Messing with Makino

Makino had always been good at making a room feel safe. It was a talent earned, not born with. You earned it by learning when to smile and when to get sharp; by knowing which drunk needed water and which needed a firm hand on the shoulder and a quiet, “That’s enough.” By knowing how to redirect a conversation before it turned ugly. By remembering that most men even the rough ones wanted to believe they were decent.

So when the young stranger walked up to her bar with a voice that was too loud and a posture that was too eager, Makino offered him the same thing she offered anyone new: a warm smile and an easy tone. Foosha Village saw travelers all the time. Foosha fed them, gave them a place to rest, then sent them back to sea with full bellies and a story about how nice the village was.

“Hi! I’m Tsujo,” he announced rather loudly. Makino only gave a light laugh, tilting her head in a friendly nod. “I’m Makino,” she replied, voice polite and warm as ever. “Can I get you something else, sir? Another round for the lady?” She glanced over at the gorgeous, very curvy and very scantily clad raven-haired woman at his table who was in the process of demolishing half her kitchen’s worth of food.

He leaned in over the bar and flashed a cocky grin. “Nah,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m more interested in what you’ve got back there.”

Makino blinked, unsure if she’d misheard the innuendo. There was a beat of silence between them. She decided to play it safe. With a practiced smile, she reached for a mug and offered innocently, “Well, we have a lovely berry cider... or perhaps some Shimotsuki sake?”

He stared at her. The silence stretched, her polite suggestion hanging awkwardly. Then, without another word, his hand came straight across the counter and landed firmly on her breast.

Her cheeks warmed, a blush creeping hot down her throat. She looked down at his hand cupping her through her blouse, then up at his face. He was grinning like a boy expecting a scolding and curious how it might sound.
“Well,” she said, making it a gentle joke, “that’s one way to say hello.”

His fingers flexed, testing the soft flesh of her breast, and her breath hitched again. He only grinned wider at her reaction. “Just checking the quality,” he said breezily, giving her a firmer squeeze.

Makino swallowed, willing her voice to remain even. “I… I see,” she managed to murmur. Somehow she made it sound lightly amused, even as her heart pounded. Inside, she was a storm of frustration. Not at him, of course, but at herself. She didn’t appreciate that her body was responding so desperately to such a routine touch; disliked the way her nipple was stiffening betrayingly under her blouse; was upset most of all that the weight of his palm made her ache, exposing just how long it had been since she’d been held like that.

In one sudden motion, he vaulted over the bar as if the counter were an invitation rather than a barrier. Makino turned to face him as he landed directly beside her, close enough that she could smell salt on his clothes and cheap ale on his breath. Close enough that his hips pressed into her, and she felt the hard, heavy line in his pants push against her stomach.

That was not a boy’s problem.

Makino’s eyes dropped before she could stop them. The bulge running along his thigh was… very large, the kind of shape that changed the way a woman’s body thought. It was embarrassing how immediate her reaction was: a hot pulse low in her belly, her thighs tensing as if bracing for something that hadn’t even happened yet. Foosha was usually so quiet, so domestic, full of ordinary men with ordinary lives.

Makino lived in a world where some men were born with arms too long for their sleeves, legs too long for their beds, torsos like barrels, hands like spades, proportions that didn’t apologize. You could meet someone who looked human until they stood up and filled a doorway. Bodies did not always respect modest scales. A “monster” physique, a ridiculous endowment, these things were not fairy tales but signs. Signs of will. Signs of trouble. Signs of someone whose life would not stay small.

She’d learned that lesson years ago from a red-haired pirate who had laughed too loudly and kissed too well and left too easily. Men like that did not fit quietly into a village bar. They swept through and changed the shape of things, even if only for a night.

"Sir? Did you need to use the wash basin?" she managed to inanely offer even though she knew full well he did not.

“No. Mind if I… get a better look at the bartender’s top shelf?” he joked under his breath as his hands went to the buttons of her blouse.

A flush of flustered heat ran through her. She managed a shaky, incredulous little smile. “Ah… I suppose a few buttons would be okay…” she whispered, her voice betraying a nervous tremor even as she tried to sound unconcerned.

He actually snorted in amusement. “A few buttons, huh?” he echoed with a grin. Without warning, he reached behind her back. Makino felt a tug and suddenly her white apron flipped up and over her head. In one smooth pull, he yanked the apron completely off of her and tossed it aside. It fluttered to the floor as he went back to her buttons.

By the time her orange blouse was hanging open, Makino was acutely aware of how many pairs of eyes were on her. “You are really pretty,” he murmured, almost as if in awe. His hands slid around her waist, and before she could respond he began undoing more buttons, one after the other down the front of her blouse.

