a/n: @latenally gave me this idea from this post, so thank you!!! the title is also inspired by a hashtag in the reblog i saw from @kmbeelllll!!! i love my readers 🤍
synopsis: them meeting their celebrity crush (aka you) for the first time!
he rehearsed your introduction in his head 11 times before meeting you and still managed to black out the second you smiled at him. it was so bad.
he was invited onto a sports variety show because apparently “watching soccer players suffer through celebrity games” gets high ratings, and you were the guest host. actress, influencer, entrepreneur, everybody’s internet princess. the kind of celebrity whose instagram comments are just people begging for a chance.
and isagi? oh he was DOWN HORRENDOUS.
bachira exposed him beforehand, too. absolutely no loyalty. “isagi follows her on every single social media platform, including her instagram spam account,” bachira says into the mic while grinning. “the one where she posts blurry pancakes with colorful sprinkles and sunset pics? yeah, that one.”
the audience loses it.
isagi immediately folds in half like he’s been shot. “WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT.”
then you walk out.
and suddenly this man is standing straighter than a military recruit. nodding too much. laughing too hard. saying “ah, yes” to literally everything you say.
you compliment his recent game and he goes: “you watched thAt?” voice CRACKING. like a middle schooler.
and the clip that goes viral is even worse because during the relay game you accidentally grab his hand to pull him forward and he completely forgets the rules of the game. just stops moving. staring at your joined hands like he’s witnessing divine intervention.
reo in the background screaming, “ISAGI MOVE??? MOVE???"
twitter titles it: “blue lock striker discovers woman for the first time.”
his fans think it’s the cutest thing ever because isagi usually comes off composed during interviews, so watching him malfunction over you becomes instant meme material.
your fans are split between:
“awww he’s adorable.”
“girl he is STARING at you like rent is due.”
“that man wants to wife her immediately.”
“he looked at her like she invented oxygen wtf.”
there are edits. so many edits.
someone puts cigarettes after sex over the hand-holding clip and it gets 12 million views overnight.
isagi sees it late at night and almost throws his phone into the ocean.
itoshi rin
rin swore he would act normal.
he did not act normal.
he actually spent the entire week beforehand annoyed at himself because why did he care what some celebrity thought of him? pathetic. embarrassing. disgusting behavior.
and yet he still knew your favorite drink order. because he “accidentally” memorized it from interviews. sure.
the first meeting happens backstage at an awards ceremony. he’s leaning against the wall looking all cold and untouchable until you walk up smiling and introduce yourself.
and this idiot just stares.
too long. long enough that you tilt your head a little like “um… hello???”
he finally mutters your name under his breath like he’s checking if it’s real.
the thing is, rin’s version of being a loser in love is becoming even MORE awkward. more stiff. more intensely aware of every movement he makes.
you ask if he’s nervous for the ceremony and he immediately says, “no.”
then walks directly into a table.
not even a little bump either. full force. LOUD.
the silence afterward is catastrophic.
you trying not to laugh makes it worse because now his ears are pink and he knows you noticed.
the viral clip though? oh it destroys him.
during a red carpet interview, the interviewer asks which celebrity he’d want to collaborate with someday and before rin can dodge the question, his eyes drift toward you across the carpet for literally half a second. HALF A SECOND.
internet detectives catch it instantly.
then the camera cuts to him realizing the audience noticed and he physically clenches his jaw.
people on tik tok and instagram start zooming in with captions like:
“the way he looked at her omg.” “HE’S TRYING SO HARD TO ACT NONCHALANT LMAO.” “rin itoshi caught lacking bro is NOT tuff.”
his fans are losing their minds because rin almost never reacts emotionally in public.
meanwhile your fans are crying laughing because every clip of him near you looks like either a feral cat being shown affection for the first time or someone trying to survive a hostage situation.
there’s also a famous fancam compilation titled: “rin itoshi vs. his own feelings.”
it’s 10 minutes long.
itoshi sae
sae is usually smooth. usually.
but apparently all his composure evaporates when you’re around because the first thing he says after meeting you is: “you’re shorter than i expected.”
which sounds rude. horribly rude.
except he says it while looking weirdly fascinated, like he genuinely didn’t expect you to exist in three dimensions.
you burst out laughing though, thank god, and suddenly sae looks slightly less tense.
i say slightly because he’s still a loser. just in a different font.
the interaction happens during a luxury brand event where you’re both ambassadors. sae had fully planned on keeping things professional and detached.
instead: he keeps glancing at you mid-conversation. he forgets to answer questions immediately. he lets you steal his drink without complaining. he actually smiles at one of your jokes and the photographers nearly collapse on site.
because sae smiling naturally is apparently a once-in-a-century astronomical event.
the clip that detonates online happens when you casually fix his crooked tie during an interview. that’s it. that’s all.
but sae stills completely. COMPLETELY.
he just looks down at you with this unreadable expression while you fix it, and when you finish he quietly says “thanks” in the softest voice imaginable.
internet GONE. absolutely gone.
his fans are like:
“HE LOOKS SO GENTLE WITH HER.” “sae letting someone touch him voluntarily?????” “oh he likes her BAD.” “the eye contact just impregnated me spiritually.” “pause.”
your fans are even worse because they immediately decide the tension is cinematic.
people start making fake wedding edits within HOURS.
someone tweets: “they look like divorced royalty reconnecting at a gala.” 50k likes in 5 minutes. insane.
nagi seishiro
nagi’s crush on you was already public knowledge to literally everyone except you.
reo knew. chris knew. the entire manshine team knew.
because nagi had absolutely no shame about watching your livestreams during practice.
he once said “wait she uploaded” in the middle of reviewing match footage.
so when he finally meets you at a gaming sponsorship event, everybody’s waiting for him to embarrass himself.
and he DELIVERS.
first of all, he accidentally says “hi, i love you” instead of “hi, i love your work.”
reo is choking in the background.
nagi is staring into space processing what he just said.
but you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall out of your chair.
and instead of recovering, he just sighs and goes “… well. too late now.”
HE’S SUCH A LOSER, BUT YOUR LOSER.
then he proceeds to follow you around the event like a sleepy cat.
sitting beside you. handing you snacks. leaning over your shoulder to look at your game screen. mumbling little comments only for you.
the internet clip that explodes is when you excitedly grab his arm after winning a round and he literally rests his forehead on your shoulder for a second because he’s overwhelmed.
the camera catches his expression, too. completely soft. completely gone. like he’s melting alive.
people start calling him “the nation’s laziest simp.”
his fans actually adore it though because nagi’s usually lazy and detached about everything, but around you he suddenly seems awake. attentive. clingy.
your fans think it’s hilarious because:
“she adopted a giant housecat.” “he’s attached to her by an invisible string.” “that man would follow her into traffic.”
the edits become unavoidable.
especially the ones where they compare:
nagi with everyone else: 😐
nagi with you: ☀️🌸💍✨
and it gets you every time.
mikage reo
reo thought he had this completely under control.
he’s rich, charming, attractive, socially polished. he talks to celebrities all the time.
except YOU specifically apparently turn him into a disaster.
he meets you at a fashion week event after-party and genuinely starts tweaking the second you compliment his outfit. because the compliment was detailed.
you noticed the watch. the WATCH.
now he’s internally spiraling because “she noticed the watch” has become the only thought in his head.
he starts trying too hard after that. so hard.
offering you drinks every 5 seconds. pulling chairs out for you. laughing before you finish jokes. accidentally bragging because he wants to impress you then immediately hating himself for it.
the funniest part is that reo’s usually smooth enough to hide his emotions, but around you he gets this ridiculously lovestruck look in his eyes. like full disney prince.
and EVERY camera catches it.
the viral clip happens when you touch his necklace while asking where it’s from.
then he answers way too quietly: “… you can keep it if you want.”
THE INTERNET SCREAMS.
because why did he say that like a man returning from war.
his fans are posting:
“he folded instantly.” “reo mikage giving away luxury jewelry over hand contact.” “bro saw his future wife.”
your fans think he’s painfully cute because despite being rich and confident, he acts like a teenage boy with his first crush around you.
and the shipping becomes violent.
there are fan cams. analysis threads. body language experts. people tracking how often he looks at you during interviews.
reo absolutely reads all of them, too.
then sends the funniest ones to nagi late at night like: “do you think we looked obvious…”
and nagi replies: “u looked one marriage proposal away from fainting. now stop asking.”
bachira meguru
bachira is the worst kind of celebrity-crush-haver because he has absolutely ZERO shame. none.
the second he finds out he's meeting you, he's already telling everyone.
isagi's tired. rin's annoyed. the staff are regretting inviting him.
"i'm gonna make her laugh." "that's nice, bachira." "and then we're gonna be best friends." "..." "and then maybe she'll let me borrow her makeup."
the confidence is insane considering he has never spoken to you once.
then he actually meets you.
and somehow becomes even weirder.
because instead of introducing himself normally, he immediately blurts out: "you're real!"
which sounds absolutely even more insane…
you laugh though, which bachira treats like winning the lottery.
after that, he's attached to your side the entire event. showing you random videos. asking a million questions. telling you stories that start with one topic and somehow end somewhere completely different.
the viral clip happens when you laugh so hard at one of his jokes that you accidentally grab his shoulder.
bachira immediately throws both hands over his face and starts spinning in a circle. A FULL CIRCLE. like an excited golden retriever.
people nearby are crying laughing.
twitter titles the clip: "professional athlete experiences positive reinforcement.”
his fans think it's adorable because bachira's always affectionate, but this is different.
he's nervous. he's excited. he keeps checking whether you're still listening when he talks.
your fans notice immediately.
"HE KEEPS LOOKING TO SEE IF SHE'S HAVING FUN.” "he's literally wagging his tail.” "someone put him on a leash before he follows her home.”
the edits are ridiculous.
people start calling you "the monster's favorite person."
bachira absolutely saves every single one.
shidou ryusei
meeting his celebrity crush is unfortunately a public safety hazard.
because shidou does not know how to act normal.
you walk into the room. he sees you. and immediately slams both hands onto the table.
"OH MY MAMAS."
everyone jumps. including you.
"YOU'RE EVEN PRETTIER IN PERSON."
staff members are already developing migraines.
shidou doesn't care. he's grinning so hard his face probably hurts.
the entire interaction feels like a live grenade rolling around the room. he keeps complimenting you. keeps making you laugh. keeps getting distracted mid-conversation because he's too busy staring. never leaves your side for a single second.
at one point, you ask him a simple question.
he doesn't answer. because he forgot the question. because he was looking at you. because he's a loser.
the viral clip is catastrophic.
during a group photo, you casually link arms with him.
shidou reacts like someone injected pure electricity into his bloodstream.
he physically JUMPS. then immediately starts yelling.
"DO YOU GUYS SEE THIS?"
everyone sees it. the cameras see it. the internet sees it.
his fans are dying.
"he folded faster than laundry.” "the strongest striker in blue lock defeated by one pretty girl.” "he's giggling bro.”
your fans are mostly entertained because shidou isn't even trying to hide it.
he's not subtle. he's not mysterious.
he's basically wearing a neon sign that says: I HAVE A CRUSH AND I’M PROUD.
karasu tabito
karasu spends years making fun of other people for being down bad. years. then karma arrives. and it arrives in the form of you.
he meets you at a sponsored charity event and immediately realizes he's in trouble when he starts fixing his posture.
karasu never fixes his posture. ever.
suddenly he's checking his hair. adjusting his sleeves. thinking before he speaks. absolutely humiliating.
he's still smooth though. or at least… he tries to be.
the problem is that every time you smile at him, he completely loses his train of thought.
you'll ask him something simple. he'll start answering. then halfway through he'll forget where he was going.
which is how he ends up saying things like: "yeah, so i started playing soccer because... because..."
there’s long pause. you’re smiling.
"... wow." "wow?" "yeah. wow."
absolutely finished.
the viral clip comes from an interview. you're sitting beside him. the interviewer asks a question. karasu answers. except the entire time he's looking at you instead of the interviewer. the ENTIRE TIME.
netizens immediately create side-by-side compilations. the evidence is overwhelming.
his fans are screaming because karasu usually notices everything around him. but around you? he notices literally nothing else.
your fans think it's hilarious.
"he looks like he's listening to wedding vows." "that man is studying her face like it'll be on the final exam bruh." "awww karasu got hit by a truck called love 😍"
kaiser michael
kaiser's plan was simple. he would charm you. you would be impressed. everything would go according to schedule.
unfortunately for him, you walk in and suddenly he can't remember half his prepared lines.
which is terrifying. because kaiser ALWAYS has lines.
he introduces himself with his usual confidence. flashes the smile. does the eye contact. everything's perfect.
then you compliment his rose tattoo. and this man forgets how conversations work.
he literally goes: "... thank you."
and then nothing. empty thoughts. the emperor has fallen.
kaiser spends the rest of the event trying desperately to regain control.
except every time he thinks he's recovered, you say something cute and he's back at square one.
the viral clip absolutely ruins him. during a photoshoot, you reach over and brush something off his shoulder. that's it. tiny gesture. totally harmless.
except kaiser freezes. and for a split second, just one second, his expression softens. completely. all the arrogance disappears. all the confidence disappears. he just looks… hopelessly gone.
the camera catches everything.
the internet’s reactions?
"WHO IS THAT MAN?” "THAT IS NOT MICHAEL KAISER.” "SOMEBODY CHECK HIS TEMPERATURE.”
his fans lose their minds because kaiser's entire brand is confidence. seeing him vulnerable for even half a second feels like discovering classified government documents.
your fans immediately become obsessed.
the edits hit 20 million views, it’s crazy.
ness alexis
OH NO. NAUR.
ness is somehow worse than everyone else. because unlike the others, he genuinely prepared.
he researched your interviews. your favorite movies. your hobbies. not in a creepy way. but rather, to make a good impression.
the problem is that all preparation disappears the second you actually speak to him.
you smile. say hello.
and this poor man starts buffering.
every sentence comes out awkward. every answer is slightly too enthusiastic. he keeps accidentally agreeing with everything you say.
you could say: "i think pigeons are funny."
and ness would immediately go: "YES."
why? he doesn't know.
the clip that goes viral is devastating. you're both participating in a challenge video. at one point, you laugh and lean against his shoulder for balance.
ness immediately stops functioning. his face goes bright red. his eyes get wide. he forgets what game you're playing. for nearly 15 seconds.
everyone notices. especially kaiser, who is standing in the background looking disgusted.
internet captions:
"bro entered cardiac arrest.” "he's fighting for his life.” "someone get him water.” “ref wya.”
ness's fans actually find it really sweet because beneath all the chaos, he's genuinely trying his best.
he listens carefully when you talk. remembers little details. looks excited whenever you include him in conversations.
your fans adore him almost immediately.
"he's actually so cute.” "look at him trying not to smile.” "he acts like she hung the moon.” "HE'S BLUSHING IN 8K!!”
the funniest part? months later, people are still making compilations titled: "alexis ness surviving interaction with his celebrity crush [name] (impossible challenge).”
and every single time one pops up on his timeline, he closes the app and stares at the ceiling for a good 10 minutes.
Gris Rubion, Count of Mono, territory in the Eastern Province
Synopsis: You meet a masked gentleman during the ball whose charming persona has piqued your interest. However, you have to leave before you learn his identity. But as it turns out, he’s wondering about you just as you are about him.
content: afab!reader, Cinderella inspired, love at first sight (for Gris), oral (fem! Receiving, unprotected sex, after care, dom!gris, overstimulation, pet names, size kink, I hope I didn’t miss anything, but I apologize if I did (word count: 13.4k)
Fairy tales were something you grew accustomed to hearing as a child.
For the most part, they were all the same: a damsel in distress saved by her knight in shining armor. Her Prince Charming. Some wicked witch or dragon that stands in their way but is ultimately vanquished by their perseverance and determination. And most importantly, love conquers all evil. Afterwards, together they live happily ever after.
As a young girl, those kinds of stories made you swoon. Who wouldn’t want to be whisked away by a dazzling prince on a noble steed? Defeat a dragon or be saved by true love’s kiss? The adventure alone was enticing.
The reality, however, that you realized quite early on was that fairy tales were called tales for a reason.
That’s all they were. Stories. Make believe. Fantasies.
And wish that you may, love stories like those just didn’t happen in reality. No matter how many gatherings or balls you attended, no one who had ever tried to court you captured your heart. While you weren’t desperate for love, you had no desire to rush into a marriage for the sake of being married.
As you neared your thirties with no real prospects of a suitor, your stepmother grew increasingly worried that you’d die alone or become an old maid. You weren’t quite sure why those were the only two options in her mind. Not to mention, there were several other women in your position, so you didn’t understand why she felt the need to single you out specifically.
Then again, your poor step-sister, Tomme, also has been subjected to her mother’s incessant fretting over neither of her daughters having found a suitable husband. You just got the worst of it cause you were older than she.
The problem with your stepmother, though, was that she was unrealistic with her expectations. If she had it her way, one of her daughters would be married to the Crown Prince of the kingdom. Given that idea in and of itself was preposterous, she had made it very clear she wants you and Tomme to marry one of the Dukes of the neighboring provinces.
No matter that the Duke of the Southern Isles was rumored to be a violent brute or the Duke of the Eastern Province had one foot in the grave. Your stepmother had her eyes set on marrying both of her daughters to a wealthy man, love or age be damned. You’re convinced your father’s wealth was the only reason why she married him before he passed a few years ago due to illness. Although your family wasn’t extremely rich by any means, you were more comfortable than most with your late father’s status as Baron of the small town of Andio.
Subsequently, since she had taken over as Baroness, your stepmother has continued to move among elite circles and has managed her role as governing authority quite well, building up quite the reputation for herself. She knows all the gossip. She knows who’s courting whom and who is looking for marriage. So it’s no surprise to you that she managed to snag an invitation to this year’s upcoming Spring Social.
“You both will be attending tomorrow night’s gathering at the palace,” your stepmother, Lady Mima, announced at breakfast. No good morning or anything of the sort. You hadn’t even had your morning tea yet. And Tomme is still blinking the sleep out of her eyes while dressed in her night clothes.
“Mother, what are you even talking about?” Your stepsister yawns. She nods politely to one of the housemaids who plates her breakfast of eggs and fruit with a side of roasted boar from last night’s dinner.
“The Spring Social begins tomorrow at dusk. Word is, this year, Their Majesties are even more insistent on looking for a potential bride for His Highness now that he is past the coronation age.” She gives her daughter a knowing look, one riddled with an underlying sense of ambition. “You two are close in age, Tomme. Now is your chance.”
“Um…” Tomme nervously laughs, looking to you with eyes pleading for help.
“Stepmother, the Spring Social occurs every year, and His Highness has never shown an interest in courting anyone,” you say with a sigh. Lady Mima frowns in distaste as you reach across the table for the bowl of fruit. She was always a stickler for proper table manners. “What even is the point of going to these silly gatherings? Once you’ve been to one, you've been to them all.”
“You wouldn’t think of it as such if you finally settled down like I’ve been telling you to. And elbows off the table!”
You roll your eyes.
The Spring Social was a yearly week-long celebration to commemorate the beginning of Spring. Hosted by the King and Queen, it served as the most elite gathering of the entire year, drawing high and low-ranked nobles from across the kingdom. Usually, it included some sort of ball, a banquet, festivities, and performances. It was actually at the Social where your father met your mother, his first wife.
Most people use the event as an opportunity to present their sons and daughters to the rest of society for the first time when they reach of marrying age. A debut, if you would say. Five years ago, when the prince turned eighteen, he participated in the Social for the first time, which officially marked his debut as an eligible bachelor.
Of course, knowledge of this had many, your stepmother included, scrambling to try and polish their children’s appearance and manners to see if they could potentially sway the prince. You were in your mid-twenties at that time, and you outright refused to court someone who had just turned eighteen. And with Tomme being two years younger than the prince himself, she couldn’t participate in the Social yet.
Luckily (or unluckily for your stepsister), by the time she made her debut, the Prince had still been single. Three years since then, that has still been the case with no one seemingly able to thaw the notoriously cold Prince’s icy heart.
It still seems like your stepmother has yet to give up hope on marrying her youngest into royalty.
“We will go into town today to get you both fitted for dresses,” Lady Mima declares. She points her spoon at you with a glare. “You’re going to the ball tomorrow night, and you will attempt to mingle with the suitors this year. No hiding out in the garden again. Especially because the Duke of the Eastern Province’s son plans to attend for the first time.”
“Isn’t his son well into his thirties?” You ask. When her frown deepens, you sigh. Knowing better than to continue to argue with her, you mutter a snarky “yes ma’am” under your breath before continuing to dig into your breakfast. This does seem to appease your stepmother, who eagerly shifts the discussion to the ball and the theme for the year. Apparently, it would be a masquerade.
You supposed that could be entertaining.
To be honest, you hated the Spring Social and tried to avoid the gatherings that came with it like the plague. Last year, you hid out in the palace gardens the entire time, and the year before that, you feigned illness to leave early.
It wasn’t that you hated the gatherings or balls themselves—after all, even you loved a good new dress or fancy pair of jewelry. It was just, to put it frankly, the men were at best idiots and at worst, downright misogynistic pigs.
Unfortunately, many young men and women, yourself included, have been indoctrinated to believe and follow stereotypical gender roles where men have wealth and women play the role of obedient, quiet wives. Granted, women did hold high-ranking roles, your stepmother included, but they were few and far between. And more often, the woman didn’t own the role outright. She inherited from her husband and then became a widow.
This meant that ever since your debut, you’ve been subjected to the nonsensical rhetoric of your male peers. However, many of them hadn’t expected or liked that you talked back.
“A good wife should obey her husband.”
“You need to watch that mouth of yours.”
“No man will put up with a woman as vulgar as you.”
That was your favorite thing that’s ever been said to you after you kindly told the son of another nobleman to go fuck himself after he told you that you would be prettier if you smiled more.
You’ve since developed quite a reputation for yourself as being stubborn and “untamable.” Although you weren’t quite fond of the notion of people acting like you were an animal to be domesticated. You were your own individual with your own hobbies and interests. Sure, things like love or motherhood didn’t completely turn you off, but you didn’t want it to be your sole identity.
Due to your difficult personality and frank lack of cooperation, year after year passed without you finding a suitor. And the older you got, the fewer options there were as younger individuals began making their own debuts. By now, most of your choices were either some immature boy ten years younger than you or some widowed asshole ten years your senior.
Two sides of the same coin, but you didn’t know which was worse.
You supposed, with the Masquerade theme this year, you could fly under the radar. If everyone’s identity were hidden, that would mean they wouldn’t be looking for you specifically, and no one would question a thing if you conveniently disappeared for most of the event. As long as your stepmother was too busy trying to weasel her way into the inner aristocratic circle to notice your departure.
Once breakfast wrapped up, with conversation shifting from the ball to Lady Mima’s complaints about one of the governor’s wives and her behavior at her last tea party, the maids ushered you and Tomme to your rooms to dress for the day.
You suck in a breath as the corset is tightened, the maid tying it in a way that nearly restricts your movement. “I actually like my ability to breathe, and I don’t think my lungs can properly expand at this rate,” you lightly jest. The maid apologizes and loosens the strings just a bit.
“My apologies, Miss. Lady Mima instructed that we prepare you and Lady Tomme in a fashion that flatters all your assets.”
Of course she did.
“Mother just wants us to look our best,” Tomme says kindly, a surprise squeak leaving her lips as her own corset is suddenly pulled tight. She must’ve read the annoyed look on your face.
“She’s meddling in my love life, and I don’t quite appreciate it,” you mutter. You step into your dress, a simple gown in your favorite color with lace on the front.
“She truly means well. I know she’s a bit…”
“Eccentric?”
“Well, I was going to say ambitious, but I suppose that works too,” Tomme chuckles. “Just go along with it to placate her. If you at least act like you’re playing the game, she tends to back off.”
“But it’s not fair, is it not?” Your attendants tie up your dresses. The silly garments have far too many buttons and ties to be considered practical. You dismiss them when they try to do your hair. “Ultimately, it’s our life to live, and stepmother shouldn’t be able to just dictate whom we get to be with,” you huff in frustration.
Tomme’s smile softens in her reflection in the mirror, not quite pity but something akin to sadness. “It’s just how tradition works. Most people our age are in arranged marriages. My father and mother were by the time they were twenty.”
“Well, tradition can go to hell.”
Your stepsister laughs. She takes a seat on the stool in front of her vanity. You take a brush to her hair, running the bristles through to detangle it.
“Listen,” Tomme says gently. “Trust me when I say I understand the frustration. I have no desire or interest in marrying the prince either, but arguing with my mother is a moot point. Maybe instead of fighting her so much, why not just let your heart be open to the potential for love? I think she’d be happy to at least see you trying.”
“I may be almost thirty, but it’s not the end of the world. She makes it seem that I’ve gotten a late start compared to others,” you grumble under your breath. “I'm an adult and am more than capable of picking a proper suitor for myself.”
“And I don’t doubt that,” your sister agrees. “It will just take a certain type of man to win you over.”
You shoot her an incredulous look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tomme shrugs, a teasing grin on her face. “It means, dear sister, that you require a man who puts up with your stubbornness without stifling your independence, and he must be okay with your inability to cook a meal that’s not burnt. And I do wish the poor lad luck with that. Even the mules aren’t as hardheaded as you.”
At that, you playfully thwack her with the brush.
Despite being stepsisters, you honestly had a pretty good relationship with Tomme. Her mom and your dad were widows when they met. Tomme’s father passed away from an unexpected illness, and your mother died during childbirth.
You were young when they married. You were 12, and Tomme was even younger at 4. Since she was so young, she had taken a liking to you right away, and you never had it in your heart to be mean to a child, especially one who had just lost her father.
On the other hand, your relationship with your stepmother was cordial. Although you’d never met your biological mother, you were not jumping at the idea of trying to replace her. And you had a slight suspicion that your stepmother only married your father for his money, no matter how many times he tried to reassure you that he truly loved her.
When he died when you were sixteen, you were thoroughly surprised to see how she wept for him at the funeral and continued to grieve for him long after the mourning period ended. You weren’t sure if it was just for appearances' sake or not.
Ever since Lady Mima assumed the role of baroness, she has governed her land with a firm, though not completely unkind, iron fist. Of course, rumors have speculated about her potentially killing her second husband for his position and wealth.
But they were merely rumors. And, over the decade after his passing, Lady Mima has yet to remarry. To many, however, it’s because a woman twice widowed was not marital material. You think it’s because she’s more preoccupied with maintaining her status and meddling in the love lives of her two daughters.
“Come on, you two, enough dallying,” Lady Mima yelled from the hallway. “I want us to get to the tailor right when they open so we get the first selection of their new dress collection.”
As you rolled your eyes, Tomme laughed. “Coming mother.”
You take the carriage into town from your manor.
The kingdom had four major provinces: the Eastern Province, the Northern Territories, the Western Province, and the Southern Isles. Each province had its own major cities, but in the Eastern Province, Mono was the most notable. Other well-known cities included Penta and Tori.
Andio was a small town within Mono that your father, and now stepmother, governs. It was a rambunctious town not too far from the Southern Isles that often held festivals for the arts, and street performers weren’t uncommon. In fact, each year in late autumn, the town hosts its annual Doll Festival, a celebration completely dedicated to fashion and craftsmanship. Usually, it is hosted by August Stilza, a well-known tailor who has even made clothing for Her Majesty.
August was an interesting character, to say the least. He was close to Tomme’s age but didn’t act like most of the men you were accustomed to. For starters, his grandmother was a renowned doctor, yet he essentially renounced his stake in his inheritance and pursued tailoring instead. Although he has become quite successful in his own right, many were appalled that he would take on such a “feminine hobby.”
His younger sister has also been subject to scrutiny for pursuing medicine like her grandmother, but most people know better than to say that in the face of Alice Stilza. If people thought you could be vulgar, the woman can be downright venomous with her words if anyone spoke ill of either of her precious grandchildren.
Undeniably, August gets his boisterous personality from his grandmother, but he was funny, and you generally liked being around him. While kind and great at his craft, he unfortunately had one volume: loud.
“The Mima family has arrived!” August exclaims the moment you all walk into his shop. Your stepmother’s face scrunches in disdain.
“Good day to you, Lord Stilza,” she says gruffly. “We have appointments for 10.” She never liked the man, but you think it’s simply because he doesn’t follow most societal standards.
He wears his hair long, for starters. And in addition to being a tailor, August’s own fashion tastes run quite peculiar, with him often dressing more casually than expected. His own clothing often is patched up or wrinkled, as if he slept in it. Most of the time, he probably does because he works long hours. August once told you that his best inspiration hits after midnight.
“I’m well aware!” August says eagerly. “I’ve pulled out a few pieces I’ve recently made, including things from the last season. Who’d like to go first?”
Your stepmother butts in before either you or your sister can. “We’ll start with Tomme. After all, she needs to look her best for His Highness.”
Tomme strains a smile, letting out an uncomfortable laugh at being put on the spot.
“Very well.” August ushers her and your stepmother toward the back, where a few dressing screens have been set up. He looks over his shoulder, shooting you a smile. “Feel free to look around until I’m ready for ya!”
“Thank you. I will.”
You walk around the small store. On the outside, one wouldn’t think Stilza’s Threads would be much. As eccentric as August was and hailing from wealth, he was relatively modest in how he ran his business, with simple decor and a small building he called his shop. You make your way through the racks of clothes, glancing through the newest Spring collection before venturing to the remaining Winter items.
“August really is a magician at what he does,” you mumble, pulling out a lilac colored gown with more tulle and ruffles than one could ever dream of wearing. You set it back.
You didn’t want something that drew too much attention, nor would be too hard to move in. Last year, the dress you had was so long that you kept tripping. And one year, you got stuck wearing a gown from a different tailor than August, and the fabric had been so itchy, you broke out in a rash. After learning from that mistake, you’ve been consistently wearing August’s work ever since.
The bell on the front door chimes as it opens.
“Hey, August, are you busy?”
A tall gentleman enters the store. He’s dressed impeccably in a navy suit jacket with elaborate gold detailing and embroidery. Just underneath, he has on a white ruffled shirt with a caravat. The trousers appear to be light-coloured. Possibly cream, but they appear more off-white. His blond hair is slicked back, and sleek black shoes complete his look. Dare you say the man was quite attractive?
But you wouldn’t, and continue to browse through the clothes while pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Lord Rubion,” August replies, a hint of surprise in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I figured you’d be on the way to the palace by now for the Social.”
His overly polite tone was unlike him. Your curiosity couldn’t help but pique. August was never one to be overly formal, so who was this gentleman?
“I should be. You’re right.” The gentleman heaves out a frustrated-sounding sigh. He holds up something for the tailor to see: it’s a pair of buttons and a grey suit jacket. “Unfortunately, one of the seams split on my nephew’s suit. If it’s not too much of a hassle, would you mind fixing it and the buttons that popped off? It’s his debut tomorrow night, and his mother is insisting it has to be this suit.”
“Oh, not at all. Let me finish with my current client, and then I’ll be right with you.”
Gris nods. “Much appreciated.”
The blonde nobleman had quite literally been having the world’s shittiest day. His role as Count has him busy on most days, but with the upcoming Spring Social, his work seemed to have tripled in the last forty-eight hours. Between the work he had to do on behalf of the Eastern Province’s Duke, coupled with his elder sister’s fretting to ensure that his nephew, Follo’s, debut went perfectly, Gris was half tempted to lock himself in his office and drink just so he could get a break from all his responsibilities.
Honestly, he didn’t give a damn about attending the Social himself at this point. But it would reflect quite poorly if a high-ranking nobleman didn’t attend without a valid excuse. And given that he himself, at thirty years old, was still single, people would begin to talk more if Gris didn’t settle down within the next few years.
Setting Follo’s jacket down on the rack, Gris began to browse the store. He personally didn’t frequent Stilza’s Threads often, but the store was well enough known. Although August primarily designed women’s dresses, he had a fair selection of men’s suits. But it wasn’t the fine garments that caught his attention.
Gris realized he wasn’t alone in the shop. Well, August had just said that he was helping another client, but the blond hadn’t expected to see another young woman browsing through the dresses with a rather bored expression on her face.
His immediate thought was that she was cute.
He figured she had to be nobility, given her exquisite dress and the shiny, yet subtle, jewelry adorning her neck. A delicate pair of lace gloves covered her hands, and her hair was pinned out of her face, a common style. Perhaps the daughter of a nobleman?
“Staring is quite rude, My Lord,” the woman quips without looking up from the rack. She pulls an orange dress out, scans it, before setting it back.
Gris snaps out of his daze. A smile softens across his face. “My apologies. I was merely taken aback by how beautiful you are.”
You scoff, ignoring the way heat burns your cheeks. “Flattery will get you nowhere, sir. I’m not swayed by suave words.”
“Then perhaps I shall have to be more creative with my charms.” Though clearly teasing, Gris couldn’t ignore the strange flutter in his chest. You were not impressed by his flirtatious attempts, even rolling your eyes as if his presence bothered you, but oddly enough, that only drew his intrigue more. “Are you going to the ball tomorrow?” Gris asks. He oddly found himself wanting to talk to you more.
You make an impassive-sounding hum. “Just about everyone in the kingdom is, no?”
Gris chuckles. “Fair point. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you then?”
“It’s a masquerade, My Lord,” you remind. “Our identities will be a mystery the whole night.”
Damn. Gris forgot.
He had been having coffee with the Duke of the Eastern Province’s son when he first learned of the theme. When Arkha initially mentioned that the theme of the upcoming ball would be a masquerade, Gris had thought the idea was a bit silly. What was the point of having a costume party, essentially, when the whole point of the Social itself was to eventually get to know people? A masquerade kind of defeated that purpose if you didn’t know who you were interacting with.
But, Gris supposed he could see the appeal. It was a new concept that could be exciting if executed correctly. And not to mention, there was less pressure to impress or maintain appearances if people couldn’t immediately tell that he was Gris Rubion, Count of Mono.
If he were to be honest, one of the reasons why Gris hadn’t jumped to get married was that nothing ever felt authentic. Given that he was a high-ranking nobleman, he always felt like people were trying hard to get on his good graces because of his wealth, not to actually know him for himself. Most women he ever interacted with were clearly trying to overcompensate by being overly polite to the point it was awkward, or being a complete yes woman to whatever Gris asked.
Perhaps that’s why he was acutely intrigued by you. You were one of the first women who didn’t become a stuttering, blushing mess while talking to him. And thankfully so.
“I suppose I will have to do my best to pick you out in the crowd,” Gris finally says with that charming smile of his.
“I’d like to see you try, My Lord. I can assure you that I wouldn’t make it easy.”
“Oh, is that a challenge?”
Your brow raises. This man had to be teasing you. That's what it was. But when you turn to meet his gaze, he’s regarding you with a somewhat stern look. And you take note of how pretty his blue eyes are. Intense, though not unkind.
“I…uh…” You’re losing your train of thought, and under the heat of his stare, you feel yourself becoming flustered.
What was wrong with you? You were not the type to let yourself be affected by a mere man’s flirtatious advances. After all, he probably spouted the same nonsensical words to other women he’s come across.
So why was your heart stuttering like crazy?
“If you want to take it as such, be my guest,” you say smoothly, trying your best to mask your nervousness.
“Hmm. A tempting offer,” Gris muses. He takes a hand to his chin in thought. “Will I receive a reward if I successfully find you?”
You look at him aghast. “I am not a prize to be won, My Lord!” You snap.
“No, but your company is.”
You laugh, more so in disbelief than in shock. You were completely convinced he was messing with you at this point. This all had to be a game to him.
“Very well,” you concede, deciding to play along. “Try to find me at the ball tomorrow night, My Lord. If you do, I shall agree to an outing of your choosing. Sound fair?”
Gris smiles. “I shall look forward to it.”
You pick up a dress from the rack that suddenly catches your eye. It’s a soft blue, the color of the sky. You hold the fabric up to Gris, a sweet smile tugging at your lips. “Hm. Not bad. It matches your eyes.”
Your smirk widens watching a deep red flush make its way across his cheeks, and he is rendered speechless, his mouth falling open with no words coming out.
The sound of a throat clearing draws your attention. Tomme, whose presence you hadn’t noticed before then, stares at you with a suspiciously sly grin you don’t like. “August is ready for you now,” your stepsister says. She holds up a couple more gowns. “I thought you could try on these pieces as well. Since you seemed partial to blue, after all.”
“If this will make the process pass faster,” you sigh, choosing to ignore her sly comment as you take the two dresses from her. You give the gentleman one last polite smile with a kind courtesy. “Good day to you, My Lord.”
Gris clears his throat, still slightly flushed. “R-right.” Taking your hand, he brings your gloved knuckles to his lips, dipping down into a polite bow of his own. The warmth of his kiss floods your body, and you’re rendered speechless for a second time.
“I hope we meet again, My Lady.”
“I still can’t believe that you were flirting with the Count yesterday,” Tomme reminds you for what seemed like the hundredth time since leaving the tailor yesterday. “I knew you had high standards, sis, but I didn’t think you had your eyes set on one of society’s most esteemed gentlemen.”
“For the last time, I was not flirting with him,” you insist, heaving out an annoyed huff. “And I am not interested in him! I didn’t even know that I was talking to Count Rubion to begin with. I’m more mortified at the idea of having possibly offended him.”
The dress fitting could’ve gone worse. Your stepmother had spent most of the time fretting over Tomme, so selecting your dress had gone rather quick by the time it was your turn. It was actually August who had selected more dresses than you could stand to try on, but the amount had quickly been cut down, because the tailor had his sights set on a particular style and color for you.
You now stand before the bedchamber mirror while your stepsister fusses with the ribbons at the back of your gown, swearing in the most unladylike manner as they tangle. The dress feels impossibly grand, its black corseted bodice fitting perfectly to your frame and embroidered with silver patterns that glitter like stars against a midnight sky. Soft blue sleeves rest on your shoulders, and layers of shimmering ice-blue fabric, reminiscent of a certain Count’s eyes, billow beneath black overskirts trimmed with delicate silver lace. Every movement sends the skirts rustling around you.
It wasn’t until after you left that Tomme “kindly” asked you what your relationship was with the gentleman, because she wasn’t aware that you were on friendly terms with the Count.
