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@fanficsbyse
Fanfics by SE
I have a specific blog for One Piece requests, but this blog is more general for when I branch into other fandoms!
I do not take requests on this blog! You want that, go here.
Might post the occasional art as well!
Here's a masterlist of my fanfiction stories I post on this blog! Not sure how many there will be, but figured I'd make them easy to find!
These are also found on my Ao3! May bring my shorter Ao3 stories here eventually.
🔞 NSFW (🖤 Kink) | 💗 Fluff/Flirting | 🥀 Angst | 🫂 Comfort | 🪐Alternate Universe
One Piece Stories
Under Shifting Skies series 🔞💗🥀🫂
| 🪐Omegaverse🪐 | canon compliant | Ao3 Link | Masterlist | multiple characters + OCs |
Hands That Decide series 🔞💗🥀🫂
| canon compliant | Ao3 Link | Masterlist | OC centered + canon as side characters |
Against the Tide series
| 🪐Soulmate AU 🪐 | canon compliant | Ao3 Link | Masterlist | Reader-insert, Shanks, Benn Beckman |
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In Love With Your Curves
A/N: thank you anon for requesting "Beckman with a chubby f reader who has stretchmarks but he secretly loves her weight a lot and is turned on by it (nsfw)". I hope you like it. i have to admit i think i rewrote this like 4 times so i hope i didn't mess it up now 🙈
Word Count: >6000
Plot: you feel really self-conscious because of your curves but Beckman is there to assure you that you are perfect to him
Warnings: NSFW, insecure reader, p in v, use of (Y/N), fingering, oral (receiving but not really described) MDNI ⚠️🔞
Characters: Beckman x Freader
The deck of the ship swayed gently under your feet, the salty breeze tugging at your clothes as laughter echoed around you. Life with the Red Hair Pirates was loud, chaotic, and warm… almost too warm sometimes.
Especially when he was nearby — Benn Beckman. He leaned lazily against the railing, a cigarette resting between his lips, sharp eyes half-lidded as if nothing in the world could surprise him. But you knew better because those eyes missed nothing. Least of all you.
You were the crew’s sweetheart, sure, but in a world of sleek warriors and smart navigators, your mind often lingered on the soft curve of your stomach and the silvery stretchmarks etched across your stomach, hips and thighs. To you, they were flaws you tried to hide behind oversized shirts and high-waisted trousers.
You were leaning against the railing, the sun catching the lines on your skin peeking through a gap in your shirt. You quickly tugged the fabric down, a familiar pang of self-consciousness hitting your chest.
“You’re doing that thing again,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbled behind you.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. The scent of expensive tobacco, sea salt and a cologne smelling like sandalwood gave him away every time. Beckman stepped up beside you, leaning his elbows on the railing, his dark eyes tracking the horizon before settling on you with a heavy, unreadable intensity.
“Doing what?” you mumbled, crossing your arms over your middle.
“Looking at me” he teased.
“I wasn’t!” you insisted, cheeks already burning.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he straightened, strolling closer with that unhurried confidence that made your stomach twist. “Yeah? Then why’re you starin’ at me like I hung the stars?”
He moved closer to you, too close. Always so damn close. His gaze dipped, not in a crude way, but in a way that made you hyper-aware of yourself, of your body, the softness of your stomach and thighs and the faint lines along your hips you always tried to hide.
“I should get back to—” you started but a hand caught your wrist cutting you off.
“Hey,” Beckman murmured, tone shifting just enough to make your chest tighten. “Why’re you running?”
“I’m not running,” you said quickly, avoiding his eyes. “Just… busy.”
“Busy avoidin’ me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“…No.” you stammered, swallowing hard.
He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “You’ve been dodging me all week.”
He wasn't wrong about this to be honest. Truth was you were head over heels for this man but every time you looked at him, you remembered how easy he was with women, how effortlessly they laughed at his words, how different they looked compared to you. “I just…” you hesitated, then forced a shrug. “You’ve got plenty of women to flirt with. Don’t need to waste time on me.”
For a moment, there was a heavy silence and then he suddenly chuckled. Not mockingly and definitely not cruelly just surprised it seemed. “Waste time?” he repeated, stepping even closer. “That what you think this is?”
Your heart was pounding loudly in your head because you couldn't make sense of this situation right now. “Isn’t it?” you asked confused.
His hand slipped from your wrist to your chin, lifting your face just enough that you couldn’t look away anymore. “You're always doing this, making yourself smaller, shrinking away and thinking you're not special just because you're looking different than others” he said calmly, taking a drag from his cigarette. “It's a waste of breath and you're just running that pretty head of yours into overthinking which ain't necessary” he added.
You felt your face heat up. It was typical Beckman. He was charming you even now, always knowing what to say, it was like this was part of his DNA. He had a girl in every port swooning over him. A wink for every barmaid, so why would he actually care about a chubby crewmate like you?
“Beck, stop. You don’t have to do the charming First Mate routine with me,” you sighed, looking down at your hands. “I know I’m not exactly the type of woman you usually... you know.”
Beckman straightened up, his playful aura vanishing instantly. The sheer size of him was intimidating, but it was the look in his eyes, sharp, focused and utterly predatory, that made your breath hitch.
“You think I’m playing a part?” he asked, his other hand coming up to rest firmly on your hip, his thumb grazing the exact spot where your stretchmarks began. “You truly doubt what I just said?”
“…I’m not doubting,” you tried, weakly.
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “And I don’t smoke.”
“You don’t make any sense,” you huffed, looking away again and fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
“Neither do you.”
That made you look back at him because something in his voice was making you realize that he wasn't playing a game.
“You think I just throw words around?” he asked, leaning in a bit.
“…Don’t you?” you asked quietly, breath hitching as the scent of his cologne hit you with full force and damn it was intoxicating.
His brow lifted slightly. Not offended, just… surprised. “No.” That single word hit harder than anything else. “I don’t waste my time,” he continued, voice steady. “And I don’t repeat myself unless it matters.”
You felt your chest tightened again and ypur knees started to buckle a bit. You studied his face trying to find something, anything that would show you, proof to you that this couldn't be true but you found nothing.
“So when I say I’m watchin’ you,” he added, stepping just a fraction closer, your chests now only inches apart and you felt the warmth of his body against ypurs. “it’s because I am.”
Your breath hitched and you bit your lower lip almost shyly. You didn't know what to say right now, nor what to do because you just weren't prepared for this. You were pining for this man for weeks, god probably months now and hearing him talk to you like this made your heart swell.
“You think I don’t notice how you shrink into yourself?” His gaze softened, but it didn’t lose its intensity. “How you look away when someone gets too close? When I get too close? Or how you tug at your clothes like you’re tryin’ to hide somethin’ that was never a problem to begin with.”
“I just—” you started, then faltered fingers curling instinctively tighter around the hem of your shirt. “I don’t look like the others.”
“There it is again,” he muttered, almost sounding like a sigh.
Before you could react, his hand gently but firmly caught yours interlacing his fingers with yours and you tensed. But he didn’t let go. Instead he pried your hand away from your hem. “Look at me,” he said.
You exhaled deeply and then slowly, hesitantly, you did. His expression wasn’t teasing now. Not playful, no he looked certain. He looked like he usually did when he was about to teach you something, which he kind of did right now except this time it wasn't about maps or fighting, this time it was about yourself.
“You really think I’d waste my breath on someone I didn’t want?” he asked, making your heart skip. “I could have anyone, I flirt a lot, you’re right about that.” he continued bluntly and you flinched a bit at these words. “But I don’t look at just anyone the way I look at you.”
Your breath caught and you felt like your heart was fluttering out of your chest. “I don’t wait for just anyone to walk on deck.” His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, absentmindedly but grounding. “And I sure as hell don’t keep comin’ back just to hear myself talk.”
“Then… why me?” you whispered, your thoughts spinning now, struggling to keep up and process what he was saying.
For a moment, he just looked at you, really looked at you. Like he was deciding how honest he could be without you questioning it again. “Because you don’t try to be what you’re not. You think I don’t see through the others?” he added. “All that charm, all that effort to impress… it’s easy.” His grip on your hand tightened just slightly. “You’re not easy.” That sent a strange warmth through your chest. “You’re real,” he said again, softer now. “And you don’t even realize how much that stands out.”
“You're the only one I wait for to walk on deck.” His eyes flicked over your face, your shoulders, your body, lingering, appreciative, hungry in a way that made your pulse stutter. “The only one who gets this worked up just from me talkin’.”
“I—I don’t—”
“You do,” he said, a smirk ghosting back. “You turn pink every damn time.”
“That’s not—” you tried to protest but you felt your face burn hotter and hotter.
“And those things you try so hard to hide?” he added quietly, his fingers brushing lightly along your side, not intrusive, just there, grounding. “They drive me insane.”
“What…?” you whispered, your breath catching completely and your eyes wide and confused.
“Every curve. Every line. You think I don’t notice?” He said his voice dropping, sounding rougher now as he gave a faint shake of his head. “Hell, it’s the first thing I notice.”
“That’s not funny,” you said, but your voice wavered.
“I’m not joking.” he replied firmly. There was no teasing in his expression now. None, just certainty. “You’re real,” Beckman murmured. “Soft, warm and kind. Not like the rest.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “And I like that. You think anyone could look at you and not want to touch you?” he said quietly, his voice husky with something close to awe. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
“But I don’t look like the others,” you said once again and it started to feel like you were using it as a shield.
“Good,” he said immediately, making you blink startled. “Means you’re not the others. You’re not supposed to look like anyone else. You’re supposed to look like you.””
“I…” you hesitated, then admitted in a small voice, “I don’t know how to believe you.”
A faint smile touched his lips, not mocking, not smug, just… patient. “Fine, but stop assuming I’m lying just because you don’t see the beauty that I see when I look at you.”
You stared, wide eyed, eyes watering and your hands shaking slightly. It was actually the sweetest thing someone had said to you in a really long time without trying to make fun of you. It almost felt surreal but Beckman just smiled at you and decided to close the finally gap between ylur bodies, his chest brushing yours now and one hand wrapping around your waist and digging softly and gently into your curvy hip, his fingers feeling the soft texture of your skin through the fabric.
"I’ve seen the way you look in the mirror when you think no one's watching," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear. "You see flaws. I see curves I want to sink my hands into. I see those marks on your skin and all I think about is how beautiful they’d look under me."
Your heart was drumming against your ribs like a trapped bird and your face was now the color of a ripe tomato. "Beck..."
"I'm a man of many vices," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips before returning to yours with a terrifying sincerity. "And every single piece of you is my favorite one. Don't ever let me catch you hiding from me again."
He rested his forehead against yours and you felt like you were going to pass out because your heart was racing like crazy. He pulled back slightly and his lips brushed your temple before he let go just enough to give you one of those devastating, slow smirks, the one that usually meant trouble for the rest of the world, but today, it was just for you.
He finally stepped back and then flicked his cigarette over the side before he leaned in to whisper in your ear “Meet me in my cabin tonight, I wanna see you, all of you.”
You froze, your brain was short-circuiting. Did he just invite you into his cabin, just you?! Inwardly you were screaming, you were completely gone and he just chuckled as he looked at you and then took your hand, gave it a kiss like a gentleman and walked like a king below deck. While you remained there, trying to process what just happened.
Later on you found yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror in just your underwear. The marks on your thighs, hips and stomach, the lightning bolts that made you feel so insecure, clearly visible and for a moment you closed your eyes wishing they'd be gone when you opened them again but of course life didn't work like that — unfortunately. You sighed unsure if you should really go to see Beckman, after all you didn't feel like you were worth it or if you'd be enough for him. You ran a hand over your face before you put on your clothes again and with all your courage decided to go see him.
