REQUESTS: CLOSED for small headcanons, open for lgbt advices and curiosities about me or just yapping (yes i will answer to you telling me about your pussy cheese)
Girls don't be afraid to be specific about scenarios or reader's personality or appearence, yes im talking about you "do you do black girls too?" anon 😝😝😝
I DO EVERYTHING but obv not the illegal ugly stuff and things i don't know well like bdsm (im up for a request about shanks taking it in the ass tho) and BIG ASS age gaps (sorry girl 78 yo rayleigh wouldn't want ur 18 year and 0,00001 second old ass💔)
I DO SHIPS TOO: Buggy x shanks, shakky x rayleigh, Rayleigh x gaban x roger, gaban x Ripley ecc
CHARACTERS LIST : rayleigh, beckman, gaban, Roger, shanks, buggy, some whitebeard pirates (im sorry thatch, you're not in here)
Speaking of "Crowley is suspicious" do you think that Crowley’s behavior during the housewarden meeting in Book 2 chapter 6 foreshadowed his true nature? if it does can you elaborate on it?
Alright,
During the meeting Crowley casually proposes that Malleus be inducted into the hall of fame to keep him entirely off the spelldrive field this notes that Crowley actively tried to manipulate the tournament brackets and match ups to guarantee specific outcomes potentially steering students towards their overblots when they are desperate enough.
Crowley openly points out Savanaclaw’s poor record against Diasomnia when Leona asks what Crowley true intentions are he simply avoids answering here
Crowley ignores Leona’s frustration and deliberately pokes at Leona’s deepest insecurities about his position and legacy and falls completely silent when confronted about his machinations. this exchange highlights his willingness to push students into corners without taking responsibility for the resulting distress as well as possibly foreshadow that Crowley might be the one who engineered the overblots.
Leona is one of the most perceptive characters in the series and proved time and time again that his deductions are spot on and here he is suspicious of Crowley expecting that he has ulterior motives for bringing up Savanaclaws record in the meeting, this is an earliest indication of Crowley having ulterior motives.
Vil makes a direct accusation he bluntly observes that Crowley plan to retire Malleus “reeks of some kind of unconscious bias” which he immediately disavows
Vil is sharp and explicitly calls out Crowley for playing favorites or operating with an ulterior concealed motive this is the most telling moment because Aside from Leona Vil is just as suspicious of Crowley even suspects that he has ulterior motives.
hearing Vil’s accusation brings Crowleys adoration for the great seven to mind that makes it highly possible that Crowley knows that the overblot victims are twisted from the great seven and that his motives have something to do with the great seven but we don’t know.
If Crowey inducing the overblots turned out to be true then this might be a clever way of foreshadowing.
Being attracted to older men is something that has started in my early teens, but like...only in the fictional sense. Older men irl were never that attractive or interesting.
Then...The Event™ happened.
And bam, suddenly, Headmage Crowley.
Old? Check.
Whimsy? Check.
Always has some kinda task, which ends up in helping him out? Check.
I need to be the reason why his lower back hurts. I need to add him to my collection of older/old/ancient men I have wooed.
No one tell this to Grim, or else this'll spread throughout the entire school and my reputation will be ruined.
/(OOC)/:
My contact lense fell out without me noticing and I had a crash out, because I thought it was still stuck in my eye. Now said eye is as red as Markiplier's after getting artificial blood in it. Yay.
Synopsis... Franky plans a party, informs you that you are most certainly attending and leaves little room for argument. At the aforementioned party, you make friends— just enough to help you run away from the cops, that is. As the red and blue fade into the distance, a freckled face gets closer than you'd like.
Warnings... crude language and remarks, mentions of substance use and alcohol consumption. Please be advised!
The wind from passing cars somehow makes you feel like today is going to be yet another unusual day with your roommate Franky. It isn't often he takes you on rides with him on his prized motorcycle, considering he drives like an absolute maniac, but when he does there's always odd reasons behind the drives. Once, it was for collectible cards, which were sold out at the only store that keeps them in stock—then, it was so he could go buy lingerie for an undisclosed reason, the owner thought him a pervert and kicked him out, leaving you to buy a baby blue nightgown and a pair of matching crotch-less panties. Franky specifically asked you to make sure they were lined with lace.
Despite your hesitation, Franky convinced you to go in without him and grab the suggested items. If you recall correctly, he told you “the essence of punk is to break social norms!” or something along the lines of that before slapping you harshly on the back and pushing you into the store.
Even with his encouragement, that incident…It's still fresh in your mind… Almost like it's happening again now.
Oh no, the thought of that embarrassing interaction is going to make you sick. More than anything right now, you wish you could hop off Franky’s motorcycle and run off. Instead, you tighten your arms around his waist, and scoot closer towards him, hoping his presence can calm your mind. Your head, covered by a helmet, bumps against his back.
“The Rouge Wave, haha! I went once, but the drinks were pretty pricey, and it was packed with old dudes. Over there's the grocery store with the emo cashier… And Tom’s Carpentry!” Franky, with a rare display of good timing, speaks in his usually loud manner, naming off a few of the buildings you two pass by to break the silence, though they're becoming less and less frequent the farther you head out onto the main road. Even if he is talking to himself, you can let out a breath you would've forgotten you were holding in if it weren't for him.
“Now I want a couple drinks! Or maybe just cola. Why don't we check out The Rouge Wave later on, together this time?” Franky looks over his shoulder and speaks directly to you, forgetting the road ahead for just a second. Oddly enough, you expected him to swerve and drive to the aforementioned bar immediately, but he seems more focused on driving recklessly per usual.
“Didn't you just say that it was pricey and packed with old people?” You question, quickly loosening your grip around his waist. Franky simply turns back around to face you, the visor of his motorcycle helmet blocks his face and yet you can still manage to make an educated guess at the face he’s making now. A guilty one, of course.
“Yeah, well… There’s a couple bars in town, and each of them have very different clientele! It’s good for meeting new people— instead of driving hours to go to concerts and bars trending on wherever.” Franky clears his throat especially loudly, and speaks up even louder, whipping his head back to face the road as he cuts in front of a random car for seemingly no reason, yet another reminder why it's not safe to ride with Franky. “And, y’know, it’s not too big! That means hypothetically if someone wanted to chat with their friends and keep an eye on someone else, they could do it with ease, no worries!” Franky’s voice is suddenly quieter, oozing with hesitation. So that's what this is about.
“... Where are we heading, again?” Instead of speaking more about whatever the bar's name was, you quickly change the subject. Franky had only just given you a weirdly deep and brotherly speech about you making friends and cleaning up your Internet act a couple weeks ago. In that time, you’d been obsessively checking your new blog for both attention from strangers and any new messages from the plague that devastates you, another stranger you’ve upset.
Franky says something, but you can't focus on it.
A chill runs down your spine. slipping inside of your leather jacket just to shock you. Just the thought of him makes you feel queasy, he hasn't sent you any new messages since then… but he always could. If he managed to find your blog, what else could he find? Many possibilities have come and gone through your mind with each being more absurd than the last. The biggest one is that he might be somebody Franky pissed off, and is therefore after you, which could explain how he ended up attacking Franky in one of his favorite games… Actually, you’d never gotten an explanation from Franky on why he questioned you about FireFist. Maybe now is the time?
“Franky! Remember the guy who you yelled about attacking your base in uh… Cyborg… Utopia?” Even though you're pretty sure you got the name wrong, Franky must get what you mean. Of course, he immediately stiffens.
“My mortal enemy. The scum of the earth. Satan’s son. FireFist. That asshole!” Franky visibly grips the handlebars of his motorcycle tighter , and you instinctively wrap yourself around him tightly once again to avoid whatever's coming, you’d nearly forgotten how passionate he was about that game. The whipping wind becomes more aggressive as he speeds up, violating yet another law. “Why’d you have to mention him!?” Franky barks out a noise of frustration, muttering things that the wind muffle as you continue to try and get your point across.
“Why did you ask me about him?!” You yell a little louder, in case he can't hear you over himself.
“Don't mention it! I'm not in the mood right now!” Franky uncharacteristically yells, hanging his head slightly. It's only now that you notice you two have left town, and are now traveling on a road surrounded by forest. That's right, you’d already forgotten where you two were heading— you're sure Franky answered you just earlier, but you were thinking of FireFist! So lame, your head is suddenly a mess. Franky will have to sit in silence while you try to regroup your head.
The howling cars passing the two of you fill the silence.
“Gah! Screw it— you harassed the guy, didn't you!? I doubt it was on the angel's greatest creation since cola, which is Cyborg Utopia 2— so what's even creepier is that the asshole must have found me somehow!” Franky looks towards the sky and drives even faster somehow, which is quickly becoming a serious cause for concern. “I mean, his account was new, and he was clearly exploiting! I worked on that base for five damn years! I'm on the global leaderboard! Now he has my spot! It's so creepy! And you know— shit, a cop! No, nevermind, just the same car model!” Franky takes it upon himself to continue ranting, panic settles into your heart now that one of your worst fears has confirmed itself, you manage to ignore his momentary panic and his going off topic.
“He even told me your Instagram username! That's how I know it was you! Seriously, there's perverts and creeps everywhere, these people have no life, who spends that much time on the Internet!?” He quickly stops speaking and looks back at you, but focuses on the road again. “...Anyways. Radio time?” Franky's fingers hastily mess around on the interface before him, turning up the volume on a certain station. A loud death metal sounding song blares, a perfect blend of guitar and fast paced drums for you to try and not be embarrassed because you spend that much time on the Internet.
The rest of the ride with Franky is loudly silent. That is, until Franky turns his bike onto a suspicious dirt road leading deeper into the forest. The previously bright morning which had barely settled into afternoon has turned softer as the sun stains the sky orange, the short day reminds you of just how much colder it's getting.
“Abandoned house, here we come! Ugh, I really need a can of cola now.” Franky sighs loudly, stopping his motorcycle momentarily so that he can remove his helmet, letting his electrifying blue hair fall free. Only now do you recall that he dragged you along with him to inspect an abandoned house for reasons you’d also forgotten. He hands his helmet back to you, and you hold it like usual, keeping yours on. Once his mane is released he continues down the road, passing trees and thorny bushes, fallen leaves litter the lonely road you travel upon.
“Well, do you think the place will be fit for a party? If so, I'll invite all my buddies this time! Let's hurry and check it out so we can head home, it's cold as cola.” Franky’s frequent yapping helps you piece together the reason why he'd taken you with him to see an abandoned house instead of heading to one of the houses in town, but you're not sure it's more exciting than sitting at home looking at your blog. And now that your mind is on your blog, it's heading to the previous subject: FireFist.
Since your initial post to your blog, you haven't made any new ones, but you have spent time interacting with other people there, and managed to acquire a few mutuals. For one, after liking enough posts to garner attention but not seem like you're desperate, that pretty blonde guy “SaDbo”, who you later found out was named Sabo from other comments followed you back! Only a day after you’d followed her, “NamiLuvsMoney” followed you back conveniently while you were scrolling on her page. There hasn't been any actual conversation between you and these two, but there always could be! It's good to have Internet friends, it's better than your hundreds of enemies. Franky is also your mutual on that site, but he's also just Franky.
Other than your stressing over FireFist, there weren't any other issues you’d encountered. The aforementioned abandoned house was in pretty good shape, and paired with the lack of trees and cameras nearby it seems to be a pretty good party venue, as long as nobody else stumbled upon it, Franky said he was planning to throw the party later, within the next two weeks. Although you were silent all the way back home, Franky ensured you weren't lonely with his very loud singing. The two of you were supposed to just head home— but Franky hadn't forgotten what he mentioned earlier, even if you had other things on your mind.
Just as you had gotten back to town and began following your usual path to home, the air shifts as Franky chooses to take yet another questionable turn, this time it's not a dirt road nor trash filled alleyway— but down the infamous “Drunkard Drive”, named by the inhabitants of your very lovable town. Of course, that's not its actual name, yet the name of this road sitting above the stop sign has long been scratched off. As the name suggests, the buildings that line the sidewalks account for nearly every bar in your dull town, and despite the young night there are already a few stumbling into the street.
Earlier, whilst you were on your way to the forest, it was this very part of town you’d passed. Franky has a habit of naming off store names as he passes them by for whatever reason, and you can't help but recall how you had just passed Tom’s Carpentry. So, this means that Franky is planning to take you to The Rouge Wave.
Just as you open your mouth to request to be taken home, Franky speeds towards a distant sign lit with a comically large arrow pointing downwards, the sign reads “The Rouge Wave.” In one swift and reckless motion Franky manages to park in front of a fire hydrant, remove his helmet, remove the keys from the ignition of his prized possession, and grab your hand and yank you off the back of his bike— but not before pulling off your helmet the same, somehow stacking them onto each other and holding them beneath his arm. While you try your best to make sure the helmet hadn't messed up the way you’d made your face, it's difficult with one hand, and Franky is walking in big strides.
The bright lights on the sign draw nearer as Franky hums a cheery tune, you're not-so-thrilled, so much so that you barely notice the stairs leading down until your foot catches air, but Franky quickly steadies you with a hand on your stomach. “Woah, woah, save the stumbling for later on!” He laughs as he looks back at you, swinging open a dented and scratched up metal door painted black, you notice a crimson color peeking through the faded black corners of the door as you draw nearer. Franky peeks inside the bar, then retracts his hand and allows the door to close before you’ve also had a look inside, turning back to you with an intense look in his eyes. He nearly drops your helmets.
“No way I'm letting you go in there looking like that. Do you want to embarrass me!? Here, let me fix you.” As he clears his throat, Franky removes one of his leather gloves he'd been wearing. He then licks his thumb, reaching it towards your face as you do your best to draw back without falling flat on your ass. While you're focused on one hand, you forget the other, Franky reaches towards your head in an attempt to arrange your hair in a more presentable way. Though he quickly recoils when your helmets clatter against the ground, as does his glove, you're a little afraid when you notice your cheek feels a little wet.
Franky bends over to recover your personal effects, muttering curses beneath his breath while you step below the very last step of the stairs just in front of the door, and only then does he choose to open the door again.
The sight itself shocks you. As you peer into the inside of The Rouge Wave, the decorations catch your eye almost immediately. Almost. The true star of the show was certainly the events transpiring inside. While the unfortunate brick walls lined with paper and posters weren't quite what you envisioned, and neither were the tropical leaf hangings and monstera plants flourishing about, you would have never guessed that you’d see such a thing inside of a bar. In the middle of the floor, there is a red-haired man, in only a pair of sandals, both shirtless and visibly intoxicated, balancing himself on top of a large barrel which twirls beneath his feet. You freeze. Franky looks confused. Then, he looks inside again, and also freezes.
“Yeah… Not sure how that happened so quickly. He wasn't doing that when I first looked. Oh, well, I've seen worse.” He clears his throat and steps inside the bar, pushing open the door wider in the process. Noise spills out immediately, you hear yelps and laughter, sighs and hiccups, the bar sounds so lovely you almost feel guilty for stepping inside.
The moment the door closes behind you two, heads snap towards you, including the intoxicated man on top of the barrel. He stumbles, and falls flat onto his back, banging his head which sounds suspiciously hollow onto the floor, leaving you to freeze under the gaze of so many people. From where you are you can see clearly he only has one arm, with a scar that looks barely a year old— but you don't pay much attention to it, other than making an observation. Franky notices the eyes on the two of you, and makes a point to shift his body to where he's almost shielding you. The barrel which was previously beneath the man’s bare feet rolls across the floor towards the granite bar, but stops rolling as a large dress shoe lands on top of it.