You weren’t.
You didn’t even know that he was the Gris Rubion.
Granted, you probably would know if you paid more attention to the social circles, like your stepmother wanted. Then maybe you wouldn’t have been quite so short with him. You did try to maintain some semblance of class, and you knew better than to outright disrespect one of the high-ranking nobles.
But you had only reacted the way you did because you figured he was just another flirtatious nobleman. What you hadn’t expected was for him to entertain your sarcastic quips. Hence Tomme was now convinced that the two of you had been flirting.
“Trust me. I’m positive Count Rubion was enjoying the banter.” Tomme lets out a victorious cheer when she finally secures the straps to your dress. Her own attire consisted of an extravagant coral colored gown that complemented her skin tone and deep brown hair, which was curled for the occasion. “You should make sure to look for him tonight.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But why ever not?”
“Because—“ Any excuse you could’ve come up with gets lost under her expectant gaze. You truly didn’t have a valid reason not to seek the Count out, and Tomme knew it. “I’m sure Lord Rubion will be busy.”
“At a ball?”
“Yes. And I’m sure he’s already courting someone, given his status.”
“Really?” Tomme asks incredulously. “Last I heard, his Lordship is still single.”
Your jaw ticks in annoyance. She laughs. “I really do not like you right now.”
“Come on.” Tomme playfully nudges you. “What do you even have to lose? You’ll be wearing a mask, so you can loosen up a little and flirt around tonight. No one will know it’s you. And who knows, it might even blossom into a romance if you let it~I like to think that the Count even fancies you already.”
She hands you your black and blue mask, the accessory adorned with gems and features. “You read too many romance novels,” you say with a shake of the head. “Love doesn’t work like that.”
“But it could,” Tomme counters. Her expression softens, a certain sadness underlining her smile. “You just have to give it a chance. What are you so afraid of? Hm?”
Your chest constricts ever so slightly. The familiar twang of pain wrenches your heart tight as unpleasant memories flood your brain. It’s too late to completely mask the emotion, Tomme no doubt seeing beneath the facade you desperately tried to maintain. But you school your expression, set your shoulders, and put on your mask.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” you assert. “I merely stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.”
The carriage your stepmother has arranged is one of the most extravagant. The body of the coach is painted entirely white, drawn by two horses whose coats are as black as the night, yet there is a sheen to them. It takes help from the driver for you to ascend the stairs with how heavy your gown is, and the combined ruffles from yours and Tomme’s elaborate dresses all but fill the entire space.
Lady Mima slides into the seat next to her daughter, her peacock green gown a vision of elegance. “To the palace,” she instructs the driver, who closes the door. “And make haste with it. We need to arrive early for Tomme to make the best first impression for his Royal Highness.”
“Mother…” Tomme sighs. Her mother waves her off with her hand fan dismissively. Your sister sulks in her seat, but you catch her sad gaze in the window.
“Of course, My Lady,” the driver responds. He snaps the reins, and the carriage takes off in a steady trot through the city.
You couldn’t help but feel for your stepsister. She had a good heart and just wanted to make her mother proud. But you knew deep down she had no desire to marry the prince, let alone any major nobility. Tomme was as much a hopeless romantic as you were, but storytelling had always been her love. Though you and she both knew that Lady Mima would never accept her daughter’s dreams of being an author.
If it were up to your stepsister, she’d travel, leave Andio and Mono behind to see the world and gain inspiration for the novel she had been secretly working on since her teenage years. If you had the money to do so, you’d fully support her endeavor. But your late father had stipulated that your inheritance was on lock and key until you were married. Tomme was stuck under her mother’s thumb until then, lest she marry herself.
Arriving at the palace was a grand affair. You could only count on one hand the number of times you’ve been to the capital city, and it never ceased to amaze you. Flowers in every color seem to be the main decoration. They adorn many young ladies’ hair and gowns and have been strewn about light posts or hung outside on window sills. And it’s undeniably evident that guests were taking the masquerade theme quite seriously.
You saw masks in every variation. Full face. Half masks. One eye. Feathers. Beads. Gems and ribbons. Some were extravagantly decorated, while others were simple accessories that hardly obscured one’s identity. Some were less refined, more cartoonish in nature. A particular gentleman startled you with his wolfish mask that mimicked the canine’s muzzle.
“People really went all out this year, didn’t they?” Tomme says in awe. Her own mask had been fitted against her face, covered in pearls that matched her necklace.
“Hm, I don’t see His or Her majesty yet,” Lady Mima comments, sounding a tad disappointed. The ballroom was a rainbow of colorful dresses and suits. Guests mingled about, while a few had already begun dancing along with the live orchestra. “Oh, I see the Countess of Penta. Poor thing just recently lost her husband of five years, you know. And it seems the Duke of the Southern Isles is here as well.”
Even with the mask, the Duke of the Southern Isles, Zodyl Typhon, is unmistakable based on his presence alone. He’s a tall and attractive, yet slightly intimidating, gentleman who has garnered a reputation for being cold. Hardly any woman dares to approach him, and according to your stepmother’s gossip, he has yet to seriously court anyone. If it wasn’t for the entourage of equally intimidating bodyguards that always flanked his sides, the Duke’s reputation alone would make most steer clear.
Zodyl himself appears less than interested in the whole affair. He keeps off to the side, observing the scene, as if he were looking for something. But that is none of your business, and the last thing you want to do is get involved with him of all people.
“Oh, there’s His Grace,” Lady Mima exclaims upon seeing the current Duke of the Eastern Province. An elderly gentleman enters the room with a much younger man accompanying him. “I must go say hello to him and his son. Come, Y/n, I’ll introduce you two—“
“Look, it’s Lord Stilza!” Tomme suddenly points toward the dessert table where the eccentric man was. His mask was as boisterous as he, so there was no mistaking the tailor for someone else. Yet, it was so uniquely him that it was charming. “Let’s go show him how our gowns look all put together. We shall meet with you later, mother!”
“Wait—“
But Tomme ushers you off in a hurry, without letting Lady Mima finish her sentence.
“Thank you for that,” you whisper.
Tomme smiles. “It’s what sisters are for. Though the Duke’s son isn’t all that bad looking, you know.”
You wave her off with a dismissive hand. “Not interested.”
“Right. My apologies. You have your eyes set on a certain Count~” Tomme teases. Thankfully, your mask hides most of your flustered expression.
After briefly catching up with the tailor, Tomme ends up encountering one of her old schoolmates from boarding school. You think you remember her vaguely. What was her name again? Meriege, you think? You’re pretty sure she moved to the Southern Isles after they graduated.
Not wanting to intrude by being the third wheel, you excuse yourself, but you don’t think that Tomme even noticed your departure.
Weaving your way through the crowd, you make it to the refreshment table and snag one of the champagne flutes. Most of the other patrons were engrossed in their own conversations, and you could hardly tell who was who from all the masks. Perhaps the mature thing to do would be to make an effort to mingle, but you were hardly interested in needless small talk.
“Maybe, I’ll sneak out and visit the gardens like last time,” you think to yourself as you down your drink. “I wonder if Lord Rubion made it.” The thought startlingly crosses your mind before you can squander it. Whether the nobleman attended or not was none of your business! And surely he had to be jesting about your earlier little “game” so you had no reason to believe he’d spend the whole ball looking for you.
You were no one important, for that matter. Just another faceless young woman amongst the sea of masks.
Still, a small part of you had hoped he’d seek you out like he promised.
“Not one for dancing?” Someone asks, startling you slightly.
You take in the tall gentleman before you. He’s dressed in navy, with a mask of silver to match. Behind it, you catch a glimpse of the most striking blue eyes, but because the mask obscures most of his facial features, you aren’t completely certain if you know the man or not.
“Not particularly,” you answer. “I much rather be in bed by now with a good book.”
He laughs, and the sound has your body warming in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Believe me when I say I understand the sentiment. These kinds of things are a bit gauche, don’t you think?”
“Well, when else are all the peacocks of society supposed to showcase their feathers?”
The gentleman’s smile doesn’t wane. “Fair point. Is that why you’re over here in the corner hiding by yourself? Are you avoiding trying to show off or…”
The insinuation of his tone makes you square your shoulders. You regard him with a relatively annoyed look as you scan him over once then twice.
“I would think that you were the one showing off, My Lord. You sought me out when I was the one minding my business.”
“Guilty,” he admits with a shrug. “Forgive me for being charmed by the sight of a beautiful woman.”
“I’m sure you tell that to every woman.”
He makes an impassive-sounding hum, so you’re not sure whether to take it as confirmation or denial. This gentleman was certainly an odd one, but his demeanor and charm felt familiar.
The music changes. The orchestra switches from a slow rhythm to a more upbeat waltz that has guests rushing to pair up. The masked gentleman extends a gloved hand out, and you regard him skeptically.
“Come on.”
“Oh, no,” you politely decline.
“Just one dance.”
He takes your empty glass and sets it on the nearby table while you try to stammer out another excuse. “I-I assure you, My Lord. I have as good as two left feet and—“
The man gives you a cheeky grin, making your heart flutter.
“Humor me, My Lady.”
You’re whisked away before you can further protest. As you predicted, you stumble over your feet and the fabric of your dress like a clumsy foal, but the man makes no comment when you step on his expensive shoes for the third or fourth time. You’re pretty sure your face is aflame, but the embarrassment was more from how poor a dancer you are than from being seen with the stranger.
“Instead of focusing on your feet, follow your partner’s movements,” the gentleman whispers softly. One of his hands is in a respectable position on your hip while the other guides you around with him. He is unable to hide his wince this time as you accidentally jab your heel into his toe.
“I told you I wasn’t good at this,” you mumble. “I’m going to ruin your nice shoes at this rate.”
“Shoes are replaceable, and between you and me, I’m not particularly fond of this pair to begin with. My elder sister insisted I wear them.” He playfully winks. “Don’t tell her I said that. She gets quite offended when I judge her fashion choices.”
“But—“
He spins you, dipping you back suddenly, and you gasp. “Are you always in your head this much? I don’t think I’ve met a woman who overthinks a simple waltz as much as you, My Lady.”
You huff, settling one of your hands back on his shoulder. “And I’m not sure I’ve met a man who stubbornly insists on dancing with such a poor partner, My Lord.”
“Hmm. I personally find your inability to stay on tempo rather charming.” When you glare, he laughs. He pulls you in close, your noses just a breadth away. “Relax. Just follow my lead.”
With time, you find your footing, slipping into the dance as though you've known the steps all along. Somehow, the two of you keep pace with the other couples circling the floor. To your surprise, you begin to enjoy yourself.
More than that, you begin to forget about everything else.
The gentleman proves to be an exceptional dancer, his movements effortless and confident. You surrender to his lead before you even realize you're doing it, allowing him to guide you across the floor with an ease that feels natural.
Another thing you notice is that from the moment the dance began, his attention has never once strayed from you.
You can't explain the way he looks at you.
Those soft blue eyes remain fixed on yours. There is something warm and tender in his gaze, but beneath it lingers an intensity that makes your pulse stumble. Each time your eyes meet, heat creeps higher into your cheeks, and looking away somehow feels just as impossible as holding his stare.
As you move together, the ballroom fades into a blur of color and sound. The laughter, the music, the countless other dancers. They all become distant, insignificant.
There is only him.
The weight of his hand against yours. The warmth of his touch at your waist. An invisible thread pulling you closer with every turn.
It feels like you’re a moth standing too close to an open flame, continuously drawn to it knowing you should step back. Create some distance. Break whatever spell has settled between you when every instinct urges you closer to him.
The realization makes your chest tighten.
“You know,” you admit, “I haven’t danced like this since my father passed when I was a young girl.” The confession leaves your lips before you can stop it. “After he died, dancing lost its appeal. I know he wouldn’t have wanted me to stop, but it never felt the same without him.”
For a moment, his expression softens. His hand tightens ever so slightly around yours.
“I cannot nor do I wish to replace your father,” he says softly, “but I hope this dance gives you positive memories worth remembering.”
"You seem determined to leave a lasting impression, My Lord," you say, attempting to joke despite the way your erratic heart rate has begun to betray you.
A quiet chuckle escapes him. "Have I succeeded in making you fall for my charms?"
The question is simple enough, yet something in the way he asks it makes it feel like more than idle conversation. It’s not like the light banter from earlier. There’s something more serious under that playful tone.
You force your attention to the passing dancers around you. You think you manage to catch Tomme from afar, and the encouraging grin and thumbs up she gives you doesn’t help. The rest of the ballroom remains a distant blur beyond the circle he seems to have drawn around the two of you.
When you finally meet his blue eyes again, you find him already watching you.
The realization makes you flush.
"Perhaps," you reply softly.
One golden brow arches. That damn smirk.
"Perhaps?"
A reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
"I have not decided yet."
Something flashes across his features beyond the mask: amusement. The corner of his mouth lifts further. "Then I suppose," he says, guiding you through another turn, "I shall have to continue trying."
You laugh softly. "Persistent, aren't you?"
"Only when something is worth pursuing, and your company is certainly so.”
The response sends a flutter through your chest. As he draws you through another step, bringing you closer so that your chests touch, face inches from each other, his gaze remains fixed on yours. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how close he was and the way his warm touch seems to seep through the fabric of your gown, impossible to ignore.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly, he says, "after all, I told you I'd find you, My Lady."
Your breath hitches.
The words send a jolt through you, immediately pulling you back to your encounter the other day. The challenge. The promise.
“I am not a prize to be won, My Lord!” You had snapped.
“No,” he responded earnestly. “But your company is.”
Your eyes widen as you stare at him, trying to see beyond the mask. His smile widens slightly, as though he can see the realization beginning to dawn.
"You—"
"Miss!"
The voice cuts through the moment like a blade, shattering it completely.
You turn sharply to find one of the household servants, the head butler, weaving through the dancers, his face pale with concern.
"There you are," he says, breathless. "I've been searching everywhere for you."
"What is it?" You ask, slightly irked at being interrupted.
"It's your stepmother, Miss." He lowers his voice. "She's taken ill."
A knot forms in your throat. The ballroom seems to tilt beneath your feet. A surge of dread floods your body, making nausea churn within your stomach. Your stepmother being ill in and of itself was rare. Not to mention, with how insistent she was about attending this ball, the last thing she would do is let any ailment hinder her attendance.
You glance back at the masked gentleman, torn between panic for your stepmother’s well-being and the selfish guilt of not wanting to leave.
For a heartbeat, neither of you move. Whoever does so means that the moment you had shared seconds ago officially ends. But eventually, familial duty wins the war in your heart.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, reluctantly releasing his hand.
The gentleman inclines his head, his expression soft. His grip tightens around your hand to keep you from pulling away completely. He then raises it, pressing his lips to your knuckles.
"We shall finish this another time. Go see to your stepmother.”
The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.
Before you can apologize or question his identity, the servant gently urges you onward.
And just like that, the fantasy is broken.
The invisible thread that had held you together snaps.
You cast one final glance over your shoulder, only to find those familiar blue eyes still fixed upon you.
Morning arrives far too quickly, and last night’s ball feels like a fever dream.
Sunlight streams through your curtains, and the birds’ morning song drifts in from the gardens. Though it’s long past breakfast at this point, you continue to lie in bed and stare at the canopy above your bed; your thoughts remain firmly trapped in the previous evening.
You should be relieved.
Your stepmother was perfectly fine. Thankfully, Alice Stilza had been present, and she looked over Lady Mima, who had suddenly fainted during the event. The doctor had assured everyone that her sudden dizziness was nothing serious, likely caused by a mixture of heat and a corset tightened a tad too much. But, for an extra precaution, your family left early for her to rest.
Of course, Lady Mima put up a fuss. You all but had to drag her out kicking and screaming. But, as you learned later from Tomme’s friend Meriege, Prince Tamsy hadn’t even made an appearance that night. His Majesty was beyond frustrated that his son didn’t show, but in order to save face, the event continued on as if nothing was amiss.
You were relieved, of course, that your stepmother’s condition wasn’t serious. Yet another part of you could not help dwelling on what had been interrupted.
The dance.
The conversation.
Those blue eyes.
Him.
A frustrated sigh escapes you as you turn over in your bed.
“I told you I'd find you, My Lady.”
The memory sends a flutter of giddiness through your chest.
You had been so close. Every instinct told you it had been Count Rubion. Who else could it have been? Sure, he never admitted directly, nor had you seen his face beneath the mask, but every instinct screamed it was him.
Tucking your hand under your pillow, you turn to look out the window.
A nagging part of you was concerned you were wrong, though. There were plenty of other gentlemen with blue eyes and stupidly charming wit. But then you’d be lying to yourself, because no one had made you feel giddy before like he did at the tailor shop.
And partially, your pride just wanted to confirm that you were right.
Had he known you were beginning to realize?
There had been something like amusement in his expression right before you were interrupted by the butler. As though he had been watching you slowly assemble the pieces while knowing the answer all along. Like this was a secret game just the two of you were playing.
You groan, smooshing your face into the pillows.
It was frustrating.
And perhaps even more maddening was the fact that you found yourself wishing for another chance to see him. That, and the subsequent teasing you had been subjected to by Tomme.
Just one more chance.
Just to confirm your suspicions and nothing more.
Or that’s what you kept telling yourself.
A knock sounds against the door before it swings open. Tomme pokes her head inside. "Still moping in bed, are we?”
You don’t pick your face up from the pillow. “I’m not moping.”
“Yes, and Count Rubion is not in our drawing room.”
That immediately makes you sit up. “Excuse me?!” Your stepsister grins, and you sigh. “Please don’t jest about something like that. I am not in the mood for games at the moment.”
“But I am not. Unless there is another Count Rubion that I’m not aware of. And he has actually specifically requested you.”
It takes two seconds to register her words before you’re throwing yourself off the bed. “How long has he been here?! You’re now just telling me! Oh, gosh, I’m still in my night clothes!”
Tomme laughs as you stumble across your room, trying to pull your nightgown over your head. “In my defense, I told him that you were still in bed.”
“As if that’s any better!”
You pick out just a plain casual dress to throw on. There's no time for makeup or jewelry, so you simply smooth down the bed head as much as possible. Your heart races, pounding in your chest so hard you think it’s going to come out of your throat.
Why would he come here?
In your home, nonetheless.
You hadn’t even fully confirmed whether or not he was the one you danced with last night, so why would he be looking for you? You could understand if he was here for the Baroness, your stepmother. But why you? You didn’t want to get your hopes up for something that could ultimately be a misunderstanding.
Tomme follows as you step into the corridor. “Do I finally get to have a brother-in-law?”
“No,” you say automatically.
“Come on, dear sister.” She playfully jabs you in your side. “Remember what I told you? Be open.”
A servant passes in the hall and dips his head. “Miss. The Count is waiting in the drawing room.”
“Ok, thank you,” you manage.
Tomme leans in as you move past her. “Make sure to plan for an autumn wedding. I’m much more partial to the colors.”
Your face warms instantly. “Tomme.”
She laughs, and you stride past her without further comment.
Each step toward the drawing room feels heavier than the last. Your palms grow sweatier as you approach the closed doors, your nerves weighing you down.
You reach out for the handle, hesitating briefly. With an exhale, you push open the door and enter the room.
Gris is already there, standing near the tall windows, light spilling over him. Today, he’s dressed in grey. No mask now.
Those blue eyes turn to you immediately.
And something in your chest tightens at the familiarity of it.
“Good morning,” Gris says, as if this encounter were the most natural thing in the world. “I apologize for coming so suddenly and unannounced. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
You dip into a polite curtsy. “My Lord. This is quite an unexpected visit.”
“Is it?” A faint smile. “I thought I was expected.”
You raise a brow. “By whom?”
He shrugs, playful. “By fate, perhaps.”
You look at him with a confused look until a faint glint of something metal in his hand catches your gaze. Gris notices your attention and lifts it slightly.
Between his fingers rests a delicate piece of jewelry—an earring, or what remains of one. The clasp is bent, and the chain holding the two pieces together is separated. A tiny blue gemstone glints in the light.
“That’s…”
A memory from the night suddenly hits you.
The sudden brush of movement too close, too fast. Your hair caught between motion and his hand. The faint pull at your ear you had dismissed in the moment of everything else.
You didn’t even realize one of your earrings had fallen until you returned home and were undressing, but you hadn’t been sure at what point in the night it was lost. So, you just had to sadly accept you’d never see it again.
“I found it on the floor of the ballroom,” Gris says, taking a step closer. “After you left.”
“It belonged to my mother…” You breathe out. Gris takes your hand, placing the earring in your palm and curling your fist closed. “You came all this way,” you say carefully, “to return a broken earring?”
His gaze holds yours for a beat too long. Then, softly, he says, “No. Not only for that.”
The air in the room shifts. It is so subtle it’s almost imperceptible.
But suddenly you are aware of everything. The distance between you. The silence of the house beyond the doors. The fact that there is no dance here to hide behind, nor crowd to dissolve into.
It’s just you and him.
You force your voice to remain steady. “Then why are you here, My Lord?”
He pauses. He wasn’t hesitating, but rather thinking.
“I came,” Gris says after taking a breath, “to do this properly.”
Your brow furrows slightly. “Properly?”
“I should have just come clean last night,” he continues. “Or rather, if I am being honest with myself, I should have been direct from the start when I met you at the shop.”
You regard him with a perplexed look. “Direct about what?”
That charming, familiar smile returns, but softer now. Less playful. More sincere.
“About you.”
Gris steps closer, just enough to shorten the space that has been carefully maintained since you entered. You feel your heart rate spike.
“I did not come simply to return what you lost,” Gris says quietly. “I came because I intended to ask your stepmother for permission to court you.”
The room seems to still. Even the air feels heavier.
You blink once. “You…what?”
His expression does not waver.
“I did not want it to be misinterpreted as I approached you carelessly. Or that I treated you as a passing fascination from a single dance.” Gris’s voice lowers slightly. “You are not that. I meant what I said before that your company was a gift.”
“Y-you’re just saying that,” you whisper. Your throat tightens, causing you to choke the words out. Your vision suddenly becomes blurry. “You don’t possibly want to court someone like me. I-I cannot be the obedient wife, n-nor am I good at any housework like cooking. And—“
“None of that matters,” the Count interrupts.
“But—“
“I would spot you over and over again, My Lady,” Gris says. “In every crowded room, in every gathering, in every moment when the world tries to distract me I would still find you. There is no other woman who could capture my heart or attention like you.” Gris smiles. He reaches out, pausing slightly to look into your eyes for permission before he gently cups your cheek. “And I would not want you to change for the sake of appeasing society. Otherwise, you would be changing the very thing that initially attracted me to you.”
You should respond. You should move. You should say something sensible, but your thoughts scatter under the weight of his words.
This wasn’t a game to him. It had never been.
“Lord Rubion—“
The door behind you creaks open.
For the second time, your moment is shattered, and you’re convinced fate is laughing at you.
“Well.” Your stepmother stands in the doorway. “I do hope I am not interrupting something important.”
For perhaps the first time since you have known him, Gris looks uncertain. “Not at all,” he says, straightening up confidently. “In fact, you have arrived at precisely the right moment.”
Your stepmother’s eyes narrow. “Have I now?”
The Count glances at you before returning his attention to her. “There is a matter on which I wish to speak with your daughter, but propriety requires that I first seek your permission, Lady Mima.”
Lady Mima’s brow raises, her arms crossing over her chest. “My permission?”
“To court her,” he says simply.
Silence stretches onward after his proclamation.
You see someone poking their head around the corner, trying not to be suspicious. Tomme and one of the maids.
Your stepmother stares at the Count as though she is waiting for the rest of the sentence or for him to say he’s merely jesting. When nothing follows, she slowly looks back and forth between you and Gris. You could see the gears in her mind beginning to work.
“You wish to court her?”
“I do.”
Her skepticism is immediate and fierce. “Properly?”
“Yes.”
“With honorable intentions?”
“Entirely.”
“And not as some passing amusement?”
Gris’s expression hardens. “Lady Mima, I assure you my intentions are very serious. That is why I wished to ask you first as her mother figure.”
For another moment, she studies him. Then, suddenly, her face breaks apart into a grin so wide it nearly seems painful.
“Oh.” She clasps both hands together. The grin becomes a laugh. Your stepmother’s delight fills the room so completely you’re convinced she might float away with happiness. “Oh, I thought this day would never come!”
“Stepmother,” you huff, growing embarrassed by her dramatics. “You’re making a scene in front of Lord Rubion.”
But your pleas seem to fall on deaf ears as she’s already halfway out the door. “Oh, this is wonderful! I’ll have to get on Lord Stilza’s schedule to design the dress, and we must pick out a color scheme—oh, this is far too exciting to waste time standing here talking about it! Tomme! Help me with the invitations!”
“Stepmother—“ you try again.
But she is already gone, calling for preparations down the hall as though a wedding has already been signed into existence.
You sigh, then turn back to the Count to apologize. But Gris is watching the doorway with faint amusement, entirely unbothered by the whirlwind he has just caused.
“You look as though you’re considering your escape,” he says.
“I am,” you reply.
A laugh leaves him. He steps closer, still maintaining a somewhat respectable distance.
“Well, that’s unfortunate, because if I recall, you agreed to an outing of my choosing if I found you at the ball,” Gris reminds you.
Right. You forgot about the deal you made.
“I did.”
“Then I intend to collect.” He extends his gloved hand, offering his arm for you. “If that is all right with you, My Lady.”
Gris, at that moment, looks oddly bashful. Like a young lad with a little crush, scared of potential rejection. It was cute.
You give a small nod. “Very well.”
At your approval, his demeanor relaxed. “Good,” he says simply.
And you take his outstretched arm.
The carriage ride is quiet, and no amount of space between the two of you can mitigate the suffocating feeling of being so close to the Count.
Gris sits across from you, watching you with a certain fondness you try hard to ignore.
Before you left, your stepmother insisted you change. She claimed you must look proper for your first official outing, and she had the maids throw you into the bath, scrub your skin raw, and dress you in a new dress that was acceptable by her standards. Tomme offered to keep the Count company while you dressed, but you didn’t like the mischievous look on her face as she dragged Gris away for tea.
You truly hoped they wouldn’t ruin what hadn’t even officially started yet. Nonetheless, when you emerged nearly an hour later, Gris seemed to be in oddly good spirits. And when asked, he only said that your family was lovely company.
You made a note to grill Tomme later about what she told him.
Outside the window, the city begins to soften into green. Stone gives way to winding stretches of flat land common in the Eastern Province.
You sneak a glance at Gris. He is watching you already.
You look away too quickly, flushing at being caught.
A faint smile tugs at his lips, as if he noticed anyway.
“You look very beautiful,” Gris says. You fold your gloved hands in your lap, trying to quell their trembling. “I’m increasingly liking the look of blue on you.”
“O-of course you would,” you huff, bashfully.
The carriage slows to a stop. Gris hops out first, before extending a hand to help you down like the gentleman he was. You cover your head to keep the hat your stepmother insisted you wear from flying away when the air suddenly whipped up.
The gentle sun warms your skin. You only faintly hear Gris dismiss the carriage driver, because you’re immediately left in awe at the sea of flowers that surrounds you both. A cobblestone pathway leads to what seems like a large manor in the distance, but it diverges into several smaller paths around the garden.
Hedges have been cut into deliberate shapes, framing secret paths that wind deeper into the greenery. Roses in shades of red and white climb trellises in careful rows, and you hear the faint murmur of a fountain somewhere out of sight.
“What do you think?” Gris asks, pulling you out of your admiration.
You turn to look at him. “This is your idea of an outing?”
The Count steps beside you, offering his arm again out of habit. “Yes,” he answers sincerely. “You know, I don’t take just anyone around my private gardens. They’re quite dear to me.”
“And you thought this was appropriate courtship?” You tease. “I’m sure my stepmother made it clear we were not to be surprised, as it is improper.”
A playful grin tugs at his lips. “I thought you might prefer somewhere you wouldn’t be interrupted again.“
That damn charming smile makes your heart skip a beat. You smile. “I love it. Will you show me around?”
Conversation comes easily between the two of you as Gris shows you around the garden. You learn a lot about him. His family and bits of his upbringing. He attended school mostly in the capital and inherited the role of Count from his grandfather, who, despite having an older granddaughter, insisted his grandson take on the role when he died. Not that Gris’s sister seemed to care, because she was married already and happy with her life. Though he complains about her antics, it’s evident Gris has a soft spot for her and his nephew, Follo.
At the same time, the Count cares to ask a lot about you. He listens intently as you speak about your likes and dislikes, shares your hobbies, and the like. Gris doesn’t rush the pace. He lets you take the reins to guide the conversation and ultimately your walk around the garden. You don’t realize how much time truly has passed until you’re approaching the manor and a path of lilies catches your attention.
You slow without meaning, and ever perceptive, Gris notices.
“Do you like them?” he asks. “My grandfather had them planted when he was trying to court my grandmother.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“So are you.”
Your breath catches despite yourself. “Flattery will get you nowhere, My Lord. You’ve repeated that several times already today.”
“Because it’s the truth.” Gris carefully pulls you to him, hand on your waist like at the ball. “And I will tell you a hundred more times until it’s ingrained in your memory.”
He’s so close. Much closer than what is to be considered proper, but you don’t hate it. This time, it’s just the two of you. No audience. No interruptions. Just you. Just him. The garden is your only witness.
It is why you move without thinking.
Gris’s reaction is instant.
He pulls you closer to him until your bodies are pressed firmly against one another. You groan at the taste of his mouth on yours, your knees slightly going weak as he cups your cheek to deepen the kiss. You grip the front of his cravat tightly, not wanting to let him go until your lungs begin to protest.
“Well,” Gris pants. “That was certainly a surprise, though it wasn’t unwelcome. And here I was, trying to be a gentleman.”
Feeling slightly emboldened, you tug him to you. Faint pink blossoms across his cheeks. “It’s just us two now, right. No one will interrupt us.”
Gris swallows thickly. “Are you certain? I meant by what I said to your stepmother earlier that I intended to court you properly with honorable intentions.”
“I am certain,” you assure. “But let’s keep our little tryst a secret from my stepmother. She will lose it if I jeopardize a prospect for marriage.”
At that, he chuckles. “The courtship is just a formality,” Gris says. “I’ve had every intention from the start of taking you as my wife.” He kisses you again, this time gently, almost as if he were sealing the promise with his lips. And you melt against him.
Somehow, the two of you stumble back into the manor amidst stolen kisses and soft touches. You can hardly admire the decor or the lavishness of the place. Gris whisks you off your feet, carrying you up the stairs in his arms with an evident hurry that makes you laugh. Despite his claims of wanting to be a proper gentleman, he couldn’t deny his own desires.
You aren’t sure which of the many rooms you enter. You think they might be Gris’s private chambers for the bedsheets smell faintly of his cologne.
Oh, how your stepmother would kill you if she found out you were alone in a man’s bed while unwed. Tomme would probably encourage it. But you can’t bring yourself to care about any of that, only focusing on the handsome Count before you.
Gris takes his time undoing the laces on your dress. The ribbons loosen, giving way to more exposed skin. Even with the gloves on his hands, his gentle touch across your back and your shoulders as he removes your corset next sends goosebumps crawling down your arms. He’s hardly touched you, but your body feels aflame.
“Lord Rubion…” you stammer, growing bashful as he drops to his knees to remove the garter around your leg.
“Now, My Lady, I think we’re quite past formalities at this point,” Gris teases. He runs his hand down the expanse of your thigh. “I want you to call me by my name.”
“B-but, oh!”
Gris drags your lacy panties down your calf next. He pulls you closer so that your legs can settle around his shoulders. Your grip on the edge of the bed tightens, anxiously waiting for what he would do next. You let out a squeak of surprise when his breath fans against your pussy.
“A-ah, Gris~” you whimper. He places tantalizing, slow kisses up your inner thigh, working his way towards the sensitive place you want to feel him most. And when he finally does place his mouth on you, you gasp. The feeling’s foreign, but all your nerves are electrified.
You find purchase in his blond hair, curling your fingers into it as your body bows back. He lets out a groan as you tug harshly. But his mouth stays firmly pressed against your cunt, his hands gripping your thighs and waist as he greedily tries to taste you more. His tongue is wicked, delving through your folds with tantalizing strokes that have your legs feeling weak.
You gasp as he delivers a harsh suck on your clit, his teeth teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves until tears fill your eyes. His nails dig into your thighs as he grips them to bury his face deeper between them.
“God. You’re so addicting,” Gris slurs. He doesn’t think he’d ever get tired of the sounds of your pretty moans or the sweet taste of your release on his tongue. “Give me more, sweetheart.”
“G-Gris, please~” You whimper, writhing against his hold as he drags his tongue across your pussy’s lips. “Fuck!” You swear, not caring how unladylike it was to do so.
Your head spins as the overwhelming pleasure overloads your senses. Dots spot your vision as your orgasm rolls through you. But even as your high rocks your body, Gris continues to drink up your arousal as if it were the last thing he’d ever get to taste.
“A-ah, wait!” The overstimulation brings tears to your eyes, your body aching from how sensitive you were. Your clit throbbed, puffy and swollen from Gris's teasing it with his teeth and tongue. His grip on your trembling thighs tightens. And when you try to twist away, gripping the sheets, the strong man merely drags you back with ease. Not letting you escape his mouth.
“Where are you going?” Gris mumbles. “I’m not done savoring my treat yet.”
“Gris~” you whine. “S’too much. I-I already came and—shit!”
Despite your pleas, your body portrays the exact opposite. Your cunt continues to weep for his touch, gushing messily onto his greedily awaiting tongue. And Gris is all but eager to continue drinking you up until you’re crying his name over and over.
“Too much?” Gris mumbles coyly. “You say that, but look how much your pretty pussy’s makin’ for me.” He presses a kiss against your inner thigh, his lips wet and coated with your arousal, which he licks clean. “Just one for me and I’ll stop. I know you got it in you.”
This time, he’s gentler when he presses his mouth back to your cunt. His touch is soft and fluttering. The sensation makes your breath hitch. Gris groans, trying to savor the moment, to slowly work you up until you break. He doesn’t even realize how hard he’s gotten. The firm bulge of his erection strains against his slacks, desperately trying to break free, but he’ll address his own needs later. You were first.
The slow buildup hits you all at once. The second time you cum, you do so with a cry, tears leaking down your cheeks. And Gris swears he could become addicted to the sound of his name on your tongue.
Lifting you with ease, he tosses you onto the center of the bed. Before you could find the words to speak, his mouth was on yours hungrily. You groan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him close.
“You doin’ okay, sweetheart?” Gris asks breathlessly. “We can stop if you’ve had enough.”
“But…you haven’t…” Heat creeps across your cheeks as you trail off. The hardness of his arousal presses against you, yet Gris makes no move to address it.
A smile softens across his face. “Worry not about me. I do not wish to push you more than what you’re comfortable with.”
But you shake your head. “Please,” you insist. “I want to continue.”
Heat flares in his eyes, warring with his hesitation. “Are you certain?”
You tug him forward by his tie. “I need you fully, Lord Rubion. Do not keep me waiting.”
“If that is what My Lady wishes for, then who am I to deny her request?”
Gris quickly sheds his clothes, and you can’t help but stare when he’s completely bare in all his naked glory. His twitching length stands at attention, the sensitive, blushing head smearing pre cum against his abdomen. He holds his cock as he aligns himself at your entrance, pressing the tip against your slick folds.
“Relax for me.” Gris gently kisses your jaw. “I promise I’ll try to be gentle.”
You suck in a breath as he inches forward, which melts into a shared moan as Gris’s cock slowly stretches you out.
“Fuck,” the Count swears. “You feel better than I could’ve ever imagined.” Kissing you once more, Gris grips your hips and bottoms out the rest of the way with a single thrust, making you squeal. “S-sorry. Let me know when you want me to move,” he grunts.
You didn’t expect to feel so impossibly full. Gris hardly has to move for the stretch of him to fill you completely, and it slightly steals your breath, your brows furrowing. Sensing your discomfort, Gris takes a nearby pillow and helps settle it underneath your hips. It immediately gives some relief.
“Is that better?” He asks. You nod.
“Yes, thank you.” You wrap your arms tighter around his neck. Gris hikes one of your legs around his waist. “You can move.”
At your insistence, he does. His initially slow, deep thrusts give way to increasingly harder and faster strokes that fill you to the brim over and over. His breathy groans quickly fill your ear as he traps you under his body weight, one hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles turn white.
“Forgive me, sweetheart,” Gris pants, eyebrows furrowing as if he were straining for control. “I-I said I’d be gentle but, fucking hell I don’t think I can hold back.”
You squeal into the pillows as Gris suddenly rams into you hard, gripping your hips with bruising strength so that the mushroom tip bullies against your cervix. Your fluttering walls quiver in response.
“Ah! Gris!” Each time his hips snap against yours, your toes curl. The delicious stretch of his length, causes a budding pressure of pleasure to coil within your stomach. Each deep trust steals your breath, leaving you desperate for more of him.
And your needy cunt only continues to suck him in each time Gris ruts into you. His length drags against your gummy walls, massaging where you’re most sensitive. And the throbbing ache of his cock and tightening in the pit of his stomach warns Gris that he’s close.
“Shit. Can’t wait to—hah—officially make you mine with a ring on your finger,” Gris is nearly breathless when he talks. A slight hiss leaves his lips as you rake your nails down his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Sweat makes his strands of hair stick to his forehead, and his blue eyes are clouded over with hazy desire. “All mine. You’ll be all mine, my pretty wife? Yeah?”
“Yeah—“ You gasp when he tugs your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“Tell me again,” it comes out as a command, needy and desperate. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Fuck—I’m all yours, Gris.”
That’s what ultimately breaks him.
Gris groans your name. He squeezes your hips, driving himself deep as he cums thick ropes into your womb. The intensity rocks his body. His hips stutter forward, pressing you into the mattress. Your eyes roll back, the coiling pressure winding in your stomach so taught it finally snaps.
Gris swears under his breath, feeling your cunt spasm around him. Your fluttering walls squeeze his cock so tight that he thinks he’ll cum a second time. He drops his head into the crook of your neck, heaving as a shudder runs through him.
“Gris?” You whisper when he doesn’t move. “Are you okay?”
“Just give me one second.” Exhaling a breath to compose himself, otherwise you two would never leave the bed, Gris finally rises to pull away.
