Saw a reference that remind me of Kid, so I went out of my comfort zone to draw him 😩 I’m actually overcoming my artblock, I’m so proud
cherry valley forever

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
wallacepolsom

roma★

Kiana Khansmith
Not today Justin
No title available
Sweet Seals For You, Always
🪼
RMH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Claire Keane
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

blake kathryn
Monterey Bay Aquarium

if i look back, i am lost
Keni
ojovivo
hello vonnie
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Jordan
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Ireland

seen from Mexico

seen from Mexico

seen from India
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
@lessie-oxj
Saw a reference that remind me of Kid, so I went out of my comfort zone to draw him 😩 I’m actually overcoming my artblock, I’m so proud
I’m still alive but man I cannot WAIT to be done with university and finally pick up a pencil after so long (every day I don’t draw is a day I lose my skills and I hate it). I barely have time to read fanfics rn
Only 3 weeks of exams left and then I’m freeee, I have so many ideas for my OCs
Nocturne
Pairing: Jean Kirschtein x Fem!Reader Summary: A reconnaissance mission in Marley becomes something else entirely when Jean meets a pianist who makes him forget the war Warnings: NSFW MINORS DNI, alcohol, canon-typical prejudice against Eldians, slow burn, eventual smut, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, bittersweet ending, lmk if I missed anything! Word Count: ~9k Author Note: This idea has been living rent free in my head for months, so it was very refreshing to finally write. If you're the type to listen to music while you read, I'd recommend Slow Like Honey by Fiona Apple when you see the **
The lights were damn near blinding.
They caught the facets of the massive chandelier hanging in the center of the ballroom, scattering sharp glints across the polished floors and cream-colored walls. Lively, chaotic chatter weaved through the clink of glasses and the rustle of waiters passing by, all underlined by the soft strains of a piano.
Everything radiated privilege. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the front wall framed a breathtaking view of the sea, and the guests themselves moved with a careful, calculated elegance—backs straight, suits impeccably pressed, every gesture deliberate. The air was heavy with perfume and the unmistakable scent of money, the kind that made Jean’s skin crawl. Seeing so many wealthy men gathered in one space sent a sharp reminder of the military police events he’d once been dragged to on Paradis.
He muttered the memory to Connie and Sasha walking beside him, and they both burst into laughter, chiming in that they were starting to feel homesick too.
“Zip it, brats. You’re drawing attention,” Captain Levi snapped, shooting the group a sharp glare before flicking his eyes toward the guests who had started staring.
“What can I say,” the grey-haired boy said, lifting his hands in mock defense. “I clean up nice.”
“Don’t think that’s why,” Sasha murmured, noticing a few guests rolling their eyes as the scouts passed.
“I’m sure they’re just dumbfounded by the preposterous size of your head, Connie,” Jean quipped, falling into step behind their captain.
The shorter man’s eyes narrowed. “My head is regular-sized.”
Jean was about to snap back when Levi glanced back over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up. I mean it. We’re not here for fun.”
“Yes, Captain,” they muttered, barely listening. Connie’s attention was already captured by a group of young Marleyan women gliding past, Sasha’s mouth watered at the spread of food along the wall, and Jean’s eyes drifted toward the piano at the front of the room.
Or rather, toward who was playing it.
From the moment they’d entered, the soft music had threaded through the chatter and clinking glasses, settling a strange calm in his chest. He’d been searching for the source ever since.
Well, he found it.
You sat poised behind the sleek black grand piano, gloved fingers moving over the keys with a fluidity that made it look effortless. Loose strands of hair had escaped the bun at the nape of your neck, brushing your face as your gaze stayed fixed on the instrument.
He couldn’t get a clear view from where he stood, but even from the side, you exuded elegance—every movement precise and gentle. His eyes caught a white armband wrapped around the sleeve of your dress, but before he could process it, Sasha’s hand clamped over his wrist, yanking him back to the moment.
“Let’s eat,” she mumbled, eyes still locked on the food table as she tugged him and Connie along.
“Sash,” Connie protested, “we just got here.”
“I haven’t eaten all day.”
“That’s a lie,” Jean muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Connie chimed in. “Armin literally gave you half of his breakfast this morning.”
Sasha didn’t respond, but she didn’t slow her pace either.
Jean rolled his eyes, glancing back to make sure the other scouts hadn’t noticed their escape. To his mild surprise, Captain Levi’s piercing gaze was already on them—cold and unreadable. But Levi only exhaled and returned to his conversation with Mikasa.
That single sigh was enough. Jean’s suspicion hardened into certainty. This “reconnaissance mission” had been a flimsy cover from the start.
A month ago, Levi and Hange had pitched the idea as a rare chance to eavesdrop on Marley’s high society, but Hange’s manic gleam during the briefing had betrayed the truth. They’d wanted to attend a gala. Badly.
Jean's shoulders relaxed, a smirk tugging at his lips. Maybe he didn’t have to play soldier tonight after all. Maybe (for a few hours) he could actually breathe in the chandelier light, taste the champagne, and pretend the world beyond these gilded walls wasn’t slowly eating itself alive. Maybe he could just enjoy the party.
Sasha stopped abruptly in front of the appetizers, letting go of her friends’ hands to take a deep, decisive breath. They watched, unimpressed, as she dove headfirst into a tray of assorted meats.
Jean groaned, running a hand over his face as the sounds of chewing and swallowing reached him. Connie’s eyebrows lifted. “Take it easy, Sash. The captain said we should keep a low profile.”
She swallowed a bite, licking her fingers with satisfaction. “The captain’s never had a bacon-wrapped sausage dipped in garlic sauce.”
“Neither had you a minute ago,” Jean countered, eyes drifting through the crowd in search of you again.
“Well,” she whispered, glancing down at the plate like it was a sacred treasure, “it changed my life.”
As his eyes returned to the piano, Sasha’s screechy hiss at Connie over a stolen bite faded away, leaving only the tranquil melodies of your song.
Jean, an artist himself, felt the music’s pull more than others ever could. Marleyan guests swirled around him, not one lingering to catch the soft classical music threading through the air, let alone sparing a glance at the musician who wove them.
He inched closer, and suddenly he felt like he could count your lashes as they brushed your cheek, eyes locked on the keys. He doubted you’d looked up once since you’d begun playing, but he quietly wished you would.
He felt the old, familiar itch in his fingertips: the urge to paint, to trap this exact slant of light, this precise curve of concentration, this impossible stillness amid chaos. Even though he knew it was hopeless. No canvas, no charcoal, no careful layering of color could ever hold your beauty the way the moment itself did.
“Jeanboy,” Connie’s sing-song voice broke through from behind. He turned with a half-annoyed glance at the shorter man. “What the hell are you staring at?”
“Nothing,” he muttered quickly, staring at his black dress shoes, polished specifically for the evening. “And I told you not to call me that,” he added, shooting a glare over his shoulder.
“Nah, it was definitely something,” Connie insisted, eyes sweeping the room. “What? Someone you recognize?”
Jean parted his lips to deny it again, but was distracted by a faint movement—the flick of your eyes lifting from the piano, the song not faltering.
Your gaze met his for less than a heartbeat as you scanned the room before focusing back on the keys.
Connie’s low whistle reminded Jean of his friends’ presence. “The pianist, Jean?”
His eyes widened, his ears flushing.
“I get it. She’s a catch,” Connie continued, nodding toward the grand instrument. “Wait—shit. Is she Eldian?”
Jean’s gaze snapped to the white armband stamped with the Eldian Star. He’d seen it right.
“I didn’t think they’d even let Eldians attend events like this,” he murmured.
“Me neither,” Connie agreed. “But it’s not like she’s a guest. She’s working.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Jean said, tearing his gaze away as he reached for a strawberry.
Sasha straightened, clearing her throat and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You should go talk to her, Jean.”
His eyes shot open, nearly choking on the fruit. “Are you crazy?”
“What?” she shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“It’ll hurt when the Captain sees.”
“We’ll tell him you’re getting intel or something,” Connie said, rolling his eyes with a dismissive shake of his hand. “You’re fine.”
Jean paused for a moment, running a hand through his slicked-back mullet, his palm brushing over his goatee. “You guys think I should?” he asked, glancing at his friends, who both nodded frantically.
“Alright,” he murmured, already stepping away. “Don’t let Sash eat everything.”
Connie shot him a thumbs-up, watching as Jean melted into the crowd.
He slowed as a server approached him. “Champagne, sir?” he asked, holding out a tray of thin glasses.
Jean studied the glasses for a beat before nodding. “Thanks,” he said, taking two and continuing toward you.
The closer he drew, the quieter the world became. All the noises in the room fell away until there was only you and the fluid melody of the piano.
Up close, you were even more striking. He noticed the details first—the soft pink polish catching the light as your fingers danced over the keys, the thin gold bands winding around your fingers, the loose strand of hair brushing your cheek each time you shifted. Every movement was deliberate and graceful, a rhythm that drew his gaze and held it hostage.
You didn’t look up once as he approached.
Jean lingered by the edge of the grand piano, unsure where to put his hands. He set one of the champagne glasses down on the glossy black surface, the faint ring of glass meeting wood barely carrying over your music.
You spared him a glance—quick, sideways, unreadable—and then turned back to the keys.
He couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his mouth. Playing hard to get, huh? Fine. He could play too.
He cleared his throat, voice low. "You have a gift.”
You didn’t answer, but the corner of your mouth twitched as your fingers blurred in a short, spontaneous outro. The final chord lingered before it melted into the noise of the ballroom.
Only then did you turn toward him. Your gaze met his, calm and unbothered, posture steady.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He smiled, pearly whites catching the light. “I’m Jean Kirschtein.” He extended his free hand, and your eyes widened just a touch in surprise. You took it carefully, your soft skin brushing against his rough palm.
His eyes flicked to your face as he leaned down, lips brushing the back of your hand in an unhurried kiss. He lingered just long enough to feel your stillness, the faint shift in your breath, before pulling away.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” he murmured, nodding toward the glass, his gaze never leaving you.
You studied it for a moment before glancing back at him. “I’m working,” you said softly.
“One glass can’t kill you,” he joked, leaning just slightly closer.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully eager to share. Most wouldn’t offer anything to me without a price.”
He tilted his head, smirk widening. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
You glanced around the room; nobody had noticed the lack of music yet. “Can you prove that?” you asked, voice light but sharp.
“What?” he cocked a brow. “Are poisoned drinks something you have to worry about often?”
You scoffed lightly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His brows furrowed. You were quite stubborn.
Your fingers inched toward the keys again, and he quickly muttered, “Fine.” You watched as he lifted the glass meant for you to his lips, tilting it back in a careful sip.
“See?” he huffed after swallowing. “Safe.”
A sly smirk tugged at your lips. “Well, Mr. Kirschtein. Surely you didn’t think I’d drink from the same glass as you?”
Jean stared, lips parted, caught somewhere between shock and amusement as you restarted the song.
“Keep the drink,” you murmured, your fingers dancing across the keys again, “and enjoy the gala.”
“You’re something else,” he chuckled, replacing the glass he’d drunk from with the untouched one, even though he had a feeling you still wouldn’t drink it.
Jean descended back into the crowd with the glass dangling from his fingers, the liquid catching chandelier light like liquid gold. He could feel your eyes on the back of his neck for three full seconds before the melody changed.
Connie was waiting, arms crossed, a grin already splitting his face. “So? You get her name?”
Jean took a long gulp from the glass. “Nope.”
Sasha appeared at his elbow, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. “She shot you down?”
“Not exactly.” He glanced over his shoulder. You were playing again, head tilted just enough that a loose strand of hair curtained your face. “Just.. made me work for it.”
Connie barked a laugh. “That’s code for ‘she chewed you out, and you liked it.’”
Jean didn’t deny it.
The rest of the night blurred—Levi’s clipped orders to “stop acting like goddamn tourists,” Hange dragging half the table into a too-loud discussion about Marleyan technology, Sasha eating everything on the table until only empty plates remained. Jean played along, but every time the music paused, every time a new song began, his attention snapped back to the piano like iron to a magnet.
You didn’t look his way again.
By the time the gala thinned and the scouts prepared to leave, he was restless. The alcohol had settled warm and loose in his veins, loosening the knot of military discipline he usually wore like armor. He told himself he was just going to say goodnight. Polite. Professional. One last look before you disappeared again.
The piano was empty when he reached it.
Your sheet music was still open, bench pushed back just enough to show you’d left in a hurry. A single white glove lay forgotten on the cushion.
Jean picked it up without thinking. He felt the soft velvet, still warm from your hand.
He should’ve left it. But instead, he slipped it into his breast pocket like a fool carrying a lock of hair from a girl he’d barely spoken to. He jogged to catch up when Hange waved him over.
Outside, the sea air hit like freedom after too many hours breathing perfume and cigar smoke. His thoughts stayed on you the entire walk back. Where had you run off to so fast? Would you remember the young man who’d lingered too long by the piano, or had he already blurred into the mass of faceless people you played for every night?
He was almost certain the answer to would he ever see you again? was no.
Almost.
A stubborn scrap of hope clung anyway—stupid and pointless, but it had never hurt him before.
The glove felt hotter than it should have, burning a slow circle into his chest, right over his heart. He didn’t pull it out. Didn’t dare look at it. He just kept walking, pretending the fabric wasn’t scalding him from the inside out.
━━━
Captain Levi had made the rules crystal clear: no wandering after curfew. Ever.
But the safehouse felt like a cage with too many bars, and boredom was a hell of a motivator.
It started with Sasha whining about the rations.
“They call this dinner? It’s under-seasoned cardboard.” She poked at the slab on her plate like it had personally offended her.
Connie, sprawled across the threadbare couch, didn’t even look up from the deck of cards he was shuffling. “You ate three helpings yesterday. You’re just greedy.”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re always growing. Sideways.”
Sasha lobbed a stale bread roll at his head. It bounced off his forehead with a soft thump. Connie retaliated by flicking a pea at her.
Mikasa sighed, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “You’re going to wake Captain Levi.”
Eren, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, smirked. “He’s always awake. He just pretends not to hear us so he doesn’t have to deal with it.”
From the hallway, Levi’s voice drifted in—firm, tired, lethal. “You’re correct. And if one more thing hits the floor, I’m making you scrub the kitchen with your toothbrushes.”
Silence.
Then Connie’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward. “There’s that pub three streets over. They’ve got actual meat. And beer that doesn’t taste like dirt,” he whispered.
Jean glanced up from his sketchbook, shifting it just enough to keep the woman he’d drawn hidden from view. “We’re not supposed to leave the house.”
Eren raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you follow instructions?”
“Since Captain threatened toothbrushes.”
“Captain won’t know,” Mikasa assured.
Connie frowned. “Come on, Jean. Even Mikasa’s up for it.”
He sighed under the weight of everyone’s pleading stares. “Maybe,” he muttered, barely audible.