Nobody has their eyes on you anymore, and all heads turn to the barrel. A few patrons suck the air through their teeth, not at the man on the floor, but at the one who’d stopped the barrel. Franky follows, then you do.
A silver-haired man, wearing elegant pearl earrings you’d sooner see on a grandmother, a suit that looks neater than even your best clothing, and an intimidating height. He looks bulky, like the tough bouncers you see in movies and shows or a hired thug, you feel worried when you see his serious expression, and you’re really hoping that's just his face. His arms cross themselves over his broad chest, and his eyes are quickly laser-focused on the man on the floor.
“You’ll need to pay for this barrel.” The man in the suit speaks, kicking the barrel beneath his foot upright and inspecting the exterior for any potential damage done. His voice is rough, like he needs a drink to soothe his throat from a long day of yelling, a deep tone like a horn blowing underwater. But not loud, and somehow soft for a man who looks the way he does.
Franky and you both turn back towards the fallen man.
The red-haired man gasps, choking on his own saliva. A particularly elegant looking man helps him up, shaking something out of his shoulder length brown locs as he gives the red haired man a firm pat on the back. The men exchange back pats with each other, but the well dressed man quickly backs off as the imposing man speaks again.
“Boss lady doesn't like you messing with the supply, Shanks.”
“C’mon, Becks… You know I'm saving my money for my wedding!” The drunken Shanks whines at the taller man, pouting his lip playfully.
“Your wedding? I’ll be surprised when you find someone who wants to deal with your constant demands, let alone marry you.” The silver headed man, presumably “Becks”, shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose with thick fingers before responding to “Shanks.”
“Don't you already got enough cash, Shanks? Or did you blow it buying bottles at Buggy’s clown debut?” As he speaks and settles into his seat within a particularly packed booth in a far corner of the bar, the man with locs raises an eyebrow at Shanks.
Shanks only laughs nervously.
“Nah, knowing Shanks, it was probably hookers this time!” A blonde man with hair that reaches his waist and particularly dark sunglasses grabs his closest friend, snickering to himself in another distant booth.
“Becks” gives the blonde man a look, then looks towards the entrance. As his eyes land on you, he shoots yet another look to the now chuckling crowd of men— effectively shushing them.
“We got a young lady with us. You can save it for when you’re drinking the place dry. Preferably when there's no decent customers about.” With narrowed eyes he makes his way over to the crowd who look taken aback, some whisper and smirk to each other as they look back at you, making you feel even more anxious. Shanks whips his head towards you, and gives a smile that looks apologetic enough, hopefully to the point everybody will stop looking at you. But only more curious eyes look at you, and you have to stop yourself from hiding behind Franky.
“Listen! Just put it on my tab. How much can it be anyways?” Shanks lets out an exasperated sigh, placing his hand on top of his head and gripping at the locks of his hair, averting his gaze from you.
“Remember the time you went into Rayleigh's wine cellar, and smashed all those bottles?”
“Yeah?” Shanks nods, raising an eyebrow.
“Just imagine that, but then add two more zeroes. I’ll go home with you and collect it myself if I have to, so don't bail.” With that, the now even more intense looking “Becks” turns his head, and heads towards the bar, hoisting the barrel up and taking it with him. Is his name really something like that when he looks so scary, and acts the same? You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself, so you just hope that you’ll never need to say his name the way you heard it.
Shanks remains frozen in place, staring at the bar.
Speaking of the actual bar, and not the interior of the building— it isn't very special, yet has a certain charm to it. There's a carving of “S+B” written inside of a heart that you can see from where you stand, beneath where the countertop part of it stretches out and hides part of the worn leather stools. There are lots of scratches and some dark patches on the wooden structure, but you can tell by now that this place has probably been around for a while, maybe longer than you've been alive. In the back of the bar, there's a small window and what looks to be one of those revolving hook-things where you’d place orders. You forgot the name, but you know its purpose from that one time you worked at a small restaurant for less than a week before getting fired. There's also a set of signature kitchen doors.
Franky sees that an opportunity has arisen, and instead of leaving with you immediately, heads towards the bar as well, trusting you to follow him.
You do, and keep your head downcast the entire time. It's less that you're appalled by their odd behaviors, and more embarrassment at being acknowledged by strangers. Franky is probably doing his best to speak telepathically to you, urging you to “be more punk.”
Franky sits on a particularly shredded leather seat, watching as you take a seat directly next to him. He leans in close just as you get comfortable, beginning to whisper in your ear.
“If you sit too close, they'll think we’re a couple.” His whisper is a bit loud, but now that everyone has resumed their previous activities the noise drowns it out.
Both you and Franky move one seat away from each other, leaving two seats of space between you two. It's rude to say, but you really hope nobody sits between you two. You've hardly been to dive bars besides when you’re at a show with Franky in tow, and never ordered anything— these places rarely have menus, and it's not like you can remember the thousands of combinations. You lift your head and look at the other side of the bar, staring at the various ice chests and fridge, the wall of liquor— and the suited man from earlier, who you think might be the bartender, searching for any hint of a menu. He grasps a glass and cloth in his hands, and begins wiping away any smudges. Now he looks like the bartender.
“Excuse me. Can I get a cola? I gotta drive. And do you have wings? Who am I kidding, it's a dive bar. Can I get buffalo wings, then?” Ever so confident and sure in himself, Franky speaks loud enough for the whole bar to hear as he orders. You feel a little panicked, and keep looking for any ideas of what to order, rushing since Franky had already ordered.
Becks nods and gives a small hum, opens one large ice chest to grab a glass bottle of cola which he then places on the bar top in front of Franky. He turns back around and rummages through what must be an open drawer, and grabs a small nametag. He clips it onto his suit’s vest, upside down at first, but quickly fixes it to the best of his abilities; it's still uneven. You feel a little embarrassed for thinking that Shanks’ nickname was his actual nickname, and are thankful you didn't encounter a situation where you’d needed to say his name. You’re not even sure why that was your first thought.
“Our cook is a little preoccupied, do you mind waiting? If you really need ‘em, I can go back and make them myself.” Beckman glances towards his left side, which is even more booths and a small, rusted sign that reads “Bathroom.” with another that says “STAFF ONLY!” beside it.
“Yeah, I can wait.” Franky nods and pulls out his phone, immediately scrolling on it, unfazed by the brightness being on the highest level. You reach into your leather jacket’s pocket, and quickly realize that you’ve left your phone at home, and are unable to pass time by scrolling the same, and you haven't even figured out an order yet.
Then, Beckman approaches you. He's far too quick, and you have no time left for thinking.
“And what can I get you? Driving too, or you heading home with this fella?” He effortlessly speaks to you, glancing over at Franky who is preoccupied with looking at videos on his phone. Normally, he'd help you order… But, this is not normal. He wanted you to meet new people, and forced you into it when you weren't even ready yet! And you’ve got little to no idea of what to say. You can't fumble about like an idiot, and asking for suggestions sounds too… cliche.
“Uh, no. That's my roommate. He's basically an older brother to me—” Did you sound too defensive? It's not like you're embarrassed of Franky, but you can't have people getting the wrong idea. Just as you get the words out, your voice falters. Now you need to order. Your face goes blank as your mind.
Beckman blinks at you, carefully observing your expression.
“Hm. Well, then. The boss lady made a new cocktail, wants me to get people to try it. I don't wanna risk asking that jackass over there, so how about it? It's on the house.” As if he understood your predicament entirely with one careful look, Beckman rescues you by offering you a drink. The perfect time to practice a little more with talking to people.
“Sounds good. What's it called?” You try to not sound too blank when you question Beckman.
“On The House.” He replies flatly.
Then, he smiles and gives a small chuckle before tapping the counter in front of you, noticing your confused look. “On The House is on the house. Free, just for you.” Beckman winks, and heads to the shelf of liquor before you respond, feeling your body heat up at his wink. He’s undoubtedly attractive, but clearly way older than any man you should be messing with, yet the charm still persists. Is this how marketing works? Speaking of charm and attractive men, Franky clearly saw something he thought you’d like in the bar, and even went as far as trying to spruce you up before you went inside.
When Beckman’s back is turned, you take the opportunity to lean over the empty seats and question Franky.
“Hey,” You whisper loud enough for him to hear, but soft enough so that you won't be heard by Beckman while he’s busy making your cocktail. Franky raises an eyebrow at you, powering his phone off and stuffing it into his pocket as his attention switches entirely to being on you.
“Who was the guy you saw?” Franky smirks as you question him, and looks around the bar— but his smile dies quickly, and his gaze becomes more frantic as he searches the faces for whoever it may be.
“Huh. Looks like he left. But, these guys seem friendly enough, you just gotta put yourself out there! Make some conversation, ask this guy why he's wearing a suit inside a stuffy place like this or something.” Franky shrugs and returns his attention to his phone, leaving you wide eyed and even more nervous than before.
A loud banging sounds from your right, like banging on a metal door. You see the man with locs from earlier frantically knocking on the bathroom door, his brown skin looks a little grey— like he's sick.
“Lucky, get outta there, I got the bubble guts!” He cries, banging as many limbs as he can on the door.
“No way— I gotta put myself first! The kitchen needs me, and I'm not running to the bathroom every five minutes!” A nasally voice responds from beyond the bathroom door.
“Who gives a damn!? I should have told Paquita I was lactose intolerant— OH GODS! Hurry up, I think I feel it!” The man whimpers, falling to his knees as his knocking becomes weaker alarmingly fast. Franky clearly hears the dispute, and so does the rest of the bar, but nobody seems bothered enough to intervene. Besides Beckman, who quickly slides a glass of a red and orange colored cocktail topped with fancy looking sugar on the rim of the glass, and just as quickly stomps over to the bathroom door.
“Just go in the other bathroom.” Beckman sighs, grasping the dark skinned man's collared shirt and leading him towards the kitchen doors. The dark skinned man visibly recoils.
“No way, man! The toilet seat is all loose and it's so warm in there, like the souls of those before you remain…” He shudders, quickly standing up and straightening his clothes out. Beckman gives another look, the third tonight, and the dark skinned man quickly complies and heads to the back through the kitchen.
Beckman turns back to you with a softer look, and before you can reach for your drink he slides it away from you ever so slightly.
“Whoops. Sorry, I need an ID. State says you need to be twenty-one years or older.” He clears his throat, leaning closer to you to the point you can basically taste the cigarette smoke in his mouth. You once again reach into your pockets, and are pleasantly surprised by yourself when you find your drivers license there. You’re less pleased at the fact that you took it with you, and somehow left your wallet. Once Beckman takes a close look at your ID, he hands it back and slides your drink back towards you.
Beckman’s attention is then grabbed by what you assume is Shanks once more. When you turn to look at the group in the corner again. You see that he's acquired another barrel from heaven knows where.
Surprisingly, you’re liking the atmosphere here. You take a sip of your cocktail, preparing yourself for any possible flavor… And it tastes like pure rubbing alcohol, so strong that you struggle to swallow it, but you do so to avoid embarrassment— the sugary rim does its best to soothe your tastebuds, but it's a hard job. Franky looks over at you, and gives a knowing look. He mouths the words, “drink it yourself”, and returns to enjoying his cola— he orders one after another, gulping down far too many, while you engage in easy conversation with Beckman whenever you see it fit.
Who knew how long you’d been at that bar, but before you knew it everyone was already leaving— even Shanks, who seemed like a pretty hardcore drinker. When Franky stood up from his stool, you followed.
While you hadn't made any new friends, you enjoyed the atmosphere of The Rouge Wave. To you, it seemed like the place had more to it that meets the eye, from the curious clientele to the creative decor— and the mysterious customer Franky was hoping you’d have a chat with but never got to meet. The ride back to your home was louder than you hoped for, with Franky singing to the latest pop hits on the radio and urging you to sing along despite your head hurting.
The moment you hit your mattress, it was lights out, and your dreams were suddenly filled with hope for the future. While going to The Rouge Wave and checking out that abandoned house was the highlight of that week, then the week after… Franky had plenty of excitement in store for you, and he was determined to get you to put yourself out there at his forest party.
However, when the night of the party arrived, you weren't exactly thrilled. You’d slept all day after staying up chatting with the mutuals you met on your blog the previous night, yet still had little to no energy for partying and talking to real people. Nonetheless, you put together an outfit and hoped for the best, using yet another one of Franky’s belts, the one you had in particular had a circuit-like design on it, and the details on it seemed to glow with a teal color, exactly Franky’s style. Yours? Not so much, but you needed something different to tie the outfit together— and to you it seemed pretty good, but you could also be unknowingly suffering from brain damage and are unaware if it's fashionable.
Do you consult Franky? Jinbei? Well, when in doubt, post to your fashion blog, or whatever they say.
Quickly, you snap a few photos from different angles, ignoring Franky’s shouting about how you’re set to leave in twenty minutes. Just as quickly, they're posted to your blog with a caption asking for opinions on the belt, and even quicker are the responses from your few mutuals, Franky hasn't seen it yet and is definitely focused on shaping his pompadour.
NamiLuvsMoney: “adorbs!! so different from ur outfit and jewelry but it ties it together well anyways<3”
SaDbo: “cute! just like you… haha jk jk… unless?👀😇”
The responses weren't all immediate, but your mutuals responded quickly, and you're relieved that they agree on the belt. Nami aka “NamiLuvsMoney” and “SaDbo”, who you learned previously from stalking his page, is just named “Sabo” have both become precious to you, in a way. Your interactions aren't as plentiful as you’d like, and you’d yet to send actual messages to them, but their support means the world. You like each of their comments, and are just about to close your laptop when another comment from a familiar user rolls in.
FireFist. Your stomach drops.
He replied specifically to Sabo’s comment, a simple reply that was just three question marks— ever so cryptic.
FireFist replied to SaDbo’s comment: “???”
“C’mon, let's go!” Franky yells from somewhere inside the house, you shut your laptop down and scurry out the door, relaxing only when the wind whips against you again on the road, trying to not think about what might be transpiring within your comment section. Sabo didn't seem like the arguing type, from what you saw on his blog, but you never truly know what FireFist can drive people to… You shake off the bad feelings, and hold tightly on Franky’s waist as he accelerates even more, driving down that familiar forest path until his motorcycle reaches an abrupt stop.
In the midst of the atmosphere of live music, hyena-like laughs, and cheers as eyes land on the blue haired mountain that is your roommate, you feel out of place. It's a sudden gust of wind against your skin, and ruins every expectation you had of the night, but it almost feels okay just because Franky is with you.
As Franky and you dismount, he’s whisked away by a friend of his who you just barely recognize. More follow, and you can only awkwardly trail behind them while trying to not look like a complete loser who only knows how to stay stuck in Franky’s backside. He looks back at you and shoots what he must have thought was an encouraging look during his conversation that's both loud and incomprehensible to you.
Tired and suddenly filled with unpleasant feelings, you brush it off with a smile and enter the abandoned house.
In terms of music, you aren't really sure what you’d call it, but it's certainly something. You think you can hear a cowbell and accordion, then bagpipes— some growls and different pitched voices you think are one person but again can't be entirely sure. Nobody is paying too much attention to the band, and most are focused on themselves. From different corners of the room, you spot a pink haired woman wearing a frilly gothic Lolita dress and a top hat, then someone dressed in a band t-shirt with text that looks like shredded fabric, and various people with liberty spikes ranging in length.