The walk to his quarters felt longer than usual, every step shadowed by the nagging urge to turn back. You smoothed the fabric of your shirt, over-aware of how it sat against your skin, hiding the "lightning bolts" you had just been mourning in the mirror. You wondered if he’d see the hesitation in your eyes before he even saw your body, Beckman was observant like that and he saw everything.
When you finally reached the heavy wooden door of his cabin, you paused, your fist hovering inches from the surface. The Red Force was relatively quiet, the distant sound of laughter from the deck muffled by the evening salt air. You took one last breath, grounding yourself and knocked.
“Come in,” his voice rumbled, deep and steady.
Pushing the door open, you found him sitting at his desk, the faint scent of tobacco and sandalwood clinging to the room. He didn't look up immediately, finished marking a map before setting his pen down. When he finally shifted his attention to you, the air in the room seemed to thicken. He didn't say a word at first, he just watched the way you stood there, slightly defensive, your arms crossed loosely over your middle.
He rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace, closing the distance between you until the heat radiating from him was palpable. He could clearly sense the storm of insecurity brewing behind your gaze. Without a word, he reached out, his large, calloused hand settling firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the spot.
He made you look up into his eyes, his gaze heavy and dark. Beckman was a man who appreciated strategy and substance. He had never been interested in the fragile or the fleeting. To him, every curve of your body was an indulgence, a testament to a life well-lived and a beauty that felt grounded and real. His hand slid downward, his palm flattening against your stomach. He didn't shy away from the texture of your skin, he leaned into it. His fingers traced the faint lines on your skin like he was reading a map he had long ago memorized.
“Beck,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “The marks... the weight…”
“Are perfect,” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Do you have any idea how much I crave this?” He squeezed the soft flesh of your waist. The look in his eyes wasn't just affection, it was hunger. It was the look of a man who had finally found exactly what he wanted and had no intention of letting it go. “You’re mine,” he growled, his lips ghosting over yours. “Every inch of you. Don't you dare think I want you any other way, don't you dare think you are not enough because you, sweetheart, definitely are everything I want.”
He lifted you up, his hands supporting your weight with effortless strength like you weighed nothing, his eyes never leaving yours as he carried you toward the bed. He loved the way you felt in his arms, so warm, so soft and entirely his. He gently placed you down on the and hovered over you smirking down at you and brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear before letting his finger trace down the side of your face and to your chin tilting it up and kissing you slowly before he pulled away to your stunned face and then with a gentleness that betrayed his built he began to tug at your shirt lifting it up.
The shirt was discarded as an afterthought, fluttering to the floor like a white flag of surrender. As the fabric cleared your upper body, the cool air of the cabin hit your skin, but the heat radiating from Beckman's gaze was enough to keep you flushed.
Out of habit you wanted to cover yourself but Beckman didn't let you, stopping your movement with just a look. “Don't, let me see you, all of you. Every beautiful little curve, every perfect inch of your skin.” He braced his weight on his forearms, boxing you in. His eyes traveled over you with a slow, deliberate hunger, taking in the swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your belly, and the intricate, shimmering lines that mapped your hips. To anyone else, they were marks maybe even flaws but not to Beckman. He let out a low, guttural growl, a sound that started deep in his chest and settled right in your bones. It wasn't a sound of frustration, annoyance or disdain, no it was far from it, it was of pure, unadulterated want.
“Stop looking so stunned” he murmured, noticing your wide eyes and parted lips. He ghosted a thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. “I’m a man of appetites, (Y/N). And you’re the only thing that satisfies them.”
His large hand descended, his palm spanning the width of your stomach. He didn't just touch you, he kneaded the soft skin there, his fingers sinking into you with a firm, worshipping pressure. He watched the way your flesh gave way beneath his touch, his smirk deepening into something darker, more predatory. “Look at you,” he rasped, his voice thick with a sudden edge of heat. “There’s so much of you to hold. So much of you for me to sink into. You think these marks are flaws? I think they’re a goddamn invitation.”
He lowered his head, but he didn't go for your lips this time. He pressed his face into the side of your waist, inhaling the scent of your skin. His stubble grazed your softest parts, a delicious friction that made your toes curl into the sheets. He traced the ‘lightning bolts’ on your thighs with his tongue, a slow, damp heat that made you gasp and arch your back. “I like the way you feel under me. Don't you ever try to hide from me again.” he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and igniting your nerves.
He shifted, his heavy frame settling between your thighs, and you could feel exactly how much his words weren't just talk. He was hard, his body reacting viscerally to the sheer abundance of yours. He wanted to lose himself in you, to be surrounded by your warmth and the soft, beautiful curves.
He leaned up, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was no longer slow or gentle. His tongue was moving against yours in a kiss that felt like a deep devotion. It was demanding, tasting of tobacco and a desperate, burning need. He wasn't just loving you for how you were, he was devouring you for it. The air in the cabin grew stiflingly hot, charged with the electric friction of his skin against yours. Beckman’s kiss was an anchor, heavy, grounding and deep. His tongue swept against yours with a rhythmic, possessive confidence, mirroring the way his hands began to work over your body with practiced ease.
He didn't fumble. Even with the size of his hands, he moved with a surgical precision born of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. The snap of your bra echoed in the quiet room, and a moment later, he was sliding your pants down over your hips. He didn't rush the process, he let his palms graze the fullness of your thighs, his touch lingering on the softest parts of you as if he were savoring the texture of a fine silk.
When you were left in nothing but your panties, the cool air hit your damp skin, but the chill didn't last. Beckman’s hands immediately found the weight of your breasts, tracing a teasing fingertip softly over the flesh and your nipples, making you gasp into the kiss and arch into him. He broke the kiss just an inch, enough to watch your face, but close enough that his hot breath hitched against your lips. You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the pillows as his large, calloused fingers began to knead. His hands were rough, scarred from years of sea-faring and combat, making the pillowy softness of your chest feel even more delicate in comparison. He didn't just touch, he claimed. He used his thumbs to roll over your nipples, his gaze darkening as he watched them peak and harden under his care.
“Listen to that,” he growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the floorboards. “The sounds you make when I handle you... that’s my favorite song on this entire ocean.”
He squeezed the soft sides of your breasts, pushing them together, his eyes fixed on the way your skin yielded so perfectly to his strength. He was a man who appreciated the ‘more’ of you, the way your body reacted to him, the way you filled his hands and the way your curves spilled over his fingers. “You're shaking,” he noted, a smudge of a smirk returning to his face. He leaned down, his lips catching a stray tear of pleasure from your cheek. “Is it too much? Or is it because you finally realize how much I've been wanting to get my hands on all this? That I wasn't just talking but that I really meant what I said?”
He didn't wait for an answer because he knew. He could feel your heart hammering against his palm, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. He lowered his head, his mouth replacing his fingers on one aching stiff nipple, his tongue swirling around the tip before he wrapped his lips around it, taking it fully into his mouth and sucked deeply. The sensation sent a jolt straight to your core, a needy moan escaping your lips, your hips instinctively bucking upward against his heavy thigh. Beckman let out a muffled grunt of approval, his hand sliding down from your chest, over the soft slope of your belly, and hooking into the waistband of your lace.
The friction of his stubble against your breast was a sharp, intoxicating contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. As his mouth focused on your breasts, one of his hands didn't just hover, it slid beneath the elastic of your lace, his fingers finding the slick, sensitive heat of your slit. He moved with a slow, agonizing rhythm that made your vision blur, each stroke a silent promise of what was coming.
By now you were a mess of soft whimpers and frantic pleas, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until the fabric groaned. When he finally pulled his mouth away, your skin felt cold where he had been until he replaced the sensation with the searing heat of his gaze. “Patience, sweetheart,” he rumbled against the skin of your neck, his voice like gravel and velvet. “I told you. I want every bit of your beautiful body.”
With a single, fluid motion, he hooked his thumbs into your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them aside without a backward glance. Now, you were completely bare beneath him, your body laid out like a feast he had spent years craving.
Beckman moved lower, his heavy frame shifting between your knees to give him a full view. Most men might have rushed to the finish, but Beckman was a lover, he enjoyed the journey. He leaned in, his eyes tracing the silvery, jagged lines across your outer thighs, the marks you had spent years trying to hide. He didn't just look, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to the center of a stretch mark on your hip. “Beautiful,” he muttered against your skin, his breath hitching as he felt you tremble. “Like lightning on the water.”
While his mouth worked a slow, worshipful path across your curves, kissing the soft dip of your belly and the lush fullness of your thighs, his hand remained exactly where it needed to be. His fingers stayed buried in your heat, circling and pressing with a calculated pressure that kept you on a razor's edge.
You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as his tongue followed the path his hand had set. The combination was too much, the worship of your body, the weight of his presence and the relentless, expert movement of his fingers had you feeling dizzy from pleasure. “Beck... please…” you gasped, your hands moving from the sheets to catch in his hair, pulling him closer.
He let out a dark, satisfied chuckle against your thigh, his hand spreading your soft flesh wider to give his mouth better access. “I’ve got you,” he growled, looking up at you with eyes that burned with a fierce, protective lust. “Just let go. I’m right here to catch you.”
The world shattered into a kaleidoscope of heat and light as Beckman pushed you over the edge. His mouth and fingers worked in a relentless, synchronized rhythm until you were sobbing his name, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as the first powerful wave of an orgasm crashed over you. He held you through it, his large hands anchoring your hips to the bed, making sure you felt every spark of the fire he had built.
As the tremors began to fade into a heavy, delicious aftermath, Beckman finally pulled back. He didn't move far, just enough to sit back on his heels at the foot of the bed. He watched you with a look of pure, unadulterated pride, like a king surveying his most prized territory.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice thick and dark. “Flushed and ruined. Just how you're supposed to be.” He didn't give you long to catch your breath. With a slow, deliberate grace that seemed impossible for a man of his size, he began to undress. He kept his eyes locked on yours, making the act feel like a deliberate challenge.
He shrugged his heavy dark coat off his shoulders, letting it thud heavily to the floor. Next came the shirt, pulled over his head to reveal the sheer expanse of his torso. You had seen him work on deck, but here, in the dim light of the cabin, he was breathtaking. His chest was a roadmap of scars and hard-earned muscle, the dark hair on his chest tapering down into a tantalizing line. His hands moved to his belt, the leather creaking in the silence. When he finally stepped out of his trousers, the sight of him made the air leave your lungs all over again.
He was built like a mountain, solid, scarred and imposing and so damn manly and hot. As he looked at your soft, plush curves waiting for him on the sheets, his expression softened into something almost reverent. He knew the contrast between you was stark, his hardness against your softness, his jagged scars against your silvery marks. “Your turn to watch,” he murmured, his smirk returning as he saw your eyes travel over him. He crawled back onto the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his impressive weight.
He moved over you again, but this time there was no fabric between you. The feeling of his rough, hot skin against your soft breasts and his erection against your belly was an electric shock. He was heavy, deliciously so, and he made sure you felt every bit of him as he settled between your thighs. “You still think I'm looking for someone else, pretty girl?” he asked, his hand sliding under your hip to tilt you up toward him. “When I have you to sink into?”
Your fingers trembled as they made contact with his chest, toying with the hair there, traveling along the skin, the texture of it a stark contrast to your own. His scars felt like raised ridges of history beneath your fingertips, smooth, hardened and permanent. You traced a particularly long mark over his pectoral, feeling the iron-solid muscle jump beneath your touch. Beckman let out a low, vibrating hum of approval, his eyes hooded as he watched you explore him. He didn't move to stop you, instead, he leaned into your hand, a predator enjoying the attention of his favorite person.