Sasha clapped her hands once. “That’s a yes. We’re going.”
“Wait—”
“Too late,” she interrupted, already on her feet. “I need real potatoes. And gravy. And meat.”
Eren pushed off the wall, stretching like a cat. “I could use some air that doesn’t smell like damp stone and Levi’s disappointment.”
Mikasa sighed, but there was the faintest curve to her mouth as she watched him.
Reluctantly, Jean stood. “If we get caught, I’m telling him it was your idea.” He pointed at Eren.
“Whatever, horseface,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “We won’t.”
Connie snorted. “Famous last words.”
They made a quick plan to head to their rooms and pretend to “sleep” before slipping out their windows and meeting in the back alley. Sasha nearly tripped over a crate and had to clamp both hands over her mouth to stifle the yelp. Eren pulled her upright by the collar like a kitten. Connie led the way, with Mikasa bringing up the rear, eyes sharp as she scanned every shadow.
Jean walked in the middle, hands in his pockets, one curled protectively around the glove. He still wasn’t sure why he’d brought it. An excuse, maybe, if the impossible happened and he actually saw you again. Hey, you dropped this. Also, I’ve been carrying it around like a lovesick idiot for three days.
Smooth.
He looked up as neon flickered ahead: The Nightingale. A low jazz rhythm pulsed through the cracked door, muffled laughter spilling out with cigar smoke.
Connie pushed inside first. Warm air and noise slammed into them. Sasha inhaled deeply. “Heaven.”
They piled inside—five Paradis devils trying (and failing) to look inconspicuous. Levi’s curfew rule hung over them like smoke, but rules only hold when everyone’s too tired or scared to test them.
Tonight, no one was either.
They claimed a corner table near the back. Sasha ordered enough food for six people. Eren flagged down a round of beers. Mikasa sipped water and watched the door.
The first hour slipped by easily. Greasy plates emptied fast. Connie told increasingly ridiculous cadet stories—half of them lies, all of them funny enough that Sasha was laughing so hard she nearly choked. Jean let himself smile, let the camaraderie loosen the knot in his chest.
Eren’s gaze drifted across the room, and he nodded toward the green felt table in the corner. “Isn’t that the game Hange was obsessed with?”
“It is!” Sasha perked up. “Billy something?”
Connie nodded, brows knitting as he tried to remember. “Billy’s yard, right?”
“It’s billiards,” Jean deadpanned.
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Connie rolled his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter,” Eren cut in as he stood. “Let’s play. Loser buys the next round.”
“Big talk from the worst player here,” Jean chuckled, slapping a hand on his shoulder.
Eren scowled, already fired up. “I’ll show you, Jeanboy.”
They were halfway to the table—Connie already trash-talking everyone’s aim—when the piano shifted into a new song.
**
A slow, lazy chord rolled out from the small stage just as the scouts reached for their cue sticks, lining up a fresh game. A feminine voice slid in underneath—low, smooth, dragging over the notes like fingers down bare skin.
Jean turned before he even meant to, and there you were.
Not at the piano tonight. Rather, standing at the mic in a deep burgundy dress that looked poured on, hair loose and glowing in the stage light. You weren’t looking at the crowd yet, just down at the floorboards, lips parted as the first verse spilled out of you, unhurried, intimate.
Jean forgot how to breathe.
The noise of the pub, the clink of glasses, Connie’s ongoing commentary, all dimmed to a distant hum. All that remained was the lull of your voice settling into his bloodstream, thick and warm, slow as honey.
Connie noticed first. He elbowed Jean hard in the ribs, hard enough to jolt him. “Holy shit. Is that—”
“Yeah,” Jean rasped, the word scraping out rougher than he meant.
Sasha’s eyes went wide. “She’s even prettier up close.”
Mikasa glanced between Jean and the stage, brow furrowing slightly in quiet confusion, then looked to Eren, who just smirked into his beer.
You lifted your gaze then, sweeping the room the way someone who performed every night might scan for familiar faces. Your eyes found his almost immediately. Slowly, the corner of your mouth curved—a soft, playful smirk, small enough that it could have been for anyone, but Jean knew better.
It was for him.
Your voice didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, wrapping tighter around the melody, each lyric lingering longer, like you were singing the rest of the song directly to the space beneath his ribs.
Eren cleared his throat, loud and pointed. “C’mon. Let’s play.”
Jean blinked and dragged his eyes back to the table. The cue stick felt heavy in his hand, foreign. “Right. Yeah.”
They started the game.
Connie broke first—hitting the ball with more force than necessary, balls scattering across the felt in a chaotic burst. Eren lined up next, already muttering trash about his form.
Mikasa lined up with calm precision and sank two solids without blinking. Sasha missed her shot spectacularly, and Connie laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer.
Jean barely heard any of it.
Between turns, his gaze kept drifting back to the stage. You were still there, swaying faintly with the rhythm, one hip cocked, fingers loose around the mic stand. Every time your eyes drifted his way, he felt it like a physical touch, heat crawling up his neck.
As much as he tried to, he couldn’t focus. He scratched twice in a row.
Connie snorted as he lined up. “Dude. You’re playing like shit tonight.”
“Shut up,” Jean muttered. His hands felt unsteady on the cue.
Eren leaned on his stick, smirking. “She’s got you whipped.”
Jean rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it.
He barely registered when Sasha sank a ball by accident and started celebrating like she’d won the lottery. He barely registered Eren’s turn, or Connie’s exaggerated groan when the eight-ball went in too early.
All he registered was you.
You were deeper into the song now—voice huskier, slower, like you were drawing the melody out just to torture him. Your free hand slid down your side, fingers trailing the satin over your hip. Jean’s grip tightened on the stick until his knuckles went white.
He tried to concentrate on the green felt, on the angle of the cue, on Eren’s smug grin when he finally pocketed the eight-ball and declared victory. But his mind was elsewhere. On the velvet glove still tucked in his pocket. On the way your smirk felt like a secret shared across a crowded room. On the stupid hope that you might look at him again when the music stopped.
When the final note drifted away like smoke curling toward the ceiling, the pub erupted in scattered applause and whistles. Without even realizing it, he found himself clapping too.
You didn’t bow. Just a deep exhale, eyes finding his one last time across the haze of cigarette smoke and red light. Then you turned, slipped through the narrow side door behind the stage, and vanished.
The message was unmistakable.
Follow me.
Jean set his cue down on the table without a word.
Connie raised an eyebrow. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah,” Jean said, already moving. “Be right back.”
Eren chuckled. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That’s a short list,” Mikasa muttered dryly.
Jean pushed through the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. He slipped through the side door into the narrow alley, the night air biting at his flushed skin.
You were already there, leaning against the wall with your arms loosely crossed, burgundy dress catching the weak light from a single bulb overhead.
You tilted your head when he appeared. “Took you long enough, Mr. Kirschtein.”
The sound of his name in your voice—soft, teasing, knowing—squeezed something in his chest. He stopped a few feet away. “Didn’t want to look desperate,” he said.
Your lips quirked. “Too late for that.”
“You’re right.” He chuckled lowly, running a hand through his honey-brown hair. “Can I at least get your name this time?”
You held his gaze, then answered, “It’s Y/n.”
“Well, Y/n…” He let the name settle on his tongue like it belonged there. “I believe this belongs to you.”
You watched as he reached into his pocket and drew out a familiar velvet glove. You stared at it. Then at him. Slowly, you stepped closer and took the glove from his fingers, touch lingering just long enough to make his pulse jump.
“You kept it,” you murmured.
“Couldn’t leave it behind.”
“Why?” you asked, blinking up at him.
Jean swallowed. “Because I wanted to see you again.”
You studied him, thumb tracing the embroidered edge of the glove absently. “You’re not from here, are you?”
He tried not to let his panic show. Fuck. He hadn’t expected you to notice.
“I suppose you could say I’m… a tourist,” he offered casually.
You tilted your head, a slow smile curling your lips—not quite believing him, but not calling him out either. “Is that right?”
He hummed, noncommittal. “What gave it away?”
You glanced away for a second, toward the mouth of the alley where the light from the pub bled faintly red. “A Marleyan man would rather be stoned than caught speaking to me like this.”
Jean’s expression hardened—just a flicker, but you caught it. He couldn’t fathom the fact that a woman as talented as you had been shunned by society, condemned for nothing but your ancestry. He now understood why you’d been so guarded at the gala. You were surrounded by enemies every night, playing pretty songs for the people that had branded you with a star.
He reached out, careful enough that you could pull away if you wished. His fingers caught your chin, gently turning your face back to his. “They’re all idiots,” he said, eyes locked on yours. No smirk this time. “Every last one of them.”
He held your gaze until he couldn't anymore—until the look in your eyes felt too intimate, too dangerous. Only then did he let his hand drop back to his side. Your skin felt cold without it.
“Walk with me?” you asked, nodding toward the street beyond the alley.
Jean knew he should decline. His friends were still inside, laughing over spilled beer and billiards. Levi would notice eventually (probably sooner than later), and the curfew wasn’t a suggestion. But the pull of you was stronger than any rule right now.
“Of course,” he said.
You smiled and turned, leading him out of the alley’s shadows into the cooler, wider street. He fell into step beside you, close enough that your arm brushed his every few paces.
“So,” he began after a moment, voice low against the distant hum of the city. “What is it about this place?”
“Hm?” You glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly.
He shrugged one shoulder. “You seem to be in better spirits than at our last meeting.”
You looked ahead again. “Well, it’s Eldian-owned,” you explained. “I’ve been singing here for years. I’m not invisible; the people actually listen.”
Jean hummed low in his throat as he shrugged off his suit jacket, wordlessly draping it over your bare shoulders. You stiffened slightly in surprise before relaxing into it, fingers curling instinctively into the lapels to pull it closer. “Thank you, Jean,” you murmured.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, thick with a peculiar sense of understanding.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” you asked.
“Yes, you have a beautiful voice,” Jean complimented, eyes flicking sideways to catch the way your cheeks bloomed with color. The flush could’ve been from the cold, or from him. He wasn’t sure which he preferred.
“You think so?” you asked, tilting your head to meet his gaze.
He nodded. “I was enthralled. Couldn’t look away.”
You smiled, small but genuine. “I’m glad.” A beat passed. Then you added, quieter, “I was actually hoping you’d come by tonight.”
Jean’s pulse kicked up. “Why’s that?”
You slowed your steps until you both stopped beneath the weak glow of a streetlamp. The light painted soft gold across your face, catching in your lashes. You leaned in—slow, deliberate—rising onto your toes until your lips brushed the shell of his ear.
“I wanted to sing to you,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.
Jean’s breath hitched. Heat coiled low in his stomach, sharp and sudden. You eased back down, but you didn’t step away. You just looked up at him—expectant, like you were waiting for him to decide what happened next.
He glanced around, taking in the narrow street, the row of old brick houses with shuttered windows. “Where are we?” he asked, though he already knew.
“My house,” you answered simply.
The words hung between you, both of your hearts hammering.
You watched his face flood with warm, then lifted a hand to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. Light enough to make his skin burn.
You leaned in again—this time not to whisper.
The kiss was slow at first. Soft lips brushing his until your fingers gripped his shirt, and his hands found your waist beneath the jacket, pulling you flush against him. Your lips tasted like cherry and the promise of everything he’d been chasing since the gala. He shuddered when your teeth grazed his bottom lip, and you answered with a small, pleased sound that went straight to his gut.
When you finally pulled back, your voice came out quieter. “Would you like to come inside?”
Jean laughed breathlessly. “Yes,” he sighed against your lips. “God, yes.”
Your smile turned wicked. You reached behind you without breaking eye contact, fingers finding the door handle. It clicked open, and you tugged him forward by the front of his shirt. The door shut behind him with a decisive thud.
The hallway was dim, lit only by a single lamp on a side table. Your shoes came off first, then his jacket slipped from your shoulders to the floor. Before it even settled, Jean had you pinned gently to the wall, one hand cupping the back of your neck as your mouths crashed together.
Your fingers trembled as you worked the buttons of his shirt open, revealing his skin to you. He shrugged it off, and your arms came up around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders.
His other hand was already sliding up your leg, bunching the satin of your dress until he could feel your bare thigh beneath. He lifted it to his hip, pressing himself against you, the friction drawing a gasp from you that he swallowed greedily.
“Fuck,” he panted when he broke for air, nosing along the sensitive skin of your neck, inhaling the faint jasmine and smoke that still clung to you. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
Your laugh was low, breathless. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
He pressed messy, open-mouthed kisses along your neck as his hips began to roll into yours in a slow, insistent rhythm. Each movement pulled another soft sound from you, building until your voice cracked on his name. “Jean,” you sighed, tilting your head back against the wall.
“Bedroom,” you managed, voice trembling with want. “Last door.”
Jean didn’t need to be told twice.
He scooped you up in one smooth motion, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, and carried you down the short hall. You kissed him the whole way, messy and desperate, nails scraping lightly down his back.
The bedroom door was already ajar. He kicked the door wider with the heel of his boot, the wood thudding against the wall as he carried you inside, not setting you down immediately.
He turned, pressing your back to the closed door, letting your weight settle more fully against him. Your thighs flexed around his hips; he could feel every small shift of your body, the heat of you bleeding through thin satin and his trousers. His mouth found yours again; he wanted to taste every second of this.
Your lips parted under Jean’s without hesitation. Tongues slid together, lazy and deep, like you both had all night, even though neither of you truly believed it.
He broke the kiss only to drag his open mouth down the side of your neck again. He could feel your pulse hammering there, something possessive curling tight in his chest. The skin just below your ear was velvet-soft as he sucked gently, then harder when your breath hitched and your nails bit into his scalp.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your throat, voice gravel-rough.
Your laugh was shaky too. “You’re one to talk.”
He smiled against your skin, teeth grazing. “Can you blame me?”
He shifted his grip, fingers digging into the plush flesh just below the curve of your ass, and lifted you a fraction higher so he could grind up into you more precisely. The pressure made your head tip back against the door with a dull thud; your mouth fell open on a sound that wasn’t quite a moan yet, more like a plea.
Jean groaned at the feel of you rocking down to meet him. He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.
Your lips were swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in shallow pants. The dress had ridden up around your hips; one strap had slipped off your shoulder, baring the delicate line of your collarbone and the upper swell of your breast. Moonlight caught on the faint sheen of sweat already gathering at the base of your throat.
He wanted to worship every inch of you.
He lowered you until your feet touched the floor again. Your knees wobbled for a second, but he steadied you with hands on your waist, thumbs stroking over the satin in slow circles.
Then your breath caught as he sank to his knees.
Jean looked up at you from the floor, eyes dark, steady, almost reverent. He slid both hands up the outsides of your thighs, bunching the dress higher until the hem gathered at your waist. He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, and another, working his way up with maddening patience.
“Jean…” Your voice cracked on his name. He hummed against your skin, lips brushing the thin silk of your underwear. You swallowed hard. “Don’t tease.”