All that, and you’ve yet to step further into the crowded home. An angry yell makes you jolt, and you quickly focus on a long-haired man grabbing onto a woman, glaring at another man with green hair who is in the pit you somehow failed to notice earlier.
It reminds you of the first show Franky had taken you to, and how you somehow managed to get pushed into the pit and ended up being pursued by five older men who scrambled into the pit seemingly just to chase after you and mess you up. You also remember being tossed into the air by his intoxicated friends and noticed by the small band playing at the time, that single night lasted only three hours due to the bulls breaking free from the nearby farm and storming the venue— which was in an older farm building. The memories make you smile and laugh to yourself, but you realize it's better to not stare at the two people fighting.
You walk further into the home, doing your best to not bump into people and find Franky and his friends again in hopes of getting a drink. You don't trust the kegs around the room, nor what looks like a bowl of punch on the dirty kitchen counter swarmed by sweaty people, but if there's one thing you know; it's that Franky’s friends are definitely safe, and carry only the best refreshments. It doesn't take long, even being surrounded by goths and punks, because there's only one person here with electric blue hair.
In the backyard, in the back of a truck, you see a blue cooler, a clear container filled with various bags of chips, a smaller white container with a yellow lid on it, and most importantly Franky. The only odd thing you notice is the woman next to him that seems to be in her own world. She's pale, blue-eyed, and just by looking at her you can tell she's especially smart. Clearly, she doesn't live in town— she has a sense of style for one. But she definitely looks more like a librarian, and not like she's at a party. You approach and let your eyes rake over Franky’s familiar friends and get closer looks at the snack assortments.
In the bed of the truck there are far too many people standing up and tossing drinks from the cooler to passersby, you wonder just how many drinks are in there. The smaller container is opened, and you notice what appears to be plastic wrapped nasal spray? You reach towards it without any fuss from the people around, hoping for a closer look. It's narcan, you turn away but are stopped by a yellow-headed friend of Franky’s.
“Grab one, just in case! You never know when it comes to this crowd. Some of these people are sniffing stuff they don't even know the name of.” She tosses the plastic wrapped medicine to you, and you pocket it with a thoughtful hum she certainly can't hear. Before you can turn away, she thoughtfully hands you a can of cola like she knows what you came for.
The blue eyed woman gives you look over, specifically at your leather jacket, and then looks back at Franky’s jacket.
“So this is your roommate?” Her tone sounds flat, but her eyes shine with a hint of curiosity. For a second, you think back to a while ago after Franky had a cookout at your place, when he complained about someone's absence. A woman. Could this be her? Are you messing things up for Franky by matching with him? Maybe you should take off your jacket.
“Obviously! Look at her, isn't she super?” Franky crushes an empty aluminum can in his hand, and tosses it into the back of the truck, narrowly missing the yellow haired woman’s nose. She shows her middle finger and returns to passing out drinks and throwing narcan at people. Franky looks at you but then focuses again on the woman next to him, smiling widely with a look you know all too well… Franky finally gives you another look but still glances at her through the corner of his eye, but he introduces you to her by name.
“And this is Robin. She lives in town, believe it or not! She’s into archaeology, and…” Franky grins and gushes about Robin, until she raises her hand to his mouth and glares.
Robin isn't rude, but she definitely isn't interested in pleasantries or flowery language. “Shut up.” She calmly states, then takes a sip of her own drink. He shuts up after that and you can't help but admire her.
“You blocked me.” Her tone isn't sharp, but still feels like ice water on your skin. You aren't sure what direction this conversation is going in, but that dreadful feeling from earlier pulls itself back over your skin and grips you tightly. Franky is just as confused as you and tries to speak, but Robin slaps her hand over his mouth to muffle him.
She speaks the name of your blog. Franky is still confused, as are you. You only remember blocking one “person”, and that was just a bot. Unless…?
“I was told that you assumed I was a robot. Please unblock me, so I can see your posts…” Robin reaches into her pocket with her free hand and pulls out her phone, swiping and tapping until she pulls up a photo a blog in messages with someone named “🤖”, you know it can't be anyone other than Franky. Robin does not wait for a response, and shuts her phone off. You didn't really get a good look at the picture. “I like reading, but also enjoy fashion. You’re very beautiful and stylish, and so I hope we can be friends.” Robin shows you a beautiful smile, then walks off somewhere into the distance with Franky shuffling behind her.
Honestly you have no clue what just happened. Was she that “Bookmark” account? You're surprised you remember its name… any dreadful feeling is suddenly gone with the wind. You walk, although you aren't really sure where, with your cola held tightly in hand. A smile slips onto your face as you walk, she said you were beautiful and stylish. Franky is naturally your number one hype man, but he's also Franky, and hearing compliments from others fuel your very soul.
Again, the atmosphere feels light. The noise of what sounds like another band playing curses your ears, and the mindless screams from the people surrounding, but you're just glad that every interaction so far has been positive. Even though right now you kind of just want to go home and head to bed then wake up in the comfort of your own home and Franky’s company on another bland day, a part of you wants to sit and be swarmed by people who all enjoy your company. A very small part, albeit.
For once, you think the night can be enjoyed just by sitting leaned against a wall and wandering around with a drink in your hand listening to all the conversations surrounding you. To anybody else it would sound boring and miserable, but it was comfortable enough for someone struggling socially like you.
An hour— or maybe two pass easily for you just by using this exact method. When Franky isn't by your side, you're sort of just like a snail moving about and taking the world in, hoping you don't get stepped on. If he was with you now, that would be a whole other story, you feel like your confidence grows every second you spend with him. That's not the point, the point is that right now your ears are catching on to what sounds like a juicy argument in the distance, and it's far too distant for your liking. So, you inch closer with little regard for spatial awareness, and consequently end up bumping into somebody, a man no less.
Your eyes snap towards him, and his head snaps towards you. In an instant, you recognize him— considering his face is exactly the profile picture of “SaDbo”, the guy who you met online. It sounds kind of creepy to say out loud. But that burn scar over his left eye, those blonde curls, and his barely tanned skin that you recall he posted about getting from a trip to a sunnier state for a work opportunity on his own blog. Is it also creepy to remember that? Wait, does he recognize you? You don't even post your face.
His eyes trail down your body, to your belt. He squints, then blinks twice in quick procession, and raises his eyebrow at you, looking somewhat awkward as he asks you something. “Sorry to ask, but er… “ he reaches into the pocket of his jeans, grabbing his phone as his eyes look from the screen to you and back. Without thinking, you blurt out your blog handle, forgetting the hot gossip brewing in the distance. Sabo’s eyes light up, and he smiles.
“Oh, wow— that's so weird, isn't it? We’ve already met in real life, without a single DM between each other!" He laughs, easily diffusing the awkwardness in the air.
“I recognized your belt, but didn't want to look crazy calling out your blog handle only for you to be some random girl. I’m Sabo, but maybe you already know my name… It's basically my handle, but with a ‘’D’’ between it.” Sabo’s happy smile turns into a smirk for a split second and gets dangerously close to being a chuckle, but he stops himself. Oh. You totally missed that joke.
Perhaps a little too quick, you tell him your name, unsure if it's too late to give a courteous chuckle. Sabo smiles again as he repeats it to himself.
“I don't post my face, so I don't blame you. It's good to know someone else here, I was just taking in the atmosphere by myself for a hot minute.” You admit, swirling your latest drink in its can.
“Yeah? It must be fate, then! So you’re not here alone?” Sabo hums, taking a sip from a red solo cup.
“No. I'm here with my roommate, Franky.” You answer, struggling to maintain eye contact. Sabo shuffles to stand beside you and not against you any longer, but quickly takes to leaning against the siding of the house and chatting with you instead. You follow, of course.
“Loud guy, blue hair? I heard about him from my friend, Robin. Maybe you know her?” Sabo says with a hint of hope in his voice.
Robin? You just met her! This seems too good to be true, you've never had a conversation flow like this… You hope he doesn't ask you if you know any more people, it stops at some of Franky’s friends and then Robin more recently. Also the closest corner store owner.
“Oh, yeah. I just met her tonight.” You look back at him with a less awkward smile. “So you know Franky?” You ask.
“Yep. Think Robin’s got the hots for him. You think he likes her back? Ah, nevermind— best to let it flow naturally.” Sabo sips from his cup with another hum, glancing at you.
“So he's your roommate? I guess it makes sense, Robin says he dresses up like she's never seen before. And you dress nice, too.” Sabo’s voice remains polite, but when he compliments you it feels different. It's your second compliment of the night, in person at least, and it's coming from someone as handsome as Sabo. Softly you mutter a thanks, then hurry to try and think of another topic to shift to.
“I came here with my brother, but he's sulking in the car. And Robin is occupied with your roommate, so I've kinda just been standing here. Parties are better with company, unless you're extremely extroverted.” Sabo saves you unknowingly, sighing as he looks around at the dead leaves on the ground, and the various vehicles gathered around the back.
“Does your brother not like parties?” You lean closer with curiosity, but you also hope you aren't prying too much. You remember all too clearly a particular memory from high school that still makes you shiver.
“Not lately. He's been kinda depressed and grouchy, so I thought why not take him here with me? I just wanted to see him out of his room.” Sabo purses his lips, and downs the last of his drink. You want to tell him something, but your mind turns to Franky, wondering if that's how he feels about you.
“I hoped he would have come out for a drink at least… he's probably sitting in there on his phone. A guy as good looking as him should be out picking up girls, not staring at a screen being miserable all day! Oops. Sorry, I tend to over share when I'm tipsy.” Sabo’s face which had been somber before quickly turns to a smile, and he struggles to contain himself.
Sabo’s brother sounds a lot like yourself. Ugh, you really need to stop frowning and start doing something about yourself. But a 9 to 5 sounds miserable, and there's no fun jobs… Plus, going back home is certainly not an option. And you have yet to develop good enough people skills, Sabo is just good at holding conversations.
“I’m sure it'll happen soon. Different people have different struggles, but everyone feels the same things from time to time.” You hope you don't sound like a robot, or too emotional. Hells below, you really need to work on your self esteem.
One step at a time, you tell yourself.
“Thanks. Hope I'm not coming on too strong, but do you mind if I get your number?” Sabo seems eager to shift the subject, but also just as eager when he asks for your number. While you aren't eager to question your skill to read people, you are eager to hand out your phone number to Sabo.
He hands you his phone with the screen already on “create a new contact”, and you happily enter your information. When you’re about to set the contact name as yours, a notification falls from the top of the screen— a text message.
🔥Ace🔥: police cruiser
Another text follows quicker than you can hand the phone back to Sabo. For some odd reason, the emoji reminds you of a certain unpleasant thing.
🔥Ace🔥: can we go home already????
You quickly press the “save” button and hand Sabo his phone back, tensing as you process the information, and the chaos that's sure to ensue if everybody else catches wind of what's going on. Correction, when everybody catches wind. Sabo’s eyes widen, and he looks around nervously, muttering something to himself.
“So. I don't know if you saw, but,” Sabo leans in to whisper in your ear. “cops are on the way.” He leans back, reaching into his pocket and fiddling nervously with what sounds like a keychain. Sabo is just as clueless as you are on the next course of action.
Do you tell Franky? Do you sit frozen and wait?
Sabo leans in close enough to make your body heat up, and whispers to you again, so clearly nervous and yet still managing to look confident. “If you don't have a ride, I can take you with me. I mean, if you don't wanna tell your roommate, because you know, he's the one who threw the party and all…” As he trails off nervously, the universe cackles in its throne— cutting through the noise of the party with a harsh siren and filling the air with red and blue, and a scream from another partygoer who yells “COPS!” From the very depths of his soul.
Sabo grabs onto your jacket sleeve just as the flood of people seem to rush, and he effortlessly drags you along with him. You hear at least ten people call for Franky, and ten others telling them to “shut the fuck up”, as police cruisers fill the backyard. Nobody wastes any time running to their cars, some just book it on foot, and few people in between freeze and hold onto their friends. You and Sabo try to make your way through the people, but you are pretty frequently shoved and nearly thrown to the ground.
Just when all hope to get out in time seems lost, an Angel bursts through the crowd.
Franky, in a white crop top? There are what looks like signatures on it, plenty of them. He dashes towards you with an amused looking Robin on his back, and he looks particularly suspicious when his eyes fall on Sabo.
“Sabo!” Robin shouts with a smile, and Franky eases up.
From a speaker, an officer's voice is projected over the noise, the four of you clearly get the hint and do your best to run towards your vehicles. You try to catch up to Franky, but Sabo harshly yanks your arm and pulls you towards a beat up black car with the bumper hanging on by duct tape. There's no time to get to Franky’s motorcycle. Dread fills you as you look at Sabo, who you just met, and you shake as you follow him to his car. Someone shoves you from behind, making you crash face first into him, but you’re more focused on getting out of here without being talked to by the cops. Running from the cops is described as a thrilling thing, an experience from your youth to remember for years to come— but when you're a socially anxious shut in who came in with your only friend, a loud blue haired punk, and are running off without him, you wish you could have stayed home.
Sabo swings open the driver’s seat of this black car, then swings open the back door, gesturing for you to enter. You throw yourself into the back head first, and Sabo does the same. Except, instead of meeting the leather of the backseat, you meet the warmth of a body— another man. He yelps like a kicked puppy, and you can't help but do the same. Sabo doesn't wait for seatbelts to go on, nor introductions, he puts the car in reverse and does his best to drive past the running people and fleeing cars, but tosses you and this man with the movements of the car. The two of you fall onto the floor together, and you barely recall Sabo mentioning his brother, who was in the car.
You’re mortified. Even more when you struggle to remove yourself from on top of his brother, who is pissed, at least from what you can see when you aren't being launched back onto him. The car twists and turns, and you and Sabo's brother struggle to remove your bodies from each other, but end up grabbing places on each other that you’d rather not mention.
“Sorry! The passenger door is basically welded shut! You okay Ace?” Sabo pants, doing what feels like flips with his car, driving past a particularly loud siren or two. The man beneath you groans, and you barely manage to sit up on your knees when the man beneath you grabs your shoulder in a firm grip, pressing you against the door you entered from. Not angrily, but more so to stop you two from bumping any more, it doesn't make you feel any better about your current situation.
Sabo’s brother, Ace, turns his head to the front of the car, and scowls as he begins to shout. “Fuck you! We should have left earlier!” He sucks in air through his teeth, you adjust your outfit and zip up your leather jacket for comfort, just as the car lurches again. Ace turns to you, and takes a long look at you. You do the same to him all the while freaking out internally.
Oh no, he's hot. And you think he's angry at you, more specifically. You take in his features, freckles and all, but can't look very long due to feeling ashamed.
“Not you.” Ace squints like he could read your mind, almost smiling. But that all falls through when he tenses, and blood trickles from his nose faster than he can react. You don't know what to do either, but Ace reaches towards the front of the car and tries to open the glovebox, a terrible swerve and a bumpy road interrupts his action, and the two of you are back to trying to get back up and in a seat. His nose swipes against your face with one swerve and you feel his breath that smells quite interesting hit your cheek. Blood smears on your cheek, and then swipes against a sewn patch on your jacket with another wild movement.
“Shit, Sabo! Get me some tissues or something!” Ace shouts, clutching his nose as he leans forward… and doesn't crash into you this time. For a moment, at least, then he crashes forehead-first against your own. The two of you shout in pain, and you hope you don't get a nosebleed next. Ace’s blood drips onto you, smearing awkwardly as your knee somehow hits him in the ribs with another swift movement, his hand slaps your neck and an unpleasant tangle of your limbs forms.