“That's it,” he encouraged, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I'm all yours to map out, sweetheart.”
But Beckman wasn't a man who stayed still for long and his hunger flared back up. He reached down, his large hand wrapping almost entirely around the thickest part of your thigh. The heat of his palm felt like a brand against your soft skin. With a sudden, deliberate movement, he ducked his head. He didn't kiss you this time. Instead, he sank his teeth into the tender, plush flesh of your inner thigh, right over one of the silver stretch marks you had been so worried about.
It wasn't a nip of pain, but a firm, possessive pressure that sent an electric shock of pure white heat straight to your center. You let out a sharp, high-pitched gasp, your hips jerking upward as your legs instinctively tried to wrap around his head. He stayed there for a long moment, his hot breath fanning against your skin before he licked the mark he had just made. He looked up at you from between your legs, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes.
“Mine,” he growled, the word vibrating against your thigh. “I want to leave my mark all over these curves. I want everyone on this sea to know who you belong to without me saying a damn word.”
He slid upward then, his heavy chest dragging against your sensitive nipples, the friction making you whine into the crook of his neck. He used his knee to nudge your legs wider, settling his weight firmly between them. The sheer size of him was overwhelming in the best way possible, a solid, unshakable force that made you feel safe and completely consumed all at once.
“Wrap those beautiful legs around me,” he commanded, his hand sliding behind your head to tangle in your hair. “I want to feel every bit of your weight pressing back against mine.” The moment he finally pushed inside you, the world narrowed down to just the two of you. He moved with an agonizing, delicious slowness, his jaw tight as he buried himself deep within your heat. You let out a long, shuddering moan, your head thumping back into the pillow as your body stretched to accommodate his impressive size.
“God, you're so tight," he rasped into your ear, his voice breaking with the sheer force of his restraint. "Like you were made just to hold me.” Beckman didn't just stay still once he was inside. He settled his full weight onto you, his massive chest pressing your soft breasts flat against him. He wanted to feel the friction of your skin against his, the way your plush curves cushioned his hard angles. As he began to move, slow, deep thrusts that hit every nerve ending, his hands remained busy. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, guiding your head for his devouring kisses, while the other descended to your hip.
His calloused thumb traced the silver trails of your stretch marks with a rhythm that matched his thrusts. It wasn't just a touch, it was a worship. He loved the texture, the way your skin felt like velvet and silk under his rough palm. He trailed his mouth down from your lips to your collarbone, leaving dark, blooming marks in his wake. Then lower, to the swell of your breasts, catching a nipple between his teeth and tugging just enough to make you cry out.
You wrapped your legs as tightly as you could around his waist, your ankles locking behind his back. The extra weight of your thighs pressing him closer only seemed to spur him on. Every time your hips rose to meet him, he let out a low, animalistic grunt of approval. “That's it,” he groaned, his pace quickening as the friction built to a fever pitch. “Take all of me. Show me how well you can hold me, sweetheart.”
The cabin was filled with the sound of his heavy breathing, the rhythmic creak of the bed, and the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin. You felt completely surrounded by him by his intoxicating scent, his crushing weight, and the absolute certainty that, in this moment, there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than lost inside the softness of your body.
All of a sudden though he decided to switch positions and the shift was sudden and powerful. One moment you were looking into his smoldering eyes, and the next, his large hands were under your hips, effortlessly flipping you onto your stomach. The feeling of the cool sheets against your front was a sharp contrast to the furnace-like heat of his body as he settled over your back.
Beckman let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sigh as he took in the sight of you from this angle. He didn't just see a body, he saw a masterpiece of soft curves and shimmering silver lines, making you shiver as he trailed a hand down your spine till he reached your ass giving it a squeeze that made you jolt and squeak. He let out a low chuckle before he guided himself back inside you with one heavy thrust that made you cry out into the pillow, your fingers clawing at the fabric. From this position, he was deeper, hitting spots that made your toes curl and your head swim.
His large, scarred hands reached around your waist, his fingers digging into your love handles. He didn't just hold them, he squeezed them with a possessive intensity, his thumbs tracing the soft dip of your waist and you were sure he'd leave marks. He leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, and began a trail of damp, biting kisses along your shoulders and spine while one hand squeezed the back of your thighs, right where your marks were most prominent.
He reached forward, his arms wrapping around you to grope and knead your breasts from behind. He was definitely enjoying the way you felt in his hands and before you knew it you cried out when you felt his teeth sink into your left butt cheek. “Listen to you,” he rasped against your ear, his voice thick with the coming storm. “So loud for me. I want the whole ship to know how good you feel. I want them to know I’m never letting you go.” Every time he thrust forward, his palms would squeeze your chest, his rhythm becoming more frantic, more primal.
You were lost in a haze of sensation, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the delicious sting from his bite, the friction of his rough palms on your soft skin, and the way he worshipped every ‘imperfection’ you had once hated. He made you feel like a goddess, a woman of beauty that a man like him would go to war for to protect.
His pace shifted from calculated to desperate. He began to pull back almost entirely before snapping home, his hips slapping against the plush curve of your backside with a wet, heavy sound. You were sobbing now, your breath coming in short, ragged hitches as the tension coiled tight in your gut.
“Beck—Beck, please!” You gasped voice raw.
“I've got you,” he growled, his hands shifting from your breasts to your hips, steadying you so he could drive even deeper. “Cum for me, (Y/N). Let me feel you break.”
The tension snapped like a mast in a hurricane as Beckman drove into you one final, soul-searing time, his body went rigid. You felt the hot, pulsing evidence of his release fill you at the exact moment your own world dissolved into white light. You screamed his name into the pillow, your hips trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Beckman buried his face in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural roar vibrating through his chest and into your very bones.
For a long minute, the only sound in the cabin was the heavy, synchronized thrum of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again and the ragged sound of air returning to lungs. Gently, Beckman shifted his weight. He didn't pull away immediately, he stayed draped over you for a moment, a protective mountain of warmth, before sliding out and pulling you back against his chest in a spooning position. He tucked the duvet around both of you, his large arms wrapping around your waist, pulling your back flush against his front.
His calloused hand settled right back on your stomach, his thumb lazily tracing the soft skin he had so thoroughly worshipped. “You're quiet,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear.
"Just... thinking," you whispered, the old flickers of doubt trying to resurface in the cooling air. “About everything you saw. Everything you touched.”
Beckman didn't let you spiral. He turned you in his arms until you were facing him, his hair a bit messy, his eyes soft with an intimacy he rarely showed the world. He took your hand and pressed it to his heart, then moved his other hand to rest firmly on your hip, his fingers dipping into the curve of your flesh.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. When you met his gaze, there was no smirk, only a terrifyingly honest devotion. “I’ve spent my life on the sea, (Y/N). I know what’s valuable and what’s just flash. You think these marks or this weight are things to hide? To me, they’re the best parts of the map. I love your stretch marks. I love your thighs. I love your stomach. You… you’re mine. And I’m never letting anyone tell you you’re not desirable, because you’re exactly what I want.”
He leaned in, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth before finally pressing his lips fully against yours.. “There is nothing wrong with you. Not a goddamn thing,” he rasped. “I don't want any other woman. I want you. I want this. I want the way you feel in my arms at night. If you ever feel ashamed again, you remember how I looked at you today. Because I’m never going to stop wanting every single inch of you and I'm never letting you go again."
You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of his words finally sinking in. He wasn't just saying it to be kind, Benn Beckman didn't have a dishonest bone in his body. He truly, deeply loved the skin you were in. He pulled the covers higher, tucking your head under his chin. “Now rest,” he grunted, though his touch was incredibly tender. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere, love.”
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)
The Lost Heart Chapter 9
Summary:
You weren't sure how long you could take this. Between Shanks and the building headaches, the only thing worse.... Well, a sick soulmate wasn't what you expected.
Characters:
Reader, Shanks, Beckman, Original Character
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
You settled against the rail with a groan. Something pounded behind your eyes like a woodpecker on a tree. Sharp. Focused.
Refusing to leave.
It had been like this a week already.
You barely managed to work through it. Hongo gave you painkillers, but they did little. Beckman lightened your duties - you didn't listen and did them anyway.
Light footsteps approached. A small sigh, then Flick sat down next to you. "You're ignoring him."
"So what," you grunted. "Never asked for this shit..." 'Didn't want a goddamn soulmate, let along a goddamn Yonko for one! Especially not some half-drunk, needy, childish, overgrown toddler of a man!'
Flick didn’t react right away.
Didn’t snap back. Didn’t laugh.
Just… watched you.
And that, more than anything, grated.
“…You’re not wrong,” she said eventually, voice quieter than usual. “Didn’t ask for it.”
You huffed, shifting your weight against the rail, immediately regretting it when the motion sent another spike of pain through your skull. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m doing something wrong.”
A pause.
The sea stretched out endlessly in front of you, waves rolling in steady, uncaring rhythm. The ship creaked beneath you, familiar now—but even that felt too loud, too sharp against your senses.
“You are,” Flick said.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Because I’m not playing along with some cosmic mistake?”
“It’s not about playin’ along.”
“Then what is it about?” you snapped, turning your head just enough to glare at her—and immediately wishing you hadn’t when the movement made your vision blur at the edges.
Flick didn’t look away. “It’s about consequences.”
Your stomach twisted. “Yeah? Mine, not yours.”
“…No,” she said softly. “Not just yours.”
Something in her tone made your chest tighten—wrong, unfamiliar.
You shoved it down.
“I can handle it,” you muttered.
Flick’s expression shifted. Not disbelief.
Something closer to frustration.
“You think this is just headaches?” she asked.
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, pushing herself to her feet in one smooth motion. “C’mon.”
You frowned. “I’m not in the mood—”
“Too bad.” Her voice cut through clean and firm in a way it hadn’t before. “You need to see it.”
Your jaw tightened. “See what?”
But she was already moving.
And despite everything—despite the pain, the irritation, the stubborn, burning refusal sitting heavy in your chest—you pushed off the rail and followed.
Each step felt heavier than it should have.
The closer you got to the cabins, the worse the pounding in your head became. Not sharper—no, that would’ve been easier.
Deeper.
Like something pressing inward instead of striking out.
Wrong.
You slowed, hand brushing the wall for balance. “What the hell…”
Flick glanced back at you, something almost like pity flickering across her face. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Now imagine not fightin’ it.”
You didn’t like that.
Didn’t like it at all.
By the time she stopped outside a familiar door, your stomach had started to churn, unease curling low and persistent.
You stared at Shanks' cabin.
Then at her. “…Why are we here?”
Flick didn’t answer.
She just knocked once—sharp, quick—and pushed the door open without waiting.
The air inside hit you first.
Heavy.
Too warm.
You barely registered Beckman standing near the far wall before your attention snapped to the bed.
Shanks—
Your breath caught.
He looked… wrong.
Not just tired. Not just hungover or worn thin.
Pale.
Too pale.
Hair damp at the edges, sticking slightly to his skin. His shirt clung faintly with sweat, breath uneven in a way that set something deep in your chest on edge before you could stop it.
No.
No, that wasn’t—
You took a step back.
Your head throbbed.
“What is this?” you demanded, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “He’s sick, so what? That’s not—”
“Rejection sickness.” Beckman’s voice cut in, low and steady.
Final.
The room seemed to tilt.
Your gaze snapped to him. “That’s not a real thing.”
“It is for soulbonds.”
You shook your head immediately, too fast. “No. No, that’s—he’s a Yonko, he doesn’t just—what, get taken out by feelings?”
“Not feelings,” Flick said quietly behind you.