A low, dark chuckle rumbled out of him as he hooked two fingers beneath the fabric and tugged it down your legs, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry gaze. You were already glistening, and the sight pulled another rough sound from his chest.
He pulled your thigh up over his shoulder, and his warm breath fanned over your cunt. Your whole body jolted as he leaned in, tongue flicking over your clit. “Fuck—Jean—”
Jean groaned at the taste of you, at the way your thighs trembled on either side of his head. He worked you slowly, tongue dipping into your core, then sucking at your clit. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping hard.
Every time your hips tried to chase more friction, he pinned them to the door with one forearm, holding you exactly where he wanted so he could take his time.
“Look at you,” he mumbled between licks, voice thick. “So perfect. Been dying to taste you.”
Your head thumped back against the wood as a broken whimper slipped out.
He slid one hand between your thighs, fingers tracing your entrance. When you rolled your hips down in a silent plea, he finally pressed one inside, curling just right.
Your knees nearly buckled.
He added a second on the next stroke, stretching you gently while his mouth stayed latched to your clit—sucking in quick pulses, tongue flicking in time with the drag of his fingers.
“Jean—please—”
He pulled off just long enough to rasp against your slick skin, “Please what?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair as you tugged him back. “Don’t stop,” you breathed.
He smiled against you. Then he curled his fingers harder, sucked your clit between his lips, and hummed.
The vibration tipped you over the edge so fast that your vision went white. Your thighs clamped around his head; your back arched off the door; a choked cry of his name tore out of you as you came hard against his tongue.
He worked you through it, lapping softly until the aftershocks faded to trembling little twitches. Only then did he ease his fingers out, pressing one last kiss to your oversensitive clit before rising to his feet.
Jean caught you as your legs threatened to give out completely, one arm banded firm around your waist while the other cupped the back of your neck. You could taste yourself on his tongue when he kissed you—filthy, consuming, possessive. His cock strained painfully against his trousers; you felt every thick inch of him pressed to your stomach.
The evidence of how badly he wanted you made your core clench again, fresh heat pooling low despite the orgasm that had just wrecked you. “Bed,” you whispered, voice raw.
You took a few steps before pushing him onto the edge of the mattress and standing between his spread thighs. He propped himself up his elbows, gaze following your every move.
Your trembling fingers reached for the thin straps of your dress. They hooked under the delicate fabric and slowly slid it down, watching his face the entire time. The satin obeyed without resistance, slipping until it pooled in a dark puddle at your feet.
Jean exhaled roughly through his nose. His gaze dragged over you: the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the faint marks his mouth had left along your inner thigh.
You stepped out of the dress and kicked it aside without looking. Then you placed one knee on the mattress beside his hip, then the other, straddling him properly. The new position pressed your slick heat directly against the thick, straining length of him through his pants.
Jean’s hands immediately slid up your bare back, mapping the long line of your spine. His palms were hot and calloused, but he touched you like you were made of glass. Fingers splayed wide, he laid back on the bed, pulling you closer until your breasts pressed to his chest and your mouths were only a breath apart.
You leaned in and kissed him. He groaned into your mouth, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that dragged the length of him along your folds through the thin barrier of fabric. Your hands found the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his jaw as you kissed him deeper, drawing it out the way he had drawn out your pleasure against the door.
“Take these off,” you whispered, fingers already slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers and underwear.
Jean lifted his hips without hesitation, letting you tug the fabric down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang up, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. You wrapped your hand around him and gave one long, deliberate stroke from base to tip.
His head tipped back on a ragged groan, throat working. “Y/n—”
You smiled against his jaw and pressed a soft kiss there, then another along the column of his throat. “I want to savor this,” you murmured, stroking him again, letting your thumb circle the sensitive head. “Savor you,” you added, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Fuck—” Jean whimpered as you squeezed his shaft. “Wait.” Jean’s hand caught your wrist gently but firmly, stilling your strokes before he lost what little control he had left. His chest heaved in heavy pulls, eyes dark and glassy as they locked on yours in the dim light.
“Not yet,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come in your hand, and I want—” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I want to feel you around me when I do.”
Your lips parted in shock, cheeks blooming with fresh heat at his honesty. “Then take what you want, Jean,” you whispered.
In one fluid motion, he lifted you and rolled you both onto your sides. His chest molded to your back, one thick arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. The length of his cock nestled hot and heavy along the crease of your ass.
You let out a soft, surprised sound as his hand splayed possessively across your stomach. His lips found the sensitive spot behind your ear.
“Like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough.
His free hand slid over your navel and between your thighs, parting you gently. Two fingers glided through your wetness before circling your clit in slow, lazy strokes. You arched back into him with a quiet moan, hips rocking instinctively.
Jean groaned at the friction, the head of his cock slipping between your folds without entering, just gliding along the slick heat. He rocked against you in the same rhythm as his fingers—long, deliberate drags that teased without giving either of you what you craved yet.
“Jean,” you whined, hand reaching back to grip his thigh, urging him closer.
He kissed the nape of your neck, open-mouthed and reverent. “Tell me when,” he whispered.
But you were already trembling. “Now,” you gasped. “Please—now.” You tilted your hips back, inviting.
He didn’t hesitate. Hooking your leg over his thigh, he opened you wider. Then he lined himself up and finally pressed inside, inch by inch, until your bodies were completely flush. The stretch burned sweetly; you both froze for a second, breathing hard, letting the sensation settle.
Jean’s arm tightened around your waist, hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in time with the shallow grind of his hips. You couldn’t help the low moan that escaped you as he nudged that perfect spot inside.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin. “You feel so good. So perfect.”
You reached back, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him close as you rocked back to meet every thrust. His mouth stayed on your neck, kissing, sucking, whispering broken praise while you muffled your moans into the pillow.
His fingers never left your clit, circling in the same unhurried rhythm he was fucking you with. He shuddered every time you clenched around him, hips stuttering for a second before he reined himself back in.
You turned your head just enough to catch his mouth in a deep, messy kiss. He groaned into it, thrusts quickening unconsciously.
Your breaths grew shorter, fingers tightening in his hair as your hips began to chase his thrusts with more urgency. “Jean,” you gasped against his lips. “I’m close—”
Jean stilled inside you, chest heaving against your back. His arm around your waist flexed, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Turn over,” he rasped. “I want to see your face.”
There was no teasing in it, just desperate honesty that made your chest tighten.
You nodded once, wordless.
He eased out of you, making you gasp at the sudden loss, then guided you with careful hands until you were on your back beneath him. Jean settled between your thighs immediately, bracing on one forearm so he could hover close without crushing you. His other hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast before cupping your face.
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize every detail: parted lips, glassy eyes, the way your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulls. His own expression was wrecked—brows knit, mouth slack, honey-brown eyes dark and unguarded.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he exhaled, almost like it hurt to say it out loud.
Then he was sliding back inside you, watching your face the whole time. The way your lashes fluttered, the soft hitch in your throat when he bottomed out, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.
He started moving, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot, hips rolling in that same unhurried rhythm. Now he could see everything: the flush spreading down your neck, your lips forming his name without sound, your eyes locked on his and refusing to waver.
You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers knotting in his hair. His lips hovered over yours, sharing your gasps; before he kissed you, swallowing every moan.
His fingers found your clit again, circling with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk up to meet him. “Jean—” Your voice cracked, back arching off the mattress.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Let go for me. please.”
You did.
With one perfectly placed thrust, you shattered. A soft, broken cry spilled from your lips as your walls fluttered and pulsed around him. Your nails raked down his back as you shuddered beneath him.
Jean's hips stuttered as he watched you come: face flushed, eyes rolling, body trembling in his arms. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed, and it undid him completely.
“Y/n—I’m—fuck—where—?” His voice cracked, words fracturing into broken whimpers between each thrust. He was right on the edge, hips jerking unevenly. You slid your hands down the sweat-slick plane of his back and pressed your palms firmly against the small of his spine, urging his hips flush to yours.
“Inside,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
He buried himself as deep as he could and followed you over the edge, spilling hot and thick inside you. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, breathing ragged against your skin, hips grinding slow circles through the aftershocks until he had nothing left.
Jean stayed inside you, softening gradually, arms sliding under your back to hold you close. You reached up, brushing damp strands from his flushed face. He smiled lazily, pupils blown wide as he looked down at you.
You cupped his cheek and pulled him into a slow, lingering kiss. His mouth parted under yours on a quiet exhale, and you tilted your head to deepen it, tongue sliding against his in a languid sweep that pulled a low, contented hum from his throat.
You pulled back, and Jean eased out of you, both of you exhaling at the loss. He rolled onto his back and gathered you against his chest, one arm hooked around your waist. Your legs tangled with his without thought, cheek finding the steady thump of his heartbeat.
Neither of you spoke for a long minute. Just catching your breaths. Skin cooling. Fingers tracing idle patterns—yours along the faint scar on his ribs, his along the curve of your spine.
“I should probably tell you something,” he said, voice soft.
“If it’s bad news, wait until morning,” you murmured against his collarbone.
“It’s not… bad.” He hesitated, thumb brushing the line of your spine. “Just honest.”
“Let me guess.” You thought for a second, then shifted your head back just enough to see him in the dim moonlight leaking through the curtains. “You’re not really a tourist.”
Jean’s hand stilled. He let out a quiet, rueful laugh that rumbled through his chest into yours. “No. I’m not.”
You propped your chin on his chest. “Where are you from?”
He dragged his gaze from the ceiling to your steady, curious one. He knew he was an idiot for even considering telling the truth. But lying felt wrong here. With your legs wrapped around his, his come still warm inside you, your heartbeat synced to his in the dark.
Besides, for some weird, indescribable reason, he knew he could trust you.
“Paradis,” he said simply.
You blinked, processing. Paradis. The island of devils. The place Marley had spent years demonizing in every newspaper, every broadcast, every whispered rumor.
“You’re a soldier,” you said, not a question.
He nodded.
You studied him for a long moment, eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint freckles across his nose that only showed up this close. Then you gave a small, tired smile. “I knew there was something different about you the second you kissed my hand like I was important.”
Jean laughed under his breath, but the sound faded quickly, his smile faltering. “Isn’t this the part where you kick me out?”
Your eyes narrowed, playful but serious. “You think I’d do that?”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s just.. Don’t you care that our nations are at war?”
“Frankly, I don’t,” you answered, resting your cheek back on his chest. “I stopped caring about the Marleyan government years ago. I hope your people tear it to the ground.”
Jean stiffened—just a fraction—but you felt it. He looked down at you, voice low. “They’d have you killed for saying that.”
You sighed, the sound soft and resigned. “I know.”
Silence wrapped around you again. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.
You nestled closer, ear pressed to the steady thump of his heart. “How long are you here?”
“Not sure.” His voice dropped. “Won’t be long.”
You hummed. “So this is borrowed time.”
Jean swallowed hard. The words sat heavy between you, undeniable. “Yeah. Probably.”
Silence settled again, thicker this time. Moonlight continued to leak through the thin curtains, painting faint silver stripes across your bare shoulder, the tangled sheets, the curve of his arm still wrapped around you.
You closed your eyes, lashes brushing your cheeks. “When your war ends, Jean…” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “…come find me.”
He exhaled, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “I will. I promise.” he whispered. And he meant it—even if the odds were laughable.
You smiled against his skin. “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”
You kept talking after that—lazy, half-mumbled things. The songs you liked to sing when no one was listening. The eccentric elderly couple that owned the Nightingale. How Captain Levi was going to make him scrub the entire safehouse with a toothbrush when he got back. He asked if you ever got tired of playing for people who resented you; you said sometimes, but the music was yours, and no one could take that.
Your voice grew slower. Softer. Words trailing into yawns.
Eventually, your breathing evened out, body going limp against his. Jean held you, listening to the quiet rhythm of your inhales, feeling the faint rise and fall of your ribs under his palm.
The itch came back then—the old, familiar one in his fingertips. The need to capture this exact second: the way moonlight silvered the curve of your shoulder, the loose strands of hair clinging to your damp neck, the peaceful slack of your mouth, lips still kiss-swollen.
He glanced around the dim room without moving too much. No sketchbook. No charcoal. But on the nightstand, there was a small pen and a few loose sheets of paper tucked under a half-read novel.
He took what he needed.
━━━
Morning light filtered through the thin curtains in pale, watery streaks.
You woke with a yawn, the sheets cool against your bare skin. No breathing beside you. No heartbeat under your cheek. Your hand reached instinctively across the sheets, only to find it empty. Just the hollow space where Jean had been.
You rolled onto your side, reaching for the pillow he’d used. Your fingers brushed paper instead. The back of an old piece of sheet music, now covered in charcoal lines.
It was you.
You. Sleeping peacefully, hair spilling across the pillow, lips parted, one hand curled near where his chest had been. The shading was soft around your eyes, and tender along the curve of your cheek, like the artist had lingered on every detail he could steal in the dark.
No signature. Just the drawing, simple and devastatingly honest.
You stared at it until your vision blurred and a small, aching smile curved your lips.
Jean had seen you—not the Eldian pianist, not the singer under stage lights—but you. The version that existed only when the world went dark and quiet.
“Thank you, Jean,” you whispered into the paper, eyes closing as you pressed it briefly to your chest.
You exhaled slowly, folded the sketch with careful fingers, and set it on the nightstand beside you. Then you rose, sheets sliding away, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen to make coffee.
thx for reading <3 like & comment if you enjoyed!
Krista (OC) x Beckman (One Piece) 🌊
GUYS I’m looking for a MHA one shot I read one year, two years (???) ago, please I’m desperate
Pretty sure it was a Dabi x reader, where Dabi went to reader’s room to help him redo his staples and stitches cause his skin was falling off (after a fight?). It was very messy, very bloody, very traumatizing for reader, who asked him never to let them do that again I think? Angst/comfort??
ANYWAY I just suddenly remembered it and I NEED to read it again it was soooo good. I searched everywhere on Tumblr and AO3 but couldn’t find it. No idea if the author deleted it, but if you have any idea what I’m talking about pleaaaaase help me out I’m begging
She’s finally here! Meet Krista, my OC for One Piece
As I mentioned in previous posts, her love interest is Benn Beckman
She’s is based on the sailfish species
More information about her soon 🤍
Hello, for a request, could it please be a law and shanks (separate) x reader where the reader has either abandonment issues or attachment issues? So for example, if they think law/shanks is pulling away, they’ll distance themselves first, and it starts to affect their relationship? Thanks
Stay with me
gn!reader
characters: law, shanks
a/n: I used both abandonment issues and attachment issues so that I could contrast traits between law/shanks and the reader to create tension and emotional depth — hope you’ll like it this way!
main m.list || ao3 || ko-fi || requests list
── .✦ Law:
tags: established relationship, abandonment issues, hurt/comfort, emotional tension
words count: 3.7k
The Polar Tang is quiet tonight. Too quiet.