Sabo does his best to rummage through the glovebox and keep his eyes on the “road”, but the task proves too difficult. Sabo tosses something in the backseat at the two of you, you watch three pieces of opened mail addressed to “Portgas D. Ace” fall onto your lap, and a box of tampons hit Ace in the face.
“Sorry, there's some tampons! For some reason?” Sabo does a full 180 degree turn with the car, and Ace and your body become smushed again. You grab the mail, and Ace grabs the box of opened tampons, which are flying out with the vigorous movements of the car. One falls into your mouth as you scream, another jams itself into your chest, Ace doesn't manage to catch any of them. You grab the tampon from your mouth, open the paper, and thoughtfully press it into Ace’s hand. He grips it, but also your fingers, the car continues it's rough journey.
Sabo tells Ace your name over the noise of sirens, forgetting that the two of you have yet to be introduced.
“This is my brother, Ace!” Sabo screams as something thuds against the hood of the car, but reassures the two of you that it's just an empty cooler, as if that made things any better. Ace jams the tampon up his bleeding nostril and repeats your name.
“Nice to meet you..” He catches himself, and makes an odd face that you nearly crash into.
“Likewise.” You hope you don't sound awkward, but there's no escaping negative feelings considering you tossed yourself onto Ace, even if you had zero clue he was laying down in the backseat. He could have been in the passenger seat, but he just had to be in the back. You fell on top of a hot guy, and the shame will devour your very soul if you let it. Instead of wallowing in misery you grab the back of the driver's seat, and try to hoist yourself up into a seat. Ace watches you, and mimics your actions with the passenger seat, the second he manages to sit down, he buckles his seatbelt and holds tightly onto the headrest of the seat in front of him.
You struggle for a moment, but Ace reaches over and grabs your hand, pulling you into the spot directly next to him. Normally you would have tried to scoot away to create distance, but a large bump in the road urges you to sit down immediately. Not wanting a bloody nose like Ace, you buckle your seatbelt and try to ignore your knees touching. The road isn't any less bumpy, but now you can get an idea of what the hell is going on without breathing in the smell of another guy you just met.
You look out through the windshield, and the surrounding windows, but can't spot Franky’s motorcycle. You can see the quickly approaching road, and when you look out the back, nobody is following. Soon enough the car reaches a paved road after a rough start, then you finally feel at peace. Well, peaceful enough considering you had to run off with a near stranger and his brother.
“Everything okay?” Sabo calls from the driver's seat, peeking at the two of you from the rear view mirror. Without a word, your eyes meet a very pissed off Ace’s as he moves his hand to cover his nose, narrowing his eyes.
“Sure thing. I just have a tampon in my nose. Can we go home already?” Ace scoffs, rolling his eyes in Sabo’s direction and topping it all off by crossing his arms over his chest. He's dressed pretty plainly, the way you do when you don't feel like trying on particularly lonely feeling days. A thick black sweater, and a pair of shorts? Not to mention the fact that he also has on a pair of combat boots and long black socks, which makes you wonder why he didn't throw on a pair of sweatpants or something instead, since the socks are high enough to reach his knees.
Speaking of home, you definitely need to work out where Sabo is headed, and get either back home or meet up with Franky. A quick rummage through the various pockets of your leather jacket helps you discover yet another problem, which is the absence of your phone, and the realization that you haven't memorized Franky's new phone number. Faced with the slap in the face that is your current situation filled with a lack of familiar figures, your arms fall to your sides, and you freeze.
But not all hope is lost! You think. Sabo knows Robin, and Robin has Franky’s number, so this is going to be a quick fix. Just as quick, your face brightens.
The only obstacle you have left to face is actually asking Sabo… a sense of dread washes over you.
You must have made a funny face, because from the corner of your eye you can see that Ace is very clearly staring at you. How do you tell Sabo that you need him to call Robin so you can speak with Franky? Easier said than done, believe it or not. With Ace staring at you, the situation feels a lot worse, you close your eyes and catch a mental image of your beloved phone lying on the edge of your bed, teasing you.
“Quit bitching and hold on. I need gas first.” Sabo sighs, and Ace does the same.
“Really? Didn't you fill up like two days ago?” Ace leans his head against the window.
“Yeah, but this piece of shit has terrible gas mileage. Oh– we need new oil ASAP, too. You got the wrong kind and the engine’s been overheating.”
“I got the SN whatever, like you told me.” Ace sounds irritated as he fires back at Sabo.
“Yeah but I looked at the manual just in case and it said it needs… SL or something, we’ll just get some at the store.” Sabo taps the steering wheel as the first few buildings of your town approach, that abandoned gas station from the 70’s and the comic book store. Ace grumbles and still seems irritated for some reason, but he doesn't say another word to Sabo, who does the same.
Until the car starts to make a funny noise.
Sabo does his best to speed into town and reach the approaching auto parts shop, but stops just a few feet from it, luckily on a less busy road. Sabo hangs his head low, and then turns to face you in the backseat, offering a guilty look to you. “Sorry. It was doing fine for three days, and I told my friend that, he said it would probably be okay to make it to the party and back. Guess I pushed my luck.” He twists back to face the wheel, but still peeks back at you.
An opportunity to bring up yet another problem arises, so you say fuck it and ask him your earlier question.
“It’s not really a big issue, I just need to call Franky and let him know I’m okay… But I forgot my phone at home. And I don't remember his number.” You swallow the lump in your throat, and look out the window opposite from Ace.
“Oh, shit. Let me call Robin, then, since they're probably together right now. Gimme a sec… Ace! Can you see if the store is still open?” Sabo reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, looking at the time. A particularly sour look crosses his face.
“Nevermind, they're closed.” He sighs, and facepalms directly into the wheel. Ace looks over, shifting in his seat, and unbuckles his seatbelt.
“What type of oil did you need?” Ace murmurs, sounding tired. Sabo tosses a paper booklet at him in response, and Ace quickly rummages through it. You catch a glimpse of mechanical lingo in the booklet, until Ace flips to a section speaking about oil and the steps to change it. Ace opens the car door, and steps out.
“Where are you going?” Sabo calls, and Ace doesn't seem to care enough to answer. This leaves you in a somewhat awkward position, simply because you aren't sure what happens next. You still need to see if Sabo can contact Franky from Robin’s phone, and then find out whether you can meet up with them or get dropped off.
Unable to hold back, you throw your head back and let out a groan. Sabo lets out a stifled laugh in response, but then you hear the dial tone of a phone on speaker. When you lean forward to catch a glimpse of his screen, you notice he’s dialing Robin, much to your relief. It feels like an eternity passes while you wait for either Ace to come back to the car or Robin to pick up, but sooner rather than later you hear her voice leak from the speakers of Sabo’s phone.
“Hello, Sabo?”
“Is Franky with you?”
“Yes. We stopped for food.”
“Okay, well where are you at?”
A harsh shush sounds, you feel relieved to recognize Franky’s hushed whispers. Less so to hear him say to not let you specifically find out where he and Robin are currently, yet you have a hunch that it's one of your favorites.
On the other side you hear Franky proclaim your name loudly, with a usual dramatic flair that now feels embarrassing with Sabo listening in.
“Well. You know how a bunch of people yelled my name, and my reputation with the police in town? Safe to say home isn't the best option for either of us.” Franky clears his throat and takes frequent breaks to drink from what must be another extra large cup of cola, his daily dose. “So, how about… We go somewhere else? Somewhere the cops probably won't come looking for us. The blond dude—”
“His name is Sabo.” Robin interjects.
“Sabo,” Franky continues. “Can come with. If you're tired, I'll buy you an energy drink, or a shot or three. Four, maybe five. I already have a place in mind…” Franky trails off as he waits for your reply.
You already know the exact place he has in mind, and your answer comes just as quickly.
“Amp Asylum? That’s an entire hour away. And Sabo is having car issues, so I don't know if we’ll even be able to go there. Plus, I'm not in the mood for the funky mosh pit.” A grimace falls on your face as you recall your past experience with the place.
“Wait— what's “Amp Asylum”? Sounds intense.” Sabo interjects with a raised brow, looking at you then back to his phone.
“A bar. With loud music and louder people.” You give your own description of the place to Sabo without sounding too negative.
“Don't listen to her! She's just angry because someone stole her catalytic converter when she drove us there once. But don't worry— it's completely safe nowadays, I pay Charlene to watch my ride and I'll get her to watch yours!” Franky shuffles around on the other end, Robin seems to have gone quiet.
“Who’s Charlene?” Sabo murmurs, somehow even more confused than before.
“Sixty year old butch that works there, she's the unofficial bouncer if you must.” Franky continues slurping on his drink. Robin speaks up and scolds him with a firm and short reprimand. He listens to her.
“I don't know if I can get there. I need an oil change, and almost all the damn stores are closed. No tools, no new oil, and I still need gas. My car stopped, too.” Sabo sounds upset explaining his current predicament to Franky over the phone, you think he might've been actually considering going to Amp Asylum. An hour-long drive with him? With your phone you could have managed, but you definitely won't be able to sit still after the events that have transpired so far tonight.
A shiver runs through you, you feel embarrassed all over again as you recall the events from A-Z. Maybe you could have just said from FireFist to crashing onto Ace, who you didn't even see. Gods, you threw yourself onto him…
“Where are you?” Franky asks.
“Just outside the auto part shop next to that abandoned gas station.” Sabo responds.
“Give me a minute or two.” Franky promptly hangs up the phone after he’s said his piece.
Sabo is confused, and rightfully so. The confusion continues when the two of you watch Ace approach in the distance, carrying a large yellow container of motor oil, which you two have a clear idea how he acquired. Sabo’s face turns bright red as he looks at Ace’s approaching figure, then back at you, seemingly embarrassed by Ace’s actions— but also gauging your opinion on the matter.
Quicker than you probably should have you stalker out something along the lines of “I'm not a cop” in an effort to ease the worries that practically spill from his head, Sabo eases up as he hears your reply, and starts to laugh.
“Last time this happened, Ace ended up with a record. Better than how I got mine, at least.”
Ace approaches the car with the oil, opens the door to your left– which is not the seat he was in before, and climbs in with ease, lugging the bottle of oil in the passenger seat to keep Sabo company. Now all that's left is to actually change the oil, you guess. Ace doesn't seem to care much about what's going on, he pulls out his phone and opens up a particularly flashy mobile game. The words “Cyborg Utopia 2” light up the screen in bold yellow letters accompanied by dancing chibi robots, you're instantly reminded of Franky.
… And the earlier incident with FireFist. Dread twists in your stomach, and an uglier feeling creeps in. For a second you want to ask Ace more about the game, but even quicker you can see how ridiculous it is to think that of somebody you literally crashed into not even thirty minutes ago.
An extremely familiar and equally loud vroom makes your head snap towards the front of the car, and everyone watches a bright light shine through the windshield. Franky dismounts his motorcycle carrying a toolbox as Robin trails behind, approaching Sabo’s car with an energetic stride, Robin seems just as happy with Franky’s leather jacket on.
“Let's get this show on the road, yeah? Let's all go have a super time at Amp Asylum!” Franky shouts loudly, posing dramatically as Robin claps slowly with a smile on her face. Sabo seems just as thrilled and immediately climbs out his car, thanking Franky a thousand times before reaching back into the vehicle to retrieve the newly acquired oil.
Ace’s face turns into a scowl, he curls into himself and turns to his phone in the corner, but not before sparing you a glance that gives you mixed feelings. You too, aren't exactly thrilled about this. Sabo hasn't explicitly stated that he was going to Amp Asylum, but the outcome doesn't look great.
“Woohoo! Let's go to Amp Asylum! I’m not driving tonight!” Each shout from Sabo’s lips is louder than the last, and in that moment all hope is lost.
“Fuck.” Ace curses sharply, glancing at the group outside.
“Fuck” indeed. Now there's even less sleep to be had tonight, and surely even more awkward moments. But, maybe you can indulge in the free shots and have some fun, right?
Ugh, you can practically smell Amp Asylum getting closer and closer. Well, that's for future you in an hour to deal with, until your car is fixed up you just have to go with the flow when it comes to whoever you're riding with you guess.
END.
A/N: im hoping that at least three people look forward to this, but I waited a year to post this. In all honesty I didn't have a clear idea on where the plot was going at first so it took a while and hundreds of thousands of words to get the place I desperately wanted to become real in writing at least.
(Please like an reblog! Comment what you liked in the story and what you're looking forward to, it helps me remain motivated to write<3)
mutuals if you see this I will not tag you because I am afraid to tag people
but if you are someone stumbling upon this and also have a oneshot/fic you posted on tumblr/wattpad/ao3 and it's not doing well and making you feel bad, then PLEASE I BEG YOU to tag me in it. No matter the fandom, the pairing, the kinks and/or fetishes, or length, I swear to you all that I will read it in its entirety and leave a sincere comment.
they always say be the change you want to see in the world, so I'll do it 😤 also if you are NOT A MUTUAL and are hoping for support then I will do the same, don't be shy and tag me!!! I'm hoping to see smaller fics and will offer criticism to the best of my abilities only if you'd like, even though I myself am too sensitive to hear it!! :,)
TLDR; tag me in your unknown works with zero comments, I will read and comment what I liked! Send in asks with names of your works if they are on ao3 or wattpad as well!!!
dramatics beneath the cut, no need to read! :)
im not feeling the best about myself, but I hope I can at least make someone happy and motivate them to continue what they like, perhaps someone will do the same for me but I feel terrible asking at this point in time. I made so many mistakes in my time on Tumblr and still am embarrassed of myself and my writing sometimes, when a post doesn't do well I am tempted to delete despite loving how I wrote it and the plot going forward. I guess I just want someone to be actively interested in my blog, and not just specific works.
Of course I love every one of my followers, I always get a smile opening tumblr. But lately my mind goes other places and I feel sick to my stomach opening tumblr and start to shake, as if I'm embarrassed of myself. Venting like so probably isn't the best for my image and will definitely make people feel secondhand embarrassment, but I can't continue without putting these words somewhere
— based off my headcanon that if yuu was a playable character they would get perfects in the lessons until crowley comes in.
WORDS: 1.6k
— ALCHEMY
Alchemy is one of the easier classes for you. Most of the practical assignments don’t involve magic, rather a herb or chemical you’ve never heard of, still hard, but obtainable.
Due to this unfamiliarity with the basics, it requires complete and utter focus when mixing a concoction. An extra grain of salt will have your project blowing back onto you. Stirring for too long will have the color changing to a calming lavender to a toxic green. Perfection is needed for alchemy.
So, holding the ingredients with one hand and the instructions in the other, you carefully drop a single—
“Hello class!” The door slams open as the annoyingly sing-song voice enters the room. The entire bottle of chrysanthemum petals falls into the cauldron. Your face turns white, hands still in the air, slightly twitching. “Ah, I hope I’m not interrupting.”
From the corner of your eye you see every student straighten their backs. Shocked faces turning concentrated and focused, measuring and studying their concoctions like their lives are on the line. You hear Crewel chastise Crowley, but you’re far too focused on the bubbling and fizzing of your project. You look at the instructions, flipping through pages just as Grim returns to your pot, locking in after fighting with Ace and Deuce for the last 15 minutes.