“The bond,” Beckman corrected.
Silence slammed down hard.
You looked back at Shanks despite yourself.
His brow furrowed slightly, like he could feel you there—even now. Even like this.
Your chest tightened.
You crushed it.
“This is stupid,” you said, forcing the words out, forcing your voice steady. “He’s probably just actually sick. Or hungover. Or—”
“He hasn’t been drinkin’,” Beckman said.
You faltered. “…what?”
You'd never thought the man would stop drinking. Ever. He lived off rum like water.
Flick crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe now, watching you carefully. “Hasn’t touched it since you told him to back off.”
That… didn’t make sense.
That didn’t—
“He said he’d give you space,” Beckman added. “He meant it. Hasn't wanted a drink since then.”
A flicker of something sharp twisted in your chest.
Guilt.
You shoved it away so hard it almost made you dizzy.
“That doesn’t—this doesn’t prove anything,” you insisted. “Correlation isn’t causation—”
Beckman’s gaze hardened, just slightly. “You been gettin’ worse this week?”
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
Flick pushed off the wall, stepping closer—but not too close. Careful. Measured. “Headaches. Nausea. Feels like somethin’s pressin’ where it shouldn’t.”
Your silence stretched too long.
“…Yeah,” she said softly. “Thought so.”
You clenched your fists at your sides. “That doesn’t mean—”
“It does.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You turned sharply, anger flaring—because that was easier, safer than anything else clawing up your throat. “So what, I’m supposed to just—what—give in? Let this thing decide my life for me?”
“No one said that,” Beckman replied.
“Then what do you want from me?”
Neither of them answered right away.
And in the quiet—
A weak, rough exhale came from the bed.
Your head snapped back before you could stop yourself.
Shanks shifted slightly, like the movement cost him more than it should have. His hand twitched against the sheets, fingers curling faintly.
Reaching.
Not for anything.
Just—
Instinct.
Your chest ached.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
Deep.
You staggered half a step, breath hitching as something unfamiliar and unwelcome surged through the bond.
Need.
Not yours.
Never yours.
You ripped yourself away from it, slamming that wall back up, harder than before.
“No,” you said, voice tight, shaking just slightly despite your best efforts. “No. I’m not—”
Flick’s voice cut in, low and firm. “You don’t get to pretend this only hurts you anymore.”
That landed.
Hard.
You swallowed, throat dry, gaze flicking between them—then back to him.
Still too pale.
Still too still.
And somehow—
Still reaching.
Your jaw clenched. “…I’m not giving in,” you said, quieter now. Not as sharp. But no less stubborn.
Beckman studied you for a long moment.
Then sighed.
“Didn’t say you had to,” he said. “But you do need to decide how far you’re willin’ to take it.”
Flick didn’t soften this time.
“Because he won’t stop you,” she added.
Your stomach dropped.
You already knew that.
That was the problem.
The Lost Heart Chapter 8
Summary:
Learning about the bond - difficult, infuriating, and you would give anything to end it. The captain - and your soulmate - watching you every moment he can? Even worse.
Characters:
Reader, Shanks, Beckman, Original Character
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
After Beckman dropped Shanks off in his cabin, leaving the man whining and pouting at the rough treatment, you'd followed the vice captain to the deck. 'I need answers, and Beckman might be blunt, but at least I know he'll be honest and not try to just pacify me like Shanks might.'
You did your best to ignore the faint jealousy and exhaustion seeping through the soulmark.
Leaning against the rail, you crossed your arms and watched Flick perch on a barrel next to Beckman. "First question: is there anything about being soulmarked that I should know now?"
"Ye've already discovered a few things," Beckman started. "Can't go more than 100 meters, ye can feel most of what he's feelin', and gonna guess ye discovered ye can't lie to each other."
Flick chuckled at that.
Sighing, you ran a hand through your hair roughly. "What else is there?"
"First, did you have a partner?" Flick's gaze gave nothing away, and when you shook your head, she relaxed. "Good, that'll make it a little easier."
You couldn't help a frown. "Make it easier?"
Beckman wrapped an arm around her shoulders, casual as anything, but there was something deliberate in it too—grounding, maybe. For her, or for himself.
“For her,” he said, nodding slightly toward Flick. “Already knew what it was like to be tied to someone. Means she didn’t fight it the same way most do.”
Flick huffed softly, though there was no real heat in it. “Didn’t say I didn’t fight it. Just knew better than to waste time pretendin’ it wasn’t there.” Hurt flashed through her gaze.
Your gaze flicked between them, unease settling heavier in your chest. “And if I do fight it?” 'Fuck. She didn't just leave the marines - she had someone. A partner.'
Beckman’s eyes slid to you, sharp and assessing. “Then it fights back.”
That… wasn’t comforting.
You shifted your weight, fingers tightening against your arms. “Define ‘fights back.’”
Flick tilted her head, studying you now—not unkindly, but like she was trying to measure how much you could take. “Starts small. Headaches if you push too far apart. Nausea if you ignore it too long. Gets worse the longer you pretend the bond ain’t there.”
“And if I keep ignoring it?”
Beckman didn’t answer immediately.
That was worse than if he had.
“…It’ll force the issue,” he said finally. “One way or another.”
A cold thread slipped down your spine. “Force it how?”
Flick’s expression softened—just a fraction. “Emotions bleed stronger. Harder to tell what’s yours and what’s his. You get overwhelmed enough…” She hesitated, then finished quieter, “You stop fightin’.”
Your jaw tightened. “That sounds less like a bond and more like a trap.”
Beckman let out a low breath through his nose, something almost like agreement. “Ain’t always kind, no.”
Silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant crash of waves.
You glanced out over the water, trying to steady yourself, but it didn’t help. Not with that constant undercurrent—him—still brushing against your senses, even from below deck. Faint now. Sulking. Irritated.
…And something else under it. Something you didn’t want to look at too closely.
You shoved it away.
“Anything else?” you asked, a little sharper than intended.
Flick’s mouth twitched, like she noticed more than she let on. “Yeah. There is.”
Beckman’s grip on her shoulder tightened—subtle, but there.
She ignored it. “The longer the bond sits,” she said, eyes steady on yours, “the harder it gets to break.”
Your breath caught. “Break?” 'Wait, break it? Go back to my crew?'
“There’s always a window,” Flick continued. “At the start. Before it settles too deep. Before it starts… rootin’ itself into everything.” Her gaze flickered, just briefly, toward Beckman. “After that—”
“It ain’t a clean thing,” Beckman finished for her.
The implication hung heavy in the air.
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “And where am I in that window?”
Neither of them answered right away.
Which, again, was answer enough.
~~~
You settled into the crew with surprising ease - or maybe that was just you projecting somehow.
Beckman moved you between helping Roux in the kitchen - after hearing how you saved Shanks from starvation or eating something inedible - and working on deck. Regardless of where you worked though, there was one constant -
Shanks was always watching you.
Even if you had your back to him, his gaze warmed your shoulders, pangs through your soulmark betraying his concern when you almost slipped from a wet yardarm or cut your palm while chopping vegetables; you were fine, but his laugh had startled you, sounding far louder than it should have in the galley.
Too close.
Too present.
You hadn’t even heard him come in.
Your knife stilled against the cutting board, grip tightening just a fraction before you forced your hand to relax again. “Do you always sneak up on people like that,” you muttered, not looking over your shoulder, “or am I just special?”
A beat.
Then, lighter—too light—“Bit of both.”
Of course.
You exhaled slowly through your nose and resumed chopping, sharper this time, more precise than necessary. The rhythm grounded you. Controlled. Yours.
Behind you, Shanks didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t leave.
The awareness of him pressed in anyway—low and constant, like the tide against the hull. Not overwhelming. Not yet.
But there.
Always there.
You shifted your stance, putting the table between you and the doorway without turning around. It didn’t help. Of course it didn’t help.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you asked.
A soft creak of wood as he leaned—probably against the frame, if you had to guess. Relaxed. Casual.
Watching.
“Do I make you nervous?” he asked, amusement threading through his voice.
Your knife slipped.
Just barely.
A thin line of red welled across your palm.
You sucked in a quiet breath, more annoyed than hurt—but before you could even react—
A sharp spike of something slammed through your chest.
Alarm.
Immediate. Intense.
Not yours.
You froze.
Behind you, something hit the wall—wood knocking hard enough to rattle—and then his footsteps, quick, closing the distance in an instant.
“Let me see—”
“I’m fine.”
It came out too fast. Too sharp.
You pulled your hand back before he could reach it, turning just enough to put space between you. The cut was shallow. Already slowing.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was the way his presence surged—too close, too much, his concern pressing against your senses like a hand you couldn’t shake off.
“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, jaw tight.
He stopped.
Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, even without looking.
The silence stretched.
Then, quieter—careful, in a way that somehow made it worse, “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“That’s not the point.”
You laughed—short, sharp, and entirely without humor. “Then what is the point?”
Another pause.
And there it was again—that shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable. Not backing off.
Not pushing either.
Just… there.
“The point,” Shanks said slowly, “is that I felt it before I saw it.”
Your breath caught.
Damn him.
Damn the bond.
You clenched your hand into a fist, ignoring the sting. “Yeah. That’s how this works, isn’t it?” you snapped. “You feel everything, you hover, you—what—expect me to just be okay with that?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you just do it anyway.” The words came faster now, sharper, something tight in your chest finally starting to crack. “You’re always there—always watching, always feeling—do you have any idea how suffocating that is?”
That landed.
You knew it did.
You felt it.
Not hurt, exactly—but something quieter. Heavier.
And still… he didn’t step back.
“I’m not trying to—”
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do,” you cut in, finally turning to face him fully. “I don’t want this.”
The words hung between you.
Clear.
Final.
For a moment, Shanks just looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And for once, the easy smile wasn’t there.
“…Yeah,” he said, softer now. “I figured.”
Something in your chest twisted—unwelcome, unfamiliar.
Not yours.
You pushed it down hard.
Ignored the hurt threatening to bubble up.
“Then stop,” you said. “Stop watching me. Stop reacting to every little thing I do. Just—” your voice faltered, frustration bleeding through, “just let me breathe.”
For a second, it almost looked like he would argue.
Instead, he exhaled, slow and steady, and straightened away from the counter.
“Alright.”
Too easy.
That should’ve been a relief.
It wasn’t.
“I’ll give you space,” he continued, already stepping back toward the doorway. “Won’t hover. Won’t interfere unless you ask.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “And the bond?”
A flicker of something—wry, tired—crossed his expression. “Still there.”
Not helpful.
Your jaw tightened.
“Then I’ll handle it,” you said.
His gaze sharpened, just slightly. “Handle it how?”
You held his stare.
“By ignoring it.”
There it was.
The line in the sand.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Shanks huffed—quiet, almost under his breath, something between a laugh and resignation. “…That’s gonna hurt,” he said.
“Not your problem.”
A beat.
Then, softer—almost too soft to catch, if not for the bond carrying it straight to you—
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”
You stiffened.
But before you could respond, he was already turning away, ducking out of the galley and leaving you alone with the steady sway of the ship—
—and the bond, still pulsing faintly under your skin.
Waiting.
You slammed the knife point down into the cutting board with a growl.
The Lost Heart Chapter 7
Summary:
As if it couldn't get worse, you realize that he really is an overgrown child - one whose disappearance and supposed death could have worse implications than expected.
Characters:
Reader, Shanks, Beckman, Original Character, Red Haired Pirates
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
The walk through the forest felt far longer, despite the pace being faster this time. Shanks, still drunk, clung to you tightly as he tripped over almost every root and branch in your path. After the tenth one, you groaned and almost snapped, "I know it's dark, but can't your observation haki help you?"