“Wait—“
“I shall only be but a moment.”
You barely mourn the loss of him before he comes back into the room with a warm towelette. As Gris takes care to clean you up, you could and honestly would have fallen asleep had he not gently shaken you awake.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but if I don’t have you home before nightfall, your stepmother will have my head,” Gris chuckles.
“Awe,” you groan. “I want to stay.”
“And believe me when I say I would like you to.” Gris helps you sit up. Your hips ache deliciously as you do. He bends down to gather the first garment of your discarded clothing, dressing you delicately. “But we must follow this courtship properly for appearance sake, so I’m afraid I must take you home. I promise to make it up to you.”
You pout childishly, but your frustration melts away when he kisses you again. “Fine. I shall hold you to your promise, My Lord. After all, I’m not sure how you will be able to top today.”
“Worry not, my love,” Gris reassures with a smile. “Today is only just a glimpse of the life I intend to have with you when I can officially call you my wife.”
sukuna's convinced he'll never find a mate. he's tried it all, mate pairing programs, rehabilitation. no one wants him. who needs a bond anyway? he prefers the solitude. you're his last hope. an optimistic volunteer thrown at him by that pesky support program in hopes that he'll finally find a mate. will you be the one to show him that he doesn't really wanna be lonely? or will you throw him to the curb like everyone else? well, his rough exterior and unexpected rut truly puts you to the test.
♡ ﹕ 8.6k words
♡ ﹕ this was commissioned by @lycanqueen
꒰ 🍓 ⸰ ✦ 𝓒ws. hybrid au :: human!reader :: smut :: hurt/comfort :: mean!sukuna :: sweet!reader :: possessiveness :: pining :: hybrid ruts :: scenting :: marking :: oral ( f.receiving ) :: face-sitting :: p in v :: rough sex :: mating press :: multiple orgasms :: emotional sex :: overstimulation :: choking :: breeding :: talks of cubs :: creampie ꒱
"Maybe they were right about you. You are a lost cause."
So this rehabilitation agent had guts? Sukuna would give him that much.
The sun pierced his eyes and slitted his pupils as he stared at the man before him, unshaken. Bold, for someone with noting but a flimsy clipboard for a weapon if Sukuna let his temper get the better of him.
He never had an issue with it before. So where were his claws?
"That mean I can finally do my own damn thing now?" He gruffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he propped against his doorway. He ignored his tail that hung low.
The man furrowed his brows. Sucked in a breath. Looked like he was searching for patience in the late afternoon air. His hand with the clipboard dropped as he stood straight.
"You don't get it, do you Ryomen?"
"What's there to get? That I can't play housecat for your domesticity programs?"
"Behavioural programs."
"That've made shit progress."
"It's not as if you make it any easier."
"Your potential mates bore me."
"You scared them off. Every one of them."
The man didn't need to match Sukuna's tone to scathe him. His face never broke clinical aloofness, even with each word loaded. Baggage of the ugly truth: that Ryomen Sukuna was a lost cause.
Countless mates. Five? Six? He lost track. He pretended to forget their names but he remembered every one.
The first left quietly. Said he was too loud.
The second left loudly. Said he was too quiet.
The third claimed she was frightened. The fourth didn't even give him a reason. Fifth and sixth were some ugly variation of all of the above.
Sukuna stopped caring.
He did care, at one point. That's why he let his coworker convince him to join this stupid 'hybrid nature rehabilitation program' in the first place, right? Because maybe tigers were too bold. Too frightening. Too much.
Too much. That's what the last one said.
Well, if he was too much for anyone, maybe they weren't enough for him.
The agent sighed. Pinching the bridge of his nose and probably contemplating why he chose to work for a facility that boasted a 100% rehabilitation record. Guess Sukuna was about to ruin that too. As he did most things.
"Look," the man said. His shoulders slumped. "We do not typically give up on our patients, but surely you understand that we've tried everything in the book for you, right?"
Sukuna didn't reply.
"Behavioural therapy. Group counselling. Mate pairings and courses. You've chased away every volunteer and potential mate. Somehow even frightened off your therapist last month."
"She was weak."
"She was doing her job. You act like. . ."
Sukuna grunted. His claws threatening to lash out and tear up his own shirt. "What?" He knew the answer. Knew that sickening word that they all used for him. "An animal?"
The man didn't answer. Didn't have to. He sighed again and checked his clipboard. "This is your last shot for clearance."
"And if I don't pass?"
"You'll be escorted to a private facility."
Hybrids were monitored under lock and key by the state. Sukuna guessed he couldn't really blame them. They were different. Unpredictable.
Animals.
Sukuna regretted ever approaching the program in the first place. If he knew what he knew now— that he was simply built to be on his own, he would have swallowed the furball and bit his own tail. Lived out the rest of his life without the feeling of being watched.
Now, they knew he was unstable. Now, they considered him a threat. Guess his claws really were clipped.
"Thanks to your last stunt, none of the volunteers stepped up for this," the man said, flipping through his clipboard.
Sukuna huffed. "What's the point then? Just ship me off already." At least he'd get to be alone, then.
"Because miraculously, one of our assistants offered to help." The man looked up. "She's new. And your last shot." He handed over the clipboard with a small picture clipped at the top right.
That's the first time Sukuna saw you.
The second time he saw you, you smiled at him. Stupid move, really. For someone so small, so frail— so breakable.
"It's nice to meet you," he's sure you lied as you stuck out your hand. Chirpier than a bird hybrid. Bright eyed as a squirrel. Were they sure that you were human?
"Yeah. Hi." He gruffed, not reaching for your hand. It looked too gentle for him.
You dropped your arm to your side, still smiling, but softer. Before you trotted off to lug the rest of your belongings into his home.
He helped you, of course. Tiny thing like you probably would sprain her spine if she did it all by herself. Pathetic.
This was his last hope? They might as well cage him and ship him off already.
Within a week, he was sharing his space again. The few days of blissful solitude had come to an end. Now, there was a canvas in his living room. Pink body wash and products littered across his bathroom counter. Books from authors he couldn't even pronounce occupying his empty shelves.
You were sweeter than the three spoons of sugar you dumped in your strawberry tea every morning. Softer than the dinner rolls you insisted on making every Wednesday and Friday. Shy. Gentle.
Too gentle for someone like him.
In the beginning, Sukuna had watched you. Like a tiger stalked its prey. Scouring for the first sign of discomfort. A hint of fear. Even those who started off strong couldn't keep up the act for long. Not with him.
Which was what made it so odd.
You were timid, sure. But not afraid of him. Guess he'd give it some time.
Because that's simply his fate now, right? Watch a new volunteer skip into his lair and run off with their tail between their legs once he got too much. No one stayed. Not like they did with everyone else.
Others made hybrid bonding look easy. They'd join circles and find mates in the same week. Same night, even. Claiming it all as 'the right timing'. The right person.
Sukuna was a wrong person. Therefore, no right person would fit. Like an unwanted puzzle piece.
Not that he cared. He didn't need to fit in with anyone. If he was too much for any twisted jigsaw of companionship then he'd simply be the missing piece. A corner piece no one looked for. The one that made no difference to the puzzle. The one that no one needed.
He preferred being alone, anyway.
If this last ditch effort blew up in smoke, he guessed he'd have his wish. Whatever facility they'd stuff him into— at least he would be alone. It was better that way.
By himself, he didn't have to soften his tongue. By himself, he didn't have to pretend that he did not have stripes, claws and canines. Didn't have to soften himself for someone who wouldn't soften for him.
Didn't have to watch anyone leave when he became too much.
You didn't leave.
A week went by. Then two. Three, before he knew it. You rooted yourself into his floorboards like a flourishing flower and offered him the same sunny smile every morning.
"How'd you sleep, Sukuna?" You'd ask, as if you cared.
"Fine." He'd grumble from the coffee machine. The bitter stain on his tongue refused to ever let him return the question.
Why should he bother with someone who was going to sign him off anyway? Might as well show her what she was getting herself into. His poor behaviour and slacking social skills, as his therapist put it.
You never flinched. Humans sure were resilient.
But he was hybrid. And everyone knew that tigers were ruthless.
He wouldn't shroud his nature to make himself more palatable for you. For anyone, ever again.
It's odd. You actually tried.
You adapted your body clock to him. Sukuna woke up drearily early. To catch the dawn on his ears during his morning run. He supposed you started waking up shortly after him. Giving you enough time to ready breakfast for him when he stepped back through the door.
Eggs. Bacon. Any raw protein you could think of. You were unfortunately, a good cook.
"This isn't necessary," he said from the counter, but still wolfed down your perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs.
"Waking up early has its perks." You mused, sipping your tea. Probably strawberry. Or rose. He hated that he now knew your favourites.
You made his bed whenever he wasn't looking. He scolded you for it, the first few times. You insisted it was fine. That you liked cleaning up.
You tried to watch movies with him. Plopped beside him on the sofa and struck him your signature smile.
"Wanna watch something?" You asked, soft. Already dangling the remote. Sukuna couldn't help but compare the size of your hand to his.
He scoffed. "What? Some romcom?"
"Or horror." You bashed.
His instincts told him that a gentle soul like you wouldn't last ten seconds with a horror movie. Still, he indulged you. The last thing he wanted was to endure some stupid hybrid hallmark film.
A slasher flick. He didn't pay attention to the name. All he knew was that you quivered halfway through it and that stirred an urge in his gut.
Urge to what? Now that, he once again had no answers to.
It was warm. Low. The same way he felt when kids dropped their ice creams and mothers tripped in grocery stores. He couldn't name it. But he did drape his arm over the back of the couch. Not grazing your shoulders but, there.
You'd probably have nightmares tonight. Silly girl. Now he would be obligated to return the favour.
Because you did, a few nights ago. When he tossed and turned. Creased his sheets and slashed his blankets. Sukuna wasn't one to dream— but he did have nightmares.
About the darkness. About the cold. About a void that for some, unfathomable reason, unsettled him.
"It's okay, shh." Your voice reached out to him through the shadow. Light against the darkness.
"It's okay. I'm here. Wake up, please."
You were luck he hadn't broken your arm.
His grip was too tight. Claws too wretched. Not lucid enough to realise that he snatched your wrist when he had woken up.
"Get out." His voice rumbled. Eyes bloodshot and pupils tight. Sweat burned his forehead.
It must have not sounded like a threat, or maybe it was your stupid human resilience. You leaned over him. One knee on his bed and your hand ghosting his shoulder.
"You're freezing," you whispered.
He jerked from you. Rolled over onto his side and refused to allow himself to be vulnerable under your gentle gaze.
"I'm fine." He said.
You insisted. Are you sure? — Can I get you anything? — All the things that people said to catch you off guard and then left anyway.
"I said I'm fine."
His voice boomed, final. It was the first time he'd seen you flinch. He did not bother calling out for you as you shuffled out of the room. Assumed your bags would be packed by the morning. Your pink body wash nowhere to be seen on his counters and your books vanished from his shelves.
You didn't leave. Here you were, a few days later, with shaky knees and a horror movie. But insisting that you were enjoying it for his sake.
You never turned tail. Never backed down. Maybe it was more than human resilience. Maybe it was stubbornness.
That's the only thing that made sense to him. Why else hadn't you disappeared regardless of how much steam he'd blown at you? Especially when he was too much.
"Let's get one thing straight."
You had said something stupid one day in the kitchen. Something about being there for him. Some empty promise he had heard mixed and minced several different ways until it lost all meaning.
As if his mood was not sour enough.
Your back pressed into the fridge. His strong forearm shoved above your head. Sukuna's hulking body shadowed yours. Perhaps this was it. Where you finally became apart of that void that haunted his dreams.
"You and I. Are not. Compatible." His ears pinned back to his head. Tail coiled tight. Like his jaw and teeth that clenched.
Still, you held his stare. Even when it burned.
"Not a thing. Not. Possible." He spat. "So stop acting like you aren't just gonna sign me off so I can be caged up."
"I'm not—"
"I want you to."
He cut you off. Sharp as his heave as he craned closer. Close enough to smell your cherry shampoo— but not a hint of fear.
What was wrong with you?
"I want you to sign me off. So that we can stop pretending like any of this is gonna work and that I'm anything but better off alone."
The fridge rattled as he shoved himself off. He expected your knees to shake. Expected you to clamber out of the kitchen and stuff whatever you could into a suitcase for the night.
Instead, you watched him storm off. With those same, achingly gentle eyes.
Why were you so gentle?
Why did you stay?
Why did he find himself being gentler, too?
Of course, Sukuna didn't want to snap at you. You were simply the closest thing. The softest thing. His hands weren't built to cherish the tender.
Yet, tender were his hands, as they cooked for you. If you handled breakfast, it was only fair that dinner was his responsibility. Even if all he exchanged with you were grunts and gruffs, as long as you went to bed full, he was content.
Content? Odd. That wasn't a word in his vocabulary anymore.
His voice dangered tender's territory on nights you'd be out. Work, friends, whatever he never bothered listening to but for some reason found himself worrying over when the street lights switched on.
"Do you need a lift back?" He asked into the phone. Taking note to look uninterested, even if you couldn't see him.
"I should be fine, Sukuna." You chirped.
"You sure? It's almost midnight."
"I'm sure! What's the worst that could happen?"
To a sweet thing like you? A lot. More than he'd like to imagine.
Morals, he told himself. He pulled up in the middle of the morning to pick you up because of his pesky morals.
"Sorry you had to come all this way," you said as you shut the passenger door.
Sukuna considered your dress. Hated himself for it.
"What?" His tongue clicked. "Were you expecting to walk all the way back?"
"What's the worst that could—"
"A lot."
It wasn't like the other times. His voice raised, but didn't roar. His brows narrowed, but didn't glare.
The car ride was silent.
Your smile was sickening.
Cute.
He watched you closer. Not as a tiger stalked prey. Not anymore. He couldn't name this.
He refused to call it gentle.
Even when he carefully observed the way you fixed your hair every morning. How he noted which of your curves that the sun bounced odd of. The soft plush of your body and how your thighs moulded into the couch cushions, or rounded perfectly in your shorts.
Never had he been one to appreciate art— though he stood in front of your canvases and stared at your paint patterns. Swirls of green and blotches of warmth. Illustrations of nature: jungles and wild flowers.
It called to something within him. He assumed his hybrid traits. A tiger yearned for jungle, that was his home.
Home.
Sukuna didn't have a home.
He had a house. He had you. Had pink body wash on his counters and books he'd learnt the names of on his shelves. Had a warm meal every morning and a warmer bed you still insisted on making.
He had movie nights. A running partner. Someone who finally rooted her heels to the floorboards and blossomed in his walls. Stubborn as she was shy.
But not a home.
It was only a matter of time. Until he said something that finally was the thing. Until he'd wake up to your paintings missing, and your shampoo gone. He'd come home to no protein, but a sheet of paper:
I've signed you off. Good riddance.
You told him that you wouldn't, after he insisted it that night in the kitchen.
You padded to doorway of his room, picking at your sleeves with a petal-soft voice.
"All we have to do is clear you for rehabilitation," you said.
Not once did your eyes meet his.
"Then what? I can finally be alone?" He asked, incredulous.
You nodded.
It's what he wanted. What he claimed to want. So why was your agreement a sharp pang between his ribs?
That was then. He assumed your plans hadn't changed much. A silent agreement that if he behaved, you'd leave him be by the end of it all.
That's why he was gentler, he told himself.
Just trying to ensure his goals, he insisted.
For now, he would take care of you as you did him. Whether conscious or not. If it meant that when it was through, he'd get what was best for him.
Solitude.
But if solitude was what he wanted, why did he hate seeing you in others' company?
It was late. Emergency work call. He missed his afternoon cat nap and only scuffed down half of his breakfast.
The sun peeped at him from its sprawl across the horizon. Glaring into the back of his head as he stalked home. Burning him hotter. Hot.
He felt so. Fucking. Hot.
It wasn't even summer yet. Spring had only perked its preppy head. The blossoms bloomed. Their nectar tickled his nose. Couples gifted their flowers.
Sukuna hated spring.
He hoped you hadn't cooked dinner yet. That was his job. His responsibility.
But no, you were outside. Prattling to a neighbour.
All smiles and soft. Cupping your hands in front of you as you listened to the man's stories. The irritable snow leopard that lived next door. With his baby blue eyes and boyish grin.
What were you even doing outside in the first place? Didn't he tell you it was dangerous once the street lights started switching on?
Sukuna did what he did best. He watched. Looming by the telephone wire. Feeling the sun stab into his head. His spine. Feeling the heat gurgle from his gut. Splutter up his lungs. Against the back of his teeth.
That spotted fucker touched your arm.
Sukuna scathed.
Blurred colours. A muffled yelp. His claw caught on your woolly sweater as he snatched your arm.
"Sukuna—!"
Your gasp drowned in the rumble of his growl. Grated from the back of his throat. The leopard backed off. Your muscles tensed under his calloused fingers.
"Inside. Now."
He didn't wait for you to agree nor disagree. Dragging you inside and rattling the walls as the door clattered! shut.
"Su—" he lodged your voice in your throat once more. Shoved your back into the nearest thing— the same splintering door.
Was it hotter inside? Or was that the anger?
A sweat drop sweltered between his brows.
"What the hell were you doing?" As if he had any right to ask. You weren't his mate.
Mate? Of course you weren't his mate.
Then why did his teeth crave to sink into your flesh? Mark you?
His stare hazed. Blinking rapidly. Heaving. The heat blistered into his nerves. Clenched his muscles. Suffocating. It was suffocating.
"Why were you. With him. Why—" he zeroed in. Mistake. Big mistake.
Your scent.
You weren't his mate. Why the hell did you smell like it, then?
Did you always smell this good?
Your gaped at him. Hands stiff on your sides and pressed flat into the wood. Your neck craned to account for the height difference. Were you watching him this time? Was he too much?
His eyes squeezed shut.
"Sukuna," you spoke. His name didn't deserve that gentleness. It ached him deeper today.
"I think you're. . ."
Snapping open his stare, he sucked in breath. Considered your words. The phrase your lips wrapped around.
Rut.
Shit.
He shoved himself away from the door. Away from you. The fire crawled up his throat. Thunked his heart. Thrummed a deep, dark chord in his gut.
The sweat slipping down his spine in the middle of spring confirmed it. He was in rut. With a poor, persistent, pretty human in claw's reach.
"Hey— hey it's okay," you attempted, stepping forward where he stumbled back.
"Don't."
He hissed.
You preserved.
Stubborn. Stubborn, sweet thing.
"Let me help." You offered.
"No."
He tried. Tried to stumble off. Lock himself in his room. He could hump the mattress for all he cared but he wasn't so much as touching—
You took him by the wrist. Might as well have taken his soul while you were at it.
Splintered his restraint.
The door rattled again. Creaked awfully with the weight of him. On you. The thickness of the air. The heat. Your wrists fit well in his big hands. Looked like they belonged there.
You looked like you belonged here. Pinned under him.
His chest heaved. Voice jagged, throaty.
"You don't know what you're getting into." He said.
You gulped. He paid too much attention to your throat. "I did when I signed up for this."
"Do you even know what a rut is?"
"I know you can't be alone right now."
Sukuna's breath hitched.
You relaxed your hips. Let them mould into his. Their plush softness drove him wild.
Lashes hung over deep maroons. The quiet thrummed with your heart beats. His, thundering and wanting. Yours, tender yet eager.
He craned closer. Tuffs of his pink hair tickled your forehead.
"I can do awful things to you." He whispered.
Still no flinches. You never did.
Your eyes batted at him.
"Is that so bad?"
"Yes."
"Show me."
Even the kiss, burned.
Your lips really were petal-soft. Softer than he had imagined. He hated himself for imagining this in the first place.
The knot in his gut wound tight. Urging him to flush you further into the wood. Flush further into you. Patience slipped into the simmer between your mouths. Sukuna kissed you with violence. Nothing contained. Nothing hidden.
He told you that he wouldn't placate himself for you.
Abandoning your wrists, his grip sought your plush. Squeezing your thighs between his fingers gaps. Lifting you into his arms so that your heels pressed into his back. So that he could consume you. Tongues tangling and teeth tackling.
Your hands smacked at his shoulder. Breaths huffed through your nose. A desperate sound that plunged him deeper into heat.
He let you breathe. Barely.
"I can be good for you." Was what you used the privilege to gasp.
His chest rumbled. "Yeah?"
The slope of your throat was so pretty when you gulped.
Sukuna slipped a hand to your cheek. Rough. He couldn't be gentle. Not with you. Not now.
"Gonna be good for me, pretty girl?"
Eyes blown out. Jaw tight. If you said anything other than your whined little yes as his hips ground into yours, he might have lost his mind entirely.
His mouth attacked yours again. Sucking on whatever was left of your lychee lipgloss. Surely bruising your lips in the process. He didn't care. Let him mark you. Everywhere. So that stupid snow leopards didn't get the wrong idea. So that everyone knew what you were.
His.
The home blurred into vertigo colours. The floors creaked under the weight of his footsteps. Sukuna hoisted you with him. Haphazardly avoiding furniture in the stagger to his bedroom. Hands palming at whatever part of your flesh he could reach.
He almost stumbled in the hallway. Caught you against the doorway, one of your hands gripped at it while the other clutched the back of his neck. Fisted his hair between your fingers.
"Sukuna, careful." You whined.
He didn't listen. Too busy humping on your thighs that squished perfectly between his hard body and the cold door. Nurturing his bulge. Tucking its hot curve into the smooth crux of your skin.
"Said you'd be good for me." His growl rumbled on your pulse. Teeth mapping out his new territory: your velvet flesh. "So shut up and take it. Like a good girl, yeah?"
The door swung open. You must have palmed the handle. Feet fumbled in a clumsy waltz. Hands clinging for dear life. He caught you. Kept you pressed against his blazing body as he mouthed down your throat. Latched onto a tender spot. Marked you.
Sukuna handled his ruts the way he handled everything else: alone. His hand, a pillow, and a grotesque amount of tissue boxes. When last had he felt the soft touch of a partner? Held their warmth beneath him while his mind drove him wild with fire?
He was always too much. Too much to handle. Too aggressive. Too big.
But you.
You seemed to want everything.
In the way your nails curled on his shirt. In the pitiful way your neck arched to give him more access. Offering yourself up to him. A pretty deer who craved a tiger's claws in her. His maw latched to your throat.
"You're so eager," he groaned.
You whimpered, "I'm yours."
Fuck.
The mattress sunk. Creaking in retort to the callousness of his shove. Your body moulded into his sheets. Into him, as he staggered over you. Knees digging into the bed. Teeth clamped on the base of your throat.
You jerked. A gasped cry vibrating against his teeth. Palms knocking into his shoulders. To push him off?
No— to grip. Cling. To him. To your mate.
After all, you were his now, weren't you?
Bites bloomed across your neck. Over your collarbone. Down your shoulders. Your clothes threading like ribbons under Sukuna's claws. The sound of fabric tearing accentuated the rough pants and pitched whines in the humid air.
He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell you what a good girl you were being for him. Wanted to grunt into your skin about how perfect you were. Tell you that you were everything he'd been waiting for.
The words lodged in his throat. Sticky on the back of his tongue that could only muster out wet pants and deep growls as he feasted on your flesh.
Every inch of your skin revealed to him was another blessing. Your curves. The dips. The soft slopes of your body. Salivated him all the more.
Your bra never stood a chance. Clawed away. Probably ruined at the wire. He didn't care. He'd buy you a new one. Buy you whatever you wanted if you were gonna carry his cubs.
Cubs.
The word slipped into his mind with ease, and ruined it.
Pupils blown out. Lungs clenching. He made the mistake of eyeing your tummy.
Perfect, round, soft. You'd be the perfect mate. The perfect mother for his young.
The thought spurred his hands rougher. Tearing away offensive fabrics until you were laid completely bare before him. With big, doe eyes batting up at him. So pretty. So his.
From the corner of his eye he spotted your hands slipping. To cover up. Cover what was his. Your wrists were snatched in his hard grip.
"Don't," he warned. Lips assaulting yours. Stealing your breath and tonguing on your whimpers.
"Don't hide what's mine."
Your tits were softer under his tastebuds. Delicate to the harsh swirls of his tongue. So small when compared to his mouth that sought to consume, to claim.
Sweet sounds sighed from your kiss-bitten lips. Your spine curved so that you pressed back into him. Squishing your plush breasts into his face. His groan rumbled into the flesh.
So tender it was maddening. So perfect it was addicting.
Kisses, sucks, bites. He littered your tits in more claims. Feasting on your silk flesh. Fantasising about the image of them larger. Fat and swollen with milk— just as you were round with his cubs.
His cock strained thick in his pants. Flushed hot on your inner thigh. He ground into your warmth. Rutting wildly. Like the animal he always was.
Your hands delving into his hair almost broke him. Almost. He withdrew from your chest. Eyes glowing through the dark as he found your face.
"Taste so good. So sweet." A hand roughed down your side. Cupped your thigh and strung it round his waist.
"Up."
Raw strength scooped you into his palms. Flesh spilling between the gaps of his fingers as he squeezed for good measure.
Your little squeaks were so cute.
Teeth dragged on your flesh. Callous over bites sunk into your gentle flesh. He lapped on the indents of his own canines as he wrest you over him. Shoved your thighs higher. Urging you. Demanding.
"Face. Now. Fucking sit on my face."
Senseless. Each word was a growl. It's a miracle you understood him at all. Maybe you always would. That's how mates were, right?
The cotton of your panties dragged on his collarbone. Frantic eyes darted to your face as your hips locked. Unmoving.
Stubborn little human.
"What?" He husked. Scuffling to shove you over his awaiting face. "I said sit."
Your lips pressed together. Hands scrambling for the headboard. "Wait are you— are you sure? I'm—"
"—driving me mad." He hissed through clenched teeth. The throbbing in his groin pulsed the sickening heat hotter. Seared into the back of his skull. To his hands that groped your ass. To his eyes that narrowed.
"Said I wanna taste you. So get. On."
Was that too much?
Was he too much for you?
No, course not. You wanted to be his good girl. He saw it in your doe eyes batting at him. In the quiver of your lip and the tremors of your thighs. You shuffled over him. Pressing the cusp of your panties against his chin.
"Like this?" You meeked.
"Like this."
Sukuna tugged you over him. Knocking your thighs. You stumbled. Caught yourself with shaky fingers in his hair and an adorable yelp.
The musked cotton scrunched into his nose, his mouth, the rest of his hard face. Stuffing his nostrils with the sweet, intoxicating aroma. His eyes threatened to roll back.
A muffled curse rumbled into your heat. First came his tongue. Abrasive like everything else about him. Lapping on your folds. Drenching the fabric. Trying to suck in your taste through it.
Then came his teeth. Impatient. Tearing into your panties. His head wrest, violent. Claws ripping away the cloth in a feral affair.
Your sweet heat was his reward. Slicking up his face with your clit pressed into his nose.
"Fuck," his groan thrummed. Straight into your velvet. Leaking your pussy into his agitated mouth. "Knew you'd taste s'fucking sweet."
Hands slipped up your thighs. Cupped your ass. Sukuna sought to press kisses to your quivering slit— but you dangled above him. Not pressed, not sat. Hovered.
"Said. Fucking sit."
He hauled you into him. Cramped your thighs into his head. Smothered your pussy into his face. Even with his ears muffled by your plush, he heard your stunned gasp.
The weight was perfect on his head. Your hands were perfect in his hair. Pussy pretty, pulsing, perfect, on his tongue that stroked over your slit. Lathered you in saliva. All the way to your clit.
He darted the muscle. Circled on your bud. Trying to commit to a rhythm. A pattern. It scathed into the heat of his rut. The heat to take, to claim. To make you his. Finally.
Even if you hated him after this.
Even if you signed him off and he finally got what he wanted. Solitude.
Right now, all he wanted was your pussy.
Filthy squirts and sloshes squelched through the room. Brimming the hazed air together with your whines. Moans. Gasps of his name.
He always hated how gently you said it. Like it meant something. Like it ever could mean something. Hearing it broken sounded better. Shaky and whimpered as he fucked you on his tongue.
"S-Suk— kuna, ah."
Sweet. So sweet. Sweeter than he ever deserved. But Sukuna was a greedy man. So he gripped on your thighs, bit his nails into your flesh, and feasted to his heart's content.
"There ya go. C'mon, pretty girl, ride my face."
Spank! went his hand. Clamouring your ass and fisting the jiggles. Pulling you down, harder, closer— till he was suffocating. Suckling on your clit. Guiding your hips into a sinful sway.
Your hips fell into rhythm. Atta girl. Always so sweet for him. Always so obedient. Yeah, if you stayed, you'd make the perfect mate.
He hoped you stayed.
He could make you stay.
Keep you in his bed. Make a den for you. Hold you down and fuck you into his sheets day-in-and-day-out. Fill you up until your tummy grew even rounder. Softer. Until you were swollen. Until you were his.
No. Fuck. That's the rut talking.
The rut talking.
It's the rut that had him palming your ass and squeezing you into his face. The rut that had his mouth kissing, sucking, licking and laving through your creamy mess. The rut that had him fucking you on his tongue and bucking his hip into the air just as yours ground down into his face. Smearing mess all over him.
Yeah. That's the rut. But fuck, if he wasn't drunk on your pathetic moans. Your messy pussy.
Your clit spasmed under the flat of his harassing tongue. Your thighs clamped around his head. Fingers dug into his skull. Even your pain was sweet.
"Shit— kuna." Your voice croaked. Called to him as a mate should. "I'm gonna, fuck. Think 'm gonna. . . gonna—"
His eyes fluttered. Throat rasped.
"Gonna cum? Yeah? Gonna cum, hah, all over my face?"
From between the small gap of your thigh, Sukuna witnessed your face. Eyes rolled back. Jaw slack. Tits bouncing as you rode his face as if he was yours.
He was.
In this moment. In these blurred lines of his rut. Where he pictured you as his mate. Entertained the thought of wanting. Of being wanted. Of not being alone.
He was yours. Even if for a moment.
You sung his name through the haze. Tender even when he ripped you apart at the seams. Delicate even in his claws that threatened to tear into you. Mark you with scars and blood.
Your hips clumsily rocked. Once—twice—locked up in feverish tremors. Your hands bunching his hair. Clinging. Your body hunched over his. Shattering.
Sukuna rode you through an orgasm with his lips latched around your clit. Sucking harsh on its throbs. Teething on its twitches.
You splattered his face in warmth. Sweet, sickening warmth that doused him deeper into his rut's clutches.
"That's it. There you go. Fuck. Prettiest fucking pussy," he slurred into your wetness. Tongue delving between your puffy folds. Lapping up your cum. Greedy.
You toppled over him. Breaths ragged. One hand clutched in his hair and the other on the headboard.
"Wanna— wanna help. Wanna." To his surprise you pulled on his hair. Interrupting his creamy kisses on your slit.
Stares met. His hot. Yours warm. Wanting.
"Wanna make you feel good too."
How pretty you were when you quivered. Lips glossed by drool and lashes soaked with tears. It ached a deep chamber in his heart.
"Wanna be good for me?" He panted.
Your nod was doeish. As everything else about you was. His delicate girl. So fragile in his hands.
He couldn't wait to break you.
The bed creaked again. You squeaked as he hauled you down into the wrinkled sheets. On your back with his hulking weight pressing down on you. His mouth fixed to yours. Magnetic. Addicted. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"That mean you gonna let me breed you too, baby?" Catching your lip between his teeth, he grunted. Pressing the swell of his cock between your legs. Staining his crotch in your slick. "Gonna let me breed this sweet pussy?"
Your response was sweet, shy, but oh so eager. A tepid nod, as your fingers slipped to his shoulders. So small. Smaller than him in every way. He took the moment to appreciate it.
You, spread and waiting for him. Your pussy, swollen and twitching. His bulge pressed on your glistening folds dwarfed you entirely.
Oh, how you'd squirm on his cock.
At last he shrugged his shirt off. Shivered when your touch feathered over his chest. He made the mistake of watching your eyes. How they mapped out scars that your fingers traced.
You didn't have to say anything. Your gaze spelt affection he wasn't ready to receive.
"Don't stare at me like that." He gruffed, kicking off his pants.
"Why not?" You asked.
"Makes me think you want me."
"I do want you, kuna."
Damn you.
Damn you and your tenderness. Damn you and that sweet nickname your sugar lips latched onto. Damn you and the way you made his cock throb hard in the strained fabric of his boxers.
He palmed your throat. Focused on your pulse. The control he held over you in the moment.
"Shut up." His hiss muffled with a kiss. Hot and open-mouthed on yours. As if he could suck the words from your tongue and swallow them into his gut that knew better.
Knew that he was better off alone. That this was only for the sake of his rut.
Bulging and angry, his tip nudged between your thighs. Soaking up your arousal. The slippery sensation of your pussy sent shivers down his spine. So wet. For him. Only him.
He let you pull away. Watching as your gaze lowered to his thick cock sandwiched between your folds. Sliding against your slit and dragging on your clit. Your wide eyes eased a chuckle from him.
"What?" He drawled. "Too big?"
"Well. . . yes."
"And every inch's gonna fucking breed you."
He pinned you back into the mattress. Flat on your back with your knees scooped into his big hands. Dwarfed you there too. He pressed them back into you so that they kissed your tits. Folding you in half and completely exposing you entirely to his hungry eyes.
Salivating. He was salivating. Your eyes were too kind for how lewd your pussy spread out for him. Leaking a string of mess. Calling for him. Wanting him.
"Keep your eyes on me, you got that?" Maroon burned into yours. Searching for hesitance. For fear. For something that could cut into this feverish rut and remind him that he didn't deserve you. But no.
You obeyed him.
You wanted him.
His cockhead slotted against your slit. Dipping in to feel the silky sin of your pussy. A deep groan rumbled from the depths of his chest. His brows furrowed. Fuck. When last had he had this?
Blunt nails dug into the backs of your thighs as he sunk in. One inch. Two inch. Three inch. Four— popping through the first tight ring of resistance. Eyes devouring yours the entire time.
He watched your face. How it scrunched up and your mouth parted. How tears clouded your eyes as he pushed past the halfway point.
He stopped.
"You good?" He huffed. Barely gentle.
Very. Gentle.
"Yeah it's— just. . . just a lot." You croaked.
"Too much?"
His face didn't falter, but his heart sure did. His grip loosening on your limbs. Ready to let you go. Free you from him.
But you shook your head. Teary eyed. Twitching smile.
"Not enough."
Hips possessed. Mind a mess. He slammed forward at those two, pretty little words. Till his tip smooched your cervix and his balls squished into your folds. Bottomed out. Filling you to the brim.
The sound you made was sin itself. A blessing. Heaven, hell, and everything in between.
"Oh fuck." You cried, head tossed back. Unable to see him gasping out the same exclaim.
Your syrupy cunt hugged around him. Tight, snug. Nursing on an underside vein and milking him around the tip. Every pulse was your heartbeat, and it devastated him.
Cussing, he pushed down onto you. His heart tugging itself towards yours. To press into your skin as his hips started rutting. Slow, eager.
"Fuck. Look at you take this cock. Like you were born for it," his words husked above you.
Your lashes fluttered. Brows knitting at the centre. He watched your tears threaten to slip as he humped on the sensitive ring that was your cervix.
His tongue clicked. Swapping out a hand on your thigh, he snatched you beneath the jaw instead. Wrenching your face to his hot one.
"Didn't I say keep your eyes on me?"
"M sorry."
"Don't apologise, just take it."
He withdrew. Halfway at first— then shoved back in. The second time was further. And further. Until his thrusts pulled to the tip and plunged back to your womb. Languid, but hard. Sure to make you feel every inch of him pressing into your pussy nerves.
You soaked up his thighs. Splashing his balls and leaking a puddle into the sheets already. The scent was intoxicating. Flared his nostrils and dizzied his head.
The mattress shook beneath the power of his thrusts. Your body bounced with it. He made sure to coil his tail tight around your waist. Held you down like a predator did prey as he fucked you open on his cock.
Pleasure built a knot in his gut. Hot, heavy. Urging his hips to snap harder and chase bruises on your jiggling ass.
Every sound was sin. Sweet. Cries, moans, a whimper than surged into a whine of his name when he removed his other hand from your thigh to instead hold them back with a steeled forearm. So that his palm could press on the bulge swelling up the base of your tummy.
"Fuuckkk," he growled. Ears pinned back to his hair. Jaw hung and canines glinting. "Look at that. See that, pretty girl? What's here?"
You hiccuped, "your— ah. Your cock!"
"Yeah? What's it doing?"
"It's—"
You couldn't answer. Slurred by moans and the delicious drive of his dick stretching you out. He watched your eyes go static.
Spank! his palm landed hot on your clit. Bulging your eyes and jerking your hips up into his frantic thrusts. He laid another. Two. Three— encouraging your pitiful whimpers.
"Asked you a fucking question. What's it doing?"
"It's— hah. B. . . Breeed—"
"Breeding you? Yeah?"
"Uhuh! Breeding. Breeding me s-so . . . s'goood."
Drool bubbled on your lips. Your hands that had tried to scramble on his shoulders and dig your mark into his flesh now fell flat on the pillow. Beside your head. Limp like the rest of your body that surrendered itself to him.
Heat surged down his spine as you clamped around him. Sucking the air from his scathing lungs. Staining his base in a thick, filthy ring of cream.
His hips rammed all the more faster. Harder. Imprinting you into his bed. Your slick. Your sweat. Your scent.
One of your weak hands slipped down. Meeking over to his larger one fixed on your stomach. Wrapping around two of his massive fingers. Or at least trying to.
It strung a deep chord in him. Thin and vulnerable. One he has thought he cut out long ago.
His half slipped over yours. Fingers laced. Pressing you against the bulge he plunged into your tummy. Holding your hand. Holding it tight.
"Sweet pussy's milking me," his grunt fanned your pulse as he swooped down. Mouthing on your neck. Searching for your pulse to feel it race beneath his lips. "Fuck. Wants my cum so bad. Wants my cubs."
"Please!" You slurred.
He swore he could do this for life.
Shoving all the way, Sukuna paused on your cervix. Sweat dripping from his hair. Cock drumming heavy. He clamped you down through your protesting whines.