You have no idea what you're looking at, none of the pages describe what to do when you've accidentally put an ingredient ten times more than necessary. And neither does Grim based on the confused hums he's letting out.
You take a seat on the floor, tightening your lab goggles while glaring at Crowley. After a few moments of staring he notices, walking over with a bright smile on his face.
"Why, hello there, Prefect!" He peers over the cauldron, "doing your best I suppos—" He freezes, realizing what his face is directly over. You would be lying if you said you didn't slightly enjoy the frightened look on his face. You cover everything under your eyes with your hands.
"You should really learn how to knock." Your voice is muffled and the headmage has barely any time to pull away before the cauldron explodes, covering you, him, and everyone in a nearby radius is bright red goop.
— HISTORY
While alchemy is manageable, history is not. It's hard to get a grasp of a concept when you don't have the basic background knowledge all the other freshman have continually learned over the last 15 years. The amount of children's picture books you've checked out from the library would have been embarrassing if you had any dignity left to spare.
While you have no doubt that Trein is a good teacher, he's been doing this for awhile after all, it doesn't make learning an entirely unfamiliar concept easier when he's droning on in the most boring fashion. Deuce, on your left, is nodding off besides you, pen threatening to slip from his fingers, while Ace, on your right, has been asleep for the last ten minutes, having his notebook standing up and blocking him from Trein's view. You can barely hear the sounds of Grim snoring over the whirl of Ortho's internal fans somewhere behind you.
None are your friends are making this easier.
“Now, who can tell me a reason on why the Great Rose War started?” Trien’s voice rings out, startling few from their slumbers. Your eyes struggle to remain open, but you still flip through your notebook, looking for the section asked. The pages are filled with a mixture of elegant penmanship and unintelligible scribbles with the occasional doddle in the corner. It honestly depended whether or not you were able to grasp the simple concept.
Luckily for you, The Great Rose War was nice and highlighted, having been taken on a good day.
The answer is in clear bullet points. You slowly raise your hand, looking around and noticing you’re the only one doing so. Trien picks on you with a tilt of his head, nodding when you give a correct answer.
You relax back into your seat, the quota of you being called on for the day is complete, willingly at that.
Leaning into your open palm, you flicker between rest and wake. A little power nap wouldn’t kill anyone-
SLAM
A nearby window is shoved open, a lanky figure crawls through and stands tall, placing his hands on his hips.
“Do excuse me!” Trien only sighs at the headmages’ theatrics.
The classroom is flipped upside down. Everyone straightens at attention, your eyes widen, sleep disappearing as you rapidly look around the room.
Taking advantage of everyone’s attentiveness, Trien rapid fire shoots out questions, multiple hands going up with each one. You turn towards your friends, watching as they answer the questions with such ease as if it was breathing. Five seconds ago they were sleeping!
Too lost in your thoughts you miss the speed in which everyone is called, forcing Trien to turn his attention to those not raising their hands.
Your name being called turns your blood cold. Too focused with observing the absurdity of the situation, you completely missed the question, being left in the dust and forced to stutter out the first answer that comes to mind.
The classroom goes silent, the buzz of Crowley’s appearance instantly snuffed. Your face feels hot as Trien’s eyes narrow. He corrects you without having to say you’re wrong, moving swiftly along.
“Hmm,” Crowley places a clawed fingernail to his chin. He stands directly in front of where the students sit, eyes lifted towards the ceiling. Your eyes dart towards him, slightly twitching. “What a shame. I expected better.” You grit your teeth, sinking into your chair as the class continues.
— FLIGHT
You don’t have any magic, which in a magic school, is kinda important. Gym, or flight class is something you can’t take part in. There are, of course, aids, pre-enchanted brooms, to name one, but considering your magic reserves are zero ( 0.00 ) there would be no way for you to control the movements.
At first, you had been bummed out, though that had quickly faded upon realization that this could be your free period!
That joy lasted all of three minutes.
Vargas had pushed you back into the locker rooms before immediately forcing you to run laps around the area where everyone practiced their techniques.
Now, you jogged your third lap, lightly panting from the exertion. Ace and Deuce waved from atop their brooms as you passed, Grim was far too busy trying not to fall off his to pay you any mind.
Your legs ached, tense from the errands you had been forced to run a day prior. That and the constant back and forth walks to Ramshackle took a toll. You didn’t dare show any exhaustion, the fear that Vargas would notice and run with you, shouting encouraging words that didn’t feel too encouraging when he clearly wasn’t struggling and you clearly were.
Forcing your thoughts away from the pain in your legs, you thought about everything and anything. What were you going to eat for dinner? How long would it take you to compete your homework tonight? Would Hornton come and visit or would it be an off day?
Before you knew it, the fourth lap was complete. As you neared, you could hear the laughter of your classmates, all splayed on the grass taking their five minute breaks. The water bottle in your backpack was calling your name, you could feel yourself cry from the relief. Or maybe that was sweat. Why was a jumpsuit apart of the gym uniform anyways?
However, when you were about to stop, the gods themselves heard your relief and sent their strongest soldier.
He descended from the sky like an angel, or in your case, a devil, laughing all the way down. How he managed to do that without a broom is far beyond your knowledge.
“Pop Quiz!”
Everyone springs up and away from the grass like it was a tub of electric eels, running to grab their brooms. Your classmates, including your slacker friends, soar into the air when Crowley dares to even look in their direction. Students that normally struggle, fly as tall as buildings. Some do a spins in the air. It’s a flawlessness you don’t think would be possible any other time.
On instinct, your feet carry you away from the scene, your head still turned in the direction, pace a fast walk rather than a run.
The headmage’s appearance was both a blessing and a curse. The attention was all off you. Blessing. The same man that was responsible for your soreness was in the vicinity. Curse.
Once again, at the mere thought of you obtaining any pleasure, the gods step in. In your path is a rock, not particularly a big one, but not a pebble either. Just big enough to hinder your path. Your attention, still grasped by the flight show, missed this detail.
You tripped, head twisting, arms flailing, you hit the concrete. Asphalt digging into your skin. You cursed, brushing it off you while shaking away any pain. The stinging subsides fast enough, you’re lucky you caught yourself in time AND that everyone is too distracted to notice your little slip.
Oh, you’re feeling relief? Nuh uh.
“Run faster now, Prefect!” Crowley calls out, hands cupped over his mouth to amplify the sound. He fully turned to direct all his attention at you. “Those laps aren’t going to complete themselves!”
Eyes wide, you slowly turn, still on your hands and knees. There’s a calmness that expands over your body, like some sort of parchment paper. You close your eyes. Then you explode.
Your shouts of indignation carried across the track, following the bird as he gleefully trotted off, a pep in his step.
Crowley is the twst version of the phantom blot, and that's bad news somehow.
Before I start my schizophrenic ramblings, I'd like to first make clear who the phantom blot is.
According to the wiki itself: "The Phantom Blot is a masked villain who first appeared in the comic strip Mickey Mouse Outwits the Phantom Blot by Floyd Gottfredson, which was published in the form of daily strips from May 20 to September 9, 1939. Draped in a black cloak that conceals his true identity, the Blot is a notorious criminal whose aesthetic takes inspiration from inkblots. The character serves as one of Mickey Mouse's archenemies, with schemes ranging from crooked theft, to world domination."
"The Blot is very vain and his desire for money and power is only surpassed by his desire to immortalize his name in "the annals of crime"; although he often desires wealth and power, his greatest lust is for fame. Some of his plans have no monetary gain for him, but their purpose is to spread fear of him to the public, adding to his reputation. He seems to do evil schemes simply to be evil, and to spread his reputation as a villain."
Crowley shares many design similarities with the phantom blot, the most notable being his weird shiny eyes under that odd mask. The phantom blot is described as vengeful, cunning and just evil all around. Curiously, he has bouts of empathy which he says happen because he has "such a soft heart". How true that is is up to debate, considering that he is listed as having a black heart. In another iteration, the phantom blot acts somewhat like a witch hunter and wishes to rid the world of magic.
You can see the similarities in design below. Yes, I am aware Crowley is mostly based off the evil queen's crow. However, most twst characters are based on more than one singular thing. Yana has a thing for mixing stories to weave her tales in a more interesting manner.
We get many more hints to Crowley's true nature in chapter 6. Idia brings up how Phantoms act like some sort of parasite, sucking their hosts dry until they poof. After the host dies, the phantom can roam around mostly as mindless monsters, though the more powerful phantoms (like Ortho) seem to have full conscience and be able to speak. One other thing that caught my attention was how it was mentioned that some phantoms disguise themselves as dire beasts, and we do have a character that is deadass called Dire Crowley in this.
Surprisingly, it is in the school of this Dire Crowley that people keep overblotting with no explanation. And it is this same Dire Crowley who keeps trying to keep this under the covers. Not for the school's sake, but for his own.
Crowley is not a man. Crowley is not Levan. Crowley is possibly the phantom left behind when Levan overbloted. He is the one making the students overblot for a reason, and he is keeping Yuu stuck for possibly the same reason. What he could want is still up for debate, but I'm sure this old man will be the final twist villain.
There's a lot of talk rn about the nature of the diurnal and nocturnal fae conflict, but I also think that there's something to potentially be said about what triggered it to begin with. What exactly was it that made the nocturnal fae migrate from the north into diurnal fae territory?
It's never specified whether or not they ventured there of their own accord, so it's possible that something could have driven them out of their original home. And it would have to be something quite powerful if even the Draconia's ancestors thought fleeing was the better option.
Personally, I think there's a chance that it might have been Grim, who is specified to have a layer upon layer of ancient magic woven into him. Maybe he rampaged across the north in his giant chimera form, then went dormant for a couple of centuries. Potentially because the mages of the past cast an intricate sealing spell on him. Then by the time he woke up again he would have shrunk down to a smaller size.
Usually when an animal that hibernates, like say a bear, wakes up for the first time, they enter this sluggish state since their metabolisms aren't fully up to speed. Which could be a reason for why Grim doesn't remember much if anything about his past.
Except that it was cold. Like the north.
But then once they do wake up, they devote a lot of time to eating to make up for the fat reserves they burned off during hibernation. But it's not that food Grim's scarfing down all the time. It's blot, which gives him more power and more ferocity with each overblot stone he consumes.
Crowley even says that this might be Grim's true nature. Whatever creature he is needs blot just like other living things need food and water.
In fact, Crowley seems very invested that Grim is okay at the end of Book 6. Like he needs Grim for something.
I had a dream I was in the pit with Ace and he was doing cartwheels and shit which is tame enough but then he started crowd surfing and skateboarding ontop of everybody else's head and the band playing kicked both of us out and then I woke up and ate a mango
I had a dream I was in the pit with Ace and he was doing cartwheels and shit which is tame enough but then he started crowd surfing and skateboarding ontop of everybody else's head and the band playing kicked both of us out and then I woke up and ate a mango
This fanfiction is NSFW and made for mature audiences, and is not suitable for those under 18 years of age, even if all material is pure fiction.
00: Dracule Mihawk had taken your life. He thrust your body into a raging sea of flame, spitting up the taste for all things sex and sanguine into your veins and laying demonic whispers unto your tongue. In a holy sanctuary, he called out to the night, and the two of you were branded vampires. But, he left you lying there. And being alone with amnesia and your own darkness and pain, you shouted and chose to try and taint the world— only getting yourself hurt once more. As you awake after your hundreds of years of sleep, you struggle with the changed world and can only helplessly seek out Mihawk himself, hoping to avenge yourself by devouring him. This journey will not be an easy one, and there's no telling what you'll encounter on the path to decay.
In this work there are explicit sexual themes and scenes, cannibalism, vampirism, religious themes, and various other dark topics. It is important to note that the inclusion of these subjects does not mean they are tolerated at all in real life, and it does not mean that every taboo subject will automatically be included in this work of fiction.
Take a bite...
Meal Plan.
1) Nico Robin, a human archaeologist affiliated with the Adventurer's Guild, smarter than you're willing to give credit for.
2) Vinsmoke Sanji, a foolish runaway prince with a heart far too soft for this world.
3) Portgas D. Ace, an easygoing yet infuriating werewolf with particular tastes.
4) Silvers Rayleigh, the laidback Guildmaster with a colorful past that knows far too much than he is letting on.
5) Shakuyaku, a mysterious woman who insists you call her "Shakky", bearing a breathtaking beauty.
6) Nami, the fashionable woman who loves picking pockets and locks just as much.
7) Shanks, a famous and well traveled adventurer well versed in combat and people pleasing.
8) Benn Beckman, a well-known adventurer who has been at Shanks' side for the better part of two decades.
9) Roronoa Zoro, a vampire hunter seeking to take the heads of every last one of you— for coin, of course
10) Usopp, the cowardly elf that left his grove in search for his father, aiming to become a brave adventurer.
11) Donquixote Doflamingo, an incubus in disguise as a noble, seeking to manipulate the current emperor and take the throne for himself.
12) Trafalgar D. Water Law, a young doctor interested in unconventional research subjects.
13) Dracule Mihawk, a vampire.
Some love interests will appear in later chapters and will consequently have a longer wait!
Guide...
00: PROLOGUE, "Why Do You Bite?"
??: INTERLUDE, a dream.
01: CHAPTER 1, "Killing My Dreams."
02: CHAPTER 2, "CH2"
03: CHAPTER 3, "CH3"
04: CHAPTER 4, "CH4"
More to come...
CONTENT INCLUDED/WARNINGS:
These are the main components of the story, but content warnings will be added at the beginning of each chapter.
*Subject to change since this is a WIP.
**Rape/non-con won't be added.
EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. Gore, Cannibalism, Violence, and Profanity.
!! Updates are not done at a set schedule and may be infrequent. !!
A/N 1: This work is a rewriting of a previous series I was working on, redone to be a bit "darker" but not entirely depressing. I changed a few story elements, will still retain some light and comedic elements and have made it 10000% more kinky. I don't normally write dark stories and decided that now is the time to work on my skills, I also just wanted to make sure there's more kink content here.🌝
A/N 2: I will 1000% change the layout later on, but now I'm focused on writing, ready to post this at 3AM :P
Description: Y/N's unique bond with Homelander lets her challenge him like no one else - until Soldier Boy arrives. This sparks tension and curiosity, which ends in a heated and sexual encounter.
You'd always known Homelander was a powder keg wrapped in a cape; one wrong word from most people, and they'd end up smeared across the wall. But you? You were the exception, his one true ride-or-die best friend who could poke the bear without getting mauled. It was a weird dynamic in The Seven's tower; everyone else tiptoed around his ego, but you two bickered like siblings over the dumbest shit.
Meanwhile, in the armoury, Soldier Boy leaned against a rack of rifles, his massive frame dwarfing the weapons. Firecracker stood close, her fingers tracing the barrel of a shotgun while her eyes locked on his. "This baby's got some serious kick," she purred, pressing her hip against his thigh. "Bet you know all about handling power like that."
Soldier Boy grinned, that old-school smirk pulling at his beard. He snatched the gun from her hands, checking the chamber with practised ease. "Sweetheart, I've been blowing shit up since before you were a sparkle in your mama's eye. But yeah, I like a girl who knows her way around a hard barrel." He handed it back, his rough fingers brushing hers deliberately, lingering just long enough to spark heat. Firecracker bit her lip, stepping closer, her chest grazing his arm. "Show me how you'd clean it up after? I get real messy." He chuckled low, about to pull her in, when a commotion erupted from the adjacent lounge. Shouts, laughter, the smack of hands clashing.
