She was named after her tattoo. As if the mark came first and the girl grew from it. She chose to never use her previous name again, because that person is dead. There is no actual relationship between her and Marco, but she is charmed by him.
Gryphon is a young-looking woman, short and rather scrawny. Looks like a gust of wind could knock her down. It can’t. But it’s her eyes that catch you. Too big. Too wide-set.
She was found and named by Rayleigh in the middle of the Calm Belt. No one knows what she was doing there. Breathing water.
Alive when she shouldn’t be. Has she ever seen him as a father? Probably not, not that she will ever admit it, even if she does. Rayleigh has a tendency to find his kids at sea.
The taste of salt so deep it wasn’t on her tongue. It is in her bones.
She dreams in slow motion.
Wakes up with crystals of dried waves in her hair.
Even when she’s never swam.
She was alone at sea for so long. Her social skills are… off. Pauses too long. Laughs at the wrong time. Stares just a second too much.She WILL bite you.
oh. look! there is 9 chapters about her!
Sea's bride (13551 words) by ESTER_from_river
Chapters: 9/?
Fandom: One Piece (Anime & Manga)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Silvers Rayleigh, Whitebeard Pirates, Shirohige | Whitebeard | Edward Newgate, Portgas D. Ace, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks
Additional Tags: POV First Person, Sea Monsters
Summary:
It turns out that one need not subsist on foraged food when faced with an extraordinary situation.
"Love and hunger reign over the world."
A/N: thanks for this nice request Anon about either Beckman x reader x Rayleigh or Beckman x reader x Sir Crocodile. And since i already did Beck and Crocodile I decided to go with Beck and Ray this time sorry it got so long. I changed quite a few bites during editing so if anyone finds any mistakes please let me know
Word Count >8.000
Plot: you are working at Shakky's bar and have a "special" work relationship with her and Ray and when one day the Red Hair Pirates come by a certain First Mate catches your attention and who would say no to some fun with the Dark King and the First Mate of the Red Hair Pirates
Warnings: NSFW, fingering, oral (receiving and giving), use of toys (slightly), p in v, threesome/double penetration (front+back), teasing?, overstim, slight edging, spanking in the bonus part, MDNI ⚠️🔞
Characters: Beckman x FReader x Rayleigh, cameo by Shakky
The bell above the door of Shakky’s Rip-off Bar didn't chime for the Red-Hair Pirates, it seemed to groan under the sheer weight of the power rolling off the men entering.
In the main lounge, the party was already starting. Shanks’ laughter was booming and the clinking of mugs signaled a long, expensive night for the Red-Hair crew. But at the far end of the polished mahogany bar, in the "family" corner, the atmosphere was different.
You were mid-pour, the amber liquid swirling into a glass, when a warm, calloused hand settled firmly on your hip. You didn’t need to look up to know the scent of sandalwood and aged rum.
"Careful, darling," Rayleigh’s voice rumbled near your ear, his breath a puff of heat against your skin. "You’re pouring a bit heavy. Though, I suppose I’ve always liked how generous you are with your... spirits."
He leaned in closer, his silver hair brushing your temple as he reached around you to claim his glass. His other hand stayed on your hip, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle over the fabric of your clothes, a familiar touch that sent a practiced shiver straight to your knees. He knew exactly what he was doing, he had seen you come undone in the private quarters upstairs enough times to know your rhythm.
"Ray, leave the girl alone for five minutes so she can actually work," Shakky called out from the other end of the bar, though her smirk told a different story. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, her eyes shifting to the man standing just behind her husband. "Besides, we have a guest who’s been waiting for a drink. And he looks like a man with very specific tastes."
Rayleigh didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned slightly, keeping you tucked against his side as he looked at Benn Beckman.
The First Mate of the Red-Hair Pirates didn't look like the rest of his rowdy crew. He looked like a storm held in a bottle. He pulled a cigarette from his lips, his dark, hooded eyes traveling from Rayleigh’s hand on your hip, up your spine, finally settling on your face with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
"Specific is one word for it," Beckman said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in your chest. He leaned his elbows on the counter, the scent of sea salt and expensive tobacco paired with a hearty cologne filling your senses. His presence was cutting through the familiar warmth Rayleigh provided with something sharper, cooler and undeniably predatory.
"I’ve heard stories about this bar," Beckman continued, his gaze never wavering from yours. "And the young lady working here."
Rayleigh chuckled, a low sound of pure amusement. He squeezed your hip, a silent acknowledgment of the challenge. "Careful, Beckman. She’s seen every trick in my book. You’ll have to do better than a compliment if you want to impress her."
Beckman’s lips quirked into the faintest, most dangerous smile you had ever seen. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from your chin, waiting for you to bridge the gap.
"I'm not interested in tricks, Rayleigh," Beckman murmured, his eyes darkening. "I’m interested in seeing if the legends about her are as true as the ones about you."
The air in the bar suddenly felt too thin. Between Rayleigh’s hand sliding from your hip to your thigh, bold and knowing, and Beckman’s heavy, calculating stare, your breath hitched. Especially knowing that Rayleigh could make you come undone right here if he wanted to while Beckman seemed like a man who had already figured you (and your needs) out.
Shakky’s sigh was the final permission. She didn't even look up as she wiped down the counter, waving a hand toward the beaded curtain that led to the private lounge. "Go on, then," she murmured, a smirk playing on her lips. "The boys are clearly going to be useless until they’ve had their fill. I’ll handle the rowdy ones."
Rayleigh’s fingers danced at your hairline, a silent encouragement. "Shall we show him how we spend our quiet nights, darling? Or should we let Mr. Beckman show us how a First Mate handles his business?" he purred into your ear.
You looked from Rayleigh’s crinkled, smiling eyes to Beckman’s hooded, intense gaze. Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat by the sheer weight of their collective focus. Rayleigh didn’t pull away, instead he stepped closer, his chest against your back now. He took the rum from your limp hand and set it on the bar, effectively dismissing your role as an employee. "She’s a creature of feeling, aren’t you, love?"
Beckman took a final drag of his cigarette and crushed it out in a nearby tray, never taking his eyes off you. "Good thing I'm a man who enjoys making a pretty lady feel everything," he rumbled and you felt a rush of heat run through you. He slowly and deliberately reached out, his fingers were cool as they brushed the stray hairs away from your neck, his touch a stark contrast to Rayleigh’s lingering heat. "The tension in your shoulders… it’s a crime."
"A crime we're happy to help solve," Rayleigh whispered against your ear. He leaned down, his silver beard tickling your skin just enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. He didn’t kiss you, not yet. He simply breathed against the sensitive hollow behind your ear. "Remember what I told you last time? About letting go? You trust me, don’t you?"
"I…" Your voice failed you, coming out as a faint, shaky breath. Oc course you trusted him but right now you were completely overwhelmed by their sheer presence and the power they seemed to hold over you.
"Look at me," Beckman said firmly. It wasn’t a shout, it was that low, steady tone that commanded attention, even within the rowdy crew of the Red Hair pirates. You obeyed, meeting those dark, intelligent and knowing eyes. "You’re safe here. But you’re also going to be completely ruined by the time the sun comes up. I think you should decide right now if you’re ready for that."
Rayleigh’s hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his palm broad and warm, pulling you back against him until you could feel the steady thrum of his heart against your spine. "She’s ready, Beckman. She’s been ready since you walked through that door."
"Is that so?" Beckman’s thumb traced the pulse point on your wrist, feeling the frantic, hummingbird beat of your heart. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then let’s stop talking. I’ve always preferred a more… hands-on approach to negotiations."
Shakky sighed again looking between the three of you. "How much longer are you going to stand here? If you don't leave now I'm going to take (Y/N) back there myself while you two can do the work here" she said taking a drag from her cigarette.
Rayleigh just chuckled before he finally steered you toward the back, his hand never leaving the small of your back, guiding you with a practiced ease. But it was the heavy tread of Beckman’s boots following close behind that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
As the door clicked shut, the muffled roar of the Red-Hair Pirates vanished, replaced by the sudden, deafening silence of a room occupied by two of the strongest presences on the sea.
Rayleigh moved first, claiming the velvet chaise longue and pulling you down between his legs before he even sat. He didn't wait, instead he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "You're shaking, darling," he vibrated against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, melodic amusement. "And we haven't even started."
"She’s overwhelmed, Rayleigh," Beckman’s voice cut through the haze. He didn't sit, he stood over both of you, shedding his heavy coat to reveal the broad shoulders and scarred arms of a man who had survived everything the Grand Line could throw at him. He looked down at your flushed form, trapped between Rayleigh’s knees and completely exposed to his gaze.
Beckman reached down, his large, calloused hand cupping your cheek and forcing you to look up at him. His thumb dragged across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the damp heat inside. "Rayleigh knows how to make you sing," Beckman murmured, his eyes scanning your face like he was mapping a new territory. "I can see it in the way you lean into him. You’re used to his touch. You’re comfortable." He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of tobacco and his cologne rolling off him. "But you aren't comfortable with me yet, are you? You don't know what I like. You don't know how I take what I want."
Rayleigh’s hands slid under your shirt, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your ribs, making you gasp into Beckman’s palm. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Rayleigh whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe. "Beckman just wants to see if you can handle two of the strongest first mates at the same time. I told him you were more than capable, and you know I'd never let anyone close to you who I wouldn't trust to treat you right."
