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Whiskey Peak seemed a little too good to be true.

Why would an island welcome pirates? Why would they give them all of their food and drink? Why would they open themselves up to the possibility of pirates doing what pirates do, pillaging the town in spite of its hospitality? It wasn't like they knew that the Straw Hats weren't the average pirates.

In spite of the explanations the mayor had given, it just didn't sit right in your gut. Years of experience had taught you to listen to it, especially in strange situations. And it was telling you to leave. Run.

But no one else seemed bothered once the partying started.

Luffy was eating everything he could get his hands on, Usopp charmed a group of locals with his stories, Nami was in the middle of a drinking contest with a nun, Zoro sat at a table all on his own, surrounded by several empty beer bottles, and Sanji, of course, had found himself behind the bar.

He leaned on the counter in front of you, ignoring everyone else who sat at the bar for just a moment.

"What would you like, love? Somethin' sweet? Or maybe somethin' spicy?" He winked.

As tempting as it was, you shook your head. "No, thank you. I'm alright."

Usually, you were happy to try any food or drink he made for you, so it threw him off momentarily. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a smile. "Yeah."

Sanji wasn't entirely convinced, but he let you be as he went to go take orders from other ladies at the bar. Or he tried to at least. Except that he found himself glancing over at you every so often, concern tickling at the back of his mind.

Meanwhile, you were watching as he made drink after drink with a showmanship that was very much in character for him, occasionally looking out at the rest of the saloon.

You jumped slightly in your seat as Sanji came to you again, the calls from the other ladies at the bar going unheard. You spoke before he could. "I promise I'm good. I'd just like to keep my wits about me."

Oh, was that what it was? "I can make you something non-alcoholic," he offered.

"I just don't trust it," you muttered.

You noticed his smile drop just a fraction. "You know I'd never serve you anythin' that would hurt you, right?"

"It's not you I'm worried about." You leaned in closer to him, side-eyeing the others at the bar as you whispered. "Doesn't this place seem weird to you? People don't usually welcome pirates with open arms." Not that pirates were really still a thing where you came from, but you'd seen enough pirate media to know that this was not how regular people reacted to them.

"Things are different on the Grand Line," he repeated his words from earlier with a shrug. "I don't think there's anythin' to worry about here. You should take the opportunity to enjoy yourself before we head to the next island. That's what the rest of us are doin'."

A pretty redhead called for Sanji again, and that was when it hit you.

Everyone was way too distracted. They had just what they wanted. Women, meat, money, an audience. If you were right and not just being paranoid, they probably wouldn't figure it out until it was too late.

Except for the one person who always kept watch–unless he was taking a nap, of course.

"Go tend to the ladies, Sanji. I'll talk to you later."

Sanji called out for you, you were already out of your seat.

Zoro still sat all on his own, silently enjoying another beer. You'd noticed a few people coming up to him at one point, but they'd gotten the message that he had no interest in conversation. You had to hope that he was more open to you.

And that he was clear headed enough to see the same red flags you were seeing.

Zoro didn't react as you slid into the booth with him.

"Hi," you said.

Out of the crew, Zoro was the one you'd spent the least real time with. Sure, there were times where everyone was together, but it was never just the two of you. So you did feel just a little awkward at that moment.

"Finally get bored of the cook? I don't blame you," he said with a smirk, which grew when he noticed that said cook was looking right over at the two of you in surprise.

"Not really. I just...um." You lowered your voice. "Do you also have a bad feeling about this place?"

"Yeah," was all he said before taking another swig of his beer.

Your shoulders relaxed and you let out a breath. It was nice to have some confirmation. "So what are we gonna do?"

"We let the others have their fun. And if something goes down, I'll take care of it."

"And...that's it?"

Zoro looked over at you with a little smile. "Pretty much, yeah."

You scooted a bit closer. "I'm gonna stick with you until we leave. If you don't mind."

"Sure." He wouldn't have really cared anyway, but he just knew that the cook's blood was boiling at the fact that you had left him to go sit with his least favorite person on the ship. And that gave Zoro quite a bit of satisfaction. "Want one?" he said, popping the top off of a beer with his thumb and offering it to you.

"I'm a little worried about eating or drinking anything from this place. They could've done something to it. I know they're drinking it too, but they could have an immunity built up or something." Maybe it sounded ridiculous, but drugs or poison in the food and drink would be an easy way to take care of all of you, if that was their plan.

"The beer's fine." He nodded to all of the bottles he'd emptied. "I'm still alive."

The beers were sealed. It would make sense for them to be safe. "Hm...okay." You took the beer from him and had a sip of it.

The sound of glass breaking startled you, and you looked over at the bar to see Sanji, his face pink with embarassment as he began to clean up the mess he'd just made.

Zoro scoffed. "Some bartender he is. Can't even manage not to break the damn bottles."

"Flair bartending is harder than it looks, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. "What could be so hard about slinging bottles of booze around like an idiot?"

"Yeah, I guess it wouldn't be that impressive to a guy who uses three swords at once." You leaned back in your seat and got comfortable. "Speaking of the three sword thing, how do you do that? Your teeth must be insanely strong..."

It didn't take too much longer for your gut to be proven right.

Zoro had stumbled out of one of the back doors to take care of some business, leaving you all alone in the main room of the saloon.

A wave of panic hit when you noticed a group of men coming towards you, not looking nearly as friendly as they had with Usopp just a while ago.

"The swordsman left you all alone, huh?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll make it quick."

You looked around frantically for anything within arm's reach to use against them.

Of course they waited for Zoro to leave.

Of course they were going for you first.

You were the easiest to get out of the way.

The weakest.

But you weren't going to just lie down and die.

You balled up your fists, and the men's laughter at the action was quickly cut short by two of their number being tossed through the doors like ragdolls.

And in walked Zoro, cool and controlled, hands resting on the hilts of his swords. "Gonna need more than two to take me down."

He dispatched two more before you could even blink, and a clapping sounded from the upper level.

The crown-wearing jerk from before, Mr. 9. "Quite an entrance. Unfortunately, what you failed to understand is–"

"You're all Baroque Works. And this whole town is a ruse to get pirates drunk and kill them?"

Mr. 9 laughed. "We also steal their loot."

"For your costume budget?"

"For Baroque Works!"

The assassins cheered, and Mr. 9 addressed them all directly. "The man before you felled our dearly departed Mr. 7. A stroke of dumb luck, no doubt. But I have it on good authority that whoever kills Roronoa Zoro will be fast tracked to frontier agent!"

And that was when the weapons came out.

"Oh man," you said, backing away from the guys who had finally turned their attention away from you.

"There are a hundred of us, and only one of you. I like our odds."

Zoro showed no sign of concern as he pulled out his bandana and tied it on. He locked eyes with you. "I'll take care of this. Just stay out of the way."

You gave him a thumbs up. "Got it."

Getting out of the saloon probably would've been the best thing to do, but you didn't know exactly where anyone else on the crew was. And if you went outside, you could end up running into more agents. If that happened and you had no help, you would be absolutely screwed.

So you pressed yourself back against the nearest wall and just watched. It wasn't like they would bother you anyway, seeing as Zoro was the way to secure a promotion.

"This will be a great workout for my new swords."

The moment Mr. 9 said the word, every agent in the bar went right for Zoro.

The swordsman's movements were lightning fast as he sliced at the agents with ease, taking down at least five before you even realized what happened. Your eyes could barely keep up with him.

This was different than the fight in Loguetown. It seemed he was really letting loose against these guys, as opposed to Buggy and Alvida's crew.

Even though he was literally killing people in front of you, your jaw hung open watching the grace and skill that he did it with.

"Holy shit."

Being blinded by a fake nun, or even facing a huge guy with a mace several times the size of your head, didn't stop him. Zoro fought hard, and you stayed on the edge of things. Until...

"The idiots are upstairs. Go with them back to the Merry," he called to you before disappearing through the back.

Right. You should probably do something besides stand there.

Dodging all of the bodies left in Zoro's wake, you rushed up the steps to the second level. "Usopp?! Sanji?!"

"We're in here!" You heard them call from a few doors away.

When you got there, you found Usopp sitting tied up as Sanji used a dagger to saw at the rope on his own wrists. He paused for a moment, looking up at you with the relief of seeing you alive. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, Zoro was looking out for me." You scanned the room and found another knife lying next to one of the assassins. Grabbing it, you used it to start cutting Usopp free. "He's kicking so much ass right now. I've never seen anything like it in real life."

As happy as Sanji was that you were okay, he also found himself a little irritated that mosshead was the one protecting you while he and Usopp were tied up and helpless. But it was the guilt that caused him to speak. "You were right about this place. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

"It's fine, Sanji."

"It's really n–"

Usopp's wrists were finally freed, and he rubbed at them. "Thanks. But for the record, I also knew this town was weird. I had a whole plan and everything."

"Did that plan involve getting tied up and stabbed?" you asked with a raised brow.

"Actually, yes it did. Let me walk you through it–"

Because of the chaos of escaping Whiskey Peak and finally heading for the next island, you didn't get a chance to talk with Zoro again until the morning.

He stood on the deck, looking out from the side of the ship as he had his post-morning nap beer.

You stepped up next to him and rested your arms on the railing. "You doing okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You fought 100 assassins last night. Or did you forget that already?"

"I'm fine. Booze cures everything," he said, taking a swig from his bottle.

"Hm, sure." You rested your chin on your hands. "That fight was amazing, by the way. Coolest thing I've ever seen."

Zoro wanted to take pride in it, but there was still that voice in his head that sounded very much like Dracule Mihawk, telling him that it had been less than nothing. That you didn't know enough about the world to realize that he had a long way to go on his journey. So he just gave an uninterested grunt.

"So, I was wanting to ask you something else."

Zoro finally turned his head towards you, draining the last of his drink. "What's that?"

"Can I train with you? It doesn't have to be swords since that's kind of your thing. I just want to get stronger. I have no clue how long I'll be here, so I want to have a better chance at defending myself..."

You were never going to get anywhere close to his level, or even to the others, but in spite of Nami's assurance that you weren't dead weight, the last thing you wanted was to be a liability like you were in Whiskey Peak. And you were willing to put in the work to change that.

Zoro's face was unreadable as he pushed himself from the railing and began to walk away.

"Meet me back here in five minutes. Be ready to train."

After practically running to the girl's room to change into the closest thing you had to gym clothes, you made it back to the deck in record time.

Zoro was already there setting up some weights. Weights which you noticed were quite large, almost comically so.

"Um..." You started stretching your arms and shoulders as you spoke. "I think those are gonna be too heavy for me."

"I use those to warm up. They should work," he said, nodding towards some smaller dumbbells and plates. "You ever lifted weights before?"

"Never."

Zoro had his work cut out for him, but if you were committed, so was he.

You were almost questioning things a while later when you found yourself lying on a bench, pressing a weight that had your arms shaking and chest aching.

Zoro stood above you, and if you weren't so focused on the bar that could easily crush your throat, you might have been distracted by the view.

"One more," he said.

"O-okay."

Despite the protests of your muscles, you dug deep inside and found the will to push the bar up again and slowly lower it back down.

Before you could even worry about it, Zoro already had a hold of the bar, casually taking it in one hand and allowing you to let go. He placed it down on the deck and you sat up, breathing heavier, sweat trickling down your temple.

"I thought you'd be weaker." He'd only expected you to do one or two reps your first time, but he'd been pleasantly surprised.

"I wait tables," you said, wiping your heated face. "Carrying around heavy trays full of food and drinks kinda helps with strength."

He nudged you to get up from the bench, then started loading more weight onto the bar for himself.

"Rest for a minute. Then we keep going."

"Sanji, could I trouble you for something cold to drink?"

The cook stopped the lunch prep that he was doing the moment he heard your request. "It's no trouble at all, love."

"Thank you."

But the moment he saw the state of you as you walked further into the galley, he paused. Because your skin was glistening with a sheen of sweat that had him thinking some not so gentlemanly thoughts. He cleared his throat, moving to grab a few lemons. "Ah, how about some freshly-squeezed lemonade?"

"That sounds amazing," you said, collapsing on one of the stools. You could barely feel your legs from all the lifts Zoro had you doing, so it was nice to finally sit. "Zoro really wore me out."

Sanji fumbled a lemon and it hit the counter with a thump, making him recall how he'd shattered an entire bottle of booze the night before when he saw you accept a drink from the swordsman. "He what?"

Your cheeks warmed, realizing how that might have sounded. "I asked him if he'd train me. We started this morning."

"He wasn't too hard on you was he?" Sanji asked seriously. "If I need to have words with him, I will."

"Believe me, I know." Surprisingly, they hadn't been in a argument yet that day. You weren't about to be the reason it happened. "It was fine, really. I feel great. Sore, but great."

"You know, if you wanted to train, you could've asked me," he said as he got to juicing the lemons. "I'd be happy to show you a few moves."

"You'd take it too easy on me."

"No, I wouldn't."

You couldn't help laughing. "The first thing you asked when I mentioned training with Zoro was if he was too hard on me."

"That's different."

"Not really." You leaned into the counter, smiling up at him. "I wouldn't mind learning some cool kicks, though."

Sanji smiled back, knowing Zoro could never help with that. "I suppose someone has to make sure you can fight with style. That's not exactly mosshead's strong suit."

"I don't know. He was pretty stylish when he beat 100 assassins all by himself."

"I could've done that, too. Easily," Sanji claimed, still bothered about how the previous night had gone. He couldn't believe Zoro got to do all the fighting while he was tied up.

"You and Usopp couldn't even take two of them," you teased. You were well aware that they had been distracted, and that Sanji refused to fight women anyway.

"I wasn't really thinkin' clearly last night."

"You were, just not with your brain." You rested your face in your palm. "By the way, you really shouldn't let a woman tie you up unless you know her."

Sanji smirked. "That an offer?"

"In your dreams."

“Shit,” Sanji cursed under his breath.

“Sanji?” His body stiffens from already recognizing your calm, polite voice.

“Yes, my love?” He questions as he turns to face you.

“Zoro said that he wants more sake. Is there any more left?” Sanji’s eyebrows furrow out of anger before he lets out a sigh.

“That moss-head can get it himself.” But Sanji already picked up the bottle despite talking badly about the swordsman a second ago. When he gave it to you, his fingers lingered on yours a little bit longer than expected before letting go of the bottle.

Sanji could’ve sworn that his heart was about to beat right out his chest. He noticed how your eyes slightly widened and your cheeks turned into a brighter shade of pink. Him on the other hand, was shaking but hiding it by placing it in his trouser pockets.

“T-thanks!” You stuttered a bit before forcing it out. Sanji nodded, trying to be casual, which obviously didn’t work well. Even when Sanji tried to brush it off, the whole crew’s attention was on you two. They already noticed it. They always had.

The crew watched as Sanji fumbled on the spot, and the shyness brushed past you, which earned grins, nods, and whispers from everyone around. As you walked away from the kitchen to deliver the sake to the grumpy green-haired man, everyone exclaimed teasingly.

“You’re blushing, Sanji,” Nami teased, which made Sanji’s hands shake.

“Look at that! Y/n has really done it for him!” A chuckle escaped from Franky.

“Why are you guys only talking about Sanji?” Robin interrupts,

“Thank you, Robin-dear! – Wait – what?” Sanji looked at Robin confusedly.

“You guys should also question the other victim. She was stuttering.” Robin grinned before taking a sip of her lemonade, which made Sanji’s ears warm up.

“Actually, that was a good one, Robin!” Ussop cackled.

“Oh, shut it, Ussop!” Everyone could’ve sworn they saw him grow taller with spikey teeth, but Sanji turned back to the counter and continued fixing everyone's plates.

A FEW HOURS LATER – 11:28 P.M

You tiptoed into the kitchen, hoping the creaky floor wouldn’t alarm everyone, but once you turned the corner, you jumped back in surprise.

“Y/n-dear, are you okay?!” Sanji’s voice was higher than he intended it to be. “What are you doing here this late?”

“I was trying to get a late-night snack. I’m sorry!” You covered your mouth just in case your laugh becomes louder. Sanji gave a small smile.

“What would you like, my love?” The man’s hand already reached towards the refrigerator door.

“I’m not exactly sure what I want, but I’m craving for something sweet!” You leaned over the island counter.

“Alright! I will surprise you with something that will fill your stomach.” The corner of your lips quirked as you watched him get the ingredients from the fridge.

“Would you maybe…” You stretched the word ‘maybe’ longer then intended, “teach me how to cook along the way?”

You saw the man’s eyes light up immediately in surprise and amazement. “I would be glad to teach you, love.” 

“That means you’ll have to tell me what you’re making.” You watched the blonde-haired man grab the flour, egg carton, and milk from the fridge and place them on the counter. 

“Why don’t you be surprised? I’ll tell you once we get prepared to cook it.”

“Fine.” You say as you drift your attention to the window. Once he grabbed the bowl and spatula, he turned to face you. 

“Are you ready?” He questioned as a bright smile appeared on his face. You nodded eagerly until you realized how fast it was.

“Yep. I’m ready!” Sanji then added the amount of flour and told you how many eggs you could crack. You took an egg from the carton, pressed it on the counter a little roughly until you heard it crack, and spread the shell apart. You watched as the egg yolk fell into the bowl before the blonde chef grabbed the spatula, which stopped you in your tracks.

“Let me add milk.” Sanji took the milk carton, poured the right amount, closed the lid, and put it in the fridge. The cook then moved aside so you could stir.

As you were stirring the batter, the chef pulled the bacon from its clear wrapping and placed it in the pan. “I won’t let you do this because I don’t want the grease to pop at you.” You nodded before continuing your movement. Your movements were steady and precise as you were stirring the batter.

After Sanji checked the bacon strips in the pan, his attention drifted to you. “You're doing very well, my sweet.” Your lips curved from his compliment before stopping your tracks. “Oh, wait. It still needs to mix with vanilla.” Sanji grabbed the vanilla extract, dipped a few into the bowl, and moved so you could stir.

The chef went back to his original position to flip the bacon and place the rest on the plate. Then Sanji went to the fridge and grabbed the margarine before closing the door. Once he grabbed the butter knife, sliced the right amount of the smooth butter, and placed it on the pan effortlessly.

“I feel like I know what you’re doing, and it’s kind of too late to make it.” You giggled.

“It’s not a lot of battery. It’s only enough for a few.”

“And this is supposed to be a snack?”

“It’s enough to fill your stomach.” The chef smiled, making you mirror it.

“Sure. This will definitely fill me in the morning as well.” You poured the batter into the pan.

“And I thought you said that you wanted me to teach you how to cook,” Sanji remarked as he crossed his arms.

“Maybe you should’ve thought that I wanted to spend time with you.” You glanced at him before grabbing the spatula.

TEN MINUTES LATER

Sanji placed the golden, fluffy pancakes onto your plate along with the bacon. Your eyes lit up as you could feel your mouth watering.

“This looks so good,” you said, licking the corner of your lips.

“It is for you.” Sanji placed the plate across the island counter. You walked around the counter, but before you could sit down, Sanji, like a gentleman he is, moved the chair back enough for you to pass by. “My lady,” He gestured his hand out.

“You didn’t have to do that, Sanji,” You say as you drift your attention to him.

“But I wanted to” The chef gave a soft smile, making you mirror it before sitting in the chair. The man pushed the chair in enough for you to reach the counter, then he walked around the other side of the island.

Sanji watched as you used the side of your fork to cut off a slice of the fluffy pancake before pressing it into your mouth. He smiled once he heard a satisfied sound from you.

“This is so good.” You closed your eyes in satisfaction. “Thank you so much, Sanji!”

“Anything for you, my lady.” Sanji tilted his head in confusion as he noticed you shifting in your chair while looking everywhere else but his face. He brushed it off before he turned to face the counter.

Sanji started to overthink. Everything he was thinking about led straight to you, making you the answer to everything. His train of thought, daydreams, his wishes, and his future. Even if it does hurt his chest, he really wants to be there for you. Even if you don’t accept his confession, it was worth risking to express himself.

“Y/n, I have something to tell you,” he says, making you pause your movements. You had your attention on him, which made him even more nervous about saying how he felt. “Uhm,” He stared into your eyes as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” Sanji faced the dishes and started rolling up his sleeves.

“What was it?” You questioned as you stood beside him.

“It’s nothing to worry about. And it probably would've ruined this moment anyway.”

“Sanji…” You crossed your arms, leaving your elbow at the edge of the counter. “I know something is up. Please tell me.” Oh, how could he ignore it? Especially when you are asking nicely. But he was scared. Scared of destroying your friendship because nine times out of ten, you might not see him the same way he sees you.

“It’s just…” Sanji’s fingers held a small grip on the edge of the sink. “I’m scared that what I would say would make you uncomfortable and might not see me the same.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to tell, ‘cause you never know how I would react.” Your comforting words made him feel a little better, but he was still very anxious.

Sanji let out a sigh and removed his gloves before placing them aside. His eyes drifted towards the floor before looking into your confused eyes. “Y/n, I am in love with you.” He finally says, making your eyes widen.

“I am in love with you, and I always have ever since I met you. I fell in love with you the moment I first laid eyes on you. I was attracted to your beauty from the inside and out. Before you joined the Strawhats, you helped out your village and showed how much you care about them, even if they didn’t believe that you could save them. You were independent and declined my offer when I tried reaching out a hand to help.”

You felt your eyes watering from his words, “I felt crazy when I couldn’t help out. Luffy had to stop me since he said it was your fight and your decision. But you stopped them even when you were really badly injured. Your beauty leaves me breathless. Every time I look into your eyes, it’s always so gentle, like it’s welcoming me home. Every time you laugh, I can’t help but feel warmth. And every time you help out the people around you, my heart always feels at ease.”

Sanji paused for a moment as he was trying to find anything else to say because he had a whole list, but that would take a million years even to finish explaining. “I know that you probably won’t feel the same because of how I act towards everyone. Even the thought of you being with me sounds impossible, you know? Not in a bad way, but impossible since I am way under your league-”

“Sanji,” You interrupted him. You stepped closer, making him freeze on the spot. Sanji could already feel his hands becoming sweaty and his heart thumping against his chest.

Your hand reached to his cheek, thumb brushing against his skin before pressing your lips against his. Right then and there, he felt like his fireworks exploded around him. Was this real? It took Sanji a few seconds to register what had happened before he leaned into the kiss. You felt one of his hands wrap around your waist, and the other cupping your cheek.

The kiss started off slow before building with more tension. You felt his soft lips move in sync with yours as his hands explored your curves, and your fingers locked in his blonde hair. He could taste the sweetness from the pancake and the syrup remiainings on your lips. After a minute, you pulled back, and your eyes fluttered open. He was speechless, breathing heavily from the adrenaline.

“Wha – what was that?” He was cut off from his heavy breathing.

Your lips curved into a light smile. “Your answer.”

“Do that again, and I will go crazy-” And you interrupted him with another kiss. His face turned red as his lips parted. “I’m being serious!” You giggled at his reaction.

“Sanji, I love you too. I have been in love with you for a while now, and I just thought you only saw me the same way you see Nami and Robin.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, my love.” He lifted your hand and kissed the back of it tenderly. “You are the only one I have eyes for.”

“I didn’t make any noise,” you reply, stepping in slowly as you look around.

“No, but the air changed.” He sets down his tool and straightens, showing off his tall frame, finally turning to face you. His expression is open, unguarded, a genuine pleasure that feels like his default mode.

“The air changed.” You repeat deadpan.

“I tell only truths,” he says simply—a calmer, more measured statement than the memory of him at your first full-ship dinner, arms flung wide as he shouted “super” at top volume.

You step inside, and the floor beneath your boots is warm from running machinery. The air smells of metal and oil and something faintly electric, beneath which lingers the ghost of wood shavings, a reminder of the ship’s older bones. Without asking, you drift toward the nearest wall of diagrams. Franky watches you, arms crossed, his face unreadable for a moment.

“These yours?” you ask, gesturing.

“Most of them.” He comes over to stand beside you, close enough to guide your eye but not to crowd. “That one’s Sunny’s original frame calculations. That there is the modification, and this row”—he sweeps his hand over a line of smaller sketches—“those are ideas I’m kicking around. Not building yet, just thinking.”

You study the thinking-about sketches. They’re looser, more exploratory than the technical drawings: lines repeating, revising, circling back to the same structural dilemma from different angles, the solution still out of reach. You recognize the process; it’s something you’ve done yourself on canvas, returning to the same composition until something clicks.

“Hmm,” you say lowly.

But Franky heard anyway, and looks from the sketches to you. “Got something to stay or something in your throat?”

You huff a laugh, giving him an annoyed side glance, before a smile cracks through as you turn back to look at the sketches before continuing.

“Our styles are alike. I can tell you’re not drawing what you already know—you’re drawing toward what you don’t know yet.” You hover your finger over one of the sketches. “This one, you haven’t solved it.”

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone steadier than usual, as if he’s listening in a new way.

“Can I ask what the problem is?”

He pauses, more thoughtful rather than hesitant, then pulls a stool over for you without asking, takes one himself, and begins.

First he explains in technical jargon; you catch about half of it and tell him so. He nods and restates it in terms of structure and balance, of weight meeting function, of building something to do its job without turning into something else. By the third version, it all clicks. You lean forward, surprising yourself with detailed questions. He answers with growing animation, hands sketching in the air, the workshop alive with the energy of someone in their element, finally being listened to.

“What if the weight distribution started here,” you say, pointing at his drawing, “and the support ran diagonally instead of—”

He stops, studies the spot you’ve indicated, brow furrowing not in dismissal but in the precise calculation of an engineer testing a new idea.

“Huh,” he murmurs.

“Too simple?”

“No, I just—” He reaches for a pencil; you slide back to give him room, and he redraws over the original with the focused speed of someone following a thread. “If it starts here, the load transfers down through—fuck. That actually—”

He keeps sketching while you watch, chin in hand. The workshop is warm, the ship gently rocking, and it hits you: this is what Franky sounds like when he’s not being loud, when he’s just doing the thing he loves.

“You should have been an engineer,” he says without looking up.

“I make things,” you reply. “Different tools but same instinct.”

He glances at you with a direct, warm look, the look of someone recognizing a kindred spark. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

Then he leads you through the workshop; not a formal tour, since he’s not performing, just moving through a space he knows completely, answering your questions and occasionally asking about materials or structural properties in your own work. Two hours pass without either of you noticing.

When you finally emerge into the brighter corridor, Franky walks you out. There’s an ease between you now that wasn’t there this morning.

“Come back tomorrow,” he says. Not a question, not exactly an invitation, just offered.

“Yeah,” you say. “I will.”

He nods once, satisfied, and steps back inside.

You stand in the corridor for a moment, still feeling the warmth of the workshop on your skin, and think: there you are. The quiet version of him, beneath the volume. You’ve found his frequency, and you now know how to tune in.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

Brook finds you instead of the other way around.

You're on deck in the late afternoon, sketchbook open, pencil moving with instinct rather than intention, trying to catch the specific quality of light on the water at this exact hour. You hear him before you see him; the careful tap of his cane, and then music, appearing around him the way it always does, as if the air simply decides to have a melody when he's nearby.

He settles into the chair beside you and plays softly, not for you but alongside you, the harmonica weaving itself into the afternoon rather than interrupting it. You keep drawing as several easy minutes pass before either of you speaks.

"May I?" he asks, nodding toward the sketchbook once he notices you slowed down.

You tilt it toward him. He looks for a long moment, and the sound he makes — low, appreciative, somewhere between a hum and a sigh — lands somewhere genuine.

"You draw how it feels," he says. "Not just how it looks."

"You play the same way," you tell him. "Just now, you weren't playing the song. You were playing the feeling of the afternoon." A small laugh, “the perfect soundtrack.”

He goes still, almost an intimidating figure, staring you straight on, with no clear expression or the overextension of his body that he often uses to express his emotions more clearly to others. Then his laugh comes out full and bright, the real one, rolling out over the water. "My dear," he says, when he's finished, "Thank you. For a moment, you’ve made an old man very happy.”

And the weight of it clearly says how much he appreciates what you’ve said. It’s not even a particularly great compliment, but you know grief well enough to know that it comes at the most random times.

"Well I promise to tell you more often then."

"Exceptional," he says, and you believe him completely.

You stay like that until Robin comes up and takes the empty chair on your other side with a book, and the three of you exist together in comfortable creative silence while the afternoon tips into evening without any of you noticing.

As the light goes amber, you turn to Brook. "Will you play at dinner tonight?"

He brightens, the delight of it moving through him entirely. "I would be honored."

"Good," you say. "I want to hear what the evening sounds like to you."

He laughs again, and Robin smiles behind her book, and the ship keeps moving, and that's all it needs to be.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

Jinbe teaches you to fish, which is not something he planned.

He'd come to the stern with his line and his patience — the kind that doesn't ask anything of the world except to keep moving — and found you already there with your knees pulled up, watching the water. He sat down without comment, but you politely asked what he was doing, and one thing led to another.

You converse in the easy manner that comes with shared moments, where a quiet task strips away the need for pretense. You explore the cultural contrasts between your homelands, sharing stories of the island where you were raised; the sun-drenched shores, the warmth of your community, and how creativity was cherished as an expression of love. He listens attentively, allowing your words to fill the space without interruption.

"You miss it," he says when you finish.

"Every day." A pause. "I don't usually say that out loud."

"You don't have to perform being fine with me," he says, simply. "I won't worry about you if you're not."

You look at him. "Everyone else worries."

"They love you," he says. "That's appropriate. But I've lived long enough to know grief can't be rushed, and that sometimes the kindest thing is to sit beside someone without requiring anything of them."

Something in the words lands the way your father's used to — not performed wisdom, just truth accumulated through long living, offered plainly.

"You remind me of someone," you say quietly.

"Someone you miss?"

"In the best way."

He looks at you with the warm, understated quality he brings to everything. "I'll take that," he says.

You fish for another hour. You catch nothing. Jinbe catches two and releases both, because you are not, it turns out, fishing for dinner, you're fishing for the practice of it, which he considers equally valid.

"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.

"I'll bring tea," he says. "The fish respond better when you're warm."

You laugh. He extends a hand to help you up, solid and unhurried, and walks you back toward the ship at the pace of someone who has weathered enough sea to never feel rushed. And it feels, simply and exactly, like being looked after by someone who has been doing it long enough to know how.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The art club has three rules.

Usopp made them. He wrote them on a piece of paper and tacked it to the wall of the storage room you'd collectively claimed, and no one argued because no one wanted to be the person who argued with a handwritten sign.

Rule one: no critiquing unless asked. Rule two: no talking about whatever crisis is currently happening on deck. Rule three: Sanji is allowed in for supply runs only and must leave immediately after.

"That's discriminatory," Sanji had said, reading the sign over your shoulder on the first day.

"It's a creative space," Usopp told him, with great authority. "Your energy is too chaotic."

"My energy—"

"Snacks," you said. "Please."

He brought snacks and was promptly asked to leave after. He went with the suffering dignity of a man deeply wronged, and the door closed, and the four of you looked at each other in the warm quiet of the reclaimed storage room and someone — Franky, clearly — said SUPER under his breath, and that was that.

Franky draws mecha. Enormous, intricately paneled manga spreads that take up two pages minimum, his mechanical figures rendered with the same obsessive structural logic he brings to actual shipbuilding; every joint considered, every line of force accounted for, the action sequences are somehow both chaotic and precisely engineered. He inks with total focus, occasionally tilting a panel to check the perspective with one eye closed, occasionally making a sound of deep personal satisfaction when something clicks into place.

You've started leaving small notes in the margins of his discarded drafts. The weight feels off here, what if the stance shifted. He never mentions them. The next panel always adjusts something adjacent to what you suggested. You both pretend this isn't happening, and the arrangement works perfectly.

Nami draws landscapes, fantasy ones, pulled from whatever novel she's currently reading, rendered in the portable watercolor set she produces from somewhere that no one questions. They're extraordinary, all atmosphere and light, the geography of places that don't exist made to feel more real than maps of places that do. She sits close enough that your shoulders touch and doesn't move away, and neither do you, and at some point her free hand settles on your knee with the ease of something that has simply decided it lives there now.

You draw them, in various stages, sometimes their expressions, other times anatomy work and body proportions, sometimes drawing with them their scenes, and they want to see the way you would draw something they’re working on — a sweet gesture that left you feel welcomed by this crew.

And Usopp, well, Usopp is working on his manga.

It has pirates, a legendary treasure that the main crew is sailing toward across a grand and perilous ocean. It has a cast of characters that are in no way, absolutely not, definitely not meant to represent anyone present, despite the fact that the captain is described as having a signature item of headwear and a devil fruit ability so powerful it defies all logic and description.

Despite the fact that the navigator is a brilliant, beautiful tactician whose skills are matched only by her devastating wit, and the swordsman is — well. You've read that page twice, and you're fairly certain Usopp has written Zoro as being approximately eight feet tall, but you haven't said anything.

Today, Usopp is introducing someone new.

He's been building to it for three sessions, dropping hints: a figure glimpsed in the background of a panel, a reference in dialogue, a mysterious feminine presence noted in the narration with the weight of dramatic foreshadowing. And now, bent over his pages with his tongue between his teeth in concentration, he's drawing her properly for the first time.

You watch him work from the corner of your eye.

The new character is arriving in what appears to be a dramatic rescue scene. The crew's sharpshooter — who is, in this version, slightly taller than in life, with more defined arms and a dramatically windswept silhouette — stands at the center of the panel, having apparently single-handedly dismantled an underground criminal operation of enormous scale.

The other crew members are present in the background, supportive, appreciative, somewhat peripheral. The sharpshooter's pose is heroic, and the lighting on him is extraordinary, and he appears to be the only one who did anything of significance.

The woman he's rescuing has your face.

It's not subtle. Usopp is not, you are learning, a subtle man when he's drawing something he cares about.

"Usopp," you say.

"Mm," he says, not looking up, adding detail to the sharpshooter's heroic silhouette.

"Is that me?"

"It's a fictional character," he says immediately.

"She has my face."

"She has a face."

"Usopp."

He looks up, and the expression he's wearing is the one where he's decided to commit completely to the bit regardless of consequences. "The Merry Valor crew's newest member," he says, with dignity, "is a wholly original creation who bears no resemblance to any real person and who was rescued solely through the extraordinary efforts of the sharpshooter Usokingu, whose skill and bravery in the underground were—"

"I don’t know if that’s exactly how—," you say.

"Usokingu," he continues, louder, "whose legendary combat ability neutralized the threat before anyone else had even reached the location—"

Nami leans across you to look at the page, studying it for a moment. "You've drawn yourself saving her from something you were genuinely frightened of."

"Usokingu," Usopp says, at full volume now, "felt no fear."

Franky hasn't looked up from his mecha panel, but his shoulders are shaking.

You take the sketchbook from Usopp, ignoring his noise of protest, and look at the page properly. The woman he's drawn, the character who is definitely not you, is rendered with a care that has nothing to do with embellishment. The detail in her face. The way she's drawn looking up at the sharpshooter not with passive rescue-recipient energy but with something more specific, more considered. Like someone who sees what's in front of them and decides they like it.

You hand it back.

"She's beautiful," you say, simply.

Usopp opens his mouth, closes it, and then something in his face does what it does when you say the true thing at the right moment; briefly, genuinely undefended. "She's — yeah. She is." He looks back at the page. "Still entirely fictional, though."

"Entirely," you agree.

"Usokingu really did save her, for the record."

"Completely alone," you say.

"Heroically."

"No one else contributed. Didn’t even have a chance to, he was so quick."

"Exactly, look and eyewitness," he confirms, and you both dissolve, the laughter catching Nami too, and even Franky sets his pen down to fully commit to the moment.

At the ninety-minute mark, there's a knock. Two short, one long.

"That's him," Usopp says, without looking up, already recomposed.

"He's early," Nami says.

"He times it," you say.

You open the door. Sanji stands with a tray of drinks and something wrapped in cloth that smells extraordinary, wearing the expression of a man who has accepted his exile with great personal suffering and would like this acknowledged.

"Thank you," you say, reaching for the tray.

He pulls it back, just slightly, just enough.

"There's a toll," he says.

Behind you, a chorus of immediate and varied protest rises from the room — Usopp's oh come on, Nami's sharp exhale, Franky's low ‘seriously, man’ — which Sanji absorbs without visible remorse.