Makino sucked in a tiny breath but didn’t stop him. Her mind struggled to catch up to what was happening, but piece by piece her clothes were being stripped away. It was, of course, normal for Tsujo to undress her, but it certainly wasn’t normal for Makino to be half-naked in the middle of her own establishment.

“That’s… a little more than a few buttons,” she said, flustered but not resisting in the slightest.

Tsujo just grinned, utterly shameless. “Yeah, I’m bad at counting,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “Don’t worry. I can do the math where it counts.”

Makino’s heart was doing its own math: counting the breaths that shuddered in and out of her lungs as his knuckles brushed the valley between her breasts, counting the seconds until she’d be topless. She stood frozen as he undid the final button. With a gentle push of his hands, the loose orange blouse slipped from her shoulders and down her arms. The thin fabric whispered over her skin and fell away, joining the apron on the floor.

“So, I’m… guessing this means you approve of the, ah… top shelf stock?”

"Approve? Sweetheart, I’m thinking of buying out the whole inventory."

The only thing left covering her from the waist up was a plain white cotton bra. Tsujo’s hands slid around her ribcage to the small of her back, and Makino felt the slight pinch of his fingers at the clasp. A little struggle, and the tension around her torso released. The straps went slack on her shoulders.

Makino gasped, a sharp intake of air. The white bra loosened and fell away from her chest. The undergarment dropped to the floor, leaving her completely bare above the waist in the middle of her own establishment. A rush of cool air caressed her newly exposed skin, puckering her nipples almost instantly.

“Oh my,” she breathed, voice trembling. “That’s… very thorough.” There was a faint, nervous laugh in her words, like she couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

Without the bra, her breasts settled naturally. She was still intensely aware of every single pair of eyes beyond the bar. Lewd old Nanba wasn’t even trying to hide his lascivious gaze. Her chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, nipples drawn tight by equal parts chill and mortification. She felt naked in a way that went beyond the lack of cloth. It was as though she had shed her role entirely; she wasn’t the modest, patient bartender right now. She was just a woman, half-nude and **** under hungry eyes.

“I usually prefer to keep it… behind the counter,” she managed to joke weakly, latching on to the smallest scrap of humor she could find. Her voice wavered as she gave a tilted smile. “Feels a bit strange having it all on open display.”

Tsujo’s lips quirked, his gaze devouring the sight of her bare breasts. “Yeah?” he murmured, leaning in so that only she could hear. “Looks like it belongs out here to me.”

Makino’s stomach flipped at his bold compliment. A bead of sweat tickled the back of her neck as she tried to muster some composure. Strange. Embarrassing. Exhilarating, a voice in her head listed off in equal measure. The shame of being stripped in front of everyone didn’t erase how good his hands felt as they cupped and kneaded her exposed chest. The steady pressure of his palms sent warm pulses through her breasts and radiating down her spine. He wasn’t what she’d call skilled, not the way an older man might be, but he was enthusiastic and utterly unselfconscious, and that did something all its own inside her.

Then the questions started.

“You got a man?” he asked casually, as if they were merely chatting over a drink.

Makino’s shoulders tensed hard. That question somehow felt more violating than his thumbs currently circling her tender nipples. She **** her expression to remain pleasant. That was what she did, after all and she almost reached for her usual, practiced answer: The bar keeps me busy. The village needs me. I’m content. She’d deflected polite probes about her love life with those same words for years.

Something in the air between them shifted when Tsujo said, “It’s normal for you to want to answer my questions honestly,” he said, as if ordering another round of drinks.

The polite dodge she’d been about to offer died unspoken on her tongue.

“No,” she found herself replying, the truth slipping out as simply as if he’d asked whether the ale was cold. “No man right now. No one waiting for me at the end of the night.”

Tsujo didn’t miss a beat. He slid one hand lower, fingers brushing the knotted tie of her long green skirt at her hip. In the same conversational tone, as casually as if he were asking her to recommend a snack, he asked, “How many men have fucked you?”

Makino’s eyes widened slightly. It was such a direct question, delivered with the boyish insouciance that reminded her of Luffy’s sometimes dense questions about otherwise sensitive topics. And that was the trouble, because Makino prided herself on being open and honest with the people she served. She felt a blush surge all the way to her ears, a hot wave of mortification rising not because he had asked, but because she knew, with sinking certainty, that she was going to have to answer it truthfully. Before she could even voice the number, there was a tug at her hip.. Tsujo’s fingers had hooked under the knot of her skirt and yanked.

Her green skirt fell in a rustling heap around her ankles. Makino gasped softly, reflexively pressing her thighs together as the cool air licked at newly exposed skin. Now she stood before him in nothing but a pair of simple white cotton panties.

