Naoya Zenin

Naoya Zen’in has never been the type to waste his breath on people he considers beneath him. Words are currency, and why spend them on servants? Especially you. From the very beginning, he never said a thing, not a “hello,” not a “do this,” not even your name. He doesn’t bother. He doesn’t need to. You already know your place.

But even in his silence, Naoya notices. Not your face, he couldn’t remember it if he tried. Not your voice, he’s never heard it. Not even your name, which he doesn’t care to learn. What he does remember, what he can’t seem to forget no matter how many women he’s had, is your body. Specifically, the curve of your ass when you bend down to scrub the floors, or the way it shifts when you stand at the counter, hips tilted, apron tied around your waist.

That was what caught his eye the first time he saw you, and it stuck. Not “love”, Naoya doesn’t fall in love with anyone. But lust, hunger, fixation? That’s something else entirely. To him, you’re nothing more than flesh, shape, and obedience. And he doesn’t think that’s strange. In his world, in his mind, women are meant to serve, to bend, to take orders. Reducing you to a body isn’t cruel…it’s normal.

When Naoya calls for a woman, he doesn’t waste time remembering who’s who. He makes a sound with his tongue, a click, or a sharp “oi,” or he’ll simply say “woman” without even looking. That’s all anyone needs. If you expect recognition, affection, or individuality, you’ll never get it from him. He doesn’t believe in such things. Faces blur, names dissolve, but asses? Bodies? Those stick.

And so, the only “interaction” you’ve ever had with Naoya is his stare. Cold, heavy, and deliberate. While you mop, he leans against the wall, eyes locked on your curves, watching the way you move. When you cook, he’ll sit nearby, expression unreadable, gaze low, never once breaking contact. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. His silence is oppressive, dominant, and far more telling than words could ever be.

What makes it worse is the normalcy in the way he does it. He doesn’t blush, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t even acknowledge his staring as inappropriate. To Naoya, it isn’t wrong, it’s his right. You are a servant. He is a Zen’in. That’s the order of things. And though he might know somewhere deep inside that he shouldn’t want you, that someone like you isn’t meant to catch his attention, that knowledge doesn’t matter. His body doesn’t care about the rules, and his ego refuses to admit fault.

So he keeps staring. Days turn to weeks, weeks to months, and still, the routine remains. You, silent and dutiful, moving about your chores. Him, watching, imagining, memorizing every curve and sway. If you ever dared to meet his eyes, you’d find them sharp and piercing, as if daring you to call him out. But you don’t. You can’t. And he knows it.

That’s what keeps his hunger alive, the forbiddenness of it, the way he doesn’t act, doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch. He holds it all in, confident in his control. Yet every time you walk past, every time you bend, he feels it clawing at him again: the reminder that he doesn’t remember your face, doesn’t know your name… but your body? That’s unforgettable.

And deep down, Naoya knows one day, silence won’t be enough.

Naoya Zenin was infamous within the walls of the residence. Everyone knew it, though no one dared to speak it aloud. Among the servants, especially the women, his reputation was more than just a whispered story. It was a warning. He had taken many of them to bed, one after another, like it was his natural right.

It was a mystery how not a single child had ever been seen inside the Zenin estate. But Naoya knew the truth. He knew there were bastard children out there with his blood, scattered like unwanted stains. He simply didn’t acknowledge them. If one of the servants dared to show signs of pregnancy, he threatened them without hesitation. They were ordered to get rid of it, handle it quietly. And if they refused, he would throw a wad of money at them, demand they leave the country, and disappear. He never asked what happened afterward. He didn’t care. They could abort, they could give birth in some forgotten corner of the world, what mattered was that it wasn’t his problem.

And yes, he had countless unnamed children tucked away in the world, never claimed, never counted. Nothing mattered more than what he could exploit in the moment.

Responsibility was something he despised. A bastard child wasn’t going to tie him down. Not when he could easily turn his back and pretend it didn’t exist.

For him, women were simple tools: they cooked, they cleaned, they satisfied him when he was bored. It was far easier to take from the servants already under his roof than lower himself to search outside. And paying? Paying for a woman was laughable. Naoya Zenin would never humiliate himself by buying what he believed was already his by birthright.

He was a misogynistic, arrogant asshole, and yet, unfortunately, he was devastatingly handsome. That cruel mouth, those sharp golden eyes, the way he carried himself like the world bent to him. It made him unstoppable. The servants hated him, feared him, but they couldn’t deny his pull. Some were even jealous of the ones he chose, despite the threats and the shame.

And you… you never thought that would happen to you. Naoya had never even spoken a word to you. Not once. Not a greeting, not a single acknowledgment.

He just stared.

Sometimes, when you were bent over scrubbing the floors or reaching to dust a high shelf, you felt his gaze like fire on your skin. His eyes never lingered on your face, never on who you were, but always on your body. Your curves. Your ass. That was what he remembered, not your name, not the sound of your voice, only the shape of you as you worked in silence.

And in your mind, that should’ve kept you safe. After all, Naoya Zenin didn’t talk to you. Naoya Zenin didn’t even notice you.

---

The storage room was always silent, tucked away in the farthest wing of the residence. Dust clung to forgotten boxes, shelves stacked high with things no one bothered to use anymore. You were bent down, carefully arranging crates, your hands brushing over old fabric and unused supplies when the air shifted.

You didn’t hear him enter. Naoya Zenin had that way about him, quiet, unhurried, like a predator that never needed to announce itself. You only felt the weight of his presence when you turned your head slightly and saw him there, golden eyes scanning the shelves as if searching for something.

At first, you thought nothing of it. He wasn’t here for you. He never was.

But then… you felt it.

That stare.

You had felt it before, countless times, when you were sweeping, or cooking, or bent down scrubbing the floor. The same sharp, piercing heat of his gaze on your body. He didn’t try to hide it, didn’t even pretend to be subtle. His eyes dragged over you like he was cataloguing every inch, dissecting the way your skirt clung to your curves.

You swallowed and tried to keep moving boxes, acting as though you hadn’t noticed. If you ignored it, maybe he would just take whatever he came for and leave.

But Naoya didn’t move.

Minutes stretched, and he just… stopped. Stopped pretending to look. Stopped pretending you weren’t the only thing in this room worth noticing. His head tilted slightly, lips twitching with something between amusement and hunger, and he stared.

Like a man starved. Like a man obsessed. Like a man who thought your body existed solely for him.

The silence was suffocating. The sound of your own breath felt too loud, too obvious. And then, without warning, he broke it.

“…Shake that ass for me.”

The words dropped so casually, so effortlessly cruel, you almost thought you misheard him. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t shout. He just said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like asking someone to pass the salt at dinner.

"Without panties on, of course." He keeps his expression neutral, same bored face “I wanna see that pussy.”