"No fucking way! Rock crushes scissors! You lose, you bald-headed bitch!" Your voice rang out, sharp and triumphant. "Best of three, you cheating little shit! I had paper!" Homelander's voice boomed back, laced with mock rage but zero real murder vibes. More hand slaps echoed; rock-paper-scissors, the ultimate decider for your latest stupid spat over who got the last protein shake.
Soldier Boy froze, brow furrowing. "What the fuck is that? Your boss throwing a tantrum?" Firecracker rolled her eyes, holstering her pistol with a sigh. "Nah, that's her, Homelander's only real BFF. The one chick who can roast his ass without him lasering her face off. She's the only one who gets away with that shit. Knows he's a walking apocalypse, but calls him on his bullshit anyway. They've been like that forever." Soldier Boy's interest piqued, the flirtation with Firecracker forgotten. He set the rifle down with a clunk and strode toward the lounge, curiosity overriding everything. Firecracker trailed but hung back, smirking.
You were mid-gesture, fist out for another round, Homelander looming over you with his arms crossed, cape fluttering dramatically. "Rematch, now. I don't lose to mortals." "Says the guy who cries over milk in his cereal," you shot back, grinning. That's when you spotted him, Soldier Boy, filling the doorway like a goddamn tank in vintage green. Broad shoulders straining his suit, that chiselled jaw shadowed by stubble, eyes sharp and predatory. You flicked your gaze to Homelander, then back to the newcomer. Holy fuck, damn. The resemblance hit like a truck; same smug confidence, same killer build. But Soldier Boy? Raw, unfiltered sex on legs. Homelander noticed your stare and whipped around. "What?"
Soldier Boy sauntered in, hands in pockets, sizing you up. "So this is the ballsy broad who tames the golden boy? Gotta say, I'm impressed. Most pussies run from him." You straightened, pulse kicking up at his gravelly voice. "And you're the fossil they thawed out? Heard you blow more than just supes." Homelander bristled. "Hey, back off, pops. She's with me." "With you? Like, bff-with-benefits?" Soldier Boy's eyes raked over you, unapologetic, heat building in the air. You laughed, waving Homelander off. "Chill, he's not wrong. We're tight, but no benefits. Yet." You winked at Soldier Boy, who stepped closer, crowding your space. Firecracker snorted from the door. "Told ya." Homelander grumbled, lasering a glare but backing down—rare for him. "Fine. But if you break her, I break you. Again." The argument fizzled, Homelander storming off to sulk. You turned to Soldier Boy, electricity crackling. "So, dad vibes aside... wanna see what else I can handle?" His hand shot out, gripping your waist, yanking you flush against his hard body. "Thought you'd never ask, doll."
He didn't waste time. Mouth crashed onto yours, beard scraping your skin as his tongue shoved in, claiming every inch. You moaned into it, hands fisting his hair, grinding against the thick bulge already straining his pants. He growled, boosting you onto the lounge table, papers scattering. "Fuck, you've got fire," he rasped, ripping your top open, buttons flying. His mouth latched onto your tit, sucking hard on your nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arched, pussy clenching empty, soaking your panties.
Big hands shoved your skirt up, fingers hooking your underwear and yanking them down your thighs. He dropped to his knees, no hesitation, spreading your legs wide. "Look at that pretty cunt, dripping for me already." His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your slit, lapping your juices like a starving man. You gasped, fingers twisting in his hair, bucking against his face. He sucked your clit, two thick fingers plunging into your hole, curling to hit that spot. "Oh god, yes! Fuck my pussy harder!" He pumped faster, tongue flicking relentlessly, your walls fluttering around him.
"Cum on my face, sweetheart," he ordered, free hand pinching your nipple. You shattered, thighs clamping his head, squirting over his beard as you screamed. He stood, wiping his mouth with a smirk, unzipping. His cock sprang free: massive, veined, leaking pre-cum. "Your turn." He fisted your hair, guiding you down. You wrapped your lips around the head, sucking greedily, tongue swirling the slit. He thrust shallow, fucking your mouth, balls slapping your chin. "That's it, take daddy's cock deep." Gagging but loving it, you hollowed your cheeks, hand stroking what you couldn't swallow. He groaned, pulling out before he blew, flipping you onto your stomach over the table.
"Time to wreck this ass." No, wait—your pussy first. He lined up, slamming balls deep in one brutal thrust. You cried out, stretched full, his girth splitting you open. He pounded relentlessly, hips snapping, hand cracking your ass cheek red. "Fuck, so tight, milk my dick, baby." You pushed back, meeting every slam, tits bouncing, clit throbbing. He reached around, rubbing furious circles, his other hand yanking your hair to arch you. "Gonna fill you up," he grunted, pace brutal. You came again, pussy spasming, squeezing him. He roared, cock pulsing, hot cum flooding your depths, spilling out around him. Panting, he pulled out, cum dripping down your thighs. But he wasn't done, he flipped you, shoved back in, slower now, grinding deep. "Round two?" You grinned, wrapping your legs around him. "Fuck yes, Soldier."
Homelander could wait. This was your new favourite argument winner.
A/N: thanks for this nice request Anon about either Beckman x reader x Rayleigh or Beckman x reader x Sir Crocodile. And since i already did Beck and Crocodile I decided to go with Beck and Ray this time sorry it got so long. I changed quite a few bites during editing so if anyone finds any mistakes please let me know
Word Count >8.000
Plot: you are working at Shakky's bar and have a "special" work relationship with her and Ray and when one day the Red Hair Pirates come by a certain First Mate catches your attention and who would say no to some fun with the Dark King and the First Mate of the Red Hair Pirates
Warnings: NSFW, fingering, oral (receiving and giving), use of toys (slightly), p in v, threesome/double penetration (front+back), teasing?, overstim, slight edging, spanking in the bonus part, MDNI ⚠️🔞
Characters: Beckman x FReader x Rayleigh, cameo by Shakky
The bell above the door of Shakky’s Rip-off Bar didn't chime for the Red-Hair Pirates, it seemed to groan under the sheer weight of the power rolling off the men entering.
In the main lounge, the party was already starting. Shanks’ laughter was booming and the clinking of mugs signaled a long, expensive night for the Red-Hair crew. But at the far end of the polished mahogany bar, in the "family" corner, the atmosphere was different.
You were mid-pour, the amber liquid swirling into a glass, when a warm, calloused hand settled firmly on your hip. You didn’t need to look up to know the scent of sandalwood and aged rum.
"Careful, darling," Rayleigh’s voice rumbled near your ear, his breath a puff of heat against your skin. "You’re pouring a bit heavy. Though, I suppose I’ve always liked how generous you are with your... spirits."
He leaned in closer, his silver hair brushing your temple as he reached around you to claim his glass. His other hand stayed on your hip, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle over the fabric of your clothes, a familiar touch that sent a practiced shiver straight to your knees. He knew exactly what he was doing, he had seen you come undone in the private quarters upstairs enough times to know your rhythm.
"Ray, leave the girl alone for five minutes so she can actually work," Shakky called out from the other end of the bar, though her smirk told a different story. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, her eyes shifting to the man standing just behind her husband. "Besides, we have a guest who’s been waiting for a drink. And he looks like a man with very specific tastes."
Rayleigh didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned slightly, keeping you tucked against his side as he looked at Benn Beckman.
The First Mate of the Red-Hair Pirates didn't look like the rest of his rowdy crew. He looked like a storm held in a bottle. He pulled a cigarette from his lips, his dark, hooded eyes traveling from Rayleigh’s hand on your hip, up your spine, finally settling on your face with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
"Specific is one word for it," Beckman said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in your chest. He leaned his elbows on the counter, the scent of sea salt and expensive tobacco paired with a hearty cologne filling your senses. His presence was cutting through the familiar warmth Rayleigh provided with something sharper, cooler and undeniably predatory.
"I’ve heard stories about this bar," Beckman continued, his gaze never wavering from yours. "And the young lady working here."
Rayleigh chuckled, a low sound of pure amusement. He squeezed your hip, a silent acknowledgment of the challenge. "Careful, Beckman. She’s seen every trick in my book. You’ll have to do better than a compliment if you want to impress her."
Beckman’s lips quirked into the faintest, most dangerous smile you had ever seen. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from your chin, waiting for you to bridge the gap.
"I'm not interested in tricks, Rayleigh," Beckman murmured, his eyes darkening. "I’m interested in seeing if the legends about her are as true as the ones about you."
The air in the bar suddenly felt too thin. Between Rayleigh’s hand sliding from your hip to your thigh, bold and knowing, and Beckman’s heavy, calculating stare, your breath hitched. Especially knowing that Rayleigh could make you come undone right here if he wanted to while Beckman seemed like a man who had already figured you (and your needs) out.
Shakky’s sigh was the final permission. She didn't even look up as she wiped down the counter, waving a hand toward the beaded curtain that led to the private lounge. "Go on, then," she murmured, a smirk playing on her lips. "The boys are clearly going to be useless until they’ve had their fill. I’ll handle the rowdy ones."
Rayleigh’s fingers danced at your hairline, a silent encouragement. "Shall we show him how we spend our quiet nights, darling? Or should we let Mr. Beckman show us how a First Mate handles his business?" he purred into your ear.
You looked from Rayleigh’s crinkled, smiling eyes to Beckman’s hooded, intense gaze. Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat by the sheer weight of their collective focus. Rayleigh didn’t pull away, instead he stepped closer, his chest against your back now. He took the rum from your limp hand and set it on the bar, effectively dismissing your role as an employee. "She’s a creature of feeling, aren’t you, love?"
Beckman took a final drag of his cigarette and crushed it out in a nearby tray, never taking his eyes off you. "Good thing I'm a man who enjoys making a pretty lady feel everything," he rumbled and you felt a rush of heat run through you. He slowly and deliberately reached out, his fingers were cool as they brushed the stray hairs away from your neck, his touch a stark contrast to Rayleigh’s lingering heat. "The tension in your shoulders… it’s a crime."
"A crime we're happy to help solve," Rayleigh whispered against your ear. He leaned down, his silver beard tickling your skin just enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. He didn’t kiss you, not yet. He simply breathed against the sensitive hollow behind your ear. "Remember what I told you last time? About letting go? You trust me, don’t you?"
"I…" Your voice failed you, coming out as a faint, shaky breath. Oc course you trusted him but right now you were completely overwhelmed by their sheer presence and the power they seemed to hold over you.
"Look at me," Beckman said firmly. It wasn’t a shout, it was that low, steady tone that commanded attention, even within the rowdy crew of the Red Hair pirates. You obeyed, meeting those dark, intelligent and knowing eyes. "You’re safe here. But you’re also going to be completely ruined by the time the sun comes up. I think you should decide right now if you’re ready for that."
Rayleigh’s hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his palm broad and warm, pulling you back against him until you could feel the steady thrum of his heart against your spine. "She’s ready, Beckman. She’s been ready since you walked through that door."
"Is that so?" Beckman’s thumb traced the pulse point on your wrist, feeling the frantic, hummingbird beat of your heart. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then let’s stop talking. I’ve always preferred a more… hands-on approach to negotiations."
Shakky sighed again looking between the three of you. "How much longer are you going to stand here? If you don't leave now I'm going to take (Y/N) back there myself while you two can do the work here" she said taking a drag from her cigarette.
Rayleigh just chuckled before he finally steered you toward the back, his hand never leaving the small of your back, guiding you with a practiced ease. But it was the heavy tread of Beckman’s boots following close behind that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
As the door clicked shut, the muffled roar of the Red-Hair Pirates vanished, replaced by the sudden, deafening silence of a room occupied by two of the strongest presences on the sea.
Rayleigh moved first, claiming the velvet chaise longue and pulling you down between his legs before he even sat. He didn't wait, instead he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "You're shaking, darling," he vibrated against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, melodic amusement. "And we haven't even started."
"She’s overwhelmed, Rayleigh," Beckman’s voice cut through the haze. He didn't sit, he stood over both of you, shedding his heavy coat to reveal the broad shoulders and scarred arms of a man who had survived everything the Grand Line could throw at him. He looked down at your flushed form, trapped between Rayleigh’s knees and completely exposed to his gaze.
Beckman reached down, his large, calloused hand cupping your cheek and forcing you to look up at him. His thumb dragged across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the damp heat inside. "Rayleigh knows how to make you sing," Beckman murmured, his eyes scanning your face like he was mapping a new territory. "I can see it in the way you lean into him. You’re used to his touch. You’re comfortable." He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of tobacco and his cologne rolling off him. "But you aren't comfortable with me yet, are you? You don't know what I like. You don't know how I take what I want."
Rayleigh’s hands slid under your shirt, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your ribs, making you gasp into Beckman’s palm. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Rayleigh whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe. "Beckman just wants to see if you can handle two of the strongest first mates at the same time. I told him you were more than capable, and you know I'd never let anyone close to you who I wouldn't trust to treat you right."
Beckman’s eyes darkened at Rayleigh’s words, a silent challenge passing between the two men over your head. He didn't try to pull you away from Rayleigh. Instead, he dropped his hand to the buttons of his shirt, his gaze never leaving yours. While Rayleigh cupped your breasts, his calloused palms catching your weight just right, a sharp gasp escaped your lips, echoing in the quiet room.
"Show me," Beckman commanded, the word a low, vibrating rumble as he discarded of his shirt. "Show me exactly why the Dark King won't share you with anyone else besides his wife."
The sight of Beckman’s bare chest, a map of scars and hard-won muscle, was enough to make your head spin and your knees weak. The scars and that broad chest, combined with those strong arms was doing things to you. The fact that another fucking handsome and hot man was right behind you didn't help either. Beckman kept his eyes locked on you as if he could read your thoughts.
"So many layers," Beckman remarked, his voice dropping an octave. His large, steady hands reached for the top button of your shirt as Rayleigh’s own moved down from your breasts to your waist. Beckman didn’t fumble, his fingers moved with the same surgical precision he used to clean a rifle. "A bit formal for a private party, don’t you think?"
As the first button gave way, Rayleigh’s arms tightened around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply, a low groan vibrating through your skin. "She always did like to keep herself tucked away for the thrill of the game," Rayleigh chuckled, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck. "But she melts so beautifully once you get past the surface."
"I can see that," Beckman murmured as he flicked the next button open, his knuckles occasionally brushing the swell of your breasts. Each touch was light, almost testing, but the heat behind it was scorching. "You’re flushed. All the way down to your chest."
As the last button popped open he parted the fabric, exposing you to the cool air and their burning gazes. Rayleigh’s hands moved higher, his thumbs tracing the underside of your bra, while Beckman’s eyes never left yours.
"There she is," Rayleigh hummed against the pulse point of your neck, his thumbs slipping into your bra and flicking over your already stiff nipples with a rhythm that told you he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make your back arch. "Always so responsive for me."
But as you leaned back into Rayleigh’s chest, Beckman moved in. He stepped between your spread knees, his presence a towering wall of muscle that blocked out the rest of the room. He reached down, his hands sliding firmly up your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there to keep you grounded before letting one single finger trail over the damp fabric between your legs.
"You're already so slick, even with him just touching your top half," Beckman noted, his voice a low, analytical drawl that made your face flush crimson as his finger brushed over your clothed core. He wasn't just looking, he was mapping your reactions to see what would drive you insane. "I wonder... if I do this" he stopped and slid his hand higher his fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms and pulling them down just enough to expose you to the cool air and his scorching gaze "...does your heart rate skip like the reports say it should?" He smirked already knowing and seeing the answer as he looked at your dripping core.