"Yeah, yeah, shut it." It didn't sound harsh. Especially not with his firm squeeze on your hand.
Slipping out just enough, he watched your juices spray all over him. Mesmerising him. He worked on autopilot. Bundling you into his arms and manhandling you into a different position.
Tossing you to your side, Sukuna slotted behind you. Hips spooning your ass. One strong arm hooked around your neck, choking you on his bicep. While the other strung around your thigh. Wrenching you open for him and his massive cock, that bullied back into your cunt. Squelching your cum and sick in messy streams.
Your angelic cries resonated into his bicep. Making him squeeze it harder against your throat. Headlocking you into his greedy mouth that sucked hickies across your neck.
The angle was deeper. Filthier. Letting him feel so much more of you.
How much smaller you were than him. How you squeezed him just right. How perfect you were in his arms.
Like you belonged.
Shit. Don't go there.
Sukuna tried to drown it out. The returning thought of you. A permanent fixture in his life. Your pink body wash on his counter, that was now his. Your books on his shelves that he could read to you. You, in his living room, painting.
Painting the jungle. Painting home. Being his home.
His cock pulsed hard at the base and sweltered at the tip. The knot in his stomach wound tight. But that thought— that thought gutted him.
That you were here. That you had been here. Warm, and sweet, and soft and for the last few weeks. His.
You could be his.
"No," he wanted it to sound like a grunt. But he whimpered. Panting, heaving, mind dizzy and thrusts frantic—
Sukuna was whimpering.
Your face was pressed into his bicep. Head limp and hand still trying to hold his that clutched your thigh. Still calling his name so sweetly.
"N-No?" You breathed.
Still attuned to him even when he was fucking your brains out.
"Don't want you to leave."
Oh.
Oh.
He hadn't realised that it slipped from his lips. Hadn't realised that through his brutal thrusts— he was breaking. Lost in the burning bliss, the heat, and the warmth of what could be.
Sukuna lost his fucking mind.
"Don't wanna— fuck. Don't wanna be alone." His face fell into your neck. Arms squeezing your body into his. Trying to melt your skin into his. Tuck himself into your warm flesh and the selfish wish you gave him.
Hazed, and hot, and so heavenly yours.
Slick hair pressed into your cheek. His body collapsed onto yours. Pounding his cock up into your creamy cunt. Chasing his blazing nerves as his mouth rambled.
"Don't want you to leave. Don't. Shit. Don't leave me, please, please don't fucking leave me."
His thrusts lost rhythm. As frantic as his rushed whispers. Plunging into your cervix. Bruising your thighs. Clutching you closer. As close as he could muster. As close as it would take to keep you here forever.
"Say you won't— say you," he slurred. Eyes squeezed shut. Words melting into a clumsy splutter of curses. "Say. Say you won't. Say—"
"Won't. Won't. 'kuna I won't— hngahh. Promise!"
That single word. So raw. So true. Choked in a gasp as you tried to nudge your face closer to him.
It shattered whatever pride he had left.
"You promise?"
He croaked. Dangerously hopeful.
You nodded. Cried.
"Promise. I promise S'kuna. Breed me— please."
He should have known you'd be trouble from the moment you first smiled at him.
Heat trapped him. Seeped into every nerve and spasming muscle. Ears drooped. Tail clinging around your waist, as his arms did every inch of you.
He held your hand.
The ache in his hips nulled to the sound of your sweet voice. Tucking promises away in his heart and sealing them with attempted kisses, even when he was choking you.
He felt your orgasm shake through you. Your body locking up as you babbled his name into the humidity. And with that Sukuna finally— finally let go.
Ramming his cock up one, final time. He stilled. Deep and thrumming within you. Heat bursting from his gut and washing over him in a devastating wave of blissful carnage.
Loud and wrecked, his moan vibrated into your back. Hips rocking in small stutters as spluttering, white ropes creamed your cervix. Pouring his thick cum into every inch of your twitching cunt. Brimming you with him and his promise.
"Fucking. . . fuck. . . hah. Take it. Take all this cum in your pretty pussy." Slurs dragged up your throat, to your ear as you face limped into his arm. His voice husked, a vow.
"Just feel me breeding you full. Filling you with my cubs."
You whined, meekly rocking back into him. But he snatched your hips and pressed it down into the mattress with a soft hush.
The throbbing at his base thrummed into swelling. His knot bloomed until it lodged stiff in your cunt. Pulsing with your pathetic little twitches.
He watched your eyes widen and brows furrow. Your body locked up and a whimper strained from your swollen lips. "Mmm. That's your—"
"Mhhm. Just stay still."
Laving his tongue over one of the bites, Sukuna held you near. Savouring your warmth.
The silence finally didn't feel like a void. Even if it was heavy.
He held onto the moment. Clung to its peace as the warmth simmered into cooling sweat on your flesh.
You broke the quiet first.
"Did you mean that?"
He didn't answer you. But his hand cupped your tummy. Fingers still laced in yours as his face tucked against the back of your shoulder.
". . . Was it too much?"
He never thought his voice could ache.
You tried to shift again, and despite the lump in his throat, he clicked his tongue. Squeezed your thigh in warning. "I said stay still, didn't I?"
"You're never too much. Not for me, Sukuna."
There you went, saying his name like it meant something.
Nudging your face to his, Sukuna licked at the tears on your face. A tender act he never thought himself capable of. "Don't say shit like that."
"That I want you? Or that I love you?"
His breath hitched.
Once the knot settled, he pulled out. Hesitantly— especially with your heat still clinging to him.
"You love me?" He muttered, laying a kiss on your cheek. Then to your jaw. To your shoulder. Down your body until you were on your back.
Calloused thumbs swept your folds back. Eyeing the lewd streak of cum leaking out of you.
His eyes found yours as you spoke, tender.
"Do you want me to say it again?" One of your hands raked into his hair.
His face nudged between your thighs. His hummed approval followed the flat of his tongue. Laving up your slit. Licking away the mess and holding your thighs open amidst their intense shivers.
Even as you whined. With your eyes on the brink of tears. They were still soft for him.
"I love you."
You shouldn't.
He shouldn't.
But he still said it back.
"My mate."
Low, and grumbled, not those three words but something that spelt a deeper bond. One he finally had.
After licking you clean, Sukuna bundled you up into the sheets. Pushing himself from the bed and returning with a warm towel and a water bottle.
He cradled the back of your head as he gave you the water.
Worshipped your flesh as he wiped you down. Tracing over bruises and bites. His mark.
And when you were finally tucked into his arms. Dozing off with your head nestled on his heart that now beat for you. His tail curled around your leg and his claws soft on your curves. Sukuna understood.
IT's complicated! (starring nerd!choso x boss!reader)
summary: Choso, a shy IT specialist at Jujutsu Industries, has had a crush on you for years. So when your computer breaks down and you ask him for his expertise, he is determined to try his very hardest to please (and maybe, just maybe, in more ways than one).
content: MDNI 18+, afab!reader, boss!reader, nerd!choso, alt!choso, virgin!choso, no use of “y/n”, yearning, crushing, verrrryy down bad choso, hair-down choso, pierced choso, glasses choso, nerd!gojo feature, nerd!geto feature, porn with lots of plot, choso sees your nudes and lowkey freaks out (in a good way), oral sex (m!receiving, f!receiving), handjobs (m!receiving, f!receiving), suspicious activities under the desk, squirting, messy, secretive, dumbification, office sex, semi-public sex, first times, breeding kink, etc.
word count: 9.2k (idek how this happened oops)
author's note: AHH this is my first ever post on here! I am so excited to share it with you all ☺️! all credits of the above pictures go to their creators! First picture credits is to the talented @einruji07 on X! Also, MDNI!! 18+ only. If you are not 18+ I *will* block you.
choso's friday rotation: Sleepyhead - Jutes, I Want You By My Side - Yuragi, Sextape - Deftones, Drunk in Love - Guitar Version Looped - NovaX, Chokehold - Sleep Token, The Walls - Chase Atlantic, House of Balloons / Glass Table Girls - The Weeknd
The morning genuinely could not have gone rougher.
Choso’s 6AM alarm didn't go off, which meant his meticulous morning routine (fixing his hair into its signature bun, tirelessly trying to wash the sleep from his eyes, and buying Toji’s shitty discounted coffee from the place next door) was effectively scrapped.
The train from his neighborhood to Chiyoda City was packed full, and he could’ve sworn at least six different elbows dug into his back on purpose throughout the entire ride.
And of course, the cherry on top was that it was a Friday, which meant the Tokyo branch of Jujutsu Industries was serving free breakfasts today. He knew that as soon as the clock hit 9am, employees from every department would be descending down from their respective floors and into the bumbling cafeteria.
It was ritual; it was community.
It was Kamo Choso's personal hell.
Sure, he could avoid all of this - and his natural instincts would be that he would. But there is something uniquely humbling about being an underpaid IT specialist living in one of the most ridiculously overpriced apartments in Shibuya, that his usual quiet, asocial self could set aside his general temperament for some Friday freebies.
He stepped into the already lengthy line, keeping his sleepy eyes glued to his phone screen, his music set to a concerning level, and his earbuds on noise-cancellation.
He anticipated this would take fifteen minutes max. Eight to move through the line. Two to figure out what he wanted and grab what he needed. Five to absolutely book it up the stairs to his 4th-floor cubicle. That's what he anticipated. He could do this.
What he did not anticipate was accidentally knocking into, and subsequently flat-tiring, you.
You, with your sensual curves and smooth skin and sharp eyes. You, who took one look at the scuff mark he made on your very expensive-looking heels and laughed. You, who, as you now fully turn to face him, smelled faintly of warm rice and deep vanilla, spiced quince and smoked cinnamon.
You.
You, you, you.
The girl he has been harboring the most, painful, humiliatingly pathetic crush on for the past two and a half years.
A playful grin formed on your plush lips. Your eyes began to scan him over, assessing. The small stud above his brow glinted to you as if in greeting. His hair, which normally was tied up, was down today, the thick black frames he wore slightly obscuring the pinkish scar that ran across his nose, and his dark lashes were fluttering against his pale skin in a way that made him look so… soft.
Choso could feel his eyes begin to widen as you took him in. His heart mobilized to his throat, his nape began to prick with cool droplets of sweat. Was he blushing right now or was it just hot? The bustle of the line all but faded away to him.
You began to speak, and it took him several moments before realizing that the pitched ringing in his ears were in fact, not his own deluded creations, but his headphones. His ridiculous, small, obscured headphones that were actively on noise-cancellation mode.
You were talking to him, and he couldn't hear you.
Now, this wasn't the first time you and Choso ever crossed paths. The two of you started at the company on the same day, and the both of you were partners during the week-long onboarding program. You captivated him with your casual boldness, magnetic presence, and how just one word from you could command the attention of the entire group.
He surprised you with his low voice, observing eyes, sharp features, and the way that he spoke his words with the kind of deep earnestness of someone who has never been burned.
You were intrigued.
He was captivated.
By the time the onboarding week finished, all the new hires went around the room stating their departments and their title. When it came your time to speak, and the words "Portfolio Management Director" left your oh, so pretty lips, Choso could feel the barriers going up before he could even fully comprehend it.
When everyone began to filter out of the room, mingling with the peers they grew acquainted with during the program, all he could do was keep his head down. At the time, all he could think about was how foolish he was to hope that there could ever even be a small possibility with you.
He ended up leaving without saying goodbye (admittedly not his best decision), and you watched him go with the smallest traces of hurt squeezing your chest.
And so that's why Choso finds himself here, on this Friday morning two and a half years later, flustered, embarrassed, and scrambling to string together one coherent sentence for you.
This was worse than his own personal hell. This was abuse and torture wrapped up in one single, harrowing blow.
Choso could see you had stopped talking and were looking at him expectantly now.
And honestly? You could handle scuff marks and damaged shoes. You could handle snarky colleagues and misogynistic execs. You've fought for your spot (if only everyone could've seen the state you left Zenin Naoya in...) and swiftly climbed your way up the corporate ladder. You were one of the youngest, and most favored, female directors at the company. You could handle your own and pretty much anything thrown at you - but that did not mean you took kindly to being ignored, especially by the regretfully attractive IT geek that somehow left such an impression on you all those years ago.
The easy smile you wore slowly began to fall with every passing second of his silence. Behind you, the line began to march forward.
Choso was immobilized. He had to act, and fast. In his fantasies, he would've approached you with the kind of slickness and sex-appeal that Sukuna Ryomen (the notorious office rake) was said to employ at the weekly happy hours (allegedly, according to Satoru). Choso would have wow'd you with his intellect, he would have made you laugh. He would've apologized for his initial lameness after the onboarding debacle all those years ago. He would've found a way to finally get your number, dammit!
Instead, all the words he wanted to say were competing for a spot of your attention, and something halfway between a choked groan and garbled sputtering was all that could escape his mouth.
Your eyes slightly widened.
Choso wished for death to strike him.
He could feel the light tapping of the people behind him, urging him to move.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. A mix of something halfway between sympathy and disappointment flashed in your eyes, but you turned around too quickly before he could decipher it. And so he was left standing there, in the middle of the cafeteria with bated breath and a palpitating heart, as you walked up to the continental buffet without so much as a glance back.
God, he was truly pathetic. And also so, so incredibly fucked.
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"Oh now that's fuckin' gold-" Satoru was barking at this point, laughing so hard his glasses slid down his nose, "-even I'm not THAT bad" his howls echoed throughout the entirety of the IT department's floor. Even Suguru, who was always so neutral in these situations, was chuckling and nodding in agreement as he listened to Choso's embarrassing retelling of this morning's encounter.
Choso's face twisted in misery.
If he was lamer than Gojo Satoru, who was generally considered as the office's "lamest", then he should just resign the rest of his life to virgin-hood now.
Gojo: +10
Choso: -67
With a grumble of the most unsavory curses he knew, and a swift kick to Gojo's long shins (that, satisfyingly, shut him up), Choso got up from his desk for his shift at the tenth-floor IT help station.
Which, to both his happiness and dismay, was where all the higher-ups worked. Where you worked.
He rubbed his face once, his glasses lifting under his fingers, before staring up at the elevator ceiling.
"Please pull yourself together, man" he whispered under his breath.
The tenth floor IT "station" was moreso a glorified closet, in his opinion. The only attribute that made it a “station” was the one, small service window that one would normally see at drive-thru’s. All Choso had to do for the next 3-hours was sit behind the window and wait for the digital clock to hit 5pm. And normally, his time at the counter would go as it always did: quiet and uneventful.
So, was it divine intervention or cruel punishment that led you to walk over to the window at 4pm, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you stood before him for the second time that day?
"Mr. Kamo," you said in greeting. You were still a little peeved from the situation that occurred earlier in the day, and your usual easy tone was replaced with something a touch cooler.
"H-Hi," he breathed. Slick. He coughed before correcting himself, "what can I do for you?"
His eyes flickered up at you and then down to his fidgeting hands. He knew he needed to explain what happened earlier. His earbuds, his chronic-lameness, his affinity with making a fool out of himself whenever you were within a four-meter radius.
You sighed. "Seems like my laptop decided to give out on me," your lips formed a slight pout and your brows furrowed in cute concern. His heart thumped in his throat. "Think you can fix it?" You raised your eyes to meet his, and he suddenly became acutely aware of just how warm his face was.
He nodded quickly, jerkily. "I can certainly try."
You say your thanks softly, just a touch distant, before silently handing him your computer.
He flushed in embarrassment as he stumbled to take the device from you. The IT window, though useful, had a worktable on his side. So, he had to extend over the table to get to the counter of the window, where you had placed your laptop.
Your eyes furtively stared at the way his surprisingly sculpted arms extended out to reach over. You noticed the soft outline of a scar wrapping around his mid forearm, and the veins that ran down from there and into his large hands.
You clear your throat, trying to stop yourself from saying (or moaning) something stupid, and excuse yourself.
He was able to diagnose your laptop in a matter of minutes. The internal cooling fan was clogged with dust, and all he had to do was blast it with some compressed air. It was simple, really. He anticipated it would only take him ten minutes to fix the whole thing.
And yet, he sat there stalling.
You sat in one of the lounge chairs beside his window, your legs neatly crossed and your manicured nails tapping away on your phone. The sun was beginning to set, and the glow from its light was illuminating you in such a way that it would make it a crime not to stare.
“Yes, Mr. Kamo?”
You didn’t glance up from your phone, but your brows held a light, inquisitive arch. His breath stuttered.
“I am so sorry about earlier,” his voice was so gentle you almost missed it. You finally look up. “The breakfast line this morning. That time from onboarding two years ago-” the thumping of his veins was hard enough to staccato his speech, yet he could not stop now. “I am so sorry. For everything. For your shoes. For acting the way I did. For not saying goodbye. I had earbuds in and-god-I don’t know why I’m so…”
“Shy?” You offer to him.
“Lame.” He mumbles.
Your laugh is an angelic ring to his ears, and he watches as your hand covers your mouth as your eyes begin to crinkle. It was hard to stay annoyed when he was so endearing, so earnest with his words. The worry lines on his forehead began to ease, and a relieved smile slowly made its way onto Kamo Choso’s face for the first time today.
“All is forgiven-” your smile was small, perhaps even a touch shy. You hesitate, before saying, “thank you, Mr. Kamo.” It was your turn now to not be able to meet his eyes. And though you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, the implication of your words hung in the air. Thank you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for your courage.
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as the sun fully dipped into the horizon. You returned to your phone, and he returned to your computer.
And when he finally opened up the casing to clean out your fan, he made sure to leave a section untouched in the hopes that maybe, just maybe you would come back to visit him again.
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It was slow at first, but eventually you did return. And then again. And again and again.
One time for a docking station. The next, for your headphones (you both laughed). He checked your monitors one week, and your cables the next. It would be something new each time you came rounding the corner.
He would often find himself searching for the sound of your heels, like it was a message just for him; something sacred; a secret admission.
And every time you came around, you stayed by his window as he worked. You liked to watch the flush that would inevitably creep onto his features, and he liked to relish in your closeness, the smell of your shampoo, the sounds of your bracelets clinking together, and the faces you made as you read through your emails.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would catch you staring. He smiled more on those days.
Somehow, somewhere in those two or so months, the two of you began to ease into each other. You talked more, he stuttered less. Your professional smiles grew into something more unreserved. His anxious hands gradually found peace. Over time, silence turned into polite niceties, which turned into conversations about weekend plans, which turned into gentle teases about music tastes, coffee order skepticisms, and pop-culture references. You surprised him by being a secret gamer. He surprised you by being a shameless sweet-tooth.
After weeks of odd-repair jobs flew by, there was probably no other office supplies of yours that Choso hadn’t checked.
He was sure that the final days of you visiting him were soon approaching, and the thought alone was enough to send him into an emotional spiral all week. He didn’t want whatever this was to stop. Your presence easily became the favorite aspect of his routine: a loud part of his normally quiet schedule that he looked forward to every Friday.
He just needed to man up. Grow a pair. And if today was his last shot, then he would. And if you didn't show up to his IT window tonight? Then he would finally attend the company happy hours just in case you would be there. And if you were there, then he would approach you at the bar and he would buy you a drink. He would ask for your number. He would tell you to address him casually from here on out. He would, he would, he would.
For you? He would do anything.
It was ten-to-five, and the twisting in Choso’s stomach was becoming unbearable. He was all but ready to pack up and sprint to the bar that all the employees went to on Friday nights when he heard the familiar click of your heels as you rounded the corner.
His heart was pounding, and he could hear the blood rushing past his ears.
“You’re going to hate me,” you started.
Never, he wanted to say in reply.
“Oh? How so?”
“My work phone,” you frowned, “I’d hate to keep you late on a Friday night, but…” you softly waved the device in your hand. “Think you can manage?”
The turbulence in his body settled. You were here. He will get your number today. He will ask, after this. His eyes softened, as they normally did whenever you were near, and a smile graced his pretty features. “When have I not?”
You laughed and nodded, a touch flushed, biting your lip as your eyes lit up with something warm, something he couldn’t place.
A beat passes. Your gaze drops from his eyes, to his lips, then quickly up to the dark piercing by his brow. Were you too obvious? Was he too dense?
"My savior." You said it like it was a secret. Breathy, earnest, purposeful.
His ears turned another shade redder.
You handed your phone to him wordlessly, and his fingers grazed yours. Where yours were warm and smooth, his were cool and calloused. He gulped. You grinned.
As you settled down into your usual spot on the lounge chair, laptop opened to your email, he began to assess the damage on your phone.
“Do you remember what applications were running before it broke? Helps give me a better understanding of the issue.” He was focused now, skillfully popping off the case and assessing the ports.
You hummed. “The last thing I used was the camera - I was taking pictures of a merger agreement to forward to the legal team.” You checked your watch. “I was hoping to send it all over by 8pm at the latest.”
Though he nodded casually, he couldn’t help but be in awe of your composure, your effortless nonchalance with your power and position.
As he finally got the screen on your work phone to power up, you began to get a video call on your laptop. You excused yourself, mouthing “Sorry, gotta take this” to him, before you turned and headed back to your desk. It looked like you were quite busy. He hoped you were taking care of yourself; that you ate something today. He made a mental note for himself to ask you later.
He fiddled with your phone for several minutes. After cleaning out your charging port, plugging your device into power, and doing other general troubleshooting, your phone screen finally lit up with its signature brand logo.
Though it lagged, he was able to get to your home screen and look into your settings. After a general inspection of your storage, software system, and other miscellaneous settings, he moved on to your camera app to check if the app would crash like you had mentioned.
He truly did not mean to pry. He was just about to close the app when he saw it - the small square photo cover of a folder in your camera roll. The preview was of you. Of your body.
And, oh fuck- were these your nudes?
Fuck.
He could feel the blood draining from his face...
He immediately put your phone down.
What the hell was he doing?
You were a distinguished senior-level employee. His colleague. His crush. Dare he say, friend?
His very, very attractive friend.
He gulped. He could feel his dick pulse in interest, a faint throb that blended with the beating anticipation in his heart.
He slowly picked your phone back up.
He wished he could feel more turmoil; he wished that his morality would kick in and tell him to stop, to tell him to show some sliver of respect for your privacy. But all he could hear was silence in the face of his insatiable curiosity.
You weren’t here right now. The call you took seemed important enough to go back to your office for. Perhaps… Perhaps he could just reaffirm what he thought he saw?
His pulse was beating so wildly that his heart felt like it was working on overload. With shaky hands, he clicks back into the folder.
Fuck.
He wanted to cry. He might actually cry.
There were only seven pictures total. Before he could think too hard, he tapped into the first one and scrolled through.
The first was of you laying on your side, your heavy tits barely held up by the flimsy pink lingerie you had on. His dick lurched in his jeans at the sight of your nipples barely caught on the lace. He could see the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the light gloss on your lips.
He could feel his hand reaching down to his crotch before he could register what was happening.
The hell? This was you? Hidden behind all your smart clothes and persisting authority?
His fingers involuntarily squeezed himself through his pants. He could feel the fiery pit in his stomach convulse. He tried to ignore the wet spot that was beginning to form where the tip of his cock kissed his briefs. He continued to scroll.
More pictures of your tits, some with them squished together, some with them spilling over your purposefully small tops. Once he got to the ones of your ass, he had to stifle a surprised groan with a choked cough. The slutty thongs you wore almost made him pass out. One pair was made of only cross-linking satin strips. Another was just translucent lace. Regardless of material, he was transfixed by the way they got swallowed up by the expanse of your plump, juicy, impossibly round ass.
And then he got to the video. The video.
His heart was wild against his ribs. A vibrator was between your legs. Your thong shoved to the side. Your wetness was soaking the fabric so thoroughly it was see through, and your slick was coating the tip of the device until it shined. Your nipples were hard and peaking through the tops of your bra. One hand was pumping two fingers into your pussy, and the other held the vibrator to rub against your swollen clit.
It was so obscene. So dirty. So fucking erotic.
He did not know what took over him, but he could not stop himself now. His pants were unzipped, briefs shoved down, cock fully exposed underneath his worktable. He was jerking himself off like he was possessed, drunk off of the way you looked on the screen. His dick was heavy, thick, and hot in his hand. The mushroomed tip was angry and red, rubbed raw by the friction of being trapped in his underwear. He was leaking such an embarrassing amount that he wasn’t entirely sure if it was pre or if he literally came untouched in his pants without realizing.
He could hear your low pants coming from the screen, and the shlk shlk shlkkk of your nimble fingers fucking inside of yourself. He had to clench his jaw so hard that the veins in his neck were surely popping out, just to stop himself from making noise. Each time you rubbed the slickened vibrator against your cunt, and it partly disappeared between your pussy lips, his own dick bobbed with fresh waves of need.
What the hell were these doing on your work phone? Was this even your work phone?
His forehead was lightly damp now. His chest was heaving. His face was so fucking flushed. His heartbeat felt so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear the faint clicking of your heels as you returned to him.
“...Mr. Kamo?”
His face snapped up. You were standing directly across from him, the only thing separating the two of you being the service-window wall. A beat passes, and your video is still playing on loop in his hand.
Your lips part in slow recognition, but the shadow of something indecipherable flickers across your features.
The world around you both seems to still, the Tokyo nightlife all but muted in the bubble that formed between you and him.
He sat frozen as you wordlessly walked up to, and opened, the door to his IT room.
It only took you two steps inside before you slowly dropped to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. With your field of vision lower now, you could see his large hand still fisting his dick underneath the table.
And… Holy shit. He was so… large.
You don’t realize you're gulping.
You don’t realize that you’re salivating.
This fucking nerd was packing… what? Nine full inches and then some?
Your wide eyes look back up to him, and he stares back with something akin to both utter humiliation and desperation.
“I never got to properly thank you for all your help these past few months,” you whisper.
Wait, what?
Before his delirious brain could process the implication of your soft words, you’re leaning in to lick up the salty pre that pooled at the base of his cock, slurping at the excess, and licking allllll the way up to the pulsing head.
Your tongue was so soft, so ridiculously fuckin’ wet.
And Choso was so taken by surprise, so dazed by the fact that this was his reality right now, that his jaw slackened, and a fuckin’ whimper escaped his throat.
You began to trace the veins on his dick and he could’ve sworn he saw stars.
You took your time, languidly finding a path up up, up. By the time you made it to the tip, he thought he was going to cry (he was unsure if he already was), until you wrapped your plush lips around the underside of his mushroomed cockhead, putting delicious pressure on his most sensitive area.
“Put your hands on me,” you almost whined it out, the tip of his dick still bobbing shallowly in your mouth. Like you didn’t want to let go; like you didn't want even a moment of it not resting heavily on your tongue.
Before he could comply, the distant whirring of a vacuum echoed somewhere down the hall.
“Oh fuck-” his eyes were wild, and his breathing ragged and erratic. Was it panic from potentially getting caught? Or was it the selfish idea that the thought of you stopping now might actually kill him? That whatever trance you both were under would break, and that you would walk out and take all of his heart with you?
He looks down at you, and in his panicked state he didn’t realize you were grinning.
“What are you-?”
The whirring was getting louder. You crawled under the table and settled between his spread legs.
Oh.
Oh.
He felt like he was going to go insane.
You rested your cheek against his thigh, and looked up at him through your lashes. Your eyes were glazed, your lips rouged and spit-slickened. You were mesmerizing, and it almost killed him to look away.
In the distance, he could see the nightly custodial crew rounding the corner and walking down the hall, their vacuums roaring loudly against the polished floors.
You began to push his flared cockhead further into your mouth, until it was just kissing the smoothed back of your throat. He choked on a moan, one hand gripping onto the workstation ledge, the other flying to your hair. The echoes of footsteps were growing louder, and the roars of the vacuums were quickly nearing. And yet, this only seemed to make you needier, hungrier.
Your head was bobbing rhythmically, unrelentingly, addictingly, under the table as you sucked on his hard length. He was just so warm, so thick and hot and heady, and you were beginning to lose your sanity over the feeling of his cock filling your mouth so completely and overwhelmingly, shutting you up.
Your lashes were damp with stray tears. Choso wondered how it would look to paint your face with his cum, or if you preferred to take it down your throat-
“Would you like us to clean inside there, sir?”
He sputtered dumbly. “Huuh-?”
The custodial team stood about four meters away, pausing their vacuuming activities briefly as they stared at him curiously.
“N-no. No I’m good. All c-clean over here.”
You made it a point to slurp lightly - just loud enough for him alone to hear. You were slobbering now, drool and spittle dripping from your chin, messily mixing with his creamy pre down the length of his cock, and all over his balls.
He fisted your hair in warning, his jaw ticking with tension.
He knew he probably looked ridiculous to the custodians right now, maybe even sick with how flushed and sweaty he was. He was pretty sure that his lower lip was split with how hard he was biting them. His glasses were slightly fogged on the lower edges, and his chest was heaving in a way that made him look like he just ran a marathon.
From his peripherals he could see your wicked smile as you popped off his dick, gingerly mixing the wetness all over, two slippery hands jerking him off, twisting under the capped head, in a slow, teasing, mind-numbing pattern.
The custodians shrugged, before turning around and heading off for the night.
And as they left, something inside his mind snapped. Something possessive, perverted, and deranged.
“You playin’ with me?” His eyes were wild. Gone was his professionalism, his shy resolve nowhere to be found. His heart was pounding. He needed you.
“Finally got the hint?” You shoot back, challengingly.
He huffed out a breath of warm air, before firmly gripping your throat and shoving your mouth back onto his cock. You readily latched on, sucking and licking and moaning, one hand massaging his balls, the other twisting over whatever exposed length was left of him.
Your tongue was unrelenting, and he was bucking up, abusing your throat. He loved the way your throat bulged at every snap! of his hips, as he shoved his long, fat dick down, down, down. So far gone was the shy man you met every past Friday. His eyes were now glazed and glassy, his lips bitten completely red, sweat rolling hypnotically past his brow piercing and along his sharp jaw. He was drunk off the way your mouth felt. Drunk off the way his dick was using you. Drunk off the way you look; broken, teary-eyed, mouth gagged, and throat bulging with his heavy cock buried inside.
Before you know it, he's slipping out, one hand on your throat to keep you still, while the other wraps around the base of his cock. He slaps his wet dick against your cheek, before rubbing and sliding himself along your smooth skin. Your legs clench as you realize from base to tip his cock is as big as your head. And when you looked into his eyes, you could tell he saw it too. He wasn’t looking at you though, you realized. He was looking at himself. He wasn't just tapping his dripping cock against your flushed skin. This twisted motherfucker was measuring.
“Heh- I’ve never felt a pussy before,” he continues his rocking against your face, “d’ya think it’ll fit?”
Your eyes widened. This man, with his pierced ears and studded brow, muscular arms and ginormous cock, was a fucking virgin?
Surely, he was lying. He had to be.
But as you assessed him, his wrecked and earnest features, there was no doubt that he wasn’t telling you anything but the hard, honest truth.
“I-” your heart does something funny in your chest, while a fresh wave of slickness soaks your already drenched panties. You address him with equal earnestness, “I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself, Choso.”
And oh, he was a goner. He loved the way his name rolled off your tongue, how casually you addressed him. He was completely and utterly at your mercy now.
“Does the window close?” You ask. You were still under the table, and completely oblivious to the way his heart felt like it was exploding behind his ribcage.
“Y-yeah,” he nodded quickly, jerkily. Dazed and partly delirious.
He shoved himself back into his pants, not caring to button as he pulled his long, black shirt down enough to cover himself. He stood and leaned over the table, sliding the service window shut and pulling the metal security shutters down. You crawled out from under the table as he went and locked the door.
It was well past 7pm at this point, and the usual office stragglers were long gone by now. The two of you were alone.
He lends you his hand and you take it. Your manicured fingers swallowed by his scarred and calloused ones.
Your knees crack as you stand to your full height. He reaches to wrap his hands around either side of your throat, his thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks.
“Let me kiss you,”
It wasn’t even a question. His brain was too consumed in the haze of you, you, you.
Your chest rose and fell. Your hands found his biceps, and you slowly slid them up, up, up to his shoulders, then to his chest, feeling the hidden muscles of his upper body.
You hooked your finger in the collar of his shirt, before tugging, bringing him close enough that your lips were brushing his.
You looked up at him through your lashes, a sly smile creeping onto your features, “I’ll think on it.”
He groaned. His forehead pressed against yours. The tip of his nose softly tracing yours. You were both so close to each other that your lips would brush from the smallest of movements.
His fingers moved from your throat and into your hair, and you could feel him rutting and rubbing his throbbing erection against your leg in the most desperate, pathetic way.
“Fuckin’ tease.”
Your heart was beating so traitorously loud against your chest, and the pressure building in between your legs was making you ache, your pussy clenching at the feeling of being without.
You smile at him wickedly. “Earn it then.”
And before he can think, you’re dragging his shaky hand between your thighs, your skirt riding up, up, up past your legs, before scrunching around your waist.
He might pass out.
Because here you were - tits pressing against your tight button down, nipples raised through your bra, lace covered cunt exposed, and ass only half-covered by your bunched up skirt.
And when he finally, finally dips his trembling fingers just underneath the absolutely soaked lace of your panties, grazing your poor, neglected pussy, you sigh out the most breathy, sinful sound in his ear. Could one get infinitely times harder? He couldn’t tell. But he was starting to feel lightheaded with how much blood was rushing from his head to his cock, which was flaring with the freshest waves of need.
“I- I’ve never done this before,” he said it as if in a trance. His eyes were glassy. He looked hypnotized, almost possessed by the way the tips of his fingers were drenched in your wetness, how your pussy lips were greedily sucking him in so desperately, how they made the prettiest squelch! as his finger got devoured, inch by fucking inch, by your warm, velvety walls.
Your eyes rolled back and your mouth parted in the most sensual “o” that he’s only ever seen from stuff online. He felt the air get knocked out of his lungs. All of his college “experiences” (if he could even call jizzing untouched and awkward blow jobs milestones in his sexual portfolio) paled in comparison to the display that your pussy was showing him right now. He used his thumb to spread your lips apart, watching his fingers disappear in and out, in and out.
Fuck.
And then he was everywhere.
He has your shirt ripped off in seconds, your bra shoved down. His unoccupied hand is squeezing one of your tits, while his mouth latches on to the other, sucking and biting your nipples in a way that has your toes curling, and - did Kamo Choso have a tongue piercing??
Below, his one finger became two, jamming into your tight, tight hole, before pumping in and out, in and out in the most depraved way. And when he accidentally crooked his fingers, massaging and fucking into your most sensitive spots, you moaned, your red nails scraping against his broad shoulders.
“Touch me here too,” you all but gasp out, your delicate hands moving his thumb to rub circles against your clit, just as you had done in the video he watched of you on your phone earlier.
Ever the most astute student, he listened to your every word. He made note of the things that had you going stupid, and changed gears when you tapped him on his biceps. He was a quick study (a bona fide geek after all), and soon he found the most relentless, ruthless, dumbifying tempo that he had you fucking squirting and spraying all over his wrists and down onto the floor below.
And then he’s pushing you until your ass is leaning against the workdesk. He spreads your legs apart and drops to his knees. When he stared up at you, he looked so, so gone.
His glasses were smudged and pushed up, the tip of his scarred nose nudged your clit, and his pink lips opened to dip his soft tongue against your folds. The cool metal ball of his tongue piercing the only solace against ur blazing skin. It’s his turn to slurp you up, and god how you tasted-
One of his hands is firmly gripping your thigh, his face disappearing completely as his mouth is on your cunt, kissing and licking and sucking and massaging. The other is fisting his leaking cock. You tasted so fuckin’ good on his tongue. So warm. So wet. So sweet. He could do this forever. He would beg to do this forever.
“Have I-” he hiccupped, “have I earned it yet, sweetheart?” His glasses are wet with your juices. He’s panting, warm puffs of air hitting your core.
You were shaking. Yeah, yeah. He earned it.
“Yes, yes Cho-” your praises of him blended together, spilling and slurring out of your mouth without pause.
“Thank god.”
And then he’s back at it, eating you out so good, his tongue bullying inside of your tight hole. The scar on his nose fully rubbing against your clit, finding home on your body. And you feel it - your legs beginning to shake, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re panting, whining, holding his head to you like you’ll keep him there and suffocate him. The overwhelming waves of your orgasm crashing into you as he fucks his tongue into your greedy pussy, lips latched on and giving the sweetest suction.
Your hands are in his hair, your vision blurred and teary, you’re calling out his name like its religion.
And him? He’s trying to memorize the way your walls clench around his tongue, begging for him to stay, keeping him inside you. He’s trying to burn into memory the way you’re fuckin gushing wetness all over his chin, the way your tits bounce up as you arch your back in the most sinful way.
Only after you come down from your high, Choso finally stands. He rests his two palms on the table space on either side of your thighs, caging you in, before resting his damp forehead in the crook of your neck.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, his soft lips kissing against your jugular.
“Don’t thank me yet,” you tease. Your hands find his hair, lightly running your fingers through his scalp before saying, “we aren’t even close to being done.”
He looks up at you curiously, innocently. “We… can do more?”
Oh, so he seriously was a virgin.
“Cho…” His knees weaken at the nickname. “We’ve just barely begun.”
He involuntarily bucks his hips at your response, rubbing his painful erection against your leg. His briefs were wet and stained with pre. You lifted his shirt above his head. He pulled your soaked panties down your damp legs.
You were still sitting on the worktable, your legs ajar, and your pussy a sloppy mixture of your release and his own saliva. He nudges the tip of his length to kiss against your hole. A deep, choked sigh escapes his mouth at the softness of your pussylips, the slipperyness of your wetness, the warmth that radiated from your core and onto his weeping dick.
He slips his cock against your folds, teasingly gliding against your clit as he pulses against your skin. Choso’s lips catch your own, his tongue massaging yours, while his hands grope your sensitive, swollen breasts.
“F-fuuuh,” he’s whimpering into your mouth, lips wobbling, so fuckin’ overwhelmed by the insane sensations of your pussy rubbing against his dick, your mouth moving against his own, and your tits, god your tits, in his large, shaky palms.
And he can’t help it, really.
His dick was still jerking like crazy from the head you gave him earlier. Your soft pussylips were slathering him in your juices, your tongue licking his tongue piercing like you did his cock, and your nipples so peaked he wanted to suck on them.