Law sits at his desk, writing notes about a patient. The lamp makes a small circle of light over his papers. Everything else is dark.
You sit on the bed behind him, hugging your knees. You watch his back. He has been silent for hours.
You bite your lip.
“Law,” you say softly “Are you mad at me?”
His pen stops. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrows pulling together “No. Why would I be mad?”
“You’re… quiet today,” you whisper “More than usual.”
Law sighs and turns back to his work “I’m working. That’s all.”
You nod, but something in your chest hurts. You stand up slowly and walk to him.
“Can I hug you?” you ask.
He pauses again “You always ask that.”
“Because… I don’t want to bother you.”
Law turns in his chair. His gold eyes look tired.
“You don’t bother me,” he says “Not unless I say so.”
You give a small smile “Can I, then?”
He nods once.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders. You lean your cheek against his hair. For a second he stays still… and then he lets out a long breath, relaxing slightly.
But only for a moment.
After a few seconds, he takes your hands and gently moves them off “Sorry. I need to finish this.”
And your heart drops.
“Oh,” you say “Right. Sorry. I’ll… I’ll just sit.”
You go back to the bed. You try to breathe normally, but your mind is loud.
He doesn’t want me close tonight. Maybe he’s tired of me. Maybe… maybe he’s pulling away.
Law keeps writing. The scratch of his pen feels sharp in the quiet room.
After a minute, he speaks “You’re upset.”
You freeze “No. I’m fine.”
“Liar.” he says without looking up.
Your throat tightens “I just… I don’t want to annoy you.”
“You’re not annoying.” his voice is flat, but honest. Law always means what he says.
You swallow “Then why do you push me away?”
He finally looks at you again, really looks.
“I’m not pushing you away,” he says “I’m trying to work.”
You stare at your hands “I know. I know, Law. It’s just… when you go quiet like this, I get scared.”
“Scared of what?”
You take a breath “That you don’t want me anymore.”
He blinks, like he didn’t expect that answer at all.
“Y/N,” he says slowly, “that makes no sense.”
Your voice cracks “It makes sense to me.”
He stands up. He walks to the bed. He sits beside you, not touching, but close enough that you feel his warmth.
“Look at me.” he says.
You do.
“I’m not leaving,” Law says “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not unless you tell me to.”
Your eyes sting “But you always leave the room without saying anything. You stay silent for hours. I never know what you feel. I don’t know if you still want me.”
Law frowns deeply, thinking.
“That’s… not because of you. I just don’t talk much.” His voice is soft, almost awkward “I thought you understood that.”
“I do. But my brain won’t listen.”
He sighs “Then tell me. Don’t sit there hurting alone.”
You nod slowly.
He hesitates, then touches your hand, carefully.
“Come here.” he says, very quietly.
You lean into him, and he lets you. He even wraps an arm around your shoulders.
You had this same conversation many times. Law tells you he’s not leaving. You try to believe him.
But your brain… it never stops.
Every night, the same thoughts come back:
He’s losing interest. He doesn’t love me. I’m too much for him. One day he’ll get tired and walk away.
You know him. You know how he is. He’s not the kind of man who says “I love you” every minute. Not even every day.
He’s not one to hold your hand while walking around the ship. He’s not one to kiss you in front of the crew. He’s not one to hug you unless the room is empty.
He’s not clingy. He doesn’t like clinginess.
And that hurts even more.
Because you are clingy. And your brain keeps whispering that he hates that part of you.
Days pass.
Law gets busier with his captain work, doctor work, planning, training. He’s always moving. Always working. Always tired.
And of course, you start to feel… not wanted.
So you distance yourself.
Just a little at first.
You stop following him around. You stop asking for hugs. You stop waiting outside the infirmary. You stop touching him unless he touches you first.
The crew notices. Some look confused. Some whisper.
Law notices too, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t question it.
He actually thinks you finally understood him.
He thinks you realized he needs his space. He thinks you’re giving him room to focus on his work.
One evening, he enters your, basically shared, room. You’re lying on the bed with your back to him, pretending to read.
He stands at the door for a moment, watching you. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“You’re quiet lately…” he says.
You give a small, careful smile he can’t see “I’m just tired.”
Law nods like he accepts that. He thinks it’s normal.
He doesn’t realize he’s the reason you’re tired.
He sits at his desk and starts working. You stare at the wall, holding your breath so you don’t cry.
Minutes pass.
Then Law speaks again, voice flat but curious “You didn’t wait for me today.”
Your fingers tighten around the book.
“I didn’t want to bother you” you answer.
“You don’t bother me.” he says immediately.
But his tone is too calm. Too normal. No emotion.
It feels like he’s just saying it because he has to.
You turn a page without reading.
“I know,” you whisper “I’m just… giving you space.”
Law hums quietly, as if this makes sense to him.
“Okay… Good.” he says.
Your heart cracks.
You don’t respond. You can’t. Your throat hurts too much.
He goes back to writing, believing everything is fine. Believing you finally understand his position.
He has no idea you’re breaking apart right next to him.
You wake up early the next morning. Law is still asleep beside you, breathing slow and deep. His hair is messy, his eyes closed, his arm loose on the blankets, he looks peaceful.
You stare at him for a moment. Normally, you would kiss his forehead. Normally, you would stay there until he wakes up.
Not today.
You get up quietly, grab your clothes, and slip out of the room without making a sound.
A few of the crew are already eating. You force a small smile.
“Morning” you say.
“Good morning!” Bepo says, cheerful as always.
You sit with them and start eating. You try to focus on your plate, not your feelings.
It doesn’t last long.
Bepo tilts his head “Where’s Captain? You two usually eat together.”
Your stomach tightens.
“He’s sleeping.” you answer quickly, eyes on your food.
Penguin leans forward with a stupid smirk “OOOH, you tired him so much last night??”
Shachi elbows him “Penguin—”
You don’t laugh. You don’t even look at him.
“Yeah… no.” you say quietly.
Your voice is flat. Dead, almost.
The three of them freeze. They exchange a worried, confused and uncomfortable look. They can tell something is wrong.
You push your plate a little.
“So… do we reach the new island today?” you ask, trying to sound normal.
Bepo answers quickly, kind of pretending he doesn’t notice your mood “We already reached it! When Captain wakes up, we can go look around. It’s a big village. Looks nice!”
You nod “Thank you.”
You stand up and grab your finished plate.
“I’ll get off,” you say “I’ll go look around alone today.”
The three of them stop eating.
Penguin and Shachi stare at you with big, confused eyes. Bepo’s ears drop a little.
Shachi speaks first, voice soft “Are you sure? Why don’t you wait for us and go all together?”
You turn and give them a smile, or something that tries to be a smile.
“I just want some alone time” you say “Don’t worry. See you guys later.”
You walk away before they can say anything else.
Behind you, the crew exchange a silent glance.
They all think the same thing: Something is wrong and Law has no idea.
Law wakes up alone.
The bed is cold. Your side is empty. The room is quiet.
He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. You always wake him gently, or sit beside him, or at least move around the room.
He frowns, confused, but shrugs it off at first. Maybe you just woke up early. Maybe you’re with the crew.
He gets dressed and goes to the dining hall.
The moment Law steps in, the room goes stiff.
Bepo stops eating mid-bite. Penguin straightens his back like he’s being judged. Shachi just stares at his plate.
Law blinks “What’s wrong with you three?”
“N-Nothing, Captain!” Penguin squeaks.
Law narrows his eyes. He can always tell when his crew is hiding something.
“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.
Bepo puffs his cheeks nervously “They, uh… already ate.”
Law waits for more.
Penguin slowly adds, “They, um… left.”
“Left?” Law repeats.
Shachi nods quickly “They went to look around the island.”
Law crosses his arms “Alone?”
Penguin gulps “Yes, Captain.”
Law’s face doesn’t move. No anger. No surprise.
Just… stillness.
But his eyes sharpen like knives.
“And none of you stopped them?” he asks.
“We tried!” Bepo says, ears dropping “They said they wanted some alone time.”
Law goes silent for a moment.
Bepo finally asks, “Did… something happen between you two?”
Law looks away, jaw tightening “No.”
But the way he says it isn’t convincing.
Then he asks, quietly but firmly “What did they look like?”
Penguin rubs the back of his neck “…Sad.”
“Really sad…” Shachi adds.
Bepo nods “They didn’t smile at all.”
Law closes his eyes for a second. A very, very small sigh escapes him “…I see.”
He turns to leave.
Bepo quickly stands “Captain—! Do you want us to go look for them?”
“No,” Law answers “I’ll go.”
Penguin hesitates “Captain… are you sure everything is okay?”
Law stops at the door but doesn’t look back “I thought things were okay,” he says softly “But it seems I was wrong.”
And with that, he walks out, coat swaying behind him, heading toward the island.
Not rushing. Not running. But moving with a purpose the crew almost never sees.
A purpose that says: I need to find them. Now.
The village is big, noisy, and full of people moving around, sellers yelling, children running, travelers talking loudly. The smell of food fills the air.
Law walks through the crowd, scanning every corner. His steps are fast, sharp, focused.
He checks the market. The docks. The small side streets.
Nothing.
His jaw tightens.
Where did they go?
He takes another turn, heading toward a quieter part of the village, away from the noise, away from the main road. A place someone would go to be alone.
And finally… he sees you, sitting on a small stone bench under a tree, staring at the ground. Your shoulders are tense, your body small and tired-looking. You’re not crying, but you look like you did earlier… or like you could at any second.
Law stops for a moment… just watching you.
You don’t see him.
He walks closer. His boots make a soft sound on the dirt, and you look up instantly.
Your eyes widen a little “…Law?”
He stands in front of you, hands in his pockets, trying to look calm, but his eyes are sharp and full of questions.
“I was looking for you” he says.
You look away “I just wanted some air.”
“On a new island? Alone?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
You shrug “I’m fine. You didn’t need to come.”
Law stares at you for a long second. Then he says quietly “You’re avoiding me.”
You swallow “No, I’m not.”
“Y/N” his voice is firmer now “Don’t lie to me.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not lying,” you try again “I just needed space. Isn’t that what you also want?”
Law frowns “…What?”
You exhale shakily and stand up, turning away from him.
“You want space, Law. You always want space,” you say softly “So I’m giving it to you.”
He takes a slow breath, then he says “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” Your voice cracks “You don’t like clingy people. You don’t like being touched when you work. You don’t like PDA. You don’t like when I follow you. You don’t—”
“Stop.” Law steps forward.
You swallow again but keep talking, voice trembling “You don’t do any of those things, and that’s fine. That’s who you are. But every day I felt like I was bothering you more and more. And I kept thinking that maybe… maybe you were getting tired of me.”
Law freezes like your words hit him straight in the heart.
You laugh weakly and look away “Today I thought… maybe you’d be happier if I gave you space. Maybe you’d breathe easier without me.”
Law finally moves and grabs your wrist gently, not hard, but enough to make you look at him.
His voice is low and tense “Why would you think I breathe easier without you?”
You blink, surprised by the emotion in his voice.
He steps closer.
“You think I’m losing interest?” he asks “You think I don’t want you? That I’m about to leave?”
You look down “…Yes.”
He stares at you for a long moment.
Then he says something he almost never says, something raw and honest “Y/N, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you.”
Your breath catches.
“And I wouldn’t chase after you,” he adds, “if I planned to leave.”
Your heart stings again, but this time for a different reason.
You whisper, “Then why… why do you act like you don’t care?”
Law exhales, long and tired “…Because I don’t know how to act different.”
You stare at him.
He shakes his head slightly.
“I’m not good with words. I’m not good with affection. I’m not good with people being close.” He pauses “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
You feel your throat tighten.
“I thought you’d get tired of me…” you say softly.
“I’m not tired of you,” he answers “I’m tired of not understanding what you need.”
Your eyes widen.
Law looks down at your hand in his.
“Tell me what I’m missing,” he says quietly “I can’t fix what I don’t see.”
You look down at his hand holding your wrist. His touch is warm. Careful. Real.
You take a shaky breath.
“I fell for you because of who you are… how you are.” you say softly.
Law’s eyes lift to yours.
“I never wanted you to change,” you continue “I don’t want you to be someone else just because I have abandonment issues. That’s my problem. Not yours.”
Law’s brows tighten. He looks like he’s trying to understand every word you say, trying to read every tiny expression on your face.
“You don’t have to say ‘I love you’ every day,” you add “You don’t have to hold my hand in public. You don’t have to be clingy. I don’t want to force you into something you’re not.”
You look away, voice small “I’m scared of losing you. That’s all.”
Silence fills the air. Soft but heavy.
Law lets go of your wrist only to take your hand instead… slower, gentler, like he’s asking for permission.
“Y/N,” he says quietly, “I’m not trying to be someone else.”
You nod “I know.”
He studies your face, eyes sharp and serious.
Then he asks “Then what can I do for you to believe me, Y/N?”
Your heart stops. You stare at him. You’ve had so many conversations like this, but he has never said something like that… never this blunt, never this honest, never this open.
He looks… almost frustrated. But not with you. With himself.
Like he truly wants to understand. Like he truly wants to help.
You freeze, shocked.
“You… you really mean that?” you whisper.
“Yes,” he says immediately “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
You think. And think. But the harder you try to find an answer, the more empty your mind feels.
“I don’t know…” you finally whisper.
Law blinks “…You don’t know?”
You shake your head slowly.
“I don’t know what I need. I just… get scared.” Your voice cracks again “I don’t know what would make me believe you won’t leave. Nothing feels enough when my brain tells me the worst.”
Law exhales, not annoyed, not angry. He seems almost… softer.
He steps closer, close enough that his coat brushes your leg.
“Then we figure it out.” he says.
You look up at him, eyes wide.
He continues, tone steady “I can’t read your mind. And you can’t read mine. So we talk. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s confusing. Even when we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”
Your chest tightens.
He holds your hand a little firmer, not letting go.
“And if you can’t tell me what you need,” he says, “then tell me how you feel. Start there.”
You swallow hard.
“Law…” you whisper.
He tilts his head slightly “Yes?”
You take a shaky breath.
“I feel scared every time you’re quiet,” you admit “I feel unwanted when you’re distant. I feel like I’m annoying you when I’m clingy. I feel like one day you’ll wake up and think you don’t want me anymore.”
Law stares at you, listening.
“…Okay” he says quietly.
You blink “O-Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” He squeezes your hand “You tell me that. Every time it happens.”
Your eyes sting again.
“You won’t get tired of hearing it?” you ask.
“No,” he says “I’ll get tired of you hiding it.”
Your breath catches.
You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to be so… real.
Law takes a slow breath and adds “Just don’t walk away from me without telling me something is wrong. That’s all I ask.”
He looks at you for a long second. Then he looks away, jaw tense, ears turning red.
He lets out a small breath and says, quietly “For the record… I fell for you for who and how you are as well, Y/N.”
You blink, surprised.