"Look at you, so completely under our spell. You’re body can’t hide how much you like this sweetheart," Beckman said, his voice a soft command. He reached out, his rough palm cupping your cheek. "Doing so good, sweet little lady. Just keep breathing for me."
"It’s the way she feels so completely undone, being unraveled and worshipped while at the same time reminded that she’s exactly where she belongs," Rayleigh whispered, his hands covering your nipples, his warmth seeping through your skin. He squeezed gently, a firm, grounding pressure that made a soft whimper break from your lips.
"Is that so?" Beckman’s smirk was dangerous as he made quick work of the rest of your clothes. He stepped back for a brief second to admire you, his silhouette broad and intimidating in the dim light. "Then let’s make sure she doesn’t forget. Rayleigh, hold her steady."
"I’ve got her," Rayleigh promised, his voice thick with a sudden, raw hunger that discarded the Dark King persona for something much more primal. "I’ve always got her."
Beckman stepped back into your space, his hands finding the skin of your thighs, sliding upward with a slow, agonizing deliberateness. "Good. Because I want to see exactly how long it takes for that composure of yours to shatter completely."
The shift from undressing to preparing you for what was to come next, was handled with the kind of methodical intensity only two men of their experience could possess. They didn’t rush, no, they treated your body like a fine instrument they were tuning to a pitch only they could reach.
Rayleigh guided you back onto the chaise, his hands firm on your hips as he settled you against the cushions. He didn’t leave you, though, he hovered over you, his silver hair catching the low light as he trapped you with his weight. Meanwhile, Beckman knelt at the foot of the lounge, his presence a heavy, grounding anchor.
Beckman took your left leg into his and then leaned down and began trailing kisses from your ankles up to your thighs. "Rayleigh," Beckman said his voice low as he reached out, his large hands sliding up the insides of your thighs stopping there, forcing them wide. "She’s already shaking. Look at her."
"Of course she is, she’s a needy little thing," Rayleigh murmured amused. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of high-end rum and his pure, unadulterated silver-fox charm. It wasn’t a frantic kiss, no Rayleigh never did that. His kisses were always deep, slow and possessive, claiming your breath as his own. His tongue was sweeping against yours and you immediately responded by letting your own move against his.
While Rayleigh occupied your senses above, Beckman’s focus was entirely below. He didn’t look away as his fingers found the center of your heat. "So wet, sweetheart," he noted, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the way you were falling apart under his touch. "But we’re going to make sure you’re more than ready. I don’t like to see my ladies struggle…..unless it’s for the right reasons."
He slid one finger inside, testing the tight, pulsing honey of you. You arched off the velvet, a sharp gasp breaking through the seal of Rayleigh’s lips, your hips already grinding towards Beckman.
"Patience," Rayleigh whispered against your skin, his hand moving to grip your wrists, pinning them gently above your head. "Beckman is going to do the first part of the warm up. We want to make sure you can take every bit of us."
Beckman added a second finger, stretching you with a slow, rhythmic deliberation that made your head light. He used his thumb to circle the bundle of nerves at your core, his movements steady and unrelenting. "Relax for me," he commanded, his dark eyes flicking up to watch the way your features contorted in pleasure. "Let go and open up. Trust us to take care of you."
You were caught in a vice of pleasure. Above, Rayleigh was a whirlwind of sensation, his mouth on your collarbone, his fingers expertly teasing your breasts until you were whimpering. Below, Beckman was a steady, relentless force. He began to work at your center with a clinical precision that was somehow more erotic than any frantic touch. He moved his fingers like a man who knew exactly how to make a lady feel good.
"Rayleigh, she’s trembling," Beckman murmured, his eyes locking onto yours as his fingers began a slow, rhythmic intrusion that made your hips jerk involuntarily.
"I know," Rayleigh chuckled, his hands squeezing your breasts and toying with your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. "She’s a delicate thing, Beckman. But she can take a lot more than she lets on. Can’t you, sweetheart?"
"haa — ye—" you couldn't even form a real sentence. You were already on the edge, vibrating between Rayleigh’s teasing touch and Beckman’s intense, focused exploration. Every time you tried to focus on the pleasure Rayleigh was giving your nipples, Beckman would shift his pace, a low, knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he watched your pupils dilate.
They weren't competing, they were harmonizing, which was worse (or better). Rayleigh provided the foundation of pleasure you knew, while Beckman added layers of intensity you weren't prepared for, leaving you utterly undone in the space between the Dark King and the First Mate of the Red-Hair Pirates.
Rayleigh followed the trail of Beckman’s work, his hand sliding down to cover your stomach, pressing down slightly to help you meet Beckman’s rhythm. "That’s it… just like that," Rayleigh encouraged, his voice a warm hum in your ear. "See how well he takes care of you? He’s making space for both of us, darling."
The sensation was overwhelming, the friction of Beckman’s calloused fingers stretching you open, coupled with Rayleigh’s mouth wandering down to your throat, to your nipples licking and sucking there, marking you as theirs was driving you insane. You were being unraveled, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the raw, aching need they were so carefully cultivating.
"She’s close, Rayleigh," Beckman grunted, his pace quickening just enough to make your hips stutter. He curled his fingers, finding the exact spot that made your toes curl into the velvet and letting a loud moan escape your lips. "She’s perfectly ready."
Rayleigh pulled back, his eyes dark with a hunger that promised no mercy. "Then I think it’s time we stopped being quite so… patient."
You were lost in heaven. They were driving you to the edge and within seconds Beckman's fingers pumping inside you hitting that sweet spot over and over while Rayleigh bit and licked your nipples just right made you cum for the first, but definitely not the last time.
The world was a blur of silver hair and dark eyes as you were carried to the bed in the next room, your back hitting the cool familiar silk of the sheets. The air in the room was stifling, saturated with the scent of your own orgasm and the heavy, masculine musk of the two men orchestrating your undoing and it was intoxicating. Rayleigh moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew your limits better than you did, opening the drawer of the nightstand. You knew exactly what was in there, knew every little vicious toy that Rayleigh and Shakky used on you during your nights together.
"You know the rule, sweetheart," Rayleigh murmured, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous sort of affection. "I never start the main event until I’m sure you’re well and prepared enough and since Beckman is our guest tonight, I think we should let him choose. What do you think, darling?" Rayleigh asked with a smirk and you simply nodded, a bit nervous and curious but at the same time eager for them to continue.
Rayleigh, took the nipple clamps then looked at Beckman and stepped aside letting Beckman pick a toy, while he lay down next to you tracing a finger over your skin. Your chest was still heaving and your skin flushed a deep rose from that first, explosive peak, Beckman’s gaze drifted to the nightstand. His eyes narrowed slightly, then a slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, his long fingers trailing over the various toys, glass, silicone and polished wood in all sizes and forms that lived there for your nights with the Dark King and his wife.
"Well, now," Beckman murmured, his voice like gravel over velvet. "It seems I’ve been underestimating just how much 'training' you’ve had with Rayleigh and Shakky."
Rayleigh laughed, a low, rumbling sound as he propped himself up on one elbow, his hand sliding down to rest possessively over your stomach. "Shakky and I believe in variety, Beckman. Though, I think she’d agree that we haven't found anything yet that she enjoys quite as much as the real thing."
Beckman picked up one of the toys, weighing it in his hand before putting it back down for now. He crawled onto the bed, looming over your legs like a predator. "The real thing is good," Beckman agreed, his voice dropping an octave as he moved back into your personal space. "But I’ve always been a fan of using every resource to achieve the desired result. And the result I’m looking for..." He paused, his hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, his thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already thrumming from Rayleigh tracing his fingers over your stomach down to your hips and back up again. "...is to see exactly how many times we can make you lose your mind before the sun comes up."
Rayleigh moved behind you, pulling your back against his chest so you were sitting up slightly, supported by his strength. He reached around to cup your chin, forcing you to look at Beckman. "He’s a perfectionist, darling," Rayleigh whispered against your ear, his breath hitching as he felt your body react to Beckman’s touch while Rayleigh's free hand put the first clamp down on your nipple making you hiss. "He won't stop until he’s mapped out every inch of you. And I? I’m just here to make sure you’re well-taken care of while he does it." Rayleigh kissed you softly and then tilted your chin back to make you look at him as he attached the second clamp, both connected through a small band that Rayleigh teasingly kept pulling at.
Beckman didn't wait, especially not since your hips arched toward him. He moved with the precision of a man who had spent his life calculating trajectories, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh while his hands moved to coordinate with Rayleigh’s.
You were trapped in a masterclass of pleasure. Rayleigh provided the rhythm and the safety, his hands and mouth wandering your upper body, pulling the string connecting the clamps like a harp player and he did it with a lover's familiarity, while Beckman provided the raw, focused intensity of a man who had finally found a puzzle worth solving. And he decided it was more fun to bully your pussy with his tongue, occasionally biting your clit softly not hurting you but making it stinging and your hips jolt.
You were moaning and gasping as Beckman’s tongue was relentlessly driving you to an orgasm and Rayleigh kissed you deeply while toying with your nipples. When you got close though, so damn close, they stopped. The shift in the room was instantaneous. One moment, you were a chaotic mess of sensation already giving in to the orgasm building up and the next, there was a void.
Beckman withdrew just enough to leave you feeling hollow and Rayleigh pulled his hands and lips back just an inch, his silver beard grazing your skin as he wore a look of mock-innocence. The sudden absence of friction made your breath hitch in a pathetic, high-pitched whine.
"Now, now," Rayleigh murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of your areola and tugging at the clamp, keeping the fire simmering but refusing to let it catch. "Where are your manners? We’ve been such attentive guests, haven't we, Beckman?"
"Remarkably attentive," Beckman agreed, perched between your legs, looking down at you with a gaze that was cool, dark and utterly dominant. He didn't look affected by the heat of the moment, he looked like a king waiting for a tribute. "But I think she’s forgotten who’s in charge of her pleasure tonight."
Your face was on fire, your vision swimming with need. Your hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, trying to find the friction that had been so cruelly stolen. You looked at Rayleigh, pleading, but he only gave you a wink, the same look he gave you when he and Shakky were about to push you to your limits.
"Please," you whispered, the word breaking in the middle. "Please... Ray, Beckman... I need... please."
"Please what, sweetheart?" Beckman asked, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He reached over to the nightstand, his fingers wrapping around a small, sleek glass toy that shimmered in the low light, holding it up enough for you to see. "Ask us nicely. Tell us exactly what you want us to do to this beautiful, trembling body."
You swallowed hard, your pride dissolving into the sheets. "Please... use it. Please, Beckman... put the toy in me and... Ray, please don't stop. I want you both to push me over the edge. Please."
Beckman’s smirk was sharp enough to cut steel. "Good girl."
He didn't waste another second. While Rayleigh surged back forward to capture your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss and tormenting your nipples in the best way possible, Beckman’s hand guided the cool glass toy to your center, spreading your labia carefully and then tracing the toy along the newly exposed skin. The contrast of the chilled glass against your oversensitive, burning heat made your entire body lock up for a split second before the first vibration hummed through the device.
Rayleigh’s hands slid under your hips, lifting you to meet Beckman’s renewed, relentless pace. With the toy buzzing against your entrance hitting your walls and Beckman’s heavy, rhythmic deep-circles he drew with his thumb on your clit, the world didn't just blur, it shattered.
"That's it," Rayleigh groaned into your ear, his calm gentlemanly persona finally slipping into something raw and hungry as he felt your internal muscles clench around Beckman. "Take it all. Show him how well we taught you to cum."
You were a symphony of undone hitches and broken cries, caught between the veteran who knew your soul and the strategist who had just conquered your body. Your body was on fire and you were a mess of moans, gasps and curses.
"Fuck — haaa – shit – I’m gonna – hnng – cum" you cursed and moaned as you came hard crying out and arching off the bed as good as you could. You felt the rush run through your veins and as if you were losing your breath (and maybe mind too).
Rayleigh carefully removed the clamps and kissed each nipple almost lovingly while Beckman finally withdrew the toy to reveal how slick and prepared you truly were, smirking as he looked from the toy down at your spent and beautiful form.
"Are you ready for more, darling? Or do you need a moment before we let Beckman have his gift while I make sure you’re nice and stretched for both of us?" Rayleigh asked genuinely, in the way a lover would. Because after all Rayleigh didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or hurting at any moment.
“I’m f-fine. We can c-continue” you breathed before you shifted and got on all fours, waiting, offering yourself, like you usually did when it was you, Ray and Shakky.
That was all Rayeigh needed from you. He moved behind you and adjusted his grip on your hips, tilting you upward. With a slow, merciless pressure, he began to tease your entrance with his cock, leaving you whining and whimpering for more. He traced the tip through your slickness and every now and then pushed slightly into you before pulling back out again.
"A gentleman is savoring such moments, not rushing them, darling" he chuckled deeply at your whimpers, making you groan, hating when he did that. "Besides I need you focused on Beckman first, it'd be rude to ignore our guest don't you agree?" He teased as he looked at Beckman and nodded with his head towards the headboard.
Beckman, who had been watching with a dangerous and hungry smile, moved like a shadow. He settled himself on the bed, his broad back against the headboard, and guided your head toward him. "A gift, he says," Beckman grunted, a rough, appreciative sound as he unfastened his trousers. "I’ve always admired your hospitality, Rayleigh."
As Rayleigh finally stopped tormenting you and pushed inside you, mimicking a deep, relentless pace that stretched you to your absolute limit, Beckman’s hands tangled in your hair tilting your head till it was eye level with his hard member. He didn’t force you, he didn’t need to, he simply guided you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. You stared at his length, heavy and big. Your mouth watered and you were already in a daze from Rayleigh working your pussy.
You opened your mouth carefully taking the tip inside at first, tasting the precum. Then you took in more, slowly like Rayleigh had taught you, adjusting to him. Thanks to Rayleigh who had put you through some deep throat training you had less trouble than you feared. Their cocks seemed to be of similar size which was in fact really helpful right now but at the same time making this even more thrilling and hot.
The world narrowed down to two distinct, overwhelming sensations. Below, Rayleigh was systematic. He used his cock like a weapon, finding every internal curve that made you moan while one of his hands splayed across your lower abdomen to feel the way your muscles spasmed around the intrusion and occasionally flicking your clit the way he knew was making you feral.
"Look at how she takes it, Beckman," Rayleigh praised, his voice low and vibrating against your thigh. "Stretching so wide for us. She’s almost there."
Above, Beckman was a different kind of storm. As you started to bop your head he let out a long, shuddering breath, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair. His dark eyes watching the way your throat worked with a look of pure, predatory satisfaction. He moved his hips with a slow, grinding rhythm that forced you to focus on the taste of him, the salt and the smoke, even as Rayleigh pushed you toward a screaming peak.
"Good girl," Beckman rasped, his eyes hooded as he looked down at you. The calm gentleman was fraying at the edges, his breath hitching as your tongue worked against him. "Take it all. Show me what Rayleigh taught you."
Between Rayleigh's cock inside you hitting your G-spot perfectly and the filling presence of Beckman hitting the back of your throat, you were being stretched thin, your mind fraying, tears of overstimulation falling down your cheek. Rayleigh increased the tempo, his thrusts becoming shorter and sharper, hitting the sensitive entrance of your womb until your vision sparked.