So it’s no surprise, really, when his meaty dick started to leak slow ropes of his sticky, thick cum against your outer folds.
And you were still making out with him when you realized, the warm gooey feeling spurting out onto your hole was coming from him, that your breath caught in your throat - a soft gasp leaving your mouth as it got swallowed by his languid tongue.
He was so pathetic, he thought.
He just came before he even stuck it in.
He pulled away from your mouth. “I-” he was humiliated, face burning with shame, glasses fogged and head facing towards the floor. He was searching for the right words, when you grabbed his still hard penis and gave him the same smile he saw before. The kind of smile you gave when you got on your knees and crawled under the desk.
You lightly push him until he’s sitting on his wide, creaky work chair. You slide off the worktable gracefully, before joining him. You’re straddling him, tits skimming his chest, his dick standing tall between the two of your legs. Though you haven’t said it outright, the implications of your actions hang heavy in the air; he knows - he realizes what you want, what he wants, and what will inevitably happen.
“If you don’t want this, say it now,” you say.
His eyes were big, and he’s staring at you so reverently, like you were a goddess, his goddess. He shakes his head.
“Use your words, Cho,” you rest your hand on his throat, your manicured thumb parting his wobbly lips.
He was pathetic. But you loved it.
He had tears in his eyes and he had no idea why. Perhaps from humiliation. Perhaps from overstimulation. Perhaps from the fact that the hottest girl he’s ever laid eyes on was about to fuck his brains out and leave him stupified beyond belief. Probably most definitely the latter. “I want this,” he gasps out. “I want you - fuck - I need you, to be inside you, ple-”
You shut him up with your mouth, massaging and leading and biting. Your hands slowly traverse from his neck and down his hard chest, past his abs, before resting at his base, fingers tangling in the tufts of dark hair there. He was still covered in his own cum, white and warm and sticky against your palms.
“Don’t worry,” you were almost purring against his red, swollen lips. “I’ll take good care of you.”
And now you’re tipping the head of his cum-covered cock towards your glistening hole, and he feels like he’s going dizzy.
Holy shit, this was it. It’s happening.
You break away from him, and the two of you stare as you drag his gooey-covered cockhead allllll around your pussylips, leaving even more mess in its trail. And when his hard length dips slightly into your folds, his mushroomed tip kissing against your entrance, he could swear he almost blacked out.
“You’re so big, Cho” you cutely pout. His dick throbs before swelling even larger at your words. “It’s even better than I’ve ever imagined.” You say the last part quietly, reverently, almost shyly.
And, holy hell, that does something to him.
Choso involuntarily bucks at the thought of you thinking about him, about his dick, just as how he thought of you for all these years, and the tip of his cum-covered cock slips right into the tight ring of your pussy without warning.
Your head knocks back as his own falls forward, the two of your hot breaths puffing into the heady air.
You were gasping. Even though it was just the head, it felt like you were being stretched beyond belief, your walls wrapping around and latching onto his length so snuggly, so… deliciously, that it had Choso whimpering into your bare tits.
You were greedy, slightly possessed, and fuckin’ hungry. You roll your hips forward slightly, pushing his throbbing cock another inch deeper into your gummy pussy, and his hands find purchase on the fleshy curve of your ass. “C’mon now,” you say slyly, “I know my good boy can take it.”
His dick jerks at your words. You have Choso seeing stars. He thinks his hearing was starting to go in his left ear. He’s drunk, he’s addicted, he’s… he’s not even halfway inside you yet and he feels like he is teetering on the edges of his sanity.
“S-stop teasing me,” he almost cries it out. His fingertips kneed into your ass. He wants to bottom out completely inside you. He wants to feel so impossibly close to you that he forgets his own name, that he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.
And you comply. You always would, for him.
He watches as his dick gets swallowed by your stretched lips. The residual cum on his cock from earlier either smears inside you or begins to froth at his base. And you feel so fuckin’ good, your greedy cunt sucking up every inch of him until he’s finally, finally, bottoming out into your warmth.
“Thaaat’s it, Cho,” you can feel his leaking tip smooching against your cervix, the veins on his dick pulsing against your gummy walls, the residual cum from earlier clinging to your clit. You’re gushing new waves of slick, and he feels how you convulse around him, squeezing tight against his meat like a fuckin’ sin.
You don’t even give him time to breathe, to even think, because you begin to ride him like a fuckin’ animal, like a goddamn pro. Your tits are bouncing in his face, your ass clapping against his thighs, his cock filling you up like it’s ritual, and his tip fucking into your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, unforgivingly. Before you know it, he’s bucking his hips up to meet yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the small space of the IT room.
He’s panting your name like a prayer, his hands holding you like you were something sacred, and his heart pounding against his ribcage like he’s at confessional.
And yeah, he may have never done this before, he may have never felt the embrace of a woman’s pussy on his cock - but he knew immediately, decisively, that yours was the best. He knew that everyone else’s would pale in comparison. And he knew, deep down, that when this is all over, he would be jaded and lost from mourning the feeling of you. He knew yours would be the only one he would search for in his life.
“Cho,” you whisper, voice catching and breaking with every thwk thwk thwk! of his balls slapping against your ass. “You’re doing so well,” you hiccup, partially delirious. “I can feel you allllll the way up here.” And then you drag your manicured nail from where the two of you were connected, juices wetting your fingerpads, as it rose all the way up, up, up, to the slightly protruding bump in your belly. You press your hand on it lightly, and he realizes that the bump is from him, from where his achingly large cock was shoved inside you and pressed against your womb.
He can feel his cock rush with blood, growing larger in your belly, filling and stuffing you even more fully - completely. And you feel it too. He breathes through his nose, small traces of drool slipping from the sides of his mouth. You squeeze your tits together, giving him a show.
He’s dangerously flushed, sweat (or was it tears?) running down his cheeks. You’re gushing fresh wetness all around his dick, your warm walls clinging to him so needily, almost possessively, as the tip of his cock pounds against your most sensitive spot until it's bruised. And he’s leaking so much pre that the mixture begins to slather so messily around your glistening hole, frothing at his base and running down his balls.
It was so filthy. So dirty. So fucking addictive.
His mouth finds the sensitive buds of your nipples, his piercing flicking over the stiffened peaks. One of his hands rubs your combined juices into your swollen clit, while the other grabs on to the fleshy parts of your ass.
Its your turn to cry out, to whimper at the sensations of his steady hands against your blazing skin, his pulsing cock inside your squeezing pussy.
“Thaaat’s it pretty girl,” he breathes. He leaves your nipples to suck on the sensitive skin by your ear. “My pretty girl. This what you were lookin’ for?”
He snaps his hips up, balls spanking your ass. His thick cock burrowing impossibly further inside of you.
Your words come out garbled - halfway between pleading and praise.
He grins at you.
“Use,” he pulls his cock out almost completely, your quivering pussy squeezing so tightly around the head of him, as if begging him not to leave.
“Your,” he finally pulls away with a grunt.
“Words,” he smacks his fat, heavy, dripping cock against your entrance. The sound it made left your ears buzzing.
“Pretty girl.” He’s shoving into you so fast you feel him in your fucking lungs.
He’s gripping your hips, using his strength to fuck your body on his cock. He was handling you like you were a sex doll.
What the fuck? This was the same nerd from before?
Your tongue meets his, and you’re messily making out with each other: you lick his tongue like you’re licking his dick, and he grabs your throat to pull you away, before spitting into your mouth. Drool spills from your lips and onto your chins. He’s pulling you onto his dick like you were a toy, only pausing briefly to spank your ass and feel it jiggle against his thighs.
Your actions were getting clumsier: nails scratching randomly at his chest, tongue licking messily up his throat, moans echoing off of his damp skin. His hips were beginning to stutter: his dick was fucking into you in a broken rythm, mushroomed head blooming with every pulse. You both were teetering around the edges of your sanity, and the only sounds between you were sharp breaths and the slapping of your soaking cunt against his soaked cock.
“Fuck, I’m-” his throat squeezes, every word a battle to get out. He forces his bleary eyes open to watch his dick disappear inside you - fucking into your womb again, and again, and again. He feels his balls beginning to tighten, his shaft becoming taught. He needs to cum. He needs to pull out.
And he starts to - when your hand tightens around the back of his neck.
“Don’t you, oh,” there's tears streaming down your face, your eyes glassy, your head spinning with how cockdrunk you were, “don’t you fuckin’ dare, Cho.”
He’s so dumbified it takes him several moments to register the implications of your words.
“I-inside?” He’s stuttering, trembling.
“Inside.”
And then he breaks, and you break around him. He’s releasing so much of his thick, gooey cum inside you that it swells in your tummy, bloating your core. He watches as you squirt and spray and spasm around his base, fresh waves of wetness soaking the expanse of skin between you both. His hips keep snapping up with each peak of your orgasm, fucking his seed deeper and deeper, fucking himself so hard into your body until it feels like you can taste him in your throat.
Neither of you say a word, both of you transfixed on the way that the other feels. You were so stuffed that his cum began to leak out of you, slowly falling and pooling at the base of his cock.
“You… you are so divine,” he whispers, his hips still lightly rutting inside you, catching the last waves of your peaks, as he kisses along the base of your jaw.
You can’t speak, your throat felt too hoarse, you were too too dazed, too fucked-out. But you nudge your nose against his, your lashes fluttering against his clammy skin.
Gently, he lifts you from his cock. He watches as you slowly release his dick, before a gush of his seed spills from your swollen pussylips.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, his thumb immediately catching the gobs of his oozing seed.
Without a word, you catch his careful fingers, and he watches in fading confusion as you push his thumb back inside you, bringing his cum along with him.
“No waste,” you whisper.
Oh.
And after some recuperation time, you both stand and begin to dress in silence. Something tender hangs heavy in the heady air of the IT room, but Choso can’t help but feel the pricks of anxiety blooming in his chest with every passing second.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he asks for your number.
And your swollen lips break out into the prettiest smile, your eyes twinkling up at him.
“I’ll think on it…” you tease. He grins, his hands find your waist to pull you closer to him.
“What do I gotta do to earn it this time?”
You tap your chin in mock thought, your smile light and warm. “Come get dinner with me tonight.”
And for you? He would do anything.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ “₊ ݁.
Several weeks have passed, and Choso’s morning genuinely could not have gone better.
Not only did his 6AM alarm go off, but you had slept over last night (and yes, falling asleep cuddling with his dick inside you did contribute to both of your fantastic moods). His morning routine was now a mixture of staring at your pretty face whilst in peaceful slumber, going through a 6-step skincare routine (courtesy of you), and picking up Toji’s overpriced top-line coffee for two.
Though the train from his neighborhood to Chiyoda City was packed full today, he did not mind. It gave him more of an excuse to huddle closer to you, hands brushing together, one of his earbuds in your ear (the other in his) as your joint playlist hummed in the background. Your chest was lightly pressed against his, two wild hearts beating to the same, familiar tune.
And of course, the cherry on top was that it was a Friday. The two of you had agreed that it would finally be okay to get breakfast together today, and maybe even sit and eat at a window table afterwards.
And Choso? Choso was the happiest he has ever felt. Largely due to you. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny part due to the fact he got to see Gojo’s ridiculously large mouth fall to the floor at the sight of you and Choso walking in together today.
Synopsis. First time fitting all of him = first time losing his mind.
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, they’re PACKING, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, p talking, p slápping, use of “my wife”, dúmbifícation, BÚLGES, jealousy (Ino), BRÉEDING, true form Sukuna, dp, Shiu cameo, spítting, GOJO’S POWERS, D analysis, chóking, exhíbitíonism (Higuruma), cúmplay, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. Tony Claus is here with a biiiig gift for y’all hehehe <3
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 8.96 inches
“T-Toooji- why the hell are you s-so big?” And oh, he can’t help but snicker at how you can barely even speak, barely do anything but thrash your quivering legs against the coiling springs of the mattress.
“Yeah yeah, tell me something I don’t know, doll.” Toji’s rolling his half-lidded eyes, swollen hilt plummeting down to French kiss his fat, mushroomy tip with a sappy thwack! at your teary slit. “Besides, m’barely even heh- an inch in.”
Barely even an inch.
Toji can feel his parched mouth just lather in greedy saliva at the oh-so-cute shock slipping its way onto your pretty features. “An i-inch…Toji will it even-”
“Silly girl, ‘course it will.” You’re gasping when one big, beefy arm claws around your boneless thighs to drag you halfway down the bed. Streaking a wet swab down your achy folds - oh, the sheer size difference was so vulgar. It makes him grin, “Because m’gonna make it fit, duh.”
Oh.
That wasn’t a promise - it was uttered like an oh-so-simple fact.
Well, your melty mind supposes, that is what you get for stubbornly claiming that you could “take it all”. Begging.
Over and over for days until your dear Toji had finally snapped. Had finally manhandled your poor self into the meanest of mating presses, giving your sloppy hole a mere savoring taste of the fat circumference of his syrupy pink tip-
“Oi.” Toji’s planting two swats onto the deliriously lolling side of your face. “Better not be f-fucked stupid already after all that talkin’ outta ya slutty pussy, ma.”
Hypnotized head nuzzling the sweat-slicked crook of his neck, your sloppy tongue garbles out a barely-coherent, “I-I’m not- I swear. It’s j-just…”
“J-j-just what?” Toji’s rumbling baritone hitches up into a dramatic high pitch, rounded curvature of his knees opening your trembly thighs up even further.
“Just…”
Only to rummage a good few inches of length past your saccharinely glossy hole. Perfectly left-leaning curve of his shaft swiping down your tender spots and fucking you spellbound. Snickering, “Honestly, just loooove complainin’, don’tcha? Why don’t you ah- beg f’me, instead?”
But you can’t - couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Because Toji was big, to say the least.
Girthy, merciless near-nine inches of him glazed a dripping gloss of precum. And it looked like it pained him to pull out. It pained him to slip and slide a sandwiching kiss of his soft, coral pink underside between your saturated lips. Back and forth back and forth back and-
“C’mon c’mon–” he’s hissing, dark brows knitting together tight. And the way you’re pushing away his sweat-streaked strands of black makes Toji shudder. “Yer my good girl, right? G-gonna take it all like a fucking champ, aren’tcha?”
“I-I will?” You mewl, eyes nervously straying to the way he looked so comically staggering twitching between your legs. Impatient. Red and angry. It made you starved. “I will.”
And oh, Toji would make sure of that.
Making sheer white cloud your vision when he’s letting go of his hefty crownhead to thud! across your quivering hole. Before his toned hips drivel in tiny little gyrations to pump you so full - Toji’s bloated cockhead spearheading you open so solidly. And the stretch-
The stretch.
The globular ends of his shaft mazes between your gluey walls to push you tautly to your limits. His sobbing divot buttering up every forbidden nook and cranny inside you with sappy splotches of pre - you felt so heavy with him halfway inside.
“Ah ahh- Toji– you’re in s-so d-deep-” You’re mindlessly rovering your fingers over to feel for that fattened, cylindrical outline of his nudging further and further up your gummy orifice. Big, pearly tears bead at your eyes and make him grin. “Can feel you right h-here. Dunno if I can take m-”
But in the blink of an eye, your slackened maw is being flooded with such stringy wads of spit. Streaming in a slicked mess from Toji’s curled lips before spattering onto your tastebuds. “If ya can t-take this, then you can take all of me, doll.”
Shrieking at the plummy twitch of his split cockhead swashing another wad of ribbony pre. “R-really?”
“Mhmm, Toji’s always hgh- right.” The fat curves of his fingers smush your mouth closed. To swallow. He swipes away a few speckles at the corner of your pretty mouth, pecking an innocent smooch against your lips to wipe those excess remnants cleanly off. “H…heh- good girl. Now get ready for hah- Toji’s biiig stretch.”
Leisurely swiping down one set of his fingerpads to scissor your puffy pussy lips further and further open. Herculean hips rolling to make you gulp down more more more-
“S-See? Didn’t I hah- say this cute cunt could ngh- take me?” Toji can’t help but crush your pliant body with the weight of his muscular thighs, heaving - practically plastering his sculpted front into yours. “Take this fuckin’ cock- the one you said was too big.”
God, he thinks he could almost laugh - fucking giggle like he was air-headed at how pretty you looked underneath him like this .
Your pupils practically heart-shaped and crossing with every jackhammering roll of his hips, tongue lolling out in a way that makes him spit all over again.
“Mhm- just one more fuckin’ inch now, ma.” Well, more like three - but Toji had the feeling you were too cockdrunk to tell the difference, anyway. And with a sodden slap! against your perked clit, he’s curling a calloused few digits around your throat. “Better take it all now.”
Dragging you - biceps flexing when he manhandles you from your throat to push you down millimeter by millimeter, suck him snugly down your elastic walls. And you didn’t know whether you were lightheaded because of that choking restraint or because of the stretch-
But then…
“Oh- Oh?” And something in Toji’s tone makes you blink your thoroughly glassy gaze to rationality. “Fuck- wait-” Toji gasps, he heaves. Willowy eyes bulging, snarling when he feels his ears pop! “Wait, don’t tell me- m’really…really…”
He was.
Now, Toji never claimed to be an optimist - he never said he was a miracle-worker but fuck- was this real? You were really, really milking all of him? This was what it felt like being buried balls-deep inside you?
God, he could die right now between your legs and still be a happy man.
Because he feels like his entire body has been zapped with a zillion bolts of electricity - like he’s in heaven. Stemming all the way from the lustrous little thwack! of his pulpy tip against your spongy cervix.
“Are- are you all the way inside?” You’re sobbing out, whines clawing at your throat with every smooth whack of Toji’s fattened cock into your goopy depths.
“I…” And Toji wants to answer - he wants to not look like a wordless fool in front of you but he can’t right about now. Scarred lips falling parted, he can barely even breathe right about now. Sharp jaw slacking open into a sexily husky laugh, “Yes. Hah! Atta girl, there we g-go. Knew my girl could ngh- do it.”
“Too big” his ass.
In the lazy blink of your weepy eyes, Toji has the two of your sweat-simmered bodies flipped over. Your own glued to his toned front, nails clawing at his bulging deltoids, head drooping between his cushiony pecs.
Bubbles of spit and pure whines flood your mouth when the massive mountains of Toji’s palms sift underneath your thighs to help you ride. Starting off slow - stumbling - presenting you with languid, tumbling thrusts that shape your fleshy insides to every ridge and curve of his cock.
Roughened digits pushing you down. Even more.
“Now…here comes the fun part tha’s gonna end up with you heh- pregnant, ma.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - 10.25 inches
“Am I…am I really that big?”
If this was anyone other than your dear Nanami you’d have huffed at that subtle brag of a question - but Nanami wasn’t bragging. And he wasn’t aware of just how much that simply sopping slide of his blushing shaft into your gooey depths was splitting you apart.
“Y-yes–” you’re mewling out, tangling your fingers with his thick ones to trek them all over your stuffed lower tummy. And Nanami gasps at the bloated nudge of his fat tip against your buttery walls. The outline. That you can feel from the outside. The curvature of his greedy thumb smearing down the mushy rounded edges tenderly. “S’like m’gonna hngh- break.”
Stern lips puckering up to kiss away the pearly tears that lather your fluttery lashes, he’s rumbling from the back of his throat. “Shhh…if you c-can’t, my love, then we can always-”
“Noooo-” God, Nanami loved to see that smack mouth of yours wobble with a few breaking whines, falling into a soft oh! when your squirmy hips shuffle a ravenous few gulps of more and more of his inches. “Want it- want it all.”
“Are you sure, darling? M’only halfway in right now.”
Nodding - nodding and nodding because you’ve never wanted anything more. A simpering trailway of drool sloshes from the slackened corner of your mouth when he’s slapping his weepy cockhead in two nice slaps into your extra sweet orifices.
He was long and thick - unfairly so. Equipped with heavy breeder balls that thump! thump! thumped against your thighs in the same needy rhythm as your heartbeat. Messy. The tannish blushing divot on his mushroomy tip barely even having to try to sugarcoat your goopy depths with a sweltering hot few splotches of creamy pre-
“Then…” Nanami’s wrenching you out of your cockdrunk little daydreams, and you’re faced with his utterly loving gaze. “You can hah- hold my hand- squeeze it if it gets too…much, my love.”
As if you ever would tap out.
Because the stretch was so addictive.
Every single one of his shuddering drives making your dewy eyes sprint all the way hidden at the back of your lids. The exact degree of his arch having you let off a few keens, legs thrashing with the depraved kiss of his sappy cockhead against your g-spot.
“Hey hey-” Nanami’s slanting his mouth over the rivulets upon rivulets of cold sweat beading at your forehead. And in turn you desperately crane upwards to kiss his plush pecs. “Remember what we talked about hngh- before?”
“Y-yes. Simple breathing techniques ah-” you’re crying out as he sneaks in a good swab down your slippery walls. “S’best to oh! Take slow, d-deep…long breaths to relax.”
Nanami chuckles out at your whiny little emphasis, every slow breath of yours helping his dexterous fingers guide that hooked bend of his knotted cock to bump into your treasured spots. Deeper. “Mhmm– good girl, relax. What else?”
“A-and- focus on one part of your ah- body t-to-” You can feel your weepy cunt pulse – thoroughly full and just about all that you could focus on. Inch by fucking inch disappearing. “-to boost awareness and…relax.”
Yeah, certainly enough for Nanami to tut when your glutinous pussylips tack on even tighter around him to halt his merciless pathway.
“Hate to see ya strugglin’, darling. Hold on t-tight-” Nanami’s blond brows simmer with a fresh sheen of perspiration at the tiny resistance. Strong arms dredging your useless legs up onto his broad shoulders. Indenting circular bruises with just how hard your heels were digging in. But oh, he doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a shit if it hurt - instead, planting a sweet few pecks at your ankles. “Because s’a bit of a biiiig stretch.”
He’s hiking one athletic thigh up even higher, adonis-like muscles flexing when Nanami arches his back and bends you easily in half.
Sweetly toying a few circular brushes of his fat thumb against your neglected clit. You’re at the utter mercy of the deepening angle walloping his crownhead into your spongy cervix. Dragging his wet tip in a saccharine few ribbons of velvety pre, you’re being absolutely flooded with the sheer size of him. With all of him-
“I-is it all in?” You’re sobbing out, only for Nanami to stray his hypnotized eyes accordingly downwards and gasp.
“S’all in- ohhhh s’all in- my perfect, perfect girl.” Nanami’s regal nose crinkles with sheer bliss, condensely fogged-up glasses leering further and further down his nosebridge. “N’ s’like y-you’re gonna be hngh- split apart, darling.”
And it felt like it.
Like Nanami was trying to mold your rubbery cunt into the exact shape of him, sticky kisses of his tight balls making you shy. To make sure with every bruising circumference of his overfed tip that you won’t forget him. Forget his size.
“G-gonna hafta get this pretty pussy hngh- used ta me.” He’s tilting his head down at that addictive image of your slurping pussy greedily sucking up every drilling jackhammer, every gyration, every grind just to watch the way your eyes bulge when he’s probing deeply into your cervix. “Jus’ hafta hngh- fuck her to the sh-shape of my cock oh!”
Every clingy squeeze of your gluey walls felt like you were doing that exact thing, and Nanami can’t help but let his toned hips poke languidly into your slicked g-spot. Sloshing a few tender dabs when he’s latching his mouth around your ankles to bite. To worship.
And it makes you sob. It makes you moan. It makes you cum - gasping in surprise at the sudden crash of your high, legs locking around Nanami’s thick neck.
You’re feeling limp - your eyes half-shuttering to a close at the flurries of stars in your vision. Barely even able to breathe let alone register the simpering smile plastering all over Nanami’s face when he locks your ankles behind his head with one ravenous hand.
Still moving. Still aching.
“My love…” He’s starting off. Low. Promising. You’re being gifted with a slow, slow filth of a kiss, still having his pretty lips sucking on your tongue when he hums. “Don’t think I’ve molded you ta my ngh- cock jus’ yet.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - 9.54 inches
It’s been hours now - hours.
Hours of Geto cracking open your trembly legs to mouth over that glossy wetness between them, making out with your slobbery pussy for ages until you were still dizzy with the slow tangle of his soft tongue against your treacly clit.
Still feeling the aftershocks of your nth orgasm when he’s flooding out a few viscous spurts of cum that slop between your pursed pussy lips. Gleaming sultry little lip-stain that he’s oh-so-unashamedly swabbing along a few fingers.
“Hmmm, now this won’t do–” Geto’s popping those slender digits into his mean mouth, snickering at the awe-struck little gasp you’re letting off. “Ain’tcha embarrassed to be th-this fucked n’ I’ve only put the tip in, gorgeous?”
He was so unfair.
Dark brows marrying together sexily when he’s spending a sloppy few seconds pretending to think, “Whaddaya think? Can you ah- take me even when you’re being this full?”
And full you were - being teased over and over again. Fucked with only the hefty, globular curve of his pretty, pierced cockhead until your poor pussy was frosted with a thick, creamy lather of Geto’s seed. Trickling between your legs and splotching over where you were hovering over his muscular thighs, bouncing with your precarious seated position.
Huffing, one hand of yours grapples onto the mountainous terrain of Geto’s sculpted deltoid. The other curling around his pale, sweat-slicked throat in a way that made him drool. “Been w-wantin’ all of ya you, all this ngh time, Sugu–”
SMACK!
“Speakin’ out of turn is rude, y’know?” Geto soothes over the swatted imprints of his fingers on your ass. Before rovering down, down, down, to dredge out the most sinful slurps when he slides one greedy index over your sodden slit. “Right? N’ we were havin’ such a ngh- good conversation.”
That cold studded Prince Albert on Geto’s blushing mushroom tip skims between your pussyflaps, feeding you inch by fucking inch until he stopped just past the tip. As usual.
“Hmmm, what’s this?” Pointedly ignoring your broken little whines in favor of guiding his trekking fat crown to bump that metallic piercing against your gooey sweet spots. To bruise. “Ya want more? Heh, so filthy how ya think ngh- more with this pussy than that pretty lil’ head of yours, gorgeous.”
“You’re the filthy one, Suguru–” you’re whimpering, fingers digging even tighter around his throat at the rude smirk on his pretty face. And you can’t stop yourself - you can’t help yourself - when your hips shiftily sink deeper. And deeper.
“W-woah-” Geto’s puffy breaths hiccup, before clearing his throat into one stray hand. “I-I mean- fuck! Can see it from the outside.”
Indeed, he could.
You were so fucking pretty sat upon him like this, with your slobbery pussy weaving out squelching rivulets of cum. Your chest heaving in a way that makes Geto’s mouth water, his eyes locked on that lecherous little bulge where he was scouring a pathway to your very womb.
He’s giggling - delirious and drunk. “What a cute lil’ pussy- s-sooo fuckin’ tight. Feels like m’gonna break ya…h-heh.”
And it’s only when you stutter, when our drizzling jaw shudders open with a cracking Sugu– that he lets his eyes rip away. His hips jutting upwards with a pressurized push-
“Awww, my gorgeous girl struggling to take this hah- big cock? Wanna take it all but you can’t?” With a rough hand latched onto your waist, Geto fucks up into you so tauntingly, rigorous little pushes and pulls that pump you spellbound. And he’s viciously thumping open your sappy pussylips, mouth drying up at the sight of those silvery sploshes of cum. “Y’know m’not gonna fit if ya don’t relax, girl.”
“I-I am relaxing-” you’re bawling out, head lolling backwards at the utter stretch. It was ridiculous, and your blood curdles with just how good it felt.
Because Geto was so thick. Girth more intimidating than any toy you’ve ever even seen, such a pretty blushing beige. Pricked with one chilling silvery stud at his tip and then another at his bulky hilt, right after the ends of his neat happy trail - one that you oh-so-desperately wanted to reach.
“Liar.” He’s snapping - snarling.
Making you flinch at the lurch of something dark and hot swimming in Geto’s half-lidded eyes. Long, dark lashes batting innocently up at you when he’s lacing two sets of readied fingers on top of your sweat-dampened head and pushing. “W-wait, Sugu what are you-”
“This pussy is s-soo much more ah- honest…aren’tcha?” And it takes only one more final rapid swat at your gloopy cunt, one wet strike of Geto’s round-tipped fingers before he’s bulldozing you downwards. “Hm, bite on this.”
He’s presenting you his toned arm - mercy.
Your teeth mindlessly clamping onto his awaiting forearm, gurgles of moans and screams concocting together as your hips buck- Losing your nervous footing to finally plant a pretty peck of your glossed pussy lips against his toned base, to finally have his orbed piercing nudge your throbbing clit.
And he was big - so, so big that you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe at the sodden stripes of his pulpy cockhead etched into what felt like your lungs.
With a soggy pah! you’re letting his arm go, kissing over the sunken indents of your teeth across his flesh.
“O-oh-” Moans upon moans are tumbling out of your mouth before you even realize, and you can’t help the way that your hips are bustling up and down in a filthy cadence. “I-It feels so…”
Alternating between the sloppiest drags up and down up and down his thickened length and lazy swivels that result in fat drags of Geto’s piercing onto the mushiest parts of your clit. He was so fucking big that your fatigued legs could barely even bounce up to his uprightly curved tip.
“Yeahhh? F-feels nice havin’ me all ngh- inside ruinin’ your cunt, huh?” Geto’s leaning his body further backwards to take in every single detail of you. One arm bounding behind his head and making his biceps flex, the other helping manhandle your needy hips. And you swear you hear his voice falter, you swear you could hear his teasing baritone crack into a whine. “Look how ah- well she’s takin’ me- don’tcha think I deserve a lil’ r-reward, gorgeous?”
Ah, of course he does.
And as soon as you’re craning your head forwards, you feel the sudden twitch of his swollen tip colliding against your cervix. Gushing in ribbony strings of pre when you pry open Geto’s pretty mouth and spit-
“Messy girl.” He’s swiping away that purposeful little splatter of translucent saliva pooling at the corner of his sappy mouth. Swallowing. “Hope ya know m’gonna be doin’ the ngh- same with my cock riiiiight…” Before trailing that very same finger up, up, up to draw an invisible line at the bullseye of your womb. “-here.”
♡ CHOSO KAMO - 8.20 inches
“Jus’ need the ah- tip, pretty baby–” Choso’s begging - pleading from his splayed-out position spooning you - and he’s fucking his fat, ruddied cockhead into you desperately. Animalistically. Like it’ll be the last time - when in fact it’s the first. Ever.
Slurring out a drawling few squelches from your overstuffed pussy, the way you’re glistening all your lustrous volumes of slick down his generous length makes Choso simply keen. Hulking body breaking out with shivers once your nails scrape against his sweat-lathered scalp.
“But I want more, Cho-” That sullen pout of yours is enough to drive him wild. To bump up at least once more of his inches out of a staggering eight past your gooey ring of muscle, molding your entrance to that girthy bend of him. “Y-you’re so fuckin’ big n’ I want it all.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Y-you shouldn’t say those ngh- things when s’my first time–” he’s scrunching his brows adorably shyly, one strong palm lifting your trembly thigh even higher to eye the teary trail of cum he’d left off just earlier from simply putting it inside. “Don’ wanna have a ngh- r-repeat of that.”
How cute.
Choso was so embarrassed that his precious pink blush was reaching all the way from his regal cheeks, down to his bustling tip. Messy and angry.
You’d heard that it was always the quiet ones - and Choso was hung to a T. The expansive swollen outline of his rock-hard cock smearing against your elastic walls in a way that felt permanent. Your poor pussy was swallowing up so many copious inches again and again and it felt like Choso always had more to give.
His long length guides a sultry bash against your puffy g-spot, spearheading your gluey walls to mold around his size like butter. Swirling such voluminous heaps of cum that layer him in creamy rings.
“M’being serious, baby-” you’re purring, silken sweet tone of your voice making Choso gasp. Handsome cheeks burning bright red when he’d faced your greedy gaze over one shoulder. “I-it feels so good ngh- you’re in so deep.”
Choso’s coral pink lip wobbles delicately, face flushing your favorite shade of red. “M-me? Don’t even know how to hngh! use it…r-really? Me? But m’just a virgin-”
“Was a virgin, baby-” You’re correcting him, deft fingers nimbling through his soft locks to pull. And it’s enough to make Choso rut- enough to make his reddening hips shovel even harder. “N’ no need to be so shy. You’re so big you might’ve ngh- jus’ ruined everyone f’me.”
And oh.
Choso can feel his mind shatter, powerful hips working overtime to plunge another sappy stroke that thuds against your g-spot. Deeper. And deeper. You’re half-wondering whether he even realized that he was way, way past “just the tip” now.
Nah…definitely too pussydrunk to.
He’s sucking on your kiss-bitten lips like his favorite sugar-coated candy, whimpering out. “G-good. Don’ want you f-for ngh- anyone else.” And you swear you’re catching his doe-eyes dew over with a veil of tears. “Want you to be mine.”
Grinning - cockdrunk, heart-eyed. “Already am.”
And that extended to that greedy cunt of yours.
Of course, it did. Why wouldn’t it?
Choso’s on the very verge of sobbing to himself about why he didn’t do this much, much sooner when his dextrous palms smear open the drool-worthy globes of your ass to sneak a long, mouthwatering eyeful of your stuffed pussy.
He’s so filthy. So urgent skimming two fat thumbs over to spy the way his fattened cock was disappearing between your soppy pussy lips. Fat and heavy, bullying in solid squeezed into your comparatively tiny opening.
And the sight makes him grunt, “S-such a pretty pussy. Could fuckin’ worship her heheh. I hope you don’t ngh- mind, baby, if I…”
Oh, and you didn’t mind.
Didn’t have a mind coherent enough to think at all when Choso has to scissor your slick-flooded hole open with his thorough digits to be able to fit in the rest of his raw length. Saturated, solid ruts pushing past your tiny resistance - your poor entrance being stretched further and further with his circumference.
He has to - he needs to because the stretch was so cozily tight. So sinful. Rubbing his ridged veins down the treacly sides of yours walls, you’re being stuffed to the brim.
His spattering seed glomping out of you and creating such a fucking mess. Helping Choso slip and slide his thighs to engulf your own.
“Pretty pussy…ohhh what a pretty pussy.” He’s hissing to himself - slurring like an intoxicating mantra. Your honeyed squelches were so loud, answering him practically. “Baby, I want you…need you. Need you to take it allll up inside, m’kay?”
And you can only manage out a stream of dripping wet gasps puffing hotly from between your candied lips, shivering at the honeyed drip of his thick crownhead mussing up the sploshes of cum seated inside you. “G-gonna take it- ah-don’t miss, Choso–”
“I’d never.” But the one thing he might do is be rendered utterly stupid when that cylindrical shaft of his plunges impossibly deep into your gooey orifice. As deep as it would go. As deep as he could give.
And you swear that Choso stops breathing for a full few seconds once he first bottoms out. Still regaining the blurring vision in your gaze with how you felt fit to burst, you’re opening your mouth with slight concern-
“Th-this…feels so heavenly- fuck! Why does it feel so heavenly?” Choso sounds so genuinely awestruck. Scared. Words dripping with the slight tremble of an exhilarated giggle when his sopping tip curves its way to thud! against your cervix. “I- woah th-this doesn’t feel like my fist at all.”
And every slight bit of recoil makes Choso tut, makes him plant pound after pound onto your battered cunt until you see stars. He was fucking you like he hated you - and babbling pussydrunkenly like he loved you.
You’re mewling through bliss-lathered tears, “D-does it feel good, baby?”
Oh, Choso really did love you.
“I…I’m fucking you-” he’s breathing out. “I-I’m really fucking you and…”At your encouraging little coos, Choso only swelters with a wafting red blush. Buttony divot at the very ends of his achy cock twitching with a promising squeeze of his hefty, full balls. “...can we hold hands as I cum?”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 13.3 inches
Nice - the cursed king of curses said he was going to be nice. But if this was his way of being “nice” then you didn’t-
“Tch, that pretty lil’ head of yours scrambled already, brat?” That gruff, rumbling little scolding from underneath you makes you jolt, winding sparks of electricity sprinting down your perfectly arched spine when Sukuna’s punishing your brimful cunt with a sloppy smack!
Such a sleazy grin overtaking his sexy features at the stunned expression on your face, he’s bouncing his adonis-like knees to jostle your greedy hips up and down up and down up and-
“Can’t ngh- talk now, huh?” Sukuna’s tittering out, a few more numerous swats upon swats being pounded upon your bulging cunt. And the syrupy squelch! emanating from down below is enough to make him groan. Brows knitting, teeth sharp when he grins. “Honestly, woman- aren’tcha used to that stretch by now?”
Fuck- it would be impossible to get used to such a ridiculous size.
Sukuna’s towering height of seven feet translating into matching cocks that make you gape, your drunken maw parting stupidly open when his twin swollen lengths plunge up into your goopy depths. Reckless. Rude. Your felt like he was fucking open sweet nooks and crannies that you never even knew existed.
That vulgar size difference was everything.
Because he was so girthy - wisps of precum slathering like torrents against your clingy walls. Tautly pulled over thick thirteen inches - and not just one, two of them - that were making you whine-
“B-but-”
“Ah ah-” Sukuna’s cutting you off, sugary tips pecking a hollowing little smooch of his candy-coated pre against that spot in a way that makes you shut up. “Can’t forget our manners now hngh- can we? Raise yer hand when ya talk to the king.”
And it was a joke…partially. It was something to make your beautiful features scrunch up in that adorable pout of yours - not something to make you wrench one trembly hand upwards and listen to him.
“S-s’not my fault-” you’re huffing out, your wondrous hands roaming all down those sinful curves and dips of Sukuna’s muscles thereafter. Resting on their favorite place at the fleshy mounds of his pecs to squeeze. “You’re just so big.”
Rolling his eyes, you’re being angled so that his oversized second tongue can press a dripping smooch against your plump clit.
“Compliments aren’t gonna g-get me to be any hngh- nicer, mama- C’mon you know that.” And he’s sure to make it so that you never forget if the merciless few more thwack! of his five fat fingerpads down your teary slit were to say anything. “M’already bein’ nice letting you ride me.”
And ah, he’d never admit how pretty you looked like this.