He keeps staring at the ground, like the words are too embarrassing to say while looking at you.
“Don’t think that just because I look like I don’t enjoy PDA…” His voice drops even lower “…or you being clingy… that I actually don’t like it.”
Your heart jumps.
“…Law?” you whisper.
He turns even redder, ears burning.
“I said what I said.” he mumbles, refusing to look at you.
For a moment you don’t say anything. You’re too shocked and too touched.
You slowly reach out and place your arms around him, pulling him into a hug.
You expect him to stiffen, to pull back, to freeze like he always does when someone hugs him unexpectedly in public.
But this time… He doesn’t. He lets you.
You feel his body tense a little at first, like he’s surprised.
Then, slowly, you feel him relax under your arms.
His shoulders drop. His breathing evens out. His hand lifts hesitantly and rests on your back, fingers curling into your shirt.
“Y/N…” he says softly, almost whispering into your shoulder.
“Yes?” you ask, voice muffled against his chest.
“Don’t think I hate the way you are.”
You close your eyes, holding him tighter.
“I won’t,” you whisper “Not anymore.”
You feel him exhale against your neck, a long breath he’s been holding for too long.
He leans just a bit closer enough to show you something important, that he trusts you.
And for Law, and for you, that means everything.
You stay in Law’s arms for a while, the world around you quiet.
Then you slowly pull back to look at him.
His face is red.
His eyes are avoiding yours.
But he doesn’t let go of you.
You smile softly “…You okay?”
He clears his throat “I’m fine.”
You’re still holding hands.
He notices.
You notice him noticing.
And you expect him to pull away like he always does in public.
But instead… he tightens his grip.
“Let’s go back to the ship,” he says “Together.”
Your heart feels warm, almost too warm.
“You want to walk like this?” you ask, raising your joined hands.
Law’s ears turn pink again.
He looks away “…Yes. Don’t make me repeat it.”
You giggle and he relaxes even more at the sound.
On the way back, he doesn’t talk much, but he keeps brushing his thumb over your hand.
Slow.
Gentle.
His way of saying: I’m here.
When you reach the ship, Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin are standing outside like they’ve been waiting for hours.
Penguin’s eyes widen “Captain… is holding hands?”
Shachi elbows him hard “Shut up! Don’t scare them!”
Bepo’s face lights up “I’m glad you two are okay!”
Law glares at all of them “Don’t comment on things that are none of your business.”
But he still doesn’t drop your hand.
The crew exchange looks… happy, relieved looks, but say nothing else because they want to live.
You reach Law’s room and he lets you inside first and closes the door behind you.
Then he stands there, awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You tilt your head “What is it?”
He looks like he’s trying to force words out of his mouth.
“I’m not good at… comforting” he admits “I don’t always know what to say.”
You smile gently “You're better than you think.”
He slowly walks closer.
Then he lifts a hand and touches your cheek carefully, almost like he’s scared to get it wrong.
“I’m trying.” he says.
Your heart melts instantly.
“I know,” you whisper, leaning into his touch “I can tell.”
Law looks at your lips for half a second, then immediately looks away like he didn’t.
You grin “You can kiss me, you know.”
His ears turn red again.
“I—I know that” he mutters.
You step closer, closing the distance “Then do it.”
He hesitates… then gently cups your chin and pulls you in for a soft kiss.
Not rushed.
Not messy.
Slow.
Warm.
Real.
When he pulls back, he whispers against your lips “I’m not leaving you. Ever.”
You press your forehead to his.
“…And I’ll try to trust that.” you whisper.
He nods once, firmly, his hand still on your cheek “That’s all I want.”
── .✦ Shanks:
tags: established relationship, avoidant attachment, hurt/comfort, fluff, teasing crew
words count: 2.8k
The deck is loud, between laughter, clinking bottles and someone shouting about food.
Shanks sits on a crate near the table, one arm hanging loose, a bottle in his hand. He looks relaxed, but he’s not.
You sit a few steps away from him, leaning against the railing, arms crossed. Close enough to hear him. Far enough to breathe.
Shanks looks at you and then at the empty space next to him.
He pouts.
“You know,” he says loudly, “there’s a very nice spot right here.”
You don’t move.
“I’m fine here.” you answer calmly.
He leans back, dramatic “Wow. Cold.”
Benn Beckman takes a slow drag from his cigarette “Y/N doesn’t like being glued to you, Captain.”
“I’m not glued,” Shanks argues “I’m just… emotionally attached.”
Yasopp laughs “You sound whiny again.”
“I am not whiny…” Shanks says immediately.
Lucky Roux grins “You are. Especially when they ignore you.”
You keep staring at the sea like none of this matters.
Shanks sighs loudly “You don’t even care, do you?”
You shrug “About what?”
“About me suffering,” he says, hand to his chest “Deeply.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Ouch.”
The crew laughs again.
Shanks gets up and walks closer to you, standing just a bit too near. You shift your weight to creating space.
He notices.
“…You always do that.” he says, quieter now.
“Do what?” you ask.
“Move away.”
You look at him for a second and then back at the sea.
“I like space.”
“Yeah,” he says softly “You really do.”
There’s no anger in his voice, just something sad but playful, and, most importantly, real.
He tries again, lighter this time “Come on. Sit with me. Just for a bit.”
You shake your head “I’m good.”
He groans and drops back onto the crate.
“Cruel…” he tells the crew.
Benn smirks “You chose this.”
“I chose love,” Shanks replies “And now love refuses to hold my hand.”
Lucky Roux points at you “They don’t even look guilty.”
You really don’t.
Shanks looks at you again, eyes soft now, no teasing.
“You know I like being close to you.” he says.
“I know.” you answer.
“And you still don’t want it?”
You hesitate.
“I just don’t need it right now” you say instead.
Shanks watches you carefully, then he smiles gently and patiently.
“Okay,” he says “I’ll wait.”
The crew quiets down a little because they all know that tone.
Shanks never forces, but he also never gives up.
And you keep staring at the sea, pretending your heart isn’t beating too fast just because he wants to be close.
Days pass.
The ship slows down as the sun starts to set.
“Land ho!” someone shouts.
The crew gets busy fast… ropes, orders, laughter. Shanks jumps up, suddenly excited like a kid.
“New island!” he says, grinning “Food, drinks, maybe trouble.”
You move toward the edge of the deck, looking at the island ahead. It’s calm, warm and quiet.
Shanks comes up beside you.
“Hey,” he says softly “Wanna explore together?”
You don’t look at him “I’ll look around later.”
His smile drops just a little.
“Later?” he repeats “Why not when we arrive?”
You shrug “I like seeing things alone first.”
Lucky Roux laughs from behind you “They’re rejecting you again, Captain.”
Shanks groans “Stop announcing it.”
Benn smirks “You notice they always walk ahead of you?”
Shanks looks at you. You’re already moving toward the plank.
“…You do,” he says quietly “You always walk ahead.”
You pause, then answer without turning around “I just walk faster.”
The crew gets off the ship in groups. Laughing. Talking. Touching shoulders.
Shanks walks behind you this time, hands in his pockets.
Yasopp leans down and whispers loudly “He looks like a kicked puppy.”
“I do not.” Shanks snaps.
“You do.” Benn says calmly.
You hear them, but you don’t react.
On the island, Shanks tries again.
He reaches for your hand.
You step aside.
“I don’t like holding hands in public.” you say quickly.
Shanks freezes “…You didn’t mind last week.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
You don’t answer.
He laughs awkwardly, scratching his head “Wow. Okay. Today I’m really not winning, huh?”
The crew watches carefully now. The teasing stops.
Shanks lowers his voice “Did I do something wrong?”
You shake your head “No. You’re fine.”
“But you keep pulling away.”
You finally look at him, and he sees your eyes are calm.
“I just need space,” you say “Please don’t make it a big deal.”
Shanks stares at you for a long second.
Then he smiles again softer, careful.
“Okay,” he says “I won’t.”
But it hurts anyway.
That night, the crew eats together in the village. You sit across from Shanks, not next to him.
He complains quietly the whole time.
“They used to steal my food.” he mutters.
Lucky Roux laughs “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m emotionally neglected.” Shanks says.
You keep eating and don’t look at him. But when you stand up to leave early, Shanks watches you go and this time, he doesn’t joke.
He just follows you with his eyes.
Thinking.
Waiting.
Weeks later.
You say yes this time. Not because you really want to, but because you said no too many times already.
Shanks looks surprised when you agree.
“Really?” he asks, eyes lighting up “Just us?”
You nod “Just us.”
He grins like a kid “Great! I knew today would be my lucky day.”
You force a small smile.
The island is beautiful. Wide streets. Warm wind. Soft light.
Shanks walks next to you, close.
He reaches for your hand. You see it coming and so you move your hand away and pretend to look at a stand.
“Oh— look at that!” you say.
His hand stops in the air.
“…Right…” he mutters, pulling it back.
He laughs it off at first “No hands. Got it…”
You walk side by side but not touching. No brushing fingers. No shoulders. No accidental contact.
Shanks talks less than usual.
You notice. You just don’t know what to do about it.
Later, you leave the village and walk into a quiet valley. Green hills. No people. No noise.
It’s peaceful.
Shanks slows down “So,” he says softly, “this place is nice.”
“It is…” you answer.
Silence falls again.
Then he reaches for you. Slow this time. Careful.
You panic. You step back without thinking.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly “I just…”
Shanks freezes.
His hand stays in the air for a second… then drops.
He looks at it, like it betrayed him.
“…Guess it’s my fault,” he says quietly “always reaching when I shouldn’t.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not— I didn’t mean—” You shake your head, trying to explain “It’s just… you knew how I was when you confessed to me.”
The words come out wrong. Too sharp. Too cold.
Shanks looks up slowly.
“…Yeah,” he says “You didn’t even confess back.”
Your heart skips.
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“This…” he says, pointing between you and him, “…this just happened.”
He lowers his hand “And I don’t even know how.”
Silence crashes between you.
You don’t know what to say. You don’t want to hurt him, but you’re scared.
Scared of being too close. Scared of needing him. Scared of saying the wrong thing.
Scared of saying everything.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” you whisper.
“But you did say it.” he answers gently.
He doesn’t sound angry, and that almost makes it worse.
Shanks takes a step back, giving you space.
“I don’t want to push you,” he says “But I don’t want to pretend this doesn’t hurt either.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
Your fears sit heavy in your chest, locked behind your ribs.
You can’t explain them. You can’t name them.
You just stand there, shaking a little, watching the man you care about look confused and sad because of you. And you hate yourself for it.
Shanks exhales slowly. He rubs the back of his neck, looking at the ground.
“I don’t think you meant to hurt me,” he says “And I know you don’t pull away to be cruel.”
You look at him, surprised.
He gives a small, sad smile “You’re scared. I can see that.”
Your chest tightens.
“But,” he adds gently, “I can’t fix something you won’t tell me.”
You lower your head “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says right away “That’s why I’m not mad.”
He steps back, giving you space again… too much space.
“I’m going back to the ship now,” he says “see you later.”
That’s all.
He turns around and walks away, leaving you alone in the valley.
You stand there for a long time.
Thinking.
About his hand in the air. About his sad smile. About how patient he’s been. About how scared you are.
You hate all this.
When you finally head back to the ship, the sun is already lower. The deck feels… different.
Too quiet.
The crew is there, but they’re not laughing. No jokes. No shouting.
Benn is leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Lucky Roux isn’t eating. Yasopp isn’t smiling.
You don’t think too much about it.
You just ask, softly “Where’s Shanks?”
The crew looks at each other.
Benn answers, calm but serious “He’s been in his room since he came back.”
“…I see…” you say.
No one stops you when you walk past them.
You stop in front of Shanks’ door.
Your heart beats too fast.
You raise your hand and knock.
“Yeah?” his voice answers from inside.
“It’s me…” you say.
There’s a short pause “…Come in.”
You open the door slowly and step inside.
Shanks is sitting on the bed, elbow on his knee, staring at the floor. He looks up when he sees you.
“Oh,” he says quietly “Hey.”
The door closes behind you and suddenly, there’s nowhere left to run.
The room is quiet.
He looks tired. Not drunk-tired. Not lazy-tired.
More like emotionally tired.
You stand near the door, not moving.
“…You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, then shake your head “I don’t know.”
He lets out a small breath “Fair answer.”
Silence again.
You stare at the floor as your hands shake a little.
Shanks notices.
He stands up slowly and then he stops a few steps away.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he says “But I don’t want us to stay like this.”
You swallow hard “I don’t want that either.”
Your voice is already breaking.
Shanks tilts his head, gentle “Then talk to me. Even if it’s messy. Even if it doesn’t sound nice.”
You laugh weakly “It won’t.”
“That’s okay,” he says “I’ve heard worse.”
That almost makes you smile.
You take a deep breath.
“I’m scared…” you finally say.
Shanks nods “I know.”
You look up, surprised “You do?”
“Yeah,” he answers quietly “I just don’t know of what.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m scared of needing you,” you whisper “Scared of wanting you too much. Scared that one day I’ll wake up and realize I can’t function without you.”
Shanks doesn’t interrupt, so you keep going.
“I’ve always been fine on my own. I like being alone. I like space. I like knowing I can leave if I need to.” your hands clench “But with you… it feels different. And that terrifies me.”
Shanks’ expression softens.
“I pull away because if I don’t,” you continue, voice shaking, “I feel like I’ll fall too deep. And if that happens… I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose you.”
Your eyes burn.
“So I keep distance. I pretend I don’t care. I act cold.” You laugh through the pain “Because caring feels dangerous.”
The room stays silent.
Then Shanks speaks, voice low “…You think I’d leave.”
You hesitate “…Yes.”
He exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair.
“Damn,” he mutters “I was afraid of that.”
You look at him.
He looks back at you, serious now.
“You know,” he says, “from my side… it feels like I’m chasing someone who keeps stepping back.”
Your heart sinks.
“I start wondering if I imagined things,” he continues “If I pushed too hard. If you’re just… tolerating me.”
“That’s not true.” you say quickly.
“I know,” he answers “Now. But before? I didn’t.”
He looks away.
“When I confessed,” he says, quieter, “I knew you agreed to it but didn’t confess back. I told myself it was okay. That feelings grow differently. And that we have different ways of showing our feelings.”
He swallows “But sometimes… I feel lost. Like I don’t know where I stand with you.”
That hurts more than you expect.
“I never meant to make you feel that way…” you whisper.
“I know,” he says again “That’s why I stayed and I still stay.”
You look at him, eyes wide “You stay?”
He laughs softly “Yeah. Because even when you push me away, you still look back.”
He steps closer, without touching.
“You care,” he says “You’re just scared of what that means.”
Your tears finally fall.
“I don’t know how to be close without panicking,” you admit “I don’t know how to let someone love me without wanting to run.”
Shanks’ voice softens even more.
“Then don’t run,” he says “Just stand still. I’ll meet you where you are.”