Beckman snorted behind you. "Kid, he's doin' it on purpose."
You looked at Shanks, who grinned innocently, and groaned. "For the love of seas! You better not expect me to carry you!"
"Why not?" Shanks' grin immediately morphed into a pout, and you counted down in your head to keep from walking ahead.
With a sigh, Beckman increased his pace for a few steps, then slung Shanks over his shoulder. "Boss, the kid might be as tall as ye, but he's nearly as much a twig as Flick." His partner chuckled, meeting your gaze and offering another sympathetic look.
Shanks yelped, then whined - again. "Beeeeccck! Put me down!"
"Seas..." Beckman walked next to you. "How much has he been drinkin'?"
"Just today, or since we got here?" A sigh greeted your words, so erred on the side of caution. "Been like this for six hours now, and he'd been like this at least five times since we arrived almost two weeks ago. Do not ask me to count the bottles he's gone through." You stepped over a high-arching root, offering your hand to Flick; she took it, leaping over easily. "How much does he really drink?"
"About three bottles at minimum," a blonde man with a bun offered, smirking. "Boss drinks like a fish."
"I do not!" Shanks retorted weakly. "And I've not been drinking that much since we got here."
When the blonde man cocked a brow, you shook your head. "I am being nice. I tried to hide the booze, but he found it within a day." Annoyance flashed through your mark, and you reached over to flick Shanks' ear. "Seriously. I was trying not to deal with this."
A few choked gasps and snickers sounded. The blonde man's eyes widened, a grin splitting his face.
Flick giggled behind her hand. "Only been dealing with this lot for the last six months or so, but that actually seems kinda long for him."
"He usually finds it within half a day at most," the blonde man chuckled.
Beckman glanced over his shoulder, ducking under a branch without looking. "Hongo's right, though he's exaggeratin' a bit - usually takes Shanks six hours or less." Shanks groaned, smacking his hand against Beckman's back, but the vice captain just shifted his grip better.
Hongo walked on your other side. "Either you hid it really good, or he wasn't interested in it as much as he usually it." He looked at Shanks, who had gone limp, though his gaze stayed on you. "How've you been reacting to being marked?"
"Not well," you grumbled. "Had to leave my crew behind - and they didn't even say goodbye - and I'm really not enjoying feeling every damn thing he does." You shot Shanks a glare, but the captain just gave you a lazy grin. "Oh yeah, and apparently I can't go more than 100 feet from him? Didn't expect that."
Flick grimaced. "Yeah, that's a tough one to learn the hard way." She reached forward, brushing the back of Beckman's arm. "Did you get back quickly?"
You nodded with a grunt. "Aye, though felt like I was being battered by a shit ton of hammers the entire time."
Hongo frowned. "How far did you go...?"
Your skin prickled as the crew's gazes raked your back, waiting for the answer. After a moment, you sighed. "Harbormaster's office."
Beckman hissed, shooting you a dark yet faintly alarmed look. "Ye managed that far and were still conscious?"
Nodding, you swerved around a thick bush. "Barely. When I got back in range, headache finally lifted and Shanks came barreling through the trees a moment later looking terrified."
"Felt like we were gonna die!" Shanks pouted, his voice slurring a tad.
"We were not gonna die!" you snap, the wince as Shanks flinches. "Sorry. It hurt, but I don't think we were going to die, Shanks."
Flick and Beckman exchanged a look.
Unease trickled down your spine. "What?"
Flick coughed before answering in a small voice. "Um, you could have."
You staggered to a stop, eyes wide. "Wait...what?" The others stopped behind you, and Beckman, walking a few steps ahead, stopped and turned around.
"Ye stay away long enough when outside the distance," Beckman explained, "ye die. Flick didn't just come with me cuz I was the one that shot her." Guilt flashed across his face, disappearing as she moved to his side. "If I hadn't taken her with me, we wouldn't have died just from what I did, but cuz we weren't together."
Hongo's nod only cemented what they were saying.
You looked at Shanks, who'd twisted around to meet your gaze; his eyes were wide, and fear bled through the mark. "So you're saying not only am I bonded to him, but I literally can't leave his side?"
Beckman nodded grimly. "Aye." His gaze softened a fraction. "Just glad ye figured that out now and not when yer crew left."
You stayed still as Beckman, Flick, and the crew continued walking; Hongo stayed at your side. If I had left with my crew...we would have died. I'd found him, saved his life, and we still would have died. When they disappeared further into the trees, alarm sparked through you, and you quickly followed.
Hongo kept pace with you. "Hey, thanks for saving him. I know you had to - even if you didn't know it - but we're more grateful than you know."
Numbness crept along your limbs, and you almost felt far away as you answered, "'Course... Couldn't have let him die, especially once I found him."
Hongo's huff snapped you back to yourself. "I mean, not only did you save his - and yours - life, but if he were gone-"
"It'd be a disaster," you finished for him.
He shook his head. "You don't understand. It wouldn't just be a disaster." He sighed heavily. "Now that we have him back, we can prevent what's trying to happen."
Frowning, you glanced at him as the others came into view. "What do you mean?"
Hongo's gaze bore into yours, dark and almost...fearful. "His vivre card burnt. And we aren't the only ones who thought he was dead."
It took you a moment to understand what he meant. And when it did, you almost stopped but forced yourself forward.
Oh fuck.
The Lost Heart Chapter 6
Summary:
Nope. He's worse than you expected. Way worse. At least his crew - and especially Beckman and his partner - seem decent. Though you aren't sure how they handle him exactly.
Characters:
Reader, Shanks, Beckman, Original Character, Red Haired Pirates
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
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This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
Two weeks in, and you thought you understood why his crew drank so much.
Shanks. Was. A. Lot.
He’d found where you’d hidden the booze—and most of it was gone. He’d already eaten a fair amount of the food in the house too, though thankfully he’d learned to leave the cooking to you. The man also seemed to have an endless supply of jokes—especially puns—and while you’d called him a child more than once…
At least children ran out of energy.
For the last six hours, Shanks had been drunk—sprawled across the couch, the bed, or stumbling around the cabin—finishing off what little alcohol remained and whining about a rotating list of grievances.
The sea was boring.
The food tasted better when Beckman cooked it.
The chair by the window was definitely crooked.
And you—apparently—were being unfair by refusing to let him “just go outside for a bit.”
“It’s night,” you reminded him, for what had to be the fifth time. “And you’re drunk.”
“I am pleasantly drunk,” Shanks corrected, pointing at you with a finger that wobbled noticeably. “Big difference.”
“You tried to fight the door earlier.”
“It started it.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose and exhaled slowly. The soulmark pulsed with lazy warmth, utterly unconcerned with your growing headache. Amusement bled through it—unrepentant, bright, and entirely unhelpful. You can last a little longer. His crew should be here before long.
The words had circled in your head like a sharp for days now, refusing to leave.
Shanks, meanwhile, had migrated back to the couch and was now upside down, legs hooked over the armrest, hair falling into his face. He squinted at you. “Did you know,” he said solemnly, “that you’re very bossy?”
You stared at him, arms crossed, unimpressed. “I’m keeping you alive,” you said flatly. “You’re welcome.” Or, more specifically, you were keeping him from revealing that he was here without his crew; only the harbormaster knew, and a few shopkeepers he trusted.
He beamed. “See? Bossy and kind.”
“That is not a compliment.”
“Sure it is.” He squinted again, head tilting until gravity seemed to remember him. “You fuss. That means you care.”
The soulmark warmed at that—soft, pleased—and you scowled at the sensation like it had personally betrayed you.
“I care about not having to drag your unconscious body back from the shoreline,” you said. “Again.” While nearly the same height, he was almost twice as broad across the shoulders and had far more muscle. I never want to carry him alone again...
He laughed, the sound loose and bright, then winced. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
“That’s why we’re a good team,” he declared, entirely serious, before sliding a few more inches down the couch.
You took a step toward him, then stopped. The warmth in your chest hadn’t faded—it never really did—but beneath it there was something steadier now. Contentment. Safe. Home, in a way you hadn’t meant to let yourself feel.
You sighed. “Shanks.”
“Mmm?”
“Please stay upright.”
He considered this solemnly. “I make no promises.”
Turning away from him, you moved to the window above the kitchenette sink and stared at the forest for the nth time. Please please please be here soon...
Movement caught your eye in the trees, and you stiffened for a moment as a large monkey swung from the branches. Cocking a brow, you watched it. Didn't realize monkeys lived on this island. The light from the cabin barely illuminated it, and you saw it more based on the gleam in its gaze. It swung closer, then landed on a branch where the light fell better.
Wide eyed, friendly looking, with reddish-brown fur, it watched you for a moment. It swung back out of sight suddenly, and a loud screech echoed, muffled through the window.
Shanks' voice rose behind you. "Wha' was that?"
"A big monkey," you told him, turning back around. "Nothing to worry about." Branches cracked, and a muttered curse barely reached your ears. "Shanks."
He froze, and concern touched your soulmark. He deftly twisted himself upright - without falling, surprisingly - and set down the rum bottle. "What is it?" Another branch cracked, louder this time, and he relaxed, a grin spreading across his face. "Finally!"
Confused, you didn't have time to react as he rose, bolted across the room, and grabbed your arm. Pulling you along with surprising strength, he nudged open the door and almost dragged you outside. "Becks!"
You managed to extract yourself from his grip as a taller man with silver hair strode forward, a scowl set deeply in the lines along his face. A cigarette held between his lips; it was unlit, which seemed odd.
Reaching Shanks, he grabbed the captain by the back of his neck; you groaned and staggered, feeling a strange pressure around the back of your own neck. "Goddamnit, Shanks! I-"
"Beck, let him breathe," a soft voice said. A woman, much shorter than you or Shanks, appeared a moment later. A few other people followed her through the bushes, but they stayed back while she approached Beckman and Shanks; the monkey sat on the shoulders of a bald man. Her gaze flicked to yours. "There might be a good reason for this."
You could see the reluctance in Beckman's gaze as he dropped Shanks. As the captain rubbed his neck, you moved to stand by him; more out of instinct than anything.
"It'll be a nonsense reason," the older man grumbled, though you noticed how he relaxed as she laid a hand on his arm.
You tried not to laugh at the sheer difference in size between them - he was taller and broader than Shanks, but she was probably half as thin as you and half Beckman's height - but you immediately knew this was the vice captain's soulmate. "This idiot," you said, nudging Shanks, who pouted, "nearly got himself killed defending a crewmate, apparently, from a small sea king."
Shanks whined under his breath, his bottom lip quivering.
The woman sighed, covering her face with one hand. "Shanks..."
Beckman's expression could only be described as pure exasperation. "Boss... How in the hell did ye let a small sea king get that good of a bite in ye?"
Shanks' pout increased. "It was faster than expected!"
You shot him a glare, which Shanks shrugged at, and looked at Beckman. "Found him bleeding out on some uninhabited island."
"And how'd ye find him?" Beckman's brow raised, disbelieving.
The woman hummed, giving you a knowing look. "Dear, I think we both know how he found someone dying in a place where no people were."
Silence fell. The crew standing at the trees - the senior officers, you'd guess - exchanged smirks as Beckman's gaze snapped to Shanks.
Without warning, he strode forward, grabbed Shanks by the back of his shirt, and hauled him into the cabin. Shanks whined something about his headache but didn't resist.
You sighed as the door slammed. "Great..."
A quiet laugh sounded, and you turned to the woman. She smiled, shaking her head. "Hopefully wherever you came from wasn't some place you adored."