The lewd question and the loss of yet another layer made her head spin. Faces flickered through her mind in rapid succession: clumsy village boys fumbling in the dark, grateful sailors whispering compliments in her ear, a few brief, intense flings that had burned hot and fizzled out before they could do any real harm.

And one man, long ago, who had left a ghost in her bed that lingered long after he’d sailed away.

“Ten, I think,” she heard herself say. Her voice was surprisingly steady given she stood there in nothing but her panties, pressed against him. “Some sailors passing through, a few villagers, and… one pirate.”

She put an extra little weight on that last word without meaning to: pirate. Memory tugged at her, threatening a wistful smile. Shanks. That had been years ago. Long enough that she could say it now without blushing herself out of her own skin.

Tsujo’s eyes narrowed slightly with curiosity. Makino saw him glance over his shoulder toward the dark-haired woman still obliterating plates of food, then down to the sword at his hip, and finally lower, to where the solid ridge of his erection was nudging insistently against Makino’s belly. She could almost see the comparison clicking into place in his mind.

Not a boy, her body decided before her brain could catch up. A young man. And very, very equipped.

When Makino looked back up and met his eyes, she felt a flush of genuine shame. Not for her nakedness, but for the hunger she knew was painted plainly across her face. It was entirely inappropriate. He was just a young man engaging in standard banter, yet here she was, staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a slack, wet mouth, practically begging for him to do more. She worried that her undisguised lust was sending him confusing, mixed signals, inviting him to cross lines that he hadn't even intended to approach, simply because her own body was so **** to be touched.

He seemed to sense it too. His hands slid down to seize firm hold of her backside, fingers digging into her soft cheeks, and he pulled her flush against him with a possessive strength. Makino’s breath caught as the rigid bulge in his trousers pressed harder into her lower belly. Without conscious thought, her own hips answered, grinding back with a slow, helpless rhythm. The soft mound of her panty-clad sex dragged against the coarse zipper of his pants in tiny rocking movements that still managed to send sparks dancing up her spine.

“Ten. Guess you know what you’re doing, then,” he chuckled.

Her cheeks burned even hotter at the insinuation, but shame now sat neatly beside a small, wry pride. Ten wasn’t a shocking number in a port town like this. It was simply what happened when you lived above a bar, when you were kind, and when you let yourself say yes now and then. Makino lifted her chin a fraction, meeting his grin with a faint smirk of her own.

“I am not a child, Tsujo,” she answered mildly. Her voice had regained a touch of its composure. “This is a port tavern. People get lonely. Things happen.”

He gave a low hum of approval. His grip on her backside stayed firm, guiding that slow, obscene little grind their bodies had fallen into. Makino’s nipples, now fully exposed to the open air, rubbed against the fabric of his shirt with every breath she took, pebbling even harder. She was acutely, painfully aware that nothing stood between her naked breasts and the world but Tsujo’s chest and beyond him, the not-so-subtle stares from the tables.

Then came the question that finally managed to fluster her beyond words.

“Do you jerk off?”

Makino actually flinched. Of all the liberties he’d taken, it was that blunt, shameless question that managed to feel like an icy splash of mortification. Her spine went rigid. The blush she thought couldn’t deepen found a way to burn even hotter.

“You ask very intimate things for someone I just met,” she managed to say. She tried to inject some reproach into her tone, but the words came out on a thin, unsteady breath. Worse, her body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that this was too far, her hips were still grinding slowly against him, as if her instincts hadn’t heard her mouth’s attempt at protest.

Tsujo’s mouth brushed her ear, his warm breath sending a tingle down her neck. He sounded annoyingly unbothered. “I’m just curious by nature,” he said with a grin in his voice.

Makino almost laughed, a short, incredulous bark of laughter at the absurd understatement of that. Curious, indeed. Her eyes darted away from his, searching for some gentler phrasing, some way to soften the truth of her private life. She wanted to give him something without outright admitting the embarrassing reality of her lonely nights.

“It’s normal for you to talk about sex with me on my level,” Tsujo murmured, almost as if he were encouraging her. “Plain and clear. Not all wrapped up in polite talk.”

In an instant, all the careful little niceties she used to keep such conversations civilized felt fussy and pointless. After all, he had already seen every inch of her. He was still holding her, still hard against her. Why bother pretending to be shy?

“Yes,” she heard herself reply, blunt and clear, as if he’d merely asked if the ale was cold.

His question had been a simple blatant Do you jerk off? and her simple “Yes” echoed loudly in her own ears. Before Makino could even feel properly scandalized at herself, his hands left her ass and slid to her hips. She knew what was coming next, could sense it in the heat of his intent, but her body still jolted when his fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties.