With your sappy cunt stretched wiiiide open over his bumpy cocks, your entire body lathered in sweat and sheer need when he’s sinking in a few more bulky inches. Puffing your pussy lips up until you were about halfway down his raw, red cocks.
“But ah…yer right about one thing.” Sukuna titters and the flurries of emotions that overtake your absolutely fucked-out face. Head lolling to the side when you’re trying to remember what you even said. Cute. “Lemme heh- jog that memory o’ yours, brat.”
And it was such a blessing - or a curse - that Sukuna had four arms. Four massive, strong arms that were busying themselves with driving you wild.
Two of them caressing the sultry curve of your hips, manhandling you up and down all his copious inches with all the dignity of a ragdoll. A third clawing on top of your cottony-filled head and forcing you to look- to spy where his fourth hand was.
Sharp, blackened nail of his burly index tapping those ringed tattoos at his inner thighs. “See these?” Doesn’t matter if you didn’t because Sukuna was making your cockdrunk head motion out a nod for him anyway. “Well- then see these?”
Oh, you had to crane your head - you had to stop your condensed gasp from dripping out of your mouth when he’s swiping his fingers across those matching black rings tattooed around the very hefty hilts of his cocks.
Neat. Stark against unruly tufts of pink. Lacquered with a glistening layer of your sweet, sweet juices.
“Gotta take it ah- allll the way until there, got it?” Sukuna muses, plummy split-ends of his shafts pummeling even harder against the gumdrop sponge of your walls. Very same finger drawling lazily up, up, up until he was drawing a smug line across way past the middle of your tummy. “So get r-ready for a biiiig stretch, mama.”
And it wasn’t just the stretch - not even the double stretch - triple. Triple the invasive rummages inside your snug channel when Sukuna’s swirling his large secondary tongue to lap up every sliver and every bead of slick slobbering from your cunt.
Sloshing a gleaming trailway down the very middle of his rosette tastebuds so lewdly when Sukuna grits against the resistance, hips pushing and pushing-
“Ah- ah!” Your hips are like a pendulum still deciding between swallowing up more more more and running away. “I-I don’t think it’ll ngh- dunno if I can t-take any…”
“Nuh uh, no running away.” Sukuna’s greedy hands devour every naked inch of you to stuff you full, tongue working overtime to push open that elastic entrance to your pretty cunt. He knew you could finally take it all. He knew. And he was going to do it. “Made yer bed- now- lie- in it-”
There’s a deafening pap! of your body glissading into his when with a final, determined thrust, Sukuna’s bottoming out. Your pussy lips smooching both his sexy circular tattoos with their first-ever kiss. For the first time in a thousand years. For the first time in his life-
This is what it feels like - this is what it looks like.
You were so stuffed past the brim that you could feel your pressurized ears pop! White-hot pleasure flashing behind your lids when your mouth opens with a raw shrill.
“So? S’it feel good bein’ all ruined inside?” He’s tittering - choking on rude little whimpers threatening to spill from his even ruder lips.
“Yes- please it f-feels so…”
And then you’re cumming.
“Oh? Cummin’ already just from taking that cock you said was hngh- t-toooo fuckin’ big?” He leaves a few ravenous bites over the tender crook of your neck. “What a heh- slutty cunt o’ mine.”
Sukuna’s realizing before you when his hips rut upwards into the tight fit to pound you through your high, over and over slapping his heavy cockheads against every tiny geyser of an orifice. Until you felt like you were about to burst-
“O-ohhh look at that gorgeous ngh- bulge.” Sukuna’s voice bleeds its way into a whimper - whimper. And if any other curse saw that heart-eyed filter in his gaze, the way his smile grows simpering, then they’d faint. “Almost makes me think of something…else.”
You, all round and glowing - and not just from the thorough rummage of his dual shafts messing up your poor insides. Outlined with thick cylindrical bumps forming their way at your precious womb.
The sight is enough to make Sukuna’s heavy-handed cockheads glaze your mushy cervix with a few ribbony spurts of pre. Flooding. Overspilling. Enough do that he’s digging in a thumb hard to feel for the soppingly wet thwack! of those volumes of velveteen splatters.
Murmuring, “Y’know…how do ya feel about the curses getting an ah- new heir, brat? And their very own queen.”
♡ INO TAKUMA - 7.64 inches
“Shhhh, jus’ an inch more- only an i-inch, pretty.” Ino’s heaving, his plummy, split-ended cockhead gushing out a lazy few rivulets of syrupy pre down your sappy slit. “I know that you can do it…take s’more f’me?”
“I-I want to-” you’re gasping out, legs wrangling an even tighter grip around the slender curve of your beloved boyfriend’s toned hips. Mashing his ridged washboard abs against the sensitive backs of your thighs, “But I don’t know if it’ll fit…”
You say that but you can already feel the way your elastic cunt was constricting and molding to the exact sinful curvature of Ino’s swollen cock. Wanting more more more-
But how could you not?
He was so unfairly pretty - fat, burling inches that rummaged your insides with a sugary layer of sloshing precum. It’s like his plump tip was bawling with every smack! down your puckering pussylips, reddening with an innocent flush that matched his cute cheeks.
“I want it- no, need it to ah- g-go all the way inside-” Ino’s panting begs stumble into your deliriously open maw, the slick gyrations of his tongue tasting you. Savoring. Ringed fingers splayed out and pressing down hard onto the heaving surface of your tummy. “-need everyone t-to know how I’ve ngh- ruined ya for them.”
It’d only taken one sneaking glance at the way some loser at your work was a little too close, a little too…flirty. Simply one spark of that green-eyed monster inside him for Ino to all but drag you home and bend you into such a mean mating press.
His pummeling hips even meaner. Babbling with every dousing swab of his fattened cockhead probing into your goopy depths. Pushing and pushing. “W-wanna be good f’you, y’know? Wanna be…yours.”
“Ngh- s-sweet-talker-” You’re spitting out, heart lurching oh-so-traitorously at the little blush dusting its merry way all over Ino’s handsome cheeks. He’s ready to burst into flames when you’re hiccuping, “Fuck me, baby- with all of you.”
Those words are barely out of your mouth - the thought barely even registering in Ino’s fuzzy scribble of a brain right now before he’s tugging his hips back a sodden inch and sinking in.
“Mhmmm- don’t worry, pretty-” Ino’s gruffing, scorching beads of sweat forming a dotty mosaic over his blissed-out features. “-Taku’s gonna make it fit- h-heh, yeahhhh m’gonna make it ngh- fit-” So snug that he can’t pound into the way he wants you. Huffing at the resistance, he’s latching onto your peaked clit with a pointed pinch. “-or m’gonna die trying hah.”
A promise - well and fully intended to be made true.
Abs flexing with every tight little grind that whacks against your sweetened spots, short. Punctuating. Harder and harder until you’re hearing a watery pap! and Ino’s finally - finally - driving you overwhelmingly full with the ruthless dab of his angry, peach-pink shaft impaling open your deepest insides.
“O-oh.” Ino’s breathing out, chestnut eyes bulging out almost comically at the sloppy trawl of his rock-hard cock in and out. “It fit- it…it actually fit. Mhm- s’that too big for ya, pretty?”
And Ino loved your smart mouth - he loved whatever honeyed syllable would drivel from your pretty lips. But seeing you like this - gasping, and fucked oh-so-dumb on his cock - Ino thinks that he could cum right here and now.
“R-right now?” Your breath hitches, chest heaving to steady your gulping inhales. Impossible with the way that his girthy, rotund cockhead was skimming against what felt like your lungs.
But oh, you weren’t the only one with your sanity dancing away from you with every plunging jackhammer. Ino looked so ruined - his pretty eyes doeing down till they were almost closed, drizzles upon drizzles of drool flooding out and slicking down his mouth, hanging pathetically open when he’s realizing-
Shit, did he say that out loud?
Oh, well.
“And so wh-what?” Ino’s huffing out - meant to be much more smug than the pouty whine it actually came out as. Lower lip wobbling out in a watery way, “Wanna fill ya u-up until yer overspilling, sweetness- until I can’t hahah- fit again.”
He’s making such a sappy mess down there as if already fulfilling those promises. One clammily prespired hand latching around your throat to crane your neck into a tender kiss.
“Wanna fuck a b-baby into ya- ngh- fuck ya until they know I did it-” He’s snarling - alabaster canines beared in a giggle. “Till they s-see you all ah- round and glowing and see me me me me- that coworker’s gonna know that I-I did that. That I fucked you s-so full.”
Heavy thighs planting flat onto the cushiony mattress, and from the woozy corner of your eye you’re spotting a few bedcoils spring brokenly upwards. “Gonna gimme that, aren’tcha?” He’s breathing. Begging. Eyes fuzzy with a heavy clingfilm of utter loving that he was bestowing upon you with every pap! pap! pap! “Make me a dad, mama?”
Ah, just as you do - Ino plants a gliding thwack! against your g-spot so hard that it makes your eyes criss-cross with utter pleasure. Tumbling into your orgasm headfirst and dragging your dear Ino with it, too.
Each peaked crevice of your high being followed by the wettest slap of his lathering cum into your most tenderized spots, fucking his seed into you so viciously that you feel bloated. Eyes drooping fatiguely, your nails dragging red, red patterns down his rigorously flexing back.
It was heaven.
You can’t think of anything but the slow puddle of viscous seed dribbling from between your slippery slit, nothing but how full you felt. Barely even noticing the creaking protests of the bedframe that was suspiciously sagging from one end.
Broken.
And when Ino’s blinking his vision back - letting his mouth drool at the sloppy slosh of his ribbony sap clinging around him like a second skin - the only thing he can utter is a low, “S-so…I don’t think we’ve ngh- made our son just yet.”
♡ GOJO SATORU - 11.01 inches
“Aw c’mooon, my girl. Too big- s’too big, riiight?” Fuck- it was. And Gojo already knew with every cocky snicker that wafted over the back of your neck like an oven. He’s plumping his lips down your spine in a sleazy kiss. “Jus’ admit it n’ I might play…nice.”
As if.
The strongest would never play nice when he had you like this.
When he had his fat, strawberry pink tip French kissing your gluey walls so open. Bumping up against your precious insides to indent every ridge and curvaceous vein against your overstuffed pussy - so staggeringly full. But he still wasn’t done. Barely.
So ridiculously long and pretty - a size to match up that mean ego of his. Eleven inches? He didn’t even have to try to drive you insane.
Gojo was flushed the most candied palettes of pink and red, all the way up to his thickened base. Slender fingers curling dexterously around the white tufted hilt to slowly empty out thick drags of buttery pre just past your throbbing g-spot. “Unless ya want-” Inching ever-so-sinfully closer. “-more?”
It was just a little tease - really, it was. Something to make your cute pout jut out, and your gooey insides clench.
But what Gojo didn’t expect was for thick, viscous droplets of saliva to splatter from between your lips at the sheer mind-numbing stretch. Babbling out into the spit-lathered mess of a pillow. “I- I want- ngh- Toru…”
“Yes yes, your dear Toru is hah- here.” And shit, he can’t help but saddle a strong forearm around your neck to hoist your lolling head upwards in a rude headlock. Making such a mess of glimmering dribble seep into the bulging bicep around your neck. You’re feeling the sappy drag of his long tongue down those puddled splatters of spittle, “Talk to me…tell me…complain about how big I am- I know you want to.”
You’re gasping when he’s leaving a pretty stinging smack! against your treacly cunt, muscular thighs shuffling against your own like a second skin. “I want…”
Every garbling syllable of your pretty voice making him twitch. Depraved. “Mhm—?”
“All of it- More.”
More?
CRASH!
Shit- maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed how the flickering yellow lamp at your bedside shatters into a zillion pieces. And how Gojo was much the same.
Slamming one dexterous free palm down onto the already-splintered headboard, you’re catching it crack underneath his vice-like clasp when Gojo hitches his breath and pushes. Wordless. Keening. Mean maw slacking parted with a low ah! ah! ah! at the sweltering hot pulse of his ever-hardening cock.
“S-Satoru did you just get-” bigger. It’s the word you can’t bring yourself to utter even if you wanted to - because Gojo’s swatting his doughy palm to entrap your whiny words.
Hiding your watery sobs when his engorged dick ravines past the adhesive-like grip of your slick-flooded entrance to perk up even harder.
Rasping, “Shhhh sh sh- Another word outta you n’ m’gonna cum.” Entire herculean body hitching - shuddering - to pin you to the velvety sheets like he was practically melting into you. You’re sandwiched into the sweaty glissade of his rugged washboard abs. Jolting at the miniscule lightnings of blue that bolt from his lazily lidded eyes, “Tell me how badly ya want the hngh- biiiig stretch, sweetheart.”
So embarrassing, “I-I want the…biiig stretch, Satoru.”
He’s humming with utter delight, “Louder- more.”
“Please.” Legs kicking in impatience, “I want it- w-want your hck! biiig stretch, Toru. Want it so bad-”
“Then, b-brace yourself…heh.”
Something’s cracking - breaking - only hours and hours later do you realize that it’s your poor mahogany bedframe underneath Gojo’s utter strength.
Knuckles whitening when one sickly sweet rut has his toned abs careening into your mounds of flesh. And that tight little bout of resistance makes him stutter out a hiss, teeth clenching. “Christ, s’fuckin’ tight- n-need more.”
You words had done such a number on him.
And Gojo wanted more - needed it. More more more-
With a sopping pap! Gojo’s sludging his hefty length out from your elastic hole, purposefully peaking his inflated veins against those treasure troves of your tender spots. Emanating out such a sinful squelch! of wiry slick-filled slurps the moment his globular crownhead is popping out of your gooey cunt.
“L-look downwards, my girl-” he’s mumbling, tongue slurring those pesky little whines into his words. And oh, Gojo himself can’t bear to spy his ravenous gaze down below because of that dangerous little high building up at his tight, nudging balls. Can’t bear to do anything but let his sapphire gaze droop half shut.
Tumbling your head down, “Toru what do you- oh!”
Gojo was so fucking needy. That mouthwateringly sculptured arm around your neck taking its second favorite position to warp around his sweltering hot cock and squeeze.
You can only watch when he’s beading out wispy little ropes of precum that gloss your pussy lips a creamy white. Connecting delicate little ropes of your sweet, sweet juices to his bawling cockhead.
It was soiling his hand ivory, his wrist, his cloudy happy trail - he was being so messy.
“Yeah- see this? Take a loooong hah- hard look, sweetheart. Yer gonna take this entire c-cock, m’kay–?” Gojo’s nuzzling his sweat-glimmered cheek down your down, stray strands of white sticking to your skin. Pumping his fist harder - harder. He’s scooping up a syrupy few dredges of sap to poke into your awe-struck mouth, “Gonna take i-it all. No matter how big- mhm?”
You’re whining when his intimidating length nestles between your thighs and pulses, the very brim of his curved tip swiping a sweltering hot drag of pre about half-way down your tummy. The size difference looked so sinful.
And you’re barely nodding - barely whimpering out a polite yes, please - before your mind shatters with the feeling of being split-apart. With every hidden nook and cranny caverning your sloppy pussy being stretched to the max.
“Yeah- yeah yeah c’mon-” Gojo’s begging. Pearly white teeth digging into his pulpy lower lip when his blushing shaft fringes down your clingy walls. “Go inside- fit- please- need ta give m-my girl everythin’.”
Needed - not wanted.
Gojo doesn’t even have to try for his left-leaning curve to locate your most coveted spots, spurting out waterfalling little geysers of slick from between your thighs with every gulping inch.
“Oh- oh mmpf!” You’re mewling when his furious divot mashes into your nearby g-spot. Easily. Too easily that you’re half-wondering whether he’s using his Six Eyes. “It’s s-shoo deep.”
You’re being jostled in a sultry dance back and forth when Gojo’s planting rummaging pound after pound just to fit inside. The slamming smack! smack! smack! of his muscular thighs imprinting against the backs of yours fucking out each and every coherent thought out of your mind.
And with absolutely no hesitation, he’s skimming numerous buzzing fingertips from one hand over to toy around your clit and pinch. Barely even realizing the startling spark of jujutsu that makes you yelp-
“Toru- wh-what did we say about…” Shrilling shrieks withering away on your tongue when- what were you complaining about again? Gojo’s incredible inches sheath their cozy way into your gummy cunt - fully. “O-oh.”
Oh was right.
Because he had finally bottomed-out. Finally. Gasping at the sudden thud! of those ladder-like abs smooching the pretty curve of your ass. The bouncing recoil of his swollen cockhead against your pulpy cervix. Gojo can’t help but run his hands over your jiggling flesh to make sure - to register that this was real.
Having your slobbery pussy wrapped around every needy inch of him? This must be a dream.
He’s struggling to catch his breath, gulps sounding high. Thumbing apart your sodden pussyflaps, Gojo’s rich baritone hitches adorably. “You- yer really m-milkin’ my entire fuckin’ cock…”
Bleary eyes snapping open and veering pathetically cross-eyed, Gojo’s snowy brows scrunch achingly together when both stumbling hands latch onto your waist and pounces a harsh thrust. Thickened, hefty balls swatting your clit heavily. Once. Twice.
And the third - barely even a swirling gyration of his slicked-up cock drilling into the spongy flesh of your cervix before he cums. Cums and cums so hard that it feels like copious orgasms upon orgasms piling all into one.
Feeling like he was bursting - just like the wreckage of generators across all twenty-three special wards in Tokyo this very second. Electricity flickering, Gojo’s eyes glowing, and you two don’t even notice the way the bed crashes! down onto the carpeted floors as if it had been hovering a slight inch.
“W-wait tha’s cheating-” he’s puffing out furiously, but he can’t stop. Luscious ounces of seed gumdropping out from his divot to laminate your poor cervix - no doubt battered and bruised at this point. A fat thumb of his caps your leaky slit with the voluminous dredges of splattering cum gushing haplessly out of you. “This is s’pposed to s-stay inside, sweetheart.”
It was too much - you were overfilled to the very brim of your glistening pussy folds.
But Gojo didn’t sound upset - not in the slightest.
No, in fact, he was smiling.
Cerulean pupils molding practically heart-eyed, a burning blush washes over those handsome cheeks and all the way down to his still-twitching, still-hard cock- “Sooooo…marry me?”
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - 8.89 inches
“S’for your own good, angel.”
“B-but, Hiromi–” Oh, you were already winning - and you knew it - you’re feeling that perky little dab of syrupy pre that butters up your insides. Just the mere sound of your voice enough to make Higuruma twitch, “I want you now.”
To make him jolt, to make him sigh.
Long, dextrous fingers of his tightening around that vice-like little restraint of his tie shackled around your neck - just the scratchy dig of that velvety fabric into your tender flesh makes you lightheaded.
“I already told ya.” Higuruma’s sighing, sleepy eyes peaking up at where your trembly figure was riding the fucking soul out of him. Or, at least, was supposed to. “Don’t want ya hah- hurtin’ yerself the first time ya take me, don’t want my girl’s pussy sore.”
But what you were aching for right now was him.
Bucking your hips in a stubborn little up and down that makes his thin lips curl, canines bared. Feral. “Fine- slutty angel.”
And you barely have the time to process his words - to process the stinging sensation of his formal office tie constricting around your throat. Before Higuruma’s dragging you down with a thorough flick of his wrist, leveraging the merciless tightrope of his tie to feed your needy cunt inch by fucking inch.
He’s not stopping when you gasp, not even when big, globular bouts of tears lather your lashes dripping wet. Only pulling you to him like some glorified sex toy-
“H-Hiromi-” your clammy palms clasp around his pale, bulging biceps to squeeze. Spine arching at the way his staggering size was opening you so deliciously.
“Mhmmm, m’here m’here. Biiig stretch, isn’t it?” Bouncing those bulky, muscular hips of his with years upon years of practice in battle. And right now you were on the receiving end of his ruthlessness, your pussy lips being smeared agape at the hefty cylindrical shaft being bullied into you. “Easy there, girl. Easy. You can take m-my ngh- big cock.”
And Higuruma barely even had to try to get you all shattered on his cock like this was. Because his cock? The absolute prize of your wettest dreams.
He was so thick and long, nearing nine inches that bumped his throbbing walls in a lewd little massage down your precious treasure trove of sweet spots. That left-leaning angle of his curvature was so droolworthy, meshing a sodden French kiss easily against the bullseye of your g-spot.
But what had you spellbound - what had you so dizzy - right now wasn’t just the stretch. No, it was that tiny, orbing little piercing studded right underneath Higuruma’s deeply indented slit.
“Hey, doin’ ah- good, angel?” The chilling patch of his metal stud wrenching out the cutest little whimpers from your heated mouth, falling further and further slack with every pretty peck. Every tiny swab of his length being overstuffed into you. “Only an inch more- juuust an i-inch more n’ I want ngh- you to milk it for me.”
“M-me?” You’re pointing at yourself, as if there was anyone else here in this heady bedroom.
“Tha’s right-” Blinking away the clingy film of lust surrounding your eyes, you’re finally noticing the air of something instinctually primal in your dear Higuruma’s ravenous gaze. So at odds with the gentle kiss placed onto your prespired forehead. “While I get some hah- work done, angel.”
Your hips tense when he’s reaching out to grab the phone that had been buzzing on the bedside drawer for quite a while now. Only to get jostled into motion once more with a soft swat! planted onto your jiggling ass.
Turning the flashing screen to emblazon your vision with the name, Shiu Kong (Work)
Oh?
Oh.
At your filthy nod, Higuruma’s puffing out a shuddered bout of laughter. Before sliding one fat thumb across the screen and answering, “Hello? Shiu?” Head tilting to the side, another manhandling haul of Higuruma’s massive palm keeps you riding him. “Yeah, I can heh- talk right now.”
“S-so mean–” you’re mumbling, thoroughly not expecting for him to hear and punish another smack! against your ass.
You couldn’t hear the response - you didn’t even realize that the audio could even hear you before he’s babbling on.
“The meeting- Oh, that? Ah, jus’ my lovely wife.” Gasping, because Higuruma hadn’t proposed…yet. And the way he was sidling your gummy cunt with hefty, vicious pound after pound to lose himself - to melt into your unsteady arms - made you think he just might. Soon. “She’s uh…strugglin’ with somethin’ ya see.”
Fuck- he knew exactly how to make you work.
But you knew exactly how to work.
One hand splaying out between the sweaty valley of Higuruma’s plush chest, you’re eyeing with satisfaction as his dark brows raise. Squeezing that overpriced fabric wrapped around his thick fingers to muffled your leaking whimpers - to choke-
Only for his sharp jaw to fall parted, breath hitching when you jerk your fatigued thighs and ride. Deeper. Sloppier. Further and further until with a heaving shudder your ass smacks against his with a ringing pap!
Loud.
Undeniable.
His hefty breeder balls colliding into the jiggling curve of your ass, Higuruma’s massive cock embedding a few perfectly rounded bruises into the back of your pulpy cervix. Streaking a lazy line drawn by his bulbed piercing across each and every sweeping fissure inside you. Once. Twice.
Again and again-
“A-ah, what?” He’s bumbling absent-mindedly into the speaker, and you’ve never seen him sound so shaky before. Deep baritone cracking into a few whimpering cracks towards the end when one of his thumbs swipe your puffed-up pussylips to take a long look at that heavenly sight. “Oh…oh yeah. My wife- sh-she got it…finally.”
And it’s only when you’re drawing out the most whipped splatters of slicked pre, when you’re steadying your precarious hands onto his sculptured biceps and slamming a sloppy cadence. Humming, “Y-yeah. Real cute, isn’t she?”
Only when Higuruma looks like he’s on the very verge of ending the call that you’re musing how Shiu must know already.
That blasphemous question on the very tip of your tongue before Higuruma’s attractive eyes widen, chuckling out at words exchanged over the phone that you couldn’t make out. Yet.
“Oh?” Yeah, Shiu totally knew. Dark eyes boring right into your heart-eyed depths, and when you nod he’s cracking a smile. Pussydrunk. “Mhm, sure, we can videocall.”
situationship fratkuna tells his friends how you're always so needy for his attention. . . but you know better & now so does he ❤︎
pleading, offering nights of hot sex, and grovelling at your feet is a new low. even for sukuna.
but you're reeeal petty.
"baby, y'know i wasn't— fuck, I wasn't bein' serious. . ."
sukuna groans, deep in chest, dragging his lips up to your shin then to your knee until he finally settles his cheek against the soft skin of your thigh. he nuzzles his nose into you, inhaling your scent like an addict.
if any of his frat brothers see where he is now, on his knees with his fingers wrapped loosely around your ankles to keep you from pushing him away, he'd never hear the end of it.
"you think i'm too clingy, kuna?"
the question sounds innocent enough, however, with the way you're peering down at him from the edge of your bed in nothing but a bra and some little lace panties is anything but innocent.
"nah, baby, course not." sukuna's palms glide down the backs of your calves, massaging the muscles coaxingly.
your foot nudges his chubbing thickness in his boxers and he pants hotly, sinking his blunt nails into the backs of your calves almost pathetically.
and he was the one calling you clingy?
sukuna swallows thickly, adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he forces the words from his lips.
hai! i love your writing so much your characterization is so good! can i please req some angst from you like how they'd react if their s/o who they're so insanely in love with starts pulling away or gets distant relationship wise 🤭
i wanna know who's getting on their knees or crying screaming throwing up at the mere thought of their so leaving like i jst rlly need some men who yearn (and maybe suffer in the process🫢)
“Don’t Leave Me Like This.”
➺ a/n : hii !! thank you so muchh, also i’ve actually always wanted to try writing angst so this is my first time 😭 be nice guys i’m deadass a little nervous about this one but i hope i did it justice
The suffering is literal for him. He gets physically ill from the anxiety. He can't eat; the smell of food makes him nauseous because he remembers the last meal you shared in silence. There’s a night where you don't come home or you tell him you need space, and Isagi ends up in the bathroom, clutching the sink, actually retching from the sheer emotional weight crushing his chest. He screams into a pillow in his dorm, a raw, ugly sound that would shock anyone who knows him as the polite Isagi.
He starts to hallucinate your presence. He’ll turn around in a store because he thinks he smelled your perfume, or he’ll start talking to the empty side of the bed before remembering you aren't there. He becomes a ghost haunting his own life. He’ll send you pathetic, paragraph-long texts at 4 AM, detailing every memory he’s terrified of losing, before deleting them all and just sending, "I miss you. Please come home." He is a man who was born to"devour others to reach the top, but in the face of your distance, he is the one being eaten alive by his own devotion.
If you actually leave, Isagi doesn't move on. He becomes a shell. He might still play football, he might even become the best in the world, but his eyes will remain hollow. He’ll look at every trophy he wins and think about how he’d melt them all down just to have one more morning where you look at him with love instead of pity. He is the ultimate yearner—a man who reached the peak of the world only to realize it’s freezing and empty without the only person who ever made him feel the way you made him feel.
Meguru Bachira ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
When you start getting distant, Bachira becomes eerily quiet. The playful humming, the random bursts of energy, the constant chattering, it all vanishes. He’ll sit in his room for hours, staring at his phone, waiting for a spark that never comes. He feels like he’s back in that elementary school playground, standing alone with a ball, realizing that the person he finally found is leaving him behind in the dark.
Bachira has no pride when it comes to you. He is the one who will absolutely get on his knees. If you try to leave the room during an argument, he’ll dive for your feet, wrapping his arms around your legs so tightly it’s almost painful. He’ll sob into your shins, his tears soaking through your clothes. "No, no, no ! Don't leave me ! I'll be better, I'll be normal, I'll kill the Monster if that's what you want! Just please... look at me. Don't leave me alone again. I'm scared, [Name]. I'm so scared."
There is a moment of pure, raw agony where the "fun” Bachira snaps. If he comes home to an empty house or sees you out with someone else, he’ll have a full-blown panic attack. He’ll scream until his throat is raw, a high, keening sound of a creature that’s been abandoned. He’ll throw things, not out of anger, but out of a desperate need to feel anything other than the hollow vacuum in his chest. He’ll end up curled in a ball on the floor, retching and shaking, clutching a piece of your clothing to his face and inhaling the fading scent of you until he hyperventilates.
Hyoma Chigiri ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
He starts to associate the pain in his heart with the old trauma of his knee. When you’re distant, his leg actually starts to ache — a psychosomatic manifestation of his fear. He’ll be found sitting on the training ground floor, clutching his knee, his face pale and sweating. It’s not the ligament that’s snapping this time; it’s his spirit. He feels like if you leave, his luck runs out forever. He becomes terrified of moving at all, convinced that any step he takes might be the one that finally breaks the connection for good.
He becomes a stalker of his own memories. He’ll watch videos of you laughing together on a loop, his eyes red and hollow. He’ll brush his hair in the mirror and remember how you used to do it for him, and he’ll end up ripping the brush through his tangles in a fit of self-loathing. He begins to loathe his own beauty because it didn't keep you.
If you leave, Chigiri becomes a "suicidal" player on the pitch. He’ll sprint until his lungs burn and his muscles scream, hoping that if he pushes his body to the absolute limit, the physical pain will finally drown out the sound of your voice saying goodbye. He becomes the "Red Panther" again, but there’s no joy in his run, only a desperate attempt to outrun the shadow of the person he loved. He’ll cross the finish line, look at the empty space where you used to stand and cheer, and realize that no matter how fast he is, he’ll never be fast enough to bring you back.
Rin Itoshi ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Rin is the most arrogant, prideful person in Blue Lock. He would never bow to a king, but for you, he will crawl. When the distance becomes unbearable, he’ll show up at your door in the middle of a rainstorm or after a grueling match, looking like a ghost. He won't say anything at first; he’ll just stand there, shaking, until his knees hit the pavement. He’ll grab your hands and press them to his face, his tears hot against your skin. "Don't... don't discard me like he did. I'll kill everyone else, I'll be the only one you ever need to look at... just don't go. Please, don't leave me in the dark."
Rin notices the distance before you even realize you’re pulling away. He starts to play "destructive" football, but instead of destroying his opponents, he starts destroying himself. He pushes his body to a point of physical agony just to feel a pain that makes sense. He stares at his phone for hours, watching the "Typing..." bubble appear and disappear, his heart rate spiking and crashing in a way that makes him feel physically ill.
He might win. He might become the No. 1 striker but he’ll do it with a face that looks like a corpse. He’ll stand on the podium, the world cheering his name, and he’ll feel absolutely nothing. Every goal he scores is a shriek for your attention that you’ll never hear. He’ll look at the gold medal and think about how he’d rather be a lukewarm loser if it meant he could go back to the days when you still looked at him with warmth.
Sae Itoshi ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Sae Itoshi does not beg. He doesn't even apologize. But when the silence between you becomes deafening, he snaps. He’ll corner you in a quiet hallway or your bedroom, his usual cold, bored expression replaced by something frantic and ugly. He’ll drop to his knees. Not gracefully, but heavily, as if his legs have finally given out under the weight of his own ego. He’ll grab the hem of your shirt, his head bowed, his voice a low, broken rasp. "Tell me the price. Tell me what I have to do to make you look at me the way you used to. I’ll leave the pros, I’ll stay in Japan, I’ll become the version of the man you want... just don't leave me."
He becomes haunted by ghosts. He’ll be in the middle of a high-stakes match in Europe, and for a split second, he’ll see your face in the front row. He’ll pause, the ball rolling past him, his heart stopping, only to realize it was a stranger. He starts to lose his composure. He’ll wake up in the middle of the night reaching for your side of the bed, and when he feels the cold sheets, he’ll let out a sound. Not a scream, but a choked, dry sob that he muffles with his pillow so no one can hear the "Genius" breaking.
If you leave him, Sae doesn't recover. He becomes a machine. He stops talking to people entirely unless it’s about football. He spends his nights in his luxury apartment, surrounded by trophies that mean nothing, staring at the last photo he has of you. He becomes a man who has everything and absolutely nothing. He’ll live the rest of his life as a "legend,” but every time he hears your name, his breath will hitch, and he’ll be transported back to that moment on his knees, begging for a miracle that never came.
Rensuke Kunigami ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
The Wild Card persona is a mask of stoicism, but it’s thin. When you finally tell him you’re done or you need space, the mask doesn't just crack. It shatters. Kunigami doesn't just sit down; he drops like a felled tree. He’ll fall to his knees, his massive hands clutching your waist, burying his face in your stomach. He’ll be shaking so hard you can feel his teeth chattering. "Please... not you too. The world already took everything else. I'm not a hero anymore, I'm nothing... but I'm yours. Don't leave me. I can't be alone again."
There’s a night where he’s alone in the gym, and the weight of your distance finally becomes too much. He’ll grab a barbell and just scream, a deep, guttural, chest-shaking roar of pure agony that echoes off the metal. He’ll throw the weights, denting the floor, until he’s exhausted and sobbing, his large chest heaving. He looks at his hands and realizes they’re useless if they can’t hold onto you. He ends up curled on the floor among the cold iron, weeping for the version of himself that you used to love.
He’ll show up at your house or your workplace, not to talk, but just to see you from a distance, hidden in the shadows. He’s pathetically addicted to the sight of you, even if it hurts. He’ll wear old jerseys just because it still smells like your laundry detergent. He’s a man who has lost his ego entirely; he would let you step on him, humiliate him, or use him as a tool, as long as it meant he didn't have to face a world where you don't exist.
Shoei Barou ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Barou is the last person on earth you’d expect to beg. He is pride personified. But there is a night where the silence from your side is too much. He’ll show up at your place, his massive frame filling the doorway, looking uncharacteristically disheveled. When you try to close the door or tell him it’s over, his throne collapses. He’ll drop to his knees, the ultimate sign of submission from him. His voice, usually a booming roar, is a broken, pathetic whisper. “Don’t walk away… I built my throne with you beside me. Without you… it’s just empty. If I messed up, say it. I’ll crush it, fix it, whatever it takes. Just… don’t look at me like I’m nothing. I refuse to be a king without my queen.”
He goes to the training field in the middle of the night, alone. He’ll kick balls into the net with such violence that he rips the mesh, screaming with every strike. It’s a raw, terrifying sound, the roar of a lion that’s been caught in a trap. He’ll eventually collapse in the grass, his chest heaving, crying with a harsh, dry intensity that sounds like he’s choking. He’ll grab fistfuls of dirt and grass, cursing the world, cursing football, and finally, cursing himself for needing you so much that he can’t breathe without your approval.
He becomes obsessed with the traces of you. He’ll sit in the dark, holding the clothes you left behind, smelling it until he can’t breathe. He’ll watch the "Active Now" status on your social media, his thumb hovering over the screen, paralyzed by the fear that if he messages you, you’ll ignore him and that silence would be the final execution of his ego. He’ll start to see your face in the crowd during games, and for a split second, he’ll play for you, only to realize you aren't there, causing him to completely stall on the pitch, a King frozen in his own misery.
Reo Mikage ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Reo’s first instinct is to solve the distance with wealth and effort. He’ll buy you designer bags, book private jets for surprise dinners, and try to fill the growing void with material perfection. But when he sees your face remain blank despite the gifts, he starts to panic. He begins to obsessively track your location, your likes, and your mutual friends. He uses his ability to try and become whoever he thinks you want: acting more serious, then more playful, then more distant, desperately shifting his personality to find the version of him that you’ll love again.
Reo has been on his knees for Nagi before, but for you, he will stay there. When you finally tell him it’s over, he won't offer you a check or a gift. He’ll drop to the floor of his penthouse, grabbing the hem of your clothes with trembling hands, his face wet with tears that look ugly on someone so handsome. "I'll give it all up. My inheritance, the company, football... I'll be a nobody if that's what it takes. Just don't look at me like I'm just another thing you've outgrown. [Name]... please, I'm just a guy who loves you. Don't leave me with nothing but money."
He’ll pay people to tell him where you are, just so he can "accidentally" run into you. He’ll watch the footage from his home security cameras of the last time you were happy in his living room, playing it on a loop while he drinks himself into a stupor. He is addicted to the pain of your memory. He’ll send you texts at 4 AM offering you the world, then immediately delete them and send, "I'm sorry. Just tell me you're okay," because he’s terrified that if he’s being too much, you’ll block him forever.
Nagi Seishiro ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Nagi’s life is defined by apathy, but you are the one spark that keeps him awake. When you start pulling away, he doesn't understand it at first. He’ll follow you around your apartment like a confused shadow, tugging on your sleeve or resting his head on your shoulder, waiting for the reward of your affection. When you don't give it, he feels a weird, sharp pressure in his chest that he doesn't have the vocabulary to explain. He starts to lose interest in his games, his phone, and even football. Everything becomes a hassle because the person who made it all fun is disappearing.
Nagi usually forgets to eat because he’s lazy, but now he can’t eat because he’s sick. The thought of you leaving makes his stomach curl into a tight, cold knot. He’ll try to take a bite of something and immediately have to rush to the bathroom, retching until he’s dizzy. He’ll lie on the cold floor afterward, staring at the ceiling for hours, his body feeling like it’s made of lead. He’s always been sleepy, but now he can’t sleep at all; every time he closes his eyes, he sees the back of your head as you walk away from him.
Nagi has no ego to protect when it comes to you. If he senses that the end is coming, he’ll drop his phone, the thing he’s usually glued to, and literally fall at your feet. He’ll wrap his long arms around your waist, burying his face in your lap, his voice small and cracking. "Is it because I'm boring? I'll try harder... I'll stop being lazy. I'll play football until I'm the best, I'll do all the chores, I'll be interesting for you. Just... don't go. Everything is so quiet when you're not here. I don't know how to 'be' without you telling me what to do." Nagi’s crying is the most heartbreaking because it’s so quiet. He doesn't scream; he just leaks tears while staring at you with wide, terrified eyes. He’ll shake, a constant tremor in his hands that makes it impossible for him to even hold a controller or a phone. There’s a night where you’re staying in separate rooms, and he’ll end up curled in a ball outside your door, shivering and weeping into his knees because he’s too scared to be alone in the dark with his own thoughts.
Oliver Aiku ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
There’s a night where the weight of your absence hits him in the middle of a training session. He’ll punch a goalpost with enough force to dent the metal, screaming a raw, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated yearning. He’ll collapse into the turf, clutching his chest as if he’s having a heart attack, gasping for air. He realized too late that he didn't just win you; he needed you to keep his heart beating. He ends up lying on the field until the sun comes up, shivering and whispering your name into the grass, a defender who failed to protect the only thing that mattered.