Beckman’s eyes darkened at Rayleigh’s words, a silent challenge passing between the two men over your head. He didn't try to pull you away from Rayleigh. Instead, he dropped his hand to the buttons of his shirt, his gaze never leaving yours. While Rayleigh cupped your breasts, his calloused palms catching your weight just right, a sharp gasp escaped your lips, echoing in the quiet room.
"Show me," Beckman commanded, the word a low, vibrating rumble as he discarded of his shirt. "Show me exactly why the Dark King won't share you with anyone else besides his wife."
The sight of Beckman’s bare chest, a map of scars and hard-won muscle, was enough to make your head spin and your knees weak. The scars and that broad chest, combined with those strong arms was doing things to you. The fact that another fucking handsome and hot man was right behind you didn't help either. Beckman kept his eyes locked on you as if he could read your thoughts.
"So many layers," Beckman remarked, his voice dropping an octave. His large, steady hands reached for the top button of your shirt as Rayleigh’s own moved down from your breasts to your waist. Beckman didn’t fumble, his fingers moved with the same surgical precision he used to clean a rifle. "A bit formal for a private party, don’t you think?"
As the first button gave way, Rayleigh’s arms tightened around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply, a low groan vibrating through your skin. "She always did like to keep herself tucked away for the thrill of the game," Rayleigh chuckled, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck. "But she melts so beautifully once you get past the surface."
"I can see that," Beckman murmured as he flicked the next button open, his knuckles occasionally brushing the swell of your breasts. Each touch was light, almost testing, but the heat behind it was scorching. "You’re flushed. All the way down to your chest."
As the last button popped open he parted the fabric, exposing you to the cool air and their burning gazes. Rayleigh’s hands moved higher, his thumbs tracing the underside of your bra, while Beckman’s eyes never left yours.
"There she is," Rayleigh hummed against the pulse point of your neck, his thumbs slipping into your bra and flicking over your already stiff nipples with a rhythm that told you he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make your back arch. "Always so responsive for me."
But as you leaned back into Rayleigh’s chest, Beckman moved in. He stepped between your spread knees, his presence a towering wall of muscle that blocked out the rest of the room. He reached down, his hands sliding firmly up your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there to keep you grounded before letting one single finger trail over the damp fabric between your legs.
"You're already so slick, even with him just touching your top half," Beckman noted, his voice a low, analytical drawl that made your face flush crimson as his finger brushed over your clothed core. He wasn't just looking, he was mapping your reactions to see what would drive you insane. "I wonder... if I do this" he stopped and slid his hand higher his fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms and pulling them down just enough to expose you to the cool air and his scorching gaze "...does your heart rate skip like the reports say it should?" He smirked already knowing and seeing the answer as he looked at your dripping core.
"Look at you, so completely under our spell. You’re body can’t hide how much you like this sweetheart," Beckman said, his voice a soft command. He reached out, his rough palm cupping your cheek. "Doing so good, sweet little lady. Just keep breathing for me."
"It’s the way she feels so completely undone, being unraveled and worshipped while at the same time reminded that she’s exactly where she belongs," Rayleigh whispered, his hands covering your nipples, his warmth seeping through your skin. He squeezed gently, a firm, grounding pressure that made a soft whimper break from your lips.
"Is that so?" Beckman’s smirk was dangerous as he made quick work of the rest of your clothes. He stepped back for a brief second to admire you, his silhouette broad and intimidating in the dim light. "Then let’s make sure she doesn’t forget. Rayleigh, hold her steady."
"I’ve got her," Rayleigh promised, his voice thick with a sudden, raw hunger that discarded the Dark King persona for something much more primal. "I’ve always got her."
Beckman stepped back into your space, his hands finding the skin of your thighs, sliding upward with a slow, agonizing deliberateness. "Good. Because I want to see exactly how long it takes for that composure of yours to shatter completely."
The shift from undressing to preparing you for what was to come next, was handled with the kind of methodical intensity only two men of their experience could possess. They didn’t rush, no, they treated your body like a fine instrument they were tuning to a pitch only they could reach.
Rayleigh guided you back onto the chaise, his hands firm on your hips as he settled you against the cushions. He didn’t leave you, though, he hovered over you, his silver hair catching the low light as he trapped you with his weight. Meanwhile, Beckman knelt at the foot of the lounge, his presence a heavy, grounding anchor.
Beckman took your left leg into his and then leaned down and began trailing kisses from your ankles up to your thighs. "Rayleigh," Beckman said his voice low as he reached out, his large hands sliding up the insides of your thighs stopping there, forcing them wide. "She’s already shaking. Look at her."
"Of course she is, she’s a needy little thing," Rayleigh murmured amused. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of high-end rum and his pure, unadulterated silver-fox charm. It wasn’t a frantic kiss, no Rayleigh never did that. His kisses were always deep, slow and possessive, claiming your breath as his own. His tongue was sweeping against yours and you immediately responded by letting your own move against his.
While Rayleigh occupied your senses above, Beckman’s focus was entirely below. He didn’t look away as his fingers found the center of your heat. "So wet, sweetheart," he noted, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the way you were falling apart under his touch. "But we’re going to make sure you’re more than ready. I don’t like to see my ladies struggle…..unless it’s for the right reasons."
He slid one finger inside, testing the tight, pulsing honey of you. You arched off the velvet, a sharp gasp breaking through the seal of Rayleigh’s lips, your hips already grinding towards Beckman.
"Patience," Rayleigh whispered against your skin, his hand moving to grip your wrists, pinning them gently above your head. "Beckman is going to do the first part of the warm up. We want to make sure you can take every bit of us."
Beckman added a second finger, stretching you with a slow, rhythmic deliberation that made your head light. He used his thumb to circle the bundle of nerves at your core, his movements steady and unrelenting. "Relax for me," he commanded, his dark eyes flicking up to watch the way your features contorted in pleasure. "Let go and open up. Trust us to take care of you."
You were caught in a vice of pleasure. Above, Rayleigh was a whirlwind of sensation, his mouth on your collarbone, his fingers expertly teasing your breasts until you were whimpering. Below, Beckman was a steady, relentless force. He began to work at your center with a clinical precision that was somehow more erotic than any frantic touch. He moved his fingers like a man who knew exactly how to make a lady feel good.
"Rayleigh, she’s trembling," Beckman murmured, his eyes locking onto yours as his fingers began a slow, rhythmic intrusion that made your hips jerk involuntarily.
"I know," Rayleigh chuckled, his hands squeezing your breasts and toying with your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. "She’s a delicate thing, Beckman. But she can take a lot more than she lets on. Can’t you, sweetheart?"
"haa — ye—" you couldn't even form a real sentence. You were already on the edge, vibrating between Rayleigh’s teasing touch and Beckman’s intense, focused exploration. Every time you tried to focus on the pleasure Rayleigh was giving your nipples, Beckman would shift his pace, a low, knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he watched your pupils dilate.
They weren't competing, they were harmonizing, which was worse (or better). Rayleigh provided the foundation of pleasure you knew, while Beckman added layers of intensity you weren't prepared for, leaving you utterly undone in the space between the Dark King and the First Mate of the Red-Hair Pirates.
Rayleigh followed the trail of Beckman’s work, his hand sliding down to cover your stomach, pressing down slightly to help you meet Beckman’s rhythm. "That’s it… just like that," Rayleigh encouraged, his voice a warm hum in your ear. "See how well he takes care of you? He’s making space for both of us, darling."
The sensation was overwhelming, the friction of Beckman’s calloused fingers stretching you open, coupled with Rayleigh’s mouth wandering down to your throat, to your nipples licking and sucking there, marking you as theirs was driving you insane. You were being unraveled, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the raw, aching need they were so carefully cultivating.
"She’s close, Rayleigh," Beckman grunted, his pace quickening just enough to make your hips stutter. He curled his fingers, finding the exact spot that made your toes curl into the velvet and letting a loud moan escape your lips. "She’s perfectly ready."
Rayleigh pulled back, his eyes dark with a hunger that promised no mercy. "Then I think it’s time we stopped being quite so… patient."
You were lost in heaven. They were driving you to the edge and within seconds Beckman's fingers pumping inside you hitting that sweet spot over and over while Rayleigh bit and licked your nipples just right made you cum for the first, but definitely not the last time.
The world was a blur of silver hair and dark eyes as you were carried to the bed in the next room, your back hitting the cool familiar silk of the sheets. The air in the room was stifling, saturated with the scent of your own orgasm and the heavy, masculine musk of the two men orchestrating your undoing and it was intoxicating. Rayleigh moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew your limits better than you did, opening the drawer of the nightstand. You knew exactly what was in there, knew every little vicious toy that Rayleigh and Shakky used on you during your nights together.
"You know the rule, sweetheart," Rayleigh murmured, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous sort of affection. "I never start the main event until I’m sure you’re well and prepared enough and since Beckman is our guest tonight, I think we should let him choose. What do you think, darling?" Rayleigh asked with a smirk and you simply nodded, a bit nervous and curious but at the same time eager for them to continue.
Rayleigh, took the nipple clamps then looked at Beckman and stepped aside letting Beckman pick a toy, while he lay down next to you tracing a finger over your skin. Your chest was still heaving and your skin flushed a deep rose from that first, explosive peak, Beckman’s gaze drifted to the nightstand. His eyes narrowed slightly, then a slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, his long fingers trailing over the various toys, glass, silicone and polished wood in all sizes and forms that lived there for your nights with the Dark King and his wife.
"Well, now," Beckman murmured, his voice like gravel over velvet. "It seems I’ve been underestimating just how much 'training' you’ve had with Rayleigh and Shakky."