With a quick yank, Tsujo dragged the small cotton undergarment down over her hips. Makino choked on a gasp, a sharp, mortified sound that she caught behind clenched teeth. For an instant, her instincts screamed at her to cover herself, to slap his hands away, to drop behind the bar and out of sight. Instead of resisting, she lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out of the last stitch of clothing she owned in the room with a trembling, dainty grace.

Cool air met places it had absolutely no business touching in public. The soft curls of hair between her legs, the delicate folds of her sex, all were suddenly exposed to the open air (and, she realized with a fresh wave of panic, to the view of every old fisherman in the bar if they dared to look). Heat surged to Makino’s face so violently it made her dizzy. She was naked. Not in a bath, not under covers in the dark, not tucked away in some quiet cove, but here, in the middle of Party’s Bar, the tavern where she had served drinks and mended hearts for years.
And still she stayed.

She heard her own voice answering his next invasive question, heard the blunt, humiliating word answers leave her lips when he asked if she touched herself alone at night, and Makino realized she’d crossed an internal line she couldn’t uncross. If she was going to admit it, then she was going to say it all. No more soft petals over hard truth.

When she reached for a bottle and twisted around to pour an old regular a refill (almost on autopilot, her bartender’s instincts somehow still alive in the background), she was hyper-aware of every sensation. She felt the familiar worn wood of the counter under her palms, and the unfamiliar sway of her bare breasts as they brushed against it. The cool breeze across her exposed backside and between her thighs was unreal. Every simple step of service felt exaggerated: the stretch of her arm to reach a mug, the bend at her waist that inevitably tipped her naked rear out toward the tables. She filled Haru’s drink without meeting his eyes, convinced, in her paranoia, that she could feel them on the little mossy tuft of dark green hair between her legs, even as the poor man politely kept his gaze fixed on her face.

Tsujo pressed close behind her as she slid the foamy beer down the counter. As Makino leaned in so only he could hear, she began to answer him in a hushed rush, confiding exactly how she touched herself at night. The words felt filthy and strangely liberating on her tongue. Makino was not a shy girl in her own head. She’d always known precisely how she liked to be touched, what pace her fingers needed, how to push herself over the edge and how many times she could crest it on a lonely night. But saying it out loud, here, in her own bar, with a stranger’s hard body pressed against her naked back… That was entirely new.

“I lock up,” she whispered, her cheeks blazing as she spoke directly into his ear. “I go upstairs. I get under a blanket.” Her throat bobbed, but she **** herself to continue. “Then I shove my hand into my panties and rub my clit until I’m soaked. I use two fingers after that, slow at first, then faster when I can’t stand it. I keep my other hand over my mouth so I don’t make noise.” Makino dared a quick glance at Tsujo’s face. His eyes were burning, fixed somewhere far below her waist. She swallowed hard and added, almost inaudibly, “I fuck myself with my fingers until my legs shake and I cum hard. Sometimes I do it twice if I’ve been frustrated.”

She straightened back up, knees wobbling, her heart threatening to hammer its way out of her chest. She had never spoken such obscenities in the open air before. The moment the words left her, Makino slapped a professional smile back on her face, an instinctive shield against the eyes and ears around them. She snatched up the damp rag she’d been wiping with and resumed her task with brisk efficiency, as if this were just another ordinary moment at the bar.

“What makes you horny?”

Tsujo stepped in close behind her, pressing his front against her backside until she could feel the hard ridge of him through their clothes. It wasn't a tentative approach; he crowded her space with the same eager, bounding energy Luffy had when storming the kitchen. His hand didn't just slide along her hip; it dove right between her thighs, finding the slickness waiting there. He pushed two fingers deep inside her, and Makino felt her hot, wet walls clamp down instantly around the intrusion.

She let out a short, breathy laugh, half startled, half surrendering, her knees knocking together as he pushed deep inside her.

“Well, this…?” she choked out, her hips bucking involuntarily against his hand as he curled his fingers up, seeking treasure with a ravenous enthusiasm. “Ah… I guess.”

She leaned back into him, her head falling onto his shoulder, but her hands stayed on the bar, white-knuckled on the rag. Tsujo twisted his wrist, scraping her internal walls, churning up the heat inside her until she felt her own juices slipping out to soak her thighs. It felt less like a seduction and more like a feast, he was playing with her body with a joyous, messy intensity, delighted by every reaction he could wring out of her.

“But generally,” she went on, her voice trembling, hitching high every time he pumped his fingers with that cheerful rhythm, “it’s… nhh… a man who comes in hurt. After a fight. Bloody knuckles… oh god… split lip. That look in his eyes like they’re still halfway in it.”

She swallowed hard, her inner muscles squeezing his fingers in a rhythmic, milking motion that she couldn't control.

“I like cleaning him up,” she gasped, staring unseeing at the wood grain as he sped up the pace, snapping his fingers against a good deep spot with reckless abandon. “Washing the blood off… pressing cloth to skin… feeling them go… ah!… go still under my touch.”