You step forward, take his face briefly in one hand, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He goes very still in the way he does when he wasn't quite prepared for you to actually do the thing, when the expectation was negotiation, and you've bypassed it entirely.

"There," you say, taking the tray from his now-unresisting hands.

The color at the tips of his ears is remarkable.

"You're all welcome," he says, to the room, recovering his composure by approximately sixty percent.

"Goodbye, Sanji," Nami says.

The door closes. You distribute the drinks while Nami's hand returns to your knee. Usopp is already back in his pages, adding something to the sharpshooter's rescue panel that has, you notice, slightly more crew members in the background than before. Still peripheral, still secondary, but present. Franky accepts his drink without breaking his ink line, which is a skill that deserves recognition.

Outside, Sanji stands in the corridor for a moment longer than necessary, something no one mentions.

It's rule four. Usopp just hasn't written it down yet.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

The afternoon unreels itself lazily. The island is warm, the water calm, and somewhere in the middle of it Usopp appears with a volleyball and an expression of someone who has been given a mission.

"Teams," he announces.

"Teams," you repeat.

"You and Chopper versus Sanji and Robin." He holds the ball out with the gravity of someone distributing weapons. "The sand down there is perfect. Sanji's already complaining about it, which means it's going to be great."

You look at Chopper, who is already vibrating with the kind of energy that suggests the competitive element of this proposal has activated something in him.

"Obviously, we're going to win," he says firmly once you’ve reached the court.

"Obviously," you agree, both sharing a smile.

Robin plays volleyball the way Robin does everything, with composure and precision and the occasional use of her devil fruit, which she maintains is incidental and which is definitely not incidental. She sends the ball back over the net in ways that should not be physically possible and watches you scramble to return it with serene, affectionate amusement.

"That's not—" you start.

"I don't know what you mean," Robin says pleasantly, from across the net.

"You grew three extra arms!"

"I grew one extra arm," she corrects. "Briefly."

You look at Chopper. Chopper looks at you. A silent agreement passes between you that you are not going to win this fairly and are therefore going to have to win it unfairly, and Chopper — who contains medical expertise, several transformations, and approximately forty pounds of competitive spirit — turns out to be an exceptional partner in this specific endeavor.

The game deteriorates cheerfully within twenty minutes. Usopp is supposed to be officiating and has instead become a commentator, narrating events with increasingly dramatic inflection while Luffy, Zoro, and Nami watch from slightly up the beach. Jinbe watches from further back with the expression of a man enjoying himself quietly. Brook has found a shady place to sit and is playing something upbeat that somehow perfectly scores the chaos.

You dive for a ball that you absolutely should not have dived for, hit the sand with a thud that knocks the breath out of you for a moment, and come up laughing — genuinely laughing, the full kind, the kind that takes over your body without asking permission. Chopper immediately checks if you're injured, but you wave him off. Sanji is already rounding the net with a look that tries to be concerned but is mostly just warm, crouching to offer his hand.

"I'm fine," you tell him.

"You're sandy," he tells you.

"I'm winning."

He pulls his head back to look at you, checking your head for injury. "You're absolutely not winning."

"The score is irrelevant," you say, taking his hand. "I'm winning spiritually. In fact, we’re beating your asses right now."

He pulls you up, and the moment of your rising brings you close enough that he doesn't immediately step back, and his hand brushes the sand from your shoulder with the proprietary ease of someone who has decided this is simply something he does now. "Spiritually," he repeats, low and amused, close to your ear.

"It's a valid metric," you tell him.

"It really isn't," Robin says, from across the net, and Sanji's laugh catches you off guard because it's directed at you both together, the warmth of it including you both in the same breath.

He goes back to his side of the net as the game continues. The sun keeps moving toward the horizon, and the light goes from gold to amber to something lower and more extraordinary, the kind of light that makes everything look slightly more itself than usual.

‿︵‿ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 ‿︵‿

They stand slightly up the shore, the three of them, close enough to watch without being part of it. Nami has her arms crossed, not in irritation but in the particular way she holds herself when she's thinking. Zoro has a drink he's mostly ignoring while Luffy is eating something and watching you with the focused quality he normally reserves for opponents and the horizon.

You dive for the ball again and come up laughing again, and all three of them watch it happen.

"She's settled," Nami says. Not to either of them specifically, more so just naming what she's observing.

"Faster than I expected," Zoro says, taking a swig of his drink.

"I expected it," Luffy says.

Nami glances at him, slightly annoyed at him. "You always say that."

"I'm always right," he says, simply, still watching you, but doesn’t manage to duck from Nami’s smack on the back of his head.

Down on the sand, you've said something to Chopper that has him spinning in a circle with offense, and Sanji laughing. Robin returns a shot with an arm that blooms from the top of the net post, and Usopp's commentary hits a new register of drama. The scene has the quality of something that has always been happening, that the ship has always contained — the particular ease of a person who has found the frequency of a place and started transmitting on it.

"She figured Franky out," Nami continues, something satisfied in her voice. "I could hear them in the workshop from the corridor. Two hours."

Zoro's eye moves to her briefly, face not moving, but his voice tells enough of his surprise. "Franky doesn't do two hours with people."

"No," she agrees. "He doesn't."

A pause. Down the beach, you spike the ball over the net with more force than expected, and there's a collective reaction from the loose audience that has gathered: Jinbe's quiet approval, Brook's musical punctuation, Usopp's escalating narration.

"Brook had her on the deck for the whole afternoon," Zoro says. "Didn't see her come down until dinner prep."

"I know." Nami watches you. "And Jinbe, the fishing."

"She's good at people," Luffy says. He says it the way he says most true things, like he's just reporting what's in front of him.

"She is," Nami agrees. "Which is useful." A beat. "Which is also not why we—"

"No," Luffy says. The single word closes the sentence cleanly, without harshness. Just precision. "She’s more than a tool."

Nami exhales. "I know." She watches you receive a shot from Robin, get turned around by it, and recover. You're laughing again, always laughing, the sound carrying up the beach. "I just want to be clear with myself about it."

"You're clear," Zoro says, not unkindly, just the certainty of a man who has already been through this reckoning and come out the other side of it settled. "We all are."

The sun is lower now, the light extraordinary, and you are standing in the middle of it like you were placed there. Like the afternoon arranged itself around you, or like you arranged yourself around the afternoon, and either way the result is the same. You, lit up, sand on your knees, Chopper attached to your side, Sanji watching you from his side of the net with the expression he doesn't always know he's making.

"How many of us has she kissed?" Luffy asks, conversationally, looking around to see if there’s a lingering snack around that he could grab without having to move.

Nami makes a sound. "That's — I'm not cataloging that, Luffy."

"I'm not asking for a catalog, I'm asking how it's going."

"It's going well," Zoro says, which is the only answer that needs to be given, and he knows it. "She's not pulling back from anyone. She initiates." He watches you ruffle Chopper's hat with the easy affection of someone who has stopped calculating these gestures and started simply making them. "That matters."

"She made the first move on Robin," Nami says, and there's something that might be pride in it, the specific pride of a woman who understands what that costs. "Robin told me."

They watch you in silence for a moment. The game has devolved further; Chopper has transformed into heavypoint form that has Sanji loudly revising his position on the rules. You're laughing so hard you've bent forward. The sound of it reaches all three of them clearly on the salt-warm air.

"She's ours," Luffy says. The words are quiet, not asking, not announcing to anyone else. Just said in the way Luffy states things that are true, as simple facts, placed in the air to be acknowledged.

Nami doesn't argue with it. “Yes," she says.

"She doesn't fully know it yet," Zoro says.

"She's starting to," Luffy says. Something in his voice is warm, and patient, and completely certain, the way he sounds when he has already seen how something ends and is content to let the middle unfold at its own pace. "She'll get there."

"And when she does?" Nami asks. Not because she doesn't know the answer. Because she wants to hear him say it.

Luffy looks at you, and his expression does the thing it does sometimes. Where the grin is gone, what's underneath it has no name but is more serious and more certain than anything the grin covers.

"Then she stays," he says. "And she's ours, and we're hers, and that's just what's true." He takes a bite of whatever he's eating. "Simple."

Zoro exhales slowly. "Simple," he agrees, which from Zoro means: settled. Done. No further discussion needed.

Nami watches you for another moment, the smile at the corner of her mouth the private one, the one she saves. "We should get changed for dinner," she says.

"Yeah," Luffy says, still watching you.

None of them moves immediately.

Sanji has been cooking since dawn. You only understand the full scope of it when the tables arrive on the beach — actual tables, hauled down by Franky and Zoro with what you would describe as minimal cooperation and maximum profanity — and the dishes begin coming out one by one, covered and then uncovered, held back and then released, each one appearing as the sky does what it only does in the last twenty minutes before full dark.

Someone has strung lanterns above the table. You have a theory about the chain of responsibility; Nami conceived it, Usopp built it, Franky made it structurally sound — but whoever is responsible, the result is warm amber light over a long table on the sand, the ocean close enough to hear, the Sunny at your back, the island's last color dissolving into the water ahead of you.

You stand at the edge of it and try to take it in.

"You're doing the breathing thing," Franky says, from beside you.

"I'm not—" you start, and then remember he told you about this, and stop. "Fine," you say. "Maybe I am."

He looks satisfied. "Good."

The crew settles around the table in the informal, comfortable way they always settle; not assigned, but patterned, everyone finding the configuration that works without needing to discuss it. You end up in the middle of it, which you realize, looking around, is probably not an accident. Chopper is immediately to your left, and Sanji is finding the seat to your right with the ease of a man arriving somewhere he already knew he was going. Robin is across from you, and Luffy is at the head. Always at the head, it's just where he is, where the table orients itself, watching everything with the satisfied expression of a captain at his table.

Brook has his violin tonight, not the harmonica. When the food is served, and the first plates go around, he starts playing, soft and warm, the kind of music that fits itself to a conversation rather than demanding to be above it.

You eat and talk. The food is obscene; Sanji has outdone himself in the specific way of someone cooking for a purpose beyond nutrition, every dish considered, every flavor a decision. You tell him this, quietly, leaning close enough that it's just for him, and watch what happens to his face when he believes you mean it.

He does believe it, he always believes you, you're realizing. Which is a gift in someone whose default is to deflect compliments with performance.

"You made this for tonight specifically," you say. Not a question.

"Everything I make is for specifically," he says. "Tonight's specifically is you."

You look at him, but he’s already turning back to the table, refilling someone's glass, moving through the dinner with the focused pleasure of a person in their element — but you saw it. The thing underneath the words, the quiet enormity of them, said plainly and then moved past without fanfare.

Tonight's specifically is you.

The conversation around the table flows like a well-tuned melody, winding, overlapping, and authentic. At some point, the evening blurs into a seamless tapestry of laughter and stories, and Luffy rises, drink in hand. It’s an unplanned movement, yet the table hushes as he stands, not out of demand but because Luffy has a knack for commanding attention effortlessly.o.

"We should do a toast," he says. "Because it's been a good stretch of days and we're leaving tomorrow, and also because—" he looks at you, directly, simply, "—we have a new crewmate."

The table turns to you.

You become aware of all of them, the full weight and warmth of them, all at once. Chopper's enormous eyes, Usopp's genuine smile, Franky's raised glass and broad grin, Brook's graceful bow from his seat, Jinbe's contained and solid approval.

Robin's warm gaze, contrasting Zoro's steady, almost steely gaze, Nami's particular smile, Sanji beside you with his expression doing something complicated and sincere, and Luffy at the head of it all, looking at you like you're something the world has been saving up to give him.

"To the artist," Luffy says, "who walked into trouble for strangers and then let us drag her onto a ship and across the ocean." He pauses, and the pause has something in it — a weight, a current beneath the lightness, something that doesn't match the casual delivery. "You're ours now."

Two words, simple and said with a smile, in the voice of a toast, at a dinner table with lanterns and the ocean and good food and people who are laughing.

You're ours now.

The crew cheers; genuinely, glasses raised, Chopper nearly spilling his while Brook moved to play a cheerful flourish.

And you smile, and lift your glass, and drink, and tell yourself the slight catch in your breath is just the emotion of the moment. The genuine, uncomplicated emotion of being welcomed, of being celebrated, of sitting at a table full of people who chose you and are glad they did.

That's all it is.

And it is, mostly. That's mostly what it is.

But underneath the warmth of it, underneath the lantern light and the ocean sound and the beautiful food and the people who have become, astonishingly quickly, very important to you — underneath all of it, two words sit, warm and certain and not quite letting go.

Theirs now.

Not a question.

Just a fact, spoken plainly, by a man who says things that are true.

You look at Luffy across the table. He's already sitting back down and already reaching for food. Already Luffy again, bright and uncomplicated with his grin restored, asking Sanji if there's more of the thing with the sauce.

He doesn't look at you like he said something significant.

He looks like a captain at his table, with his crew, at the end of a good day.

You pick up your fork and take a bite, the conversation comes back up around you like a tide, warm and inevitable, and you let it take you.

Sanji's hand finds yours under the table, just a touch, the pressure of his fingers, and then gone. Robin says something that makes you laugh while Chopper steals something from your plate and pretends he didn't.

The island sits warm behind you, and ahead, somewhere past the dark water and the waiting horizon, the next one is already there. Already real and holding whatever comes next.

a/n: struggled with this at first cause they felt very disconnected and i just dind't know how i wanted to string them together, so i said fuck it and we'll do a compilation instead to round out the honeymoon arc!

thank you all for your patience and for your love and support! we are now moving onto the next longer arc: looking glass arc

things have been great with the straw hat pirates. but the deeper your romantic connections get, relationships get with tense and fractures start showing

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! i love you very much, here’s a kiss from me to you 😘

dc masterlist | anime masterlist. | tip jar

taglist: @katbug27 @uniquecutie-puffs @savagenctzen @flow33didontsmoke @mybones537 @fangirlingbookworm1 @jellyjamheadobb

The night on the Sunny was quiet..the kind of quiet where the sea hummed and the lanterns glowed soft gold..Most of the crew was already asleep so the usual chaos has mellowed out.

You sat on the railing with your tail curled around your legs..scales catching the moonlight like scattered gemstones.

You heard footsteps behind you... you didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Sanji found you instantly..He always did..he knew you liked watching the water.

“Ah..my beautiful dragon princess,” he said, stepping onto the deck with a tray of warm tea.

“Keeping watch I see?”

You rolled your eyes but you can't help but feel your cheeks warm up..Sanji always had that effect on you...on everyone actually.

“Sanji, I’m not a princess.”

He set the tray beside you..leaning on the railing with that soft, adoring smile he only ever used around you..He's so charming...

“Of course you are,” he said.

“Every prince needs a princess.” You raised a brow with a playful smile..

“And you’re the prince?”

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart..so dramatic..

“Obviously.”

You snorted. “Pretty sure in fairy tales..the prince slays the dragon.”

Sanji froze..you can actually see him replaying the words in his head..Then he stepped closer gently cupping your cheek.

“Then those fairy tales are stupid,” he said completely serious.

“Why would I ever slay the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen?”

Your breath caught...Sanji’s thumb brushed over a scale near your jaw, tracing it like it was something precious.

A habit he started once you two got close..

“I’d rather protect you,” he murmured. “Or cook for you. Or… just be near you.”

You looked away.. unable to keep a smile off your face and you can't let him know your flustered. “You’re too much.”

He smiled. “Only for you.”

Later, you stretched your wing..a soft movement but strong enough to rustle the air. Sanji nearly lost his balance and he was glad he was holding the railing..

“wow..” he whispered. “You’re breathtaking.. My Love.”

You blinked. “They’re just wings.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, eyes wide with awe..like you were genuinely the most beautiful thing he's ever seen..

“They’re yours.” You felt heat rise under your scales.

He grinned, leaning in. “Careful, princess. If you keep looking at me like that..I might think you’re trying to enchant me.”

You scrunch your nose playfully and flicked your tail at him.

“You’re already enchanted.” You say with a smug grin..

He gasped dramatically. “She admits it!”

You shoved him lightly, but he only laughed.. his laugh is so contagious you can't help but chuckle.

A wave rocked the ship, and you steadied yourself with your claws.

Sanji immediately reached for you.

“Careful,” he said, voice soft but you can hear the worry in his tone.

“I can’t have my dragon getting hurt.”

You raised a brow. “I’m the one who’s supposed to protect you.”

He shook his head.

“Not tonight. Tonight I’m the prince.”

You smirked and decided to play along “And what does the prince want?”

Sanji stepped closer..brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just this,” he whispered.

He kissed your forehead..gentle, like you were something sacred.

Your wings fluttered without your permission.. you didn't even have a moment to realize what happened before you saw Sanji’s eyes widened..

“Oh… that was cute.”

You covered your face embarrassed “Sanji-!” He laughed softly pulling your hands away.

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he murmured.

“I love every part of you. Scales, claws, wings… all of it.”Your heart melted..

You leaned against him, tail curling around his leg. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“Y’know,” you said quietly,

“in fairy tales, the prince and the dragon never end up together.”

Sanji pressed a kiss to your temple.“Then we’ll write our own story.”

You smiled..resting your head on his shoulder enjoying the moment.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I like that better.”

Sanji held you tighter...warmth radiating from him like a promise.

“My dragon,” he murmured. “My princess.”

All you wanted was to escape the stifling monotony of this rundown, bumfuck-nowhere town. Where time seemed to crawl and every day bled into the next. There was nothing to do except drink cheap beer in collapsing barns with the people your age you could tolerate—which, frankly, wasn’t many. Your graduating class had barely scraped together two hundred students, and most of them were already neck-deep in their great-grandparents’ conservative, redneck ideologies, content to stay trapped in the same traditional, endless loop you were desperate to escape.

Entertainment options were laughably slim, unless you counted gossiping at the diner or staring at the peeling wallpaper of your living room. The highlight of the week was usually a herd of cattle escaping or a barn dance, where everyone pretended their lives weren’t as dull as dishwater.

It was no wonder that generations before had filled their houses to the brim with children. After all, raising a family gave them something to do, a purpose to cling to in the otherwise monotonous grind of small-town life. And maybe, just maybe, it helped fill the silence that crept in at night, the kind that even wolf songs couldn’t drown out.

It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At night, the air hummed with the songs of frogs and crickets, a sound that felt almost sacred. The stars lit up the sky in a way that was impossible to see from the city, their light twinkling like scattered diamonds. Fireflies blinked alongside them, tiny, fleeting beacons in the dark. Those moments, rare and quiet, made this place almost bearable.

Almost.

But Christ on a cross, when the sun rose, it brought the same crushing realization: there was nothing for you here. Nothing except Sunday mornings at church, where people whispered behind hymnals and dissected the sins of their neighbors, the same people they'd smile brightly at as they prayed for blessings to come to them. At least they handed out free donuts. Small mercies, you thought bitterly, kicking at a loose pebble on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against your spine. The highway stretched ahead in an unbroken line, a mirage shimmering in the distance, promising freedom just out of reach. All you needed was someone to pull over, just one car willing to take you somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.

You even went so far as to wear the most revealing clothes you could find, not that your wardrobe had much to offer in that department. A perverted driver was still a driver, and at this point, you were desperate. You’d taken scissors to an old shirt, hacking it into a crop top that bared your midriff. The fabric was frayed and uneven, but it did the job. Your shorts were another matter entirely, uncomfortably tight and clearly too small, leftovers from when you were a kid. The waistband dug into your skin, and you had to keep tugging them down to avoid cutting off circulation.

God forbid any girl showed an ounce of skin in this town. The stares you got on your way out were enough to make you want to sprint out, but you were banking on that very same scrutiny to catch the attention of a passing car. Modesty might have been the golden rule here, but you weren’t above breaking it if it got you out of this dead-end stretch of nowhere.

You felt ridiculous, humiliated even, but the thought of staying here was far worse than enduring the leering eyes of some old man. You were used to that already. Men in this town had a way of looking at you like you were an object on a shelf they might pick up, inspect, and set back down when they were done. You’d learned to ignore it, to shrug off the uncomfortable heat of their stares and the muttered comments you pretended not to hear.

This was just more of the same, except now you were using it to your advantage. If showing a little skin meant one of those creeps would stop and offer you a ride out of this godforsaken town, then so be it. Dignity wasn’t exactly high on your list of priorities right now—freedom was.

If only one of these fuckers would actually stop. You’d been standing here long enough to feel the sunburn creeping across your shoulders, sweat pooling at the small of your back. You threw your arm out every time, trying to look as pitiful, or enticing, as possible, but all you got in return were waves of hot air as they sped by.

Was it just your town where men stared at women like predators? Or was that just how men were everywhere? You had no way of knowing. Your entire life had been spent here, in this suffocating bubble of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Sometimes you wondered if the rest of the world was different, or if the same lecherous glances and whispered judgments waited for you on the other side of this horizon.

Still, staying here wasn’t an option. Even if the grass wasn’t greener anywhere else, at least it would be different grass. And different was all you were asking for.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the thunderous roar of an engine, deep and rumbling, shaking the stillness of the road. A semi. Your heart leapt, both with hope and a twinge of unease. You’d heard the stories, truck drivers were lonely old men who’d fuck anything with a heartbeat, and even that was a stretch. The thought made your stomach twist, but desperation outweighed caution.

Throwing your arm out again, thumb raised high, you focused on the massive vehicle barreling toward you. The sheer size of it was almost intimidating, the largest thing you’d seen on the road. Its grill gleamed in the sunlight like a steel beast, and you could already hear the hiss of brakes as it began to slow down.

This was it. Maybe luck was finally on your side—or maybe you were about to make the worst mistake of your life. Either way, it wasn’t like you had much to lose.

The semi groaned to a stop a few yards ahead of you, its engine idling. The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a man, an old man, just as you’d expected.

His hair was almost completely gray, though uneven splotches of the lighter color dotted his scruffy beard like it couldn’t decide whether to age gracefully or not.

The glare of the sun bounced off the truck, making it hard to get a clear look at him, but you could tell enough. He was much larger than you, his frame broad and solid like he’d spent his life lifting things far heavier than the backpack you hauled. His hair had a slight curl to it, messy and unkempt, like he hadn’t seen a comb in days.

He tilted his head toward the passenger side, gesturing with his chin as he spoke. His voice was deep, slow, and unmistakably southern.

"Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You need a ride or what?"

There wasn’t much kindness in his tone, but there wasn’t any malice, either. Just a bluntness that matched the heat of the day. Your hesitation lingered for a moment before you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You all but scaled up the side of the truck, your legs shaky from a mix of exhaustion and the strain of hauling yourself up. The heat of the day clung to you, making every movement feel heavier than it should have. By the time you managed to get one foot inside, your muscles were screaming in protest.

The older man was already back in his seat, one wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, the sound wet and unmannered as he watched you crawl in with a measured gaze. His eyes flickered up and down your figure, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. You swore you saw his hand shift subtly, adjusting himself as a low groan escaped your lips from the effort.

You settled into the passenger seat, the cracked leather sticking to your bare thighs. His stare lingered for a moment too long at the way they expanded before he finally spit into an old plastic bottle by his side.

“Where ya headin’, sweetheart?” he drawled, his lips curling into a half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Now that the sun was no longer blinding you, you could finally get a good look at him. To your surprise, he wasn’t all that bad-looking. In fact, he was quite handsome in a rugged, weathered sort of way. His deep chocolate-brown eyes had a sad look to them, like they had seen more than they cared to share. His nose was prominent, giving his face a bold, defined structure that worked with the lines etched into his skin. Those wrinkles, instead of detracting from his appearance like you'd expect them too, seemed to enhance his features.

Your eyes flicked to his hands resting on the wheel. They were large, rough-looking, the scarred, calloused kind of hands that did hard labor. An old, scratched watch clung to his wrist, the leather strap worn and glass cracked, but still functional.

Practical, like him, you figured.

Despite the circumstances, you found yourself momentarily distracted by his appearance.

“Well?” he asked again, the smirk on his face still lingering as he spit tobacco into his bottle. “Where ya headed?”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here,” you muttered, your voice low but firm.

He chuckled at that, a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cab. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near here for a good long while. Buckle up, sweetheart.”

You slid your backpack off your shoulders, letting it rest on your lap as your fingers found the charms hanging from the zippers. You twisted them absentmindedly, trying to occupy your mind and ignore the creeping weight of his gaze. The truck didn't move. Confused, you glanced at the gear shift, expecting to see his hand on it. Instead, his hand rested on his thigh, his fingers tapping lazily against his jeans.

Looking up, you caught him staring at you again, his dark eyes locked on yours for a moment before shifting downward. He sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was deciding what to do next. Without saying a word, he leaned toward you.

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, his face so close you could almost feel the faint stubble on his jaw and the silver strands in his hair. His arm brushed your shoulder as he reached for your seatbelt.

"Seatbelt's stuck," he muttered, though you hadn't even tried to buckle it yourself. His large hands gripped the strap and gave it a few tugs, his breath fanning across your cheek as he grunted, the plastic clicked before the webbing slid free and he pulled it across your chest.

The motion seemed smooth at first, but you stiffened when his knuckles grazed the curve of your breast. He didn't pause or acknowledge it. His gaze wasn't on the seatbelt or even his hands, it was fixed lower, right where the strap pressed against your chest. His eyes lingered there shamelessly.

He adjusted the strap, tugging it tighter against your chest, his fingers brushing over the swell more than once. The way he moved was deliberate, too slow to be casual, like he was testing how far he could push before you said something.

It didn't feel accidental, but it wasn't obvious enough for you to call him out on it, either. Your throat tightened, and you froze, unsure whether to flinch or let him finish.

“There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as he clicked the belt into place. For a moment, he didn’t move, his face lingering close enough for you to see the faint lines around his eyes and the uneven streaks of gray in his beard. Then, without a word, he leaned back into his seat with a grunt, as though the small task had been a chore.

His hand moved to the gear shift, and the truck rumbled forward, pulling onto the road with a jolt. “Can’t have you flyin’ out the windshield,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You didn’t respond, your heart still racing from the unnecessary closeness. Staring out the window, you gripped the straps of your backpack tightly, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his hands, unease prickling along your skin.

Joel glanced at the cracked dashboard clock, tapping it lightly with his knuckle as if that would somehow make the time change. "We’ll probably hit a truck stop in a few hours," he said, his voice breaking the long silence in the cab.

He finally broke the silence with a grunt and a glance at the dashboard. “’Bout two ‘til we hit the next one,” he said, shifting in his seat and rolling his neck like it ached. “Gonna pull in there, grab some food. Might get a room if the lot ain’t full.”

You didn’t look at him, just nodded a little, eyes fixed on the streak of pavement disappearing beneath the truck. “Okay.”

He glanced at you then, like he was waiting for more. When you didn’t say anything, he added, “They got showers too, y’know. Clean ones. Not five-star or nothin’, but they get the job done.”

“Cool,” you murmured, trying to sound neutral, like you weren’t clocking every word.

Then he smirked a little—just a flicker, barely there, but you caught it. “Don’t worry, you can have your own bed,” he said, voice low, tone meant to be reassuring but sitting wrong in your gut. “Unless, uh... you’d rather save a few bucks.”

You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “I’ve got cash,” you said, flatly.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joel said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to your chest again, not even subtle about it this time. “Just jokin’ around.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

He scratched his beard, shifting in his seat again. “You’re real quiet,” he said after a moment. “Kinda figured a girl like you’d be more talkative.”

“A girl like me?” you asked, without looking at him.

“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone casual as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “C’mon you ain't exactly dressed for church, honey.” He turned to you with a grin.

You rolled your eyes before you forced yourself to focus on the landscape outside, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. But even as you tried to tune him out, you could feel his gaze darting toward you. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge—quick, almost imperceptible glances at your legs, your chest, the curve of your neck.

Every time you caught him, he shifted slightly, like he hadn’t been looking at all. His fingers rubbed idly against his thigh, the movement subtle but deliberate.

“Don’t get too quiet on me now,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. “A guy can only handle so much quiet before he starts gettin’ lonely.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just tired,” you muttered, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.

“Tired, huh?” Joel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his seat, one hand lazily adjusting his belt. “Bet you’ve had a long day, stickin’ that pretty thumb out on the highway. Lucky for you I came along. Not everyone out here’s as friendly as me.”

The way he said “friendly” made your stomach churn. You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your backpack as an excuse to look away. “Yeah,” you said flatly, unsure of what else to say.

He chuckled again, a deep, gravelly sound that filled the cab. “You know,” he started, his tone turning thoughtful, “truck stops ain’t so bad. Some of ’em even got little diners... Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even find a little entertainment.”

You glanced at him sharply, but he kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth, damn religious upbringings, you forced yourself to be polite and dryly humor his conversation. “What kind of entertainment?”

Joel shrugged, his fingers still idly tapping his thigh. “Depends on the stop. Some got TVs, little gift shops... and sometimes, you meet interestin’ people. Y’know, folks passin’ through, lookin’ for a little... company.”

Your pulse quickened, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said quickly.

His grin widened, and he let out another low chuckle. “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.”

You turned back to the window, your heart pounding as the shadows outside grew longer. The truck rumbled on, the uneasy tension between you thickening with every mile.

The truck’s turn signal clicked lazily, a rhythmic tick that cut through the hum of the engine as Joel guided the semi off the highway and into the glow of the truck stop.

The lights hit first, flickering fluorescents mounted on leaning poles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The parking lot was littered with rigs and pickups, a few scattered sedans, and the occasional figure ducking in and out of the convenience store’s heavy glass doors. Beyond that, a rundown diner and a flickering neon sign that buzzed louder than it glowed. It wasn’t much, two diesel pumps, a few bent metal benches out front, and a crooked billboard advertising pie that probably hadn’t been served fresh since the Reagan administration, and behind it, the shape of a small roadside motel slumped under a sagging roofline.

Joel shifted the truck into park with a heavy hand and let out a grunt, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked. His faded shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of his stomach, leathery and scarred. He caught you looking, not at that, exactly, just observing the place, but he smirked like you’d been staring.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Cozy little stopover.”

You looked out at the rows of trucks and diesel pumps, trying not to fidget. The stillness inside the cab after the engine died was sudden, as if the noise from the it had been cushioning something you didn’t want to feel.

You said nothing, unbuckling your seatbelt with a quick snap and reaching for your backpack, your fingers finding those familiar charms again. You rolled one between your thumb and forefinger, grounding yourself. The tension in your chest hadn’t left since you climbed into the truck. If anything, it’d only settled deeper.

Joel opened his door and climbed out with a grunt. “Food’s better than it looks,” he said over the roar of the diesel engine cooling off. “Diner’s got burgers, eggs, hash. All the heart-attack bullshit you could ever want.”

You followed after a beat, the door heavier than you expected. He waited for you at the base of the steps, one hand resting on the open door like he was holding it open for a date. You stepped down, trying not to flinch as his eyes moved with you, tracking every inch.

You stared past him at the diner, its windows fogged and glowing yellow under too-dim lights. A man smoked on a bench by the door. He looked tired. Everyone here did.

Joel jerked his chin toward the motel attached to the back of the lot. “Gonna check if they got any rooms left,” he said, spitting a wad of his chewing tobacco into the dirt. “You hungry, or what?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice flatter than you intended. “Starving.”

He grinned at that, like it pleased him. “Go on then, I'll meet'cha.”

Inside, the diner smelled like grease and bleach, two things that didn’t mix well. The waitress behind the counter didn’t look up when you entered, too focused on a crossword puzzle. Joel slid into a booth a few minutes after you had, patting the cracked vinyl across from him.

The seat felt sticky. He leaned back, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest like he owned the place, the other already reaching for a menu he clearly didn’t need.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at you. “Order whatever. I’ll cover it.”

You eyed him, unsure if it was kindness or another invisible string. He caught your look and smirked.

“C’mon. Not tryna poison you. Just don’t like eatin’ alone.”

You nodded slowly, glancing down at the menu as he watched you over the top of his.

Joel leaned back in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. One arm sprawled across the top, the other cradling his plastic cup of water. He let out a long sigh, an exaggerated exhale, like he was trying to be noticed.

“Been on the road five weeks straight,” he muttered, glancing out the window like he might spot someone he used to know. “Start talkin’ to myself if I don’t get some damn conversation.”

You looked up, cautious. He smiled, but it was thin. Forced.

“Life gets quiet when you get to my age. Too damn quiet, sometimes,” he said, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. “Wife gone. Kids don’t call. Truck’s about the only thing still wants me 'round.”

He chuckled softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. More like he expected a certain reaction and didn’t care if it was genuine.

“That’s why I don’t mind pickin’ up company when I can,” he added, taking a sip and eyeing you over the rim. “Makes the road feel less... long.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded faintly. He didn’t seem to care—he’d already settled into his little performance.

“Not askin’ for much,” Joel went on, looking down at his calloused hands. “Just someone to talk to. Hearin’ a pretty voice now and again reminds me I’m still 'round, y’know?”

His eyes flicked to your mouth when he said it.

“Hell, you don’t even gotta talk if you don’t want, face's pretty 'nough on its own,” he added with a little grin, eyes crinkling like he was doing you a favor. “I’ll just ramble on till I lose my voice. You can pretend I ain’t even here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you want someone to listen to you talk till your mouth hurts.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Alright, fair,” he said, scratching at his beard. “I like a little attention. Guilty as charged.”

The waitress came over, tired eyes scanning the table. Joel ordered without looking at the menu—“bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, and a Coke,” before nodding at you to go ahead.

As you gave your order, you could feel his gaze on your face, lingering just a tad too long on your lips when you spoke. When the waitress walked off, Joel leaned back again with a grunt.

“Bet you think I’m some sad old bastard,” he said, smirking.

You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t seem all that sad.”

He laughed again, low and knowing. “Don’t gotta be sad to be lonely, darlin’.”

He said it so easily, like it was the kind of thing he’d said a hundred times before. Like it worked on someone, once.

There was something off about the way he spoke—too rehearsed, maybe. Like he’d said this all before. The “poor old man” routine. Alone on the road, no family, no one to talk to. It felt... thin.

Still, something about it tugged at you.

Maybe it was the way he sighed after every sentence, like he didn’t expect you to care. Maybe it was the worn in look behind his eyes.

You glanced down at your lap, your fingers twisting the zipper of your backpack until it bit into your skin.

You knew better. You really did. People didn’t get like this for no reason. Men didn’t hand out kindness for free. But even as your gut whispered caution, another part of you, smaller, quieter, felt bad for him.

He wasn’t pushing anything. Not yet. And you were tired. Not just from standing on the side of the road, but from months of going nowhere, of waiting for someone, anyone, to see you.

Joel caught your eye again, that half-smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to lay it on thick,” he said, almost sheepish now. “Guess I don’t talk to people much these days. Gettin' rusty.”

You tried to smile, but it came out just as performative as his. “It’s fine. I get it.”

He tapped a finger against his glass, his tone softening. “You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

You hesitated. “Not really. Just… done with where I came from.”

Joel nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ out. Some places don’t give you much reason to stay.”

His voice was quieter now, less performative. For a second, it felt more real. Or maybe you just wanted it to.

You studied him for a beat longer—his hands, his eyes, the worn creases in his skin. You could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers pulling your seatbelt earlier, still see the way his gaze had lingered a second too long.

But right now, he looked tired. Lonely. And something in you, despite everything, softened just a little.

“I appreciate the ride,” you said quietly. “Really.”

Joel looked at you for a second, then nodded once and leaned back again. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Like I said, road gets real damn quiet.”

You both fell into silence after that, the kind that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

He’d tried to make small talk over greasy plates and chipped mugs of diner coffee—asked about your favorite music, your family, whether you had a boyfriend “waitin’ around somewhere.” He framed it as harmless banter, chuckling over his fries, talking with his mouth half full like it wasn’t meant to mean anything.

You mostly nodded, gave short answers. Your appetite had all but vanished the longer his eyes lingered on you.

They didn’t wander constantly, Joel wasn’t that obvious. But every so often, as you cut into your food or brushed hair out of your face, you’d catch him watching you instead of eating. His gaze would always drop quickly, back to his plate or the tabletop, but the silence between those glances felt thicker each time.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, overthinking.

But by the time he paid the bill and motioned for you to follow him outside, your stomach had twisted into something tight and uneasy.

The air had cooled a little with the setting sun. Crickets had started their nightly hum, and the truck lot buzzed quietly with the sound of engines cooling and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the diner. But your ears were filled with the sound of your own footsteps following Joel’s.