"She’s close," Rayleigh warned, moving his thumb over your clit in a steady, maddening pulse that synced perfectly with the vibrations of Beckman deep in your throat.
The friction was absolute. Beckman groaned, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate against your tongue as he felt the tremors of your impending climax beginning to ripple through you. Rayleigh felt it too, his pace quickening, his Haki flaring just enough to make every nerve ending in your body feel like it was glowing.
Your body buckled and a scream tore through you that was muffled by Beckman’s cock in your mouth, the vibration making him grunt lowly. You were trapped, pinned by Rayleigh’s weight, filled by his cock and silenced by Beckman’s length. You didn't just cum, you shattered. The world turned into a kaleidoscope of stars as you reached a peak so violent it left you sobbing into Beckman’s skin. You felt yourself clench down so hard on Rayleigh that he followed you shortly after filling you up, not letting go of you until every muscle in your body had stopped twitching.
"There she goes," Rayleigh muffled against your lower back, his voice thick with triumph. "Give it all to us, darling."
The tension in the room didn’t break with your climax, it only thickened, turning heavy. Beckman wasn’t finished with his 'gift' and Rayleigh, ever the attentive host, wasn’t about to let your nerve endings rest for even a second nor his guest left unfinished.
"Don’t drift off yet, darling," Rayleigh murmured, his voice a low, grounding hum as he pulled out of you. "Beckman isn’t quite finished with you."
Above you, Beckman’s breath had turned into a series of jagged, controlled growls. His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his gripmfirm but not painful. His hips started a final, heavy press. He was a man who took what he wanted with a silent, devastating efficiency. You felt the shift in him, the way his muscles corded, the sudden heat of his skin.
"That’s it," Beckman rasped, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. With one final, deep surge, he filled your mouth completely, his body shuddering as he claimed his release.
You choked back a whimper, your eyes watering, but Rayleigh’s hand moved to the back of your thigh, softly tickling you to keep you present and at the same time soothe you. "Take it darling," Rayleigh encouraged softly. After a long, silent moment, Beckman slowly pulled back, but only enough to look down at you. His thumb hooked into the corner of your mouth, prying your lips open.
"Show me, pretty lady" he commanded. It wasn’t a request, it was an order from a man used to being obeyed across the Grand Line, yet it didn't sound like one. You obeyed, revealing the evidence of his climax pooling on your tongue. Beckman’s gaze was dark and clearly satisfied. "Good. Now swallow every drop. I don’t want you to waste a single drop I've so kindly given you."
You swallowed, the salt and heat of him sliding down your throat, making you feel marked from the inside out. Beckman let out a slow, appreciative breath, his hand softening as he stroked your cheek. "Well done sweetheart" he breathed
Rayleigh chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their light ticklish movements up and down the back of your thighs, before leaning down to kiss along your spine making you shiver. "She’s a treasure Beckman and I think that she’s ready for the main course"
You exhaled deeply, yourbody collapsed forqrd o to the sheets, feeling like it was on fire but still tingling for more because this was completely different from the times you had spent with Rayleigh and Shakky. Where Shakky had that female finesse these two had the experience of unraveling enough women during their young years, Beckman probably still having enough women knocking on his door for a good time, to make you never want to leave this room.
You looked over your shoulder and smiled faintly. A wordless confession that you were ready, that you wanted them to take you, to claim you, to finally mark you as theirs once and for all. Rayleigh smiled back at you and kissed you deeply, a kiss that wasn’t just lust or need but of trust, love and care. Beckman watched you both and he leaned down too, kissing your cheek softly. "You are indeed very special, sweetheart." he whispered gently.
Rayleigh and Beckman exchanged a wordless look, words were unnecessary anyways before the transition from 'warm-up' to the main event started and it was a masterclass in slow, delicious torment. These were not men who fumbled or rushed, they moved with the terrifyingly smooth coordination of two predators who had cornered something precious.
Rayleigh settled between your legs again, his large, warm hands parting you with a reverence that felt almost holy. He didn’t enter you immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his silver hair brushing your skin as he whispered against your shoulder. "I know that shiver, darling. I know exactly where you’re aching and me and Beckman are going to make sure you feel like the most precious thing in the world."
True to his word, he entered you with a single, agonizingly slow thrust. It wasn’t just a physical act, it was a reclamation. He hit that specific spot he had discovered during your nights with him and Shakky and stayed there, grinding his hips in a slow circle that made your vision white out.
Beckman moved behind you, his massive frame bracketing you. He didn’t just watch, he conquered. His large, calloused hands roamed over every inch of your skin, kneading your breasts, tracing the line of your ribs, and finally finding your mouth again this time though it was his thumb that pushed past your lips, making you suck on it as Rayleigh drove deeper.
"You’re over-sensitive here," Beckman observed, his voice a low vibration against your ear as his other hand found the sensitive skin on your sides, squeezing just enough to make your hips buck and let out a few squeaks. "And your pulse… it’s screaming for more, isn’t it?" He added, more as a matter of fact, as his tongue swept over your neck.
"W-want m-more" you muffled against his thumb, making both men smirk.
"In that case who would we be to deny you such a request," Beckman growled as Rayleigh picked up his pace and Beckman began to trail biting kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your shoulder blades until you were sobbing from the overstimulation from both of them.
The dual assault was relentless. They left no part of you spared. If Rayleigh wasn’t kissing you, Beckman was. If Beckman’s hands weren’t mapping your curves, Rayleigh’s were. You were caught between the two legends and they were showing you exactly why their names were whispered in awe across the Grand Line.
The atmosphere in the room reached a fever pitch, the air so thick with the scent of sex and salt that it felt like a physical weight. Rayleigh’s rhythm was a steady, deep-seated thunder, but it was the silent understanding between the two men that truly signaled your total unraveling.
Beckman moved with a quiet, devastating intent. He didn’t ask, he simply took. His large, calloused hand slid beneath your hip, tilting you upward to expose the delicate, untouched heat of your back entrance. He spent a few agonizing moments stretching you with his thumb, a deliberate, methodical preparation that had you sobbing into the crook of Rayleigh’s neck.
"You’re doing so well, sweetheart," Rayleigh whispered, his voice a gravelly caress to calm you down. He leaned up, capturing your mouth in a deep, tongue-tangled French kiss that tasted of hunger and victory, muffling your cries and distracting you from the stretch as Beckman finally pushed himself inside your ass.
The sensation of being filled by both legends was beyond anything the human mind could categorize. It was a complete invasion, a total occupation of your body. Your back arched, your fingers digging into Rayleigh’s back as you were caught between the Dark King’s relentless, thrusts into your pussy and Beckman’s steady, unforgiving power from behind.
To them, your screams weren’t just noise, they were music, a symphony of their combined mastery. Of your surrender and at the same time of their care and need for you. They worked you like a finely tuned instrument. Beckman’s hands were everywhere, kneading your breasts with a firm, possessive grip while his thumbs caught your nipples, pinching and rolling them until you were seeing stars. Rayleigh, meanwhile, focused on your neck and collarbone, his teeth grazing and biting, leaving dark marks that would serve as a map of this night for days to come.
"Look at her," Beckman rasped, his voice vibrating through your spine as he pushed deeper. "She’s vibrating. I think she’s reached her limit, Rayleigh."
"Not quite," Rayleigh chuckled, a dark, predatory glint in his silver eyes. "I know her better than that. She’s got one more break in her."
For the finale, Rayleigh decided to be mean. While they both kept up a punishing, synchronized pace that left you breathless and blind with pleasure, Rayleigh’s hand slid down between your bodies. He didn’t offer the soft, swirling caress from before. Instead, he pinned your clit between two fingers, applying a sharp, vibrating pressure that was pure torture. He toyed with you, stopping just as the wave hit, then doubling the intensity the moment you tried to catch your breath.
"Please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the cushions. "Ray, please!"
"Please what, darling?" he murmured, his thumb clicking against your sensitive core with a ruthless rhythm. "You want me to stop? Or do you want to show Mr. Beckman exactly how loud you can scream when you finally break?"
"C-cum — haaa — want to c-cum" you screamed though the words were a stutter.
The combination of the double penetration and Rayleigh’s merciless attention to your clit was the final blow. Your body locked, your internal muscles clenching around both men in a desperate, rhythmic spasm. You screamed, a raw, high-pitched sound of total surrender, as your world shattered into a thousand jagged pieces of light.
They followed you shortly after, two titans of the Grand Line pouring their strength into you, claiming every inch of your spirit and flesh as their own. As the room finally fell into a heavy, ringing silence, you were left trembling and utterly spent, a beautiful, broken masterpiece held between the two men who had just rewritten the meaning of gentleman.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of three ragged breaths syncing up in the dim light of the room. You lay there, breathless, your skin flushed and slick. The world was still spinning and your mind was a hazy fog of pleasure.
Bonus:
Rayleigh withdrew slowly, the absence of his heat making the air feel suddenly sharp. He sat back, running a hand through his silver hair, while Beckman remained looming behind you, a dark, silent shadow of satisfaction.
The Dark King watched you for a long moment, waiting. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes struggled to focus. But as the seconds ticked by and you remained silent, drifting in the afterglow, his expression shifted from soft affection to something a bit more… instructional.
"Beckman," Rayleigh said softly, his voice regaining that calm, gentlemanly authority. "I think our girl has forgotten her manners in all the excitement."
Beckman’s hand, which had been idly tracing the curve of your hip, stilled. "Is that so? I’d hate to think she’s ungrateful after we went to such lengths to make her comfortable."
You blinked, the fog in your brain clearing just enough to realize your mistake. Your heart, which had just begun to slow, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. Rayleigh and Shakky had a very specific rule after sex - gratitude was a requirement, not a suggestion.
"I… I’m sorry," you breathed, your voice barely a rasp. "I—"
"A sorry isn’t a ‚thank you‘, young lady," Rayleigh interrupted gently. He leaned over you, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He looked disappointed, which was far more terrifying than if he had been angry. "And a late thank you… well, that requires a reminder. Wouldn’t you agree, Beckman?"
"Absolutely," Beckman grunted. He reached out and gripped your waist, flipping you over onto your stomach with effortless strength. The sudden shift made your head swim. "If she’s too tired to speak, maybe we should find another way for her to show her appreciation."
Rayleigh reached for a crop near the nightstand. He didn’t look like a monster, he looked like a teacher about to deliver a necessary lesson.
"Since you’ve lost your voice, we’ll give you something else to focus on," Rayleigh murmured. "Ten for the house, and ten for our guest. And you’ll count every single one, won’t you? To show us you’re paying attention."
Beckman leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Start counting, darling. And make sure we can hear you. We wouldn’t want to have to start over."
The air in the room grew clinical, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. Rayleigh stood over you, the crop held loosely in his hand, while Beckman’s heavy weight shifted. The Dark King didn’t look angry, he looked focused, his silver hair catching the amber light as he prepared to deliver the 'house’s' portion of the lesson.
"Ready, darling?" Rayleigh asked softly and younjust exhaled deeply.
The first snap of the crop against your ass was sharp and stinging, a sudden shock to your over-sensitized skin but you'd be lying if you said it was unpleasant.
"One," you gasped out, your fingers clutching at the sheets.
"Louder," Rayleigh prompted, his tone as calm as if he were ordering a drink.
Snap. "Two!"
He worked his way through the count with a rhythmic, steady hand, each strike a hot brand that pulled a sharp cry and a number from your lips. By the time he reached "Ten" your skin was tingling with a fierce heat, and your breath was coming in ragged gasps.
"Good girl," Rayleigh murmured, dropping the belt and leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. "That’s for the house. Now, Beckman… it’s your turn to collect."
Beckman didn’t reach for the crop. He let out a low, thoughtful hum that vibrated through your thighs. "The rare is a bit impersonal for a first meeting, don’t you think, Rayleigh?"
Before you could process his words, Beckman’s strong hands gripped your hips and hauled you backward. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you over him, positioning your aching, swollen core directly over his face. You were suspended there, pinned by his strength, looking down at the legendary First Mate.
"I think ten of my own style will stick in her memory much better," Beckman rasped.
The first lick was a revelation his tongue was broad, hot and rough like sandpaper. He didn’t just taste you he used his tongue to deliver a forceful, agonizingly slow stroke from your bottom to your clit.
"One," you wailed, your back arching.
"Sorry sweetheart but I didn’t quite hear you," Beckman teased against your wet skin, his breath sending a shiver through you.
Then came the suction. He caught your clit between his lips and gave a sharp, demanding pull and your world tilted. "Two!" you screamed, your hands flying back to find purchase on his shoulders.
He proceeded with a torturous deliberation. Each lick was a deep, punishing slide of his tongue that felt like it was trying to map your soul, followed by a suck that felt like he was trying to draw the very life out of you.
"Five… Six…" you moaned, almost obscenely, your voice breaking, your body unable to stay calm and your chest heaving unevenly.
Every time you tried to close your legs or pull away, Rayleigh was there, his large hands on your knees, holding you wide and open for the guest’s inspection. Rayleigh watched with a scholar’s interest, his thumb occasionally stroking your cheek as you fell apart.
"Seven… Eight…"
By the ninth, your body was on fire. Beckman’s tongue was unrelenting, flicking with a precision that drove you toward a peak you didn’t think you could survive, after everything that had happened before.
"Nine! Fuck!"
"Last one, sweetheart," Beckman whispered. He didn’t just lick you, he buried his face against you, his tongue pushing inside while he sucked with a ferocity that finally broke the dam.
"TEN! TEN! TEN! OH FUCKING HELL"
You collapsed against his chest, your body a shattered mess of tremors. Beckman’s punishment had been far more effective than any spanking could have been. You were entirely spent, your mind a blank slate where only their names were written.
Beckman chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that rumbled against your chest. He looked up at Rayleigh, a dark smirk on his face. "I think she’s learned her manners now."
Rayleigh smiled, leaning down to brush a stray, tear-soaked hair from your face. "I think you’re right. Now, let’s get her cleaned up. We wouldn’t want Shakky to think we didn’t take proper care of her. She can get really angry when the young lady isn’t treated right afterwards."
The shift in the room was instantaneous. The heavy, oppressive weight of the 'lesson' evaporated, replaced by the soft, expert care that defined both men when the storm had passed.
Rayleigh sat up, pulling your limp, sweaty body against his chest, while Beckman leaned over you, a fresh cigarette held unlit between his lips. He reached out, tracing the line of your collarbone where he had left a deep, purple mark earlier.
"Shakky’s going to have a lot to say about this tomorrow," Rayleigh chuckled, his voice raspy as he pressed a lingering, stinging bite into the curve of your shoulder, marking his territory right next to Beckman’s.
Beckman smirked, leaning down to press a final, firm kiss to the center of your forehead, his thumb smearing a bit of stray moisture from your cheek. "Let her talk," he murmured, his eyes lingering on the map of bruises and bite marks they had painted across your skin. "I think we left enough evidence to let her know she shouldn't have left us alone with her favorite girl."
You were tucked between them, a warm, marked prize of the Grand Line's greatest legends, drifting off to the scent of rum, tobacco, and the lingering heat of a night that had changed everything.
Taglist: @jintaka-hane @fleetadmiralsoffice @hakiofdreams @welcome-to-the-grandline @sailing-to-laugh-tale @legends-of-the-grandline @devilfruitdiaries @waannty @luna-the-moon-guardian @sweetsaltygingerbitch (once again I'm just reminding you that if you want me to stop tagging you please tell me or if someone wants to get added)
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