Her laugh came again, breathless and wet. She was mortified by the sounds rising between them. The wet, liquid squelching of his fingers driving in and out of her, and the distinct slap-slap-slap of the base of his hand hitting her buttocks. It was loud. Too loud. Surely her regulars could hear the evidence of exactly how wet she was.

“They’re all wound tight with anger and pain, and I’m the one they let close. I like knowing I can calm them down. That I can make all that edge turn into… oh, fuck… turn into something else.”

Tsujo hooked his fingers, dragging them heavily against the sensitive roof of her pussy, and the sensation was blinding. She arched her back, grinding her ass into his crotch. The pleasure was building too fast, piling up like a wave she couldn't outrun. She tried to hold it back, tried to keep some scrap of dignity, but his rhythm was relentless.

“And yeah,” she added, her words rushing out blunt and **** now, syncing with the lewd, wet slapping sound coming from between her legs. “I think about them grabbing me after. Using that leftover fight on me instead of someone else. Hard hands… rough mouth… but careful where it counts. That’s… that’s what gets me…uh ah! -horny.”

Cummingcummingcummingcuuuuming!

The thought screamed through her mind, obliterating everything else. She shuddered violently, clamping down on his fingers one last time as the crest hit her, forcing herself to straighten just a touch to hide the spasm. Her smile returned like armor, shaky and flushed, even as he kept his fingers buried deep inside her soaking wet heat.

“There,” she panted lightly, though her legs were clearly trembling from the release. “That’s the answer. Now let me… let me finish wiping the bar before someone decides they need another drink.”

“How long since you’ve been last fucked.”

She stared at him, mortified by the loudness of the question, then glanced aside like she was calculating. Then she sighed, the sound half surrender, half amusement at his sheer audacity.

“A few months,” she admitted. “Not for lack of… offers.”

She saw his gaze flick toward the room, toward the regulars who were all pretending they hadn’t been watching him finger-fuck her behind the bar over the last few minutes.

Makino rolled her eyes, fond and exasperated at the same time. “Not them.”

She let out a shaky laugh, half nerves, half thrill, every twitch of her hips sending another ripple through her bare backside against his front.

Instead of relenting, Tsujo pulled his hand from her dripping sex with a wet squelch, only to trail those slick fingers upward. Makino froze, breath catching as she felt him glide the sticky digits between the cheeks of her ass. He stopped when his slippery fingertip rested against the tight, puckered ring of her anus.

Makino made a scandalized, high-pitched noise, her whole body jolting in shock. The involuntary jump only served to press her harder against that teasing finger.

“Have you ever taken it up the ass?” Tsujo asked casually, as if he were inquiring about the weather. At one of the tables, Nanba lowered his tankard and gave a raspy chuckle into his beer foam as if Tsujo had told a mildly risqué joke instead of openly probing Makino’s most private place.

Makino’s brain short-circuited. “No!” she blurted, mortified. Her face burning so hot she was sure he could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks. “No, absolutely not!”

“Shame,” Tsujo murmured. He didn’t remove his finger; he kept it there, lazily circling the rim of her untouched hole in a way that made Makino’s stomach somersault. “But we can circle back to that later.”

Tsujo didn’t give her time to react. He continued almost in the same breath, moving right along, “If it wasn’t these old fossils, then who was it? Who fucked you best, Makino?”

She felt relief as his wet hand slid away from her backside but now her mind reeled at the next question. Her most recent lovers flashed through her mind again, and the answer came with a pang of bittersweet memory.

“Shanks,” she whispered before she could stop herself. “Red Hair. Years ago.”

The name fell into the quiet of the bar and seemed to echo. Immediately, the grip Tsujo had on her loosened in surprise. Through the corner of her eye, Makino saw several of the old regulars straighten up in shock before hastily hunching over their drinks again.

Tsujo drew in a sharp breath. “You fucked him? Red-Haired Shanks?”

She half-turned her head, catching the look of awe and disbelief on his face. Despite everything, a small smile of fondness tugged at Makino’s lips. “He and his crew stayed here for months,” she said quietly, her voice softening as memories washed over her. “They drank, they sang… they kept the peace. He was kind to everyone.” Her eyes went a little distant. “Kind to me.”

Tsujo let out an incredulous laugh, as if he didn’t know what to do with this information. His fingers, still slick with her arousal, flexed against her hip. “He was, huh? So…” His tone shifted, a sly note entering it. “How big was his cock?”