He led you past the edge of the lot, toward a squat, single-story row of motel rooms behind the diner. Faded numbers were bolted onto each door, and the porch lights above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to bother staying lit.

Joel stopped in front of one, jingling a key in his hand. “Only had one left,” he said, turning the knob. “Told the guy it’s just for a few hours’ shut-eye. Not like I’m settlin’ in.”

Your heart skipped. Just one?

The room door creaked open. Joel stepped inside first, tossing the key on the nightstand and flipping on the light. A yellow glow filled the room, bouncing off stained wallpaper and a twin bed with a faded comforter. The A/C unit in the window rattled weakly.

The moment you stepped into the room, something felt different.

Not in the air itself, the motel room still smelled like bleach and dust, but Joel’s presence had changed.

He didn’t say much after unlocking the door. Just let it swing open, stepped inside like he owned the place, and gave the room a lazy once-over. Gone was the exaggerated sighing, the talk of loneliness, the half-hearted chuckles meant to make you feel bad for him. Now he moved slower, more comfortably, like someone who’d settled into something.

You weren’t sure what.

He let the door close behind you with a click that made your pulse hitch. He didn’t bolt it, he didn’t need to. The message was already clear.

Joel walked over to the table near the bed and dropped the room key with a soft clink. His hand hovered for a second, then he sat in the chair near the window, stretching out with a tired grunt. One arm slung over the backrest like he was getting ready to stay awhile.

“Not bad,” he muttered, adjusting the waistband of his jeans before running a hand through his graying hair. “Could be worse.”

You didn’t answer. You were still standing near the door, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.

Joel’s eyes flicked up to you. Slower now. Less polite. Like he didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.

"You can sit, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t gonna bite.”

He grinned at his own joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were darker now. Not cold, just… sure. Like whatever this was, it was already decided in his head.

You moved slowly, choosing the edge of the bed farthest from him—you wished the separate beds calmed your nerves, they didn't. The springs creaked as you sat, and the sound felt too loud. You kept your backpack in your lap, your hands gripping the strap.

Joel let his gaze linger for a moment longer, then leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Y’know, most folks would be grateful by now,” he said idly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Free ride, free food, place to rest. Ain’t a bad deal.”

Your spine stiffened slightly. There was no edge in his voice, no threat. But there was something underneath it. Something that made your stomach coil.

“I am grateful,” you said carefully.

“Mm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “You’re just real quiet is all. Hard to read.”

You didn’t reply.

Joel scratched at his jaw. “Guess it’s just been a while since I had company.” He looked at you again, head tilted, lips just barely curved. “It’s nice. Real nice. You're nice.”

You felt your shoulders tense. He wasn’t doing anything, not really, but you could feel it building. The shift. The subtle way he took up more space now, like just getting you through that door had changed everything.

Joel stood up, stretching again with a low groan, and walked toward the mini fridge. He bent to open it, empty, but lingered there a second longer than needed. When he straightened, he looked at you again. Still that same expression. Casual. Relaxed. Like this was just the natural next step in whatever he thought was happening here.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks,” he said, voice lighter now, maybe even cheerful. “You want soda, water, somethin’ stronger?”

You blinked. “Coke’s fine.”

He nodded, already halfway to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, then turned back.

“You lock that behind me if it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I’ll be back in five. Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”

He winked. Not playful. Not mean. Just… like a joke he thought you were in on, even if you didn’t know the punchline yet.

Then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.

The silence returned.

You sat still, backpack clutched to your chest, heart pounding a little faster than before. You weren’t sure what Joel thought this was. But for the first time, you were sure of one thing:

He thought he was owed something.

You weren’t sure why you stayed.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the weight of your backpack digging into your spine for hours that made you too tired to run again. Maybe it was something worse, something harder to admit. That small, scared voice that told you: This is what you asked for, isn’t it? A ride. A room. A way out.

You told yourself it was fine.

But when Joel came back a few agonizing minutes later, holding a single room-temperature soda like it was some kind of gift, that thin illusion started to crack.

"Vending machine’s shot to hell," he said, tossing it onto the end of the bed like he expected you to jump at it. “Still good, though. S'just warm.”

You nodded, reaching to take a grab the bottle. You tried not to acknowledge the way your heart sped up as you leaned closer to him, your hand shaking.

Joel didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He kicked off his boots, grunted as he lowered himself into the creaking chair near the TV, and grabbed the remote from the armrest.

The television flashed on, its speakers crackling as static fizzled into some old cable rerun. The volume was too loud for the tiny room, but Joel didn’t adjust it. He just leaned back and settled in, letting the laugh track fill the silence like white noise drowning out your thoughts.

You nerves were so shot, you hadn’t noticed the bottle hadn't hissed when you twisted the cap.

When your leg started to shake it was just a tremor at first, barely noticeable. But it spread, up your thigh, into your stomach, into your chest. Your heart fluttered under your ribs, fluttered wrong. Your throat was too dry. The lights were too yellow. The TV too loud. His breathing, even and steady from across the room, was the only rhythm that didn't match your panic.

You stood quickly, too quickly.

“Bathroom,” you muttered, grabbing your bag without really knowing why. Just needing it close.

Joel gave a vague nod, his eyes barely lifting from the screen. “Take your time.”

The bathroom was even smaller than you expected. Dim light. Cracked tile. A fan in the ceiling that buzzed faintly behind the walls. You closed the door and leaned against it, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.

Your reflection stared back at you, paler than before. Eyes wide. Lips dry.

You didn’t even notice you were crying until the first drop hit the sink.

You weren’t scared, not exactly. But something inside you was twisting tight, something old and instinctive that didn’t care about politeness or gratitude or second chances. Something that whispered, Leave. Now.

You splashed water on your face. Once. Twice. The cold shocked your nerves, grounding you just a little, enough to breathe. But your hand trembled as you reached for the towel, and you had to brace yourself before you looked in the mirror again.

You stared at your own eyes for a long time.

You could still leave. You hadn’t unpacked. Your legs worked fine. The door wasn’t locked.

But outside that door, Joel waited. Not a stranger anymore. Not really. And that was somehow worse.

You dried your face, turned off the faucet, and in front the door of the bathroom for a beat, staring at the crack under it, the yellow-lit room shared the space of flickering blue light from the TV.

“You alright in there, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice warm again, sounding gentle despite how he'd had to hollar over the TV.

You took a breath. Then another. You told yourself you were overreacting.

People were weird, sure. Joel was… weird. But maybe that’s all it was. Maybe your nerves were shot from being on the road, from standing in the sun for hours, from not eating enough. You were tired. That made everything feel worse.

One night. Get some rest. Ditch him in the morning.

That was the plan. Simple. Safe.

You pushed open the door and stepped out into the dim light of the room again, trying to slide your expression back into something neutral. Something nice.

You gave him a polite, too-sweet smile in return, it was automatic, from that church-girl buried deep in your gut. You didn't owe him anything, but you still felt like you had to at least perform gratitude. Like that was part of the deal.

It was tight-lipped, polite, instinctual. The same smile you’d been trained to give since you were a kid, the smile that didnt reach your eyes, that said I’m fine, thank you, don’t worry about me.

He smiled back.

Not kindly. Not broadly. Just this thin, smug little thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He tried to play it off like nothing. Reached for the remote. Adjusted his posture. But it didn’t go unnoticed, not by you. Joel looked over at you from the chair, his arms resting behind his head now, relaxed.

You crossed the room, easing yourself onto the top of the bed. The blanket was old and dusty and reeked of stale detergent. Still, it beat the side of the highway. You opened the Coke and took a sip. Flat. Warm. Still, it gave your hands something to do.

On the TV, that same crusty sitcom was still going. Joel had turned the volume up since you'd gone. The laugh track punched through the tiny speakers like a drill to the temple. The jokes came rapid-fire—loud, overacted, dated.

You weren’t really listening until one of the characters—a middle-aged man with a gut and a mustache—joked about slipping a woman something to make her “act with less prudence.” The studio audience howled. His female co-star gave him a fake slap on the shoulder with an annoyed glare. The scene moved on.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even smile.

Joel did.

Not loud. Just a low huff of a chuckle, amused. Right in time with the laugh track. Like it had hit a nerve in him. The wrong nerve.

You stiffened. Your spine straightened just a little more. You didn’t look at him.

It was the type of joke that made men laugh in bars when they’d already had too much and weren’t watching their tone anymore.

Joel’s laughter stopped as quickly as it came. But when you risked a glance, you saw it, that same smug curl at the edge of his mouth, his tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say out loud.

You looked away.

It’s the show, you told yourself. It’s the show. He’s just laughing because it’s on.

But the hairs on your arms were standing up anyway.

You shifted around on the stiff mattress for what must’ve been the better part of an hour. The bed creaked with every movement, the scratchy comforter brushing against your skin like old sandpaper. You kept changing positions—legs folded under you, then stretched out, then pulled back in. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt settled.

You kept reaching for the bottle of Coke on the side table, fingers brushing it absentmindedly before pulling back. The ritual repeated over and over until finally, you just brought it into your lap. The half-full bottle had lost what little fizz it had, but you held onto it anyway. The weight of it in your hands was something solid, something to focus on. It gave your fingers something to do besides twist the hem of your shirt or pick at your skin.

Joel hadn’t said much. The flicker of the TV lit up his face in little bursts. Every so often, he’d glance over at you. Not long enough to say anything. Just enough to make your body flare up with heat as your blood rushed.

You tried to focus on the show, but your brain had gone fuzzy. Not foggy, exactly, but distant. Like your thoughts were moving through syrup. Your limbs felt a little heavy, your eyes dry.

The Coke sat in your lap like a small weight. When you went to take another sip, you hesitated, your hand lifting slower than you expected. The bottle felt heavier than before. Not by much. Just enough for you to notice.

You frowned a little, blinked once, then twice. Maybe it was exhaustion. Your nerves had been running hot all day, your body could just be crashing. That had to be it.

Still… something felt off. You gripped the bottle a little tighter.

Your head rolled slightly on your shoulders as you tried to blink the haze away. You gave a small shake, like maybe you could rattle the exhaustion out of your skull, but it clung to you—draped heavy over your limbs like a damp blanket.

You weren’t that tired.

At least, you hadn’t been.

You blinked again. The TV was still flickering, the show’s punchlines rolling out like clockwork. Joel chuckled along with the laugh track, low and content. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way he wanted it.

You didn’t look at him. You just focused on the bottle in your hands.

It wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it could be. Your fingers curled a little tighter around it as if that might tether you to the present. You told yourself again that you hadn’t eaten properly. That this was just your body protesting the long day. That the motel room was warm, and Joel’s TV was loud, and your senses were frayed.

But still… your skin was buzzing. Not panic, just static. An edge.

You reached for your phone without thinking, fingertips fumbling slightly with the zipper of your bag. You didn’t even know who you’d text if you needed help, but the need to do something was rising in your chest, your instincts growing louder, like background noise you could no longer ignore.

“Feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Joel asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You jumped slightly at his voice, your fingers freezing over your backpack. You glanced at him.

His eyes were still on the screen, but his smirk was back. Not wide, not obvious, just there. Subtle, like he was hiding something behind it and didn’t care enough to try hard.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel made a little humming sound, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back further in his chair, exhaling like a man pleased with how the day turned out.

You turned your eyes to the bathroom door again.

It wasn’t far. You could go in, close the door, lock it. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.

You planted your hands on the edge of the bed and pushed yourself up. Your legs didn’t respond the way you expected.

For a split second, it felt like they weren’t even attached. Your knees nearly gave out as you stood, a sharp, disconnected jolt rushing through your lower body like the numbness you get from sitting too long in one position, but worse. There was no familiar prickle of circulation returning, no tingling promise of sensation coming back. Just absence.

And something about that absence made your chest tighten.

You reached out, grabbing the wall for balance. The Coke bottle in your hand slipped from your fingers.

Behind you, Joel’s chuckle drifted lazily through the static of the television. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel thinner.

“You alright there?” he drawled, voice a little too casual. A little too slow.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just, stiff legs.”

Your voice sounded strange even to your own ears, it was muted, distant. You could feel his eyes on your back now, tracking your movement more attentively than before.

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t say anything else.

You pressed your hands against the rough motel wall, the chipped paint cool against your skin. Your legs felt weak beneath you, shaking softly, and you couldn’t seem to make them move.

Your breath came fast and shallow, chest tightening with each inhale. The vintage chair creaked faintly nearby, a reminder that Joel was still in the room, still watching.

You didn’t look over.

Your eyes darted to the flickering TV, its pale light casting long shadows on the cracked wallpaper. It buzzed softly, filling the silence with pointless noise.

Maybe not so pointless.

You could hear him settle out of his chair, the scrape of fabric on denim. Joel’s footsteps shuffled behind you, slow and deliberate.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth, and far too casual. Almost mocking. It didn't sound like a question.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your palm harder against the wall, willing the tremors in your legs to stop. But the more you willed it, the worse it felt, like your body was betraying you, leaving you trapped between fight or flight, but doing neither.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, biting your lip to keep from shaking or crying. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.

You wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.

But you stayed still.

You didn’t realize he was approaching again until the floor creaked just to your left. A soft sound, but close. Too close.

“Hey, c’mon now,” Joel said, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should lie back down.”

His hand reached out, palm warm and rough as it hovered near your arm. Not yet. The faux tenderness in his tone didn’t sit right with the look in his eyes. They were too alert, too interested.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice was hoarse and small. You hated how it sounded.

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re swayin’ a little.” His hand landed on your arm this time, solid and steady. But he didn’t grip.

That should have made it better. It didn’t.

It was the stillness in his hand that made your skin crawl, how his thumb pressed, then circled slowly, like he was mapping out your pulse.

“C’mon,” he said again, guiding you gently, not forcing, but not offering space to resist. “Just for a minute. You’ll feel better when ya do.”

When... not if.

You let yourself be led. Partly because your legs still felt unsteady. Partly because you didn’t know what would happen if you pulled away.

He walked you the few steps to the bed, hand never leaving your arm, and helped you sit. His other hand reached for your shoulder, too familiar now, the way it rested there a beat too long.

You flinched.

Joel paused, then gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Easy now. Ain’t tryin’ to scare you."

But when he leaned in to adjust the pillow behind you, his knuckles dragged against your collarbone. His other hand hovered lower on your side, not quite touching your hip—but close enough that the heat of it made you recoil inside.

“You’re all tense,” he murmured, gaze slipping down your frame like a slow leak. “Just breathe, alright? You’re safe.”

The worst part was how convincing his voice sounded.

But you knew better.

Your body knew better.

You sank down against the bed with a strange sort of heaviness, like your own limbs no longer belonged to you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, a dry, musty scent rising up from the sheets.

You tried to sit upright, to keep your spine straight, but your body leaned without permission, your muscles slackened under the weight of your own breath.

Joel didn’t go back to the chair.

You heard the soft groan of the mattress again, felt the subtle shift beside you before your eyes caught up. He sat on the edge of the bed now. Right next to you.

Not touching, but close.

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes trying to focus. Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought dragging through molasses.

“Why…” you started, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come.

Your tongue felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.

He smiled, small, faint. You might've miss it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking. Because watching him felt like the only thing tethering you now.

“You okay, sugar?” he asked again, quieter this time. Closer. He didn’t sound worried. Not really.

You tried to speak, but your words came out slurred, barely above a whisper. “M’fine…”

It took all your strength just to swallow the lump in your throat, even that felt like work. You could feel your pulse behind your eyes now, slow and sluggish.

Joel didn’t move away.

His arm rested across his lap, hand curled on his thigh. The same hand that had guided you here. The same hand that lingered too long.

His eyes weren’t on your face anymore.

You saw that.

You felt that.

Still, you couldn’t quite pull your body back. Couldn’t seem to make your limbs respond.

You were here. And so was he.

And something deep in your gut told you the space between you wouldn’t stay empty much longer.

Joel's calloused hands reached toward the strap of your bra that had peaked out from your shirt. He lifted it in his fingers almost carefully, letting it lead up to the top of your bra. Your mumbled incoherently at his touch. He shushed you softly.

He didn't speak anymore, he didnt need too. He brought his fingers back up to your collarbone before laying his palm across it, the strap caught between his fingers as he pushed it down your shoulder. His body leaned forward to press his lips to your collarbone. His beard was scruffy and sharp against your soft skin, like needles.

His lips were dry and cracked, the wetness from his saliva being the only softness. He pecked at the bone a few times before his mouth wrapped around it, sucking.

Your hands weakly moved to his shoulders, but his hands patiently wrapped around your wrists, pushing them to sit by your head. The bed dented down. Your writhed weakly. He continued sucking and nipping at the spot till a dark mark appeared.

The knot in your stomach churned as he licked over where he bit to soothe your skin, his beard felt like a hundred tiny needles digging into you. Red appeared around the purple. His thumbs pressed into your wrists, feeling your pulse as you whimpered. His mouth lifted for a moment, his breath hot on your irritated skin.

"Your hearts finally slowin' down sweetheart, ain't losin' ya am I?" He huffed with a humor only he had. His mouth wrapped around the mark again, his tounge tracing your collarbone as he hummed.

He hadn’t lied, your heart finally slowed, but the panic stayed lodged in your chest. Each beat hammered against your ribs, like it was trying to tear its way out and leave you behind. The thump in your chest spread your blood throughout your body, heat rising on your skin.

His hands weren’t tight on your wrists, his thumbs traced slow circles on your pulsepoints before sliding into your palms. His mouth kept defacing your shoulder. There was no violence in it, if anything, he almost seemed to be comforting you.

You couldn’t decide if that made it better, or worse, or if it changed anything at all.

Your knees dragged upward in another weak attempt to slip free, but your bones felt like wet cement, heavy and useless. You turned your head away with a thin whine, your body mustering what little control it had to spill tears that slid into your ears. Your chest heaved as you writhed.

Joel shushed you without cruelty, his hum low and pitying, the vibration running from his throat into your collarbone. His mouth scattered pecks over the marks fresh on your neck and shoulders before he propped himself on an elbow, still looming above you. One calloused hand smeared the tears across your right cheek while his lips caught the ones on the left—and you swore his tongue slipped out to taste the salt straight from your skin.

“Don’t cry, sugarpie… I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise. Didn’t mean to upset you none. I just get real lonely out on the road, is all.”

He looked and sounded so genuine, like he truly believed every word he spoke. His lips brushed your ear when he talked, his voice almost swallowed by the blare of the TV—and now you understood why it was so loud. Not that it mattered. The only sounds you could make were thin, mousey whines, easy to mistake for the creaks of the old bedframe or an actual mouse.

Your lips trembled as you turned your face from his hands, eyelids pressed tight. The only refuge you had was to pretend, if only for a moment, that none of this was real.

“Hey now… look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby.” His voice stayed soft, but there was an edge of annoyance beneath it.

When you didn’t obey, his hand closed around your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered. He tilted your head toward him, but your eyes stayed shut. He clicked his tongue, then used his other hand to peel one eyelid open. Your iris was barely a ring around your blown pupil, whatever he’d given you was already winding through your blood, sinking heavy into your bones.

He smiled softly. “There she is…” he whispered, letting your eyelid flutter shut as his hand slipped into your hair, fingers combing slow like he meant to soothe. “Pretty, pretty girl.”

His lips met your forced pout in a mockery of a kiss, his tongue brushing gently against them, coaxing for a response you never gave. When you didn't reciprocate, he nipped at your lips gently.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your eyes still screwed shut, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of his touch. His hand hovered at your shoulder, and he grinned at the weak tremors rippling through your body. Slowly, he let his fingertips trail down to your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts to trace the waistband, his blunt nail dragging a cruel line across your pelvis.

"It's okay, hun." He whispered as he slipped another finger into the waistband.

You felt his hand turn in your shorts, the pads of his fingers now touching you. You tensed but made no move to resist, not that you could. His hand slowly, painstakingly, moved deeper into your shorts. You quietly cried as his middle and pointer finger dragged across your clothed clit before it was quickly replaced by his palm, fingers down to your slit. Your heard a gravelly groan reach out of his throat.

"Fuck sweetie, you're soaking through your panties." He chuckled near the end of his words before exhaling heavily.

Your eyes wanted to shoot open, but only managed to lift with a furrowed brow. His eyes met yours, his bottom lip between his stained teeth. Confusion was painted on your features.

"Yeah baby, you're panties are fucking ruined." He huffed, his palm pressing onto your swollen clit.

A humiliating gasp was ripped from you as more tears fell from your eyes. No, no no no...

"Mhm, shit baby, see? Your body knows I'm not hurting ya, what was all that fuss about?"

The pads of his fingers brushed over your clothes slit, the wetness became more obvious as you heard a sickening squelch when he pressed them into your sopping hole over your panties.

"Ah... Joel.." you cried, your voice never felt smaller.

His hot breath fanned your face with a pant, "Yeah, baby, say my name."

You shook your head weakly, your eyes traveling down to where his hand disappeared into your shorts. You remembered you had hands as you tried to push his hand away. In your haze, you accidently pushed him closer, letting his palm rub harder into your clit.

You wanted to puke when your felt a shot of pleasure crack through you, you wanted to die when you felt your hips roll into his hand. Your voice cracked with a wordless 'No'.

Joel beamed, "You got such a needy pussy, baby... look at her, she wants so bad. She knows whats best for you... she just wanna feel good."

You grit your teeth as your hips rolled again, his hand meeting it with a circle of his own. Your nails dug into his forearm, but they barely made an indent. You felt his leg cross over yours as he hummed your thigh. His cock was hard in his jeans, the bulge large and visable despite your brain fog and the dark room.

His hand left your shorts for a moment, and you felt a wave of relief before you felt them fall straight to the button on them.

He unbuttoned them with one hand as he groaned, lifting himself to his knees. He grabbed at the waistband at both your hip bones and tore them down. You tried to cross your legs but one of his hands met your thigh and shoved it to the side, just long enough to get your shorts off.

He brought both hands to the back of your knees, dragging you down for his thighs to meet the back of yours. He spread you open and stared down like he was holding his fridge open, deciding what he wanted to feast on. He barely felt the tug of you trying to close them. In a last ditch effort you moved your hands to cover your crotch, and that's when you felt it.

You were completely soaked through, the wet spot making your white panties transparent. It was like something inside you broke at that moment. Your body had decided to completely betray you.

As if he noticed you resolve falter, he brought his hands to the side of your panties and ripped. One side, then the other. Throwing them across the room to land somewhere on the carpet. You bit into your hands as you stopped pulling away. Eyes distant but open, he would take it.

His hands lifted your shirt over your bra before he shoved that up too. It squeezed over the top of your breasts almost painfully.

"God bless you, baby... perfect fucking pussy," his hand slapped it as he leaned forward, "and perfect fucking tits."

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tounge circling it wildly as he sucked the nub between his teeth. Your body reacted how it wanted, and you could only whimper and whine pathetically. He rested above you on one forearm while his other hand met your leaking slit again. His thick middle finger dragged up and down it, your wetness coating the pad. He brought it to you clit, circling slowly before he flicked it.

He moaned around you nipple when you jumped with a cry. The more your body reacted the more he seemed to lose it. He switched to the other nipple, "Gotta give her some lovin' too." He chuckled.

The actions repeated for a few minutes you think, your perception of time got foggy with each circle, flick, and switch.

The vibration from his groans tickled your breast, making your back arch further into his mouth. He was almost fucking drooling, copious amounts of spit shined your chest like you'd been rubbed down in oil.

He abruptly moved down, his hand leaving to grip your hips, holding them down as he settled between your legs. He licked a long stripe across your slit, shaking his head side to side as the muscle circled your clit before he sunk it into your organ. His hands moved to your chest as he tounge fucked you, fast and unrelenting. He only lifted from you to spit on you pussy before he flattened his tounge across your entire slit and diving back in.

Every groan and moan from his vibrated against your clit and the inside of you. You felt breathless and violated. And when a knot formed in your stomach that you couldn't decipher at first due to the sinking dread that had settled there, it was too late.

With a broken cry, you threw your head back as your legs shook around his head. His voice raised over the tv for a moment with how loud he growled against your pussy.

He detached from you before appearing in front of your eyes and shoving his hot tounge down your throat. You grimaced as you tasted yourself, your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.

"Sweet as cherry pie, baby." He mumbled against your mouth. His tounge dragged along the inside of your mouth, just another hole to him. Along the ridges of the roof of your mouth to the back of your teeth.

He sucked on your tounge harshly before unlatching, raising back on his knees again with a hushed 'Fuck...' undoing his belt. The clink of metal echoed, as he stood. He didn't bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to release his raging cock.

He walked to the side of the bed, grabbing your arm and dragging you closer. His dick hung heavy as it twitched, face level with you. You closed your mouth tightly and turned your head, only to met with a gentle but forceful tap from the back of his hand. The same hand grabbed your jaw as he leaned down to meet your eyes.

"I'm only gonna say this once, you don't fucking bite. I don't wanna hurt you, sugar, but you bite my fucking dick and I'll knock your teeth out." He said it sternly with raised brows.

You only looked at him fearfully before he spoke again, "Do you understand?" You nodded.

He loosened his grip and brought his thumbs to the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. "Relax your throat, sweetheart. Be good for me, m'kay?"

What else could you do other then what you were told?

The tip leaked as he dragged it across your lips before he got an idea, backing up and manhandling you to lay with your head upside down on the edge. He returned to your lips, a couple heavy slaps of his cock landed on your cheek before he told you to stick your tounge out, and he slid into your warm waiting mouth.

He groaned as he moved till his balls touched your nose, stilling there for a moment as you suffocated. You whimpered around him as you brought your hands up, "Breath through your nose, sweetheart." He instructed.

He pulled out leaving just the tip in your mouth before he slowly bottomed out again. He didnt waste time changing the pace, his hips thrusted steadily. Drool dripped from your mouth as he fucked it, his heavy, twitching balls smacking your nose each time. He brought his hands to take your wrists, settling them on your stomach as he leaned forward so he could thrust harder. He panted and groaned, cursing occasionally inbetween.

One of his hands left your wrist to smack your pussy once before he lifted himself. Bringing one knee to the mattress, he stood as he thrusted downward into your throat. His hand enveloped it with a growl when he saw the shift inside of it. His eyes were locked on the bulge that appeared in your throat when he shoved it down.

His thrusts became sloppy as he got louder. He lean forward again, fully pounding your throat before hot seed filled it. You felt it hit your uvula in bursts, forcing you to cough and gag, your body desperately trying to suck in air through your filled neck. He stilled at the deepest point, his tip twitching to hit the back of your throat as you felt his balls tighten against your nose. He exhaled roughly before giving you one more slowly thrust, pulling out.

You gasped desperately, veins bulging in your face and neck. Your eyes were pink and your head was swimming due to it hanging upside down for so long. Spit and snot leaked down from your face along with his cum.

Kneeling next to you, he nuzzled your head with his own with soft shushing. "That's it, breath, honey... You did so good, took it so good. Made me feel so good, baby..." he muttered, kisses moving across your temple.

When your coughing subsided you breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, mumbling incoherently as your brain struggled to process. The fog lifted when you felt his hands around your ankles from the other side of the bed, dragging you to lay on it again. He crawled to join you before twisting you back around so your head was at the pillows.

Cries came more freely now as you saw his still hard cock scoot closer to your pussy. You head turned before narrowing in on a sheet of tablets sitting on the side table he'd been sitting at. Two blue pills missing.

Your throat burned as a weak cry tried to crawl out, but he'd abused it to the point of you loosing your voice. Pathetic squeaks falling from your mouth instead. You felt his cock slap against your pussy, it instinctively pulsed at the pressure. He pressed the tip to your clit, thrusting against it. Your back arched as your hips rolled with his, your brain was so fuzzy you didnt even register the noises spilling from your lips.

The stretch was sudden as he pushed into you. Your lips trembled around him as he slid inside easily. Your spit and already soaked his cock immeasurably, but the lube that leaked from you without permission added to it ease of which he came inside you without friction. You felt impossibly full when his hand came down to push on your lower stomach as he began working.

There was no build up, the speed was set from the jump as he hauled himself over you. His hips met yours with heavy thrusts, pounding into you without thought. The only time he let you breath was when he kneeled again, only to grab the back of your knees and shove them next to you head as he somehow fucked you harder. He felt no need to speak anymore, only occasion growls of how wet you were, which you hadn't needed verbal acknowledgement of. It was clear from the wet slaps that echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears as you laid limp and took it.

Your mouth hung open as noises continued to force themselves from your throat, you had been so gone that you didnt flinch when you spit into your mouth, your throat instantly tensing as you swallowed it. You had lost almost all feeling, your hearing muffled, you took no notice of the impending release.

"Fucking shit baby... pussys so fucking tight 'round me... you gonna cum again? Hmm? You love this fucking cock, you know you do. You're body knows you do."

It went in one ear and out the other, you were reduced to a whimpering hole.

You didnt react when he pulled out to flip you onto your stomach, shoving one knee hip while the other stayed straight. He laid atop your seemingly lifeless body as he shoved himself back in and quickly resumed his previous pace. The cupped smacking sound reverberated with his pounding, your voice now muffled by the pillows you faced.

You felt his weight as his chest met your back and he rutted into you. Your fingers twitched with a mix of exhaustion, pleasure, and anxiety. He swiped your hair from your shoulder as he sucked another mark onto you from behind. Your voice raised a pitch as he thrusts began sloppy again.

"You're gonna make me cum again, honey... fuck yeah that's it, you can take it, knew you could." You whimpered as he lifted your hips, shoving you onto him just as harshly as he was fucking you. But you tightend around him all the same.

"Come on, cum with me, baby! Want your pussy to clamp down and suck my cum right out of my cock... milk me fucking dry, baby... lemme fill up that sexy fucking pussy!"

A scream was at the back of your throat as your body jumped like you were electrocuted. It came out as a broken cry as you shook violently. He didn't stop even after your orgasm run its course, only fucked you faster. Your hips pulled away as you mindlessly scrambled away from his unrelenting ones, but you were still under the influence of his roofie, and he was still so much stronger.

And so for another agonizing few minutes you shook and writhed and cried till he bottomed out. Cumming deep inside your abused cunt. You felt the warmth fill you as his tip hit your cervix, it spread quickly down to your opening where it leaked down onto the bed. He let himself to thrust a handful more times as he drained his balls inside of you.

And then he stayed there, his hand lifting your hips to keep it from leaking out. But there was so much, it filled your entire cunt. You felt his hands reached and pinch your slit closed around his cock. His mouth came to your ear as he whispered.

"Gotta make it stick... make sure you get nice and full."

You have nothing left in you to protest, only tears slipping by. You're so fucking dirty, cum and spit and snot and tears and sweat. The blanket your sprawled on feels like got left out in the rain.

You feel his cock soften inside you of before he pulls out. Two fingers immediately replace it, stuffing the little that leaks out back into your brushed pussy. You begin to lose your senses, your body unable to force itself to fight awake anymore.

⌗ 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑

barcelona, spain — ryomen sukuna :: it was only supposed to be a vacation fling. You'd spend a few weeks in Spain, have fun, and go home. The problem is that every day with Sukuna makes leaving feel a little more impossible, and summer never lasts forever.

⌗ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓

rio de janeiro, brazil — toji :: caught in a sudden downpour, you're forced to share an umbrella with a stranger who looks far less thrilled about the arrangement than you are. Unfortunately for both of you, the walk home takes nearly an hour.

⌗ 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐈 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄

sydney, australia — sukuna :: every morning, the same infuriatingly attractive man beats you on your beach run by a few seconds. What starts as a silent rivalry quickly becomes an obsession neither of you is willing to admit.

⌗ 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀

marrakech, morocco — geto :: one wrong turn leaves you hopelessly lost in the winding streets of Marrakech. Fortunately, a local guide named Suguru offers to help you find your way back—though neither of you seems particularly eager for the walk to end.

⌗ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐔𝐒

istanbul, turkey — higuruma :: lost and exhausted after escaping your tour group, you stumble into a quiet tea shop overlooking the water. What begins as a conversation with a handsome lawyer working remotely turns into a summer routine neither of you expected to need.

⌗ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐌 28

lisbon, portugal — gojo :: every morning, you end up sharing the same crowded yellow tram with a blue-eyed stranger. Neither of you knows the other's name, yet before long you're saving seats, sharing coffees, and dreading the day one of you stops showing up.

⌗ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈

busan, south korea — sukuna :: after getting separated from your friends during a crowded beach festival, you're rescued by the last person you'd ever want help from: a cocky stranger with a sharp tongue and an even sharper smile. One night beneath fireworks changes everything.

⌗ 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋 #12

okinawa, japan — toji :: your summer vacation starts badly when the grumpy surfer next door keeps stealing your porch chair. The prank war that follows is supposed to prove how much you dislike him, but somewhere along the way, it becomes something else entirely.

⌗ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓

venice, italy — gojo :: when you arrive in Venice for a summer abroad program, the last person you expect to become part of your routine is the annoyingly charming stranger you keep running into on boats, bridges, and narrow alleyways. As your final day approaches, Satoru starts acting strangely—almost like he's counting down the days until you'll leave him behind.

⌗ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

bali, indonesia — geto :: After one disastrous year, you travel to Bali hoping to clear your head. Every morning, fresh flower offerings appear outside your villa, and every morning you wonder who keeps leaving them there—until you catch a quiet café owner in the act.

⌗ 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒

maldives — higuruma :: A post-breakup trip to the Maldives sounds perfect until you're accidentally paired with the same reserved man for nearly every excursion the resort offers. Neither of you wanted company, yet somehow Hiromi Higuruma becomes the person you spend every sunset searching for.

⌗ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍

new york city — gojo :: Every Friday afternoon, the same ridiculously handsome customer wanders into your bookstore asking for recommendations he never intends to read. What starts as harmless flirting slowly turns into the highlight of both your summers.

⌗ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

santorini, greece — geto :: When a pushy group of tourists refuses to leave you alone, you panic and claim the handsome stranger nearby is your boyfriend. Suguru plays along without hesitation—and for some reason, neither of you seems eager to stop pretending.

⌗ 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍

phuket, thailand — choso :: A sudden tropical storm traps you and a shy stranger inside a tiny convenience store with nowhere to go for hours. Between shared snacks and quiet conversations, what begins as bad luck quickly becomes your favorite memory of the entire trip.

fem reader ✦ vacation romance ✦ strangers to lovers ✦ summer flings ✦ holiday romance ✦ slow burn ✦ mutual pining ✦ emotional angst ✦ long-distance themes ✦ airport goodbyes ✦ temporary relationships ✦ happy endings ✦ bittersweet endings ✦ open endings ✦ kissing ✦ mentions of alcohol ✦ travel mishaps ✦ grief ✦ loneliness ✦ fear of commitment ✦ fear of abandonment ✦ emotional vulnerability ✦ suggestive content ✦ explicit content ✦ discussions of moving away ✦ separation themes ✦ happy reunions ✦

his pretty baby, a sweet young thing who believes the world starts and ends with yuuji. you melt his rough exterior as though it’s candle wax lit by a warming flame — tended to by careful hands that love their craft all too much. you’re curled amongst bed sheets that wrap around you the same way they drape amongst marble statues — a modern day work of art amongst old bones and ancient artefacts.

the old man, by age and not by physicality, takes a drag of his cigarette and tacks it between rows his perfect teeth — pushing back strands of silky pink hair that never seem to stray far from his eyes before he makes his way over to the bed.

“baby,” yuuji settles over you, straddling your stomach with his length hard against the supple rippling flesh. “spread yourself open for daddy.” he taps your inner thigh, then taps ash onto the blankets below.

“can’t, ‘m tired.”

“are we now? that can’t be…” he tuts, without malice, not scolding you. please, baby? let daddy do all the work.”

you’re tired because he’s pushed you. stretched your body until your skin is paper thin and he can see your heart pound for him in your chest. his tongue traced the outlines of your cunt for at least an hour before yuuji decided to let you cum. it’s been days since you left the bed too, the room smells like tobacco, ash and sex and the little hint of love you seem to have laced between every orgasm.

even still, sleepily, your thighs spread as though he’s taken a key to unlock something precious and the crown jewels reside inside. you’re coated in his signature, a pretty picture of his release webbed and dried over your mound that pulses around nothing — waiting to be filled to the brim.