Rayleigh laughed, a low, rumbling sound as he propped himself up on one elbow, his hand sliding down to rest possessively over your stomach. "Shakky and I believe in variety, Beckman. Though, I think she’d agree that we haven't found anything yet that she enjoys quite as much as the real thing."
Beckman picked up one of the toys, weighing it in his hand before putting it back down for now. He crawled onto the bed, looming over your legs like a predator. "The real thing is good," Beckman agreed, his voice dropping an octave as he moved back into your personal space. "But I’ve always been a fan of using every resource to achieve the desired result. And the result I’m looking for..." He paused, his hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, his thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already thrumming from Rayleigh tracing his fingers over your stomach down to your hips and back up again. "...is to see exactly how many times we can make you lose your mind before the sun comes up."
Rayleigh moved behind you, pulling your back against his chest so you were sitting up slightly, supported by his strength. He reached around to cup your chin, forcing you to look at Beckman. "He’s a perfectionist, darling," Rayleigh whispered against your ear, his breath hitching as he felt your body react to Beckman’s touch while Rayleigh's free hand put the first clamp down on your nipple making you hiss. "He won't stop until he’s mapped out every inch of you. And I? I’m just here to make sure you’re well-taken care of while he does it." Rayleigh kissed you softly and then tilted your chin back to make you look at him as he attached the second clamp, both connected through a small band that Rayleigh teasingly kept pulling at.
Beckman didn't wait, especially not since your hips arched toward him. He moved with the precision of a man who had spent his life calculating trajectories, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh while his hands moved to coordinate with Rayleigh’s.
You were trapped in a masterclass of pleasure. Rayleigh provided the rhythm and the safety, his hands and mouth wandering your upper body, pulling the string connecting the clamps like a harp player and he did it with a lover's familiarity, while Beckman provided the raw, focused intensity of a man who had finally found a puzzle worth solving. And he decided it was more fun to bully your pussy with his tongue, occasionally biting your clit softly not hurting you but making it stinging and your hips jolt.
You were moaning and gasping as Beckman’s tongue was relentlessly driving you to an orgasm and Rayleigh kissed you deeply while toying with your nipples. When you got close though, so damn close, they stopped. The shift in the room was instantaneous. One moment, you were a chaotic mess of sensation already giving in to the orgasm building up and the next, there was a void.
Beckman withdrew just enough to leave you feeling hollow and Rayleigh pulled his hands and lips back just an inch, his silver beard grazing your skin as he wore a look of mock-innocence. The sudden absence of friction made your breath hitch in a pathetic, high-pitched whine.
"Now, now," Rayleigh murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of your areola and tugging at the clamp, keeping the fire simmering but refusing to let it catch. "Where are your manners? We’ve been such attentive guests, haven't we, Beckman?"
"Remarkably attentive," Beckman agreed, perched between your legs, looking down at you with a gaze that was cool, dark and utterly dominant. He didn't look affected by the heat of the moment, he looked like a king waiting for a tribute. "But I think she’s forgotten who’s in charge of her pleasure tonight."
Your face was on fire, your vision swimming with need. Your hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, trying to find the friction that had been so cruelly stolen. You looked at Rayleigh, pleading, but he only gave you a wink, the same look he gave you when he and Shakky were about to push you to your limits.
"Please," you whispered, the word breaking in the middle. "Please... Ray, Beckman... I need... please."
"Please what, sweetheart?" Beckman asked, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He reached over to the nightstand, his fingers wrapping around a small, sleek glass toy that shimmered in the low light, holding it up enough for you to see. "Ask us nicely. Tell us exactly what you want us to do to this beautiful, trembling body."
You swallowed hard, your pride dissolving into the sheets. "Please... use it. Please, Beckman... put the toy in me and... Ray, please don't stop. I want you both to push me over the edge. Please."
Beckman’s smirk was sharp enough to cut steel. "Good girl."
He didn't waste another second. While Rayleigh surged back forward to capture your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss and tormenting your nipples in the best way possible, Beckman’s hand guided the cool glass toy to your center, spreading your labia carefully and then tracing the toy along the newly exposed skin. The contrast of the chilled glass against your oversensitive, burning heat made your entire body lock up for a split second before the first vibration hummed through the device.
Rayleigh’s hands slid under your hips, lifting you to meet Beckman’s renewed, relentless pace. With the toy buzzing against your entrance hitting your walls and Beckman’s heavy, rhythmic deep-circles he drew with his thumb on your clit, the world didn't just blur, it shattered.
"That's it," Rayleigh groaned into your ear, his calm gentlemanly persona finally slipping into something raw and hungry as he felt your internal muscles clench around Beckman. "Take it all. Show him how well we taught you to cum."
You were a symphony of undone hitches and broken cries, caught between the veteran who knew your soul and the strategist who had just conquered your body. Your body was on fire and you were a mess of moans, gasps and curses.
"Fuck — haaa – shit – I’m gonna – hnng – cum" you cursed and moaned as you came hard crying out and arching off the bed as good as you could. You felt the rush run through your veins and as if you were losing your breath (and maybe mind too).
Rayleigh carefully removed the clamps and kissed each nipple almost lovingly while Beckman finally withdrew the toy to reveal how slick and prepared you truly were, smirking as he looked from the toy down at your spent and beautiful form.
"Are you ready for more, darling? Or do you need a moment before we let Beckman have his gift while I make sure you’re nice and stretched for both of us?" Rayleigh asked genuinely, in the way a lover would. Because after all Rayleigh didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or hurting at any moment.
“I’m f-fine. We can c-continue” you breathed before you shifted and got on all fours, waiting, offering yourself, like you usually did when it was you, Ray and Shakky.
That was all Rayeigh needed from you. He moved behind you and adjusted his grip on your hips, tilting you upward. With a slow, merciless pressure, he began to tease your entrance with his cock, leaving you whining and whimpering for more. He traced the tip through your slickness and every now and then pushed slightly into you before pulling back out again.
"A gentleman is savoring such moments, not rushing them, darling" he chuckled deeply at your whimpers, making you groan, hating when he did that. "Besides I need you focused on Beckman first, it'd be rude to ignore our guest don't you agree?" He teased as he looked at Beckman and nodded with his head towards the headboard.
Beckman, who had been watching with a dangerous and hungry smile, moved like a shadow. He settled himself on the bed, his broad back against the headboard, and guided your head toward him. "A gift, he says," Beckman grunted, a rough, appreciative sound as he unfastened his trousers. "I’ve always admired your hospitality, Rayleigh."
As Rayleigh finally stopped tormenting you and pushed inside you, mimicking a deep, relentless pace that stretched you to your absolute limit, Beckman’s hands tangled in your hair tilting your head till it was eye level with his hard member. He didn’t force you, he didn’t need to, he simply guided you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. You stared at his length, heavy and big. Your mouth watered and you were already in a daze from Rayleigh working your pussy.
You opened your mouth carefully taking the tip inside at first, tasting the precum. Then you took in more, slowly like Rayleigh had taught you, adjusting to him. Thanks to Rayleigh who had put you through some deep throat training you had less trouble than you feared. Their cocks seemed to be of similar size which was in fact really helpful right now but at the same time making this even more thrilling and hot.
The world narrowed down to two distinct, overwhelming sensations. Below, Rayleigh was systematic. He used his cock like a weapon, finding every internal curve that made you moan while one of his hands splayed across your lower abdomen to feel the way your muscles spasmed around the intrusion and occasionally flicking your clit the way he knew was making you feral.
"Look at how she takes it, Beckman," Rayleigh praised, his voice low and vibrating against your thigh. "Stretching so wide for us. She’s almost there."
Above, Beckman was a different kind of storm. As you started to bop your head he let out a long, shuddering breath, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair. His dark eyes watching the way your throat worked with a look of pure, predatory satisfaction. He moved his hips with a slow, grinding rhythm that forced you to focus on the taste of him, the salt and the smoke, even as Rayleigh pushed you toward a screaming peak.
"Good girl," Beckman rasped, his eyes hooded as he looked down at you. The calm gentleman was fraying at the edges, his breath hitching as your tongue worked against him. "Take it all. Show me what Rayleigh taught you."
Between Rayleigh's cock inside you hitting your G-spot perfectly and the filling presence of Beckman hitting the back of your throat, you were being stretched thin, your mind fraying, tears of overstimulation falling down your cheek. Rayleigh increased the tempo, his thrusts becoming shorter and sharper, hitting the sensitive entrance of your womb until your vision sparked.
"She’s close," Rayleigh warned, moving his thumb over your clit in a steady, maddening pulse that synced perfectly with the vibrations of Beckman deep in your throat.
The friction was absolute. Beckman groaned, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate against your tongue as he felt the tremors of your impending climax beginning to ripple through you. Rayleigh felt it too, his pace quickening, his Haki flaring just enough to make every nerve ending in your body feel like it was glowing.
Your body buckled and a scream tore through you that was muffled by Beckman’s cock in your mouth, the vibration making him grunt lowly. You were trapped, pinned by Rayleigh’s weight, filled by his cock and silenced by Beckman’s length. You didn't just cum, you shattered. The world turned into a kaleidoscope of stars as you reached a peak so violent it left you sobbing into Beckman’s skin. You felt yourself clench down so hard on Rayleigh that he followed you shortly after filling you up, not letting go of you until every muscle in your body had stopped twitching.
"There she goes," Rayleigh muffled against your lower back, his voice thick with triumph. "Give it all to us, darling."