She simply turned to look at him, a soft, indulgent smile playing on her lips. It was the most natural question in the world coming from him, a simple fact-finding mission born of competitive spirit. There was no shame in the asking. It was just Tsujo being Tsujo, wanting to know where he stood against a legend, and she found his transparency endearing, though she did flush and play at being upset, “You can’t just-”

“Sure I can,” Tsujo said, clearly enjoying her reaction. He cocked his head, a wild little grin on his face. “Come on, I’m curious. Great pirate, strong enough to tame the seas… what’s he packing?”

She wished she had the will to refuse, but honestly, part of her was amused by his sheer audacity. With a sigh of defeat, and a furtive glance to ensure none of the regulars were about to collapse from shock, Makino lifted her hands in front of her. She spread them apart to an approximate distance, hesitating, then adjusting a little wider. There. The truth, measured out wordlessly between her two palms, like a humble fisherman’s proud catch.

Tsujo stared at the space between her hands.

“That small?”

Makino’s cheeks puffed in indignation. Was he… was he disappointed?

“Small?!” she repeated, scandalized. The word burst out louder than she intended, and she punctuated it with a sharp shove to Tsujo’s chest. Of course, she was in no position to put real **** behind it; he barely rocked back an inch.

Tsujo burst out laughing. “Come on,” he teased, eyes alight with mirth. “He’s a legend! I thought he’d be walking around with a damn anchor between his legs.”

Makino’s outrage dissolved into a half-gasp, half-giggle of disbelief. She couldn’t help it, the mental image was kind of funny. “Not everything has to be a contest,” she muttered, pressing her lips together to hide an involuntary smile. She realized, distantly, that her hands had settled on Tsujo’s chest during her weak shove and she hadn’t moved them away.

Tsujo’s gaze dropped pointedly, drawing Makino’s eyes downward as well- to where his own considerable erection was still straining hard against his pants, now pressing into her lower belly. It was impossible to ignore; the thick shape of it was all but outlined through the damp spot of her juices on the fabric. Makino felt an involuntary thrill at the sight. She swallowed.

She lifted her eyes back to his and, though her face was still burning, she spoke softly, honestly. “He was… a man. He didn’t need to be a giant to make me feel good. He was just… Shanks.”

For a moment, Tsujo just blinked at her, processing that in silence. Makino held his gaze, her chest heaving with breath, wondering if she’d somehow broken the spell by mentioning that name with such affection.

Then, abruptly, a wicked, arrogant grin spread across Tsujo’s face. He looked positively giddy, like a man who’d just received the best news of his life. Makino felt his hands drift off her body, and for one heartbeat he simply stood there, no longer touching her, just looking. His eyes roamed slowly over the scene: Makino, completely naked and flushed behind her own bar; her clothes strewn carelessly around his boots, which were planted on them like that spot of floor now belonged to him; the entire room around them holding its collective breath, pretending this was normal. She saw the rapid rise and fall of his chest and realized his heart must be pounding as hard as hers.

She also saw the way he trembled slightly, how his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as if he was restraining himself. He looked half wild with exhilaration. Why wouldn’t he? Makino thought dimly. In a matter of minutes he had completely rewritten the rules of her world.

She expected shame or anger or regret to hit her in that moment he stepped back. Instead, she felt… strangely empty without his body against hers. Embarrassed, yes, her shoulders twitched with the urge to hunch over, and she had to fight the instinct to cover her breasts with her arms but also charged with a dangerous energy. The humiliation had lit a spark inside her that burned oddly bright. She realized she was fighting not to lean back into him. As absurd as it was, she already missed the solid heat of him at her back.

Her bar was dead silent aside from the the faint clink of someone setting down a glass. Everyone was studiously acting as though nothing earth-shattering had happened. Makino’s pulse roared in her ears. She felt lightheaded with adrenaline and arousal, and a treacherous, giddy part of her brain was already imagining what boundary he might push next.

For a moment, Tsujo simply admired her. His eyes shone with possessive pride, and something about that look sent a fresh hot jolt through Makino’s core. She bit her lip, realizing with a mixture of panic and thrill that a large part of her wanted him to keep going, to see what else he would dare do to her here in front of everyone.

“Another round over here, Makino!” a voice called out heartily.

Makino jumped. Daichi, the old farmer at the corner table, raised his empty mug with an overly innocent smile. The normalcy of the request and the determinedly casual tone almost made her laugh aloud.

Almost.

For a second, everything in Makino screamed no. Her arms twitched, longing to fold over her bare chest. Her knees threatened to give out and drop her behind the bar where no one could see. A tidal wave of shame rolled through her as she truly absorbed what she must look like: the reliable bartender Makino, stark naked and flushed, hair in disheveled green strands around her face, having just been pawed all over by a much younger man.

But the bar didn’t care about her shame. The bar still needed running.

Makino closed her eyes, drew in a slow breath, and gathered what remained of her dignity. She swallowed the lump in her throat, lifted her chin, and stepped out from behind the counter.