He becomes obsessed with being near you without being seen. He’ll drive past your house at 2 AM just to see if your lights are on, his heart hammering in his chest like a guilty teenager's. He’ll wear the cologne you said you liked even when he’s alone, just to trick himself into thinking you’re in the next room. He sends you check-in texts that he spent three hours drafting, trying to sound casual while he’s actually vibrating with the need to beg you to come home.
Aiku usually carries himself with such swagger, but when the distance finally becomes apparent, his composure shatters. He’ll show up at your place, eyes bloodshot and beard slightly unkempt. When you tell him you think it’s time to move on, he won't try to charm his way out of it. He’ll drop to his knees, his massive hands catching your waist, burying his face in your lap. He’ll be sobbing, not a quiet cry, but a heavy, chest-heaving sound that feels like a landslide. "I'm not playing anymore... I promise. I’ll quit the national team, I’ll move wherever you want, I’ll become the type of man you deserve. Just don't shut me out. I finally found something real... don't make me go back to being a liar."
Shuto Sendou ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
He’ll post aesthetic photos of things you like on his social media, obsessively checking his notifications to see if you’ve viewed his stories. He tries to buy back your affection with the most celebrity gestures possible: billboards, expensive jewelry, public shout-outs. But when you don't even like the posts, he starts to spiral. He loses his camera-ready smile. He’ll be in the middle of a TV interview and completely zone out, his eyes going hollow as he realizes that a million fans screaming his name doesn't mean a thing if he can’t hear yours.
Sendou usually acts like he’s the one doing people a favor by dating them, but when the distance becomes apparent, his pride doesn't just crack, it evaporates. He’ll show up at your door, looking uncharacteristically small. When you tell him it’s over, he won't try to charm you. He’ll drop to his knees, his forehead pressing against your shoes, his hands clutching your ankles so you can’t walk away. "I’ll stop... I’ll stop the acting, the modeling, all the fake stuff. I’ll just be Shuto. I’ll be nobody. Just don't leave me with the fans... they don't know me. You’re the only one who actually knows me. Please... I’m so lonely without you."
He becomes stuck in the time when you still loved him. He’ll re-watch old interviews where he mentioned someone special, crying at how happy he looked. He’ll send you texts at 3 AM asking if you saw his latest goal, then immediately follow up with, "I'm sorry, I know you don't care. I just wanted you to see me one more time."
Ryusei Shidou ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Shidou’s world is loud, carnal, and vibrant. But when you pull away, he starts to lose that manic, predatory energy. He’ll be on the pitch, and for the first time, he doesn't feel the rush. He’ll score a world-class goal and just stand there, staring at the net with dead eyes, because he realized he didn't hear your voice in the crowd. He becomes uncharacteristically quiet, his usual vulgar teasing replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence that unnerves everyone in Blue Lock.
His suffering isn't passive; it's destructive. He’ll go to a deserted part of the training grounds and just destroy things. He’ll kick through fences, punch walls until his knuckles are shattered, screaming your name into the night until his voice gives out. He isn't crying in the traditional sense; he’s bleeding frustration. He feels like a star that is collapsing into a black hole, every bit of light he has is being sucked into the void where your love used to be.
He becomes needy. He’ll send you texts that are raw and unfiltered: "I can't breathe," "Touch me or kill me," "Everything tastes like ash." He’ll break into your room just to sleep on the floor next to your bed, not to scare you, but because the proximity is the only thing that stops the shaking in his nerves. He is a predator who has been completely tamed by the fear of abandonment, a dragon who would let you clip his wings if it meant you’d stay in the room for five more minutes.
Tabito Karasu ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Karasu’s entire world is built on categorizing people. When you start pulling away, he tries to solve you. He’ll sit for hours, replaying every interaction, every text, every look, trying to find where he went wrong. He notices the way you don’t laugh at his insults anymore, or how you’ve stopped using the specific Kansai slang he taught you. And no matter how much he analyzes you, he can’t find the weak point to strike to make you stay.
Karasu is usually the one looking down on others, both literally and figuratively. But there is a night where he corners you. He’ll drop to his knees, his hands gripping your wrists with a strength that belies his internal collapse. He won't use his sharp tongue to insult you; his voice will be a low, desperate rasp. "Stop it. Stop treating me like I'm just some mediocre guy you've grown bored of. I'm the one who picked you out, remember? You're the only extraordinary thing I have... please. Don't leave me alone in a world full of idiots. I'll change. I'll be whoever you need me to be. Just don't say it's over."
If you leave for good, he’ll continue to be the top analytical midfielder, he’ll dismantle every opponent with sharp precision, but he’ll do it with a heart that has turned to ice. He’ll spend the rest of his life in luxury apartments, drinking kombucha in the dark, staring at the empty seat beside him. Every person he meets afterward will be mediocre by default, because they aren't you. He’ll spend his life yearning for the only extraordinary variable he couldn't keep, suffering in a world that he understands perfectly but no longer cares to live in.
Eita Otoya ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Otoya’s whole world is based on instinct and fun. He’ll be at a club or a team hang-out, usually the life of the party, but he’ll find himself staring blankly into space. He loses that effortless, laid-back charm. He’ll try to flirt with someone else just to see if he can still feel anything, but he’ll end up leaving mid-conversation because everything feels like noise compared to the silence you’ve left him with.
Otoya usually acts like nothing matters, but when you finally tell him you’re done with him, he’ll show up at your place in the middle of the night, his signature green-streaked hair messy and his eyes bloodshot. He’ll drop to his knees in the hallway, grabbing your hands with a grip that is uncharacteristically tight and desperate. "Don't go back to being a stranger... please. I'll stop the games. I'll delete every number, I'll stay home, I'll be boring if that's what keeps you. I'm scared, [Name]. I don't know how I would function without you being the one I'm coming back to."
If you leave for good, he’ll still be the ninja on the pitch, he’ll still be chill in interviews, and he’ll go back to his playboy ways on the surface, but his eyes will remain dead. He’ll spend the rest of his life sliding through crowds, never letting anyone get close enough to see the scars. He’ll spend every night in a different bed, but every time he closes his eyes, he’ll feel that sharp, retching pang of regret. He’ll spend the rest of his life yearning for the only person who ever made him want to step out of the shadows and be seen.
Kenyu Yukimiya ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Yuki’s eyesight is failing, but his heart was always focused on you. When you start pulling away, he begins to panic in a way he can’t hide. He’ll obsessively check his glasses, cleaning them over and over, because he wants to believe the distance between you is just a trick of his optics. He becomes hyper-fixated on your presence. He’ll stare at you for far too long, trying to memorize every detail of your face before his vision, or your love, goes completely. He becomes uncharacteristically clingy, always wanting to hold your hand or touch your shoulder, as if it’ll keep you from dissolving into the blur.
Yuki usually carries himself with such grace, but when the threat of you leaving becomes absolute, he’ll show up at your place, his goggles around his neck and his eyes red from straining. When you tell him you’re leaving, he’ll drop to his knees, his forehead pressing against your hands. He won't beg for his career or his eyes; he’ll beg for you. "Please... not you too. I can handle the dark, [Name]. I can handle going blind. I can handle never playing again. But I can't handle the thought of you not being there when the lights finally go out. Don't leave me in a world where I can't even remember what love looks like."
If you leave for good, Yukimiya becomes a statue. He might achieve his dreams, he might become a world-famous model or a legendary striker before his vision fails, but he’ll do it with a soul that is completely hollow. He’ll spend the rest of his life in a world of shadows, yearning for the light that you were. Even when he eventually goes blind, he’ll spend every day looking for you in his mind, suffering in a permanent, silent night where the only thing he can still see clearly is the moment you walked away.
Hiori Yo ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
There is a cold, sadistic side to Hiori that usually comes out in his play, but when he’s yearning for you, he turns that cruelty on himself. He’ll push himself to the point of physical collapse in training, his eyes glazed and vacant. If he misses a pass, he’ll mutter insults to himself in a low, venomous voice, mocking his own mediocrity. He feels like he’s being erased from your life, and the sensation makes him want to erase himself from the world.
Hiori has spent his life suppressing his own needs to appease others. As the distance grows, that internal pressure finally explodes. He’ll be in the middle of a gaming session and the feeling of uselessness will hit him so hard he’ll drop his controller and sprint to the bathroom. He stares at his reflection and sees the unloved child his parents created. The nausea is his body rejecting the idea of living for himself if himself isn't enough to keep you.
He’ll spend his nights in the dark, playing the same cozy game you used to play together, but he’ll just stand his character next to yours and let the screen idle for hours, crying silently. He sends you messages that sound polite and chill on the surface, “Hope you're having a good day,” while he’s actually shaking so hard he can barely type. He is a boy who finally learned how to feel, and now he’s realizing that feeling also means hurting beyond repair.
Michael Kaiser ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Kaiser’s arrogance is his armor. When you start pulling away, he doubles down on his God persona. He’ll treat you like a rebellious subject, demanding your attention and mocking your attempts at independence. But inside, he’s scanning your face for a sign of the old devotion, and when he finds only coldness, his confidence glitches. He starts making mistakes on the pitch, missing easy volleys because he’s looking at you in the stands, desperate to see if you’re still watching him.
Kaiser would rather die than show weakness, which makes his eventual collapse terrifying. When you finally tell him you’re leaving, his composure doesn't just crack, it shatters into jagged glass. He’ll drop to his knees, his expensive designer coat dragging on the floor, and he’ll grab your wrists with a grip that is bruisingly tight. He’s not crying. He’s shaking, a violent, rhythmic tremor. "Don't you dare... I am the center of the world! You don't leave me, I discard you!" But then his voice drops to a broken whisper. "Please... You're the only one who doesn't look at me like a product. If you leave, I'm just nothing again…. Don't leave me alone with myself."
He’ll use his vast wealth to find out where you are, but he’s too proud to approach you, so he just sits in his tinted-window car outside your apartment for hours, watching the lights. He’ll send you flowers every day, blue roses, naturally, with no card, just a silent, thorny reminder that he’s still there, haunting you. He is addicted to the despair of missing you; he watches videos of you together on a loop, his thumb tracing your jawline on the screen, whispering, "I'll make it impossible for you to forget me. I'll become the greatest in the world just so you have to see my face every time you turn on a TV."
Alexis Ness ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Ness views his world through the magic of football and connection. When you start pulling away, the colors of his world begin to drain. He’ll stare at you with those wide, droopy eyes, looking for a spark of the warmth he used to rely on. He becomes hyper-fixated on fixing the vibe. He’ll try to perform tricks for you: cooking your favorite meal perfectly, bringing you small gifts, or humming the songs you like but his hands will be shaking. He feels like his mana is running out, and without your love to recharge him, he’s just a hollow boy in a jersey.
Ness has a high tolerance for mistreatment, but he cannot survive indifference. When you finally tell him you’re leaving, his polite mask doesn't just slip, it disintegrates into a terrifying mess. He’ll drop to his knees at your feet, his fingers digging into the carpet as he weeps. He’ll try to smile through the tears, a manic, heartbreaking expression. "I'll cast a better spell... I'll be more useful ! I can be your heart, your shadow, your everything ! Just don't… don't make me live in a world where magic isn't real. You're my magic, [Name]. Please, don't let the trick end."
He’ll wear the specific scents you liked, even if they make his head swim. He’ll send you voice notes of him just humming, his voice cracking halfway through because he’s sobbing too hard to finish the tune. He is a boy who gave his heart away so completely that he has nothing left to pump his own blood. He sits in the dark, clutching the magic staff from his childhood or a piece of your clothing, begging the universe for a miracle that he knows, logically, isn't coming.
Bunny Iglesias ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Bunny is known for being calm, soft-spoken, and polite. But when you start pulling away, his politeness becomes uncanny. He’ll smile at you, but the expression won't reach his eyes, they remain red, dull, and fixed on you with a predatory intensity. He’ll stand a little too close, his large frame casting a long shadow over you, speaking in a voice that is too quiet, too steady. He’s trying to calculate a polite way to ask you to stay, but the bitterness underneath is starting to leak out like venom.
There’s a night where the weight of the New Generation World XI title feels like a noose. He’ll go to the center of the pitch at night, under the moon, and just scream. He’ll kick balls into the stands with a violent, self-destructive force, not caring about technique, just wanting to feel something other than the emptiness you left behind. He ends up lying on the grass, staring at the sky with dead eyes, whispering Spanish prayers for a return that he knows won't happen.
He becomes present in the background of your life. He’ll show up at the places you frequent, wearing his black rabbit cap, just to watch you from a distance. He won't approach; he’ll just stand there, a towering, silent sentinel of your past. He sends you texts that are eerily thoughtful: "I saw a flower that reminded me of you today. I hope you're eating well." He is a man who is starving for your affection, but he treats it like a bittersweet delicacy that he’s lucky to even remember the taste of.
Vivian Hugo ִ ࣪𖤐⋆
Hugo lives by a philosophy of fatalism. When you start pulling away, he doesn't see it as a lack of interest; he sees it as you abandoning your aptitude. He’ll watch you with his sharp, analytical eyes as he tilts his head, trying to understand why you are fighting against the destiny he wrote for both of you. He becomes obsessive in his corrections. He’ll tell you, with a calm but chilling sincerity, that you aren't being true to yourself by ignoring him.
He sees himself as a strategist who can see the Butterfly Effect. He thinks: If I just change this one thing, they’ll love me again. He becomes stupidly superstitious. He’ll walk the exact same path to the pitch, wear the same socks, and drink the same tea, convinced that if he breaks the routine, the universe will take you away even faster.
The most heartbreaking part of Hugo’s yearning is his eventual surrender to the shadow. He’ll stop trying to be your number one. He’ll start acting like the invisible strategist who makes your life easier from the sidelines without ever asking for credit. He’ll handle your errands, fix your mistakes, and protect you from afar, all while maintaining a polite, distant smile. He won't beg you to stay. He will simply exist in your orbit like a dead moon, yearning for the light you used to give him, suffering in silence.
One Piece Men + reacting to messingup!reader (short fics)
- ❝ Reader messes up big time at work/mission, and how their s/o reacts to that.❞
⤷ Sequel જ⁀➴
˚₊‧꒰ა Tags ໒꒱ ‧₊˚: Angst, hurt with happy ending. SFW. (Reader is she/her) 𓂃۶ৎ tw: Themes of self-sabotage, self-hatred, abandonment-ish(?), Doffy's fic has violence. Zoro's fic has drunk kissing. Read safely everyone! .𓂃۶ৎ wc: 3k for each separate fic.
₊˚ʚ Characters/status: Rob Lucci, Sir Crocodile, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Roronoa Zoro, (established relationship ˖ ໒꒱)
❝ ᝰ.ᐟ note: This is a request from a reader, and I absolutely adored this—the reason it took so long was because I didn’t want to stop, so thank you for the suggestion and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did writing it! ✨🤍~(⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝) Was writing this whilst listening to the most angsty aaa music ever; I hope I delivered the emotions correctly. Enjoy ~૮꒰ ˶> ༝ < ྀི˶꒱ა ♡❞
Rob Lucci
Rob Lucci doesn’t tolerate weakness and he certainly doesn’t stand for failure.
It’s not that he’s impractical about that philosophy. A civilian—weak and helpless? That’s just cattle acting like cattle. But a trained assassin who succumbs into weakness? A predator have no right to quiver like helpless sheep.
You often ensured perfection during your missions but this time however, you couldn’t help it. One slip up, one blind spot and your waist was gushing blood. You had clung onto Rob’s shoulder, your heart going faint and the alarms ringing.
Once you’re back on the ship—Rob doesn't even look your way.
When you approach him alone by the corridor, he had given you a look. That nasty cruel one, devoid of all affection from the nights and days before. It made you flinch.
And he only creased a corner of his nose at that.
You watch his figure disappear down the hall. The clicks of his heel striding further and further away, sinking your stomach deeper and deeper.
You wanted to call out to him, wanted to make things right but even now, between the stretched silence and feelings left unsaid, you hesitate at his lack of patience for you. Gut twisting all the way up your throat, forcing your tongue still.
When you arrive home, the lights are out. His shoes neatly placed, but the rooms are quiet and the walls are cold.
You won’t find Rob by the kitchen, who usually stirs a meal for you both. You won’t find a hot cup of tea prepared for you, and the pots of flowers that he gifted remain unwatered. The soil dry. The halls empty.
You call for his name but there is no one who wants to greet you back. That sickening feeling in your gut crawls back as you saunter your way to the bedroom. An aching, wretched feeling—one slowly, surely, to eat you whole. But when you see him in bed, your brows ease up.
His back turned, toned body nestled at the very edge.
“Rob baby?” You say but he must already be asleep.
Chin sinks and your fingers play with the hem of your sleeves. Hands cold.
When you slide under the blankets with him—you do not feel him stir.
Rob who is such a light sleeper should have awoken from your rustling, should have turned and pulled you behind by the waist, lips tilting near your neck.
But there is nothing. All you see is his back—strong, sculpted and scarred. You inch closer.
Hand reaching for his spine, feeling his shoulder blades tense under your palm. Hard, sharp—annoyed. You pull a breath back, immediately withdrawing your hand.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t...” you swallow, feeling your voice crack. Rob doesn’t tolerate weakness, and he certainly doesn’t tolerate excuses. You blink, curling into yourself. “I’ll do better.”
A promise made—he does not say it but the aching silence remains evident. He does not expect you to hold yourself to it.
Despite laying next to you, only having to reach a hand out to feel him, touch him—he feels more distant than ever. If you were to reach out, you’d only touch something cold. A void of indifference, a rift of unwanted affection, one that cuts your chest like a jagged blade. Cleaving you empty, tearing you hollow.
When you press your eyes shut, you feel tears squeezing down your cheeks. And this time, Rob won’t be there to wipe them.
You wake up, and you wake up alone.
His side empty, and the curtains remained shut. When you enter the kitchen, there will be no breakfast made, no note, no call. Just silence. But you will see the daily papers displayed on the table. Left in such a way as if to make you see it.
The whole front page is of your embarrassing blunder; the World Government and Cipher Pol have become the laughing stock, dragging their credibility and mocking your reputation and you feel your cheeks bristle with humiliation.
You’ll note the creases of someone’s thumb crumbled into the paper—as if having read the page in pure, utter disgust.
How can you bear to face the others at work?
How can you even think to keep sleeping in the same bed as him?
You try to remain focused, logical, indifferent just like Rob, but truly? You feel unworthy, stupid—irrational. Everything that he isn’t.
You show up for your duties and even if no one really says anything, it’s left hanging in the air. Like an unfinished sentence not meant to be said out loud.
You look to Rob but he stands next to anyone but you, he addresses to anyone but you, he looks to anyone but you—It stings.
Back at home—you try and talk to him but there is nothing. You cling onto his sleeves, tears spilling down your cheeks. You’re begging with him, pleading with him, feel yourself crumbling for just an ounce of affection but there is just that jarring, cruel, coldness that eats you whole.
He won’t hold you, won’t console you.
You start to crack. Pressing your face into your hands.
You want nothing more but to stand next to him—hear his silent praises, and feel his lips pressed onto your temples as reward for a good job’s done. You want to see him smile at you, that quiet, small one, rarer and more precious than any gold. You want his affection more than you’ve ever wanted it before but you fear the last time will remain the last—and Rob will soon come to discard you. You who is weak, you who embody everything that he hates.
You don’t want that.
You want to be worthy of Rob.
Not weak, slow and stupid.
You decide to take the matters in your own hands.
For awhile, you don’t come home until late at night and Rob doesn't seek you out. He does not question your long disappearances or your withdrawn nature but after work, he’ll see you vanish behind the training halls. And when days start to pass into weeks—he notes the way your hands are bandaged with blisters in between. Bruises across your skin, and a weariness in your face.
You start to look bleaker, wearier. Colourless cheeks and heavier eyes. As if you’re not eating and sleeping enough.
One day, you won’t show up for work, and not for dinner either. He finds himself asking a superior of your absence.
The older man only gives him a tired look—“Agent thirty-six?” He tilts his head. “A missive from the hospital was received, she was found passed out by the training halls. Don’t know the exact details sonny, but it mentioned dehydration, torn sinews and ruptured muscles. She should be recuperating at the hospital by now, they’ll put her right back to work once rehabilitated.”
Rob frowns, just slightly. “Hospital you say? Can’t she recover at home?”
The superior looks to him then, cocking a brow. “Yes, but she declined.” He hums, turning away from Rob.
“Not that it matters, since her debut she was an excellent asset for the World Government but now with her latest fiasco, she’s hardly called for. Now if you’ll excuse me, agent, I have more important matters to attend to than the ongoing love lives within Cipher Pol.”
Rob stands there by the hall, watching his superior vanish behind corners with cool, dark eyes. Hattori only coos as consolation.
He waits for you by the corridors of your hospital room. Back leaned against the wall, arms crossed and pointy finger tapping. Day turning into evening, evening turning into night and when midnight hits—the door clicks open and you’ll find him still waiting. Moonlight glimmering, shadows streaking across your faces.
Rob looks to you. Your hair unkempt, cheeks sunk and lips chapped. His eyes narrows.
You blink, straightening yourself. “Rob…? What are you doing here—”
He pushes himself off the wall, each step more pissed off than the last.
“What I’m doing? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He snatches your wrist, pulling you and you wince. “H-hey, what are you—”
“I don’t know what you think you’ll achieve training till your muscles tears but it ends here. I’m taking you back home.” He grips you forward, dragging you with him and you scoff—wrestling yourself free.
Your teeth grits, chest twisting and turning because how dare he? How dare he pretend to not know what caused this? How dare he show up here?
The fact that you need to be sent to the hospital to make him care—it’s insulting.
You want to scream at him, fight with him—you want to slap him across the face.
“How dare you…” you heave, body sore and chest burning. “Do you think I’m just gonna go along with you? What, because you feign concern for me? Why now? Why not then, when I was pleading for you, crying for you? Do you actually think I want to go back with you? How little do you actually think of me? Even I’m not that desperate.” Your voice shakes, your face heating but you don’t care.
His frown only pulls deeper and deeper. “Not even you is stupid enough to believe that.”
His words stings. The anger boils over.
“Yes I’m stupid, a liability, just like the papers say; Is that want you want to hear? Well here you have it. You can go now—leave. I don’t care.” You take a step forward, pointing to your chest. “Because clearly I’m only good enough to be cared for when I break and toil myself into pieces for you, other than being perfect on the constant clock—well I’m sorry, Rob, I’m not that kind of girl so you can go. Leave!” Each word is like a hiss of breath and your face burns hot and heavy.
Tears stings your vision, not from sadness but sheer bristling anger, and you turn on your heel before Rob has the chance to criticize you for that as well.
But he pulls you roughly by the wrist.
His face tense, hard—gritted teeth and narrowed eyes. He’s angry, and not the kind you see during missions or when taunted. Not measured, professional fury, no, but personal.
“Don’t turn your back on me. You think I don’t care, really?” He makes you face him—his grip on you unrelenting.
“Not even when you were bleeding out on that mission? Did I not let you cling onto my shoulder? Did I not hold you and tell you to stay put? I never cared? Even now as I’m fighting to bring you back home? A childish, ridiculous notion, one completely beneath you and I hate it.”
“Childish?” You want to laugh at his face, “Don’t you dare go there, not when you’ve given me nothing but seeping annoyance at my presence—what else would you have me think? Would you have me do? I don’t want to be what you hate: weak and unrefined.” Your voice finally cracks, and the tears you fought so hard to keep away, starts streaming down your cheeks. “Go home? Home where? To your silence? Your avoidance? Seriously Rob, how desperate do you take me for—”
Something flares up in his gaze; Rob Lucci who hides behind cold logic and ivory masks is for once forced to face something raw, beating—intimate. Feeling something dangerously close to human.
“You could have died.” His voice low if not restrained.
You let out a breath.
Heart stopping, just for a moment.
“I told you to not go for it and you did it anyways,” his hand squeezes your wrist into iron. “Have you not learned your lesson? Had you listened to me—”
“I know that already!” You cut in, snatching your wrist back. Tears are spilling down your face without control and you feel like a child.
“You’ don’t need to remind me how different I am to you; I lack strength, precision and apathy, I know that and yet—God, Rob, you can be so cruel.” You hiccup, wiping your tears.
For a moment, there is a dreading, almost choking silence between you two. The kind that tightens everything between one another. Turning the knots closer, harder—threatening to snap at any turn. And when you see Rob reaching for your face you swat his hand away.
“Don’t touch me! In fact, I don’t even want to see you anymore. Go, leave like I told you, I don’t want you here—”
He clicks his tongue, threads snapping at last as he grabs you by the shoulder.
Hard — desperate.
Fingers digging into your flesh.
“Damn it, I don’t understand you!” It’s a hiss, one through gritted teeth. “You were bleeding out before me; I can tell myself over and over again that you almost died because you didn’t listen but in truth? I should have pulled you out when I had the chance, I should’ve seen the attack coming but I didn’t. Is that it? Is that what you want me to say, cause there, it’s out—are you satisfied?”
And you blink. Chest empty.
“You’re angry and fine—I’ll take it.”
He does not say it, not outright but in his own words—he’s admitting defeat. The prideful and cold Rob—surrenders. His grip on your shoulders deepens, tightening so savagely you think he’s going to tear you apart.
“But come home with me. Come home and shout at me, come home and scream at me. Come home and fight with me. Just come home.”
You seethe—tears flush as you feel yourself shattering.
The anger, the frustration, the weeks spent where you’ve toiled you body into ruin finally come at collapse. Your shoulders slump, spine hunch as your heart presses dry, blood rushing through your veins.
You stagger into him, fist slamming into his chest.
“You're cruel.”
“I know.”
Another slam.
“You're cold and distant.”
“Yes.”
You hit him harder, he pulls you closer.
“And you hurt me.” You sob into his chest; pushing him, tugging him and he only tightens his arms around you.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice is quiet, too quiet—as if sharing classified information with you, one hidden behind his reserved nature and cynical manners.
You fist his sleeves to anchor yourself from your heart beating with such force, such anger it makes you stupid. A fury that does not come to calm. Strong arms holds you, keeps you—and you bury your face into him.
Sobbing, hiccuping, your weight slumping into him.
You two stay like that for awhile. Hiccups and cries echoing between the halls. Muffled into his shirt. His arms wrapped around you. Tight. Hard. Firm—as if to not let you go.
Your blood drums, hot and fast, and only when it finally starts to cool, do you shift your head.
Still shuddering, still sore and trembling.
“Take me home.”
“… That was always my objective.”
You feel him kiss the top of your hair, and you hum. Pressing your cheek deeper into his chest.
Summary: Once you both are in bed; there is nothing left to be said. Between you two, it’s quiet yes, but the kind that’s intimate. Rustling sheets, muffled kisses and soft hums. His heart is made of cold steel; heavy, tense but undeniably devoted. It’s untouched, unnerved but perhaps you can fondle it into something indelibly gentle. You realize that when he lays it open in your palm, in your heart.
Sir Crocodile
Being his lover is a bliss and even though you didn’t have to help him with work; you wanted to anyways. You nagged to him about it, you felt restless and alone at home—and eventually he caved in, assigning you to be his secretary.
It was easy, nothing physical, nothing dangerous.
Just large numbers, running schedules and flitting between messages and deliveries.
So when you sit there, legs clutched and chin low—you feel so little in the room of organized papers, tailored curtains and glass windows casting pale light across his office.
It’s quiet, intensely, deliberately. It makes it hard to breathe.
Sir Crocodile wears a frown on his face and he’s already drilled three cigars down the ashtray in the short span of half an hour. His patience threatening to snap at any given turn.
He was pissed.
And what’s worse—he’s silent. No shouting, no berating, nothing. Just cold, measured silence.
You had missed couriers, mails and appointments. Not just one or two but several. The swordmaster had nicked at him, even that sorry clown managed to squeak critic.
But that had not mattered to Crocodile, not truly—what really pissed him off was the money lost, time wasted—marines gaining an upper hand.
And who’s fault was it? Who’s fault but the once-stay-at-home-wife insisting to help only to ruin weeks of hard work?
He brought you into his office, doors shut and you thought he’d yell at you, scold you, tell you to pack your bags and stay home.
But as the sand from the hourglass trickled, he said nothing but “Sit.” pointed finger to the sofa. And you listened, bracing yourself for the on-coming insults but there is only silence.
He was lighting his cigar, taking his time enjoying the smoke and you? Your hands were on your knees, posture rigid and shoulders slump.
The silence filling the room with such choking dread you eventually gasp, not being able to let it suffocate you anymore.
You glance over. “Darling about the—"
“About the what.” He cuts you off. Sharp narrowed eyes, and you clench your hands.
“I… I didn’t notice how the numbers weren’t adding up and truly I should have doubled checked but it completely passed my mind. I’m… I’m sorry.”
For each passing score, the air grows heavier, tighter—wringing you around the neck. Something fills your chest, something hard and wretched.
For a moment he does not say anything, his eyes cold and unbecoming—before eventually placing a rough hand on his hook.
The alloy gold flashes, almost like a threat.
You flinch.
“Is that all you can offer? A sorry, measly little excuse?” He tilts his head at you, “If I had known my own lady to be so weak I would have never brought her here in the first place, and yet I did—only to be disappointed.”
The word ‘weak’ feels like a slap across the face but the mention of disappointing him? It cuts you open, your heart clutching and tears stings your vision.
Your mouth moves but the words sticks to your throat like bile.
You swallow. Trying again. “You think I’m disappointing?”
“Disappointing is an understatement: you’re useless here.” He turns away from you, “You don’t need to wait for me for dinner; fixing your rash mistakes will take my attention for awhile. Leave.”
You want to protest—you want to tell him to let you fix the wrong but his word is final. It hangs in the air like vice, and you cannot do anything but obey, less you test his patience for good.
Sir Crocodile keeps to his word. He won’t show up for dinner, or your evening tea—not even when the night is passing till midnight. He won’t call you or leave a note. The silence louder than ever.
For the oncoming days you twist and turn in bed, his side empty.
Days pass, time flows and there is no one who checks up on you—not the servants, not your friends and certainly not your lover.
Buggy’s army of goons makes jokes at your name, and those that associate themselves with the former Baroque Works whispers callously of your presence.
Your blunder has stretched a silence across the circus tent, no one says it out loud, not really; especially not in Sir Crocodile’s presence but the words are muttered. Sometimes low and hushing, other times drunk and careless.
Sir Crocodile is seated by the office, meticulously scanning over reports that holds little purpose now since the damage you’ve caused. He sets the papers down, looking to his Den-Den. No call, no note from you.
His brows pull but he does not seek you out—his absence will suit as your punishment… but that is not enough.
The men are talking and the reputation this establishment profits off of is shaking.
Your presence cannot remain, not for some time at least. He takes a puff from his cigar, until then… he’ll write a letter, fix you a stay at the summer villa—once this mess has been cleared, only then will he be able to look at you without much annoyance.
And you?
The conversation from before hurls you up, hands clutched to your chest as his words jabs at your heart like poison. The aching in your stomach becomes unbearable, pulse racing till it gets hard to breathe. The sharp tone of his voice hitting you again and again.
Measly, weak—disappointing.
You start to grow smaller, your figure of confidence crumbling like shattered bones, the once newfound excitement to be apart of something crashes down into mud and you start to see it clearly now—how stupid you really are.
Your presence a humiliation, your name an unfit puzzle and your wits an insult.
Sir Crocodile does not trust anyone to hold themselves to his standard—not even you.
You reach for the filed documents—it would take weeks, upon weeks of work to undo all your mistakes. You flip through the pages, numbers running over and over again before you look out the window. The moon quiet, the clouds dark.
You only have till next Monday.
Your hands are sore, fingers smudged with ink and your back and neck aching. You did not sleep nowadays, and even eating became tedious.
Fourteen days of scribbling, fourteen days of running back and forth, fourteen days making calls—threatening, demanding and bribing.
The servants notices how you only pick at your food, your eyes growing heavier and your bubbly nature withdrawn. And when you pass the halls? They will only see a ghost of who you used to be—something bleak and tired.
Monday comes, and Sir Crocodile and his two other peers are having their usual meeting. The swordsman sits with his arms crossed, listening and judging whilst the clown sobs up some pitiful excuse.
And when Crocodile is sure that his patience has come to a final end and leave a killing blow on Buggy; Mr. 3 will walk in.
“Errr… boss?” He peeks through the door and the three men give him their attention.
“Hey, you work for me, REMEMBER?” Buggy hollers but Mr. 3 waves him away. Striding over to the table, landing a file of documents in front of them.
Sir Crocodile’s forehead creases, that infamous condescending look etches across his face.
“And what's this?”
“It’s from erm… your lady.”
Mihawk lifts a brow and Buggy holds in a grumble.
Crocodile tilts his head, “My lady you say?” He takes the files in hand. He flips through the documents, gaze growing harder and harder, and the longer he reads the more perplexed he gets.
“what… what does it say?” Buggy tries to take a peek, but all he sees are words and numbers and lines blurring together.
The silence continues, heavy, deliberate—focused.
Crocodile looks up from the papers and Mr. 3 tenses.
“… she asked you to deliver this herself?”
“Er. Well Sir…” he clasps his hands together, “A messenger delivered it, they urged that it was sent to you immediately.”
“That was all?”
“All, sir.”
Crocodile straightens his posture, jaw clenched. Scanning the documents again.
“And?” Mihawk inquires.
“The resources have been delivered, assets secured and blackmails re-established. How? I’m asking the same thing.” He tosses the files back on the table.
It shouldn't be possible, especially not within two weeks—your blunder would have taken at least a month of recovery and yet…
For the first time in fourteen days, he returns back home. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Your heels left in disarray and the halls are lifeless. No smile, no greeting, no sight of you. A shallow, almost buzzing silence stretches on, the only sound is the dishwasher running, and the clock ticking by.
Making it to your chambers, he will find you sat by the window. Half-read letter in your lap, the white curtains fluttering as you daze out the view. A robe draped over shoulders and your hair, loose.
He says your name, low, intense.
And you turn to face him, the sound of paper crackling from your hands.
His shoulders tense at the sight of your face—dreary, colourless, grim. His eyes narrow.
“A letter?” You get to your feet, “Is that what I’m worth? What, for making a mistake?” The last sentence is more breath than words—restraining yourself from shouting at him.
When you received the missive, he had already arranged a boat for you back at your summer villa. Where you two had spent your honeymoon.
You had stared at the note, over and over and over again.
A letter.
Is that all you will get?
Is that how far his love for you went?
It was insulting if not disgraceful.
You wanted to toss it out the window, rip it to shreds and see to it burnt.
If he’s going to send you away, at least… at least you deserve to be spoken to like an equal instead of some sorry patient.
“What makes you even think you can decide that for me?” You pace across the room, anger slithering through your blood—hard, rushing. Your heart burning.
“Oh maybe you think I’m so useless you can’t even trust me to take charge of my own decisions, god Crocodile at this point you might as well just say it up front of how humiliating it is to have me be your lover.”
Your chest is bristling, fury creeping up your cheeks and there is a hot white noise drilling down your ear.
And Crocodile? He does not say anything, no. All he does is pluck a new cigar, and lighter clicking lit.
Your breathing gets stuck in your throat, making you scoff in disbelief.
You stomp over, rage gripping you by the reins and you slap the lighter out his hand, clattering across the floor and you seethe, “Am I that disappointing to you, you won’t even look me in the eye when you decide to send me away? What am I, your colleague?”
Tears stings your vision as you step away only for him to snatch you by the arm, and you push at him, pull at him, insult his name but he only hisses at you.
“Do you feel better now? Throwing a tantrum like a little brat? It’s—”
“It’s what!?” You cut in, eyes defiant. “It’s measly? Embarrassing?” Your voice crack. “Well I’m sorry then, that you’ve entangled yourself with someone so weak.”
“Is that what this is about? You got your feelings hurt?” His choice of words are sharp, cutting—cruel. You look to him, face hurt and he feels himself regretting it but the damage is done. And your eyes grow cold.
“Yes.” Your voice shakes. “Can you imagine? The lover of an ex-warlord got her feelings hurt over a bit of critique, how unsightly.” You stop your pushing and squirming. Tears you so desperately wished to hide, spills down your cheek.
The letter still crumbled in your hand.
“I—” you try and bite down the words but it’s pointless. “I’ll leave. I’ll go. Since I’m not needed.”
Your chin sinks, your shoulders drop and for a moment—you two remain silent. You’re not sobbing, not hiccuping, you simply let the tears stream down your face.
All the weeks spent scribbling and calling and running back and forth has taken its toll on you—and at last, you cannot keep going. There is no strength left in you to fight, to scream and protest. You simply slump.
Sir Crocodile still has his grip on your arm, loosening, just slightly. Until his jaw clenches, teeth gritting and he tugs at you hard and firm. “Look at me.”
You shake your head, hand going to your face when you feel it getting too much.
His hook goes to your chin, cold metal making you tense—and gently, so gently, he makes you look at him.
You may act tired, angry; shouting and yelling at him as your patience has met its end, but he sees you for what you truly are — Hurt.
His lips presses and his eyes are dark, quiet, not unreadable but guarded. For the first time in a long, long while, he’s forced to meet softness like a candle flame, and not by hook and violence. He sees it; he sees you. The flame small, little—sensitive. Too harsh, too cruel and the fire lashes out, only to flutter, growing weaker and weaker.
It needs softness, it needs gentle hands and kinder words. A deal too paramount for a man like him... and yet...
His head tilts down to you, voice low and gruff.
“—Stay.”
The word leaves his mouth like a secret, and for once, his formidable and prideful walls, scatters. Crumbling like desert sand. It’s rough, coarse but beneath his armour there is something inexplicably tender, soft, and sincere.
Witnessing it, you catch a soft gasp of air.
“They were talking at the tent. I only wished you wouldn’t hear them… but I shouldn’t have sent you away. A miscalculation, an error in my making. So stay, don’t...” he grits his teeth, “Don’t go.”
He won’t say it, won’t beg for it, but from a man of his stature; that is the closest to an apology you’ll get. It’s rugged, unsaid and rasping—but it’s there.
It’s presence more closer than ever, like a warm breath against your skin, a ghost slithering their fingers with yours.