The tension in the room didn’t break with your climax, it only thickened, turning heavy. Beckman wasn’t finished with his 'gift' and Rayleigh, ever the attentive host, wasn’t about to let your nerve endings rest for even a second nor his guest left unfinished.
"Don’t drift off yet, darling," Rayleigh murmured, his voice a low, grounding hum as he pulled out of you. "Beckman isn’t quite finished with you."
Above you, Beckman’s breath had turned into a series of jagged, controlled growls. His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his gripmfirm but not painful. His hips started a final, heavy press. He was a man who took what he wanted with a silent, devastating efficiency. You felt the shift in him, the way his muscles corded, the sudden heat of his skin.
"That’s it," Beckman rasped, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. With one final, deep surge, he filled your mouth completely, his body shuddering as he claimed his release.
You choked back a whimper, your eyes watering, but Rayleigh’s hand moved to the back of your thigh, softly tickling you to keep you present and at the same time soothe you. "Take it darling," Rayleigh encouraged softly. After a long, silent moment, Beckman slowly pulled back, but only enough to look down at you. His thumb hooked into the corner of your mouth, prying your lips open.
"Show me, pretty lady" he commanded. It wasn’t a request, it was an order from a man used to being obeyed across the Grand Line, yet it didn't sound like one. You obeyed, revealing the evidence of his climax pooling on your tongue. Beckman’s gaze was dark and clearly satisfied. "Good. Now swallow every drop. I don’t want you to waste a single drop I've so kindly given you."
You swallowed, the salt and heat of him sliding down your throat, making you feel marked from the inside out. Beckman let out a slow, appreciative breath, his hand softening as he stroked your cheek. "Well done sweetheart" he breathed
Rayleigh chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their light ticklish movements up and down the back of your thighs, before leaning down to kiss along your spine making you shiver. "She’s a treasure Beckman and I think that she’s ready for the main course"
You exhaled deeply, yourbody collapsed forqrd o to the sheets, feeling like it was on fire but still tingling for more because this was completely different from the times you had spent with Rayleigh and Shakky. Where Shakky had that female finesse these two had the experience of unraveling enough women during their young years, Beckman probably still having enough women knocking on his door for a good time, to make you never want to leave this room.
You looked over your shoulder and smiled faintly. A wordless confession that you were ready, that you wanted them to take you, to claim you, to finally mark you as theirs once and for all. Rayleigh smiled back at you and kissed you deeply, a kiss that wasn’t just lust or need but of trust, love and care. Beckman watched you both and he leaned down too, kissing your cheek softly. "You are indeed very special, sweetheart." he whispered gently.
Rayleigh and Beckman exchanged a wordless look, words were unnecessary anyways before the transition from 'warm-up' to the main event started and it was a masterclass in slow, delicious torment. These were not men who fumbled or rushed, they moved with the terrifyingly smooth coordination of two predators who had cornered something precious.
Rayleigh settled between your legs again, his large, warm hands parting you with a reverence that felt almost holy. He didn’t enter you immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his silver hair brushing your skin as he whispered against your shoulder. "I know that shiver, darling. I know exactly where you’re aching and me and Beckman are going to make sure you feel like the most precious thing in the world."
True to his word, he entered you with a single, agonizingly slow thrust. It wasn’t just a physical act, it was a reclamation. He hit that specific spot he had discovered during your nights with him and Shakky and stayed there, grinding his hips in a slow circle that made your vision white out.
Beckman moved behind you, his massive frame bracketing you. He didn’t just watch, he conquered. His large, calloused hands roamed over every inch of your skin, kneading your breasts, tracing the line of your ribs, and finally finding your mouth again this time though it was his thumb that pushed past your lips, making you suck on it as Rayleigh drove deeper.
"You’re over-sensitive here," Beckman observed, his voice a low vibration against your ear as his other hand found the sensitive skin on your sides, squeezing just enough to make your hips buck and let out a few squeaks. "And your pulse… it’s screaming for more, isn’t it?" He added, more as a matter of fact, as his tongue swept over your neck.
"W-want m-more" you muffled against his thumb, making both men smirk.
"In that case who would we be to deny you such a request," Beckman growled as Rayleigh picked up his pace and Beckman began to trail biting kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your shoulder blades until you were sobbing from the overstimulation from both of them.
The dual assault was relentless. They left no part of you spared. If Rayleigh wasn’t kissing you, Beckman was. If Beckman’s hands weren’t mapping your curves, Rayleigh’s were. You were caught between the two legends and they were showing you exactly why their names were whispered in awe across the Grand Line.
The atmosphere in the room reached a fever pitch, the air so thick with the scent of sex and salt that it felt like a physical weight. Rayleigh’s rhythm was a steady, deep-seated thunder, but it was the silent understanding between the two men that truly signaled your total unraveling.
Beckman moved with a quiet, devastating intent. He didn’t ask, he simply took. His large, calloused hand slid beneath your hip, tilting you upward to expose the delicate, untouched heat of your back entrance. He spent a few agonizing moments stretching you with his thumb, a deliberate, methodical preparation that had you sobbing into the crook of Rayleigh’s neck.
"You’re doing so well, sweetheart," Rayleigh whispered, his voice a gravelly caress to calm you down. He leaned up, capturing your mouth in a deep, tongue-tangled French kiss that tasted of hunger and victory, muffling your cries and distracting you from the stretch as Beckman finally pushed himself inside your ass.
The sensation of being filled by both legends was beyond anything the human mind could categorize. It was a complete invasion, a total occupation of your body. Your back arched, your fingers digging into Rayleigh’s back as you were caught between the Dark King’s relentless, thrusts into your pussy and Beckman’s steady, unforgiving power from behind.
To them, your screams weren’t just noise, they were music, a symphony of their combined mastery. Of your surrender and at the same time of their care and need for you. They worked you like a finely tuned instrument. Beckman’s hands were everywhere, kneading your breasts with a firm, possessive grip while his thumbs caught your nipples, pinching and rolling them until you were seeing stars. Rayleigh, meanwhile, focused on your neck and collarbone, his teeth grazing and biting, leaving dark marks that would serve as a map of this night for days to come.
"Look at her," Beckman rasped, his voice vibrating through your spine as he pushed deeper. "She’s vibrating. I think she’s reached her limit, Rayleigh."
"Not quite," Rayleigh chuckled, a dark, predatory glint in his silver eyes. "I know her better than that. She’s got one more break in her."
For the finale, Rayleigh decided to be mean. While they both kept up a punishing, synchronized pace that left you breathless and blind with pleasure, Rayleigh’s hand slid down between your bodies. He didn’t offer the soft, swirling caress from before. Instead, he pinned your clit between two fingers, applying a sharp, vibrating pressure that was pure torture. He toyed with you, stopping just as the wave hit, then doubling the intensity the moment you tried to catch your breath.
"Please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the cushions. "Ray, please!"
"Please what, darling?" he murmured, his thumb clicking against your sensitive core with a ruthless rhythm. "You want me to stop? Or do you want to show Mr. Beckman exactly how loud you can scream when you finally break?"
"C-cum — haaa — want to c-cum" you screamed though the words were a stutter.
The combination of the double penetration and Rayleigh’s merciless attention to your clit was the final blow. Your body locked, your internal muscles clenching around both men in a desperate, rhythmic spasm. You screamed, a raw, high-pitched sound of total surrender, as your world shattered into a thousand jagged pieces of light.
They followed you shortly after, two titans of the Grand Line pouring their strength into you, claiming every inch of your spirit and flesh as their own. As the room finally fell into a heavy, ringing silence, you were left trembling and utterly spent, a beautiful, broken masterpiece held between the two men who had just rewritten the meaning of gentleman.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of three ragged breaths syncing up in the dim light of the room. You lay there, breathless, your skin flushed and slick. The world was still spinning and your mind was a hazy fog of pleasure.
Bonus:
Rayleigh withdrew slowly, the absence of his heat making the air feel suddenly sharp. He sat back, running a hand through his silver hair, while Beckman remained looming behind you, a dark, silent shadow of satisfaction.
The Dark King watched you for a long moment, waiting. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes struggled to focus. But as the seconds ticked by and you remained silent, drifting in the afterglow, his expression shifted from soft affection to something a bit more… instructional.
"Beckman," Rayleigh said softly, his voice regaining that calm, gentlemanly authority. "I think our girl has forgotten her manners in all the excitement."
Beckman’s hand, which had been idly tracing the curve of your hip, stilled. "Is that so? I’d hate to think she’s ungrateful after we went to such lengths to make her comfortable."
You blinked, the fog in your brain clearing just enough to realize your mistake. Your heart, which had just begun to slow, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. Rayleigh and Shakky had a very specific rule after sex - gratitude was a requirement, not a suggestion.
"I… I’m sorry," you breathed, your voice barely a rasp. "I—"
"A sorry isn’t a ‚thank you‘, young lady," Rayleigh interrupted gently. He leaned over you, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He looked disappointed, which was far more terrifying than if he had been angry. "And a late thank you… well, that requires a reminder. Wouldn’t you agree, Beckman?"
"Absolutely," Beckman grunted. He reached out and gripped your waist, flipping you over onto your stomach with effortless strength. The sudden shift made your head swim. "If she’s too tired to speak, maybe we should find another way for her to show her appreciation."
Rayleigh reached for a crop near the nightstand. He didn’t look like a monster, he looked like a teacher about to deliver a necessary lesson.
