spray.

Dash.

Suddenly, he was right there - hands closing around yours, trying to wrench away the sprayer.

The struggle was momentary.

Spray.

Right in the face.

“Stop this now!” he shouted, twisting the nozzle, slick hands slipping over yours.

Spray.

This time, it got you.

Fuck.

You released the nozzle, and he let it fall.

You both stepped back.

“Will you stop and explain the hysterics?” he snapped.

“These aren’t hysterics!” you shouted. “I thought for a moment you were…I don’t know! I thought we’d argue about my safety because you’re a controlling asshat and that you’d relent, or we’d come to some sort of stupid compromise! Or you’d just leave pissed off. But you planned this earlier, didn’t you?”

“I had nothing to do with it!" A sopping Naoya barked back. “I didn’t plan this. But if Gojo and the Tokyo school were attacked, then this is for the best. It should’ve been happening any way.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s for the best. It’s my life. My safety! And how I handle it is my decision. Not yours. Not Gakuganji’s. Or anyone else’s. Do you understand how insulting this is? I do not need protecting, Naoya. I’ve self-healed.” You said, taking a step forward.

“I’m a fucking Special Grade. I shouldn’t be ordered to babysit some cursed beads. I shouldn’t be forced out of my own home! But no - I’m a woman so instead I’m condescended to by Gakuganji and you go behind my back and plan –“

“I had nothing to do with it.” His tone was iron. “I haven’t spoken with Gakuganji. I made no arrangements for you at the estate. I did not plan this.”

You hesitated.

You’d have to reveal the final piece of information.

“Then why,” you asked, voice low and seething, “did Gakuganji say - and I quote - ‘I’ve heard you and Naoya Zenin are close. Perhaps he could escort you to the estate.’”

“Gakuganji said what, exactly?” He said, measured. Quietly furious.

“’I’ve heard you and Naoya Zenin are close.’ Then he suggested that you escort me to the estate.”

Naoya became deathly still.

His mouth tightened into a glare. “That conniving old fuck.”

You remained silent. Assessing him. That response either meant he hadn’t told anyone, or he had. And Gakuganji slipped up.

“I have never told anyone about us. I’m not sloppy. You’ve made it very clear that this stayed between us. I’ve honored that agreement.”

You clenched your jaw.

“And if I were going to tell someone about our little situation, it certainly wouldn’t be that old bat,” he added. “Will you think for a second? I’m not an idiot. If I forced you to come to the estate, you’d break it off and make my life hell. And that,” he smirked, “is not the point of this arrangement.”

It was a compelling point. Selfish and irritatingly reasonable. Pragmatic, at least.

“If it wasn’t you then how did he find out?”

“I think I know,” he said, eyes hard. “And I’ll tell you if you stop acting like an animal.”

You backed up and leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed.

“When you were in the hospital,” he began, “I had no idea what was happening. You had been shot five times - and all they knew was that you lost a lot of blood. You clearly couldn’t self-heal.”

He paused.

“No one could tell me anything. And I didn’t trust the lower grades, so I called Jinichi. I ordered him to the scene.”

“Oh.”

It was all you could get out. Your shoulders fell. Arms uncrossed.

He’d ordered Jinichi to go because he wanted to help. And Jinichi, of course, drew conclusions.

Of course, he would.

The bratty heir wouldn’t order back up for just anyone - especially a woman - unless she meant…something to him.

And Naoya hadn’t thought it through because he was rushing to the hospital.

“I see.”

“I didn’t tell anyone about the nature of our situation. My family tends to notice when two of the strongest vanish off-duty.”

“And when Jinichi returned the next morning…”

“He likely told my father that I ordered him to investigate.”

“And your family wanted me to stay with you because?” you pressed.

“Because I requested support on the near murder of a Special Grade sorcerer, I haven’t been home in two days, and you are a woman.” He listed off matter-of-factly.