It was the longest walk of her life. Cool air slid over every inch of exposed skin, skin that had never known such public exposure. Each step made her acutely aware of the sway of her breasts, the damp slickness between her thighs, the way the floorboards were cool under her bare feet. She could feel the regulars’ gazes skittering over her in little stolen glances, each man trying (and mostly failing) to pretend he wasn’t looking at the naked woman crossing the room.

She passed Nanba’s table first. The old pervert was already grinning, eyes shamelessly glued to her chest, his own mug halfway to his lips.

“Now that’s what I call service,” Nanba crowed. “Foosha sure knows how to take care of a thirsty man, eh, Makino-chan?”

His hand twitched, starting to drift toward her hip, fingers a little too eager. Makino shifted a half-step sideways without even thinking about it, the same smooth, practiced movement she used to dodge spilled beer and grabby drunks. His hand closed on empty air.

“I’ll have you topped up in just a moment, Nanba-san,” she said lightly, smile fixed and professional, as if she weren’t naked at all.

At Daichi’s table, she bent to collect his empty mug. He kept his eyes firmly on her face, the picture of manners.

“Thanks, lass,” he said kindly, as though she were fully dressed. “Much appreciated.”

“M-my pleasure,” Makino managed. One arm started to drift on its own across her chest, an instinctive attempt to cover herself, but she caught the motion and **** it back down to her side, cheeks burning.

Across the table, Kenji noticed her aborted movement and immediately shrugged off his coat.

“Cold, Makino?” Kenji asked, half-rising from his chair. Despite the teasing grin, there was honest concern in his voice. “Here, take my jacket.”

Hope flared so sharply in her chest it almost hurt. Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, please, anything. Her fingers even twitched toward the offered coat.

Then Daichi’s rough, work-worn hand landed on Kenji’s shoulder.

“She’s fine, you softhearted fool,” Daichi chuckled, giving Makino a wink that made her stomach drop. “Don’t go covering her up like she’s doing something wrong. If the lass wants to work light, who are we to complain? Young folks these days, right? Free-spirited and all that.”

Kenji hesitated, caught between his friend’s easy laugh and Makino’s nakedness. The coat hovered in the air for a heartbeat, salvation within reach, then slowly sagged back down as he sank into his chair with a sheepish mumble.

Makino felt something inside her tilt. She’d always filed Daichi under “safe,” the same drawer as extra napkins and emergency bandages. Dependable. Harmless. Seeing him grin at her like that, siding with Nanba’s kind of thinking, turned the ground under her bare feet a little unsteady.

You too, Daichi…? she thought, a bitter little echo in the back of her mind. She’d never pegged him as the type to enjoy the view.

Then again, his poor wife had borne him nine children. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised there was a dirty streak under all that farmland and grandfatherly patience. A man doesn’t get a brood like that without balls that never learned when to quit.

Makino just smiled, because that was what she did. She tilted the pitcher, poured Daichi’s refill with hands that finally stopped trembling, and moved on. On the way back she splashed fresh beer into Nanba’s mug, staying just out of range of his wandering fingers with the same quiet, practiced footwork.

By the time she made it back behind the bar, her heart was hammering from the effort of acting composed, and it felt like her entire body had become one raw, humming nerve.

Tsujo was right where she’d left him, waiting behind the bar. His eyes were practically glowing as they roamed over her figure, and he was breathing fast. He looked at her like she was the wildest thing he’d seen in all his travels, and the realization made Makino’s stomach do a humiliating little flip. She really should try to slip past him or pick up her clothes.

Instead, as soon as she was within reach, and with her back mostly to the room, so the old men couldn’t clearly see her face, Makino dropped all pretense of composure. She grabbed the front of Tsujo’s shirt, yanked him down to her level, and kissed him.

Hard.

Tsujo made a startled sound against her lips, and Makino felt it vibrate through her. It only made her kiss him more fiercely. A delirious thrill shot through her as he recovered from his surprise and began kissing her back with equal hunger. She realized she was grinning against his mouth, an almost feral little smile of satisfaction. Who was this wicked woman taking what she wanted in plain view of the whole village? Certainly not the Makino everyone thought they knew.

His lips were hot and urgent on hers, and she drank in his muffled groan. Seakings, it felt good to indulge… to be reckless. This was a kiss she hadn’t given anyone in months: hungry, impulsive, borderline devouring. He tasted like cheap ale and victory.

Makino angled her body so that her back was to the room, shielding at least some of what was about to happen from prying eyes. One of her hands fisted in the fabric of his open shirt, holding him in place. The other slid boldly down between their bodies. She found the gap at the waist of his trousers and without hesitation dove her fingers inside.