"Since you’ve lost your voice, we’ll give you something else to focus on," Rayleigh murmured. "Ten for the house, and ten for our guest. And you’ll count every single one, won’t you? To show us you’re paying attention."
Beckman leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Start counting, darling. And make sure we can hear you. We wouldn’t want to have to start over."
The air in the room grew clinical, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. Rayleigh stood over you, the crop held loosely in his hand, while Beckman’s heavy weight shifted. The Dark King didn’t look angry, he looked focused, his silver hair catching the amber light as he prepared to deliver the 'house’s' portion of the lesson.
"Ready, darling?" Rayleigh asked softly and younjust exhaled deeply.
The first snap of the crop against your ass was sharp and stinging, a sudden shock to your over-sensitized skin but you'd be lying if you said it was unpleasant.
"One," you gasped out, your fingers clutching at the sheets.
"Louder," Rayleigh prompted, his tone as calm as if he were ordering a drink.
Snap. "Two!"
He worked his way through the count with a rhythmic, steady hand, each strike a hot brand that pulled a sharp cry and a number from your lips. By the time he reached "Ten" your skin was tingling with a fierce heat, and your breath was coming in ragged gasps.
"Good girl," Rayleigh murmured, dropping the belt and leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. "That’s for the house. Now, Beckman… it’s your turn to collect."
Beckman didn’t reach for the crop. He let out a low, thoughtful hum that vibrated through your thighs. "The rare is a bit impersonal for a first meeting, don’t you think, Rayleigh?"
Before you could process his words, Beckman’s strong hands gripped your hips and hauled you backward. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you over him, positioning your aching, swollen core directly over his face. You were suspended there, pinned by his strength, looking down at the legendary First Mate.
"I think ten of my own style will stick in her memory much better," Beckman rasped.
The first lick was a revelation his tongue was broad, hot and rough like sandpaper. He didn’t just taste you he used his tongue to deliver a forceful, agonizingly slow stroke from your bottom to your clit.
"One," you wailed, your back arching.
"Sorry sweetheart but I didn’t quite hear you," Beckman teased against your wet skin, his breath sending a shiver through you.
Then came the suction. He caught your clit between his lips and gave a sharp, demanding pull and your world tilted. "Two!" you screamed, your hands flying back to find purchase on his shoulders.
He proceeded with a torturous deliberation. Each lick was a deep, punishing slide of his tongue that felt like it was trying to map your soul, followed by a suck that felt like he was trying to draw the very life out of you.
"Five… Six…" you moaned, almost obscenely, your voice breaking, your body unable to stay calm and your chest heaving unevenly.
Every time you tried to close your legs or pull away, Rayleigh was there, his large hands on your knees, holding you wide and open for the guest’s inspection. Rayleigh watched with a scholar’s interest, his thumb occasionally stroking your cheek as you fell apart.
"Seven… Eight…"
By the ninth, your body was on fire. Beckman’s tongue was unrelenting, flicking with a precision that drove you toward a peak you didn’t think you could survive, after everything that had happened before.
"Nine! Fuck!"
"Last one, sweetheart," Beckman whispered. He didn’t just lick you, he buried his face against you, his tongue pushing inside while he sucked with a ferocity that finally broke the dam.
"TEN! TEN! TEN! OH FUCKING HELL"
You collapsed against his chest, your body a shattered mess of tremors. Beckman’s punishment had been far more effective than any spanking could have been. You were entirely spent, your mind a blank slate where only their names were written.
Beckman chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that rumbled against your chest. He looked up at Rayleigh, a dark smirk on his face. "I think she’s learned her manners now."
Rayleigh smiled, leaning down to brush a stray, tear-soaked hair from your face. "I think you’re right. Now, let’s get her cleaned up. We wouldn’t want Shakky to think we didn’t take proper care of her. She can get really angry when the young lady isn’t treated right afterwards."
The shift in the room was instantaneous. The heavy, oppressive weight of the 'lesson' evaporated, replaced by the soft, expert care that defined both men when the storm had passed.
Rayleigh sat up, pulling your limp, sweaty body against his chest, while Beckman leaned over you, a fresh cigarette held unlit between his lips. He reached out, tracing the line of your collarbone where he had left a deep, purple mark earlier.
"Shakky’s going to have a lot to say about this tomorrow," Rayleigh chuckled, his voice raspy as he pressed a lingering, stinging bite into the curve of your shoulder, marking his territory right next to Beckman’s.
Beckman smirked, leaning down to press a final, firm kiss to the center of your forehead, his thumb smearing a bit of stray moisture from your cheek. "Let her talk," he murmured, his eyes lingering on the map of bruises and bite marks they had painted across your skin. "I think we left enough evidence to let her know she shouldn't have left us alone with her favorite girl."
You were tucked between them, a warm, marked prize of the Grand Line's greatest legends, drifting off to the scent of rum, tobacco, and the lingering heat of a night that had changed everything.
Taglist: @jintaka-hane @fleetadmiralsoffice @hakiofdreams @welcome-to-the-grandline @sailing-to-laugh-tale @legends-of-the-grandline @devilfruitdiaries @waannty @luna-the-moon-guardian @sweetsaltygingerbitch (once again I'm just reminding you that if you want me to stop tagging you please tell me or if someone wants to get added)
This has probably been my biggest pick for years now. I've liked him as an actor ever since I was little and he played Zero in Holes. Honestly he is THE pick for Marco in my mind; he would make the role so much fun!
CW: coerced everything, blackmailed into sexy times, bondage, forced oral, forced orgasms, unknown second, 18+ minors dni
This started because your grades were slipping in Professor Benn’s class.
How it was going currently, was with you naked under his desk. You were tied up snug, unable to move, stuffed full of vibrating toys in your cunt and ass, vibrating clamps shivering against your nipples, and an o-ring gag in your, currently, empty mouth.
Tied up as you were, you were also anchored to the underside of the desk, hanging maybe an inch off the ground. Leather straps kept you safely in place, and kept your face braced in place so you were forced to stare at Beckman’s cock.
Freed from his pants, he strokes his length slowly while he grades papers. That was the ruse that got you trapped in this web, he had said you could help him grade papers for some extra credit.
This wasn’t what you’d had in mind, but you had been left with little choice by the time you walked into his office.
Beckman seemed happy to simply make you watch him stroke himself while the toys he stuffed into you forced you to cum. You had no idea how long you’d been stuck under his desk by the time the first orgasm hit you, but you didn’t get any reprieve after the first. By the time he tucks his work away and slides his chair away from the desk, you’re shivering in the binds, drooling from both sets of lips and trying not to cum. Even if you can only hold out for another second or two, you just want a longer break between each, please.
There’s an odd sound, and the desk begins to lift, taking you along with it. Panic rises up in you momentarily, the rush of concern forcing your body into another orgasm. You cry out as the desk lifts up and you realize that you’re exposed now.
When the desk was set low, the backboard kept you hidden from sight, but that board didn’t rise with the rest of the desk, and you could feel the open air on your soaking backside.
“There we go, sweetheart.” He says, rubbing his tip against your tongue. “Hang in there a little longer, you’ll get all the credit you need.”
Beckman slowly works his cock deeper and deeper, giving you time to breathe before pushing in even further the next time. When you cum he forces himself all the way down your throat, making you moan and spasm around his length before pulling back and letting you cough and gasp until you settled down again.
You yelp, feeling a hand against your ass even as his cock is easing back into your mouth.
“She won’t mind if you fuck her with those toys.” Benn says. “Just make sure you wear a condom if you decide to replace one of them.”
You try to squirm, try to protest, only to have Beckman’s cock back down your throat, and someone’s hand thrusting the toys inside you, stopping sometimes to press the vibe against your clit into your throbbing body harder.
Caught between the two of them, you don’t know if the toys were ever removed and replaced with someone else’s actual cock. You came too much, and lost track of everything except the heavy taste and lingering scent of cum all over your face and down your throat.
You were vaguely grateful for the sweet distraction of another exhausting orgasm coursing through your body.
okay. english is not englishing for me. that's kind of Roger x reader, because main character is really vague. but she is woman and she is skinny (because of starvation).
for the record, i think Roger is pretty chill guy and he would never. but i am a little... well... i like to write that roger. crazy and piraty
tw: non-con, suicide
Silence. Loneliness. Hunger. Fear. A woman on a patch of land in the middle of the ocean. She felt her inevitable death approaching. Who could save her? This wasn't even a desert island, and she wasn't Robinson Crusoe. How much time had passed? Only a couple of days. No water, no food. Not much time left to live.
When the horizon began to glow scarlet somewhere in the distance, it seemed to her that this was an evil fate. And she couldn't hold back her tears. Her body wasn't bleeding, wasn't tearing itself apart, it was dying slowly. A small drop of blood on the horizon is a mockery.
When the pirates with scarlet sails came across shallow water, most of the crew was surprised. There are no islands nearby, they are on the Grand Line. The depth was so deep that the people of Blues couldn't even imagine. And here there is shallow water.
Shanks and Buggy were the first to find the woman. The battered body before them could hardly be called a woman’s. She was barely breathing, covered in a salt crust, her skin blistered from the sunburn. Yet both of them, with an almost animal instinct, knew at once that she was a woman.
Everyone began whispering about the whims of fate on the Grand Line, careful not to let their eyes linger on the dying woman. Any sailor already knew the outcome.
“Come on, Rayleigh, aren’t you curious?” Gaban was delighted with women in absolutely any shape or form.
“Leave it. I doubt she’ll last until morning.”