“that’s my girl,” he soothes you with praise. “always so ready for me. so sweet for your man, huh?”

your head shakes amongst your plethora of pillows stained with invisible ink in the form of tears and drool. “not my man, my daddy.” you heave as you correct him, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths and breasts bouncing with the barrage of thrusts oncoming from yuuji. he pounds at your quivering hole until it froths with bubbly white around him, more and more spewing every time his meaty girth dips in and out of you.

at your candy dipped moans and dulcet words, yuuji’s pace builds like the spark he had once lost. in the same way a firework draws a lightening trail across the sky before it explodes — the sorcerer’s hips wind back slow, pull away from the source of heat ( your dripping cunt ) before punching into you, tip nestled against your g-spot with a brilliant explosion of ecstasy behind your eyes.

colour returns to his life when yuuji gets to be with you like this, when your lips part and he catches a glimpse of the saliva that ties your tongue to the roof of your mouth. when you shakily reach out to rake your fingers through his sweaty pink roots, when you blink up at him and bow into him and trust him to be the man that takes care of you. “just like that,” you sigh dreamily, doing your best to roll your hips up and meet his own rabidly rocking hips. “right there, keep fuckin’ me here, daddy. gonna cum like this again.”

his cock twitches within the depths of you, rippling walls welcoming him home and soaking him in your personal claim. the word, the honour of daddy on your lips is enough to drive yuuji on — to keep him going because he knows that there’s someone who needs him at the end of every day. he’s your daddy and you are his saviour — the thought makes him weak in the knees and dissolves his resolve until it’s nothing but crumbling wet sand.

“let me see it then, feel you cum around me like a good girl,” yuuji pants his promise to pleasure, nose nudging the sweaty side of your head. “be daddy’s good little girl one more time. all for me.”

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

Law had never been particularly fond of dreams. They were never kind to him. Faces of those he’d lost, those he failed to save, mistakes he couldn’t undo all haunted him at night. He was reluctant to sleep at all most days, only giving in after you or Bepo had forced him to lay down and exhaustion overpowered him. Once he would have been grateful for pleasant dreams or a full night’s sleep. 

Law! Yes, Law!

Your voice haunted him, the image of you on top of him. The way you so sweetly called for him, the way you clenched around him, the way your chest bounced with every movement. God, it was intoxicating. He would give anything to hear you call his name like that again. Anything except risk your friendship, one of the only things that kept him grounded in life. When he woke up from the first dream, a stain on his pants and shame in his heart, he swore he would never let something like this affect your relationship.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Always something different. Sometimes you were on top of him, sometimes below him, sometimes on your knees, sometimes bent over his desk. Every time your beautiful eyes blinked at him, filled with tears of pleasure, your sweet voice keening for him to give you more, more, more. And every time he woke up to a problem needing to be solved and more feelings to push deep down, never to return. Until the next night, when it happened again.

He had never been more grateful that he had his own room. He can’t imagine how humiliating it would be if someone else saw him like this, biting down on his pillow as he rut into his own hand. If someone saw the way tears slipped down his lashes as he sped up, heard his cry of your name muffled into the fabric between his teeth, he would never be able to recover.

But luckily, no one ever would. His shame would stay in the dim light of his cabin, and his carefully protected image of control would remain unblemished. You’d never suspect a thing.

But the thoughts remain.

And he could handle that, really, he could. He’s a grown man, he can control himself. But you just keep pushing him, not even knowing what you’re doing. It’s small things, really. Yesterday, when you laughed at a dumb joke Shachi told you, you leaned forward enough to show off just a hint of your cleavage. Something that shouldn’t even phase him, but made him white knuckle the table to stop himself from throwing you over his shoulder and marching down to his room. 

The day before that, you put your hand on his knee during dinner, thumb gently brushing against him as you smiled and told him you thought everything was going to be okay. You’ve comforted him like that a thousand times, but he couldn’t focus on the tender tone of your voice, only the feeling of the warmth of your hand seeping through his pants. He imagined that hand sliding higher and higher, how that warmth would feel somewhere else.

He had to excuse himself from dinner. You thought he was still upset, tried to follow him in concern, and he just barely managed to fend you off before he ran to his bathroom and took care of the hard-on you’d given him. He prayed you didn’t hear his quiet moans of your name or the sound of him pumping his cock in his hand.

A thousand small things, ways you show you care or small motions that show off your body, all building pressure that threatens to burst whenever he looks at you, threatens his carefully crafted control. 

You’re so determined to break him, but he remains strong.

Until you wake him halfway through the worst dream yet.

Law! Law! God, yes, Law! Your voice is still ringing in his ears, your cunt still tightening around his cock, as your hand shakes him awake.

“Law! You can’t sleep here, you’ll fuck up your back.” Your voice is so soft, so concerned, as you try to pull him up from his desk. He can already feel the pain in his spine as you pull him to his feet, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.

He’s hard, he’s horny, and you’re right here, your hands on him as he can still hear you screaming his name.

He takes a step forward, his arms threatening to wrap around you, and he can just barely process that you’ve removed your hands from him as your eyes shift away from him.

“Law?” Your voice is meek, nervous, not at all like his dreams. But the red on your cheeks, the way your eyes shine? Those are familiar. He’s so close now.

“Do you know how hard it’s been?” He can barely keep the shake from his voice.

“What?” You take a step back, but your back hits the wall behind you.

“I’ve been holding back for months. Trying to keep control, to not ruin this, but you just,” he takes a step forward.

“Keep,” another step.

“Haunting me.” Your chests are pressed together, and he can feel every breath of yours as your tits press against him. They feel even better than he imagined. He almost expects you to push him away, to run, but you don’t. Instead you stare at him with your stupid, beautiful doe eyes, lips slightly parted, face flushed, and he can’t hold back anymore.

Your lips are soft. They’re slightly tacky from your chapstick, and he’s delighted to find it makes you taste like strawberries. You tense for a moment, and he fears he’s frightened you, ruined everything, but then your arms wrap around him and he knows you’ve wanted this just as badly as he has.

His hands grip your ass as his tongue presses firmly against your lips, which you almost immediately part wider to allow him better access. One of your hands presses firmly against his back, while the other slides forward to grope at his chest. Your fingers press into his shirt, seemingly torn between pulling him closer and feeling every inch of him beneath your fingertips. His hips roll against his will, and the whimper you let out into his mouth destroys what little self control he has left.

He lifts you with ease, pulling you impossibly closer, before throwing you onto his desk, papers and logs be damned. Nothing on it is more important than him being inside of you as soon as humanly possible. In his dreams, he always stripped slowly and sensually, teasing you until you were begging for his touch, his cock, but he’s going to explode if he isn’t inside you within the minute. He practically rips off your uniform, throwing it behind him, where he can hear it take something that sounds suspiciously like his lamp down with it, glass shattering when it hits the floor. He can’t bring himself to give a shit.

“Law,” you say in that squeaky little voice you always get when you’re surprised. “What’s—”

Your sentence breaks off into a moan as he sinks his teeth into your neck. He can smell your shampoo mixing with the scent of your sweat, and god he really might break this desk beneath you if you keep driving him insane. Your hand shoots to the back of his head, gripping his hair and tugging as you continue to let out little whimpers and moans with every thrust of his clothed hips against your panties. 

“Every night, you ruin me, and I have to wake up and pretend to forget,” he groans into your neck. “Every night you give me everything I’ve ever wanted just to take it away. You’re cruel.”

He wants to take off his jeans, but he can’t bring himself to remove his hands from you. You’re so much better than his dreams, soft and warm and real beneath his fingers. His mind could never have conjured up such a perfect feeling.

You must have read his mind, because your hands slide his coat from his shoulders, fingers tracing his abs down to his waist. He’s so lost in the feeling he doesn’t understand your intent until you let out an adorable frustrated huff. “Stop moving for a second,” you snap, fingers struggling to grab the button of his jeans.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“If you tackled me to the desk so you can grope me while you cum in your pants I’m leaving.”

The laugh that rips through him stills him just long enough for you to pop the button and rip his pants and underwear down. The fabric catches on his thighs, but you’re stuck, frozen, watching his cock spring out of its prison. Law has always been proud of his body, but nothing has made him feel sexier than watching the way your mouth falls open looking at him.

“You’re drooling,” he chuckles.

“I am,” you say, not taking your eyes off of his dick. You reach for it, fingers tracing lightly up his length, and watch as it twitches in response.

“Don’t tease me,” Law says through gritted teeth. One hand grips the desk for dear life, the only thing holding him back from slamming into you like an animal.

“Oh? Don’t what? I couldn’t hear you.” Your fingers trace back down, following the vein, touching enough to stimulate but not enough to pleasure.

Law is a proud man. He does not beg. He would never—

“God, please—” His voice breaks off once you mercifully wrap your fingers around him, thumb rubbing briefly against the head. He shudders, head falling forward, pressing himself as deeply into you as he physically can.

“It’s even bigger than I imagined,” you murmur.

“You imagined me?” He tries to make his voice sexy and gruff, but it comes out as more of a whine.

“All the time.”

He latches onto your neck, both to get himself to stop talking before he makes himself sound as undone as he feels, and to mark you as his. He desperately needs to leave some kind of sign that this happened, something to tell him tomorrow this wasn’t just another one of his tortuous little dreams. This is real, it is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and by god is he going to make sure he remembers every single moment.

His free hand reaches for your panties, pulling them down far more carefully than he did your uniform. The delicate lace is a bit less durable than thick canvas. You hiss as your cunt is exposed to the air, your hand slightly tightening around his cock.

He removes himself from your neck to look you in the eye. Your face is flushed, your pupils blown out, and your hair is a mess. You look beautiful. “Ready?”

“Please fuck me already, Captain.”

You barely have time to get your hand out of the way before he’s slamming into your entrance, the force of it shaking the desk beneath you. You feel heavenly, warm and wet, clenching around him. Law lets out an absolutely mortifying noise, halfway between a moan and groan, and you clench around him tighter in response.

“God—”

“Oh Law—”

His dreams didn’t compare to the real thing. Your voice dripping with desire and want, the friction as he pulled out inch by torturous inch, it was beyond dream or fiction. He could never have conceived something so wonderful. He ruts back into you, to the hilt this time, your hips slamming together with near bruising force. The desk shakes again, creaking dangerously, but he doesn’t give a shit and he can’t imagine you do either. 

One hand remains on your hip to stabilize you, and the other takes the opportunity to explore your chest as he kisses you. Your teeth clack together, your noses bumping, but none of the awkwardness detracts from the feeling of your soft lips against his. You easily allow his tongue into your mouth, putting up no fight to the tidal wave of lust driving him to consume you whole. 

Your chest is so soft beneath Law’s fingers he could weep. His teenage self would have killed a man to feel this, and frankly, he still would now. You whine into his mouth when he pinches your nipple, a sound that he swallows greedily. He wants every part of you, every noise and smell and feeling you can offer.

He tries to keep control of his hips, but he can feel his pace growing quick and sloppy. He wants so desperately to remain in control of everything, to spend the entire night giving you all of the pleasure you could stand, but you feel so good around him and he’s needed this for so very long.

He pulls back for a breath, chest heaving, and he sees your eyes have grown unfocused, your mouth still open as the spit connecting you catches the light.

“Law, yes, god, yes!” You sing like an angel. He can feel your legs growing tense as they tighten around his hips, and he’s assured to know you’re as out of control as he is. His hand reaches down, his fingers not hesitating for a second before finding your clit. His rough fingers press against you, rubbing experimentally as he tries to follow your expressions to see what way will best make you fall apart beneath him. You’re far too gone for such intense study, as every move he makes brings you closer to the edge. Your nails dig into his back, dragging down his shoulderblades, and it takes everything in him not to cum instantly. He’ll be damned if he cums before you do.

Your breath quickens as your moans turn to high pitched whines, growing louder and louder until one final thrust and rub brings you beyond the edge. You throw your head back and scream, your arms pulling him closer until your chests touch, your legs wrapping around him and locking him in place. You spasm around his cock, squeezing as though your life depends on it, and he follows soon after with the small thrusts your legs will allow him.

You collapse beneath him, boneless, as he comes as deep into you as he physically can. He falls on top of you soon after, barely catching himself on his forearms to keep from crushing you. His chest heaves as he tries and fails to catch his breath, so instead of breathing he settles for suffocating while admiring your beautiful flushed face. Your eyelids have fallen shut, your mouth letting out little puffs of air as you struggle with the same problem he is. His dreams never got this far, to the after.

It’s amazing.

You look so amazing fucked-out beneath him, a smile on your face that he’s sure you aren’t even aware is there. He could live in this moment forever, just staring at you, knowing he’s the one who made you look like this.

Even as he leans forward a little too far and a loud crack lets him know the desk is giving out beneath you.

He just barely manages to pull you on top of him so his back hits the floor instead of yours. You’re tucked into his chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively. You stare at the desk’s remains as he stares at you, and when you laugh, his chest tightens. God, he might be more in love with you than before.

As he lifts you, watching the way your eyes sparkle as you giggle and ask how he’s going to explain the desk to the crew, he thinks he can live with some more frustrating dreams. It’ll never compare to the real thing, and he has a feeling you won’t mind him coming to you for more help in the future.

Perhaps expected considering that the two of you had met just a few weeks ago; you’d announced to your council that you were ready for marriage. And they’d then presented you with a list of all the potential candidates for husband—every eligible bachelor from the Kamo clan to the rather obscure Fujiwara clan. The list had gone on and on with their names and ages.

And at the very end you’d spotted—

Zenin Toji—Age: 38 (once divorced). 

As soon as the elders had noticed you focusing on that one name, they’d dismissed you with a nervous chuckle. “Oh, that’s just Toji. Ignore him, he’s just there out of obligation-”

“But why would I ignore him?”And that had effectively shut them up.

Although what you really wanted were more answers.

Toji.

Toji.

Most of the other candidates ranged across their twenties, and they were names you’d heard of in mere passing during those stuffy clan functions. Toji, however, was beyond that age range and once divorced—and you’d heard of him almost too well. You knew him without ever knowing him.

You’d heard of the newly-appointed Zenin clan leader as he fought against every single elder to claim his rightful title as head - the first one since…ever without a speck of cursed energy.

You’d heard of the terror of the Zenin clan - or so they whispered - who could bring down battalions with a single swipe of his cursed weapons. He didn’t need cursed energy—and what they feared above all was the power of raw humanity underneath it.

But…you’d also heard of the merciful man. The first Zenin clan leader to grant his wife a divorce when she wished for it, thus leaving him printed once more upon a paper listing jujutsu society’s bachelors. 

Leaving him impressioned in your mind.

Zenin Toji was an enigma you wanted to understand.

And you laughed at the expressions upon your elders’ faces as you announced that the sole candidate you were interested in was none other than the notorious Toji. You could count on one hand how many had readily agreed to your union with the older man—and that would be exactly zero fingers. 

However, the meeting had proceeded as tradition dictated. Your council of elders reached out to the uptight council of the Zenins - and they’d reached out to re-confirm thrice that the man you were really looking for was Toji. Wasn’t he much older? Wasn’t he fearsome? Wasn’t he difficult to understand?

You waved off their worries and met him over a fragrant tea ceremony. 

To be quite honest; there wasn’t much talking between the two of you - although the Zenin elders kept up a constant stream of chatter with the elders of your own family. Meanwhile you simply looked at Toji over the rim of your ceramic cup—and—watched—

And he met your gaze just as intensely.

By the end of the tea ceremony, you nudged your elders to proclaim your approval for a union.

And Toji nodded his own approval.

The wedding preparations were accomplished in a week. It was a wedding for the history books - you heard that your council of elders were pushing to get it written in already - and it ended off with a lavish banquet that lasted into the long, long hours of the night. 

As sunlight started seeping into the horizon, you and Toji got up from your seats at the head of the table. And you made your way to the master bedroom—where rows upon rows of elders sat outside in preparation for the consummation.

They were here to hear you-

“Fuck.” You can’t stop the sudden whimper that escapes you at the feeling of Toji hiking up one of his muscular thighs. He still had his wedding robes on - dishevelled upon his frame, the graze of expensive Zenin cotton n’ silk makes you shiver—

And as soon as you do, you feel one of his large palms settle at the base of your spine.

Toji keeps you pinned down - deliciously helpless - once he reaches that upright leg forwards and rests his heel atop your scalp. Stepping on your sweaty crown. Keeping you pinned in one place as he fucks you- with a sheer audacity that makes your jaw drop.

“Careful.” Toji’s low tone trundles out. You’re bent into such a shape that it makes his cock thicker- stretchin’ out your snug channel with a sultry squeeeelch! “Keep your mouth open like that and you’ll catch flies.”

Leaning down as far as he could, he then spits.

“Or you’ll catch me.”

A few more vicious strokes that leave you gaping.

A few more changing angles- Toji was the type to not just straightly thrust. He was stirring his cock ‘round in somewhat circular motions of his hips as he pummeled inside, managing to hit eeeeevery single nerve-ended spot inside you. “And- hah, and we wouldn’t wanna explain that to those old toads, heh?” Asking you. And then…not you. “Isn’t that right, fuckers?”

There’s restless murmuring from outside. 

“W-well, maybe if you—fuuuuuck.” Just as soon as you’re mid-sentence - as though Toji had been waiting for this exact moment - he reaches forwards and slams! his ruddied tip into you hard enough that you can feel him in your damn throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-” 

“Loud.” Scoffing. “Though I bet they already know what’s happening- hah.”

You were in utter shambles. 

Toji’s cock was sensually curved towards the right - the perfect angle to spot those areas where you were most sensitive and stimulate them until you were crying. “Y-you’re so shameless—!”

With a roll of his forest-green eyes, the clan leader crouches his body further forwards and accelerates his pace. His heel pressing down even harder.

With this position he had you in, Toji couldn’t keep his palm glued to your drivelling maw anymore. And he was letting it aaaaaall out—the more n’ more pretty moans that were leaving you, the more he’s speeding up his hips. Purposefully thumping his blushin’ red tip down your most precious spots. 

And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s using his free hand to sift apart your stuffy pussy. Pressin’ aside your folds and getting a good eyeful of your entrance - getting flooded with his rock-hard inches, and then emptied out for him to do it all over again. And again. And again and again and—“And who was it that decided to marry me?”

You don’t know what’s hitting you harder: the shock of being called out, or the sudden wad of saliva that he’s spitting between your legs. “Well…me…”

Toji nods. “Pretty young thing like you…for what reason could you want to marry- me-” Every space between his words was punctured with a targeted strike to your g-spot. “Money? Name? Power?”

Your head’s getting foggy - you don’t even realize that you’re drooling before Toji looks down and tuts. He watches as a slick puddle formulates underneath you—“Did you wanna marry this ol’ clan leader for power, doll? S’that what you wanted?”

As much as you could, you’re shaking your head- difficult, given the way he still had the heel of his foot on you.

“No? Then what?” Toji pretends to think. “Hmmm, could it be that your clan elders pressured you into this, doll?” And just at that moment, he stops- even though it seems as if he wanted to say more. “I’ll kill you all if—”

It wasn’t targeted towards you. 

But you’re vehemently denying—“No. No. Not at all…” Sobs and sultry moans strangle in your throat, and your poor, poor hips are driving back into his as much as you could. “Please- oh, I j-just wanted—”

“Let me think.” Now that he’d started his vigorous pace up again, your eardrums were crackling with the constant pap-pap-pap! of Toji’s toned hips hitting yours. He was just so large - in every possible way, it was as though he was engulfing you with his massive body, with his shaft stretchin’ out your insides in ways you’ve never experienced before. “Is it because- haaaaah…” Toji breathes, the cloud of his heated breath wafting down your arched spine. “Is it because you knew that those other- boys couldn’t fuck you as well as I could?”

Your jaw drops- “Fuck.”

But it seems that Toji had found his footing. He drags you even harder against him - the ramming of your two bodies almost violently shaking the flooring beneath. “Is it because you knew that- mmm, this pussy would always be satisfied with me?” Whatever little jostling you’re experiencing at his movements, he’s considering it a nod. “Is it because you’d been greedy? Because you’ve been yearning-”

Somehow, he’s tipping his head backwards and managing to perfect a stream of spit down onto your stuffed cunt.

“-for someone more mature. Someone that knows how to handle a pussy, doll?” Voice dipped in lust. “Have you been yearning for Zenin Toji to fuck you properly?”

“Y-yes—” You pitch out softly. Sniffling. Seeing stars behind your eyelids. “Toji, m’so close…”

“So cum, then?” He snickers, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “What’re you waiting for? Permission?” Leaning back and projecting his voice - though, not for you. “Just so y’know, I’m gonna make my wife cum.” 

“Oh-oh my god—” The words crackle in your throat as a final bash to your syrupy-sweet spot leaving you careening into your high. Stars of pleasure burst behind your shuttered lids - and you’re dragged through wave upon wave of white-hot bliss. 

It overtakes you like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

And Toji was only more than happy to prolong them using his length. Hitting you right when your peaks were at their highest - and if you were in the right state, then you’d wonder how he even managed to time them - and making your veins feel molten within. Making you whimper and thrash into him. Thrashing and thrashing—fucked like you’ve never been before through your orgasm.

You’re so hazy afterwards that you barely even register the shuffling outside the bedroom - as the elders started making their way back to the banquet. Mission accomplished, you suppose.

And Toji takes his foot off your head. 

“Haaaaah, fuck.” He hisses. “Want to give them an encore, my wife?”

You couldn’t nod faster.

Before you know it, he’s tipping his head back and calling out - at the elders—

“Get ready for an encore, fuckers.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Parent-teacher DATING?!

“Ms. Teacher…” 

Itadori’s sweet, sweet voice breaks through your conversation with one of the parents; and you’re looking down to see him clasping one end of your flower-patterned apron. Pink brows furrowed. Chubby cheeks puffed. And how could anyone resist that face?

So throwing an apologetic smile at the parent, you’re leaning down slightly so that you could hear the little boy better. “Yes, Yuji?”

He cups a hand over his mouth then leans in towards your ear as if to whisper. “I have a secret to tell you.” And he does not whisper.

Still, you bite back a giggle and ask. “Oh, really? How exciting. Do I get to know that secret, Yuji?”

He nods.

Then leans in once more-

“My papa has a big, big crush on y-”

“Yuji—!”

You didn’t have to look up to see that it was none other than Nanami Kento, Itadori’s father, pushing past a few gossiping parents and kids playing jumprope- heading in your direction. He quickly clasps Itadori’s arm and gently tugs the boy away, “I am so, so sorry—I have no idea what’s gotten into him-” Nanami pinches the top of his nosebridge with a sigh. “He seems to have gotten it into his head that I have f-feelings for you, and…”

You watch, almost astounded, as the ever-stoic Nanami’s ears burn bright red.

“A-and I sincerely apologize if he made you uncomfortable in any way-”

“Oh, no.” You’re raising your hands up and fervently shaking your head. “He didn’t make me uncomfortable at all. Did you, Yuji?”

“Yup!” Those tufts of pink hair atop his head bounce as he nods as well, beaming - happy to see that you were on his side, at the very least. He then turns back to Nanami. “I didn’t make Ms. Teacher uncomfortable, papa. I just told her what you told me-”

“Sunshine…” Nanami grumbles, though with less panic in his voice this time.

And you’re biting back a smile as you look between the handsome father and his son; it’d been two years since Nanami had adopted Itadori, according to what the man had told you when he’d first enrolled the boy in Tokyo Jujutsu Elementary. Since then, you’ve had the privilege of watching over the father-son duo as they become closer, as they found family in one another, as they opened themselves up to both the school and you. 

And although you knew you shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher - you can’t deny that one of the best parts of your day was seeing the two. 

Yes, the two.

It didn’t quite help that Nanami Kento was the talk amongst the single ladies and men at pick-up. Tall. Tender. With his broad shoulders and his blond hair—always slicked back, not even a single strand out of line. 

Nanami was the type of man to hold doors open for students, other parents, and teachers alike - he’d happily stand there for half an hour as an entire grade passed by, if he had to.

Nanami was the type of man to not worry about what anyone thought of him as he let his energetic son paste stickers all over him, or use the play make-up he’d snagged from Kugisaki.

Nanami was the type of man to buy you a large bouquet of roses for Teacher’s Day- roses. And he’d apologized for at least fifteen minutes about not meaning any sort of innuendo, and he’d completely understand if you didn’t want to take them—you’d cut him off then n’ there by taking them with a gracious thank you. Even if others at pick-up shot you knowing smiles. 

So could you blame yourself if you happened to form a crush on the man?

And hearing what Itadori had to say about it now…

“I wouldn’t mind, y’know.” You speak once you’d ushered Itadori to play with some of his friends—Fushiguro and Kugisaki had just been dropped off. And Nanami was still standing next to you, watching as his son scampered off after causing perhaps the most chaos he’s ever experienced in his life. 

But ah…your voice was low enough that it couldn’t be heard by anyone around you two. Perhaps not even Nanami himself- but of course, he heard.

Of course, he heard.

He turns to you with widened eyes, “I uh…I- excuse me?”

You turn back to him with a grin, “How about coffee sometime this week?”

“I have a better plan.” As soon as the first bout of shyness wears off, he’s clearing his crackling throat and answering you. “How about dinner?”

.

.

.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuh-fuck.” Nanami wrenches between clenched teeth. His hot breath sticks against the side of your throat; and every single puff makes your skin erupt with perspiration. 

Which worked for him—it just let the movements between your two ravenous bodies proceed even faster, slipperier, sloppier. Nanami has you pressed flat against his neat mattress, in a bedroom that was humble and meticulously organized - and with Itadori at Fushiguro’s for a sleepover, the two of you could let those ancient bedsprings creak as much as they liked. 

Nanami could fuck you as hard as you liked.

He’s grinding that golden happy trail into your front; both palms pressed flatly atop your inner thighs to keep them open. To keep you stretched as faaaaar apart as you could go—because fuck- Nanami’s cock was thick enough that he had to pin you down n’ squeeeeeeze his inches inside as far as they could go. 

Rubbin’ his prominent veins along your walls. Entire body tensing up whenever you clench-

“Fuuuuuuck.” With a heavy sigh, he’s letting his head tip backwards. And honestly—you don’t think you’d ever seen a more attractive sight. 

You’ve always known that Nanami was ripped underneath those office button-ups of his - but this was damn-near Herculean. The way his shoulders were defined and pulled taut as they closed in on you, the way his chest was absolutely luscious—you almost wanted to take a bite. And you’d guessed that with energetic Itadori as a son, he hadn’t had the time to hit the gym lately.

Because there was a layer of thickness over his muscles that left Nanami softer and stronger- the soft curve of his belly pushes down on your core. 

Jostling your body back n’ forth with every honed thrust.

Banging at the back of your cervix and your throat- “Fuck. It feels so good, Kento.” 

“S-soooooo fucking good.” And you wonder which one of you two was more gone on your syrupy cunt: you or him. Nanami struggles to keep his damn head up- collapsing into the crook of your neck and letting out botched groans- every single time his sensitive tip slid uuuuuup your channel into its deepest depths. He almost sounded as though he was in pain as he wept—“F-forgive me, darling.”

Perking your head off the plush pillows, “What for, Kento?”

“Well it’s just…” And his foggy glasses were still on his face - which Nanami pushes up his nose bridge. “I haven’t felt this good in—forever. So forgive me if I’m a little…”

And then he’s surging his hips forwards and giving you a good thwack! with the rounded end of his shaft. Enough to make stars appear in your vision-

“-rough.”

And then it’s like the floodgates have opened.

Because Nanami’s grip on you grows hard enough to leave fucking nail marks, his sweat splashes with the urgency of his movements. “And I wanted to f-fuck you all niiiiiice and slow like this pretty pussy deserves.” Those strong arms keep manhandling you open as he shovels straight into you. “W-wanted to show you that a mature man like me could- hngh, make you feel the best you’ve ever felt.”

“But I already do…” You huff out, arms thrown needily around his neck. 

Yet Nanami doesn’t seem to hear—he doesn’t even seem to register. At least, the only acknowledgement that you get of your response is the way his body flinches ever-so-slightly at the mere sound of your voice. “And yet…” Those hazel-brown eyes of his widen as they run down your body, ultimately resting where your pussy was bloated all ‘round him. “And yet, one kiss of these pretty lips and I’m done for.”

“D-done for…” You repeat - mostly because you don’t know what else to do.

Don’t know what else you’re capable of doing other than wrapping your weak legs around his waist. Your hamstrings stretch and scream; and you’re sobbing yourself as his pace seems to accelerate.

“I can feel myself…” Nanami speaks through a watery mouth. “-getting fucking addicted—shit, like some hormonal punk. I should know better. A man my age…”

“Oh- oh, Kento.”

“I should know better- I should fucking know better.” He admonishes himself - though that doesn’t stop or even slow down the feral pap-pap-paps! of his pelvis hitting yours. Through scrunched-up eyes, he’s gazing upon you. “C-can’t believe you got some old man like me-” Despite your instant protests. “-to finally break.”

After a few more sudden strikes - almost animalistic - you’re managing to string together enough syllables. “But…I don’t mind, Kento.”

And that—that might just be the one thing that makes him falter. “Pardon?” He blinks up at you with glazed-over eyes.

Nodding, “I promise I don’t mind.” In fact, you’re tugging him in with a fistful of his blond strands between your fingers. “I- ngh! want you to go even harder…if you can-”

“Of course I can, my love.” The both of you are startled by his instant answer. “I-I mean, if you know that it means I might leave a few marks and—even more marks.” Perhaps most notably on your spongy cervix, welcoming his bashing thrusts.

But you don’t mind. Like you said.

You’re nodding even harder, “Yes, please.”

So polite. How could he ever refuse?

And in the blink of an eye, the blond-haired man leans over to clasp that patterned tie draped over his bedpost. It’d gotten thrown there sometime after the frenzy of getting home - quite convenient for when Nanami wanted to throw it loosely over his clammy neck and give you the other end to hold onto—

“Don’t be afraid to pull if it gets too much.” He puffs out at you in a breezy breath.

“Too much?” You ogle up at his handsome face. You half-jokingly wondered whether the bed - and perhaps you - would be in one piece by the time that Itadori gets home tomorrow. It was going to be a never-ending night…

“Mhm, because this is going to be rough, darling.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Controversy.

WHO IS ROCKSTAR HEARTTHROB GETO SUGURU’S GIRLFRIEND? HOW CAN WE BE HER?!

GOLD DIGGER?! BASSIST OF 6EYES SHUTS DOWN MALICIOUS RUMORS SURROUNDING BEAU: SAYS THEY ARE ‘BULLSHIT’. 

DILF OFF THE MARKET: GETO SUGURU CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP OF ‘YEARS’ HE SAYS. 

Everyone knew of Geto Suguru. Or so it seemed when they were screaming his name and cursing yours—everyone wanted to be with him. 

Or be him.

Who wouldn’t? Thick rings. Grey-black hair. Feline smile.

A 6’2, long-haired dreamboat that just-so-happened to be the bassist of the hottest rock band on the charts right now: 6Eyes. They’d been discovered quite early on - when they’d just been out of high school, actually - and had maintained a steady presence in the music scene ever since. Shattering record after record and filling stadium after stadium. By the time you’d gone with some of your college friends to one of their concerts, they were already titans in the industry—and you’d been an instant fan. 

So imagine your surprise when your friend announced that one of the security had invited your group backstage. 

That was the night you’d met Geto Suguru - you’d locked eyes and the both of you had just known.

You signed that NDA. You met for dates under disguises. And you’d even met his young adopted daughters- oh, you adored them.

Several months later, when TMZ or some other site had broken the story of Geto secretly dating a fan over ten years younger than him - and that was when scandal ensued. The fandom was rabid—and you understood.

Though Geto, who was rather used to biting headlines and speculation, told you that the whole thing would blow over soon enough- you holed up in your shared penthouse. You turned off your social media notification. You tried not to turn on any celebrity news channel. 

And you decided: the very least you could do is make a good first impression…

“Easy now…easy there…” Geto holds the recorder in one hand n’ the side of your hips in his other. You’re maddeningly aware of both the rolling tape and the way his puckered, pretty tip is getting guided to your entrance—“Don’t strain yourself now. Trust Suguru.”

Just the very first inch of it slipping lusciously between your pussylips and easing inside.

Geto was always so thick, donning numerous veins that creep up the sides of his shaft in zig-zagging patterns. And the sheer girth of him intruding is enough to make you gasp-

“Mmm, that’s good.” The older man murmurs with a smile- long, greying hair forming a curtain around the two of you. “Let’s try again. A little louder this time.” Before he reels his hips back the mere inches he’s squeezed inside, and then rammin’ right back in again - it sounds the loudest squelch! as you’re taking even more of him. “Ohhhh, that’s good. Maybe I can use that as the outro, heh?”

“Maybe just use it for the entire ch-chorus.” You hiss.

“Trying to take my spotlight?” Geto leans down to kiss your swollen lips- or so you think. He’s pressing his pierced mouth against yours and gnawin’ down on your lower lip.

“Scared of- mmpf. Scared of being ousted by the young new talents?”

The edges of his lips curling upwards. “A rock veteran like me? Oh, I don’t think I have anything to be scared of…”

And you can only moan straight into his greedy, greedy maw as you’re jostled back and forth. Geto’s thrusts were oh-so-merciless and puncturing deeeeep into your womb—using the smooth Prince Albert’s piercing atop his flared tip, he’s torching every hidden spot and nerve-end inside. Mazin’ around your walls and pushing into those little ridges that just made your back arch into him-

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles. 

“Hey hey-” The only thing snapping you out of your frenzy is Geto’s sharp tuts. He stalls your restless hips by hooking his fingers into your thighs and throwing them over his broad shoulders- dragging you back into him. “Don’t run away, gorgeous—the studio session’s not over yet.”

“I wasn’t running away.” You huff.

“Sure seemed like it to me.” He grins - that silver piercing of his glinting in the dim lighting. It was the type of Cheshire-cat grin that you knew wouldn’t bode well for you…and as soon as you’re thinking about it, Geto opens his sensual mouth and spits—straight between your lips.

The wad lands softly on your tongue.

And Geto himself reaches a second ringed hand up to close your jaw- to urge you to swallow. “Remember to keep those vocals hydrated, gorgeous. We’re getting to the good part now.”

You think you could gasp at the audacity—but what’s leaving you instead are a series of long, lewd moans. Mewls. Pleas. 

He’s drawing them out over and over again by hiking your thighs up his shoulders and pressing you into a mean mating press- lunging his body down into yours. Crushing your pliable self underneath him. Slashing your cervix with loooooong thrusts and his ropey precum puddling sweetly at the back of your pussy.

“Yeah- yeah, louder now.” Pushing the recorder even closer. “Louder, girl.”

“I am—oh.” With the way he was fucking you like he almost hated you - though it was rather the opposite - your sentences warble with hiccups and gasps. The lines of his veins were somehow massaging the exact hidden spots that drove you wild. 

“You got this.”

“Fuck-”

“Louder. S’just you and me.” This was exactly what he wanted to hear - his favorite melody was you. “Just a bit of chopping up n’ remixing- this is perfect. Gonna sound so fuckin’ pretty to my bass.”

“Fuh-feels so good-”

“Mhmmm, I know, gorgeous. Now let the listeners know.” 

Making your noise pitch upwards in volume. 

After a few more strokes, he bores down at you with a thoughtful expression. “Now…why don’tcha try calling me ‘Sugu’ for the recording?”

“You want me to be sappy? Okay, rockstar.” You’re unable to bite your tongue fast enough- though your snapping only makes him even more excited.

Amethyst eyes glistening. “Oh, don’t be a diva just yet, newbie.” The older musician brings the audio recorder closer to catch your every breath, “Trust me. I’ve been in this industry for a loooooong time- c’mon now. Listen to your- heh, vocal coach—say ‘Sugu’.”

How you loved riling him up just as much as he did to you. “Then give me something good to moan for, baby.”

“Don’t test my patience, superstar.”

Though he does as you say. 

You should have expected it all the same; the rockstar had mapped out every single good spot inside you. And it was with a near-photographic memory that he’s inching his length backwards- until it was just his lavish red tip lickin’ up your entrance.

Just for a second…just for two…

Before slamming into your g-spot so hard n’ suddenly that you almost sob.

Making your cunt mold to the exact texture of his circular piercing- hitting your sensitive area first, before then pushing his smooth tip into it as well. You’re feeling every bit of him—and you’re making sure that your future audiences can hear it, too. 