You cover your face with your hands “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
He answers without hesitation “You already did.” then, gently, “And I’m still here.”
You break.
A quiet sob escapes you.
Shanks moves instantly, but carefully “Hey… hey.”
He opens his arms, not forcing.
“I’m not asking you to change overnight,” he says “I’m not asking for constant touching or big confessions.”
You lean into him before your brain can stop you.
He freezes for half a second, then he hugs you. Warm. Solid. Safe.
“I just want honesty,” he murmurs into your hair “When you pull away, tell me why. Don’t leave me guessing.”
You nod against his chest.
“I can try” you whisper.
“That’s enough,” he says “Trying is enough.”
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.
“I’m not here to trap you,” he says softly “I’m here because I choose you. Every day.”
Your chest aches but in a good way.
“And if one day you need space,” he adds, “take it. Just don’t disappear on me.”
You breathe in slowly “…Okay.”
He smiles then. Small. Real.
“See?” he says quietly “We’re figuring it out.”
For the first time, you don’t step away, and Shanks doesn’t rush you.
You look at him for a long second, then, before fear can stop you, you lean forward and kiss him.
It’s soft and careful.
Shanks freezes for half a second, then smiles into the kiss like he just won something precious.
When you pull back, his eyes are bright.
“…Wow,” he murmurs “Okay. Yeah. That was definitely worth the emotional damage.”
You laugh quietly, and realizing he’s truly happy, makes something warm bloom in your chest.
It makes you happy too.
Later you walk toward the dining area together.
Your fingers touch.
You hesitate, but then you let your hand slide into his.
He looks down, surprised, then smiles wide. He squeezes your hand gently, like he’s afraid to scare you.
You’re almost near the crew when Shanks suddenly stops, making you stop as well.
He gently pulls his hand away.
You look at him, confused, but he’s smiling. Soft. Reassuring.
Before you can say anything, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.
Your breath catches.
Then he walks past you, heading straight to the crew like nothing happened.
“Alright!” he says loudly “Who’s hungry? Because I am starving.”
The mood changes instantly. Laughter. Teasing. Relief.
It’s like someone turned the light back on.
You stay where you are for a second, watching him joke and laugh, watching the crew relax around him again.
You smile.
Then you join them.
After a few minutes, Shanks disappears and comes back with a plate of food.
He places it in front of you.
“Eat,” he says simply “You didn’t earlier.”
You look at the plate, then at him.
Slowly, you take it…
…and put it aside.
Then you step closer and wrap your arms around his neck.
The deck goes quiet.
No jokes. No teasing. No comments at all.
The crew watches silently.
Shanks freezes.
You feel his whole body stiff, breath caught.
For one second, you worry you went too far, for him and also for yourself.
Then…
His shoulders drop.
His body relaxes.
His one arm comes up and settles around your back, warm and strong, holding you close.
You rest your forehead against his shoulder, heart racing.
Shanks lets out a small laugh, soft and almost shaky.
“…You’re going to kill me one day.” he whispers.
You smile against him.
But for the first time, you don’t pull away, and for the first time, neither does he.
i wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if i didn't do something quick in honour of the big wet pathetic man 🙂↕️
Idk whether to make my mermaid OC white or black, I’ve been wondering about this for days now 😩 even though her skin colour doesn’t have any impact on her lore whatsoever
I originally imagined her white, but now that I figured out her colour scheme, I feel like black skin suits her better. It brings out the rest
I’m drawing her with Beckman rn to see which one fits best, stay tuned lol (it’s gonna take days)
One Piece chapter 1168 spoilers (Loki 🙂↕️)
He’s like the finest mf of the verse
His chara design is so peak, truly the best of the manga (with Alber’s)
And he deserves the world and all my love
One Piece chapter 1167 spoilers
BEGGING fic writers to write Saint!Shanks x reader with his time in Mary Geoise 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
GUYS THE NEW OP CHAPTER!!!!!!
Chapter 1167 spoilers
No thoughts, head empty, only HIM
HE LOOKS SO GOOD WITH THIS OUTFIT I’M IN LOVE
That’s my family right there 💔💔💔
On a more serious note, I can’t imagine how hard it must be for him to lose his father (Roger) and then having to deny and hate everything you’ve ever know in order to infiltrate your biological family
University is killing all my motivation and time to draw, I hate ittttt
My beautiful OC for Beckman is still waiting to be rendered 💔 (I just need to lock in)
,, Do You Right. ''
Pairing: Benn Beckman x F! Reader
Synopsis... it's easy to be charmed by a playboy like beckman, after all, he and shanks' catch the most eyes on new islands. you'd fallen for it over time, too, and even worse— the playboy himself found it hard to not try and pull you close. playful flirts between close crewmates soon become more real, in just two days.
Contains... SFW+NSFW, absolutely ridiculous and stupid scenarios, reader is implied to have some sexual experience, the red-haired pirates are crazy, everyone is too sassy for their own good, these pirates drink like 1000% concentrated alcohol, teasing, flirting as "jokes", shanks has an olympic medal in cockblocking (and might have a thing for you), why do all the pirates keep getting naked???, beckman is a gentleman sometimes, friends to lovers, red-haired crew gets some love, size difference, the reader exhibits slight masochistic behaviors, hair-pulling, neck kisses, marking, cunnilingus, first time, beckman is HUNG, protected sex, vaginal penetration, dirty talk, and mentions of threesomes. thanks for shaving your beard beckman!!
Word count... 23.5K.
A/N: a gift for @guillotine-enjoyer , one of the funniest and most genuine people here. most silly quirks here have been inspired by my personal headcanons and guillys inputs, i am so very happy of this work.
The pirate ship skipped across the seas, cutting through the waves on the ocean surface like a blacksmith's finest blade meeting a bastard's jugular. Stories full of laughter, rooms full of smoke, barrels full of alcohol— here were the red-haired pirates, back on the Red Force after a drawn out island visit. More liberation to do across the new world, the drawn out journey from the east blue heading to wherever the captain says. Things like that can't be helped.
“Oh- Oh please Lucky, you get drunk about as fast as a sister goes through a box of condoms! You’ve been giving this damn crew hope for twelve years straight that they can beat you, news flash, ain’t gonna happen! There ain’t a soul that can down more liquor than you!”
Slurred words and shouted confessions, feminine giggles from girls who were just there for a good time and the boisterous laughter of Lucky following the hammered speech of a drunken crewmate. The usual atmosphere of any old pirate ship, but it was special to each and every man on that crew, because this pirate ship was the only place they anchored themselves to. Spirits free, serious, melancholic, merry, dancing through time with a smile on their face and scars on their body, their reminders that they belong. But nothing like that's ever been included in the late night banter. After all, why would it? Deep down, they all know that they're happy where they are with Shanks guiding them.
A hundred men, and only one of you, all skipping across the sea foam with a smile to go along with all the foolishness.
Away from most of the chatter, you stand and lean against the railing up on the quarterdeck with your elbows digging into the carved wood, gales of angry wind turning your hair every which way trying to get it tangled instead of tamed. A wisp of a cigarettes smoke lingers near your cheek, caressing your face and allowing itself to be breathed in, accepted wholly. Sharply and abruptly, you wheeze and cough, eyes watering while you gaze in his direction. Guess the gales really do hate you, making sure you inhaled all that smoke.
“Can't the gentlemen put the smoke down for the sake of a pretty lady?” A sigh trails behind your last word laced with a playful lilt, and you turn to face the source of the smoke. His index and middle finger have a cigarette squished between them, the ash breaking off from the tip and flying away with the whipping wind.
“Benn Beckman putting a smoke down? That dog won't hunt!” A helpful Bonk Punch shouts from the main deck below, the fire of laughter roaring back to life. He sure isn’t helping you prove your point.
Beck licks his lips, before his cigarette dips back between them and another plume of smoke is heading for a direct attack on your nose and lungs.
“I’m a man with free will. Can't blame me for thinking the wind would be courteous enough to blow the ash and smoke out the way.”
Benn Beckman doesn't roll his eyes, men should respect and honor women; there shouldn't be any back-talk directed towards a lady. But it wouldn't be too far off to say he's got that same tone the captain does when he's acting “too big for his britches” as Beck would say. Sometimes that man lets his mature personality slip and that sassy young man shines through again.
“It should blow you— that sarcastic tone in your voice, too.” You scrunch your nose as the smoke hits you in the face finally, but then a giggle of yours finds its way into Beckman’s ears after you look at him awaiting a response. For a moment he looks deep in thought, but then smoke is slipping past his lips and heading for you again. It's on purpose, you realize.
You swat at the smoke and glare at Beckman, who simply grins with his cigarette between his teeth and lets out a soft, undetectable chuckle.
“Blow me? I knew you were a dirty girl, but never knew you were this damn bold.”
Amazingly so, you manage to fall deeper into his trap. That liquid courage isn't here to aid you with more snarky remarks and witty quips. The one time a pirate like you doesn't day drink.
“Well— I did say the wind. Not me.” You chew the inside of your cheek, staring down at your shoes. Shifting your weight on your heels while hoping you don't lose your mind the same way you do when you two get to flirting on drunken nights has become a shockingly normal occurrence.
“Really?” Beckman's drawl pokes out for another visit, something else that seems to occur more and more lately. His voice makes you think about him in ways no other crewmate of yours would, soon enough it might even make you think the cigarette smoke isn't even that bad as long as he can breathe it in your direction. Secondhand smoke can wait for your young heart’s beating to return to normal.
“Last I recalled, you said you wouldn't mind it either. Were those heated words just you tuggin’ my heart? Young ladies tend to have a taste for teasing after all, I guess.” He pretends to be upset, even pursing his lips to the side as he steps into place beside you, leaning over the railing as you do. His elbow bumps yours, some cigarette ash landing on your sleeve.
“Gonna say sorry now?” You tease back, huffing a laugh to mask the slight tension that you think may just be your imagination…
“Sorry. I’m real sorry, sugar.” Beckman rasps with a tone of sarcasm, smoke floating up into the sky as the wind calms for just this moment. The goosebumps forming all over your skin aren't just from cool wind, they're from perfectly normal words being spoken like they're the dirtiest thing in the world, and it's downright scandalous the way Beckman has got this way of teasing mastered.
Beckman smiles again, daring you to do something. His eyes are like a personal cheer for you, heavy-lidded and easier to get lost in than the florian triangle, they dare you to say something else, pushing you closer to the edge. Three steps away, and the leap seems so small— and it probably is, but your heart races like it would suck you in and swallow you whole. He really makes you think; why not take that leap?
“Hey, hey, hey, what's going on?” A different grin pops into the small box you and Beckman seem to have isolated yourselves in, slinging his one and only arm around you like you're his other half. Your boss has taken it upon himself to join you two up atop the quarterdeck, butting into conversations as he normally would. A slight scowl etches itself onto your face, and Shanks notices it before you can tense up and correct yourself in your head for being upset over something so silly.
Shanks chuckles and pats your back, then takes a few steps forward to start chatting up Beckman lively as ever. You don't have time for that, you remind yourself of a chore you have yet to do in the belly of the ship, and depart with a polite wave, just to get it out of the way. But really, is that convincing enough for yourself?
The day shifts into night, same as always. But the constant routine is comforting.
Even after every battle your crew fights, every achievement, every raised bounty, every letter from back home— the nights are still full of drinks and cheerful conversations reminiscing about the beginning of your journey, and you wouldn't change it for the world. Lazy partying and drawn out celebrations from the previous island continue out to the next one popping up on the horizon, the fast paced course the ship took through sea king dens while cutting other sea critters in half must have slipped your mind— you just barely remember Yasopp shouting about the next island “which should come up later tonight”; that was then and this is now.
Same as always, you find yourself relaxed over by the rigging, mindful crewmates putting out their cigarettes when they notice you, shouting and offering you a spot at their table to make sure you aren't tired of standing. And like always, you wave them off. Shanks delivers a brief announcement about how he's taking whoever wants to come along into the town to drop off the nighttime lovers, to which most everybody steps out onto the dock with their hands tenderly placed on their ladies. Maybe you wanna tag along, just to see where everyone else would plan to visit for their usual “spontaneous” bar or tavern visits. Boy, you still remember how quickly they spotted Shakky’s bar back on Sabaody.
You chuckle to yourself recalling the past, but then straighten up when you notice a familiar purple cloak decorated in swirls across the deck. He turns around, perking up when he notices you, too.
As Beckman walks up to you, he thoughtfully throws his cigarette down to the floor, stubbing it beneath his leather boot. “Ain’t you gonna go into town?” He calls out, baritone voice startling you and snapping the rest of your mind from your lingering daydream— then he's right in front of you, staring you down in a way that gets you squirming. He stares down at most everyone because, well, he's tall, but right now you know for sure he's really looking at you.
“Depends. Are you coming?” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, crossing your arms while you crank your neck to try and maintain eye contact.
“Want me to?” Quickly swiping his tongue over his lips, Beckman reaches into his pocket, the right one where he keeps his smokes at. His eyes catch onto you, and his hand falls to his side instead.
“You know the answer to that already, so don't you start.” A laugh follows shortly thereafter you finish talking, and you uncross your arms, nudging towards the direction of the wooden dock.
“Anything you want.” Beckman chuckles again, grinning at you while you both begin walking, slowly inching down the ramp until you meet the worn wooden dock.
“Whaddya say we go find the loudest bar and meet back up with the boss?” Beckman refers to the fact that your crewmates probably already dashed away after their ladies got their tickets back home, probably already infiltrated a local tavern. When do they not? When you start to pick up the speed on your walk, you take note of the fact that the wind has definitely calmed down compared to during the day. It might have just been the fact that the red force was going at full throttle, though…
“Here's to hoping he's fully clothed by the time we're there!” You snigger, raising an imaginary glass to the air in a toast, throwing smiles Beckman’s way. He lets a low hum echo from his throat, making fog appear as he exhales. Looks like it's colder than usual tonight.
“Sure you ain’t just saying that to jinx it? I remember we were up at Gartel Island, you were drunk out your damn mind whistling and hollerin’ when Shanks got up to his usual drunken striptease. Do you remember what you whispered to me?” He leans in close— real close, you can taste his breath when he looks into your eyes, he doesn't have eyebrows but you can definitely tell he would be raising one right about now.
“Benn Beckman, you say another word and my foot will be up your ass.” Warmth floods your body when Beckman recalls your drunken antics, which honestly isn't that embarrassing compared to what the other guys have done— for example; you take Lucky Roux's fashion show done entirely in women's clothes, changing in front of everybody included for free while he was stone-cold sober. Shanks also did his fair share of stripping, as Beckman mentioned just now, just about everybody has seen what he's packing. And surprisingly, Hongo is way up there on the podium with Shanks and Lucky, did you know that doctor is into hardcore BDSM? Who would've guessed? Not you, but you aren't going down that hallway ever again. Those three have done the most, you could talk for hours and that won't even be close to summing up what you've seen so far.