The muffled voices never quite registered in her mind, fading into the same background noise as the waves.
“We’re taking her,” Roger said simply.
Rayleigh sighed but didn’t argue. He knew that look. The same way Roger stared at maps you couldn’t hold in your hands. The ink is long gone, and still you search. The same way he looked at people you couldn’t save. And still, he took them.
***
And there she was, lying on the deck, like a washed-up creature. Her arms and legs were thinner than a living person's should be. Her chest barely moved, as if there were waves inside her, not a heart. And yet, the woman was now on Oro Jackson.
She woke up two days later.
Crocus dragged her back with sheer stubbornness and spite.
She spent the first hour hysterical, repeating meaningless names, mumbling and crying. The doctor had to sedate her. Rayleigh gave the captain a disapproving look. He thought it was pointless cruelty — tormenting a dying woman.
Another week passed before she found the strength to realize she was alive.
She looked at him as if she was looking for some sign in the captain's face. Something that would help her understand why he, and not the sea, not hunger, not madness, had decided to keep her alive.
"You saved me?" Her voice was hoarse, dry, like an old sail.
“Saved?” He chuckled. “I’m not sure. More like taken. It’s not the same thing.”
She survived. First, hysterics, then silence. Then habit. The habit of eating, breathing, getting up. The habit of being close.
When Roger told the crew about the next island, he did so with such enthusiasm, as if he intended to live forever.
He spoke of music that, he said, would be “louder than thunder,” of food that could be compared to divine nectar, of people who would be “so strange that we’ll laugh until we cry.”
Only she didn’t laugh.
She sat aside, listening to him speak.
Sometimes Rayleigh caught her glance and knew there was still a glimmer of a person there. But he remained silent. It was easier that way.
***
By the third month of her life on the ship, the woman had changed. Not healthier. Not happier. She simply looked less like a corpse. She’d learned to eat without choking. Discovered where the galley was, how to tie her hair so the wind wouldn’t steal it away.
But most importantly, she had become his shadow. Wherever he was, there she was. By the rail, by the table, by the bed. Even at night, when the whole world seemed silent, she didn't sleep, but sat by his door.
That evening, he entered after she had already gone to bed. The lamps flickered, as if they, too, knew.
"Are you asleep?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
"I wasn’t very convincing, was I?" she muttered, her eyes still closed.
He laughed. Briefly. Bitterly.
“You’re terrible at pretending.”
She didn't argue. She only clutched the blanket lightly in her fists as he sat down next to her. His hand rested on her shoulder, sliding down to her neck.
Women on the islands, who offered themselves for nothing, for thanks, for a pirate’s tale. They were all different. But they all wanted him. Desire seeped from them in their movements, in their gaze, in their careless touches.
And the ghost lay underneath him, all wet, but did not move, and hardly spoke. He could take her again and again, and the hot tightness would continue to flow. Roger believed it was more honest this way. Without showing off, without guile. He didn't even have to look into her eyes or search for the stars.
Her body, warm and sharp, moved against him on its own.
And so, night after night, she was beside him again. Under the warm blanket, she was almost invisible, his hands sliding down her neck to her chest, which was now larger than when they found her on the brink of death.
Roger barely touches her nipple with his fingertip when it hardens. He carefully runs his fingers under her breast; the skin there is soft. His hands constantly hold the sword, but the weight of the soft flesh feels heavy.
"It's cold," she croaks.
And Roger obeys. He dives.
He leaned toward her, covering them both with the blanket. The captain, powerless before the woman, rolled to her feet.
Her scent was trapped in the stagnant air beneath the blanket. Roger sighed, tasting a salty, metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He ran his tongue from her clitoris to her tailbone. Perhaps even his tongue was too large for the tight canal. He slid his tongue, going deeper and deeper, his hands pressing her closer to him. He choked on her hair. His face was soaked with sweat and juices, he couldn't breathe, and that made it better, desire rising inside him like a storm.
And the drowned woman thrashed beneath him. She couldn’t control herself. Her foot was resting on his shoulder. He inhaled her scent again and again. He loved that she smelled like a woman. That sweat streamed down her skin mixed with her own wetness. Even that smell he breathed in with greed — the cloying sweetness of her skin.
Roger pressed his hips harder into the mattress. His cock twitched in anticipation. Precum flowed in viscous drops down his shaft.
"Just a little more," he kept telling her.
He eased one finger inside, but everything was so wet. Two fingers entered without a painful sob. The pirate entered a few more times, stretching her with slow movements.
When his face was level with hers, he kissed her. Even her dry lips and tongue, cold from ragged breathing, were soft. Her face. His face. Her face belonged to him. And a wet nose, red cheeks and narrowed eyes.
When his cock entered, she exhaled all the air from his lungs.
It was unlikely she could see anything now. Her eyes had gone completely black, barely focusing on anything.
Roger's hands held her legs because she lacked the strength. When his pubis pressed against her during thrusts, it sounded like he was throwing a stone into the sea.
How beautiful she was.
“That's it, darling. Squeeze for me.”
Her answer was wheezing.
"Give it on." Haki flared above her.
A spasm wracked the woman.
The orgasm was torn from her. A flicker of desire was enough for Roger to latch onto it and bite into it.
"That's it, my girl. That's it," his words broke into ragged gasps. "You were wrong to try to fool me."
He laid her on her stomach. He held her legs suspended.
Time turned to thick molasses. Two people who had been dying for too long were locked in a small cabin.
He was on his knees. Roger held her legs tightly, so that he could see his cock entering, her labia stretching around its thickness. Roger lost himself in the obscenity of the process, watching her greedy pussy.
And it seemed to the pirate that right now he saw something feminine and hidden. Not in the gentle hands, not in the sexy dresses, not in the languid gaze. But in the helplessness beneath him, in the fatigue of muscles that hadn't obeyed from multiple orgasms. In the scent of her arousal and sweat. In the way that depth, that previously had tightly squeezed him, relaxed. Pussy loose, but still dripping.
Now he entered her with a loud, wet sound. Even so the woman's palms no longer clutched the blanket.
Roger pressed himself on top and let go of her legs. He came with a sharp sigh, making his head spin a little.
The captain lifted the ghost with him. The woman's head fell onto his shoulder. She became one big heart, the blood pounding so loudly inside her. Roger felt the rhythm with his hips through her groin. Their necks touched, there was that pulsation there too.
"Roger," she called very quietly. It was clear the ghost was struggling with the weight of her own eyelids. “Lull me to sleep.”
The king's eyes lowered to watch the sperm flow out of her. Roger collected the drops with his fingers, rubbing them over her, her hot belly, her soft thighs.
He found a pillow in a pile of crumpled blankets. He laid the rescued woman down. He looked at her face. And drowned her in his will. Until the woman fell into a deep sleep.
***
"What are you doing? This isn't like you."
"Living."
"And what about the ghost?"
"We all have our ghosts. Aren’t we?"
"Yes, but we don't take them back to bed," Rayleigh remarked, keeping his voice low. "The girl isn't much older than Shanks and Buggy."
Here, of course, he was being disingenuous. She was older; she was a woman. Unlike their boys, she was far more perspective. Far more thoughtful. Rayleigh saw it.
Silence hung between them, thick and sticky, like fog over the shore. Roger didn't deny it.
"You think we shouldn’t have taken her?" he asked, twirling his mustache.
"She didn't ask us to," Rayleigh remarked. "I can't keep quiet when I see how you treat her."
"What exactly do you see?"
"I see you entering her room at night, when the ship is already asleep. I see her emerging in the morning with red eyes." How you never call her by her name, as if you don't consider her a person.
“You’re worked up, brother.” Capitan said, but without malice.
“Worked up?” Rayleigh still hadn’t raised his voice, but there was a chill in his tone that left no room for illusion. “I just don’t want you losing your head. Again.”
***
She found him at the railing. Rum, wind, the creak of planks — everything blended into one heavy scent. Rayleigh leaned against the ropes, his eyes red, hands shaking. Almost morning.
“You’re here again, ghost?” The first mate rasped against the wind and exhaustion, unwilling to waste words on her.
“I was watching, in case you fell.” She answered softly.
At that time, the pauses between their short phrases stretched longer.
"You... why are you here anyway?"
She fell silent, trying to find the words, but they wouldn't come.
"I don't know," she breathed out. "Just stayed."
"Stayed?" Rayleigh turned sharply toward her, his glasses slipping down his nose. " You say it like you chose it. Roger dragged you here himself."
“No…” She shuddered.
Riley wanted to say something, or maybe reach out to her. Maybe hand her the bottle. But his hands jerked in a clumsy motion, spilling rum on deck.
"Next to!" He laughed hoarsely. "Next to the captain, who can't even see you! You’re only good for…"
"Forgive me for saying this," he added quietly. "I'm angry. Not with you, but I'm taking it out on you. It's unfair.”
She nodded, and for the first time allowed herself to feel that at least someone saw her loneliness.
Ray pulled off his glasses. He was so drunk now that they were useless.
***
The nights blended, dragged on, dissolving into one another. Roger slowly faded, though the thirst for life within him burned ever brighter. Reilly saw the captain convulse with coughing. Roger lived by willpower. Otherwise, the illness would have consumed him long ago.
The ghost, on the other hand, gradually regained her composure. Strength returned to her arms; she no longer trembled when she carried the tray of food. She could stay on her feet during a storm.
But not every storm. Scopper caught her before she realized she'd been swept away by the torrent.
"Careful, sweetheart. You'll drown yourself. Go below deck to the boys."