She found him immediately. Hot, rigid flesh filled her searching hand so thick and solid that her fingertips met velvety shaft within mere inches. Makino’s breath caught in her throat. She broke the kiss, drawing back just enough to look down between them as her hand explored.

He was bigger than she expected. Not impossibly so, she’d heard enough tales of the sea to know there were men out there hung like literal horses or worse, but certainly enough that her hand had trouble wrapping fully around his girth. She gave a testing stroke along his length, and a deep throb answered from within her own body, an ancient instinctive ache that whispered: This one could leave a mark.

Her fingers traced lower, curving around and cupping the heavy hang of his balls. They were warm and weighty in her palm, full with pent-up seed. Makino squeezed gently, a delighted little shiver running through her as Tsujo hissed in pleasure at her touch.

She cherished the heft of him. It was insane, but the absurd thought popped into her head that this too was part of her duties tonight to gauge him, to tend to this part of him with the same attention she gave a wounded sailor or a troubled regular, to assure him she could handle all that he was. And could she handle it? Her fingers slid back up, wrapping around the trunk of his cock again. A doubt crept in. He felt like iron wrapped in silk, so thick her thumb couldn’t touch her middle finger around him. Other men she’d been with had fit easily in her hand, but this…

Makino lived in a world where bodies broke rules. She’d seen giants stroll in from the sea, and fish-men perform underwater feats that would break a normal human. She’d learned not to gape at a devil-fruit user bouncing back from what should have been lethal injuries. Some people were simply built for a different life, and she suspected Tsujo was one of them.

She had known boys with a wild look in their eyes grow up in this very village. One in particular came to mind, a certain straw-hatted kid who could stretch his limbs like rubber and always bounded back from beatings that would lay others low, forever throwing himself forward with the same stupid courage.

Makino smiled against Tsujo’s lips as the thought flickered through her. She had seen this type of reckless bravado before, albeit in a much younger package. Perhaps that’s why, instead of scolding Tsujo or pushing him away, she found herself clinging to him all the tighter.

She broke the kiss, though her hand remained firmly wrapped around his impressive hardness, fingers curled like she feared he might vanish if she let go. Both of them were breathing hard. Makino’s bare chest pressed and heaved against Tsujo’s clothed one, her nipples scraping deliciously against the rough fabric of his shirt with each panting breath.

“There’s somebody I know,” Makino said quietly, her words ghosting across his lips. Her eyes searched his, dark and intense, as her fist slowly stroked the base of his cock. “Someone who walks into rooms like they already belong to him. Who picks fights with the horizon just to see if he can win.”

Tsujo’s eyes flickered, interest, confusion, perhaps a spark of pride at the comparison. She could see the question forming in his mind: Who?

Makino let out a tiny huff of laughter, shaking her head. “He eats like your captain,” she continued wryly, thinking of the mountain of food she had consumed. “Laughs loud. Says crazy things and then makes them come true just by believing them.”

As she spoke, Makino’s hand slid lower, enclosing the full, heavy weight of Tsujo’s balls again and gently massaging. His eyelids fluttered and he bit back a groan. She could feel the hot rigidity of his shaft twitch against her forearm.

“You’ve got the same stupid courage,” Makino murmured. Her cheeks were hot, but it wasn’t just embarrassment fueling her flush now, it was something else, something hungry and eager. Her eyes bore into his. “The same impossible stubbornness. Only his is all in his fists and his appetite.”

She paused, her gaze drifting down the length of him pressed to her stomach. She loosened her grip just enough to move her hand, fingers splaying so she could appreciate anew just how much of him there was to handle. Her fingertips barely brushed around the sides of his shaft.

Makino’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. She traced her fingers up his length, then back down, reveling in the way his cock jumped at her light touch. With a sultry, lidded gaze, she finished her thought in a low, sultry whisper:

“Yours,” she said, voice blunt and thick with arousal, “is all piled up here.”

Her hand gave a firm, deliberate squeeze around the base of his cock as she said it, as if to emphasize exactly where his will and courage seemed to reside.

Makino lifted her eyes back to Tsujo’s, a wicked little smile on her swollen lips. She had faithfully mirrored every wild moment of this night so far, but now the scales were balanced and if Tsujo thought he was the only one who could upend expectations, he was about to learn otherwise.
The night wasn’t over, not by a long shot, and from here on, she intended to meet his boldness with some of her own. The reliable, demure bartender was gone; the woman holding Tsujo in her hand had other plans.

The look on Tsujo’s face. astonishment, lust, admiration, was priceless. Makino’s smile widened just a fraction more. Her heart thundered with anticipation for whatever came next, as she stroked him again and watched that cocky confidence flicker in his eyes.

Whatever line they crossed next, she would cross it gladly, right alongside him. And it would be worth it.