“S-Sugu—!” You’re thrashing in his arms- and he’s crashing and crashing his hips into you. Gluing the heated, stinging pink skin of his pelvis against yours so ferally that you can’t keep up with his pace no matter how fast you’re attempting to buck and bounce.

“Oh, that one’s going in the intro for sure.” He titters. 

“S’fucking mean.” You whimper as he pushes down on your lower half - purposefully, so that his scruffy happy trail scratches your clit.

“Sugu knows best.” So sweetly, he kisses your forehead—and you wonder whether the loud smacking sound that he leaves behind is more for the recorder or to make you squirm. Shy, much? “Now how about I fuck you pregnant n’ we just announce the baby on the album?”

You pause for a second - before a smile twitches at your lips. “A rockstar baby? You read my mind.”

He reciprocates. “Always knew you were made f’me.”

The headlines were sure to love this.

♡ CHOSO KAMO - MY UNCLE’S GF?!

Someone had suggested playing two truths and a lie:

You weren’t a lot older than Choso- at least in his eyes. That didn’t matter to him.

Choso has always wanted you.

He’s over that now, though.

Choso’s palms are sweaty ‘round his lightweight beer as he utters the words; words just a little louder than he intended them to be. Maybe that was the pre-game finally kicking in—but he couldn’t blame it on that, either. Had it been called three truths and a lie, then Choso would have also confessed that he was stone-cold sober as he murmurs two of his deepest secrets to the little circle of drunk college kids. 

And you.

You…you’re looking at him like you’d already guessed he’d say that.

Had he really been that obvious? Choso first met you three years ago, during his sophomore year in college, when he’d gone home for the holidays—and discovered that, this year, Sukuna had been dragged home, too. Except…his uncle hadn’t come alone this time.

He’d brought along- you. 

You were the one to greet him at the door—and Choso remembers his breath catching in his chest. He remembers feeling his heart bang against his ribcage. He remembers his eyes widening- and his mouth gaping stupidly as you introduced yourself.

So caught up in you, he’d been forced to ask Sukuna for your name again-

“Back off.” His uncle had scoffed, crimson eyes narrowing. Honestly - Ryomen Sukuna was the only person alive that could make cotton candy-pink hair look intimidating. “Don’t think I don’t see the way yer looking at her.”

He’d probably stammered something intelligible-

“Look all ya want- if she feels uncomfortable, she’ll thump ya herself. But you can’t touch.” Sukuna set his beer bottle down. “M’actually serious about this one.”

And Choso could see why - you were the first person that Sukuna had ever brought into the Itadori family home. You were smart. You were funny. You weren’t afraid to put the pink-haired man in his place. You were fucking gorgeous—

And…you were Sukuna’s girlfriend. Ten years older than Choso.

Which is why - no matter how badly you made his heart flutter - Choso had vowed to never, never so much as even think to act upon his feelings for you. 

He just had to grit his teeth and avoid prolonged conversation with you during every family function and gathering you attended with Sukuna- of which the man was making an appearance at every single one now. Almost as though to provoke him even more. 

And Choso was forced to make peace with the fact that he’d never make peace with his feelings.

That is…until the two of you broke up.

He’d heard news about it just a few weeks ago, actually- his father had said something about Sukuna being down in the dumps after you’d broken up with him. Something about not making enough time and drifting apart—Choso hadn’t heard the details, he’d been too overwhelmed with the guilty glee that’d shot through his body and made his heart pound. And then just tonight - oh, how he wished he could kiss whoever was looking down at him (but no, that was saved for you…) - Choso just-so-happened to run into you at the bar he was attending with his friends.

So of course he had to invite you over to their table.

Of course, he had to ignore your protests about being older than them all. None of that shit mattered. 

Of course, he had to sit right opposite you on the table and divulge his greatest secret - one he’d been keeping to himself for three years now.

You’re just opening your mouth to respond-

When Choso’s feeling a harsh smack! on his back and one of his friends crowing in his ear. “Atta boy! You never struck me as the type to like MILFs, man.”

“Technically I’m not a MILF yet.” You giggle, fixating your gaze upon him. He almost flinches. “But you’re right…I never thought you’d be the type to like older women. I’m ten years older than you, Choso, you know that right?”

Choso mumbles almost too quietly to hear. “Th-that doesn’t matter to me…”

“Yeah- and you’d probably like that ‘ma’am’ shit, eh?” His friend guffaws, making the now-bashful Choso - whatever courage he had liquified - duck his head. “Oh- sorry I didn’t mean—”

“No, no.” You dismiss the babbling college boy. “I’m not offended at all. In fact, you might be right.”

The table bursts into wolf whistles-

And it’s a blur until you’re ragging with the banter a little more - before discreetly excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. Choso’s staring up at you - totally not admiring your back like some pathetic lovesick fool - before catching your gaze and your pointed wink.

And then he’s scrambling right after you. As discreetly as a sledgehammer.

.

.

.

Nose buried into the crook of your neck. Mouth gaped wide open- letting out the sweetest crackling moans into your skin. 

Choso had you pushed against the bathroom stall - clean, don’t you worry - with his arms wrapped around your body n’ his cock shoved between your legs. Dragging in and out in a way that was so messy—he’s roverin’ around his globules of cum with that fat tip of his, and then reeling his hips rapidly backwards to spray it down your walls over and over.

He’d cum as soon as he’d put it inside.

And it wasn’t his fault.

Honest! 

“Oh- oh.” And now he was panting desperate breath after breath between thrusts—“I’m sorry…the condom broke, baby.” Choso’s lower lip cutely trembles as he speaks. “Can’t help it. And then your pussy’s just so warm and welcoming a-and…”

His breath hitches as he hits that one gluttonous spot that makes you clench.

“-and I just- can’t- when you’re squeezing me like that.”

Basically hypnotized, Choso’s slender fingers dip down between your legs. And so swiftly - that you’re almost surprised at his nimbleness - he pulls out of your wet hole n’ clasps his hand around his barely-wrapped length. The rubber condom had been too tight around him, and it’d shattered into a million pieces—Choso looks up at you through his doe-like lashes, and waits until you’re nodding.

That’s when he’s wringing off his broken condom and squeezing out whatever wetness it held. Pushing out the cum back onto your pussy. 

Making such a mess. 

Those pure-white droplets that end up splattered back down on your pussy- warm and utterly unwholesome. A sinful cover. He wasn’t leaving a single ounce wasted. “Sh-shit.” Choso’s mouth gapes wide open. “It’s all your fault…”

Just the cutest trickle of saliva makes its way down his lips - and you’re reaching upwards to wipe it away. “Awwww. Ever done it raw before, Cho?”

After a brief bout of hesitation, he shakes his head.

“I’ve never done it before.” He confesses. Your eyes widen, so he was a virgin…

“Then are you sure you can handle it, baby? No need to push yourself if-”

“No.” He gasps. Sharp. Shot-through. It leaves his lips before he even knows what’s happening- and then you’re clenching again in a way that makes his brows twist together, and his fingers dig into your waist. “No, no, no, no-” Eyes frenzied. “We don’t have to stop f’me, baby. We don’t even have to slow down—”

Cum-coated; his thickened cock gets sandwiched between your lips then jerked back and forth a few times. By now he was so wet with slick n’ sap that it was making him slip a few times before he’s actually managing to get it in again—and that, too, with your help. 

You reach down to help grip Choso’s raging-hot erection, and guide it inside your cunt: an action that leaves the other man blushing down to the roots of his hair. Even his tip throbs just a little harder—“Th-thank you, ma’am.”

Your brows raise in amusement- and it only hits him then. So he was into the ‘ma’am’ thing.

“I mean- baby.” He sounds so utterly ruined. “Thank you, baby. Promise I can handle it now, m’kay?”

And oh…you can’t deny that it was just so fun to tease him. “Hmmm…I dunno, Choso-”

Chocolate-brown bangs sticking to your skin, he’s lurching his face away to bore straight into your eyes. “I-is it because I’m younger?” He asks with a hint of desperation, and your lips part as your ex’s hot nephew keeps steamrolling away with his pussydrunken mouth. Poor, poor Choso. “Because I promise I can handle it. I can fuck you- ngh, the best. Promise m’gonna make you feel sooooo—”

Choso’s hips were hammerin’ away at a pace you’d never have suspected- and his hips end up crushed against yours. So close that the scruff of his happy trail scratches your clit raw.

“-g-good.” A single tear track runs down his face - you’re unsure whether he’s talking about you or himself.

“Easy there, tiger.” You’re pushing back on a stray lock of his hair- darker now with perspiration. The sweet gesture makes Choso huffs. 

It wasn’t doing him any favors, however, as that only made him look even cuter. You’re craning your neck and planting a chaste peck on his bubblegum-pink lips—only for Choso to take control of the kiss and softly bite down on your bottom lip. “Baby-” He rasps. And with just how sweet Choso had always been to you, you could’ve almost forgotten how strong he was- how easily he could bounce you down on his cock- how needy he was for you. Feral. Even though you had him wrapped ‘round your finger, he was jostling your pussy’s inside like craaaazy. “Don’t do that. Don’t baby me- I need to be taken- ngh, s-seriously by you, m’kay?”

“Oh…” You’re letting out a heated breath as his tip empties out at your cervix.

And to prolong that sensation; Choso claws his hand up and pushes on the lower part of your stomach. Right beneath where your cunt was expanding and contracting with his cock. “Feel how big I am?” He doesn’t stop putting pressure on that spot until you’re nodding - “How hard? How much I’m leaking?” Just on cue, a splatter! of precum leaks between your pussylips.

And with something like a broken whimper- Choso snakes his fingers down to push the leakage back up your channel. 

“O-oh—this pussy’s so fuckin’ wet. And I can handle it- I can handle it.” He utters more to himself. The more he’s speaking, the harder and longer he’s fucking you, the more ruined he sounds. “M’not as innocent as you think, baby.”

“Oh? Do tell.” You smile.

Such a gorgeous, gorgeous smile that he almost hesitates wiping away with a roll of his thumb - stimulating the nerves of your clit. But it makes you break out into the prettiest lewd expression that leaves him rutting his hips even harder, “Do you have any idea how fuh-fucking long I’ve waited for this? How badly I’ve wanted to- ngh, stuff my cock and fuck you like an animal?” As he trails off, he feels his stinging tip start to twitch even more wildly. Dangerously. “Fuck—”

“H-how long?” You’re asking with a smug smirk.

Choso’s blinking a few times just to let the question register- and finally muttering. “Even when you were dating- him. Ever since I first saw you…” And then he rubs his thumb at an even more steadied pace, matching it to the pushes of his spearing cock. “You were wearing that red dress of yours- hah, and I could see the strap of your pretty pink bra peaking out…the one with the bows on-”

That makes you gasp.

Which Choso takes advantage of to plaster his lips against yours n’ suckle on your tongue. 

“And then-” Barely managing out through kisses- through stabs of his length- through the pleasure. “And then you called me ‘baby’ as you were getting ready to leave, and I- ngh, knew you were teasing me for being younger—fuck, I h-had to run to the bathroom just to jerk off.”

Rovering his mushroomy trip straight into your nerve-ended g-spot; you’re arching into his chest as you feel Choso lose his grip on his sanity.

Already having been so loose.

He’s babbling as he cums long and hard, and oh-so-deeeeeply into your cunt. Mouth ajar. Body collapsing against yours - caging you even further against the bathroom wall. “Baby- fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“Shit, so much…” Just feeling the ribbons upon ribbons of creamy-white sap he was emptying out. Hot. hypnotizing. Every stroke managed to hit your best spots, and every push meant your pussy was getting overloaded with his cum. The inches of his shaft were curved just perfectly enough that he’s managing to slip aside your walls and use his tip to circle and circle those webs of cum at the very base of your pussy. All over. 

Soon enough, you’re feeling a layer of it make its way down your inner-thighs—and Choso still didn’t seem like he was going to stop anytime soon. You moan, “H-how can you cum this much- mmpf.”

He captures your lips in another sloppy kiss. “Must be the stamina of a younger guy.”

“Choso you’re pussydrunk.” You’ve never heard him sound so drawling and dreamy.

“Hmmmm…” He’s nuzzling the crook of your neck, leaving bite marks that will be entirely too difficult to explain when you’re going back outside. “Did you cum? Promise I can- ngh, make you cum, too…” Grazing your skin with his lips.

“Prove it, then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 6…9?

“It’s a fuckin’ pandemic, isn’t it?”

You’re looking at your boyfriend over the rim of your book, “Excuse me?”

Sukuna was seated on the armchair in the corner of your bedroom; just having finished a video call with his brother and his nephew. The bright chatter (at least from their end) had died down some minutes ago, and they’d bid your boyfriend goodnight—which was rather the same routine for these biweekly calls. Despite how much the two of you visited, Itadori Yuji always found it too hilarious to put strange filters on his grumpy uncle.

Except, tonight…Sukuna had sat in the armchair for a few minutes longer.

Usually; he would join you in bed.

Usually; he would grumble - though with a fond smile on his face - about whatever Yuji had been chattering about before. 

He was practically an honorary father to the boy, and it always made you smile to see. 

Usually; he wouldn’t look up at you as expressionless as if he’d seen a ghost- as if his soul had wafted away. And ask you about some…pandemic? Did Yuji put something in his head again?

At the confused expression on your face, Sukuna was heaving out a sigh—pushing up those glasses that were totally, most definitely not glasses and merely a tool he uses to…see…better up his handsome nosebridge. Sukuna was in his late thirties, and silver was beginning to tinge the edges of his pink hair, climbing up his temples. His crows’ feet creased as he frowned at you, “The…67 thing. It’s a pandemic.”

“67 thing?” You gape, your book plopping down on the bed. 

“You heard me.” He scoffs. “I’ve been thinking it’s mass hysteria- every brat at his kindergarten keeps repeating it. But there seems to be no pattern or cohesion. I thought it was just those damn kindergarteners, but the other day I even caught Jin saying it-”

“S-six…seven…thing.” You’re repeating - for no reason other than to confirm to yourself that what you’re hearing was real.

Sukuna straightens in his chair, “See? Now it’s got you—”

“Kuna, like the meme?” You’re shaking your head, “The one from the song? Oh my god, it’s not mass hysteria-”

He crinkles his nose. “The hell is a…meme?”

“You don’t know what a—” How has he been Yuji - of all people’s - uncle but still had no idea? You continue, “It’s basically an Internet inside joke- it’s been over for a while now but the kids are still obsessed with it.” Finally gripping your book once more, you level him a look. “You didn’t seriously think it was mass hysteria, did you, Kuna?”

Sukuna crosses his bulky arms and looks away. “Tch—”

And when he catches you giggling, he barks-

“What?!”

“Oh- nothing.” And from the smile upon your lips - Sukuna knew that whatever was coming out of your mouth next wasn’t about to be anything sincere. 

Which is why he’s raising himself off the sofa and climbing up the foot of your bed.

You continue, “It’s just you’re getting old, Kuna.”

Joking; nothing ever riled Ryomen Sukuna up more than teasing him for not understanding some new slang or lyric. 

And with how much he riled you up sometimes—you had to get back at him somehow, alright?

Soon enough, he’s pinning you down to the bed - with his toned pelvis pressing down on your waist, and his arms creeping upwards to keep your wrists pushed against the mattress. “Say that shit again. I dare you.”

You’re leaning up as though to kiss him. “Old man.”

.

.

.

Sukuna’s tongue was zig-zagging wiiiiildly between your legs- striking the soft circle of your entrance and then swervin’ as deeply inside as it could go. Deeper. Deeper.

No matter how fervently his mouth was glued to your pussy. 

No matter how ravenously.

His hips rut off the bed with every single lick—and that fat, throbbing tip of his kept shovelling n’ shovelling at a synchronized pace with his tongue. 

He had you twisted in sixty-nine with your pussy latched onto his lips. 

Sukuna’s own cock squeezing out heavy volumes of his salty precum near your lips, then promptly pushin’ them inside with his thrusts- Sukuna was so loooong and rock-hard that he was managing to swab across every spot and directly target the back of your throat. Playing with that dangly in the back.

You’re moaning as he squeezes two ringed-decorated fingers into your tight cunt. And he grins as he feels the vibrations—“Ah ah- s’rude to talk with your mouth full.” 

Just then, Sukuna’s planting a smack! on your pussy that makes you pull off of his shaft with a loud pop! “H-hey…”

“What?” He trundles. Reaching his hips up and guiding his needy tip back into your mouth, “Speak.”

All because he knew that you’d attempt to nonetheless- and it would end up with the most lewd noises being muffled into this cock. It would end up with his eyes scrunching shut, his head throwing backwards at the shocks of pleasure. “Th-thought I told you to speak? Hah- not babble. Cock got your tongue or something?”

And…it would end up with you being all huffy n’ puffy. “That’s not even f-fair…”

“Heh- fair?” From where he’d been nipping at your clit, Sukuna pulls off - just to confirm he wasn’t hearing things. He wasn’t. And though you couldn’t see his expression from this angle, you could practically hear the amusement in his tone. “What happened to me being old, huh? You surely don’t need me to go easy on you.”

“I d-didn’t say that…” You’re stubbornly answering him - though the constant drives of his fingers were driving you absolutely mad. Sure. 

“Good.” And then you’re feeling two more consecutive smack-smacks! atop your bloated folds. “Because, babydoll…m’barely even started.”

In no time, Sukuna has you manhandled so that your stomach’s against the soft bed. Your back’s against his thoroughly toned front - so incredibly strong; he was bulky—with a layer of thickness to him that made your skin tingle with want - and his erect cock placed between your legs. He takes a few moments to wetten your core up- because no matter how many times you’ve taken him, you think you’ll never get used to Sukuna’s sheer size.

And before long you’re clawing onto the headboard for dear life—as he damn-near molds your tender cunt to his size. Startin’ at the tip-top of his bloated shaft, and then bouncing you down- down- down so many inches greedily. 

Utterly greedily. 

“Oh- oh, fuuuuuck.” Hands shooting forwards to grab onto more of the mahogany frame.

But Sukuna stops you right then n’ there by wrapping his right arm around your neck; like a wreath, your pants are immediately cut off. And his muscles bulge as they tighten—the defined ridges of his biceps pushing against your throat - it’s sensual enough to make your mouth water…“And where’d you think you’re going, huh?”

“Nowher- mmpf.” Cut off immediately by the tightening of his muscled restraint. 

“Lying’s not a good look, brat.” Then his second set of fingers snakes down to spank! your stuffed pussy- right atop your bloated folds. The shockwaves that run up your spine are enough to make you buck and whine—and enough to make him drag you back into him. Again and again. “Wasn’t stuffing this mouth earlier ‘nough to teach you a little lesson?”

So stubborn. “Not at all-”

He’s spitting straight between your lips.

And when Sukuna’s fucking you; it’s with harsh, pointed jabs - scouring deeeeep into the bottom of your pussy and leaving the mark of his cockhead. That rounded bruise you feel throb-throb-throbbin’ away every time he repeats the action—he fucks you like he hates you.

And he’s only growing faster, harder by the second.

Only tightening his headlock and wrenching your body back into his. Again and again.

Over and over.

Until the globes of your ass were stinging with impact, and you’ve memorized the pattern of his happy trail. It’s practically a part of you. 

Sukuna’s rugged cock knew aaaaall the right spots. Making your pupils roll around in the whites of your eyes, and leaving you wondering just how he had this much stamina still…“Awww, c’mon now.” His low voice trundles in your ears. “Get your act together, girl. You don’t wanna be this cockdrunk for someone so old, huh?”

“I-I—”

“What was it you called me?” He growls, sharp canines nipping at the shells of your ears. “Huh? What was it you called me? See, this fossil ‘ere has some trouble…remembering-”

Every syllable of his was punctured by a thorough glide across the velvety channel of your pussy- “Ummm, then in that case, I didn’t say anything?” You try your luck.

“Nice try.” Sukuna grins. “But m’not that geriatric yet.”

Another spank. “Please-”

“What did you call me?”

“I-I just meant-”

And another. “What did you call me?”

“An…old man.” You feel embarrassed just letting the words slip between your lips.

You didn’t think he could get even rougher with his movements - his shaft was throbbing, and his pelvis was smack-smack-smacking into you. So hard that you’re propelled forwards by the sheer force; and Sukuna roughly lurches you back with his headlock. “I might be an old man- cheh. I might not know all these…damn Internet memes- but I do know how to fuck this pussy right.” To prove his point, he scours in-between your pussylips to squeeze your pretty clit. “Look at her- she’s in love with me.”

“O-oh—” Eyes fluttering shut. 

“I know how to make her cry with pleasure. I know how to make her- mmmngh, squeeze like she doesn’t want me leavin’…heh.” He continues muttering into your ear as his hips grow more fervent. “I know how to make her feel so good—”

Your teeth grit. “Shit.” And you recognize the twisting sensation at the pit of your stomach. “K-Kuna, I’m gonna cum-”

“And even better.” He chuckles. Gnawing at the top of your ear shell, before moving down to bite the tender crook of your neck - like a wolf catching his prey. “I might not know those fuckin’- memes like the youngsters do. But I do know how to make this pussy- cum.”

“S-sooo close—don’t stop.” You’re bouncing n’ bouncing back into his pistoning hips. 

Feeling the pleasure well up. Feeling your head start to spin a little as you near your high- 

You’re crashing past your tipping point. And Sukuna gives you one, two, three good strokes to fuck you through the bursts of white-hot pleasure running through your veins - before he’s suddenly setting you free of his headlock and letting you drop straight into the plush pillows. 

Reeling his damn cock out.

You don’t know what’s louder: your disappointed groan or his rough cackle.

“What? Wanted this old man to be nice in bed or something?” As soon as you’re looking over your shoulder, you’re met with Sukuna’s priggish grin—his sharp canines peaking out at the edges of his lower lip. 

Grumpily, you nod. “Yes? What- can’t last or—oh.”

Another smack. “That’s not gonna work on me again- sorry, babydoll.” And before you know it, you’re being flipped right over - getting your legs thrown over his shoulders and pushed into the meanest mating press you’ve ever experienced. “Because m’not letting my bratty girl properly cum until I’ve had a good few rounds to blow off some steam. And m’sure you can keep up- heh, if not…”

“And um- how many rounds might that be exactly?”

Sukuna smirks. “67.”

“I hate you.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - “M-mommy!”

AITA for seducing the HOT rich MILF (40’sF) that I (23M) pool-clean for while her ex-husband and kids were away?! In my defense, she’s reeeeeally hot.

You freeze.

Ino freezes.

The world itself seems to freeze; all except for the ruby-red tip of Ino Takuma’s cock. Shoved deeeep inside your cunt - deep enough to leave a permanent bruise there - and throbbing away wildly—he’s cumming with that particular title escaping his lips. 

And then his lower lip wobbles once- twice- before he ducks down and attempts to hide his face in his arms. 

“Hey hey-” Swiftly, you reach down to push his hands away - you’d be disappointed not to see his pretty expressions as you fucked him even further. All pouty lips and doe-like eyes—Ino Takuma was so pretty, and perhaps that’s what drew you to the younger pool cleaner in the first place. “What’s the matter, Taku?”

“I-I didn’t mean to call you that- honest!” He stammers out.

To which you’re cocking your head with a sly smile- time to try something. “Call me what, Taku?”

“Y’know what it is…” Ino grumbles, huffing. And when you simply continue to stare at him in slight confusion, he’s rockin’ up into your wet cunt as he speaks- “The way I c-called you—mommy- oh.” Just as you’d predicted, his velvety length jolts at the mere utterance of that title. Excitedly spurting out a few creamy-white wads of cum that glue to your cervix.

So messy. He was so fucking messy.

How ironic, considering that his entire job was to clean your pool.

You’d been introduced to Ino through one of your friends - those networks of older rich women with far too much time and money on their hands. Juggling kids and businesses. And you’d just been complaining to them over a gold-flaked brunch that your last pool cleaner had moved towns, and with your kids now entering middle school, the pool was left without use and starting to gather leaves. 

That’s when they’d shared Ino’s number with you—a reliable pool cleaner. Just graduated college, and so easy on the eyes if they did say so themselves…

You’d huffed that you’d tell their husbands- meanwhile you on the other hand had just recently gotten divorced. One too many nights of your husband coming home with a cloud of mysterious perfume around him, or a lipstick stain on his collar - at least you’d gotten a good chunk of everything in the divorce!

But that was all in the past- maybe love just wasn’t for you.

You had your kids. You had your gorgeous hillside mansion. You had your hobbies and friends- men just weren’t…for…

Fuck, that’s when he’d showed up at your door. 

Bright and early. Beaming with all his gorgeous pearly whites; the sweetest smile on such a killer body. Ino showed up in nothing but an unbuttoned flowery shirt and swim trunks—their lightning-yellow color perfectly complemented his slightly-tanned skin and messy brown hair. Slightly tawny from the Sun.

“Er, I hope you don’t mind.” Ino had said, a sheepish smile on his face. “I thought I’d get changed for the job before I got here.”

Mind? Mind?!

In simply what world would you mind—it took every speck of reason and rationality in you to dart your eyes away from the plane of his chest, his washboard abs. Sultry shoulders. Slender waist. There was a scattered happy trail that ran between his six-pack and- beneath his swimming trunks. 

Fuck. 

Instead, you focused on the tight necklace of shells around Ino’s throat. “C-come in.”

On the first day, you stayed inside - only peeking out occasionally from your bedroom window - as Ino cleaned your pool. You tipped him heavily.

On the second day, he’d told you that it was completely okay with him even if you used the pool whilst he was cleaning—and you took that as your sign. You donned a bikini you hadn’t gotten the chance to use in years, and sprawled yourself out on the nearest sun bed - making occasional conversation with him almost as an excuse to ogle him.

And if you weren’t mistaken, you’d say that he ogled you too. 

But you really did discover that Ino was a sweetheart- and made you giggle like a schoolgirl, too. How embarrassing you felt admitting this!

And a part of you was almost relieved when your kids arrived home from school - escorted by their driver - so you could resume your mundane lavishness. But a bigger part of you was already yearning for when you’d see him again…

And so continued the third day.

And the fourth day.

And so on to the fifth and the sixth.

Before you knew it, Ino had been employed as your pool-cleaner for at least a month—and he’d quickly grown to become someone you and your kids were quite fond of. Even your driver had caught on, and shot you a knowing smile every time you asked him to escort Ino back to his downtown apartment. Perhaps feeling jealous of such an occurrence, your ex-husband had showed up with tickets to an amusement park - already having planned a day trip for your kids.

They’d, of course, begged to go. And so you’d agreed.

Leaving nobody inside this vast mansion: but you, Ino, and the growing tension between you two. 

The only thing was, right before he left, your ex-husband had the audacity to stop Ino and snipe at him. Low and threatening. “Touch her and I’ll make you very, very sorry.”

So, of course you’d fucked Ino as soon as they were out of the house. 

Squeezing your robe-covered thighs ‘round his waist—just so perfectly curved to meet your embrace. “W-we really shouldn’t be…I mean- I’m old enough to be your-”

“Works just fine for me, pretty.” He’d cut you off. Pulling on the gauzy material of your robe to let your tits spill out- fuck, he was in heaven.

Enough so that it’d taken just putting it in for Ino to cover your luscious inside in his sap. To watch the satiny liquid seep between your pussylips and leave his pelvis gleaming with a sheen. To wrench out the most pathetic calls of your name—and one particular title that made him want to get swallowed up by the Earth.

Again and again.

Ino’s cock was longer than you’d expected - and all this time, you’d been wondering where the hell he’d been hiding all that in his swimming trunks. Just reaching over six pretty inches. Just smooooth and leaned ever-so-slightly towards the left. It’s making his bulbous tip drag across every sweet spot inside you, and your thighs quiver as you take him.

Every single inch. You’re arching your back and mustering up your strength to grind your hips forwards and back, forwards and back.

Milking him—

“C’mon, baby.” You’re cooing down at the handsome man. He blinks his teary eyes open- and you just can’t help but lean down n’ kiss them away from his cheeks. “Call me ‘mommy’ again?”

“C-can’t…” Ino blushes down to the roots of his chocolate-brown hair. “It’s embarrassing-”

“But it gets me so wet, Taku.” You pout—and his eyes widen at your admission. You watch as his pupils shift down- as if making sure. “Pleeeeeeeease? Just once?”

And in response, you smush your thighs harder around him. You’re sure you leave red, red welts on his skin - but that wasn’t registering in his mind right now. Nothing was. Nothing but the smooch of your soft velvety insides embracing his cock, and the sensation of cum sploshin’ around inside you. “Fine…but only because I wanna impress you…” His breath hitches. “-mommy.”

You shiver. “Oh, I liked that—”

And he does, too, because your cunt’s just suctioning on his length as if you were trying to take his soul. His fucking soul. 

The thing is- Ino would have gladly given it to you at this moment.

“It feels good- it f-feels s-sooooo good.” Tears begin to crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and Ino’s fingers dig into the sides of your hips as he bucks upwards. “Fuck, it should be illegal for it to feel this good- mommy.” And he can’t fucking help it—it echoes before he can stop himself. 

“Taku, I think you like saying that more than me.” With a soft chuckle, your dominant hand ends up wrapped around his throat. “C’mon now- a little faster for mommy.”

“Sh-shut—ngh.” No matter how hard he attempts to regain control- it doesn’t work. He pushes upwards into your soft, syrupy cervix as though marking it.

After a few desperate thrusts, he asks you- “Is this okay?”

“Hmmmm…” You pretend to think - and the ruined expression on his face is oh-so-completely worth it. “How about a biiiiit faster?”

His jaw drops- but he doesn’t complain. He’s grabbing onto either side of your thighs now, and plunging straight into your deepest depths—multiple thwacks! every second, it feels like. “H-how about-”

“Just a little faster.”

Doubting himself. “Is that even possible-”

“But you’d do it for- heh, me won’t you? You’d do it to make me feel good?”

Nodding and nodding. “Yes, mommy. A-anything for you mommy—” Broken moans and pleas cycle at the back of Ino’s throat, and he’s planted his feet flat on the mattress to push himself up ravenously. “M’just here for you to use me.”

Your eyes widen - your smile grows.

“Just use me-” He gasps, face reddening as he follows your instructions. “Fucking use me like a toy. Use me- fuh-fuuuck—”

“A liiiiiittle bit—” Your head tips backwards as he’s entering the perfect pace - rapid enough to leave your thoughts stupidly muddled, but still steady enough that you’re feeling every single ridge, vein, and curve. Giving your walls such a good massage—“Th-that’s perfect, Taku.” You squeeze his pretty neck tighter, and you’re hearing him let out a little hiccup of a sob. “Mommy’s so proud of you.”

Oh, and you thought that he was ruined enough already?

You thought that he was reaching his limits?

Because after that particular sentence - oh, you’re evil for that - Ino digs his digits into the flesh of your thighs and rams deep into your womb. His pistoning cock resting there for a brief few split-seconds as he sputters—“L-let me make you a mommy all over again.”

Your breath catches. “Do you even know what you’re asking for, Taku-”

“Fucking yes.” His glazed tip twitches dangerously in a way that told you he was oh-so-close to cumming again. Again.  “Yes, please- fuuuuck, let me get you pregnant. Let me make you a mommy for the third time. I-I promise I’ll be the best- ngh, dad and nothing like that asshole. I’ll take care of you and cherish you and-”

You kiss him to shut him up.

“But of course, baby.” You hum. “But you have to be quick before my ex-husband finds out.”

He’s never cum harder in his life. 

Verdict: NTA (drop the fucking tutorial, OP).

♡ GOJO SATORU - Sugar, sugar…

Gojo Satoru wasn’t technically a DILF - but he was a sugar daddy.

And they called you a gold digger.

Gojo called you business-savvy.

It was a rather unique situation: the relationship between the two of you had started out as a regular sugar daddy-sugar baby relation. You met Gojo Satoru at some stuffy ol’ business function when you were the arm candy of some other businessman—one who’d been ignoring you in favor of one of his business associates the entire night, of course.

Whatever.

You’d gotten used to this routine by now - and so you’d drifted by the grazing table with microscopic clean cuts and cheeses you couldn’t even pronounce. 

And that was exactly how your knight-in-shining-suit had sidled up next to you.

With two champagne glasses in-hand and a flirtatious smile upon his face, he handed you one of the drinks. Then you gestured at the businessmen you’d arrived with- and Gojo had the audacity to roll his eyes and pretend to retch. That was when you knew you’d get along.

Tall. Toned. With twinkling blue eyes—and just the slightest bit of silver creeping into his already-white hair. Gojo Satoru was as handsome as he was rich—and considering that both aspects occupied a fair share of the conversations tonight, you were rather flattered to be in his presence. Though the CEO of Gojo Corporations didn’t waste time: “Y’know, if I was lucky enough to arrive with an angel- I’d never leave her sight. Why waste time with some geezers over such a gorgeous gal?”

You smiled.

And you left that night with Gojo instead.

From the boxes of jewelries and flights around the world - to the tabloids and online speculation that couldn’t get enough of you. 

CEO of Gojo Corporations finally finds love?!

Gold digger or gold-hearted: All we know about Gojo Satoru’s girlfriend!

Is it sugar baby season? The newest IT Girl’s best red-carpet looks so far—

But of course, there was always some truth to those headlines. Perhaps. 

You were Gojo Satoru’s sugar baby. You were in a transactional relationship- though he never laid a hand on you. Not unless you initiated it.

So…what was it really?

You got your answer a few months into this limbo of lust—the two of you finally started dating. 

And to be quite honest; it wasn’t that big of a change at first. The two of you went out for romantic dinners either way. The two of you dodged paparazzi and rumors every step. The two of you bantered and teased as much as you did anyways- the only change would be that Gojo Satoru finally let loose when he fucked you.

Though, at times, he still did like to let his sugar daddy side peek through…

“A-awwww- just look at you.” Gojo’s hands were rubbin’ furiously down his length - from those curls of white cozily decorating his base, up to that poor, pretty tip that just wouldn’t stop cumming. Up and down. Up and down. 

Salty-sweet heaps of cum were pouring out of his cockhead and splashing down your front- your stomach, your inner thighs, your cunt. He watches as it creates a little waterfall effect—and Gojo reaches down to pat your stuffed pussy with his long fingers. “No matter what pretty trinkets n’ expensive lingerie you wear- you always look the prettiest covered in my cum, sweetheart.”

“S-Satoru—” You’re squirming underneath him. Hands clasping the silken sheets.

Your fingers were decked-out in diamond rings. Your lacy lingerie was tugged n’ pulled aside for access. 

Around you were bracelets upon necklaces upon every piece of jewelry that your heart could desire - Gojo had taken it upon himself to empty out Tokyo’s luxury stores earlier. All for you, of course.

All to drown you in—whilst he attempted to do the same with his fucking cum-

“I fuckin’ loooooove it when it covers you like this.” He hisses- nose scrunches in a feral way as he glides his fingers across those splatters. Those smears. That ruinous mess. His favorite was to see you like this: pull out game, who? You often scoffed whenever Gojo claimed that his was unmatched. “Love the way it looks like your pretty pussy can’t keep it in-” Just another light tap on your cunt. “Love the way it looks so pretty on your skin like this—mmm, you’ve got me obsessed, girl.”

Your thighs were shaky- but not shaky enough to stop you from attempting to pull him even closer. They’re wrapping around his waist, and careening him close ‘nough to kiss your puffy pussylips with his throbbing tip. His length doesn’t stop sensitively twitching for a single second—“O-oh…greedy for more, my girl?” 

“More.” Just barely managing to wrangle out. “W-want some more—”

“Fuuuuck.” He whispers underneath his breath - something so ragged in his tone. That blushin’ tip of his was twitching in excitement already, and Gojo probably doesn’t even realize before he’s slotted his still-erect length between your legs and his rockin’ away at a slow pace. “You seriously want more?”

Your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation of him intruding your hole- seemingly only growing bigger every time he feels you clenchin’ around nothing. So needy. 

“Yes-” You’re nodding furiously. Perhaps had this been any other time, then you’d have been almost embarrassed at your unabashed eagerness. “B-but this time, I want it inside, Toru.”

“Inside?” Gojo’s pale brows fly to his hairline. “But you’re already stuffed so full, my sweetheart.”

And then he’s smearing his fingertips between your bloated folds- teasin’ them apart and taking a good look at your entrance. He can’t help himself - he’s spitting straight into that puckered hole—and watching at the glossy wad slips down your crevice and only adds to the mess he’s made previously. You’re shivering as he runs his nimble digits up n’ down your slit and presses on your clit.