“So, they conspired with Gakuganji in order to meet me?”

“Likely my father,” he replied. “You’re powerful, in a dangerous situation, and clearly we are,” he paused, irritated, “involved.”

“And your father told Gakuganji that we were close?”

Naoya paused. You thought you might’ve seen his body brace just slightly.

“My father can be mercurial.”

That word – mercurial - was selected with care. Those rumors about the way the Zenin clan treated their own might be worse than you’d believed.

Selling out your son’s secret hook-up in exchange for what? Some power? Politicking?

“Ultimately, it’s a show of our influence with Gakuganji housing one of his teachers. The clan will always assist during dangerous times. And we can be trusted with whatever, or whomever, is at risk. And it balances things. One clan gets to keep the cursed object, but the school has a representative to watch.”

“Shit,” you said shaking your head, “Well then,” you sighed, this was going to be painful, “I suppose that an apology is in order.”

His eyebrows flashed and he was wearing a new expression: an apt mix of shock and giddiness. It was you are apologizing and this never happens to me beaming grin.

“I’m waiting,” he sing-songed.

“I’m sorry for flinging various kitchen objects at you, falsely accusing you of coordinating my imprisonment, and spraying you,” you said.

“I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you,” his grin widening even more, “but I do expect you to make it up to me.”

“How gracious of you,” you offered sarcastically and turned towards the food, “Ready to eat?”

Naoya strutted towards you. Victorious.

You handed him a bowl and plate.

“Let’s sit on the couch to eat,” you suggested, “more comfortable.”

“How informal and befitting of such an honored guest in this shanty!”

“There are knives in this kitchen, Naoya.”

Even with the fight, the soup was hot, fish somehow not burned. The vegetables look like they were the right texture – soft but retaining some of their shape.

You made up two plates and handed him one.

You returned to the kitchen with the tea, handing him your second favorite Geto-made mug.

Naoya took a sip and examined the mug, “Nice mug.” And dug into his food.

He sampled everything carefully and then turned to you, shocked. “If you can cook like this, why aren’t you married?”

“Jesus,” you said shaking your head, “Haven’t found the right person to share the kitchen with.”

“In exchange for marrying me and cooking like this, you can kill Gakuganji without consequence. Become Principal of the school. I’ll protect you.”

You laughed, “Nah, I’d have to have a better reason to kill him.”

“Why don’t you just tell Gakuganji no?” he asked, “Kill him? That seems much more like you. Some feminist you are. Can’t even kill man.”

“Being a feminist doesn’t mean I want to kill all men, Naoya. I haven’t murdered you and you’re the crowned prince of patriarchy.” You said sipping your tea. “And I’m not rebelling because he would’ve fired me.”

Naoya choked on his fish. Firmly set his plate down and turned to you.

“He threatened to fire you?” He coughed and wheezed.

“He outlined consequences,” you corrected, “Accept the invitation, keep my job. Refuse and I wouldn’t have one.”

Naoya said gulping down tea and clearing his throat. “Declining the offer would’ve been an affront, but not one worthy of losing your job over.”

“Do not contact him, Naoya,” you cautioned, “I don’t need any more attention called to our situation.”

“It’s an abuse of knowledge he shouldn’t have. No one in the family would’ve agreed to this arrangement if they knew you would be coerced.”

“Coerced.” You smirked. “Cute euphemism for threatened.”

“Especially,” his voice darkened, “if they suspected you were close to me.”

“Even your father?”

Naoya inhaled slowly. Thinking. He shifted his gaze to his tea, looking at it like it personally offended him, traced the rim with his thumb, and set it down with a controlled little clack.

“Tell me again,” he said quieter, “what exactly Gakuganji said to you. About you staying at the estate.”

You sighed, “He said that the clan invited me. That I wouldn’t offend an important partner and ‘sow discontent between the clans and the school.’ If I declined – I would lose my job.”

He tilted his head towards you. “And Gakuganji said - you’re certain - that the clan invited you?”