You chuckled, hooking your hands in your pockets. "From what I heard, guess I'll have an easier time adjusting than a former marine captain." You held out your hand.
She smirked, taking it. "Yeah, maybe, but at least my partner's not the captain."
Your gaze darkened, and you couldn't help but shoot a glare at the cabin. "He is not my partner." Guilt, amusement, happiness, and faint annoyance flashed through the soulmark. You dropped her hand, shoving yours back in your pocket.
Her smirk irritated you to no end, as if she were saying, 'We'll see'. The other crewmates grinned, clearly agreeing with her.
Ignoring them, you turned as Shanks came back outside, Beckman on his heels; the captain came straight to you. His arm came around your shoulders, but you could tell his grin was forced, though his voice was steady. "Alright, ready to see your new home?"
Suppressing a groan, you nodded. "Fine." You caught Beckman and his partner's sympathetic looks as Shanks steered you towards the crew enthusiastically. Well, at least someone seems to understand I'm not thrilled.
The Lost Heart Chapter 5
Summary:
You hate having to leave your crew - that's painful. But to leave it for a powerful man who apparently has the maturity of a child and might possibly be flammable? Not what you expected or wanted.
Characters:
Reader, Shanks
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
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This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
Letting out a low exhale, you shifted your weight as you waited outside the harbormaster's office. Gulls cried, chatter drifted from the fish-market alongside the smell of fish in the sun, and your crew milled around nearby. You tried not to scowl as you watched them preparing to leave. I should be over there.
You had set out to sea seven years ago for one reason - get away from home. Being a pirate hadn't been the intention, but you were glad Rik had found you and brought you aboard.
But sailing with a Yonko was not what you had in mind!
Movement from the corner of your eye made you turn. "Get ahold of them?" Shanks' expression gave nothing away.
He sighed, and you knew the answer before he spoke. "No. Beck didn't pick up his snail. But I did find out where they were last seen, and got ahold of one of my subordinate crews." He turned to you. "They said they'd get to the Red Force and let them know where we are. Might take some time though, so we're stuck here for the moment."
"Great." You tipped your head against the wall, leaning back. "So what do we do in the meantime?"
"I have a cabin further inland," Shanks admitted. "We'll stay there."
You glanced at him. "A cabin? Not going to stay in town?"
He shook his head. "No. If it were guaranteed they'd be here tomorrow, we would, but since we don't know, it's safer to go where only my flagship crew knows the location of."
"Safer?" Your gaze drifted from him to the forest beyond the town.
He let out a quiet huff. "Might be a Yonko, kid, but if someone sees me without my crew?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'd rather not fight off someone who wants to have a go at me." He motioned for you to follow. "Come on. We can pick up supplies, then make for the cabin."
You couldn't help but watch your crew - no, former crew - finish loading their supplies.
Shanks' hand gripped your shoulder, sympathy felt both in his touch and through the soulmark. "I'm sorry about your crew. I know it's not easy leaving them."
You shrugged him off. "Let's just go." Guilt flashed through you at the hurt you both saw in his gaze and felt through the soulmark, but you pushed it back. After a moment, you heard Shanks following as you walked towards the market section.
For once, he said nothing.
And from the docks, you could hear Rik calling out orders, the snap of the sails as they opened, and not a single word to you.
Shanks fell into step beside you, his gaze flicking to you occasionally.
You tried to ignore the hurt building in your own chest now. Well, maybe his crew won't be so callous.
But, as much as you hated to admit it, at least you weren't alone.
Though you weren't thrilled about being stuck who-knew-where with a man who had already proven that he liked being close to you, who clearly had certain expectations about this soulbond, and who you only knew via rumors and stories, you weren't sure of this whole thing.
Your eye twitched, and you made a mental note to check the cabin for alcohol - on the off chance he really was a drunk, you didn't want to have to deal with that.
Especially not alone.
~~~
Sprawled across the couch, a book in your hand, you sighed as a yelp came from the kitchenette. Closing the book, you stood and stretched. "Please, for the love of seas, stop trying to cook!" Three days and this was the fourth time he'd ruined whatever he tried to make.
Shanks gave you a sheepish look as you crossed the room and took the burning pan from him. "I'm hungry and wanted eggs!"
You groaned, sticking the pan in the sink full of water. "You managed to do that-" you gestured at the black lumps visible even through the suds, "-to eggs?" Shaking your head, you moved to the fridge. "How the hell do you survive?"
Grinning, Shanks plopped down in one of the kitchen chairs. "Beck, mostly."
Better ask Beckman exactly how he kept this man alive. Grabbing the eggs and an only slightly burned pan, you quickly set them to cook over the flame. "Surprised you got this close to a flame without catching fire," you mutter.
Laughing, Shanks leaned onto the counter on his arm. "Surprised you know how to cook. Thought you were just a deckhand."
Cocking a brow - both at him and the faint praise coming through the soulmark - you barely glanced at him, focusing on the food. "Wasn't always a pirate, unlike some people. Before I left home, I was usually the one cooking for my family." You'd hated it, as you were the oldest of the kids.
By a lot.
Shanks made a sympathetic noise. "Doesn't sound fun."
Pushing the memories away, you grabbed a plate. "Wasn't bad," you lied.
He hummed. "You realize you can't lie to me, right?"
You froze for a heartbeat, then turned to him. "What?"
His grin seemed too wide. "Soulmates can't lie to each other."
"You know what the marks do?" You couldn't think of how else to respond, but more than that...
Someone knew what these marks really did!
Shanks nodded, his grin slipping into a smile. "Aye. I know some of it because of watching Beck the last six months, but two people on my old crew had soulmates as well." He tilted his head a fraction. "They can't lie to each other, they can feel each others emotions when they're strong enough, they can even borrow each others strength sometimes - though that I think it's rare, and whenever one of us gets hurt, the other one gets hurt too." He paused, smile fading, then shrugged and leaned back in his seat. "There might be more, but that's all I can recall off the top of my head."
You stared at him for a long moment, the sizzle of eggs loud in the quiet that followed. Your chest felt… tight. Not pain—not quite. Something like being caught out in a lie you hadn’t meant to tell.
“That’s—” You stopped, exhaled through your nose, and turned back to the stove. “That’s convenient.”
Shanks snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
You slid the eggs onto the plate a little harder than necessary. “You could’ve mentioned that earlier.”
“And spoil the fun?” he asked lightly, though the echo through the mark wasn’t teasing—it was warm, amused, patient. Like he’d expected this reaction. Like he’d been waiting for it.
You set the plate in front of him and stepped back, folding your arms. “So what, then? I’m just… an open book to you now?”
He tilted his head again, studying you in that unsettlingly gentle way of his. “Not an open book,” he said. “More like… I know when you’re dog-earing the pages.”
You grimaced. “That’s not reassuring.”
He laughed, but it softened quickly. “Hey. It goes both ways.”
That gave you pause.
You hadn’t really let yourself think about that part. About the fact that the warmth you felt sometimes—faint but steady—was him. You'd noticed it, of course, but now you knew you'd been right.
You had felt his guilt, his warmth, his amusement - and you could tell it was his because it came from the soulmark, not your own chest.
“And Beckman?” you asked instead, grasping for safer ground. “He knows all this?” Maybe I can ask him about it, or his partner; I'm sure she'd be willing to talk to me. Setting the plate in front of him, you sat down across from him and crossed your arms, leaning on the table.
He eagerly attacked the eggs, as if he hadn't already eaten a ton today, and nodded wordlessly.
Watching him for a moment, you tried to organize your thoughts before speaking. Finally, you spoke. "So..." He paused, meeting your gaze. "How long until you think your crew will be here?"
Sighing, he set down his fork. "Could be a couple weeks. I'd like to go down to town every day to check for messages, but at least one of my subordinate crews knows where we are and that I'm alive. Considering where they were, it might be another few days still, provided the Red Force stays on its course."
"Why not let the world know you're alive while you're here?" You couldn't help but ask. If the world thinks he's dead, the chaos could be unimaginable. But if he can reveal himself here, it would save us that worry at least.
He smiled ruefully. "Can't take the risk. Someone finds out I'm here alone - or, I guess now, with just you - someone could try and come to challenge me." He chuckled, though there was very little humor. "I can defend myself just fine, but I don't want someone else getting hurt because someone thought they could take me on."
You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening where they rested against your arm. Someone else. You knew he meant you, even if he hadn’t said it outright. The warmth at your chest flickered—not pride, not quite, but something close to relief. Like he was glad you were there. Like it mattered.
“That’s… considerate,” you said, after a moment. “Reckless, but considerate.”
He huffed a laugh. “Been accused of worse.”
Groaning, you rubbed a hand along your face. "Guess we'll have to get used to this for now..."
His chuckle earned him a mild glare, and he grinned widely. "Least you're stuck with someone fun."
You tried not to sigh at that.
Toying with Reader
Celebrating 3 years on tumblr, with one of my favorite tropes:
Toying with someone using, well, toys.
Parameter Provider: @fanficsbyse Blorbo: Benn Beckman Reader: Transmasc w/top surgery Setting: Canon - post FMI Vibes: Newer relationship, but established Ending: Romantic (and smutty)
CW: nipple play, forced exposure, oral sex, light bondage
You struggle against the ropes around your wrists. There’s a soft ache in your arms, and your legs are starting to tremble a little. You’ve got one foot on one barrel, and the other foot on another barrel, keeping your legs wide, and your arms are pulled up over your head.
Beckman’s standing in front of you, the barrels put your twitching cunt level with his face. He exhales smoke, the scent is something you’ve long associated with him, and it’s comforting. He keeps fiddling with the control in his hand, causing the vibrators taped to your nipples to shift rhythm.
The sweet jolt rolls into your chest and you moan sweetly, your hips roll too, and your desperate need drips from your lips with the heavy breaths escaping you.
“I believe you, I believe you!” you cry out in desperation, feeling slick slip down the insides of your thighs. He doesn’t say anything, just letting you stay there, wriggling to get away from the vibrations teasing your nipples.
You’d gotten surgery, much as you wanted, and had been lamenting that your nipple sensitivity was going to disappear. Beckman said your surgeon was too good for you to worry about that, and sure enough. Once you were healed up enough he had you down here, in the closest thing to privacy you could get on the ship, and had teased your chest until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Believe me when I say this to you, too,” Beckman says, stubbing the cigarette and changing the rhythm of the vibes again. “No matter the details, I’ll love you just the same.”
He tosses the control, leaving the toys to continue vibrating against your nipples, and spreads your labia with his hands. You whimper, but your hips roll to greet him, and the deep, throaty groan that escapes you when his mouth latches onto you, has you holding onto the ropes to keep your legs from buckling.
You know you’re going to be there a while when he drapes your legs over his shoulders and puts his hands on your ass to keep you in place.
Oh this is epic!!!
Against the Tide
A One Piece fanfic series | Soulmate AU
In a world where soulmate bonds are rare and binding, two lives are caught in the wake of the Red Hair Pirates.
One bond begins with a heartbeat that stops. Another with a bullet that cannot be taken back.
Neither was wanted. Both change everything.
Ao3 Link
🔞 NSFW (🖤 Kink) | 💗 Fluff/Flirting | 🥀 Angst | 🫂 Comfort
1 - 💗🥀🫂 The Lost Heart | Shanks X M!Reader - Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13
2 -💗🥀🫂 The Line He Crossed | Beckman X F!Reader |
The Lost Heart Chapter 4
Summary:
Shanks is not exactly what you expected. If anything, he seems like any normal person. Except he's sort of clingy, sort of annoying, and apparently has specific expectations based off what he's seen from his vice captain.