“Yes, but—” You keen, arching into his firm core. “But you never really came inside, Toru.”

“Oh…” Those glossed lips of his part.

And you’re taking the opportunity to throw your arms weakly around him- “And I want it inside this time.” Though Gojo loved teasing you with his creamy-white sap—making you beg for it at times, he’s never properly cum inside.

He always thought it’d be too soon: you were younger, after all. And a pregnancy at this point might derail your plans-

“But I want it.” Had he been babbling this entire time? The sheer determination in your eyes sends a jolt of dark-black need through him - far more primal than he ever thought possible. Far more. Gojo’s blue peripherals glaze over as he clasps his cock even tighter, as though afraid he’s so hard now that it’d fucking fall off.

“Shouldn’t fall off now.” He whispers breathily.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Gojo quickly amends. Before he uses the pointed tip of his shaft to web up those dollops of cum he’d spurted ‘round your thighs and folds—it creates a gloss of white that he thinks would suit the insides of your pussy so well (did he mention that he was the one to pick out your lingerie colors?) ‘Round and ‘round.

It devises the most sinful sounds between your legs. And your breath catches in your throat: “A-are you gonna cum inside or not, Toru? Hurry-”

“So impatient.” He’s tutting. Voice low and husky. “I hope you know that if I fuck my cum inside—then m’gonna fuck you pregnant, sweetheart.”

Goosebumps scatter across your skin.

But Gojo doesn’t let you squirm, he doesn’t let you move about restlessly- he’s pinning you down with his hips and rumbling lowly in your ear. “M’gonna make sure it takes.” A rough sliiiiiide of his length sandwiched between your cushy pussylips - drooling for him by now. “M’gonna stuff you so full that you won’t even be able to walk—” Another rough slide. A thrust. “M’gonna give you the most precious gift of all - in my eyes.”

“P-please—!”

As you’re letting your head tip backwards, Gojo reaches his hand up to and clasps your gorgeous, gorgeous face. Smushing your cheeks together in a way that was so pathetic - “Are you okay with that, pretty baby?”

You’ve never heard him sound so serious.

And you’ve never yowled an affirmation faster in your entire life—

In the next few seconds, Gojo’s stuffed rawly all the way to the hilt and is messin’ up your insides with determined strokes. Once. Twice. Thrice- he punctures through your clingy walls and hits all the best spots - memorizing your g-spot and running his flared tip along it. 

And honestly, it doesn’t take much - the two of you were already so overstimulated already - before you’re feeling the wave of euphoria start to build up in your stomach already. Almost as lewd of a sensation as the clear twitchin’ mess that Gojo and his length had turned into—babbling, gasping, sobbing as he runs his fat cock raw on your velvety walls. Fucking raw.

You were going to make him an actual DILF.

“Y-you’re gonna get it now…” It’s the last thing he’s getting out before a flood of white sap enters your tight cunt. Getting absolutely drenched from the inside. “When have I ever forgone you of a gift, my girl?”

“Never—” You’re keening out. Rushes of pleasure start up between your legs- before crackling through your veins and ultimately ending up at your brain.

Hazy and startling at the feeling of him fucking you through both your highs. Thrust after thrust. Gush after gush of both pleasure n’ his milky-white cum. 

Underneath the overwhelming sensation of your orgasm; you can feel his spurts of cum start to trickle between your legs. It was just as warm as your skin was getting, and creating a little puddle beneath you that Gojo takes one looks at and gasps- 

“Now now, are you wasting your gift, sweetheart—?” He cocks his head, genuinely ruined. 

“N-no?”

“Or do I just have to- heh, regift it to you again?”

“Shut up.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Ms. Babysitter.

“We have to be quiet, angel- fuck. Fuck.” Higuruma’s voice sounded ragged—

Ruined. Nothing but carnal desire creeping up into the edges of his tone; giving you a jolt, considering that you’ve known the older man to be nothing but utterly calm and collected.

He was one of the best parents that you babysat for. 

One of your college friends had recommended you for the job - the hot lawyer in your neighborhood needed someone to look after his young daughter whilst he worked long nights? You were agreeing before you’d even heard the hours, you can’t deny—and despite how hasty of a decision it had been, you thoroughly enjoyed working under Higuruma Hiromi.

And being under Higuruma Hiromi…though that didn’t come until a few weeks after you’d been employed. 

The first night, you’d barely seen him. Dark hair. Dark circles.

The main thing you remember was that he looked exhausted—and some strange part of you was actually enticed by the hard-working man. Especially when he was such a gentleman…

Fuck, that suit fit him so well.

He addressed you oh-so-respectfully; unlike some parents who were tempted to treat you like a live-in server. Hands behind his back. Jet-black eyes to himself as he gave you a two-minute tour around the house- you’d been thoroughly enjoying yourself admiring his broad shoulders in that suit, when a sudden call from the office meant your tour had to be paused. 

Higuruma had pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. He’d sighed.

And he was out that door before you could even confirm bedtime- which hadn’t been too much of a problem, to be honest. His daughter was extremely well-behaved and didn’t hesitate to let you know. 

She also didn’t hesitate to let you know that her dad was very, very single.

You let her stay up just a liiittle past her bedtime. 

And then the second night, he’d apologized for his hastiness - telling you that a recent case had them fighting to prepare before the court deadline, and there’d just been so many fucking tax audits to go through.

You nodded like you understood. But what really intrigued you was when he’d told you that his daughter had just loved having you over. Though a part of you was simply satisfied that you did your job well (buttered popcorn and K-pop Demon Hunters wins again!), you can’t deny that it made your heart…flutter hearing it from the older man like this. 

It made you realize that you had a little crush.

So of course, you made him a regular.

And the pay was so good that you were able to weed out your other clients to focus predominantly on Higuruma and his bizarre babysitting schedule (some nights he worked until 3AM…)—you guessed the overtime was paying off. 

Though your interactions were limited mostly to the brief conversations before and after- though you never did cross your boundaries. That all came to a head when one night - about a month or two into your babysitting gig - Higuruma suddenly perked up after a late night at the office. It was 3:31AM when he quietly let himself inside the house, sighing as he finally tugged off his tie.

It was 3:32AM by the time you got up off the couch and offered him some cookies you’d made with his daughter in the morning.

3:40AM when he suddenly remembered- and suggested resuming that house tour you didn’t get to finish. And though you’d been a bit hesitant—for nothing other than the fact that you might wake his sleeping daughter up, he promised that the two of you would be quiet.

Then, finally, 3:47AM when he was telling you to be quiet in bed-

“Wouldn’t wanna wake her up, hm?” The prominent outline of his nose runs down the side of your throat - and it makes you shiver. Fuck, you always have thought that that was one of the most handsome parts of him. 

A soft moan strangles in your throat as he slots his thickened tip between your folds—feeling it like this, your mind’s reeling with the question of how the fuck he’s going to fit like this.

Higuruma always did strike you as the type of man to be big; but this was enough to make your mouth water and your eyes damn-near bulge out of your skull. From here, you were feeling at least seven or eight inches of his erection, furiously hot, wrapped in throbbing red veins and having the most luscious precum dripping out from top. He seemed hard enough to fucking ruin you - just how you wanted it. 

And as if reading your mind, Higuruma runs his slippery wet tip down your pussylips, and trundles in his low tone. “Are you sure you want to do it? We don’t have to rush into anything if you don’t want-”

“I do.” Cutting him off mid-sentence.

Although by the way that Higuruma’s stern lips were quirking up ever-so-slightly—you’re taking it to mean that he didn’t exactly mind. He keeps one hand underneath your ass, so that you can be pushed up into his roverin’ hips, and his other one caresses your cheek softly. “Hm, is that so…? Then I guess what I meant to say is…can you take every single inch, sugar?”

You gulp. Your eyes dart down nervously to his twitchin’, throbbing length. “Yes.”

And you’ve never been more sure of anything.

Higuruma merely horses out - “Then buckle up, angel.”

Before you know it, his round, ruddied tip is probin’ inside. Sifting your gluey walls from side-to-side before spreading you up so maddeningly open.

He spots your sweet areas with a few dollops of pre- as soon as Higuruma found himself inside you, he was fighting back whimpers of pleasure. The older man’s achin’ cock doing all the talking for him as he shovels his way in—

“Sh-shit.” Your eyes sprint to the back of your head as you take him. “Shit, you’re so big-”

The way you’re moving your hips around as though confused whether to buck right down or make him ease up- it’s just so cute. And he plants a reassuring hand on the side of your waist, “Easy now.” Higuruma hushes out, “Eeeeeeasy, angel. You can take it for me.”

“Right there—” You keen out as his flared tip rubs along your g-spot.

And although he knows what you meant, that doesn’t stop Higuruma from throwing you a ravishing smirk. Letting his second hand run down your core- “No, sugar. Right here.” He pushes down right where he knew your womb would be - that soft pressure making your walls clench around him wildly, until you could feel every throb of his engorged tip even in your brain. “And you’re gonna take it f’me, right?” 

Jostling you hard with every thrust—so that you’re nodding away. Almost pathetically. 

“Mhm…exactly what I thought.” He coos - so lovingly thrusting away between your quiverin’ legs. Higuruma’s skin slap-slap-slaps against yours at a steady pace, “Just a few more inches now—keep quiet, please.”

“I’m t-trying.” Gnawing down on your lower lip. “How many more?”

“Ah, just one inch…two…” And after a prolonged thrust- so deep that you swear you’re feeling it in your throat, Higuruma cracks a grin. “Maybe more.”

Five more?

Five more?

And you were already on the verge of being fucked absolutely stupid? You’re letting a groan escape you—lewd and louder than you intended- and before the realization hits you, Higuruma himself swiftly reaches over to where his work tie had been dangling off the side of the bed. Bunching it up, shoving it between those pretty lips - he couldn’t have anyone waking up now, could he?

And that’s exactly what he’s telling you: “C’mon, angel…” Shoves getting deeper and longer. Rougher- as he rams his thickened inches past where you don’t think anyone’s ever gone before. And throughout it all, the older man was so steady with you—“C’mon- c’mon. You can do this—fuuuuuck, you can do this. This pussy’s gonna take all of me, right?”

Nodding and nodding.

“Yeah? Because you’re my goooood girl, right? Taking me so well.” He continues rasping - tone pitching higher and higher as he goes on. “My good- fucking- girl—”

“O-oh, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“You’re my goooooood fucking girl, huh?” The stubs of his five o’ clock shadow rub up against your skin. The deeper he thrusts, the hotter his body seems to become on top of yours. More and more. “Can you count how many inches m’putting in you?”

Tears flow down your eyes, “Y-yes- mmpf.” Somehow managing past the tie. “Ah- four? Five. Six.”

Higuruma’s eyes widen.

“Seven—” Your voice seems like it’s on the verge of cracking. “Eight.”

It’s just too adorable how you’re sweetly attempting to respond to him even with the gag in. And Higuruma can’t help himself as he leans in and kisses you through the tie.

It’s hot and it’s messy.

And it ends up with him smiling against your stuffed lips, “Finally bottomed-out.”

Hazily, you’re blinking a few times. It clears your vision enough for you to jerk your head down and see that it was indeed true, Higuruma had stuffed himself inside your pussy until his thick base was kissin’ your pussylips. Just the most innocent peck.

“And now…” Except…fuck, except he was reeling right back again. “-for the fun part.”

Right back until that rounded tip stretched your hole out.

Right back inside-

“Makes me wanna put a baby in you- I swear. Taking me like this.” 

A/N. TONY’S BACK.

The kind of bone-deep tired that came from pulling double shifts in the polluted zones. His blond hair was slightly mussed, the usual neatness frayed at the edges, and the faint scar over his left eye stood out sharper than usual under the harsh lighting. Across from you, Enjin lounged like he owned the place, one arm slung over the back of his chair, cigarette balanced between two fingers as he lazily traded comments with Gris about the day’s trash beast count. 

Your gaze kept drifting back to Gris’s cap — that plain beige supporter’s hat sitting perfectly straight on his head like it had been ironed on by some overzealous quartermaster. It was too neat. Too orderly. Too Gris. The kind of crisp, impeccable placement that screamed discipline and control, even after a brutal day in the polluted zones. 

The itch started small. 

Just a faint, playful spark flickering at the edge of your awareness as your eyes lingered on the perfectly straight brim. It was the sort of pristine detail that practically begged to be messed with — a tiny rebellion against all that composure. After the long, boring day you’d had, the urge bloomed fast and bright in your chest, spreading like warm mischief through your veins until your fingers twitched with anticipation. 

Then it bloomed. 

It swelled fast and bright in your chest, spreading like warm mischief through your veins until your fingers twitched with the urge to cause trouble. That familiar bratty energy crackled to life—the one that made your lips curl into a sharp little grin and your eyes gleam with wicked delight.  

You reached out and flicked the brim with one finger. The cap tilted sideways. 

Gris didn’t even pause. He simply lifted his hand, straightened it with two fingers, and took another bite of his food. 

Your grin sharpened. 

It cut across your face like a blade — slow, wicked, and full of delighted mischief. The kind of grin that promised trouble, the kind that made your eyes glitter with pure, unfiltered brat energy. You could already feel the thrill racing under your skin, warm and electric, as you imagined just how far you could push him tonight. 

You flicked it again. Harder. 

This time his light blue eyes flicked down to meet yours. He knew that look. The one that said I’m bored and you’re fun to poke. 

“Sweetheart,” he warned quietly, voice low and gravel-rough, pitched just for the three of you. “Not tonight.” 

Enjin exhaled a thin stream of smoke, yellow eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched the exchange like it was premium entertainment. “She’s in a mood,” he drawled, dimples carving deep. “Better give her what she wants before she starts chewing on the furniture.” 

You waited a beat, letting the silence settle. Gris exhaled through his nose and went back to his meal, shoulders relaxing just slightly as he assumed you’d drop it. 

Big mistake. 

You struck fast — two fingers snapping against the brim, sending the cap flying off his head and clattering onto the table before sliding onto the floor. 

The nearby tables definitely noticed. 

Gris let out a long, heavy breath. For a second he just stared at his empty plate. Then his large hand moved — fast but controlled — fingers wrapping firmly around the back of your neck. He didn’t yank. He simply pushed your cheek down against the cold metal tabletop with steady, undeniable strength. 

The metal was shockingly cool against your flushed skin, a stark contrast that made you shiver despite the heat blooming in your cheeks. Gris’s palm was warm, calloused, and unyielding — heavy with the kind of strength he usually held back, now pressed firmly against the back of your neck to keep you pinned exactly where he wanted you. 

He leaned down, broad shoulders casting a shadow over you as his face drew close. Those light blue eyes bored into yours with tired intensity — exhaustion from the long day still lingering in the faint lines around them, but underneath it burned that quiet, authoritative edge that always made your stomach flip. No raised voice. No theatrics. Just the steady weight of his gaze pinning you as effectively as his hand. 

“Stop. It.” The words were low, rough, and final, each one vibrating against your skin. His thumb pressed just behind your ear, not painful, but firm enough that you couldn’t easily lift your head. You could feel the steady thrum of his pulse against your skin, the faint tremor of restrained irritation. 

Your heart stuttered hard. 

This wasn’t playful Gris. This was the version of him that only came out when he’d had enough — when the weight of the day finally tipped the scale and your brattiness went from cute to too much. 

Enjin let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Damn. She finally broke him.” 

You squirmed under Gris’s grip, but there was no real fight in it. The cold table against your cheek, the heavy warmth of his hand pinning you, the quiet authority in his voice — it all hit exactly right. Your thighs pressed together under the table as heat pooled low in your belly. The bratty spark that had been dancing in your chest moments ago fizzled out like a match in water, replaced by that soft, syrupy submission you craved. 

Gris didn’t move his hand. 

He simply sat back up, spine straight and shoulders relaxed like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and picked up his fork with his free hand. The motion was effortless — one smooth, practiced shift while his large, calloused palm stayed firmly locked around the back of your neck, keeping your cheek pressed to the cool metal table. He took another slow bite, chewing deliberately, the steady rhythm of his jaw completely at odds with the way he held you down. 

Like holding a bratty little troublemaker in place during dinner was as casual as breathing. 

You stayed pinned there, cheek cool against the table, pulse fluttering wildly under his palm. A tiny, contented sound slipped out of you before you could stop it. 

Enjin chuckled, smoke curling from his lips. “Look at that. One firm hand and she’s done. Good girl.” 

Gris’s thumb stroked once — slow, almost absentminded — against the side of your neck. Not quite praise, but close enough that your toes curled under the table. 

“Behave,” he murmured, voice still low, but the sharpest edge of his irritation had softened. “I’ve had a long fucking day, sweetheart.” 

You hummed softly in answer, eyes half-lidded, the fight completely drained out of you. The dining hall noise faded into a distant hum. All that existed was the steady pressure of Gris’s hand, the cool metal under your cheek, and the warm satisfaction of finally being put in your place. 

And that was the story of how you met Gojo Satoru - when you were eight, and he’d been merely ten. Though he didn’t look ten—he might’ve looked even younger than you. 

White hair. Winks of dimples upon each cheek. His face was chalk-white from the make-up typical of jesters, even young ones, supposedly. 

He was drowning in a faded red and blue jester outfit that looked as if it’d been dragged through multiple shows a night. It looked far too big to have been his originally. Even through the patched-up collar, his collarbones showed, and from the too-wide sleeves; his pale, near-skeletal limbs stuck out oddly. 

His face was pretty, however, with eyes too large for his head. 

Gojo’s cheeks were sunken in, yet his smile wasn’t the slightest bit smaller. That, too, looked too large to be his. 

And you…

Crying outside the royal court, after your parents had declared you far too young to see the travelling circus. The acrobats. The sword-swallowers. And one little jester…that had gone missing during the processions. 

Though, in time, Gojo took delight in weaving in additional parts of fighting off dragons and two haunted knight armors—enraptured courts that clapped and laughed as he sang of a white-haired fool and his crying princess. He’d whisked you off your feet and made you swoon in ways a princess utterly shouldn’t - and then produced you before your horrified father, His Majesty, as the sole suitor that made you laugh. 

At least according to him.

Though one thing was true from that fairytale: Gojo had been the only person to make you laugh. The only one.

Previous jesters and palace acts wavered between confusing you with their overly long ballads, or enraging you - all because they assumed some little princess couldn’t handle humor. And maybe that was why - Gojo hadn’t underestimated you - that you’d gone right up to your father in the middle of a particularly splendid fire-breathing act, stood in the center of the lavish floor, and declared—

For Gojo to be released from the circus to become your personal jester.

As a royal jester he would be clothed, bathed, and tutored alongside you - so long as he kept you entertained with his rhymes (to which you had no doubt that he wouldn’t falter). 

Not minister nor royal guest should lay a hand on him. He was to be treated as an equal member of the court, and should have titles bestowed upon him in due time—but for now, he will grow up as your best friend. Your only.

And whilst declaring this in about as much royal haughtiness as you could have managed, you looked over at Gojo. You don’t remember for what reason. You don’t remember what you were looking for.

All you remember is that Gojo’s eyes seemed brighter in that moment, like the night’s cloak of stars. There were tears in his eyes.

And he flashed you his crooked grin.

You grinned back.

His Majesty and the advisors didn’t take long to mull over the thought before asking the circus master to name his price for the boy. And Gojo had been small then - oh-so-small - a mere waif of a boy. He was clearly the youngest amongst these adults, and the circus master hadn’t even remembered he was part of the troupe.

He’d demanded two crowns and a bag of wheat.

To which The King had obliged with a simple wave of his hand—before freeing the other circus members, as well. He was merciful…most of the time.

And you’d been so overcome with joy that you ran to the jester and took his hands then and there.

Had it been in the little passageway where you’d met, then you might even have embraced him.

But perhaps you’d given the ministers enough conniptions for the day?

“Follow me.” You breathlessly whispered to the little jester that seemed far too shocked for words. “I shall summon the royal tailor whilst you take your bath- we have every fragrance in the land, and more than enough botanical springs.”

But the longer he stayed speechless and unmoving, the more self-conscious you grew.

Your fingers loosened around his, “That…that is if you wish to-”

“I do.” He stopped you from slipping away - he clasped your hands even tighter. Tight enough to nearly hurt—but you didn’t stop him. “I-I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

“You shan’t have to call me that.”

And though a few eavesdropping court ladies and gentlemen gasped at the destruction of long-held social etiquette, Gojo had merely smiled and nodded. And then you’d been the one to whisk him away. 

You.

Gojo shared little about his upbringing that first day in the palace, and even less over the years. You knew that he’d been born into an average family just a kingdom over - Gojo itself was a fairly used name - but tragedy struck and his parents both passed away—although you never asked how, and he never shared why. It almost…seemed as if he didn’t remember. A part of him that had scrubbed out most of those years, like a bloodstain.

And he’d lived in the same lifeless home as them for five days. Trying to wake them.

No one listened.

No one arrived.

No one helped.

No one helped.

No one helped.

Driven by hunger and loneliness, Gojo finally left the house after those five days. And just his fortune, he hadn’t walked long before encountering the travelling circus—so many jugglers and jesters and acrobats and fire-breathers. And one master leading them from the front. 

He’d been both enraptured and scared.

And hungry. So…so hungry.

Even the smell of the lion food was appetizing to him. 

One acrobat passing by had spotted the boy watching wide-eyed from the side of the road, and seeing how desperate he was, shared her lunch and invited him to join. It was the biggest act of kindness he’d felt in five days.

And so he taught himself to rhyme. To joke. To smile. 

And two years later was when you saved him- you told Gojo that it wasn’t so much as saving him than him saving you. But he denied. 

“Thank you.” Gojo had whispered to you, almost fearful, during his first night in the palace. The Princess’s jester had been granted quarters right across the hallway from your own chambers—and yet, the first night was always the scariest, wasn’t it? 

He’d given you quite the fright sneaking into your royal chamber after all the candles had been snuffed and your attendants had left. Soundless as a mouse—and looking just as unwelcome inside the gilded bedroom. But eventually, you welcomed him onto the lavish mattress far too large for even two.

Let alone two children.

Laid a fair distance apart, you faced each other. 

“I forbid you to say those words again, Gojo.” You smiled. “And just for the one night, I trust?” You meant the bed-sharing; should your attendants walk upon this in the morning, then Gojo would be thrown into the dungeons faster than he can rhyme. 

Gojo nodded, somewhat flushed. “Just for the one night.”

.

.

.

“Satoru-”

“Mmmm, puff pastries and wagashi.”

“Satoru.”

“Huh? Ohhh, sweet cheesecake.”

“Sato—” The exasperated call of his name doesn’t land before the kick does - square in the middle of Gojo Satoru’s broad back. 

Sometime in the last few years, after he’d taken up training with General Yaga to keep himself fit for his dances, Gojo had started sleeping without his upper garments on. 

And you couldn’t deny that it was a sight for sore eyes; his sun-freckled sun, the dips and curves of his muscles shifting as he did. The roundness of his deltoids. The sensual curve of his spine. The patterns of his scapulae, and lash marks that he wouldn’t explain. They moved like waves of an ocean, and they peaked and fell just as much. Some mornings you dared to trace every single one—just with your eyes, of course. 

But of course, he was just your best friend - socially, your jester, at that.

Which is exactly why you’re kicking him off the bed the second you hear your morning attendants heading down the corridor. As soon as he’s out of sight, the double doors to your bedroom open—and they’re floating inside with steaming-hot trays of breakfast and new fragrances for your skin. 

One of the attendants sets the breakfast tray down on your bedside table, and you sneak him a few of the blueberry-spotted pancakes. Though have to slap Gojo’s hand away from swiping the syrup, too, before one of them sees.

“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Your head attendant, Utahime, trills as she throws the curtains open to let soft morning sunlight flood inside. “The perfect morning.”

“It is.” You’re nodding. You slap Gojo’s hand away from the syrup again.

“And we have no more than an hour to get you ready, Your Highness. So I beg you to finish your tea quickly.” Another attendant hands you your morning tea - just how you liked it. It smelled of something floral that reminded you of the royal gardens, and something else so utterly appetizing that you could feel Gojo huffin’ and puffing about beneath you.

Served him right for sneaking in again, you think.

You slap Gojo’s hand away again. Utahime continues speaking onwards obliviously, “—prepare for the guest.”

“A guest?” That piques your interest. 

This time, Gojo steals the syrup. And it creates a loud clatter that draws the attention of all the attendants sweeping and scurrying about to pick out your gown for the day—you’re unceremoniously coughing to cover it up. You’re not sure it works.

Utahime crinkles her nose, “Nasty little ailment, isn’t it?” Her intelligent eyes dip down to the bed - though she keeps it discreet. Utahime, as well as being your head attendant, was one of your closest friends as well. 

Close to you in age, you’d hand-picked her to be what was essentially your right-hand woman. 

And she knew of the rather…close friendship that you and Gojo had; perhaps improper for court etiquette, but just right for the two of you. 

From underneath the bed, Gojo snickers. 

You bounce on the mattress, whilst Utahime kicks the bed post. 

“Ah…this ancient bed.” You’re commenting once the other attendants look at you with raised brows, “Honestly, sometimes I believe it to be haunted.”

“Wake up to a mysterious figure at your bedside, do you?” Utahime eyes you. You avert your gaze from hers. “Well, we should do well to rid your chambers of that before the Prince arrives, Your Highness.”

“The Prince?”

“Prince Zenin Naoya, of course.”

Gojo knocks his head on the bed frame. 

.

.

.

Prince Zenin Naoya possessed many titles; the latest one being the most unpleasant royal you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Which was saying rather a lot.

You’ve met many a-princess that were appalling to her attendants, and many princes that boasted their numerous wars. Your father himself fell into the latter group. And many, many more dukes and duchesses and marquis—and whatever other title had surfaced over the last few centuries and gotten latched-onto with rabid, golden-ringed claws. Had it not been for your duty to maintain a peaceful political climate, you would have forgone those social gatherings altogether.

Though your father was particularly careful not to repeat the border strife that had occurred not too long ago in your kingdom…some violence-seeped dispute over power. 

And so you lifted your head and plastered a smile.

You managed to clamor through even the most painful of social obligations.

But this one…this one might just force you to rewrite all the royal rules that had been drilled into you since you were younger. 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You nod in acknowledgement as the Prince bows. His coronet was made of pure gold; a simple band with a blood-red ruby in the middle. 

It flashed at you menacingly.

And so did his pearly-white smile. 

“The pleasure is all yours, Your Highness.” 

You’re taken aback at his choice of words. You meet Gojo’s eyes a little ways away from the court- and his read the same confusion. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Then Naoya turns to the King seated on the throne beside you instead. His smile leers, “My utmost gratitude for this invitation, Your Majesty. My parents send their regards.”

“Good people, good people.” Your father nods, “Their assistance during…those times of trouble shall forever remain in my memory.”

“Who are we if not united against the face of the radicals, Your Majesty?” Naoya graciously bows once more. 

“Well said.” And then the King makes a sweeping gesture in your direction. “And in the future, it seems we shall be united once more.”

Naoya throws his gaze at you again, and the way he looks at you…it makes you hug your arms to yourself.

You’re unsure why your gaze had been upon Gojo at that very moment - they always did seem to find him - but you watch as his expression darkens. Darkens. Darkens. In a way you’ve never seen before, and then it’s hitting you—

“Father?”

But he ignores you, “Satoru—!” In the years that you’ve brought Gojo to court, your father had become rather fond of his rhymes and riddles as much as you were. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that he had been called upon, and Gojo’s expression switches instantly into one of foolish mirth. “Why don’t you share one of your amusing rhymes with our guest?”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply. As he makes his way to the middle of the court, where Naoya and his entourage were gathered, the bells upon his blue-and-white garments jingle. 

And before you know it, Gojo clasps onto Naoya’s shoulders and ensnares him with his words. “Naoya o’ Naoya, with your great riches and gait.” The corners of his lips twitch - something sharp. Gojo covers his mouth in a faux-whisper, though his words reach every single corner of the vast chamber. “Every lady here knows you take potions to compensate~”

Naoya’s face turns green then red. A furious red.

As if fearing the Prince would swing, Gojo jumps back- just in time for the hay-blond man to whirl around. “But oh, no potion shall make Prince Naoya’s rooster big—the most you ladies get will be the size of a fig~”

The jester laughs maniacally, and so does much of the court; you yourself can’t stop from letting out a startled laugh or two. 

Your best friend never did hold back - perhaps because he was the only one allowed to do so without fearing the threat of the dungeons. 

And Gojo watches as a giggle slips past the hand you’d brought up to cover your mouth- and his grin widens as he takes it as a challenge. Dancing around Naoya, he continues—

“Naoya is hated by the ladies of the court. Naoya is hated in his medical reports~” He trills gleefully, darting a hand out and knocking Naoya’s coronet off. “And all the ladies and all the healers, have never seen a cock this short~”

Red face now turning almost…a sickly yellow, Naoya attempts to fist-fight the jester. Though Gojo was far more agile than he looked, and he was dodging each hit with ease.

“Oh—have I offended you, Your Highness? Perhaps a change of pace…” Gojo crows. “For all Naoya hates women, he might as well court men-”

“You- you—”

“Easy, son.” Your father chuckles to himself as well, “You should do good to familiarize yourself with the Princess’s jester if you are to marry her.”

Gojo stutters- and his rhyme pauses. His eyes widen.

You feel the red, red carpet give out beneath you. 

.

.

.

“I simply must…apologize for Sato- my jester, Your Highness.” 

The clinking of silverware fortunately masked the waver in your tone. It was insincere and unapologetic.

Naoya maintains an expression as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant, perhaps as if it was on his very plate. The Prince cuts into his bird with far too much force than necessary, “Apology accepted.” Rather short.

Though you yourself didn’t care—you shoot a look at the ministers that were currently attempting to meld into the royal portraits on the wall. 

With nervous smiles, they urge you to continue.

It was a poor imitation of a romantic dinner - as romantic as a political marriage could get. 

The royal dining room had a table that sprawled nearly from one end-to-end. Polished mahogany. Intricately-carved legs. So thick that they didn’t buckle under the hundreds of dishes piled on top: soups to puddings to heart-shaped wagashi to those you couldn’t even name. Woven in-between were flickering candles and vases of red, red roses—sprouting confessions of love. 

Some of those petals were even scattered across the floor.

Though the dining room could seat about four-hundred guests, right now it only seated him and you. You and your future husband.

Your future husband.

Your future husband.

Your future husband.

It still hadn’t sunk in, and you didn’t want it to.

Zenin Naoya takes a bite of his roasted bird and spits it back out. From his entourage, one of the Zenin ministers darts out with a dish to collect it.

You wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Two courts were watching this fallacy of courtship. 

From your side, it was the entirety of your court save for some of the outer ladies-in-waiting and some gents, and your parents. From his side, it was Naoya’s entire entourage at his every beck, call, and swallow. Just waiting for the opportunity that their beloved Prince didn’t like anything.

Which seemed to be…everything.

You yourself can only pick at the delicacies on your plate - they’d done well to include favorites of both you and His Highness. And yet…

And yet, in the past eighteen years you’ve never sat through a dinner without Gojo at your side. 

Always at your right-hand seat. Always chomping through his dinner with overexaggerated noises that made you laugh, and the ministers grimace.

How could you feel so alone surrounded by so many people, and yet lacking one?

You’re biting back a sigh.

“Pssst.”

Confused, you look up at Naoya- but he seems just as morbidly indulgent in his food as he was before. He was spitting out even more. 

And so you look around—but none of the ministers nor advisors catch your eye, either.

“Psssssst.”

There it was again. Somewhat irritated and feeling your confusion growing - this dinner certainly hadn’t put you in a good mood - you’re about to excuse yourself from this social hostage-situation. Someone must be attempting to make a fool out of you. You’re resting your hands on the polished table and about to push off—

When you feel something…touch your wrist.

You’re about to scream-

“Tamper your screaming, please.” 

Oh, well if they asked so nicely…

Wait-

Who?

Without making too much of a spectacle, you slide your fork off the edge of the table. 

Naoya grumbles at the metallic ringing—and muttering a dainty apology, you’re leaning down to pick it up. Or so it seems. 

Instead, you’re crouching yourself down and lifting the tablecloth ever-so-slightly. It’s a purple velvet, one of the finest in the land, and it opens up to reveal one of the greatest treasures this palace held. At least, in your opinion.

Gojo Satoru brings a finger up to his lips and winks. His make-up crinkling handsomely as he did so, “Do you frequent these parts?”

“I should ask the same from you.” You hiss, glancing around to make sure that no one was looking. “Satoru, what do you think you’re doing-”

“Exercising my culinary skills, my princess.” And he raises up a little velvet packet in one hand, shaking it around tantalizingly. He answers your question before you can voice it, “Just a little horseshoe, just a little wool from Yaga’s sweater, and perhaps the Prince that swallows this shall be a little sweeter~”

Your jaw drops. “You cannot be serious-”

“Never in my life have I been more serious.” Gojo replies solemnly, then with an innocent flutter of his lashes- “Forgive me for not sharing, my princess. But perhaps you would favor it as well?”

“It shan’t suit my palate.” You answer firmly.

“It’s far more palatable than what I did to the wine, trust me.” Gojo smirks.

“You rouge.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Naoya’s tone grates through the little bubble of mirth you’d formed—in less than a minute, no less. “Wife- wife.”

You and Gojo stare at one another in shock.

Wife?

One of your ministers coughs pointedly, and with a final glance at Gojo, you’re straightening in your chair. “Were you perhaps addressing…me, Your Highness?” And any smart man would have quickly backtracked at this opportunity to change their answer. 

But you never claimed that Zenin Naoya was particularly smart. “My eyes don’t perceive any other woman here?” He scoffs, taking a bite of a chicken leg and then immediately spitting it out—“As for the engagement plans- eugh.”

You’re biting back a laugh as he drags out a string - seemingly from a wool…sweater…of Yaga’s - from his mouth and looks at his ministers in bewilderment. 

“Th-the chef must have been in a state of pioneering.” You cough out.

Another bite he takes.

And another wad of wool he spits out. 

You bring a hand up to your lips, “Perhaps you should wash it down with the wine, Your Highness? It had been brewed specifically for this occasion.”

And so he does - eyeing you all the while.

Naoya takes a big swig of his goblet and—shrieks as he finds half of a shoe inside. 

One of Gojo’s very own.

That shriek is loud enough to make the walls of the dining chamber rattle; and Gojo shoots out from the side of the dining table, unable to keep his laughter in control, and dances away. “Twiddle dee, twiddle doo—Naoya coughed up a shoe~” Those double doors are still swinging as it sinks in what just happened- and your ministers and guards take a menacing step towards where the colorful intruder had disappeared. 

You raise your hand to signal them to halt.

“This insolent—” Naoya was spitting with fury- unable to even formulate words. His mouth is a downturned slash, and he shoves the plate off the table. It shatters vociferously.

You notice that he’s turned a little green in the way he only seemed to do when Gojo was nearby. “My first order as King shall be to rid this incompetent kitchen-” He spits. “-and that godforsaken jester-”

Your fork clatters to the floor once again. “What’s wrong with Satoru?” You didn’t care if you sounded rather too offended by such a question. “Is it the practical jokes? I shall request that he ceases such-”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Naoya cackles to himself. “Woman, what is there not wrong about that goddamn fool? He’s- he’s—a fool.”

“For that is his duty, is it not?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“I suppose.” Naoya leans back in his chair, “But his duty is to the crown, and when I am King-”

“His duty is to me.” Before you know it, you’re standing. You’re breathing hard. You’re ignoring the ministers that attempt to hold you back. “He’s my best fri—jester.”

And you repeat…though you don’t know whether it’s more for yourself, Naoya, or the boy with the blue eyes that was once underneath the table.

“He’s mine.”

Those words fall like the blade of a guillotine. 

Naoya’s eyes were spitting fire. “He’s…yours, is it?” He throws his cape back and stands, “Your Highness…I fail to understand why you entangle yourself with a mere jester?” Though the sentence itself wasn’t one particularly barbed, his distaste bled through every syllable. 