“Yes.”

That did it.

Naoya leaned back into the couch. His triumphant smugness from earlier gone. He was cold. Calculating. It wasn’t a look you’d seen him make before.

A look like he finally understood the moves on the board.

And realized he’d just been played.

“Then it’s possible,” he said slower, “that my father invited you - specifically - and made Gakuganji the enforcer.”

“Your father used my boss.”

You stared at him.

“I’m saying my father likes clean hands.” His jaw tensed. “There are clan protocols for handling different situations. A Special Grade working at the school, in danger, and close to their heir,” he said the last part like he’d tasted something bitter, “you should’ve been handled gently.”

“Like a fragile package.”

He lifted his mug and took another slow sip. Ignoring you.

“The offer is generous and respectful. Offering to house you as school representative and co-investigator. Enlist you as protector of the cursed object. But if you refused,” he continued, an edge to his voice, “the clan wouldn’t want to make an enemy of you by coercing you to the estate.”

“Ah,” you said quietly, “But if Gakuganji was the one forcing me– “

“Then the clan stays polite. Protocol intact. Etiquette preserved. Politically neutral.” Naoya finished with an irritated snap.

“And Gakuganji,” you said, your body heating with anger, “has the actual power to make sure I show up.”

“Correct.”

“So they divided it up,” you muttered. “Your father extended the invite. Gakuganji made sure I couldn’t refuse.”

Naoya didn’t contradict you.

Which told you everything.

He leaned forward again, forearms braced on his thighs now, posture coiled like he was on the verge of biting something.

“If that’s what happened,” he said, “then this isn’t just politics.”

You looked at him.

“It’s surveillance,” you said flatly.

His eyes met yours.

“Observation,” he corrected. “Assessment.”

“Same thing.”

“No.” He said. “It’s not.”

“So what does he think?” you asked. “What does your father think we are?”

“If I’m connected to a Special Grade,” he said, choosing each word carefully, “it’s politically significant to the clan. How we’re connected matters.”

You blew out a breath.

These people were insane.

“And your father didn’t consider simply asking you why you were out investigating like a normal human? Instead of – I don’t know - orchestrating a back door hostage situation?”

“Normal people don’t run clans.”

“Well that much is obvious.”

You could see where Naoya got his control issues from.

“So your father is going to be watching us?” you asked.

Naoya nodded once.

“How we behave together.”

“Yes.”

“Great.” You threw your head back into the couch. “I love having my personal life under close scrutiny.”

“Relax,” he said, “He was always going to observe how we work together.”

You opened your mouth -

“-But,” he cut in, “this is deliberate. The earlier assessment would’ve been professional. Now,” he continued, “he’ll be watching for patterns.”

“Patterns.” You repeated. Unimpressed.

“Proximity. Distance. Deference. Resistance.”

“Cute rhyme. You learn it in your heir-training?”

“Yes, actually. I did.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Your family is insane. You realize this, right?”

“You’re just figuring this out?” he scoffed.

“And he really wouldn’t consider speaking to you privately? Your clan just… arranges human experiments like little psychopathic scientists?”

Naoya shrugged. “Arranging these things lets real behavior surface. Asking allows for deception.”

So. A family built on the assumption that you couldn’t trust anyone. Not even your own family.

Great.

You turned and stared at him.

“Is this a wife evaluation?”

“It’s a political evaluation.”

“Is that the same thing?”

“May as well be.”

You sighed. Loudly. Theatrically.

“Well,” you said lifting your mug and grimacing as you sipped your cold tea, “I suppose that was going to be happening any way.”

You stood up.

“Mug?” you asked, holding out your hand.

He handed it to you.

“I’m done with tea.”

You set his mug in the sink and put the kettle back on the stove.

“We can be normal, right?” You asked.

He snorted.

“There is nothing normal about you.”

“Good, I’d hate to be a disappointment.”