Characters:
Reader, Shanks
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
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This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
Slipping down the ratlines, you landed on deck in time to see Shanks walking over. You cocked a brow in question as he approached.
His smile still caught you off-guard, even after a few days of him nearly hanging on you. "Doc said I could come out here finally. Thought I'd come see how you are when you're not annoyed."
Suppressing a retort, you leaned back a bit. "Please tell me you're not going to start following me around."
Shanks' grin widened. "Maybe. I don't know your crew or your ship, but I'm bonded to you, so might as well since we'll always be together now."
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you let out a long exhale. Seas save me... "We might be soulbonded, but that does not make us together." You stressed the last word.
Being soulbonded was one thing.
Being the partner of a Yonko was an entirely different matter.
Chuckles echoed from the rigging, silencing when you shot your crewmates a glare.
Looking back at Shanks, you tried to ignore the... You wouldn't call it disappointment, but you weren't sure what else to call it, the bled from the soulmark. Oh HELL no! Not interested in a partner - especially like this! "How will your crew react to finding out you soulbonded?"
"Beck won't be pleased," Shanks admitted, his shoulder lifting. "But more because he knows what it's like to uproot someone." He followed you as you headed for the quarterdeck. "He and his partner ended up together though."
A few pairs of eyes landed on you, but a quick glare turned them away.
What are the odds that his crew has two soulbonded pairs? You tried not to think about that as you collected the log - a long rope with a triangular piece of wood tied at the end - from its box. "How long did it take his partner to get used to him? Not the partnership, but being bonded?"
Shanks leaned against the fantail railing, hand gripping it lightly. Tilting his head back, he paused. "In truth, she's still getting used to it." At your curious glance, he shrugged. "She wasn't a pirate beforehand, so her situation is a little different."
"Who nearly died between them?" You couldn't help but ask. With the rope now unraveled, each knot inspected, you cast the chip into the sea, never taking your eyes off of it.
Shanks grimaced. "Um...her. But it was a...ah...weird situation."
The helmsman called out, "Mark!" and you gripped the rope.
Checking where your hand was, you pulled the chip back and coiled the rope around your arm. "Two and a half knots." Decent speed today. Should be able to reach one of his ports in a few days at this speed. The sooner the better. You glanced at Shanks as you put it away. "What happened?"
Smirking, Shanks watched you. "Beck shot her."
You froze, then straightened and faced him. "He shot his soulmate?"
Shanks' laugh unexpectedly warmed you. "Aye. We were raiding a base when this captain came running at us. She tried to hit him, he knocked her back, but when she landed a smack on his head, he just shot point blank; don't think he meant to."
The wince you felt was both sympathy and empathy - you'd been shot point-blank once; your hand went to the scar on your hip. Not fun. "Damn... She forgive him eventually?"
He hummed thoughtfully. "Well..." His smirk turned crooked, and he tilted his head to the side. "It's been six months, and she still brings it up. So I don't think so."
"Bet she loved that," you mutter. A marine captain being soulbonded to a pirate? And not just a pirate, but the vice captain to the most powerful man in the world. You snorted internally. Guess we'll get along just fine - she was uprooted even more than me.
"Cursed him to hell and back for a full week," Shanks said almost cheerfully as you both headed for the bow. "And took two months to stop glaring at him every five minutes. And another three to actually be in the same room with him for more than a minute."
You couldn't help but chuckle. "And you say she's his partner now?"
He nodded. "Yep. No idea what happened - they won't tell me."
Amusement shot through you at Shanks' pout, but you hid your reaction by grabbing a set of tools sitting near the rail. Stepping up next to the figurehead - a mermaid with her hands outstretched and cupped - you sighed and looked at him. "You like gossip, don't you?"
His grin widened, but didn't hide the sheepish look in his gaze. "Don't all pirates?"
"Not me," you grumbled.
He frowned as you gripped the ropes hanging along the hull. "Really?"
Rolling your eyes, you met his gaze. "Ask the crew why I'm called Silent - it's not just because of how I fight." Without giving him a chance to respond, you ducked to the bowsprit netting. It needed repairing - a few strands were fraying - but more than that...
Shaking your head, you pushed away the curiosity radiating through the soulmark and tried to focus on your work. We better find his crew soon. Then he can bug someone else.
And, of course, maybe avoid a massive fallout that could catch every crew in its wake.
The Lost Heart Chapter 3
Summary:
On one hand, you found the other marked person. And of course they'd be nearly killed by a damn sea king! Just...how the hell does a sea king nearly kill the most powerful man in the world?
And what if that world thought it had succeeded?
Characters:
Reader, Shanks
Warnings:
Soulmate AU | Injuries
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This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
You watched the approaching island, your fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. Nothing showed up on the approaching shore. No towns, no villages, no hamlets.
No sign of any life.
Yet you knew whoever was on the verge of death was here.
Rik gripped your shoulder tightly. "Silent...wait."
You glanced at him, then followed his gaze to where the waves broke onto the sand.
The line of red that began from where the tideline showed sent shivers down your spine. "They...dragged themselves from the sea? After being attacked?"
Rik nodded grimly. "Looks like it. I'll have Doc follow ya, but we'll wait on the ship."
"Come on, kid." Doc appeared from the hatch, a bag in hand. "We know the bastard's alive, if the stories are true, so I'll follow your lead."
You leaped down to the dinghy, Doc landing a moment later. Quickly, you set the oars into place and together, you moved to the shore.
The echo-beat had faltered for hours. Each time it threatened to stop, it pulsed again, and your fear barely kept pace.
Once ashore, you took the lead, following the faint tugging that threatened to stop a few times. The trail of red snaked over the fine, white sand and into the underbrush. Broken branches, brushed ferns with red spots, a handprint - much larger than your own - showed an erratic path. In some spots, the trail thickened. In others, it thinned to almost non-existence.
You stumbled heavily over a fallen branch, almost falling to your knees. Your breath hitched. Painfully. A dull ache along your mark seemed to pulse faintly.
Doc sighed behind you, muttering, "If you die, I'll make sure to bury you both together."
Barely flinching, you pressed on, the urgency in your chest nearly consuming you now.
Reaching a dark space in the trees, you stopped at the sound of weak breathing. You would have missed it had you not been listening for signs of life. Staggering forward as the echo-beat stuttered again, you made your way towards the dark shape tucked under a bush.
The man - for it was definitely a man - lay on his side in a pool of drying blood.
He had been here for days.
You rushed forward without thinking. Landing next to him, your hand hovered over his side. "Hey... You'll be okay now." You weren't sure what else to say.
A flicker in your chest almost made you pause.
Doc shoved you out of the way. "Help me by making sure the way is clear."
Nodding, you shoved bushes and branches out of the way as he heaved the man over his shoulder - he was big enough you would have never been able to hoist him like that. Broad shoulders, clearly heavily muscled, his right arm dangled down Doc's back.
The echo-beat faltered again. A longer pause.
You groaned, nearly collapsing.
"Silent." Doc's grunt barely caught your attention. "Come 'ere."
Lurching to your feet, fear bleeding into the darkness at the edges of your vision, you took a step towards them.
"Put your hand on him," Doc said, moving closer.
Nodding weakly, you lifted your hand, but blinked as the sky came into focus. Wait... Why am I looking at the sky? You hadn't even felt yourself fall. Nothing...nothing hurt anymore. The aches were fading alarmingly quickly.
Doc's face appeared above yours. His mouth moved. A grunt sounded far away, then his hand on your wrist.
Your breath wheezed as everything darkened. It almost felt like you were watching from outside yourself but within your head. Something tugged nearby.
Air flooded into your lungs almost painfully as your hand touched the man's shoulder. The echo-beat in your chest stuttered sharply and you turned your head to meet dark brown eyes glazed with pain, blood crusting the side of a scarred face, and bright red hair plastered to his skin.
The moment Red Hair Shanks met your gaze, his lips curled into a weak smile, his hand twitched, then his eyes closed as he passed out.
You blinked. Your breath hitched. My soulmate's...a fucking Yonko.
Sitting against the mast, you tilted your head to the sky, letting the sun warm you.
Heavy footsteps stopped close by. "Ya should be in there with him."
Groaning, you rubbed your hand over your face. "Rik..."
"He's askin' for ya," Rik grunted.
Cracking your eye open, you sighed at the uncomfortable and annoyed look on the captain's face. "Fine." Hauling yourself to your feet, you paused when his hand landed on your shoulder.
"Kid, he's yar soulmate. From what I know, they can't be apart for too long," he growled.
You jerked free. "I get it." At his dark look, you ran your hand through your hair roughly. "Just...didn't ask for my soulmate - not that I wanted one at all - to be the strongest man in the damn world!"
Rik snorted, crossing his arms. "Well, yar stuck with him, and him ya. Now get."
Swallowing against a groan, you made your way to the infirmary. Didn't ask for this. Didn't want a soulmate. Didn't want to get above where I am already. Why the hell did this have to happen?!
Shanks was sitting up when you walked in, but his gaze met yours as you paused in the doorway. The smile that crossed his face seemed too pained. Without his cloak on, he seemed much smaller than you first thought.
You ignored the warmth in your chest as you approached him. "You were asking for me?" The smell of herbs and antiseptic nearly burned your nose; he must've had his bandages recently changed.
"Aye." He shifted more comfortably. "You haven't been in here since Doc brought me aboard." He flashed you a grin, but pain flashed across his face, and it slipped. "Just...wanted to get to know the man I'm soulbonded to."
Every bit of you wanted to walk away, just try to ignore this, go back to the Felron Pirates and pretend this hadn't happened. That it wasn't true.
But you also wanted to stay. Learn more than just the rumors of the infamous pirate now swathed in bandages and looking just as normal as everyone else.
Finally, you sat on a chair a few feet away. "What happened?"
He sighed, grimacing faintly. "Was protecting a crewmate. He got cocky, tried to face a small sea king along."
Your brow shot up. "A small sea king did that?" You gestured at the scar stretching from his navel to around his side and up to his shoulder - exactly the same as your soulmark.
Shanks - the most feared of the four Yonko - looked almost sheepish when he shrugged. "I was more concerned with saving my crewmate at the time. I survived this - he wouldn't have."
You stared at him for a moment, then rubbed a hand over your face. "You realize you almost died, right?" Is this man an idiot? Oblivious? A dark thought crossed your mind. He's not suicidal...is he?
Silence fell briefly, then a low chuckle. "But you saved me."
Unable to resist a groan, you glared at him. "Please tell me you aren't normally that reckless." Almost immediately, guilt flashed through you. Or, more specifically, your soulmark.
Strange. You didn't feel guilty. Or at least, not in this moment.
Shanks' gaze fell. "That...wasn't my best moment." He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked at you. "I'm usually more careful. Beck might not agree, but I promise I am."
Oh. The guilt's...his? You hadn't expected being able to feel his emotions. "From the stories I've heard, you always seem like you rush into fights - when they happen, that is." Shaking your head, you stood.
Shanks was said to avoid fights when he could. He preferred peace, to talk things out, keep bloodshed from happening - hell, that's what he had done at Marineford nearly two years ago!
He sighed, his smile finally slipping. "Alright, I can be reckless." His hand dropped to his lap. "But that sea king was a lot faster than I expected. It caught me off-guard."
The feeling radiated from your soulmark stronger and now your own guilt flashed for sounding so harsh. Sighing softly, you moved to sit by him. "What about your crew?"
He shrugged, leaning against the wall. "They'll be looking for me. Beck's got a vivre card, so they'll be following that."
You frowned. "Um, Shanks..." His name felt strange on your tongue. "Why haven't they come for you yet, then?" It had taken three days to get to the first port. From there, two days to reach this island. And it had been a day and a half since finding him.