“He- he is my best friend-”

“He is a jester.” Naoya says with a tone of finality. He pushes back, letting the chair clutter behind him- the brings up a palm to stop his ministers from righting it. “And a jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”

Those footsteps of his resound louder than your heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

On the way to making his exit, he stops before the entrance and speaks. “We are to be engaged in six moons, and when you are my wife, I expect you to act like one.” Naoya’s gaze is deadly as he grips the door open, “My family earned our titles bringing down entire households- a mere jester is nothing to me.”

Another guillotine: this time, it’s the closing of the dining room doors.

“Your Highness-”

But you’re following Naoya out, and tears burn behind your eyes.

Just as luck - or perhaps fate - would have it, who else had been standing behind the doors listening to every word? None other than Gojo Satoru. 

Though his face is downturned, and you can’t make out his expression, your heart soars at the sight of him. He’s pressed against one of the walls closest to the doors, and he clenches his fists at his sides. And you’re just about to reach out- to tell him that Naoya’s words didn’t matter- to tell him that Naoya didn’t matter—

But before you could, Gojo sharply turns to you and bows. Those bells atop his hat jingle as he does so, and he stays bowed as he asks, “This fool begs to be dismissed, Your Highness?”

Your Highness? “You…you may…” Your brows furrow, fingers trembling towards him. “But Satoru-”

And yet, he’s gone.

And you didn’t get a single look at his expression.

You wondered what you would see. You wondered what you would be hoping to see.

But no matter what it was, you knew that all you wanted to see - whether anger or mirth or irritation - was Gojo himself. 

Your engagement was in six moons.

.

.

.

To your dismay, Gojo Satoru was avoiding you.

You should have realized that something was off that moment after the disastrous dinner—or perhaps when he didn’t join you to sleep, or perhaps when he hadn’t joined court in the following days. According to one of the palace staff, the jester was ill, but every attempt at a visit to his quarters ended up with you being rebuffed or diverted.

And how many opportunities for diversion there were.

The palace was a-flush with florists, and bakers, and candle-makers, and mask-designers—and orchestras upon orchestras practising for your engagement waltz. 

One of those times you’d been dragged away to floral-picking for the grand engagement ball - the one that would announce your union to the entire kingdom. Another time it had been to pose for a portrait with Naoya (a particularly taxing endeavour). And another time it was to pick out the colors for your mask- this was to be an extravagant masquerade ball after all. And another time it had been to get fitted for the ballgown you’d be wearing for the night—like exactly right now.

This time, you’d gotten just past the guards stationed upon either side of Gojo’s chambers (both on his word, and to prevent the Princess from getting into any…scandalous affairs before the engagement).

And you’d cracked open the door - ever-so-slightly - only to find that what was inside…made you halt.

Gojo’s room was completely and utterly empty.

Not just of himself, but of his literature books, his shoes, his bells, his flower vases. Anything and everything that made the chamber so utterly Gojo’s, was gone. Even the braid of friendship you wove for him when you were twelve - that he kept at the very top of his jewelry box - and the flower crowns you made for him that he dried and hung from his windows—you made them rather often, before…Naoya. 

He had intruded upon your idle dance between love and friendship - and you were still feeling bitter and confused as Utahime fitted you. As she wound up the hip springs of your corset- and tightened, and tightened—

“I just fail- hah, fail to understand.” You’re muttering, slightly out-of-breath.

Utahime looks up from the knots of your corset, “Your Highness?”

The royal tailor had just stepped out to aid in bringing the imported silk and cloth of gold up to your bed chambers, and in the meantime your attendants were helping tighten your numerous layers underneath. Your ballgown - engagement dress, more precisely - would be fitted on top of the base linen undergarments and the crinolines. 

Tonight, you will be engaged.

And to a man that has never made you laugh once-

“Your Highness?” Utahime repeats, snapping you out of your little reverie.

“Oh- forgive me.” You nod at her in acknowledgment. “What I meant to say was, I just fail to understand what he’s thinking.”

She nods back - you didn’t have to specify who. “It is precisely as I have told you, Your Highness.” Utahime tightens a few more knots- knocks a few more breaths out of you. “That ol’ nuisance has not a single thought in his mind. You must not worry yourself too much about him.”

“Oh, but Utahime…how can I not?” You’re sure the flurry of other attendants surrounding you were listening in - smoothing down your layers, preparing your jewelry. But you didn’t care at the moment, if you did say so yourself. 

“I believe it is just a little ailment, Your Highness. I fear I am not blessed enough for such a thing to prove fatal to that jester-”

You gulp. “I believe Satoru may be avoiding me.”

At that, even Utahime’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”

“His chambers have been emptied of even the flower crowns, and I haven’t even the faintest glimpse of him these past few days.” Speaking these words aloud seems to make them too real. “I believe I told you of how he overheard the conversation between Naoya and I?”

Utahime nods.

“Naoya had uttered some things- balderdash, if you ask me—” Your fists threaten to clench, but two attendants were working on your nails. Another was double-checking the measurements for your mask. Mask. “Yet I fear Satoru may have misconstrued some things…and I haven’t laid eyes on him ever since.”

There’s a silence.

Her fingers finish their final knot.

And then Utahime stands to look you squarely in the eyes. “This is Gojo Satoru we speak of, is it not?”

Slowly, unsure of where this was going, you nod.

“Then you have naught to worry about, Your Highness.” She flashes you such a beautiful smile, looking over your corset for imperfections - of course, there were none. “It is most likely that he’s skulking about these palace walls, looking for a minister to scare or a prince to embarrass.”

You’re letting out a soft huff of laughter.

“Or even…a princess to adore.”

Your eyes widen- and you’re snapping your gaze to hers. There’s a knowing expression that Utahime wears - one she often gets whenever she notices Gojo hiding in your room, or watches the two of you sneak out during royal balls. 

This one, in particular, was about to be the most crowded and convoluted yet. 

And you’re meeting her smile, eventually. “I thank you, Utahime…” You then look down as you hear the doors of the dressing room fly open, “But adoration cannot stop a royal engagement.”

Three sharp claps sound as the tailor gets the attention of your attendants. 

“That will be all, ladies. Thank you.” And his own attendants and apprentices flood the room to take over the fitting stage—Utahime squeezes your shoulder as she leaves.

Though she doesn’t reach her bed chambers for a much-needed rest, as she might have wanted to. Instead, she’s halting right outside the entrance-

“You.”

And making sure you were occupied by the tailoring, Gojo bows dramatically. Holding his little bells so they don’t jingle- “At your service, Madam Sour-face.”

“Cease it.”

“No, I said Sour-face-”

“Forget it.” Utahime could feel a migraine coming on already at the mere sight of his impish grin. 

“Sour-face Utahime with her pressure so high, one more joke and she’ll make me cry~”

Why - oh why - couldn’t the universe take as kindly to her and forbid her from seeing this man, too? She continues, “First, enlighten me as to why you’ve been giving Her Highness the cut?”

A too-innocent expression crosses his face. “Pardon? I fear I have no recollection of ever-”

“I will kill you with my bare hands and feel no ounce of guilt.”

Gojo clicks his jaw shut.

“I…” And it’s under the pressure of her unwavering glare that he finally cracks- letting out a deep sigh and dropping his head. “I plan to leave the palace.”

“Pardon?” Even she sounds utterly shocked. “When-”

“Tonight.” Gojo has never sounded more serious to her. “I have spent the past few days gathering my possessions, everything…she gifted me. As the ball starts tonight, I shall take my leave.”

“But your duties-”

“I have informed His Majesty of my decision. It seems though he shall miss the rhymes, he is keen for an amicable marriage between Her Highness and Prince Naoya. A jester can be replaced, trust in a marriage cannot—especially not one of political nature.” Utahime is almost shocked at this simple foresight, but then again- everyone always did underestimate the fool.

She watches his reaction, “And…the Princess?”

Which seems to make him flinch - as though struck. Perhaps a part of him was. “…I shall leave her a letter before I depart. Her Highness does not deserve to see such cowardice-”

“And yet you still remain.” Utahime’s words make his blue eyes snap to hers. She crosses her arms in front of her, and lets a smug smile take over her lips. “For what reason were you spying outside Her Highness’s fitting, if not to see her?”

“I—” He takes a desperate step closer. “It was simply in passing-”

“For what reason did you empty your bedroom of the flower crowns Her Highness made especially for you? Surely they shan’t prove themselves too useful on the road?”

Gojo’s eyes widened. “I…the memories-”

“For what reason have you waited until the last minute to leave? Until the last minute she shall not be yours, and yours only?”

He snarls, “She was never mine.”

“Because you believe the Princess does not deserve to base herself- being the lover of a fool yes?” When Gojo does not answer, she continues. “The fool seems to believe he knows what the Princess deserves. But does the fool know what he deserves?”

There’s a prolonged silence—of which is only punctured by the awed gasps from inside the dressing room, as the tailor and his apprentices comment on your beauty.

Gojo has the sudden, mad thought to open those doors just a little wider and see you for himself. Just one last time.

One last time.

What was he thinking?

He laughs to himself bitterly, “A jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.” 

“But a princess can be everything to a jester, yes?” Utahime asks. “More importantly- who are we to dictate what a person is to another person?”

The answer was as obvious as it was painful.

Gojo Satoru loved you. 

Loves you.

Something of it must show on his face, because Utahime throws him a pitiful look she’s never shared before—“You may leave if you please, I shan’t stop you.” And then she reaches out and presses a hand against the doors- they part, unlocked. “But if you wish to stay and stop acting a-fool…then follow me.”

She brushes past him.

Meanwhile Gojo looks inside and catches a glimpse of you - and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

He runs after Utahime, bells jingling.

.

.

.

“You look…”

“How odd.”

“How startling.”

“What a change!”

Utahime crinkles her nose, “The only thing this proves is that your face is more tolerable when it is covered.” She turns to the brown-haired woman next to her, “And that my Shoko is a goddess when it comes to handiwork.”

Shoko smiles sweetly, “I have much practice making death masks.”

“I’ll say.”

As the other few attendants pendulate between laughing to themselves, and admiring Shoko’s quick work - she’d been requested just a few hours before to make a mask befitting a royal ball, and she’d finished it just in time - Gojo leans closer to the mirror. 

He reaches his trembling fingers up to touch his face, “This is surely…me?”

“Unfortunately.” Utahime sighs, and she gets elbowed by Miwa.

Utahime had gathered the most trust-worthy attendants she led: Miwa, Momo, and Kugisaki from tailoring. Along with the impeccable royal healer, Shoko, who she knew would be the only one that would be able to create a mask for the ball with her expert hands. And they’d gotten to work fixing up perhaps their most difficult case yet—none other than Gojo Satoru.

The royal jester was rather fussy at first- insisting that the powder puffs and cloth wipes tickled. 

Before Utahime put her foot down and announced that they weren’t going to present a ‘half-assed’ (forgive her language) marriage-wrecker to the Princess just yet.

That reminder of you kept him quiet for the rest of the make-over.

And Kugisaki had even commented, “Perhaps we ought to invoke the Princess’s name every time we need to keep the jester in line?”

“Do not tempt me.” Utahime had replied. 

Gojo had shuddered.

But it really was true: he sat through the rest of the next hour or two without so much as a single rhyme or peep. 

Not even when they told him to ‘pucker up’ in order to douse him in rouges and lip stains. That likely saved five years from Utahime’s life…

Gojo himself helped them scrub off his stark-white jester’s make-up. The vampiric base. The teardrops of black paint. The red, red lips—a few of his little troupe openly stared as they’d never seen the Princess’s jester without his make-up. 

And Gojo himself knew that he wasn’t all that bad looking - he had noble features. A strong nose. A high set of cheekbones. A pert, pretty mouth that always looked to be on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.

Or, at least, that was how you described him.

You were the only person that got to see Gojo without his court-deemed make-up; and you always did say he was handsome. To which he’d always bat his long, white lashes dramatically and compose you a sappy sonnet about your eyes. He supposes he knew he was decent, but…handsome? 

He never saw it.

But these girls seemed determined to make him.

Cloudy hair. Delicate features. Blue eyes like a painting.

They replaced his make-up with something simpler. Gone was the cast of white, instead replaced by just a bit of rouge and shimmer. His pale brows were tamed and so was his hair - braided to the side using fragrant rose oils, with a few pieces falling handsomely over his face. All thanks to Momo, of course. 

Kugisaki had dug up something from that ol’ tailor’s trunk—a snow-white cloak and doublet, along with the associated tights he often made fun of. It was a suit fit for a prince. 

And it was exactly the type of suit he’d made fun of a prince for.

But here he was now - not a single difference between him and them. Or at least physically.

Gojo’s training sessions with Yaga had kept him fit; and he fit the suit perfectly. His broad shoulders were outlined against the clean cut, and his trim waist fit snugly into those damn tights—even through the suit, it was obvious he was well-built, in a way those baggy jester’s outfits never did show. Polished shoes. Silver buttons. Silver belt. Heavy silver chains and pendants that arrived with the robes. 

He might even have passed for a battle-hardened Prince like this…

Momo helped him into his equally as white gloves - it seems they were sticking to a theme for him. All the better to help his eyes and his crown stand out.

Oh yes…the girls had somehow bribed Yaga into letting them sneak down to the royal treasure. For just a few minutes.

All the spoils of war and generations of wealth—and they’d come out with a crown. 

It was Utahime who’d dug this one out, deciding that that would make him stand out far more than the usual hats. 

Made of pure silver; the design itself was rather simple, or so it seemed at first. Only when one looked closer…when one ventured further…could you see that what seemed like a simple band was actually a wreath of silver branches and floral vines twisted into one, with sapphire-studded flowers blooming along it. One more thing had been taken from the treasury - a signet ring with a ‘G’. 

“It felt proper.” Miwa, who had found the ring, beamed. “Names and titles are lost to time. And though I may not know what the ‘G’ once stood for, at least for tonight, it can mean ‘Gojo’, can it not?”

Gojo felt it getting slid onto his left hand, and he stares at the ring with furrowed brows.

He stares and stares.

He’s never felt more worthy of you.

By the time they had finished, the strings of the orchestra had started playing their opening sequence - the ball was commencing. 

Utahime turns to the rest of them, “We have done well.” Then, ultimately, back to grumble at him. “…You have done well.”

And though Gojo could make up a rhyme to rile her up, though Gojo could comment that they could have done better and bask in the ensuing chaos, though he could do his mask and his mask—

He simply looks at each and every one and smiles. Sincerely. “Thank you.”

They smile tenderly back.

The final component of his outfit for your engagement ball was the mask. Though there was no set theme, Shoko had gone above and beyond to craft his in the shape of the upper-half of a snow leopard’s face. The feline gaze. The sharp ears. The faint outline of rosettes against the white mask. It was mastery. 

Gojo dons it and smiles to himself. He really did feel handsome, as you had always said.

His blue, blue eyes twinkle from behind the mask.

.

.

.

“You look absolutely riveting, Your Highness.”

“I thank you.”

This was a royal ball that looked gilded. There was no other word to describe it—gilded. 

Polished floors. A thrumming orchestra. Golden chandeliers had every single candle lit; and they crept halfway down to the ballroom floor as if gifted from the Sun itself. Just for you. 

And that was in addition to the numerous other decorations that made even the most high-titled of guests gape in awe: the shimmering fountains that looked as if they were sprouting liquid gold, golden-dipped gardenias wreathed around the hallway, and the long table of foods were most lovely. All sorts of sweets and champagnes in honor of the union.

Guests upon guests upon guests being announced as they entered. They were dressed to impress, and there were more aristocrats gathered for this one ball than you’d seen in your entire life, perhaps. 

Had Gojo been here with you, then you two would’ve had the most amusing time coming up with stories for each one. 

There was Sir Gakuganji who held a secret liking for abstract dancing, here was Lord Todo whose son had fallen in love with a thousand-year-old portrait. No one would be spared. The two of you would have tucked yourself into some alcove and watched as the lavishments flew by, and when everyone was appropriately drunk you’d sneak out to the stables or to star-gaze. 

Your heart clenches.

Satoru…

You attempt to shake your head free of him.

It most certainly was a beautiful ball. And if you imagined that this was one of no particular purpose, then you really could see it. 

The ball was decorated to match your dress, you see.

Floor-length silk. Gold-threaded bodice. 

Celestial layers upon layers.

Your uppermost skirts had gold dusting atop it; and they dazzled as you floated across the ballroom. 

Your attendants had decided that going for a more simple look with the jewelry was appropriate - it would accentuate the simple gold circlet atop your head. A single sapphire embedded into the middle of it. 

Naoya had sneered at the choice, of course. When doesn’t he? But this time, he was particularly offended at the presence of a sapphire rather than the Zenin family’s signature blood-red rubies.

You refused to make your attendants change it. You donned your cat-like mask with pride. 

Perhaps that’s why he seemed keen on ignoring you in favor of a group of other beautiful court ladies in attendance—though you honestly couldn’t imagine anything different happening had the two of you been married, as well. You sighed inwardly.

You’re nodding in acknowledgement as Prince Okkotsu Yuta nears with a man beside him. 

He looked older - about your father’s age, if not a few years older. Tall. Toned - in the way of someone that had one been corded with muscle, but had since lost it to age. Bearing an ice-white beard and a row of silver medals proudly lining his chest—he stands before you in his off-white uniform and bows. It was obvious that the man was rather handsome, drawing eyes from around the ballroom. 

But what catches your eye the most were his eyes.

Summer-sky blue eyes.

They reminded you of—

“My uncle, Michizane, Your Highness.” Yuta introduces him. “This is his first time in the palace since…”

Your voice drops into something hushed. “I understand.” Turning to the general, you’re half-bowing once more. “I am rejoiced to welcome you into my home, any troubles that we may have had in the past-”

“Have naught to do with the present, Your Highness.” Michizane graciously nods at you. “And most certainly have naught to do with the beloved princess.”

You manage a smile.

“And if you can excuse my being so impudent…it is precisely what I sought this occasion for, Your Highness.” He looks over the bustling crowd, now getting ready to waltz- and seemingly catches the eye of your father. Your father who now looked as though he’d just seen a walking dead man. “I hope to bury the misunderstandings between my family and your father, and understand what happened to my younger brother and his family. It had proved itself to be both a blessing and a curse that I had been on an excursion during those troubled times. And I seek a resolution for the sake of my inner peace, if nothing else.”

You’re nodding in agreement. “It is most tragic what happened. For the sake of borders…nothing is worth so much. And I cannot ask for your mercy enough-”

“It is not something I shall ever be able to forgive. But you are not at fault, dear princess.” Michizane smiles conclusively, but not unkindly. 

“And yet, I have been wracked with guilt ever since.” You ultimately reply. 

Though you hadn’t met Michizane previously, you had learned that the history between your families was a long and bloody one. His family had been of a royal bloodline, of kingdoms now lost and eviscerated into neighboring ones - including yours. And you knew it was partly the fault of your kingdom. And although royal tutors justified and justified away your father’s actions—you could see past them

“Perhaps…” Michizane is the one to break through your whirlwind of thoughts. He reaches his gloved hand out, a silver signet ring on his middle finger. “-a dance to commence the burying of our animosity?”

“But of course.”

As the orchestra starts up a lively tune, Michizane whisks you away onto the dance floor. Much to the horror of some of your elderly ministers, of course, who gaped at the mere presence of the man.

And at the fact that your first dance wasn’t with the Prince.

But laughter bubbles to your throat as Michizane twirls and swirls you—sways you smoothly around and around the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers you’ve ever encountered, and you’re smiling appreciatively at him once the song comes to a close.

From the corner of your vision, you spot the black-and-red-clad Naoya storming his way over to you. And you hurry to beg a second dance when-

A title is announced - louder than all the rest. 

A prince.

Prince…you don’t hear the name.

But you don’t need it. 

Because you’re looking up at the grand staircase from which guests made their entrance, hand-in-hand with their partners or followed by their entourages. This one had neither. This one was one of the most beautiful men you think you’ve ever seen.

He looked like something from a story.

Snow-white mask. Snow-white suit. He was tall and clearly toned - but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem almost…dainty. He gripped the balustrade of the landing and looked over the glistening ball- barely even breathing, it seemed like. And he looked content to remain there in awe, before the chief butler reading out the named coughs- pointedly.

The man startles.

He looks over at the chief butler, and then nods jerkily to himself. In self-assurance.

Cautiously, he makes his way down to the ball.

And the closer he gets, the more of his details you’re taking in: like the traces of signature silver on his suit, and the way his fingers trembled ever-so-slightly. 

He looked just like the princes you’d read about in fairytales - the ones you imagined as a child before you happened to meet a real-life prince. 

Curls of white could be seen behind that snow leopard mask of his. They contrasted oh-so-beautifully with the blue, blue sapphire atop his crown.

Just like his eyes.

Your breath hitches-

“I believe I may have been monopolizing you, Your Highness.” Michizane whispers as the Prince nears. 

“Pardon?” You look at him- but he merely smiles.

Before you know it, the mysterious guest has neared enough to give the two of you a jerky bow. His tone tremors ever-so-slightly as he asks, “P-permission for the next dance, Your Highness?”

Michizane nods at you reassuringly. 

“I would be delighted.” You breathe, and then he’s taking your hand in his—gently. A touch even softer than the fabric of his tender, tender gloves. 

“I bid you a good evening, Your Highnesses.” Michizane tips his hat, “And do take care of the lovely princess…” Before turning to the younger man…his brows furrow the longer he looks-

But a lady-in-waiting taps Michizane’s arm for a dance—and he’s made to turn away. 

And you’re left alone.

With him.

Naoya stuck with some other lady-in-waiting as you put your hand…tentatively on the other man’s right shoulder. He lets out a shaky breath, as if your mere touch was replenishing his soul—and he doesn’t move away. Then you let your second hand get grasped - gently - in his own. 

Backward with your right foot.

Sideways with your left foot.

Backwards.

Sideways.

Backwards.

Sideways. 

It’s halfway into the song, pressed closed to his thundering chest, that you finally break the silence. “The crown suits you…Satoru.”

Gojo flinches, “You discovered-”

“You did not seriously think you could fool me?” You smile. He mirrors it- albeit sheepishly. “Gojo Satoru, how could I possibly be gulled? You have been my dearest friend since I was eight-”

He twirls you in the middle of the ballroom.

And you continue. “-and the one I hold closest to heart.” Looking deep into his blue, blue eyes.

Gojo sighs, “Words cannot describe how beautiful you are, my princess. The least this fool can do is but dress to impress.”

“You look particularly dashing this evening as well, Satoru. You always do.” Surprise makes his lips part—and you’re leaning in. Though they do not touch, you hear gasps from the onlookers. “You look like a Prince.”

“And you look like my dreams.”

The two of you dance for a second song, and a third, and a fourth. Without letting Naoya gain any entryway between you two - that non-existent space - you two dance the night away—dizzy with nothing but the proximity.

The realization that you could be so…close as long as no one found out. That you couldn’t be closer.

That you could.

That you needed to.

By the time that most of the guests had well and thoroughly indulged themselves in the bubbling champagne and wine, the clock had struck midnight—and you and Gojo disappear into the night once no one’s looking. Through the small passageway where the two of you had first met, then up a few flights of staircases, breathless and giddy, you’re lucky there were no guards stationed outside your bed chambers as the ball raged on.

And you’re opening the door and falling into the vast bed with him.

Your hands on his lapels. His hands on your waist.

You’re both letting out synchronized grunts as your back hits the springy mattress, and Gojo’s letting out a scorching breath that fans your face. That sets your skin searing.

“We ought not to…” You whisper- and then you’re pressing your lips down his neck. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows.

“I am of the same thought.” He responds, in an equally hushed tone - as if anything louder would shatter this fragile dream. It most certainly must be a dream, yes? This was all you’ve ever wanted- and him. “And yet—”

And yet, Gojo places a hand on the back of your neck, and guides your mouth to his. 

He kisses you loooong and deep- and inexperienced. You both are.

You’re chuckling as you tug his lips open with yours - letting Gojo’s sultry tongue slide inside your wet cavern. He drags his tastebuds inside and moans—

And after kissing you and kissing you as if starved for eons—

Until your lips were buzzing.

Until his hot hips were crushing into yours.

—you let your fingers fall to his silver buttons. Rapidly undoing them.

“My princess.” The jester wrenches deep from his chest - guttural and gone. There was a crazed hint in his tone already. “Allow me…”

And before you know it, he guides your hips to rest back on the king-sized mattress. Sapphire eyes boring deeply into yours- Gojo hands you his crown to hold, as he hovers himself down and unravels the first few layers of your gown. 

His fingers are quick- nimble.

And it takes him far shorter an amount of time to rid you down to your undergarments than it takes your careful attendants. Desperate. Depraved. Soon enough, you’re feeling goosebumps prickle across your skin at the bite of cold midnight air; your chemise and undergarments were much too thin.

And soaked. 

Utterly, utterly soaked. 

But Gojo’s face flushes - almost hard enough to warm your skin through sheer proximity. He admires your sopping cunt through your panties, he leans down and presses his nose right where your clit would be. And then he sniffs—

“Fuck.”

He almost jolts. Reaching in and tearing through your undergarments with his teeth. 

“Fuh-fuck.”

The noise that expels from him is almost unbidden- and its primal tone is enough to make your toes curl. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stares at your swollen folds. He stares at your glossy slit. 

He stares and stares as slick beads out of you in a pretty stream—and before Gojo’s own mind seems to register, he’s muffling a hot moan between your naked legs. Immediately shoving himself nose-deep.

His chin thwacks! the top of your sopping slit, and his tongue wastes no time darting inwards. 

Your entrance is so wet that he has no trouble easin’ his thick muscle inside- despite its impressive girth. And then immediately zig-zagging his sensual inches fucking in—aaaaaaall along your walls and driving the curvaceous tip of his tongue into every little ridge and cranny. Fat. Trembling with need. 

“Yes, my princess.” Gojo’s managing between husky breaths- each scorched out against where you were most sensitive. “Yes, my princess-”

“S-Satoru—” Your hand’s reaching down to twist your fingers into his snow-white locks. 

You’re giving him a particularly hard pull and he groans-

“My princess…” That ocean gaze of his is half-lidded and hypnotized, flickering right up to bore into your eyes as he gluttonously propels his tongue even deeper. “I cannot live if I do not make you mine.”

Your feet plant on either side of his shoulders- a steadfast pedestal. For you to buck your hips and shove your drivelling cunt against his mouth, “Then what deters you, jester?”

Gojo’s chuckle is dark and deepened with lust. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

He’s moving his tongue in and out of your hole at such a frenzy. 

This was the night of your royal engagement, and you’re here getting eaten out by your jester—

“Does it vex you that this lowborn jester has finally gotten his hands on the princess’s pretty pussy?” He gurgles out into your arching core, the wads of your sap slipping between his lips—and then back out as he licks. “Perhaps not you…but surely those godforsaken ministers that must have hoped for a more…royal touch….”

And licks and licks and licks—“Y-you keep running that mouth, Sato-”

“Jester, remember?” He grins. “Pray tell, Your Highness, am I the first?”

He must know the answer. He surely must- he’s been at your side for the past eighteen years…and you yourself were aware that you were his first, too. 

Yet you find your lips moving before your mind does. And you whimper, “Y-yes…”

“Pardon, my princess?”

“Yes-”

Gojo drags the doughy patches of his fingertips across your clit.

“Then you grant this lowly fool the deepest and most precious honor.”

It was an honor. 

An honor to eat your pretty core—to press his puckered lips against your folds in such a sensual kiss- one that would make even the most scandalous of court ladies faint. To part those tender pussylips and dive his tongue inside- every single inch that thrusts away at a vigorous pace. Stuffing you from the hilt of his tastebuds, to that flexible tip that swirled to n’ fro- 

Gojo had his face pressed up so closely - so deeeeep - that parts of his features were rubbin’ red. Covered in slick. Dripping with it. 

And yet he was only scouring deeper- deeper- fucking deeper until your pelvis was crushed against his hungry maw. Crushed. “And this fool is grateful- so very, utterly grateful.” His tastebuds were going in nearly till those sweetened soft spots you loved so much in those solitary moments in the privacy of your baths, yet he flares his tongue till he’s stretchin’ you out even more. “I shall do anything for you, my princess- anything—I live to serve you-”

Gojo’s honed canines nip at your clit.

“And this pussy.”

And serving you, he is. 

With every fibre of his being. With every part of him that could reach you—he’s eating you out like such an animal, as if he was going fucking frenzied on your cunt. 

The tip of his nose massaging your clit. That left hand of his fastening to your waist and dragging you right back n’ forth even deeper. 

“And th-this fool deserves not such a privilege-” He whispers, mostly to himself. Though his wide, lust-glazed eyes maintain contact with yours, “This fool deserves nothing. And yet…yet, I care not if they happened to enter this chamber right now- I would gladly get thrown in the gallows for this greed, for a second taste.” 

Wide-eyed - almost crazed - he tugs his wet tongue uuuuup the middle of your slit, and almost up to your navel. “In fact, I beg of it.”

And his other hand…

Oh, Gojo’s other set of fingers smear the puddle of slick that spreads from your core- all along your inner thighs and making its way down your calves. He collects it all.

Every single drop.

And then, like the most precious of mead, he brings those wettened fingertips up to his mouth and sucks. Savors. Gojo’s eyes flutter closed and his Adam’s apple bobs with ecstasy - “She tastes like she yearns for more.” 

“You understand?” You’re asking, half-bemused.

“I speak seven languages, Your Highness.” Gojo replies, “One of which is pussy—” Then with his flattened tongue, he laps up the rest of the satiny ribbons escaping you- before flicking his eyes to the mountain of pillows piled behind you. “My princess, might I request that you procure a little treasure I have left underneath your favorite pillow?”

“A little treasure…?” Almost dazed, you reach underneath and your fist closes around something soft and bell-decorated. One of his jester’s hats. 

“A long, long night beside the princess left this poor fool forgetting—the hat bestowed upon me by the princess, I should be getting~” Gojo trills- whilst he still lavishes his heated, horny lips across your swollen cunt. “But if the princess puts it upon my head, she can be as pushy- as she wishes as I eat this royal pussy~”

Your jester is speaking rhymes between your legs?

“Oh, sometimes your mouth is overworked.” You’re harrumphing at the overjoyed jester - once you’re unceremoniously dumping the cap n’ bell onto Gojo’s head.

Grinning, he bites down on the expensive tip of his right glove and tugs it off. 

He makes quick work fastening that behind his ears, before nudging your hands to grasp onto the floppy ‘ears’ on top. Your sole source of balance as he leans in and eases one of his long fingers inside- then two—then teasin’ a third.

As he shovels in oblong inches into your sopping cunt, pushin’ apart your tender folds and letting his padded tips find their way inside. And inside.

In and out.

“Please-” You breathe heavily as he quickens the pace after a few squelching thrusts. His middle finger was the longest, and it was spreading you apart the deepest—fuck, it was just so soft inside. So welcoming. So tight that you were clenchin’ around him almost hard enough to make his poor digits snap- and the mere thought makes Gojo hard enough in his trousers that he wants to cream them right away-

You’re clamoring onto your elbows suddenly, “Y-you cannot be serious, Satoru…”

Oh, had he said that out loud? It seems he’d said that out loud. And yet, without even a hint of regret in his grin- Gojo hums. “A jester shan’t ever lie to his princess.” Those kiss-bitten lips of his purse with a wad of spittle that lands gently between your pussylips, “Or his pussy.”

“Your pussy?” You ask- before the breath’s suddenly knocked out of you as he starts driving a third finger in this time. Properly.

Stretching you out to the maaaaaximum. 

The globular ends of his fingers edging in, in, in—he doesn’t just remain pistoning them vertically. Gojo’s rude in the sense that he’s hooking them right below where you needed him the most.

Throbbing, thumping; your g-spot was most certainly aching for him.

But that was exactly the problem- and Gojo’s smile grows wicked as he keeps thrusting his three fingers into your cunt. “J-just the slightest bit…fuck, to the left, jester.”

“If the princess may still utter a sentence, then this poor jester must go harder on her entrance~” He croons. Swabbin’ into every good spot except for that one - your favorite - he suckles on your sensitive nub. “What deters you from claiming what you seek, hm? Use me, Your Highness.”

Your teary eyes snap open. When had you even closed them? “Use?”

“Use me.” Less of a demand- more of a live-saving plea. Gojo was so far gone by this point that his hardened hips were ruttin’ against the luxurious mattress with every swipe of his tongue, “Claim what you wish. Use me- use me—”

And as he wishes, you’re lightly tugging on the points of his jester hat to keep him pressed against you-

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“I beg of you—this lowly fool begs…” As his right hand shapes out the tight, tight channel of your cunt - Gojo reaches his other hand up to grasp your own- to make you clutch his cap n’ bells even tighter. Hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks- and he needs you to be just as rough. “Fucking use me like the princess you are. The princess that saved me.” 

He ruts even more suddenly- he must be painfully hard now. 

“Claim my lips. Claim my tongue- claim every fibre of my being to be used by you…” A low snarl snatches from the back of his throat. “-just claim me as yours, as I have claimed you, my princess.”

And then you’re knocking that stupid little hat off his head- and fisting your hands in his hair once more to crush Gojo’s pretty, pink lips against your cunt. Arching off the mattress, you were just bucking and bucking your treacly pussy all over his face.

Stringing yourself through the shockwaves of pleasure that kept pouring up your legs - like warm water. Gojo was just salivating in-between them.

He doesn’t even have the time to breathe—and you’re getting the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to. Couldn’t even make himself think of anything else but dragging four - now four - fingers between those swollen-shut lips and thud-thud-thudding into your g-spot. “Good princess.” He hisses between clenched teeth, “Gooooood princess-”

“Keep quiet, jester.” You’re feeling yourself get slowly overcome by primal desperation. 

“As you wish, mistress~” And Gojo’s never been happier- lashing and lashing those ridged tastebuds inside until your walls buzzed with the texture. “Mmmm.”

And soon enough, you’re feeling your legs start to twitch- in the way they did whenever you had your fingers stuffed deep in the baths- “Oh.” By this point, Gojo was aiming to intrude four fingers and his slippery tongue between your pussylips. 

Swirlin’ and swirlin’ it—tap-tap-tapping it over that first tight ring of muscle. 

His greed sickened you- and made you even wetter. And with a forceful tug of those angelic strands of his, you’re staring deep into Gojo’s eyes - fluttering desperately as he fights not to detach himself with your wet pussy. He doesn’t.

And he’s accelerating his fingers hitting the bullseye—

“I-I feel I shan’t last very long, Sato- jester.” You’re hissing, eyes threatening to shut as the white-hot pleasure keeps wracking through you.

With his spit-glossed lips wrapped around your clit, he hums. “Mmm?”

“Oh.” You hunch into him. “Repeat that.”

“Mmmmm—” Gojo elongates his nearly-feline rumbles, and then his lips quirk up- into a grin you recognize as being a signature of when he gets a devious idea. 

One sure to ruin courts and leave you amused - though you’re sure that you’re the sole one being ruined right now. 

He’s nuzzling his face ever-deeper against your cunt, then muffles out an entire sentence - what you assume to be a rhyme - whilst he keeps his mouth sucklin’ on your clit. Making the sensitive bursts of pleasure explode twofold behind your eyes- you’re seeing stars as he repeats it—again, and again, and again and again and again—

Gojo often did love repeating a joke if it managed to make you laugh exceptionally hard.

However, now you were all but crying out for mercy. Your chin trembles as you keen out Gojo’s name in a lingering echo, “I-I really shan’t- oh…” No matter how many years of royal diction or elocution you’ve endured, it couldn’t mask the way your voice cracks on the tail end of your sentence. 

Almost pathetically so.

And soon enough, Gojo’s finding his witty mouth stuffed full- fucking you through your high.

Tongue flicking in and out. Teeth grazing over your clit. 

He alternates between letting his tastebuds enter your pussy as well—and then letting his doughy digit take over as he suckles on your clit. Like the sweetest thing in the world. “Mmmm.” Repeating his little rhymes over and over- interrupted only by the noisy slurps! of him sucking on your nub- and the embarrassing little whimpers as he was wrenched by you.

Side-to-side. Up and down.

You’re moving him wheeeeeerever you wanted- and he was in heaven as pain sears from his scalp.

You grip onto his braid, and another lock of his hair, as handlebars to prolong your wave of pleasure. The bliss stabs through you white-hot as he presses deeeep into your g-spot. “I haven’t felt anything like this- hah, before, Satoru…”

“Your jester aims to please.”