A hidden smirk creeps onto your face, before you're pushing away a fit of giggles. “Maybe I do wanna see.”
“Quit it with the perversion, girl. That ain’t how a lady acts.” Beckman shakes his head, a soft sigh escaping his lungs while he recites his signature line of teasing you about how a lady should act.
“Oh yeah? It's how this lady acts, though.” You laugh and remind him, but Beckman knows that. He knows you.
The earth crunches beneath your shoes, but it sounds like Beckman’s leather boots are popping the rocks like balloons with every step he takes. It's kinda funny, Beckman’s got a heavy step and every time he walks on the gravel it's like distant gunfire. Down with the passing thoughts, you two enjoy your comfortingly silent walk towards where you can definitely hear Yasopp loudly telling a story to what must be the whole town. Soon enough you start to pass houses by, then a few local stores, until the noise is deafening as usual, and a purple colored light pours out from a rather large bar, making you assume it's another one of those “trendy” ones that has live musicians and various other things to attract crowds. Before you begin to walk in, you sneak a glance at Beckman again, but he's completely stilled. He notices you, sparing a glance and reaching for his carton of cigarettes.
“Gonna have a quick smoke, might be a while.” Stopping for a moment, he looks over at you, but then averts his gaze to the cigarette coming up towards his lips. You still as well.
“Go on and have some fun, this old man will be there eventually.” The cigarette in between his lips strays to the corner of his mouth as Beckman flicks open his lighter, and the flame illuminating his face in warm orange-hued light reminds you of a time when you two barely knew each other, oddly. When he had a few grey hairs here and there, but not quite the mane full of ashen locks you know now, when Shanks was so eager to know your story that he tripped and fell face first. You brushed the little ragtag crew off at first, but they were persistent. Or at least Beckman was, he was the one who did all the coercing. A sheepish smile of yours is pointed down to the floor when you realize that he seems to be reassuring you, and it reminds you that Benn Beckman has caught onto your lingering looks long ago.
“Yeah. I might get a few drinks.” The tip of the cigarette ignites and he closes his eyes across from you, leaning against the tall fencing outside the bar and tilting his head back. He hums when your words reach.
“Yeah? Give ‘em a smile and they'll be a-pouring all night long for a pretty lady like you.” He throws your words from earlier that day back in your face, grinning as his eyes open, just to flash you a wink for a second. Then they're closing again. You start to giggle, and flash a smile that you aren't sure he could have noticed, and reluctantly you tense your shoulders to greet the crowd gathered inside the bar, swinging the door open and stepping in.
Yasopp is up on the stage, talking about a story different than what echoed throughout the island earlier and making various hand gestures that don't give you a hint as to what they could be— Lucky is surrounded by what seem to be the usual crowd of barflies itching to win bets, and Shanks is surrounded by flirty waitresses. Truly just another day as a pirate. For a moment you look around, not sure whether to just drink and eat or sit and play spades so you don't look lonely, but Shanks hops up from his seat across the bar and makes a beeline towards you, a perplexed expression splayed across his face.
“What’s this? You and Beck arguing? Where’s the big guy at?” Shanks’ face is flushed almost as red as his hair, and you look a little confused as to how he let himself get drunk so quickly, it had only been maybe twenty minutes since you and Beckman decided to set off from the ship. Nonetheless, you turn off your brain for a little and smile at him, stumbling a bit when he once more throws himself nearly straight on top of you, his cheek pressing onto your shoulder as he bends his knees to reach your height.
“Don't tell me you two broke up! I was just about ready to plan the wedding. I’d officiate it and everything, and we could have… Special Lucky Style Catering™! Maybe he'd get onto making that stew he made, remember? It was after we left Marineford… I think?” Shanks is all slurred words and warm breath laced with the smell of spiced rum, so you pat his back and take a step back for some air, no mind paid to his normal teasing about the mysterious relationship you share with Beckman.
It's not any kind of secret that you and Beckman have something that's a little more than just friendly chats going on, it isn't just the laughs you share that bellow across the deck— it's how he talks to you like he's interested for once, not the same flippant tone he uses when the boss asks him a stupid question, it's the way he shys away from staring at you too long, eyes darting away like it burns— it's the fact that he teases you more than everybody else, and not the usual kind either.
Maybe it's the way he entertains your playful and drunken flirts, offering a wave of his hand or an innocent chuckle that differs from the slaps to the back of the head when someone else is too drunk and starts talking to Beck like he's the next lady they wanna bed… He likes to say it's because you're a lady, but that isn't why you get such special treatment, and most everyone knows.
Even when Beckman is friendly to you, it isn't the same when he's friendly with the rest of the guys, and it isn't just the charm he uses to slip his fingertips into the waistband of a different pretty lady's pants. Everyone knows, and maybe even you do. But are the two of you ready to acknowledge that together?
“Okay, let me be serious for a bit. Just a little nosy… what's the relationship between you and him, anyway?” Shanks places his index finger onto his nose, eyes struggling to stay open and on you. You pause, eyes looking from side to side, not a single soul seems to be looking at the two of you— besides the waitress with her jealous glare. If you wanted, you could be truthful and upfront about it for once, but you have a better option in mind. You brush past him, heading for an empty seat beside Gab.
Shanks groans loud enough to alert Yasopp, who tells him to “shut his trap” over the microphone that has suddenly appeared in his hand, eliciting laughter all around. Gab nods to you and orders you a drink, patting your back in a friendly gesture, and he’s smiling, too, teeth and all.
Throwing back a few drinks passes more time than you ever remembered, but the lively atmosphere probably helped you laugh the passing time away. You aren't drunk, it's the damned parties that built up your alcohol tolerance, but you're still no match for Lucky. Tipsy is the word of the day, and your memory flips back to the pages you previously read over an hour ago.
Your eyes flick to the now open doorway, the air shifting when Beckman is peeking inside the establishment, and he scans the area very briefly before his eyes find themselves boring straight into yours. He doesn't smile, doesn't scowl, doesn't narrow his eyes, and his usual smoke isn't in sight— he's in front of you before you can do a double-take, and then he takes you by the hand murmuring words so quiet you definitely can't even hear amidst the chatter.
Eventually, you manage to realize that he's asking you to step outside with him when he gently tugs on your hand. Lacking the reason or wanting to do anything that isn't being dragged around by him, you let him reel you in, leading you outside in the alleyway behind the bar, a place where you now realize only the softest whispers and secrets matter.
“Are you gonna eat me?” A joke escapes your mouth before you can put much thought into it, and you try to refrain from stepping too close to the walls and corners, who knows what the drunkards got up to better than you did? Not a damn soul. Alleyways were for passing out in and slipping away to pee in when the bathroom had a long line, every time you find yourself on an island the crew further proves this point, scattering like the seeds of a dandelion when the wind blows, you still manage to find a good amount of them in an alleyway. In the moment, the situation didn't seem too odd, just another moment you spend with your closest friend.
But it hits you now, you realize that you and Beckman are alone together again.
“Maybe. It’d put my tongue and teeth to better use.” Beckman offers you a playful smile and flirty words, but it's the same jokes you pass back and forth every other night. His fingers twitch and his hand instinctively jerks to his pocket, but he refrains from smoking with you nearby him, and you can't help but relish in the feeling of him caring for you. It eases your anxiety, but the confusion regarding why you're worried pops up soon thereafter.
“I’m actually not sure if we're on the same page. I might just be confusing myself more thinking about this.” You admit with a sigh, furrowing your brows and placing your palm to your forehead to display your confusion.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He snickers, adding fuel to your fire with a tease.
The night now seems to carry a special scent, something both equally pleasant and unpleasant, the smell of petrichor stains the air, which is now littering droplets of water. Rather quickly, you find your clothes begin to stick to your skin as the sky pours down onto your body, showing not an ounce of mercy. Though, your wet skin isn't entirely unpleasant, you actually think some of your best memories involve the rain in some way. Beckman grunts softly, approaching you as puddles on the ground begin to form, the soft pattering of raindrops quickly turns into a torrent of tears from above— threatening all with a flash of lightning and crack of thunder performing in the sky.
Beckman’s purple cape finds itself draped on top of your head, the rain dripping down towards your feet instead of further soaking your body. But Beckman himself is very quickly growing wet, his black shirt sticks to his body like glue, or maybe it's better to say it's like a second layering of his own skin. His pants seem to be suffering the same treatment, the fabric darkening rather quickly, coiling itself around his thighs and getting heavier as it soaks up the water, contouring his body in ways that you definitely shouldn't acknowledge— not aloud, at the very least. You turn away from him, facing the ground instead, because you're sure he would do the same for you had he not allowed his cloak to dampen instead of your own clothes.
He notices your flustered state, despite your body being turned the other direction entirely. He sighs, boots splashing water your direction while he gets closer to you. The rain stops for nobody, and yet you feel like a cloud will open the sky somewhere in the distance.
“Don't be scared.” Beckman says it with this oddly serious tone, like he’s truly attempting to soothe you after you've seen something frightening. There's no smile creeping up in his words, but you can tell it's a crude joke you would sooner hear from the boss rather than Beckman, but you’ve joked like this enough together, so it isn’t like it’s his words bothering you. Then, you let out a huff of laughter, effectively calming your beating heart enough so you can mumble something about going back to the ship.
“As much as I’d like to stay and stare, I don’t feel like catching a cold.” You begin to walk out of the alleyway, and a loud laugh follows you, so close to you that you think Beckman was right next to you. But at that moment, you couldn’t sense him.
“Don’t you fancy staying and starin’?” Beckman speaks loud enough for you to hear over the pouring rain, but you bite your tongue and keep walking, lest you actually do try. A dangerous man like him isn’t any good for an impressionable young lady like you, temptations spilling from those lips of his make it easier to forget that unspoken rule of piracy— no dating within the crew, and one-night stands are especially taboo, no matter how nonexistent the boundaries are between said crewmates.
Then, the teasing you throw back doesn’t make it seem like he’s the only dangerous one. While you continue walking, the heavy feeling of being watched lingers for a while as you head back on the path you and Beckman took to the bar, and you continue to tread slowly, but you don’t want to admit to yourself why you’re walking so slowly in a violent downpour like this one.
The feeling of him watching is what you seek more than anything else, and when it rises to the sky and dissipates into the air, you sigh and start to walk with a little more purpose, lifting the collar of the cloak hanging over your eyes to make sure you can actually see where you're going.
Only when the red force slowly rocks on the surface of the sea as if to say hello to you, not that far away, you relax a little bit. When you walk out onto the dock and head towards your home, the wood is wet and subsequently slippery, so you try to steady yourself as you head up the incline of the ramp. You wobble a bit without any assistance, to which a laugh heads your way. Normally Beckman heads up with you in times like these.
Disregarding anything and everything else, you beeline straight towards the showers, swinging open the door to the bathroom and stepping in onto linoleum tiles, wiping your shoes off so you don't track any pebbles from the gravel or dirt onto them. Beckman’s purple cloak slinks off your body and lands with a displeasing plop sound before you can remove it yourself, the rain soaked into the fabric splashing onto your shoes and ankles. It stares back at you on the floor, begging to be wringed out or picked up off the floor at the very least.
Sighing, you instead tear off your clothes— quite literally, your shirt managed to rip during your battle of tearing it off your skin, and undoing your bra seems even more challenging when you're wrangling your wet hair out from the clasp. Tossing the two aside, you kick off your shoes, which fly towards the wall, leaving a faint print. You try to take off your pants which were already a struggle to get on, but they get stuck right around your ankles, so you spend a while jumping and kicking, finally freeing yourself from your cotton restraints. Only then do you finally get to take your shower.
But the cloak keeps looking at you. And it makes you think of Beckman. When you scrub your scalp, closing your eyes, there's a flash of him in your mind— you crack open one eye to peek at the cloak, but you didn't anticipate how quickly the lather you worked up in your hair would drip down your forehead, and you're effectively blinded.
The rest of your shower goes smoothly besides the occasional knocking, until you actually step out. During your scramble to get to the bathroom, you forgot a change of clothes.
Then, barefoot and covered by only a towel, you make the brave decision to run out into the hallway to your quarters, no time to lose considering the rest of the crew could come back any given time. Many others don't fear their nudity, nor do they fear being caught whilst exposed, but you aren't one of them— that definitely sets you apart from a crew who just can't seem to keep their clothes on when the general public isn't watching. So, you hurry across the hall with long strides, staring down at your bare feet instead of anything else.
Faster than ever, you manage to dress yourself. A simple shirt and pants, but it's not long before you remember your forgotten shoes and Beckman’s cloak.
When you tread back to the bathroom, you're relieved to see that they're still there, and you try your best to tidy the mess you’ve made. The bits of gravel clung to the wall are gently scraped off, and the bits on the floor are swept, then the dirt is mopped. Beckman’s purple cloak is thrown into the washing machine, paired with extra scent beads. He would appreciate it.
A sharp knock sounds at the door, and you excuse yourself, exiting into the hallway once more, planning to head to bed or something.
Benn Beckman has a different idea.
And so, when you look up from the ground, you catch sight of him as he leans against your bedroom door, a cigarette hanging from his lips while he seems to be waiting. He turns his head to the side, leaning back a bit just to where his skull would make a soft thud against your door. Beckman looks down for a brief moment, backing away from your door and heading for you instead.
“Just a second, I’ll put it out.” Beckman hums, plucking the cigarette from his lips before staring at the floor, contemplating if he should really put his cigarette out inside as the smoke trails towards the ceiling, sure to leave its scent festering much to many's dismay. He knows you don't like it when he smokes around you, or anybody for that matter, he always tries his best to respect you in that regard, save for earlier that day.
“Don't stop on my account, if you look that good doing it.” You speak up before he ends up adding another burn mark to the hardwood floors everyone tries their best to maintain. Beckman normally tries to be mindful of these things, as does everyone else, but you can't help but notice pirates don't care all too much about small scratches or marks on the ship, unless it's actually broken or causing issues. Beckman is one of the more neat ones on this rowdy ship. Another one of his chuckles hits you in the face like a gust of wind, and then the game starts over again— more flirting while the night is still young.
“You gonna start this now? I can do this all night, sugar.” He smirks, challenging you with his serious eyes. That gaze full of intensity from earlier is no longer uncomfortable, rather, it's taken on the familiar playfulness that you've grown to appreciate more than anything else. The games you two play regardless of curious people, where you get so caught up in each other's smile and laugh that nothing else exists besides you two.
“Are you sure of yourself, old man? Isn't it past your bedtime?”
When you laugh at your own remark, Beckman can only inhale once again, filling his lungs with more smoke. He stares down at you with what seems like something other than friendly flirting on his mind, and the smoke escapes his lips to disappear into the air. But you think it's wrapped itself around your neck instead, because you choke suddenly— your face feels so warm and it's like the wind is knocked out of you. Acknowledging your heart feels more difficult and tiring as time goes on, and you still haven't asked yourself if it's okay to even consider at a time like this.