"Captain overboard!" " someone shouted, and Roger was knocked over by a wave.
Rayleigh decided he wouldn't throw him a rope this time.
She spent that night cuddling with the pirate children in their cabin.
The children called her Captain's Wife. She wasn't Captain's Wife not by coastal law, nor by pirate code. But no one corrected the hatchlings.
"Captain's Wife, why were you with us yesterday?"
"We're not kids anymore. You don’t need to watch us."
"Shanks, shut up, she wasn't watching us."
"Then why did she come to us?"
"Are you completely stupid? She's a weakling."
"Little ones," Roger sat down next to her, right across from Shanks and Buggy. "Women need to be protected. I fell overboard myself yesterday. What would have happened to her?"
He laughed and, with one hand, pulled the silent woman onto his lap.
His hands moved up and down her thighs. Gripped. Left purple marks on her skin. Did he do it on purpose? Or had he simply grown so used to wielding a sword that he misjudged his strength?
"Captain, the island!" someone from the crew shouted from the crow nest.
The crew began to discuss something heatedly.
The king let her go because opportunity arose.
***
Roger stepped forward. His voice still thundered as always, but beneath it ran the rasp of sickness.
He said the time had come. That the journey was over. That the Oro Jackson would carry them all together no more.
He laughed, thanked them, spoke of freedom. The word freedom rang as if he were gifting them an entire world.
Some bowed their heads. Others stared at the sky. But no one argued. No one wept.
The ghost sat apart, nearly in shadow. Her breath was uneven, her gaze locked on him. When he uttered the final words — you are free — she rose.
Not immediately. At first, it seemed she’d simply lost her balance so quietly did she move that even the creak of the deck sounded louder than her step.
Roger kept speaking. But the children noticed she was standing close, too close.
Her fingers found the blade at the captain's stash. The motion was slow, like someone groping for water in the dark. No one stopped her.
The blade slid into his abdomen soundlessly. Only the fabric crackled, as if old rope was being torn.
She leaned in. Blood spilled across the planks. No one screamed. No one intervened.
Roger didn’t flinch. His eyes flashed, but he made no move, offered no hand, spoke no word. He looked at her with the same hungry longing.
“No…” Shanks whispered. His voice broke. He stepped forward, but Buggy yanked his sleeve. Buggy’s face was pale, his eyes wet, and for the first time in his life, there was no bravado in them.
“Why?” Shanks breathed, but there was no answer.
Buggy stared, wide-eyed. Acid rose in his throat. They’d seen her dead. She’d been like that when he and Shanks found her. Yet the image before him now felt somehow nauseating.
She slumped against the mast. The wind caught her hair, and for a moment it seemed as if the ocean itself was bending over her, welcoming her back.
Rayleigh turned away, the gesture held more respect than any words could. And Roger remained silent. His mustache twitched, but he neither stopped her nor tried to hold her back.
The captain had been outplayed not by the warrior, nor a legendary pirate, nor a glorious amazonian. But by a lonely, silent woman, broken by the weight of the sea.
Rayleigh approached. Carefully, he lifted her body. Heavy.
The crew parted. No one dared touch her. Even the most seasoned pirates averted their eyes. Only the children watched, unblinking: their faces distorted by the horror that shatters childhood in an instant.
Shanks took a step forward, wanting to help, but froze, feeling he had no right. Buggy squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again and looked straight ahead.
Rayleigh carried her to the railing. He stood there, silent for a long time. Only the wind beat against the rigging and the sea roared. It seemed the ocean was waiting.
"You deserve it," he said finally. And he lowered her body into the water.
The waves took her gently, carried her into the depths. The red stain spread and vanished. The sea reclaimed her.
And no one spoke her name again. But in Roger's every laugh, in his every word, her silence was heard. It remained with him, like a shadow. And in that silence was her eternal victory.
For the crew, this day was a day of freedom. And for Roger, it was his last glimpse of the sea, which would never again welcome him.
okay. english is not englishing for me. that's kind of Roger x reader, because main character is really vague. but she is woman and she is skinny (because of starvation).
for the record, i think Roger is pretty chill guy and he would never. but i am a little... well... i like to write that roger. crazy and piraty
tw: non-con, suicide
Silence. Loneliness. Hunger. Fear. A woman on a patch of land in the middle of the ocean. She felt her inevitable death approaching. Who could save her? This wasn't even a desert island, and she wasn't Robinson Crusoe. How much time had passed? Only a couple of days. No water, no food. Not much time left to live.
When the horizon began to glow scarlet somewhere in the distance, it seemed to her that this was an evil fate. And she couldn't hold back her tears. Her body wasn't bleeding, wasn't tearing itself apart, it was dying slowly. A small drop of blood on the horizon is a mockery.
When the pirates with scarlet sails came across shallow water, most of the crew was surprised. There are no islands nearby, they are on the Grand Line. The depth was so deep that the people of Blues couldn't even imagine. And here there is shallow water.
Shanks and Buggy were the first to find the woman. The battered body before them could hardly be called a woman’s. She was barely breathing, covered in a salt crust, her skin blistered from the sunburn. Yet both of them, with an almost animal instinct, knew at once that she was a woman.
Everyone began whispering about the whims of fate on the Grand Line, careful not to let their eyes linger on the dying woman. Any sailor already knew the outcome.
“Come on, Rayleigh, aren’t you curious?” Gaban was delighted with women in absolutely any shape or form.
“Leave it. I doubt she’ll last until morning.”
The muffled voices never quite registered in her mind, fading into the same background noise as the waves.
“We’re taking her,” Roger said simply.
Rayleigh sighed but didn’t argue. He knew that look. The same way Roger stared at maps you couldn’t hold in your hands. The ink is long gone, and still you search. The same way he looked at people you couldn’t save. And still, he took them.
***
And there she was, lying on the deck, like a washed-up creature. Her arms and legs were thinner than a living person's should be. Her chest barely moved, as if there were waves inside her, not a heart. And yet, the woman was now on Oro Jackson.
She woke up two days later.
Crocus dragged her back with sheer stubbornness and spite.
She spent the first hour hysterical, repeating meaningless names, mumbling and crying. The doctor had to sedate her. Rayleigh gave the captain a disapproving look. He thought it was pointless cruelty — tormenting a dying woman.
Another week passed before she found the strength to realize she was alive.
She looked at him as if she was looking for some sign in the captain's face. Something that would help her understand why he, and not the sea, not hunger, not madness, had decided to keep her alive.
"You saved me?" Her voice was hoarse, dry, like an old sail.
“Saved?” He chuckled. “I’m not sure. More like taken. It’s not the same thing.”
She survived. First, hysterics, then silence. Then habit. The habit of eating, breathing, getting up. The habit of being close.
When Roger told the crew about the next island, he did so with such enthusiasm, as if he intended to live forever.
He spoke of music that, he said, would be “louder than thunder,” of food that could be compared to divine nectar, of people who would be “so strange that we’ll laugh until we cry.”
Only she didn’t laugh.
She sat aside, listening to him speak.
Sometimes Rayleigh caught her glance and knew there was still a glimmer of a person there. But he remained silent. It was easier that way.
***
By the third month of her life on the ship, the woman had changed. Not healthier. Not happier. She simply looked less like a corpse. She’d learned to eat without choking. Discovered where the galley was, how to tie her hair so the wind wouldn’t steal it away.
But most importantly, she had become his shadow. Wherever he was, there she was. By the rail, by the table, by the bed. Even at night, when the whole world seemed silent, she didn't sleep, but sat by his door.
That evening, he entered after she had already gone to bed. The lamps flickered, as if they, too, knew.
"Are you asleep?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
"I wasn’t very convincing, was I?" she muttered, her eyes still closed.
He laughed. Briefly. Bitterly.
“You’re terrible at pretending.”
She didn't argue. She only clutched the blanket lightly in her fists as he sat down next to her. His hand rested on her shoulder, sliding down to her neck.
Women on the islands, who offered themselves for nothing, for thanks, for a pirate’s tale. They were all different. But they all wanted him. Desire seeped from them in their movements, in their gaze, in their careless touches.
And the ghost lay underneath him, all wet, but did not move, and hardly spoke. He could take her again and again, and the hot tightness would continue to flow. Roger believed it was more honest this way. Without showing off, without guile. He didn't even have to look into her eyes or search for the stars.
Her body, warm and sharp, moved against him on its own.
And so, night after night, she was beside him again. Under the warm blanket, she was almost invisible, his hands sliding down her neck to her chest, which was now larger than when they found her on the brink of death.
Roger barely touches her nipple with his fingertip when it hardens. He carefully runs his fingers under her breast; the skin there is soft. His hands constantly hold the sword, but the weight of the soft flesh feels heavy.
"It's cold," she croaks.
And Roger obeys. He dives.
He leaned toward her, covering them both with the blanket. The captain, powerless before the woman, rolled to her feet.
Her scent was trapped in the stagnant air beneath the blanket. Roger sighed, tasting a salty, metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He ran his tongue from her clitoris to her tailbone. Perhaps even his tongue was too large for the tight canal. He slid his tongue, going deeper and deeper, his hands pressing her closer to him. He choked on her hair. His face was soaked with sweat and juices, he couldn't breathe, and that made it better, desire rising inside him like a storm.
And the drowned woman thrashed beneath him. She couldn’t control herself. Her foot was resting on his shoulder. He inhaled her scent again and again. He loved that she smelled like a woman. That sweat streamed down her skin mixed with her own wetness. Even that smell he breathed in with greed — the cloying sweetness of her skin.