Your orgasm makes you shiver. It rattles past your walls - where the pounding was most prevalent - and then up your spine to make your head pound with pleasure—the curling of your toes, the fluttering of your lashes, the way you’re letting escape the sweetest soft moans; sweeter than any orchestra downstairs. Gojo memorizes it all. 

Through peak after peak.

Through thrust after thrust.

And as the crescendo comes to a close, he parts with your pussy—a pointed squelch! emanates from the connection. “Though the back of this Princess’s pussy I did knock, Her Royal Highness still yearns for the jester’s cock~”

Your mouth gapes, “Do not tell me that was the rhyme you have been repeating this entire time?”

“As you wish, I shan’t.” He grins. And then Gojo’s raising himself to his haunches- shrugging off his cloaks and his coats. “Perhaps another? From all the princes and lords to pick, our beloved Princess yearned for the jester’s di-”

“Another word and you shall be turned out.” You warn him, albeit half-heartedly.

“Now that doesn’t rhyme, Your Highness.” Gojo faux-pouts. With a few more tugs and pulls - he really didn’t understand how you aristocrats wore this on every occasion - he’s ridding himself of his upper garments and his trousers. 

Though you’ve seen the royal jester shirtless time and time again, his perfectly-toned body made your eyes bulge. 

And then finally the linen undergarments that presented him—Gojo Satoru’s long cock, hot and rock-hard.

He was engorged till he looked fit to burst - with his mushroom-curved tip blushin’ an angry red, and his veins popping out down his shaft. So prominent that you could almost count every throb-throb-throb!

Gojo’s tip glistens wetly with precum, capping the top of his cock and just oozing like a lacquer down every inch. Almost eight inches, if you’re mentally counting correctly. 

He wraps a single hand around his thickened base- rustling the soft curls decorating his pelvis. Spreading out in an alluring pattern—Gojo then uses his other hand to nudge your thighs apart. Hamstrings stretching. Toes curling. Making sure they’re pinned to the springy mattress before he inches his red-hot cock closer. 

There’s a resounding squeeeeelch! as he smears the very first, readied inch down your opening crevice. 

“Easy there, Your Highness.” Gojo’s breath hatches with a moan. “Easy- hah…”

“I am no steed, Satoru.”

“You speak the truth, my princess.” He shoots you a ravishing smile- hungry. He really did look ready to eat you. Ready to shovel his entire length in.

Ready to break—himself. Fuck.

He was breaking himself. 

A mere few inches are entering past that first ring of muscle-

And you’re arching your back into his chiselled chest. “Oh h-heavens…” It leaves you and mixes with the broken grunts n’ gruffs that were leaving Gojo just as equally, just as desperately, as he keeps your hips pushed into the bed and siiiiinks his cylindrical length inside. 

It’s like nothing your royal tutors had lectured you upon - down to the fact that all those awkward anatomical lessons were for your wedding night with a prince, no less. 

You feel a pearl of red escape you—and you embrace him with weakened limbs. “Satoru-”

“H-heaven is correct.” Gojo hiccups out. Was he still stuck on that you’d uttered earlier- had he even heard anything more? And were there…tears twinkling at the edges of his lashes? 

Before you can finalize an answer, you’re mewling at the slight resistance of your cunt. Gojo’s cock was oh-so-girthy—more than you might have expected, and seemed to be throbbing even bigger with every second he was mazin’ himself inside you.

And he feels the shift immediately- he’s affected by it immediately.

His handsome jaw grits. His chest caves with a sudden groan. He turns his half-lidded eyes downwards, and using both overlarge hands he grips each of your asscheeks. 

Those pretty, princely features of his twist into something agonized- as Gojo arches his sculptured back and drives his cock inside. “Please-” Your best friend pants out. “Please, please, please, please—h-haven’t I served you well, Your Highness?”

“You would be correct…?” You’re answering him- head foggy because of the sudden flurry of semi-thrusts.

In and out. In and out. He was buried just a few inches past his sensitive slit - and the small tremors of your cunt meant that he was thrown to ecstacy every few split-seconds. 

Gojo seemed to be growing longer than you remembered seeing him.

Gojo seemed to be pulsing even thicker-

“Th-then…shan’t this lowly fool be rewarded with a single inch…?” He mumbles- sounding utterly drunk. And it wasn’t just his slurring tone and his tapering sentences that gave you that impression - but Gojo had his face pressed into the crook of your neck, and his hot tongue gliiiiiding up your sweaty neck. “A mere inch, my princess-”

You buck- and even that seemed far too much for the pussydrunken jester.

For he’s digging his crescent-shaped nails into your soft flesh and dragging you back into him - hitting his hips with a resounding thwack! “No- no, please don’t leave, Your Highness.” He begs—fucking begs. 

“I-I am not—oh.” Another blustering thrust that leaves your deepest innards probed.

“If you wish me to cease- then just say the word. And I shall heed every syllable.” Gojo murmurs, his sapphire eyes threatening to shut with the hypnotic squeeze. With his pure need. With the urge to feel himself from the outside- and considering how big he was, he’s sure he’d manage to. “But please- please, do not leave me. Th-this pussy has been my deepest, darkest desire ever for f-far too long.”

Your eyes widen, “How long…exactly?”

Those plump, rose-pink lips of his graze yours as soft as a feather. “Ever since I knew what it was…and I woke up with quite the ah- rock-hard situation. I had never left your chamber faster, Your Highness- what if the attendants witnessed it?”

You moan as one of his hands lifts off your ass to thumb aside your sultry pussylips. Lovingly full.

“What if they were aware how feverishly I desired you?”

They were just glued with sap- it makes him break off a moan.

“What if- hngh, what if they could see through me—a lowborn mutt- eager to dirty the precious princess?”

Gojo stares so long and lovingly at your slightly-ajar cunt—so lovingly, that his mouth ends up watering. He continues, “To dirty you…to corrupt you.” A stream of spittle leaks from the corner of his lips, and it ends up dapplin’ over your folds. 

“To- hah, fuck you.”

Your jester roves his hips closer - smearing the translucent liquid using his hips. Aaaaaaall over as he nudges and nudges his rounded, reddened tip deeper inside - taking over your cunt little by little. 

Stars flash behind your eyelids, and in that opportunity, Gojo had reached over to take the crown that he’d donned for the ball. Your engagement ball. And he was promptly caressing the top of your scalp with it, placing it atop your beautiful head—you suited his colors. 

Gojo lets out something that sounded more like a prayer: “To fuck you with the crown on, has always been this fool’s most embarrassing wish.”

He’s finally bottoming out.

Finally. And it’s a sensation like none other. 

Gojo’s cock was stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before; managing to mold your channel to his measurements. And his hammers were just so sensual—slow, semi-thrusts so that he can fit himself inside. “Please-” Inside and inside. “Please, please- this lowly jester knows every secret and preference of yours, my princess.”

Your heels are digging into the gorgeous dimples at the base of his spine. “Yes, oh…”

“Every- single- inch—” And you’re being propelled in short jerks upwards- those ancient royal bedsprings protesting. As much as you were begging for more. Your hands drag down his creamy-white back, leaving bloodied marks- and that only leaves him pulsating even harder inside you. Gojo’s blossomed tip had contentedly filled you up till your cervix - “In ways those ministers would- hah, wring my neck over.”

“I would never let them.” You’re spitting out.

“And yet…” Gojo leans down to whisper. “That only made this fool yearn for it- more-” A few more pressurized thrusts, and every prominent vein of his massages your spots oh-so-perfectly. As he pushes n’ pushes he continues babbling, “Please let it fit inside-” His lips tremble with a whimper. “Please let it fit inside—”

Shock strangles your words, “S-Satoru, you’re already inside.”

“P-pardon?” He almost stutters his hips - before he likely realized that your syrupy-sweet cunt was far too heavenly for him to merely linger. And he’s thrusting away like an animal. 

Nodding, “Satoru, I promise—” Eyes scrunching together at the incredible sensations of him stretchin’ you out, hitting into your every nook, letting his velvety tip glide across your tenderest area - that g-spot. “You’ve succeeded your fantasy.” Your legs tighten around his slender waist, “Promise.”

Gojo’s chin hits his chest.

And he’s staring down at where the two of you glossily connect—“O-oh…” Gojo’s mouth looked so delicious like this - you almost wanted to bite him - as an expression of cute surprise takes over him.

And all of a sudden, it’s as if he’s simply melting…

Into your arms. Into your cunt. Gojo’s honey-dipped tip probes into your cervix, and instead of even ramming away - he’s merely draaaaagging and swirlin’ the bulbous edge of him around. Again and agaaaaain. The texture of his flared ridge was something incredible, and it knocks n’ grinds against hidden spots of nerves. “I finally have you, Your Highness.”

You’re feeling your heart pound at his confession - oh-so-tender. Even when he was fucking you deep into the plush mattress.

“You have never not, my jester.” You’re admitting back up at him.

The most beautiful smile graces his face- and Gojo’s feeling quite unfairly about all this. So he’s slitherin’ his right hand between your legs and spankin’ your neglected clit.

Those slight brushes of his bushy happy trail weren’t enough—now he was twiddling and turning such dizzying patterns atop that sweet, sweet nub. Watching your every minute expression, he hums. “Beautiful through anger, happiness and shock, yet the Princess looks prettiest on my cock~”

“You fiend.” You’re swatting his chest.

Only for him to gather up those weak legs of yours and bend you into a mating press- a mating press. Muscular thighs against your thighs. Your knees against your tits.

Gojo keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he drills away, “Though this lowly fool may be poor with the manners of a pig, aren’t you happy to have a cock that’s actually big~?”

And that…you have to admit that that one actually draws a laugh out of you.

And just as soon as the bubbling noise emerges from your lips- 

Gojo’s body seems to collapse. His hips seem to falter. His cock thunks at the back of your womb, sending your teeth chattering, and lets out a throb-throb so hard that you feel it louder than your own heartbeat.

Your eyes shoot open, “S-Satoru…?”

“I-I am quite alright, Your Highness. Naught to worry about.” Though there was something thoughtful behind his eyes, “It is simply…”

And only after a few more thrusts—after a few more rub-a-dubs of his thumb…fingers now so jittery on your cunt that he’s teasin’ you with his silver signet ring, too.

The smooth metal makes you keen-

“For all the horses and all the men, could not pull the fool out of his princess again.” He near-tentatively utters. It could be heard only slightly above the smacking of skin-on-skin, of his hips practically plastered onto yours, and you can’t help it - you’re startled into a laugh.

“P-pardon?” You speak through both moan n’ giggles. 

“Oh…” Meanwhile, Gojo was absolutely shattering. He was drooling. He was—fuck, he was tearing up. And great globules of tears were hitting the edge of your shoulder.

Gojo’s rubbin’ himself raw- he’s wracking his brain a mile a minute just for a new verse to come up with. 

Something that will make you laugh.

Something that will make you squeeze your tremoring thighs ‘round him. 

Something that will make you clench—and it’s such a startling, tight sensation that damn-near sends him hurtling straight into his high. But he can’t cum before you - of course, he can’t. What good jester possibly ever could? Before his princess no less?

Gojo accelerates his hips until tears start clinging onto his long lashes, and his cocktip starts twitchin’ out of pure oversensitivity.

And so he keeps on repeating—rhyme after rhyme, botched whimper after whimper. Each one more ragged than the last. Your jester was making you whine with laughter as he fucked you- whispering in your ear in aaaaaall the dirty ways one perhaps shouldn’t to a princess.

He fucks you like an animal. 

It’s the final note you’re hearing - ‘—no prettier princess than thee.’ - as your sudden high takes you by surprise. Legs shaking. Back arching. You’re squeezing him tighter than ever as the white-hot pleasure courses through you.

Thrumming your every vessel and vein.

Thrusted deeper into you with every one of his- they seem to burst pretty fireworks inside your now-emptied head. Nothing but lust inside it.

And it doesn’t take much for Gojo to topple into his orgasm, as well. He shakes- he stutters…“C-cumming…” Breathlessly. Large tears were puddlin’ at the crook of your neck, dampening your skin more than your perspiration. “And I cannot think of a more appropriate home.”

“Should you sire an heir, they shall have your head.” You’re whispering to him - a smile on your face.

“But you forevermore have my heart.”

“Rake.”

“For you only, my princess.”

That bawling divot atop his shaft keeps floodin’ out a constant stream of cum—hot-white and lacquering your insides. Every single burst of cum made him twitch- letting out the prettiest erotic whines. “My princess—solely for you.” 

“More.” You murmur gutturally. “More- more.”

“More…deep inside.” Lovingly, he’s patting at your bloated pussy. “Just for my princess.”

Until your walls were almost heavy with the condensation of his sap, and after only a few thrusts of his shaft- it was pouring out of you almost like a waterfall. 

Between the crevice of your puffy pussylips, you feel it drip-drip-dripping out of you. Eventually formulating a little froth of creamy white ‘round Gojo’s swollen base - a few globules that he’s smearing with a thumb and pushing right back into you. A thumb stuck right between your folds. “A-and where do you believe you are putting your hands, Satoru?”

“Simply giving my princess everything she deserves…” He leans down to nibble on your soft ear lobe. “And right on her engagement night, as well.”

You’re moaning as he tugs on your clit a few more times.

“Happy engagement, Your Highness.” The jester speaks, as he fucks his cum into you harder than ever. 

You end up babbling for a few minutes longer, before the sudden sparks of your high start bating- and Gojo himself starts finally slowing his hips down. 

“Mmmm…” You reach up and clasp him by the back of his neck, sweaty, with his hair curled at the name. You whisper into his mouth, “My greatest pleasure, to be engaged to you, Prince Gojo Satoru.”

There’s a long stretch of silence - still thrusting - before he mutters. 

“I really do wish I could marry you…” Summer sky-blue eyes shuttering into the kiss—

“Satoru.”

“—my princess.”

.

.

.

“Zenin Naoya.”

The young man whirls around - and his nose crinkles in distaste as an older man enters the royal guests’ quarters. 

No union had been announced.

The engagement ball had long since ended, and you had even long since disappeared with some prince- some jester, as he had discovered through ballroom gossip. 

The fucking jester.

Naoya knew he should have gutted him after that dinner.

But alas, once he arrived outside your royal bed chambers to finish off the job- he’d been blocked by your personal guards from entering. That damned General Yaga had threatened that a single step closer could constitute an attempt at treason- treason? 

Accusing him of treason? Did he not know who Naoya was?

General Yaga hadn’t budged. And thus, Naoya had no choice left but to retire to his own guest’s quarters. 

Alone and angry until morning arrived. 

He had just settled with the thought of enacting his own taste of justice today- he shall lure some of the ministers to your bed chambers, perhaps falsifying an ailment you’d befallen under, before Gojo can escape. And once they discover that that lowborn jester had sullied the Princess- dungeons it is for the fool.

And oh-so-generous Prince Zenin Naoya shall agree to marry even a ruined maiden. 

Then comes the crown. Then the titles, the land, the power.

The woman shan’t be too bothersome, either, at least you were easy on the eyes. Even if the jester had gotten his hands on you first.

And ah…perhaps he shall throw out this court and your father along with it? That’s if he was in a good mood - and it was the original plan, after all…

Or perhaps he shall stage a coup of which your father had ‘led’ and enact justice as King- yes…a royal hanging should seem righteous enough. The jester shall be first. 

This was justice. 

Naoya had just been in the middle of writing a letter to inform his father of this change of plans, when a knock-knock-knock thundered from the door. The broad, bearded man on the other side of it hadn’t waited for him to answer before coming inside. 

“May I…help you?” He stands. Had this seemed like any old guard or minister, then Naoya would not have hesitated to draw his sword- but this was clearly someone of high status. Of numerous battle accomplishments.

And his eyes dip down to the silver scabbard at his waist…

This was clearly someone potent.

“I have arrived with a proposition.” The bearded man invites himself to sit down on the very chair that Naoya had been at work at.

Naoya’s eyes narrow, “Of what kind? Do I look like an errand boy to-”

“Of the kind I am aware your family is quite expert at.” Those words held such a dark weight to them—and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Prince for a single second as he utters. “To be frank, I must request the ah…removal of Prince Okkotsu Yuta from the throne.”

That makes the royal straighten. “Find yourself a common mercenary-”

THUNK—!

From underneath his coat, the visitor pulls out a hefty bag - so large that Naoya wonders just how it had remained obscured for this long. There is a weight to it that makes the polished desk rattle, papers flying. There is an overabundance of its contents—so that the burlap rim threatens to burst open.

Naoya gulps as he eyes the - albeit alluring - bag. “D-do you believe the Kingdom of Zenins to have plummeted so far that we hold the need for a single sack of gold?”

The other man chuckles, “Gold?”

And with a single flick at the rim—it’s opening to reveal…sapphires.

A miniature mountain of it.

Such a rare beauty. Naoya had never seen so many in all the treasuries he’d ransacked combined - and his hand it darting out to grasp it—

“This is, of course…merely the advance.” The man places his hand on top of the bag, and slides it discreetly away from the Prince. His fingers twitch towards it, but Naoya can’t do anything with the other man here. “Trust me when I claim that your kingdom will have no shortage of sapphires for the next hundred years. I simply request that you prove your abilities to me.”

That snaps the Prince out of his constant eye-contact with the expensive bag. “Prove?”

His now-client nods. “Prove it. I should hope that the eradication of Prince Yuta shan’t prove too daunting- and for that, I wish to know what other…deeds you have accomplished, Your Highness.”

“The burning of the Inumaki kingdom’s crops.” Naoya immediately blurts out—before he lists off his family’s proud accomplishments as though he was listing off a market list. The other man nods with an unreadable expression. “The…displacement of the Cursed rubies, the demotion of the Ijichi household, the framing and eradication of the Gojo family-”

“Oh?” At that last one, he looks more alert. “Kindly elaborate on that final one, it seems to have ah…piqued my interest.”

Naoya hesitates- before a single glance at the sapphire sack makes him talk once more. “It was prior to my birth, thus the details might not be as adequate. Essentially what happened had to be done- the Gojo royals were advancing their economy in leaps and bounds—far too rapidly, far too soon.”

As he continues, an almost proud smile twitches at his lips. 

“It was ingenious- really.” He hums, “Just a few forged letters, just a single meeting with His Majesty-” Naoya gestures vaguely at this palace. “And he became convinced that the Gojos were planning battle over the borders.”

Naoya spits.

“Borders? Pah- what borders?” He’s pacing now, hands clasped behind his back—back turning to the other man as the Prince stares into the licking fireplace. “Come dawn, the palace was painted in red. Ministers. Mongrels. That King and Queen- the cowards begged for mercy, were you aware?”

Silence stretches.

It seems like an eon passes before the man’s answering - in a rough tone that punctures the silence. “I…I was not aware, no.”

Naoya huffs out haughty laughter.

“And what of their son?”

The Prince looks at the other man over his shoulder, brows pinched in confusion. “They had no son.”

“No.” The sword is pulled out of his scabbard. “They hid Gojo Satoru well.” 

It embeds deeply in the junction between Naoya’s shoulder and his neck—and his scream is silent. Expression twisted into shock as those final words registered - Gojo Satoru. Even in death, he hears his name. 

Much louder than Naoya’s scream was the impact of his cold, dead body hitting the carpeted floor - and almost instantly, Prince Okkotsu Yuta enters the chambers. “I have recorded the confession, uncle, and the troops are storming the Zenin palace as we speak.”

“Good.” Michizane pulls his sword out and watches as blood creates a painting across the brick fireplace and floor. He wipes it off using what would have been Prince Naoya’s engagement robes, and places it back in his scabbard. 

Yuta takes a step closer to offer a clean wipe to his uncle, “Should I summon a court meeting at once?”

“No.” Michizane takes it and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he nods at Yuta to collect the bag of precious sapphires, “I have a far more important affair to attend to.”

.

.

.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

Both you and Gojo startle awake- and a single glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows reveals sunlight filtering in. A soft breeze rustles the sheer curtains…and Gojo’s beautiful locks right beside you.

It wasn’t the first time that you were waking up next to him.

But it was the first time it was…in such a manner.

You’re tugging on the satin blanket- of which you were wearing nothing underneath. Bare. Barely holding yourself back from him. And Gojo smiles to himself as the thought seems to occur to him, as well, reaching over to kiss you—before wincing at the red, red nail marks that twinged with movement. 

You’re leaning in as well—

But then two things occur to you:

It must have been at least midday.

Someone was at the door.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

More insistent this time.

The two of you look at each other.

Then at the door.

Then at each other.

Gojo jumps to his feet, throwing off the blankets and attempting to dive underneath your bed- but you’re raising a hand to stop him. Shaking your head imperceptibly. “No…”

“My princess?” Gojo asks.

“I believe there comes a time where one must stop running.” You’re speaking, more to yourself. And in a quick fashion you cross the room to don your satin robe—Gojo manages to bunch up a few blankets that cover his bits. You shake your head and scour for one of his casual night garments from underneath your bed - throwing it at his head.

“For all the princess in the land-”

“Oh, perhaps I ought to hand you to the guards.” The guards that were surely outside. Perhaps waiting to accuse you of treason for shattering the Zenin union. Perhaps ready to embarrass you and your jester in front of the royal courts.

Whatever it shall be - whatever the price may be for loving Gojo Satoru - you’re raising your head high and taking it like a ruler. 

You open the doors, and outside stands…

Michizane?

He looks just as startled as you, though he manages out a rough smile. “May I see the ring?” 

You’re unsure what he means—and you’re considering telling your guards to escort him away, when Michizane peers inside your bedroom and locks eyes with Gojo. Gojo who seems to startle the instant that blue, blue gaze meets his. Perhaps…

And then he’s stepping forwards- pushing the door open ever-so-slightly further open.

And presenting his left hand - with the silver signet ring still upon it. A hollowed gasp leaves the older man, and he’s clasping Gojo’s hand in his own trembling, timid ones—holding it as though it was the most prized treasure in this world. Buried for eons. 

Gojo’s voice sounds scratchy, “I-it is not my possession to don-”

Michizane shakes his head. 

“I believe…” He looks between the two of you, bright eyes twinkling with tears. “-that there is much we need to speak of.”

.

.

.

There was to be a royal wedding.

There was to be a royal wedding.

There was to be a royal wedding.

The union between yourself and the long-lost prince of the Gojo kingdom. 

After Michizane had explained to you both - let alone an astounded court - that he was the uncle of your beloved jester, that he was titled royalty, and that Gojo himself…was the sole survivor of a gruesome attack that the Zenin family had orchestrated…Gojo didn’t believe it. Not at first.

Not that someone knew his life before this life.

Not that someone had come to…save him. Because Michizane didn’t - to Gojo, it had been you. And it forevermore shall be.

But you could see the fearful hope - almost unwelcome on his face - as Michizane explained that he hadn’t known about the status of the Gojo heir, his nephew, before the engagement ball. He was so young, he must have forced himself to forget such a traumatic ordeal. Thus, it had always been assumed that he had perished along with his brother and his wife—though Michizane couldn’t find a small body amongst the carnage. 

And so he had always hoped…always, always…

And it had been the signet ring (looted by the Zenins and gifted to your father, no doubt) that roused his suspicions. Then those eyes. That hair. That smile, like his mother’s.

It had to have been him.

Fearing such an attack, had the late Gojo royals not kept the birth of their son a secret, then his features would have gotten him poisoned before he even stepped foot into the royal court. The cap n’ bells masked more than one would think. 

The scheme to expose the Zenins had been planned beforehand - being the only reason that Michizane even attended the ball in-person. And he’d thought that perhaps finding his late nephew’s look-alike had been a good omen.

Had been…

Oh, he just had to confirm it for himself. Especially after Naoya had affirmed that the Zenin’s hadn’t been aware of any son. 

Michizane could see the Gojo name in the boy. And so he was right. 

Acceptance had taken long hours cooped up in the numerous palace libraries—poring over history books, and rewriting ones that misunderstood.

During this time was when you’d iron-handed your ministers into changing the law that ‘only a prince shall marry a princess’. Of course. 

Long days and longer conversations.

Gojo had finally accepted that he was the sole righteous heir to the throne of Gojo by the time he’d ascended to the throne. It had occurred during a coronation too grand for words - of which you were the honored guest, of course.

Michizane had accumulated vast sapphire mines during his time away, and the Gojo kingdom’s infrastructure was soon able to recuperate their losses. Though not all of it…certainly some wounds would take time.

But the first time that Gojo stepped through those familiar palace walls, he cried as if it were a dream. And he’d said as much—“I had believed it was a dream- oh, I believed this was all a dream. This is my home.” As he embraced you in the middle of the royal lobby, you could agree with the sentiment. “You are my home.”

The first portrait that one saw when they entered the palace - moved by Michizane from Gojo’s former chambers to the main hallways - was one of his mother, his father, and Gojo himself.

Just an infant with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile.

He had his father’s eyes, but his mother’s smile. 

After Gojo’s crowning, the borders of the Gojo kingdom were reestablished - all territories and citizens that surrounding kingdoms (as well as yours) had absorbed were handed to their rightful ruler.

His kingdom was new…but building. And fast.

Then Gojo had gotten to work helping right all of the Zenins’ wrongs. He aided in expanding the Inumakis’ agricultural lands, he returned the Cursed rubies that had been embedded in Naoya’s coronet to lord Sukuna, he promoted the Ijichi household’s titles twofold. 

And he rebuilt his own family. 

Of course, the Zenins themselves met their rightful fate. Prince Yuta had attacked their palace and numerous fortresses, causing those family members to be impounded. Some fled but were quickly caught—in part due to General Yaga’s tireless assistance. 

Gojo had insisted that the children grow up in his palace. And though you’d been befuddled at first - most certainly you wouldn’t allow them to be hurt…but as for raising them yourselves over placing them in noble homes - you quickly registered that Gojo simply didn’t want history to repeat itself.

Above all, he took in young Fushiguro Megumi as a ward.

The trials for the other family members were currently ongoing.

But, recently, there was a new event that shook your kingdom. 

The wedding. 

Not one of political nature…but rather love. No matter the class, position, or power the two of you held—you would always be his princess, and he your best friend- oh alright…your jester. But solely because Gojo still loved to act a-fool to make you laugh. 

Your father had no choice but to approve your wedding to such a powerful young King. Why would he risk such strong political ties? Why would he risk your abandonment?

Your people throw snow-white petals of gardenia as the wedding carriage passes through the streets- on its way to a honeymoon voyage before setting down in a newly-built palace between his kingdom and yours. Megumi would live there, too, and of course you’d convinced your most-trusted attendants—Utahime and everyone else that had readied Gojo that night of the engagement ball - to reside there, as well. 

Not as servers, but with titles. With General Yaga as your head of guards.

You couldn’t be happier. 

Gojo holds your hand. Wedding band on his left ring finger, the Gojo signet on his middle.  

Faces beamed and cheers soared as you two passed by in your dream-like carriage—upon a cloud. And though the kingdom had been decorated until one nearly couldn’t spot a single roof, Gojo only had eyes for you.

He’s unabashed as he leans down to publicly kiss you. 

Now that he finally could, the boy that had once been jester.

“Satoru.”

“My queen.”

By that afternoon, Gris and Enjin have had enough of you. They decide fresh air and a change of scenery might cool whatever storm has you snarling at the entire Cleaner HQ. Before you can protest, strong hands grab you—Gris’s large, calloused palm firm around your upper arm, Enjin’s tattooed fingers digging playfully into your waist—and you are half-dragged, half-tossed into the back seat of the old jeep like a misbehaving sack of supplies. The door slams. The engine roars to life. And just like that, you are barreling away from headquarters toward a distant city a few hours out, dust kicking up in thick clouds behind the tires. 

It doesn’t help. Not one bit. 

The Ground’s cracked, uneven roads jolt the jeep constantly, every pothole and chunk of debris sending you bouncing hard against the worn leather seat. You bite at Enjin’s fingers when he reaches back between the seats to ruffle your hair in that lazy, teasing way of his. He yanks his hand away with a low chuckle that sounds more amused than annoyed, but you catch the way his yellow eyes narrow in the rearview mirror, that infuriatingly smug grin sharpening at the edges. 

You bark at Gris next when he tells you—calm and measured as always—to quiet down because your aggravated shouting is echoing too loud inside the cramped shop they are browsing for spare parts. He turns his head just enough to pin you with those steady blue eyes. “Sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice gravelly and patient even now, “you’re pushing it.” 

Both of them are being worn thin, their usual easy dominance fraying at the seams under the weight of your nonstop attitude. Gris keeps one big hand on your knee for a while, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles like he is trying to soothe the beast inside you. Enjin cracks jokes, offers you the last cigarette from his pack, even tries to feed you a piece of street vendor bread with those long tattooed fingers. Nothing works. If anything, their attempts only stoke the fire higher, turning every kind gesture into fresh fuel for your brattiness. 

The ride back is worse. 

Enjin sighs heavily, forehead dropping to rest against the top of the steering wheel as the jeep bounces over another stretch of ruined terrain. You have been kicking the back of his seat for the last twenty minutes straight—sharp, rhythmic thuds that make the whole vehicle shudder. He gave up asking you to stop after the tenth kick, jaw tight, knuckles white where they grip the wheel. 

He lifts his head again, shoulders slumped, those tired yellow eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Gris watches you too, quiet and unreadable in the passenger seat, one thick arm draped over the backrest so he can keep those calm blue eyes locked on you the entire time. 

“Y’know, you’re acting more childish than Guita and Dear right now, trouble,” Enjin comments, voice laced with that familiar lazy drawl even as frustration simmers underneath. 

You huff, folding your arms tight under your chest and sinking deeper into the backseat until the worn fabric creaks. “If you didn’t drive so stupidly, I wouldn’t have to kick you.” 

Enjin lets out another long sigh and fishes a cigarette from his coat pocket with one hand, the other staying steady on the wheel. The lighter clicks. A small flame sparks to life just as you slam your foot into the back of his seat again—harder. The jolt makes the flame catch the tips of his fingers. He hisses, drops the lighter into his lap, and the jeep swerves sharply for a second before he regains control. 

“You okay?” Gris asks, already leaning over to check the other man’s hand, voice low and steady. 

Enjin shakes his head, slowing the vehicle as he examines the fresh red mark blooming on his fingertips, the unlit cigarette still clamped between his lips. “Little brat’s got some fight in her today.” 

Gris turns in his seat then, slow and deliberate, those broad shoulders filling the space as he fixes you with a look that makes heat coil low in your belly despite the defiant scowl on your face. “Apologise. Now.” 

“No.” 

“Bunny,” he says, voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that always sends a shiver racing down your spine, “you could have really hurt Enjin.” 

“So?” You shrug, arms still crossed, thighs pressing together on instinct as you feel their combined attention settle heavy on you. “We have Eishia back at base. He’d be fine.” 

The silence that follows is thick, charged. Gris turns back around without another word, eyes facing forward, jaw set. Enjin follows suit, his facial expression now stern as he flexes his burned fingers around the wheel. The air inside the jeep feels suddenly too warm, too small, the engine’s growl vibrating up through the seat and you realise you’ve finally poked the bear too much.  

The rest of the drive home is thick with a heavy, suffocating tension that wraps around the inside of the jeep like smoke. Your pulse hammers in your throat, a messy cocktail of anxiety and dark, electric anticipation twisting low in your belly. Every bump in the ruined road sends fresh jolts through your body, but it’s nothing compared to the way Gris’s steady blue eyes keep finding you in the rearview mirror. Those eyes—calm, unblinking—don’t hold their usual warm patience. They pin you in place, heavy with promise. This punishment is going to be nowhere near a funishment. 

The tires screech to a sharp halt outside HQ, gravel crunching under the wheels as Enjin kills the engine with a low growl of the motor dying. The sudden silence feels louder than the drive ever did. He flips his palm up in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, inspecting the fresh red burn across his fingertips again. The skin is already blistering faintly at the tips. When he drags his thumb across them, he winces—sharp, involuntary—and that tiny sound hits you like a punch to the gut.  

Guilt floods hot and immediate through your chest, souring the defiant spark that had been fueling you all day. You fumble with your seatbelt, fingers suddenly clumsy, heart sinking straight to your stomach. 

You try to slink out of the jeep unnoticed the second the men climb out from the front, keeping your head down and your steps light across the dusty lot. Their low conversation drifts back to you—casual on the surface, but edged with that familiar undercurrent of control. 

“You should get that checked out,” Gris suggests, voice low and gravelly as he rights his belt. The long drive has his pants riding up uncomfortably, the fabric stretched tight over those powerful thighs. He rolls one broad shoulder, looking every bit the steady, exhausted dom who’s about to put you back in your place. 

“Nah,” Enjin replies, voice flat, the usual easy drawl stripped away. “Some burn gel and I’ll be back to a hundred by tomorrow.” He’s not smiling. He closes the driver’s side door with a solid thunk, the sound final. No smirk, no joke to ease the worry etched into Gris’s face. Just quiet, simmering displeasure. 

You’ve nearly made it to the heavy doors of HQ, boots scuffing softly against the ground, when Gris’s voice cuts through the night air like a command you can’t ignore. 

“Bunny.” 

The single word stops you cold. Your spine snaps straight, skin prickling as both men turn toward you in perfect sync. Gris’s large frame is silhouetted against the jeep’s headlights, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw set like stone. Enjin stands beside him, shoulders tense, yellow eyes narrowed with none of their usual lazy warmth. The air between the three of you crackles—thick with everything they haven’t said yet. 

You suddenly feel the need to run — a raw, animalistic panic that screams if one of them catches you right now, it will be a one-way ticket straight to hell. 

You whirl on your heel, boots scraping against the gravel as you lunge for the heavy HQ door handle with sheer desperation, fingers outstretched, heart slamming against your ribs like it wants to claw its way out. But before you can even brush the cold metal, a large hand clamps down on your forearm like a steel vise. The grip is bruising, unforgiving, yanking you back so hard your shoulder twinges and your feet skid uselessly on the ground. You twist and struggle against the assailant, yanking, shoving, nails digging into the thick forearm that refuses to budge an inch. It’s like fighting a wall. The hold only tightens, planting you exactly where you stand. 

You finally snap your head up, chest heaving. 

Gris towers behind you, expression carved from stone. No warmth in those steady blue eyes. No fond rumble in his gravelly voice. Just an emotionless stare that pins you harder than his hand ever could, jaw locked tight. You can feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves — thick, heavy, suffocating — the kind that settles deep in your gut and makes your knees want to buckle. He exhales once through his nose, calm and controlled, but the air between you crackles with the weight of everything you broke today. 

Then Gris begins to pull you back, his large, calloused hand sliding from your forearm down to your smaller one. His fingers trap your digits in an iron fist—no give, no gentleness, just the unyielding clamp of someone who has run clean out of patience.  

You begin to struggle again, yanking hard against the hold. “Gris—please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to burn him, I promise.”  

Your boots scraping across the gravel as you try to plant them over and over again, pleading for forgiveness over and over again like it would help your case.  

He suddenly stops dead beside the jeep. The abrupt halt nearly yanks you off your feet. Before you can draw another pleading breath, Gris spins you hard and slams your front against the warm metal hood with a dull metallic thud. His broad palm lands heavy between your shoulder blades, pinning you there like you weigh nothing. 

“Enough.” 

The single word drops from him in that low, gravelly voice you know so well—but there’s no warmth in it tonight. No “sweetheart.” No measured patience. Just flat, exhausted steel. His usual calm has finally cracked, jaw locked so hard the muscle jumps. 

Enjin leans against the side of the jeep, arms crossed, cigarette lit between his fingers. He says nothing. Just watches, yellow eyes dark and unforgiving, letting Gris take the lead in some kind of silent agreement.  

Gris’s free hand yanks your skirt up over your ass in one rough motion. Cool night air rushes over your skin, and your cheeks burn with fresh humiliation as your tiny panties are left fully exposed — thin fabric stretched tight across the plush curve of your ass, the crotch clinging obscenely to your folds. You feel the weight of both men’s stares on you, bent over the hood like this, but the shame only makes your thighs press together harder. 

His palm comes down hard — no warm-up, no teasing sting, just a measured, punishing crack that echoes across the empty lot and makes your whole body jolt. 

“Count,” he says, voice low, gravelly, and perfectly calm. The usual steady composure is still there, only now it’s edged with quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. 

You cry out, legs trembling, trying to push up onto your toes, but his broad palm between your shoulder blades keeps you bent and exposed exactly where he wants you. “I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I swear—”