“Cross Guild will resume position, and it’s thanks to you. Your hard work paid off… I'm proud.”
Your lips wry, the letter slipping from your hands.
You let yourself shatter into him, clutching onto his chest like he’d soon turn into dust and he takes you close.
“I need you, here.” he adds the last part rather quickly. Still holding onto the facade of caution but you see him, know him.
You press deeper into him. His arms strong, firm, coming to hold you like a prayer.
Not once planning to let you go.
Summary: He won’t say the words “I am sorry, I did not mean it.” but you’ll see a vase of your favourite flowers on your desk. Find a necklace of pearls by your bed, and even your expensive perfume bottle refilled. He’ll make it up to you with gentle favours. Washing your hair in bath, securing your deliveries himself. No words, no grander gesture but the message is there. Unsaid yet paramount and present. And that holds more weight than any worded apology ever could.
Trafalgar D. Water Law
Law is a surgeon and a doctor, captain of the crew and a skilled fighter. He’s earned his reputation, and you’re not jealous over him for it—but it can be difficult standing next to Law and not feel somewhat inferior.
That fact stands apparent when you mess up—it was supposed to be an easy task.
The Heart Pirates aren’t exactly a fighting crew, and Law is not the kind of person who holds weakness against his crew members; it was his job to protect them, to take care of them. Not the other way around.
He toiled himself training and studying for that sole purpose.
He’s a doctor, not a killer.
Perhaps that’s why it stung when you decided to play the bigger man.
You had one job, one—there was no need to go an extra length, no need to believe fortune favours the bold. Yet, you took the risk, you shot the chances.
It would’ve been fine if it was only your skin at risk, then it wouldn’t be such a big deal—but getting Ikkaku and Jean Bart hurt? Throwing away all of Shachi’s and Penguin’s efforts to keep you safe? Forcing Bepo to abandon post to aid you only for the submarine meet terrible, terrible damage?
And despite all this, whatever you were trying to achieve, it failed.
Nothing gained, nothing worth the damage.
Law doesn’t put blame on his crew mates—but there was a limit to how much stupidity he could take.
The battle ended, and a defeated silence hangs over the crew. Your friends are badly injured, Ikkaku and Jean unconscious from blood loss and Shachi and Penguin are picking up what little medicine and bandages they could save.
It’s a mess.
Fire and smoke from the Polar Tang.
Food, medicinal supplies and resources gone spoiled.
And you?
Like the cherry on top—you are left unscathed. The only one who isn't hurt, who haven’t lost any of their valuables; the only one who caused all of this ruckus. And all of the others had to pay for it.
Like twisting vines it gnaws at you, even as you hold the pressure over Ikkaku’s wound—the guilt storming into you like snow; festering you frozen, eating you cold. A hand lands on your shoulder and you glance, eyes teary, only to see Law behind you. “Move. I’ll handle this.”
“Law, I—”
“Let’s talk later.” His words are final and you move, letting him take care of your friend.
The day turn into evening; you say your apologies but no one blames you for it. Sure, some of them scolds you, only to laugh it off next second. Bepo still smiles and offers help, Penguin and Shachi still pass you encouragements and when Ikkaku regains consciousness, she’ll hold your hand and thank you for stopping the bleeding.
It makes your eye twitch—you rather have them yell at you, avoid sitting next to you; instead of acting like it’s no big deal. Your rashness put the whole crew in a blunder, and no one even thinks to blame you for it?
It feels fake, and underserving.
Once Law is finally out of the operating room, there’ll be darker circles under his eyes. His energy low and dreary, one that he insists will be fixed by some good sleep—but as captain, sleep is hardly given without being called to deck. Reparations are to be made, supplies restocked and a course need to be settled. Between this and that, there is hardly any time at all for you two to speak.
And once he catches you by the halls? You’ll freeze like a deer in the headlights and Law only narrows his eyes, cold, sharp—bare of affection. “Law about last time I…” you wry your lips. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”
“Done something so stupid?” His tone is flat and you stiffen and look to him.
“I didn’t mean to be a burden.” You say, voice firm. Fingers clutching your sleeves but Law only inclines his head. Sighing. You both know you weren't trying to be a burden, but that doesn’t mean you weren't.
“yeah, I know.” That’s all the consolation he gives, before passing you.
You whirl your head to him, wanting to say something more but the words stick to your throat.
What is there to say? What is there to fix?
The problem here isn’t him but you. You’re the dead weight. You’re the weakling.
You you you you—you.
A voice, soft almost sweet, makes it to your ear. “You’re an embarrassment. Too slow, too weak.” It slides into you like a cold silver blade. Pressing into your sides; dissecting you, tearing you over and under—making you lurch. Law is efficient, focused—precise. Everything you aren’t and you can’t stand it. Your friends are too kind, and Law is too perfect. The gap between you two deepens, one that you tear at yourself.
And like that, the spiral of self-hatred starts.
The repairs of the Polar Tang will take at least a month of proper fixing with the current funds—and the whole crew will be left restless throughout the days.
And Law? He’ll have to approve of the blueprints by the shipwrights, find work for the others, tend to Jean Bart’s wounds, and find the rest of his meagre spare time studying history and medicine.
He’ll be busy, too busy but not busy enough to not see the blisters between your palms and bandaged arms. He looks to you as you eat; tired eyes, colourless cheeks and stiffer smiles. It makes him pull his brows and frown.
“Hey.” He grabs your arm before you leave the table, “Where'd you get those?”
You blink, eyes heavy. “Just training.”
His brow quirks up at that: “Training?… that’s not like you.”
“And what does that mean?” Your voice harsh, insecurity gripping you, finding offence in his comment despite it being innocent. He gives you a cool, calm look. “I’m not poking at you. I jus’ don’t wanna see you burn yourself out. Get some rest for tonight, yeah?”
“… mhn, okay, I will.” You lie, giving him a soft smile and it convinces him. He let’s you go, completely unaware of what you’re doing by the training grounds.
The crew starts seeing less of you, you don’t partake in idle chatter or linger after your chores. During dinner, Bepo will glance around—asking Law if he’s seen you and the man notices it too. Skipped meals, less attendance and your mood grown snappier. And whatever it is—you refuse to talk to him about.
You’ll spend your nights beating yourself up over it, hands riddled with cuts and bruises, your body sore and tender as you get yourself up from the ground. And even then, you hear the voice from before tell you: “Not good enough. Still too weak, still too slow. A burden.”
Days turn into weeks, and Law will note how you no longer wish to sleep next to him. It was in the midst of his studying, 03:00 and there is still no sight of his girl.
Closing the book, he goes to find you.
The night is dark, and your trail runs deeper into the forest. Law didn’t know what he was expecting to find when he came to search for you, maybe fixing some money for the repairs, or just going on a late night walk, anything but the sight he sees before him; one that makes him freeze mid step.
Crumbled on the ground, hunched before a stone wall riddled with cracks and crevices.
You were heaving, gasping. Knees scraped, palms blistered and muscles on the edge of tearing.
You hurl yourself up, wiping sweat from your forehead before trying again, and just before you could swing another punch, he calls out your name. Harsh, strained—angry.
But you do not hear him, your mind is at daze and the only focus is to fix whatever that is wrong with you.
You keep moving, swinging—hurting yourself.
And for each reckless punch, he gets more pissed off than before.
“Hey—” He stomps over, mud squelching down his boot but you don't stop. Each stride closer sets the rise of heat in his chest; bristling, hot and rushing.
He says your name and you still don’t care.
Blood cracks from your knuckles, and skin slick with sweat. You go for another swing, another slam—and Law has had enough.
He snatches you by the shoulder, his hand hard on your elbow, pulling at you but you don’t stop. Your fist keeps hitting the stone walls, punches leaving stains of blood and Law practically tears you off from there.
“Let go!” You fight him, thrash against him but he does not give you the chance to flee.
“Let go—”
“Enough!” He hisses, turning you to face him. Your face is streaked with tears, dirt sticking to your cheeks and lips dry and cracked.
“Law—”
“Don’t you ‘Law’—me; the hell are you doing!?”
His grip on you is unrelenting, fingers digging into your flesh and you gasp, trying to squirm yourself free but it’s no use.
Your teeth grit, not being able to meet him in the eye.
“Let go!”
"Why should I!? I don’t know what you think you’re doin' tearing yourself into pieces like this but this stupidity ends here.”
You shake your head, jaw clenching. Wrist attempting to pull themselves free but it’s useless. His hold on you is iron and you grimace.
“Get off of me, this doesn’t concern you. Not in the slightest.”
“Hah?” At that, his patience snaps. “This doesn’t concern me? You’re breaking yourself apart and I’m supposed to jus' not give a shit? Who the hell do you think you are to me?”
“What does it matter! Just leave, go!” Your voice shakes—your chest burning with such intensity you swear your heart will combust.
Anger, fury, fear and embarrassment cooking itself into a brine, hatred coming to boil. You don’t want him here, you don’t want him to see your failed attempts to fix your faults, your deprecating tries to adjust your mistakes. Call it rash, call it stupid but gods be damned if you let him witness anything more.
You kick at him, scream at him—insult his name and bearings. You push and slam against him.
And Law only clenches his jaw, his grip on you slips, and before you know it; you are pressed against the wall.
Being pushed against the hard stone knocks the words right out of you, he holds your wrists, locking them by the sides of your head. You twist and you turn but it's no use.
“Hey, calm down will you!?”
You wince and he presses you harder against the wall.
“Talk to me, tell me what’s going on.”
“No.” You bite back and Law clicks his tongue.
“Dammit, must you be so stubborn!? Lower your pride for once, can't you see it’s breaking you?”
“You don’t know anything—”
“Then let me know.” His grip on your grows softer, voice turning pleading. “I’m here aren't I?”
And you catch your breath. His breath hot on your face and you shudder. Feeling impossibly weak.
“You’ll find me stupid.”
His eyes narrows, “Then you don’t know me.”
“You’ll deem me weak.”
“I don’t care.”
His hold on you tighten and your heart crashes, your cheeks burning red and your knees weaken. Jaw shaking, unable to formulate anything properly as your insecurity shatters you whole.
The weeks spent battering yourself into breaking, the times you’ve toiled your body over and over again with not so much a rest—makes you crack.
Crumbling into a sobbing, whining, mess.
Law’s hold on you grows softer and softer still—hands on your wrists loosen and you immediately cup your face. Blood from your knuckles mixes with the tears streaming down your cheeks and you whine.
“I’m sorry.” Is the first and the only thing you can think of saying. You start hiccuping, the restrained sobs getting to you. “About getting in the way. Had I not… had I not weighed you down, then none of it would have happened.”
His brow’s eases and he reaches for you but you shift your head away.
Feeling such embarrassment.
“ I don’t want… I don’t want to be your burden. Unlike you I’m useless, a measly idiot that no one needs and it’s humiliating.”
He tenses, eyes growing sharp. “Is that it? Is that why you’re tearing your muscles and body apart because you think yourself weak?”
“I am weak, that’s a fact—”
“Don’t give me that crap.” He grabs you hard by the shoulders, almost wishing to shake some sense into you. “Say what you want but hurting yourself to undo the past isn’t going to help, and I don’t care if you think you’re useless; I need you. I need you. So… stop.” He says, more breath than words. His hold on your shoulder weaken, and he slumps into the crook of your neck. Pulling you close and hard.
“Come with me. Lemme’ help you.”
And you shudder, your hands creeping onto his shoulder blades. Tugging him like he’s the sole thing in this world that makes sense. You nod, humming.
And Law does not let you go.
Summary: He carries you on his back, and the silence between you two is not awkward, not strange but resting. Soft. The crackle of branch and leaves sends you into a quiet slumber, and once back; Law does not wake you up, no. He wipes your face, cleans your wounds, carefully, methodically, so not to startle you awake. And once done, Law tucks you into bed. When morning comes you’ll find his arms wrapped around your waist. As if to tell you he won’t see you go, and will always need you close.
Donquixote Doflamingo
Ah, it’s difficult isn’t it?
Having a narcissistic flamboyant peacock doting on you can feel a lot like a game of fire. Close and steady, and he’ll be all warmth and softness, much like candle-wax but if you aren’t careful, it will be no one but your own fault for getting burnt. And this time, you got more than just a few burn marks—this time you met with something far worse.
Your job was nothing physical, nothing dangerous.
It was all running schedules, dispatched funds and messages delivered. And still, you somehow managed to mess up.
By a dark alley, you had been threatened. A gun to your head, a figure demanding information only the Executives should know about—and sure, you relented but you’re not your lover, you’re not hard and enduring and resilient, you’re just… you. You had been beaten blue and like that—blackmails lost, funds gone to waste and assets stolen.
It compromised the Family’s safety and the Officers assigned positions.
And It’s not that Doflamingo is unforgiving within the realm of mistakes, if his family couldn’t fulfil a task then it’s only his fault for overestimating their abilities. A pretty little sorry always works as a ticket for his forgiveness and with you, a soft peck on the cheek did just as fine.
But there is only so much weakness and stupidity he can have patience for.
He was lenient on you, too lenient and it finally paid its price.
The air in the throne room is stale. Standing at the centre, your hands clutched together as Doflamingo sits by the window seat. And he wasn’t frowning or shouting at you, no right now, he’s worse than that.
He’s quiet, too quiet.
No cocky smirk, no mocking tone—just silence. Nudging his brow and his face is grim. Veins bulging on his forhead like they’re ready to pop.
Your chest tight, and your shoulders rigid—And his eerie, almost suffocating silence doesn’t help.
Eventually, you gather the courage to speak up.
“Doffy, I’m sorry… I didn’t know what else to do, I tried I did.” You flail out your hands, “I know I should have just tried harder, I’m sorry.” You inch near, hand on his shoulder and when he looks to you.
“Ah. You’re sorry.” His tone is mocking and you freeze.
He takes your hand, his fingers rubbing yours. “And what would you have me do with your ‘sorry’?”
You blink as a jolt of pain spikes up your throat; he’s wrapped strings around your neck. You try and jerk away but to no use.
“D-Doffy…?” You wince, but Doflamingo doesn’t care. Instead he grabs your wrist.
Hard and firm.
“I’m disappointed, nah, disappointed is an understatement—I’m beyond that now.” The hold on your throat tightens, and you choke. Knees slumping to the floor.
“It’s one thing to mess up, it’s another thing to betray the Family because of a gun to your head. Now, Vergo walks on ice and Sugar’s ability almost came into light… And what’s worse, it was for nothing. The blackmails gone, hostages escaped and weeks of planning gone to waste. For someone so pretty, you’re also the most dense idiot I’ve ever crossed.”
“I—” You try and tell him how it really went but there is no point. The strings only pull harder against your skin, making you gasp.
Spit drooling down your chin.
You were choking. Literally speaking. Your vision going in and out, your face staggering from pale grey to blue—and before he does something he’s sure to regret, he snaps the strings away.
The newfound air feels like priced sand. It’s dry, it’s coarse but you take it anyway.
You’re wheezing, gasping—never has he been this cruel, this violent with you before and it makes you shudder.
For the first time since you met him; you were afraid. Truly afraid.
Just barely, you manage to look up to him.
Veins were bulging above his brows, his jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “Cleaning your mess have taken plenty of my patience. So get out.”
You feel yourself run cold, your heart stings.
But there’s no point pissing him off even more now, so, like the used up rag you are, you fumble to your feet, weak and heavy as you make it out of the room.
You dragged yourself to the bathroom, staring at your neck in the mirror. The purple marks faints into grey, and your hands are starting to shake.
It’s going to bruise.
And not only that; it’s going to swell.
Testing your voice makes you hold back a cry.
You could saunter to Mansherry, but with your latest blunder, you hardly think Giolla will allow a visit. For the time being, you won’t be able to speak for awhile.
For a moment, you let it all sink in.
Even when you witnessed his cruelty outside your relationship—that surging violence, that twisted temper and that viscousness of a demon was something that sat distant from you.
You where doted on, spoiled rotten like a pampered pet.
He only hurt those of no value to the Family, he only discarded people like trash were they of no use—and somehow you believed yourself immortal from it.
But now?
Almost passing out from suffocation? Your neck swollen purple, unable to speak without spiking pain?
That act of violence, the mark of bruises proof that for a split second; Doflamingo saw you lower than dirt.
You whimper, hand to your neck.
You feel like such a fool, such an idiot. Had you only kept your mouth shut and taken those beatings without a cry, then you would not be here—feeling like a useless lump of flesh.
When night comes, the bed will be empty.
The shadows casting over the furniture feel somewhat sharper and once under the blankets, you will feel cold. Despite the heaters being on, despite it being summer, your skin still shudders. And you know it’s not just warmth your body longs for, no, it’s him. It’s always him.
You want to tiptoe out of bed and find him, talk to him, cling onto him, and feel his heat radiate into you. But his absence is an answer in itself so you only turn over.
Hands clutching your stomach, as you try and keep the sobs down so not to strain your already swollen throat but it’s no use. You wheeze out your cries, gasp out your whimpers—and Doffy won’t be there to hold you close.
The lower ranks of the Donquixote family are starting to talk. They know better than to mutter about you in a careless manner but jokes of your name sometimes passes. Loud and drunk and other times careful and hushing.
Never within earshot of the Executives, and never, never in Doflamingo’s presence. The first time it crossed his path, became its last. The idiot suffered their fate by a cut up face and it was only then Doffy realised he couldn't have you strut about the palace halls… at least for a while.
Not until things cooled down since your latest fiasco, till then—a pretty little birdcage should suit just fine as punishment.
Waking up, you realise something strange.
There are books, expensive paint, brushes and pencils by the coffee table, tons of them. And breakfast. And a canteen with lemon water. You stride to the door but it won’t budge. You slam against it, jerk and hit but it’s no use. It’s been barricaded from the outside.
You start screaming for someone to open but there is nothing.
You stagger away from the door, not truly realising what is going on.
You test opening the windows and it is as you feared.
They remain frozen shut.
Every possible siren in your head is going wild—and in a haste you grab something blunt, something heavy and toss it against the windows. The glass shatters but the object you threw does not make it outside, no.
It bounces back onto the floor.
… that’s not normal.
You inch near the window, squinting you see something glint. Small, impossibly insignificant and yet as you get closer, you see it for what it is. Strings.
Barring you from escaping your room.
“No way… he didn’t…”
Oh but he did. And you feel yourself getting nauseous.
You spot a note on the coffee table—pink and tiny.
‘Have a week to self-reflect, see it as… secluded vacation’
A dreary almost buzzing silence drills into your head as your reality starts dawning on you.
He’s caging you in here.
Like some misbehaving little pet, and that realisation feels like a punch in the gut.
Even as you bang against the door, even as you scream for his name—cursing it, belittling it—begging for him to let you out, your attempts are for nothing. No one hears or cares, and your lover certainly doesn’t. Your throat strains and chafes and you cannot take it anymore.
You bury your face in your hands.
You feel so stupid, so incredibly stupid it makes you angry.
The spite in you only grows, writhing through your blood until you snatch the files of documents from your drawer. Eyes drilling into the papers like you’re about to commit murder. Numbers and numbers and numbers running in your head.
You look to your right—the Den Den still works. You look to your left—you have enough ink and paper to make it happen.
You press your lips; you only have till next week.
Days pass and the times the servants checks up on you; you gradually grow bleaker and bleaker. You skip your meals, and even sleep starts to become tedious. You spend your nights, writing, calling, blackmailing and sending couriers to and fro with the secret help of Baby 5. After pleading with her, begging with her — she had relented, delivering messages and missives for you behind Doffy’s back.
And your mood starts to grow snappier, your temper unbearable and when a servant tries reasoning with your lover’s choice of confiding you in here—you toss pillows and books at their feet.
Despite this, Doffy still won’t seek you out. You can try and pretend otherwise but truly all you want is him.
You want to speak to him, talk to him, make things right again but he rather not see you. So beneath the anger, and fury and all the acts of defiance; you’re scared, hurt.
And it eats you up.
A week goes and Doflamingo is sat by the throne room; Trebol huffing something that completely eluded his interest. His patience was already at negatives and the reports delivering zero value isn’t helping.
He was tapping his foot, with Trebol being all up in his space, all boogers and snoot, Doffy’s temper was sure ready to snap at any second—until Baby 5 walks in.
“Young Master?” She pops her head in and the two men turn to her.
Baby 5 whips up a file of documents, “Young Mistress asked me to deliver this.”
“Oh?”
“Behe?” Trebol leans slightly forward, “Isn’t she still under house arrest—is there something you’re not telling us Baby 5~”
She snuffs her chin up, “Tch. A week has passed anyways so don’t accuse me of being sneaky, Mr. Boogers.”
“Beh! You’ll crush my heart if you keep going.”
Doflamingo tosses the former reports onto the table, grinning as he waves for Baby 5 to come closer. “Go on then, show me.”
Doffy takes the papers and when he looks them over, he frowns. He goes over the reports again and again and again before releasing a tiny scoff of amusement.
“And? Pleasing news I suppose, Doffy?” Trebol tilts his head.
“She’s reestablished the blackmails, resources and the information they extracted has been proved false—cheeky girl.” he leans forward in his chair, grin etched onto his face.
“Behe, In such a short notice?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Doflamingo gets up from his seat, “Take care of the rest for me, Trebol. A birdie told me she wants her wings set free.”
Doflamingo is a man of higher expectations; there is a reason he’s so self absorbed after all, so you cannot blame him to expect you running up to him, face lunging into his chest, sniffling and clingy like the little puppy you are.
So… you can only imagine how he feels when the door to your chamber creaks open, and there is nothing but a dreary, almost grim atmosphere cast across the walls.
The air is stuffy, the light is grey and by the far end, you stand there in your nightgown, your hair loose.
And when your face turns to him, there are no flushed cheeks, no tears and certainly no smile begging for his attention.
No.
You’re looking at him like he’s dead to you.
“fufu, darling, you look cheery.” He says, trying for a smile but you only frown harder.
“Don’t ‘darling’—me. The hell do you take me for?”
He flails his arms out, almost as if to invite you to drop this act and run into his arms already.
“Seems like your throat is all healed,” He tries a smile, “The medicine Giolla fixed worked then.”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Oh, yes sorry, should have let you know. I laced your water with a Mansherry special.”
He says it so casually you only let out a scoff. “Wow. I’m dating a psychopath. What did I even expect.” You say under your breath, the anger boiling even harder, hotter.
“Don’t be like that sweetheart, the past is the past, I’m here now aren’t I—”
He doesn’t know where you got it, but you throw a bottle past his shoulder. Sticky wine splatters across the wall.
Doffy glances back to you, not saying anything.
“Don’t give me that crap! Don’t you dare!!" You’re heaving, you’re frowning—you’re upset.
And Doflamingo inclines his head; what can he possibly offer to tempt your submission?
You start pacing across the room.
“Not when that simply only applies to you—you ignore me, you treat me like I’m ghost and then what? You lace my water with medicine, which by the way, is not something you can just skip over without letting me know—second—You lock me up in my own room! And not for a day, no, a whole week. Are you kidding me? What am I? Your pet? I probably am in others eyes—god I feel like an idiot!”
Your hands goes to your head, “I probably am, considering the fact I’m being treated like one! Yeah, I’m your little stupid puppet to play with and as soon as I even give you an ounce of disappointment, that’s when I get tossed into the closet like a toy who’s lost its glint!” You whirl your head to him, pointing to your chest, “Well I’m sorry Doflamingo; I’m sorry I cannot be perfect on the clock, truly, so, so, very, sorry.” You mock him with.
Tears you’ve so painstakingly tried to hold back starts streaming down your face and you quickly go to wipe them.
Doffy tilts his head down, “Is that what this is about? You’re upset over your punishment?”
He has that tone; that tone when he’s being condescending, when he’s looking down on someone. A tone he’s never used on you, or so you must have believed.
You catch your breath, trying to stop yourself from sobbing. “Don’t speak to me like that! Like I’m some child!”
A corner of his lip jerks a bit, “Don’t you think you’re acting like one?”
You let out a scoff, tears of disbelief as you fist your nightgown. “You’re being cruel.”
And at that—he snaps.
“Cruel? Why you possibly wound me calling me cruel.” He stomps over to you and you brace yourself to be slapped across the face but instead he grabs your shoulders. Hard, firm—desperate. “You’re the one who got herself in this situation—”
“Me?” Your lips start quivering, “What have I done wrong, except for trying my best?” Your voice breaks, the sobs spilling out of you like a dam. “You’re horrible. You’re the worst and I hate this.”
His grip on your shoulders tightens, “Hate this?” He leans down, “You hate me?” He says it almost as if for once he's hurt. And you wince, curling into yourself.
Head moving away from his. “Please let go.”
For a moment, there is a stiff, stiff silence between you two. The kind of silence that’s heavy, tight. Like strings pulling onto one another, turning it over and under till it suffocates, teetering you both to the core of this wound, this pain beneath it all. And when that happens, only then does Doflamingo dare to slip off his mask of arrogance and self-worship—his voice unusually restrained. As if trying to be as gentle, and as kind as possible.
“You compromised the Family.”
“I said I’m sorry—”
“Shut up and listen to me for once woman.”
You catch your breath.
“They were talking, the lower ranks. Called you… not such nice things.” He leans in, trying to catch your eyes. Finger going to the point of your throat, still tender after him choking you. “And you wouldn’t be able to speak up for yourself.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
“No.” His brows pulls at that, “but I am.”
“What?”
“That you’re here.” His nose brushes with yours, “When they brought you back after that assault from the alley, you were all bruised up. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I was angry, so angry I couldn’t do anything to keep you safe. You made me feel so powerless and I hated it.”
He cringes having to admit that, and immediately slips on a small grin, leaning back. “There. I’ve said it. Are you satisfied?”
And at that, you break free from his grip—with all the fury, all the anger finally boiling over; you slap him across the face. Hard. Sizzling. His sunglasses crashing against the floor tiles.
For a moment, it is silent between you two.
A heavy, almost imperious silence.
His cheek starts stinging red, a hot vibrant colour as he faces the direction you hit him.
You heave, you pant—it takes everything in you not to give him another one.
When he finally looks to you—you slap him again. And he let’s you.
“You’re horrible.” You seethe, cheeks burning from all the anger in your heart. “You’re horrible, and controlling, and cruel beyond no means.”
You go to slap him again but this time he catches your wrists and you push, squirm and pull.
You start to insult him; all of him. His name, his bearings, his love that he gave you. And as you hammer him with every disgraceful mockery and slander, you both start walking back—knocking over vases, tea cups, glasses, paper and books. And Doffy takes it with nothing but a hard scowl on his face.
The sound of porcelain crashing, glass splintering and ledgers bouncing off the carpet; it is the only thing you can hear between your insulting and hitting and pushing, eventually you both hit the edge of the bed.
And when you topple over him, only then do you start crying, hard and raw. Banging and slamming your fist onto his chest.
“You’re the worst of the worst.” You mewl.
He scoffs a little, grin etching onto his face. Cupping your head as you keep crying.
“You’re scum, filth and everything wrong in this world.”
“Yes; I am what you say.”
“And you—” you hiccup, “And you hurt me. You choked me. You strangled me and you hurt me.”
At that, his lips trembles trying to keep his grin still slipped on his face but it’s useless.
“I did.” He pulls you deeper into his embrace. “And I’m sorry.” He breathes.
You tug onto his shirt, still buried into his skin. “You’ll have to do more than just sorry.”
Doffy shifts his head at that, turning you both over the bed so his forehead grazes yours.
You stare into his eyes—no glasses, no grin, just him. Raw and unfiltered. Vulnerable and exposed. “Want me to beg? I’ll beg.” His voice is a soft whisper, unbearably so.
And you hiss. Clutching onto his shirt.
“You better get to work.”
Summary: And he will. He’ll want you to look at him, hold him, and berate him all the more and he’ll take it. For you, was there ever any other choice? For the next coming days, gifts upon gifts upon gifts will appear by the hall ways — and though you still scowl at him; a part of you softens, eases. Falling back into his drug thst you call love once more.
Roronoa Zoro
(This was so hard, I can’t see Zoro being moody when his s/o messes up, especially after apologising. I mean he has Luffy and Usopp around him 24/7—so i’m sorry if it came out chopped)
You couldn’t have done anything to prevent it—but maybe, if you only held your guard up and stood firm, none of this would have happened.
A battle had broken out, and the crew had gone against an enemy. Robin got hurt protecting you, and her arm started gushing blood. You panicked, hand flying to catch her but Zoro pushed you away. “Move.”
“But Zoro, Robin— I—”
“You’re just gonna get in the way, so go.” And like that, he stuffs Wado Ichimonji to his mouth, and parry the incoming attacks. His tone was curt, short—it makes you feel weird, but you take Robin and go.
After the battle, you are on your knees, and the whole of the crew is looking. Everyone is battered and tired and only Nami has the energy to scold you.
“What were you thinking!” Nami paces across the deck “You could have gotten yourself killed, which you would have if Robin didn’t save you!”
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to get in the way.” Your chin is low, eyes not meeting.
“Nami…” Robin waves her off, “It’s fine. It’s just a gash. I’m just glad she’s safe.”
Nami sighs, hands on her hips. “You need to be more careful, putting yourself in that situation isn’t wise.”
“But I—”
“Nami’s right.” Zoro was leaning against the wall, and he pushes himself off of it. He strides over, looking down on you. “If you can’t fight, then stay out of it. We can’t all babysit you.”
“Zoro!” Nami cuts in but you shake your head. Getting to your feet. “Yeah. You’re right, sorry.”
You don’t wait for their reply as you leave.
Nami and Robin glances to one another, worried.
“Hey. Why did you have to word it like that? She’s your girlfriend, go after her!” Nami slaps Zoro on the shoulder but he gives her a look, their voices starting to fade out as you walk away from them.
“It’s true and you know it, we can’t coddle her or else she won’t learn.”
“She’s not a child!”
“No, exactly.” He says, short, firm—final. That’s his reasoning for not comforting you, and he leaves you to your misery.
Later in the day, you’ll catch Zoro by the halls and you freeze at the sight of him. He tilts his head at you, saying your name so casually it almost feels wrong. “Been looking for you, you good?”
You press your lips, knuckles clenched. Eyes darting as you try and find the words, and the courage.
“Do you… do you really think I’m weak?”
Zoro blinks, “Hah?”
“From before, do you really think I’m weak?”
He lets a sigh out from his chest, striding over to you and places a palm on top of your hair. “In combat, yes.” His words stings your heart. “—but we all have our strengths. You do what I cannot do, and I do what you cannot do. A fair trade, yeah?”
“… Yeah.”
He gives you a small smile, ruffling up your hair. “I’m gonna help Usopp with something, so don’t stay up for me. It might take awhile.”
His words should reassure you, should make things right again—but for some reason, you feel even worse.
You glance behind your shoulder, watching your swordsman leave. The only sound are his boots thudding down the halls, drifting further and further away, and the aching knowledge that you serve no true purpose cleaves you open. Your confidence wilting, your ground turning into mud as you sink into self-hatred.
When days start to pass, you pretend everything is fine. You try to be cheery; you laugh at their jokes and resume with their banters, but deep down—you feel wrecked. You feel like deadweight, like a piece of limb that no one needs.
When night comes, you always sit up a bit later than everybody else, noticing everything wrong with you. And Zoro won’t be here to hold you, console you—whisper lazy praises in your ear, no. Ever since that day, he’s withdrawn from you. Training or napping on his own.
It makes you feel unwanted, unneeded. And maybe you are.
Everyone has a role in the Strawhat pirates, everyone has their unique set of strengths and abilities but what about you? You cannot stand your ground, you cannot even keep your guard up to save your friend.
What makes you think you have the right to be around them? What makes you think you even have the strength to keep up with them?
An aching, almost devastating feeling makes it to your stomach, one that makes it hard for you to breathe. Clutching your waist, you see it clearly now; how silly you have been. There is only one way for you to fix this—to fix you.
The crew starts seeing less of you, vanishing behind training halls and though they try and encourage you, it falls on deaf ears.
And with Zoro, you start avoiding him like he’s the plague.
You talk to anyone who isn’t Zoro, stand next to anyone who isn’t Zoro and you make eye contact with anyone who isn’t Zoro. In truth, it makes him clench his jaw, grit his teeth but he won’t say anything.
Only when you start looking bleaker, wearier, as if you’re not sleeping enough and no one can truly pinpoint why, does Zoro reach out to you. Sitting close during dinner.
You stiffen when he leans in, eyeing your bruised arms hidden between the bandages.
“Oi, where’d you get those?”
You shrug. “Don’t worry, just er... Experimenting.”
“Experimenting?” He cocks a brow and you take your plate.
“Thank you for the meal Sanji!” And off you go.
Zoro is a laid back man, one who watches, observes and then takes action. He isn’t necessarily one who plans but rather assesses the situation before landing his strike. And he does just that with you; how you hide your bruises and blisters away, how you scurry away during free time only to return distant and exhausted.
He’s patient, he let’s you have your distance but there is only so much cold-shoulder he can take from you before he eventually snaps.
The crew was partying; drinks, food, loud music and good company and even then, you don’t linger for long.
Your plate is left untouched, unwanted. Luffy looks to you, “Not eating that?” He says, mouth stuffed and you shake your head. He finishes it for you, and when you leave, he munches as he looks to Zoro.
“Hey, shouldn’t you talk to her.”
He twitches, “Nah.”
“Why?”
“Just not in the mood.”
“Okay I see.” he stuffs another bite. “But you really should though.” He says, before gorging into another piece of meat.
And Luffy’s right. Zoro should go talk to you but its you who’s avoiding him despite his effort.
You’re the most complicated woman he’s ever met and it pushes him on the edge.
He returns his attention to the booze, drinking, and drinking, and drinking. Zoro doesn’t get drunk, but this time, he might have had a little bit too much as he gets up to his feet—staggering his way to find you.
He finds you by the training grounds, staring at your blistered palms.
There is a quiet sadness in you, one that can be found with how your shoulders are slumped, your eyes low and posture dipped. He approaches, low… and steady. Eyes on you.
And when you hear gravel cracking, turning to him—he halts.
Your eyes are swollen, cheeks are wet and your hands are torn.
He says your name, slow, careful. “What is this? What are you doing?”
He takes a step forward but you take a step back. You bite your lower lip, clenching your ruined hands closed but you don’t care about the pain. “Nothing that concerns you, so you can leave.”
“Hah?”
You turn away, “What is it that’s so hard to understand? I want to be alone.”
“You don’t mean that. Look at you, you won’t even face me when you lie.”
“I’m not lying,” you speak over him, knuckles straining. “It doesn’t concern you, not in the slightest, so don’t pretend to care when you don’t.”
He strides over, each step more pissed off than the last and you gasp as he snatches you by the wrists.
“I don’t care? You’re the one who’s been giving me the cold shoulder for the past weeks, so don’t give me that crap!”
“It doesn’t matter, and it especially doesn’t matter to you. After all I just get in the way, don’t I?”
“What are you talking about—”
“Just leave me! Go! I don’t care. I’m not a child who needs to be coddled after all.” You wince, trying to squirm away but he won’t let you. His grip is iron. “Is it about last time? Really? You’re still hooked up on that? Don’t be stupid—”
“Yes! I’m stupid, and I’m weak, and I am just a burden. I mean seriously, what more needs to be stated.” You whip your head away, refusing to meet his gaze and for a moment, he stops.
He lets you go, and you take your space.
“I upset you.” He says it as a fact and your chin drops even lower. He sees your hands, and takes them in his, looking them over.
They’re torn; covered in blisters and cuts.
He sighs inwardly, looking to you. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” And only then do you manage to meet his gaze.
“No, you did. And that’s what’s breaking me.” your voice shakes, “I’m not like you or the others. I don’t serve a purpose, I don’t…” you try and swallow the words down but it’s pointless. “I don’t make a difference. Here or not here.”
You want to take your hands away, but Zoro’s grip on you is hard, unrelenting. “… You really believe that?”
You look away, but gently, carefully, he takes you by the chin and makes you meet his eye. His gaze is dark, focused and solely set on you.
You feel yourself growing smaller under him but when he leans in, you catch a waft of alcohol from his mouth.
And that is when you see it—his cheeks are lightly coloured, not much, not a lot but it’s there, and his hands are clammy, warm. Almost too warm.
“… Are you drunk?”
“I want you here.” His voice rasps, low and quiet. You catch your breath.
“Zoro—”
“—I need you here” He presses his lips onto you and cups your head from behind. His kiss is clumsy, stupid, and utterly needy.
“H-hey—mffh”
“Stop sayin—... thinkin' stupid stuff.” You fist his sleeve and he kisses harder.
You step back only so you can breathe.
“I’m sorry.” He kisses you again, “I’m sorry.” And again and again. Apologies and kisses mixed all in between, your head growing dizzy.
“Zoro!” He only stops when you push him by the chest. You blink, you’ve known him for so long and you’ve never once seen this man even remotely close to being influenced.
“You’re tipsy.”
“Because you’ve been avoidin' me, and I couldn’t stand it.” He says, drunk and foolish.
He clutches your arms hard, firm—desperate. “I want you, need you, anything that comes with you; I want. So...” He lands his face on the crook of your neck, and his weight slumps into yours. “So don’t say that. You’re not weak, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”
You let out a breath, feeling yourself weaken under him. He wraps his arms around you, holding onto you like you anchor him back to reality.
The disappointment and anger and sadness you’ve once felt? All these weeks spent toiling and breaking yourself? All the days and nights you’ve sat up pointing out all your flaws and cons? The self-hatred building itself into a tower? It falls apart within his embrace.
You see your hands wrapping themselves around his back, clutching, tugging. Holding back your tears.
“You can be too nonchalant for your own good, Zoro.”
“… Mnh.” He digs his face into your neck. “Come back to the party. Come back to the ship. Come back to me. Just come back.” You hear him muffle into your skin and you feel tears stings your vision.
Zoro doesn’t beg, but for you? Maybe he can.
Summary: By the back of the ship, where it's just the two of you, he tends to your torn hands. Dabbing alcohol, wrapping bandages and kiss your temples. There is nothing more to be said between you two, nothing more but a warm hand locked onto yours. He won’t say it, but to him, it is a promise. To keep you close, to keep you near, to see you happy. A promise he makes, and a promise he keeps.