Roger pressed his hips harder into the mattress. His cock twitched in anticipation. Precum flowed in viscous drops down his shaft.
"Just a little more," he kept telling her.
He eased one finger inside, but everything was so wet. Two fingers entered without a painful sob. The pirate entered a few more times, stretching her with slow movements.
When his face was level with hers, he kissed her. Even her dry lips and tongue, cold from ragged breathing, were soft. Her face. His face. Her face belonged to him. And a wet nose, red cheeks and narrowed eyes.
When his cock entered, she exhaled all the air from his lungs.
It was unlikely she could see anything now. Her eyes had gone completely black, barely focusing on anything.
Roger's hands held her legs because she lacked the strength. When his pubis pressed against her during thrusts, it sounded like he was throwing a stone into the sea.
How beautiful she was.
“That's it, darling. Squeeze for me.”
Her answer was wheezing.
"Give it on." Haki flared above her.
A spasm wracked the woman.
The orgasm was torn from her. A flicker of desire was enough for Roger to latch onto it and bite into it.
"That's it, my girl. That's it," his words broke into ragged gasps. "You were wrong to try to fool me."
He laid her on her stomach. He held her legs suspended.
Time turned to thick molasses. Two people who had been dying for too long were locked in a small cabin.
He was on his knees. Roger held her legs tightly, so that he could see his cock entering, her labia stretching around its thickness. Roger lost himself in the obscenity of the process, watching her greedy pussy.
And it seemed to the pirate that right now he saw something feminine and hidden. Not in the gentle hands, not in the sexy dresses, not in the languid gaze. But in the helplessness beneath him, in the fatigue of muscles that hadn't obeyed from multiple orgasms. In the scent of her arousal and sweat. In the way that depth, that previously had tightly squeezed him, relaxed. Pussy loose, but still dripping.
Now he entered her with a loud, wet sound. Even so the woman's palms no longer clutched the blanket.
Roger pressed himself on top and let go of her legs. He came with a sharp sigh, making his head spin a little.
The captain lifted the ghost with him. The woman's head fell onto his shoulder. She became one big heart, the blood pounding so loudly inside her. Roger felt the rhythm with his hips through her groin. Their necks touched, there was that pulsation there too.
"Roger," she called very quietly. It was clear the ghost was struggling with the weight of her own eyelids. “Lull me to sleep.”
The king's eyes lowered to watch the sperm flow out of her. Roger collected the drops with his fingers, rubbing them over her, her hot belly, her soft thighs.
He found a pillow in a pile of crumpled blankets. He laid the rescued woman down. He looked at her face. And drowned her in his will. Until the woman fell into a deep sleep.
***
"What are you doing? This isn't like you."
"Living."
"And what about the ghost?"
"We all have our ghosts. Aren’t we?"
"Yes, but we don't take them back to bed," Rayleigh remarked, keeping his voice low. "The girl isn't much older than Shanks and Buggy."
Here, of course, he was being disingenuous. She was older; she was a woman. Unlike their boys, she was far more perspective. Far more thoughtful. Rayleigh saw it.
Silence hung between them, thick and sticky, like fog over the shore. Roger didn't deny it.
"You think we shouldn’t have taken her?" he asked, twirling his mustache.
"She didn't ask us to," Rayleigh remarked. "I can't keep quiet when I see how you treat her."
"What exactly do you see?"
"I see you entering her room at night, when the ship is already asleep. I see her emerging in the morning with red eyes." How you never call her by her name, as if you don't consider her a person.
“You’re worked up, brother.” Capitan said, but without malice.
“Worked up?” Rayleigh still hadn’t raised his voice, but there was a chill in his tone that left no room for illusion. “I just don’t want you losing your head. Again.”
***
She found him at the railing. Rum, wind, the creak of planks — everything blended into one heavy scent. Rayleigh leaned against the ropes, his eyes red, hands shaking. Almost morning.
“You’re here again, ghost?” The first mate rasped against the wind and exhaustion, unwilling to waste words on her.
“I was watching, in case you fell.” She answered softly.
At that time, the pauses between their short phrases stretched longer.
"You... why are you here anyway?"
She fell silent, trying to find the words, but they wouldn't come.
"I don't know," she breathed out. "Just stayed."
"Stayed?" Rayleigh turned sharply toward her, his glasses slipping down his nose. " You say it like you chose it. Roger dragged you here himself."
“No…” She shuddered.
Riley wanted to say something, or maybe reach out to her. Maybe hand her the bottle. But his hands jerked in a clumsy motion, spilling rum on deck.
"Next to!" He laughed hoarsely. "Next to the captain, who can't even see you! You’re only good for…"
"Forgive me for saying this," he added quietly. "I'm angry. Not with you, but I'm taking it out on you. It's unfair.”
She nodded, and for the first time allowed herself to feel that at least someone saw her loneliness.
Ray pulled off his glasses. He was so drunk now that they were useless.
***
The nights blended, dragged on, dissolving into one another. Roger slowly faded, though the thirst for life within him burned ever brighter. Reilly saw the captain convulse with coughing. Roger lived by willpower. Otherwise, the illness would have consumed him long ago.
The ghost, on the other hand, gradually regained her composure. Strength returned to her arms; she no longer trembled when she carried the tray of food. She could stay on her feet during a storm.
But not every storm. Scopper caught her before she realized she'd been swept away by the torrent.
"Careful, sweetheart. You'll drown yourself. Go below deck to the boys."
"Captain overboard!" " someone shouted, and Roger was knocked over by a wave.
Rayleigh decided he wouldn't throw him a rope this time.
She spent that night cuddling with the pirate children in their cabin.
The children called her Captain's Wife. She wasn't Captain's Wife not by coastal law, nor by pirate code. But no one corrected the hatchlings.
"Captain's Wife, why were you with us yesterday?"
"We're not kids anymore. You don’t need to watch us."
"Shanks, shut up, she wasn't watching us."
"Then why did she come to us?"
"Are you completely stupid? She's a weakling."
"Little ones," Roger sat down next to her, right across from Shanks and Buggy. "Women need to be protected. I fell overboard myself yesterday. What would have happened to her?"
He laughed and, with one hand, pulled the silent woman onto his lap.
His hands moved up and down her thighs. Gripped. Left purple marks on her skin. Did he do it on purpose? Or had he simply grown so used to wielding a sword that he misjudged his strength?
"Captain, the island!" someone from the crew shouted from the crow nest.
The crew began to discuss something heatedly.
The king let her go because opportunity arose.
***
Roger stepped forward. His voice still thundered as always, but beneath it ran the rasp of sickness.
He said the time had come. That the journey was over. That the Oro Jackson would carry them all together no more.
He laughed, thanked them, spoke of freedom. The word freedom rang as if he were gifting them an entire world.
Some bowed their heads. Others stared at the sky. But no one argued. No one wept.
The ghost sat apart, nearly in shadow. Her breath was uneven, her gaze locked on him. When he uttered the final words — you are free — she rose.
Not immediately. At first, it seemed she’d simply lost her balance so quietly did she move that even the creak of the deck sounded louder than her step.
Roger kept speaking. But the children noticed she was standing close, too close.
Her fingers found the blade at the captain's stash. The motion was slow, like someone groping for water in the dark. No one stopped her.
The blade slid into his abdomen soundlessly. Only the fabric crackled, as if old rope was being torn.
She leaned in. Blood spilled across the planks. No one screamed. No one intervened.
Roger didn’t flinch. His eyes flashed, but he made no move, offered no hand, spoke no word. He looked at her with the same hungry longing.
“No…” Shanks whispered. His voice broke. He stepped forward, but Buggy yanked his sleeve. Buggy’s face was pale, his eyes wet, and for the first time in his life, there was no bravado in them.
“Why?” Shanks breathed, but there was no answer.
Buggy stared, wide-eyed. Acid rose in his throat. They’d seen her dead. She’d been like that when he and Shanks found her. Yet the image before him now felt somehow nauseating.
She slumped against the mast. The wind caught her hair, and for a moment it seemed as if the ocean itself was bending over her, welcoming her back.
Rayleigh turned away, the gesture held more respect than any words could. And Roger remained silent. His mustache twitched, but he neither stopped her nor tried to hold her back.
The captain had been outplayed not by the warrior, nor a legendary pirate, nor a glorious amazonian. But by a lonely, silent woman, broken by the weight of the sea.
Rayleigh approached. Carefully, he lifted her body. Heavy.
The crew parted. No one dared touch her. Even the most seasoned pirates averted their eyes. Only the children watched, unblinking: their faces distorted by the horror that shatters childhood in an instant.
Shanks took a step forward, wanting to help, but froze, feeling he had no right. Buggy squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again and looked straight ahead.
Rayleigh carried her to the railing. He stood there, silent for a long time. Only the wind beat against the rigging and the sea roared. It seemed the ocean was waiting.
"You deserve it," he said finally. And he lowered her body into the water.
The waves took her gently, carried her into the depths. The red stain spread and vanished. The sea reclaimed her.
And no one spoke her name again. But in Roger's every laugh, in his every word, her silence was heard. It remained with him, like a shadow. And in that silence was her eternal victory.
For the crew, this day was a day of freedom. And for Roger, it was his last glimpse of the sea, which would never again welcome him.
okay.... so... i've never ever posted anything here. but maybe i can share my OC
(why am i so nervous about this????)
i'm slowly writing about her. https://archiveofourown.org/works/61351234
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