He froze, then shot up, eyes wide. "Wait..." Panic flared through the mark.
The door opened, startling you both, and Doc stalked in. "Just heard that." He stopped in front of you both, glaring at Shanks. "Your heart stopped once. That vivre card..."
Your heart sank, and something uncomfortably like fear flooded from the soulmark. Without thinking, your hand shot out, resting on Shanks' shoulder.
If his heart stopped, so did yours. And if they stopped...
The vivre card had burned to ash.
Which meant they thought Shanks was dead.
Shanks slumped back, hand over his face. "Fuck..."
You exchanged a look with Doc.
If his crew revealed his vivre card had burned before the Felron Pirates could find them...
You hissed softly, closing your eyes.
What would the world do if the most powerful man died?
The Lost Heart Chapter 2
Summary:
Not much is known about soulmarks, but you know one absolute truth - they were dying and you had to reach whoever it was no matter what...or two lives would be lost.
Characters:
Reader
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
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This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
By the time the port arrived and the ship docked, you could barely think straight. In fact, you only had one thought.
They're dying.
You weren't sure what terrified you more. The fact that they might die...
Or the idea that they might die before you met them.
You had no inkling of who this was, where they were, what they did, or how they got tangled with a sea king.
Just that you could feel a faint throb, like a shadow of an echoed heartbeat under your ribs.
And it had gotten weaker in the three days it took to reach this seas forsaken port.
Doc came through the door without warning, handing you a packet. "Take this, then focus on whoever you're marked with."
Numbly, you unwrapped the packet and choked down the two little yellow and green pills. The bitterness lasted for only a moment, but long enough to make you grimace, and after a few minutes, the pain dulled to a more bearable ache.
Sitting on a barrel nearby, Doc waited until you'd sat up. "So? Try to focus now."
Shooting him a scowl, you took a breath and closed your eyes. Alright you reckless bastard... Where are you?
The faint tug in your chest answered quicker than expected. Standing, you turned until the tug felt straight ahead - away from the island.
"I think...that way," you mumbled, feeling drowsy suddenly. The tug felt stronger in this direction, but also better, not quite so uncomfortable.
Doc's hand shot out, steadying you. "Easy, boy. Meds gettin' to you?"
You shook your head. "No... I think there's something wrong with them. I mean...they're dying, but there's something else." You weren't sure what to make of it. Maybe their emotions? Taking another breath, you ignored the cry of a gull, the heavy tread of footsteps on deck, the quiet sigh of waves on the beach under the pier.
Your breath hitched in an unfamiliar way.
Doc stood, nudging you forward until you could sit on a more stable surface. "What's goin' on?"
Shaking your head, you looked at him, speaking in a voice far more firm than you felt. "I need to get to him." The pull tugged strangely when you turned away from the direction it wanted you to go in. Not wrong, not bad, but off.
He nodded. "I'll tell the captain. Go to the infirmary - I want to keep an eye on you. And try to focus on them."
The short walk to the infirmary felt like a blur. Every step felt like an echo. Every heartbeat felt too slow - you weren't sure if it was even your own, or the other person's.
Laying on the cot against the wall, you curled your arm under your head and closed your eyes. Bastard... The hell is going on with you? How far are you? We gonna have to cross the whole damn world to find you?
The ship moved away from the dock before long, but you barely noticed it.
All you could feel was the faint echoing heartbeat beneath your own. Every few beats seemed to stutter, as if it wanted to stop.
Don't you dare stop! The snarled words curled through your mind like smoke.
The heartbeat faltered.
A strange ache filled you. Shifting on the cot, you tried to focus every bit of your mind onto the stupid mark along your back, waist, and stomach. It hurt so much you weren't sure what the pain even was.
Was it dying?
Was it whatever had nearly killed them?
Or...
Was it the ache of not even knowing who it was? Of not knowing exactly what happened, not being able to be there to help.
"Kid, you're pale as a sheet." Doc's voice cut through your thoughts.
You growled as the echo-beat stuttered again. "Can the ship go faster?"
He eyed you, his usual scowl fading. "We're goin' as fast as we can. Trust me when I say we want to get you there quickly."
A frown crawled across your face as you watched the uneasy look in his eyes. "There's something you're not telling me."
Doc looked away.
You grabbed his arm. "Doc. What is it?"
He jerked free. "Startin' to wonder if the stories are true."
You froze. "Stories? What stories?" Something heavy settled in your stomach.
The echo-beat faltered again.
Doc sighed, sitting down heavily in a chair nearby. "Soulmates are kinda rare. Almost as rare as those with conqueror's haki." He paused, then ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Stories used to say that if soulmates don't meet once the mark appears on one..." He trailed off uncomfortably.
You swallowed heavily. "What happens if I don't get to them in time?"
Doc eyed you warily - no, not warily. Almost sadly. "If they die before we reach 'em, so do you."
You stared at him in disbelief.
But he stayed quiet.
The Lost Heart Chapter 1
Summary:
You've been a pirate for a while - open sea, your crew's not bad, you like your life. But, of course a damn soulmark shows up and screws everything up!
Characters:
Reader
Warnings:
Soulmate AU |
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This is a multi-chapter fic - chapters will be linked as they are posted! Here's the story on Ao3!
You weren't sure what had happened. One moment, you'd been racing along the ship in a challenge against a crewmate, the next you were doubled over in pain and gasping heavily as your vision threatened to leave you forever.
The pain was like nothing you'd ever felt before. A flash across your back, curling around to your navel like a large claw or something had sliced you.
A worried face appeared above you. Slowly, sounds trickled back into your ears.
"Hey, Silent, you alright?" Your captain's voice had sounded scared in the past. Confused. Angry. Worried. But this level of concern sent unease trickling down your spine.
Coughing, you blinked. "Um..."
The captain held his hand out. "Come 'ere. Let me see ya." He helped you stand, then led you through the large throng that had gathered.
Stumbling behind him weakly, you barely made out the faces of your crewmates as you passed them. Finally, sitting with a heavy thud onto a crate, you coughed harshly as the pain flared across your side.
"Doc!" The captain's voice wrang out too loud.
An older man pushed through the crew, a scowl etched almost permanently onto his face. "Alright, what's the damage this time?" Spotting you, his scowl deepened. "Silent?"
You shrugged. "No idea, Doc. Just...felt like something clawed me."
He hummed skeptically, then gestured for you to show him where it hurt.
Lifting your shirt, you gasped as the pain flared again. "Fucking hell...!"
"Probably hit a damn ratline too hard," Doc muttered as he circled you.
His footsteps stopping suddenly made you turn your head towards him. The ashen look on his face sent fear crawling up your spine. "What? What is it?"
He facepalmed suddenly with a loud groan. "Goddamnit..." He pulled your shirt back down, then sat in front of you. "No bruise. No blood. But a big ass dark mark from your shoulders to your navel."
Frowning, you gazed at him, then at the captain, then back. "So...what's the problem?"
The captain sighed heavily. "It's a soulmark, Silent."
You blinked, then scoffed a laugh. "Soulmarks don't exist. Those are just sailors stories for random injuries." You weren't that old - only 24 - but surely if they were real, you would have met someone with a soulmark by now.
Right?
Groaning, the captain turned to Doc. "So now what? We gotta find his soulmate within a few months, right?"
Doc nodded grimly. "Aye. If the mark isn't settled, if we can't get 'em together, it'll be bad for both him and whichever bastard just about died."
"Wait, died?" You stared at them. Your heart thudded heavily in your chest, yet it didn't seem like your own. "What are you talking about?"
Doc met your gaze. "A soulmark only appears when your soulmate nearly dies - based on your mark, guessin' they just got attacked by a sea king or somethin'."
The blood drained from your face. "A-A sea king?" Who in the hell is my soulmate if they just got attacked by a sea king and fucking lived?! The world spun, but you tried to think past the building pain.
"How do we find them?" the captain asked.
Doc hesitated, then stood. "Silent, it's said soulmates can track each other over the entire world. For now, we have only that to go on."
You gripped the crate tightly. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
The old man scowled deeply. "Like I know! Soulmates are rare. All I know is they can apparently track each other, the marks only appear when one nearly dies, and no one knows what determines who has a soulmate and who doesn't."
Wincing as pain flashed through you again, you glared at him. "Do you have any advice that can be useful for me? Like how I'm supposed to track them?"
Doc glared back, then shrugged and leaned back, hands in his pockets. "No idea. No one on this crew has had a soulmate, and I don't know anyone who has."
Groaning, you curled forward as the pain spiked. Nausea welled in your gut, and you groaned. "Fucking... Whoever they are, I might kill them for putting me through this!"
Chuckles surrounded you at that.
"Captain Rik, I suggest we head for port regardless of where his soulmate is," Doc said, turning to him. "Need a special kind of painkiller to help dull the mark for now."
Rik nodded. "Why do ya wanna dull it though?"
"Because I can't concentrate on shit if all I can feel is their life hanging by a damn thread!" you burst out as another wave of pain flooded you, worse than before.
Rik stared at you, then nodded. "Go lay down. If yar talkin' this much, it must be bad."
Biting your lip, you stood shakily and made your way slowly to the crew's quarters, every fiber of your being cursing the other person to hell and back for this happening. Just wanna live a life at sea!
Don't wanna be tied down to some idiot who tangles with a fucking sea king!
Hands That Decide
A One Piece fanfic series
In a world shaped by power, legacy, and unspoken debts, not every life is born from a choice.
Hands That Decide follows those who were pushed onto paths they never asked to walk—soldiers molded by duty, children marked by forgotten sins, civilians swept into tides they can’t escape.
Across decades and shifting loyalties, each must decide whether to keep carrying the decisions forced on them… or finally make their own.
This series is placed in somewhat chronological order (they are being arranged by when the story actually ends, not when they start) and canon compliant.
Ao3 Link
🔞 NSFW (🖤 Kink) | 💗 Fluff/Flirting | 🥀 Angst | 🫂 Comfort
Confirmed Works
1 -🔞💗🥀🫂 The Price of Choice | Shanks X OC - Ao3 Link | 28/?? Chapters - rewrite
2 -🥀💗🫂 The Cost of Conscience | Kuzan/Aokiji X OC - Ao3 Link | 26/26 Chapters
3 - 💗🥀🫂 Weight of Being Unseen | Issho/Fujitora X OC - Ao3 Link | 6/??
Confirmed WIPs
4 - 💗🥀🫂 Silk Chains, Iron Truths | Benn Beckman X OC
5 - 💗🥀🫂 Defective by Design | Shanks X OC
the red hair pirates one piece ; episode 1153
Under Shifting Skies
A One Piece fanfic series
🪐Omegaverse🪐
Ao3 Link
🔞 NSFW (🖤 Kink) | 💗 Fluff/Flirting | 🥀 Angst | 🫂 Comfort | 🪐Alternate Universe
Completed Works
🔞🥀💗🫂 Storm of Instincts | Benn Beckman X OC - Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15
Confirmed WIPs
🔞🥀💗🫂 Unseen Currents | Shanks X OC - WIP | direct sequel to SoA
💗🥀🫂 Tempest Unbound | Ace + OC - WIP
💗🥀🫂 Edges of the Tide | Koby + OC - WIP
Potential WIPs
🔞💗 Waves Between | Zoro + OC - WIP
🥀 🫂 Undercurrent of Change | Crocodile + OC - WIP
🔞 🥀🫂 Torrents Converged | Law + OC - WIP
💗🥀🫂 Flooded Paths | Issho + OC - WIP
🥀🫂 Galeborn | King + Seraphim OC - WIP
This got posted on the wrong blog originally! Sorry!