“I can go all night, every night. Just tell me if I end up tiring you out, young lady.” Benn Beckman challenges you, this time in a new way. His flirts and lazy grins promise you that it's just banter, but his eyes tell you things that his usual body language masks. Beckman is looking at you in a different way during this late hour, his face is showing something you solemnly see. And you find yourself wanting to challenge it, despite everything you've told yourself previously.
“Oh yeah? Is that so?” It's meant to come out as a tease, but it's laced with a mist of desperation with darker notes of desire and longing. Your chest tightens, because you hadn't meant to give yourself away so soon, because you don't want whatever this moment may be to end so quickly, your eyes can lock onto his because you suddenly feel like you're lost at sea.
“Don't go around giving me eyes like that. I might get the wrong idea…” Beckman speaks slowly, stepping just a little closer, but it's just too close— and you're only a shuffle away from being pressed against him. Locking eyes with him feels like peering into a sea king's very soul in this moment, it's intimidating and both exhilarating to you.
A low whistle interrupts your moment. And of course it's none other than Shanks.
“Where was my invite? Can I still get in on the action?” Shanks was slurring his words, and Beckman could only let out the usual exhausted groan when he had to basically parent him.
“Where's the cape? Cloak? Cape? Must be nice with two arms… Double the biceps to show off…”
Shanks flexes his singular arm theatrically, his eyes half-lidded and staring so far away you suspect he'd gotten himself into another drinking competition. He pauses his drunk mumbling to hold up his finger, pointing it in between you and Beckman.
“Wear protection. Don't end up like G…” Was all he managed to say before he crashed to the floor.
Beckman frowns at the sight of his captain sprawled out on the floor yet again, although it wasn't like that would ever change— he was sure when he was old and slouched over Shanks would still be drinking all the same because he's “still got his twenty-year-old liver”, in Shanks’ own words.. It might just be the fact that he's a pirate. Beckman wonders if all pirates drink insane amounts of liquor by default. Seeing the crew he’s on, that may as well be true.
No use questioning it, Shanks just drunkenly cockblocked him again. Beckman just doesn't feel right letting his poor captain lay there.
He looks over at you again, but takes a long stride back this time. You look down at your captain as well.
“I should've expected this. He's in for an earful tomorrow morning.” Beckman can only glare at your unconscious captain, dreading the fearsome red-haired captain's hangover more than anything else. He spares you an apologetic glance, but focuses on hoisting Shanks over his shoulder, heading off into the direction of the senior officers quarters. He'll probably go to bed.
And you decide that you should too. After such excitement today, all you feel like doing is resting, even though you thought that this night would be a late one that lacked the usual partying. The night is long, and sleep is ducking around corners fast enough to evade you until the sun rises— it's reminiscent of your very first night on the red force, unfamiliar with pirates other than the old timers who never quite made a name that would stop by your home town, you were suddenly thrust onto a pirates crew— one that shot faster towards the stars than anybody had even planned for, a hotshot like red haired shanks was the last person you expected to call captain.
That uncomfortably scorching sun from that first morning as a pirate seemed so distant, and yet it was here again, visiting like an old friend.
“Oh fuck. Was I really going to screw Beckman?” While your morning voice was unpleasant, the realization of your feelings was more shameful than anything else. The short hours of night you wasted being restless wasn't spent on thinking of your actions, rather you thought of how frustrating it was being unable to sleep. Using the time you should have spent working out your feelings, you did pretty much nothing. And you only started thinking once you spoke aloud.
A sharp knock sounds at your door, signaling that today your crew sets off again— meaning whoever it was is here to send you for supplies. Limejuice speaks this time.
“Wakey wakey! We got a long voyage ahead of us, so supply runs today! The boss says that…you and Beckman are getting the booze! Hop to it!”
Shanks was already up? And you were going with Beckman? Why him? Could they.. know? More paranoid than ever, you swing open your bedroom door with such ferocity you think the handle could have broken a hole in the wall, and Limejuice shrieks upon seeing you. Maybe you should have looked in the mirror first.
Do they know about your heated exchange with Beckman? How do they know?!
“Why Beckman?” You sound out of breath.
“Uh… Why not? You two get things done quicker together, plus you always like to bring back gifts since Beck pays for whatever you want. You okay?” Limejuice doesn't get an answer, other than your door clicking shut.
Unable to still your beating heart, you only manage to dress yourself as slowly as possible. Your shoes, your usual everyday outfit, and a lot of courage. You sure talked big, thinking back on it— you have barely any sexual experience and still manage to make all those sex jokes, on top of the playful flirts you throw at your closer companions. But just a few hours ago it was… different. You were crazy— driven mad by whatever it was that drew you to Beckman, the same thing that helped him bed more women than you know. First times are supposed to be vulnerable and loving, aren't they? Why can't you stop thinking about this?
In all honesty, you want to tell yourself to shut up but it wouldn't be very effective.
You feel an immense sense of dread, the walk to your bedroom door suddenly feels like a journey to the executioner's platform, and you're not sure you're able to kneel and look up at the sky before you get yourself killed. Obviously you won't really die, but the embarrassment makes you feel like it's pretty much imminent.
The back of Beckman's head makes its way into your line of vision. Now you can't go back, so you’ll just keep everything locked inside.
“Are you ready?” You reach out to poke his hip and grab his full attention, startling him a bit. When he turns around, a lit cigarette hangs from his mouth, looking a little more bent than usual, as if he might have crushed the pack of cigarettes.
“Sure am. Thanks for washing my cloak, by the way. You forgot to dry it, just letting you know.” Beckman flicks off the cigarette ash onto the deck, blinking a few times at you before giving a nod of his head, and turning back around, shifting on his feet.
“If you pick everything apart then maybe I shouldn't be doing nice things for you.”
“I didn't mean it like that, now...”
You only roll your eyes at him.
As you two head into town, the silence lingering between you two that would normally bring you comfort only makes you feel more uneasy. Each step you take makes your knees feel like they're about to give out at any moment. But you don't let that weakness overtake you, and instead march forward with renewed vigor— in order to keep from having an anxiety attack of some sort. The lack of conversation around your “moment” last night has you on edge.
The more you walk, the more you think, and the more you start to think of it… Every thought slips from your mind, and only your feet hitting the ground are left, you aren't aware of anything else. Until, you find yourself stumbling while Beckman reels you closer by your wrist, stopping you from walking straight into a nearby puddle. A kid running nearby finds himself not so lucky; excitedly stomping into it only for him to be buried waist deep inside the not-so-innocent puddle.
He screeches, and you stifle a laugh, and you intend to move on until the poor kid starts to hyperventilate, wriggling around as if he was stuck inside quicksand . You end up breaking from Beckman’s grip, reaching out to hoist him up, but it's rather difficult with his desperate thrashing about— and he ends up flinging mud onto your shirt.
Even though the poor boy has started sobbing hysterically, you help him escape his predicament. He cries a few moments longer until he realizes the pressure of the hole swallowing him no longer remains. A cheerful smile breaks out onto his face, the childish one that reminds you of how you used to be. It's sweet and adorable, until he runs into your legs, hugging them. As if splashing mud onto your shirt wasn't enough, this devil child is clearly hungry for chaos.
“Thank you! A princess saved me! But wait, does that mean I'm the princess? But you're pretty like one, so I guess you're the princess!”
He’s hopping up and down, shaking you and threatening your balance, all while soiling your clothes more and more with each hop. It isn't until a woman calls out a name— presumably a family member calling for him, that he releases you and runs off without another word. You feel betrayed. And muddy.
“Well. Guess we need you out of those clothes.” Beckman smirks, incredibly proud of himself. His words don't have the same comedic hit as they normally would, and you know this means something, but what? Still, you smile, stepping a bit further away from the mysterious puddle; or pothole?
“Take them off if you want. Nobody's stopping you.” You try your best to ensure that your response matches his energy despite how you feel, managing a cheerful tone. But instead of making you giggle, you feel like you want him to take your response seriously— though he has no reason to.
“Let's finish this up quick.” Beckman guides his hand towards your upper back, pushing you forward with him in the direction of various street vendors, all seeming to offer alcohol. When you pick up your feet and start walking on your own, his hand falls back to his side.
“Yeah. We’ll probably need double the amount for me.” Though you’re smiling, your words aren't usually as playful as they would normally be. You get the feeling that if your feelings don’t resolve themselves soon, you're gonna be competing with Shanks to see who drinks the most booze within the next few days.
“Why’s that? You in a bad mood?” Instead of chuckling and going along with it, Beckman picks up on something hidden in your words, perhaps the tone of your voice wavered slightly, or your eyes may have darkened. Ceasing all movement, and with him as a witness to you freezing up at his confrontation, he can easily guess that something is in fact, up. The two of you know that this won't be something he can just move on from, and while he awaits your response, you try to search for a way out.
Maybe you can run away…? That's out of the question, seeing Beckman run is horrifying. He would probably catch you before you can even break into a sprint. Is running a viable option here? Perhaps being intensely vague is the answer, maybe it would remind him to back off.
But he isn't exactly one to “back off”...
Maybe stay silent?
Beckman clears his throat, shifting on his feet slightly while he looks away, staring off into the crowd at the variety of people gathered about— and it all feels suddenly foreign. The realization hits him harder than any blow he's suffered throughout his entire pirate career when he can only think of a singular incident that could make you act this way towards him. He just knew it had to be him. When somebody else pissed you off, you always ran to him to complain, to which he would give them a stern talking-to.
Beckman had always been there for you, he would let you grumble about whoever took your leftovers, who used your body wash, and every other thing that seemed to come to mind; it was always him you ran to.
Instead of a prideful smile, a regretful look dawns on his face.
“Let's go in that alley real quick. For privacy.”
How wonderful— you can tell he's caught onto you. Even though you know this talk is gonna be painful, you reluctantly trail behind him, your heart stinging at the realization that he isn't holding onto you along the way. This is gonna be a serious talk. Beckman is scary when he's serious. When you walk, it feels like your legs are just dead weight again, there's anxiety making your heart rate spike, and the noisy and cheerful crowd makes you want to lash out. You, too, feel full of regret. Regretting being so vulnerable and giving him bits of the truth before you could figure it out on your own; regretting the fact that you let him draw you in so easily.
But when you stop just a few paces in front of him, standing before him like a showdown is bound to occur, the things you wanted to say in that hallway all still seem so true. Except, you aren't just thirsty for him— you want to be seen by him, and you want him to hear you.
But you wait for him to speak first, same as always.
“Listen. I know what’s got you all twisted up. Bet you know exactly what it is, so there ain't no use beating around the bush.” Beckman sucks in air through his teeth, glancing at you warily.
Taking a few careful steps towards you, he looks right into you again. Here it comes.
“Just let me know what you're thinking. Only good a man can do is listen when a woman speaks. Tell me what you feel.” His fingers twitch, unsure of what to do without a cigarette lit between them. Despite him being a little fidgety, he's doing his best to make sure you feel comfortable enough to share your thoughts aloud.
But you don't even know what to start with. And you try to convey it the best you can in your head, but your mouth ends up closing and opening like a broken automatic door mechanism without a single sound escaping. After some internal struggling and making yourself look like a fool, you manage to speak, and though it's only a single sentence, it changes the situation entirely. “What do you feel? About me, I mean. It feels like we're playing a game of poker; neither of us will win without a showdown.” The moment you rest your mouth, Beckman looks bewildered.
Because his expression is just so unnatural— you panic, clearly confused whether or not your words were extremely offensive to him, or if he was having an internal crisis. This wasn't the collected man you normally knew.
However; the wide eyes turn inexplicably soft, displaying fondness meant for behind closed doors. His mouth slightly agape morphs into a soft smile, one that shows calmness despite your very own panic.
“Don't do that. Y’know good and well I asked first, woman.” He crosses his arms over his chest, still donning a smile.
“Well, I asked second.” Suddenly, you feel a little playful, and your response mirrors that.
Beckman smirks at your retort, suppressing his laughter.
“I’m in love with you.” He chuckles, covering his face with his hand; his snickering turns into full blown laughter, and he has to bend over to even attempt and catch his breath. “Been lovin’ you since the first time you smiled at me. Those giggles that you gave me after I had to tell everybody off the very first day you joined us were like music to my ears. Listening to you talk is the highlight of my day, darlin’. I won't never let you forget it.” He's still laughing, and the pure joy in his voice leaves you flabbergasted.
“You dick— are you fucking with me?” You gasp, reaching out to grasp the hem of Beckman’s shirt. Anger, confusion, and joy well up inside of you— it's too much, so you grab at him as if you were going to drift away again. Gently, you shake him, and he lets you rock him back and forth, before he grasps your hands in his, stopping you. Your hands fit inside of his own easily. Suddenly, you're even more flustered.
“Say it. What do you feel about me? Y’can't dodge it now.” Beckman smirks, gently holding your hands. Shooting him a dazed look, your face feeling hot with embarrassment, you can only give an awkward laugh and look away. He frowns, swiftly fixing your gaze back onto him by guiding his hand towards your chin, making you face him. He's got his serious look again. The frown that shows he means business is quickly replaced by his usual lighthearted smirk, calming your nerves a bit. “Don't say anything dirty… yet.” Beckman adds, chuckling.
Despite your answer still being unclear, it's like the cloudy sky parted just enough for the light to shine down on him the second he confessed his feelings. It might be because he's older and therefore more mature; but he looks like he's going to be at peace whether you accept or reject his feelings.
Your eyes pan towards his lips.
“Watch it. I need words, not actions.” He scolds.
More nervous laughter. And as if it pains you to speak, your words are strained, and clearly telling of how embarrassed you feel. “I love you. You make me feel… things. A lot of them. Don't make me go into detail yet, I’m already feeling like a child being scolded in public. Even though we don't have a crowd watching.” You clear your throat, trembling beneath Beckman's touch, which still remains. He releases your chin, but you stare still into his eyes. Vessels of the soul, speaking to you in ways words and actions cannot, and they tell you the truth. Beckman is in love with you— and you love him too.
“Will you make me yours then, sweetheart? Whatever way you want, I’ll take it. Even if it's a slap across the face, I'm glad to accept.” He leans in to whisper it in your ear, and there's no doubt that he wants to be yours in the moment. But you're suddenly shaking with nerves after his breath fans across your neck, only for him to pull away barely a second after.
Now is time for your actions to speak, you suppose.
When you step up on the tips of your toes, Beckman lets out a huff of laughter, instead opting to hoist you up by your hips, bringing you just about eye level with him. As you wrap your legs around his waist, instinctively trying to not fall, he bounces you up a little, and for once you're able to look down at him. But his hand placement makes this romantic moment seem a little… heated. With his fingers spanning out across your ass, but his palms pressed flat against the back of your thighs, you feel like if you hesitate longer, he'll let go of you.
After a short pause, your arms wrap around his neck, and you lean back a bit, adjusting yourself the best you can in mid-air. Beckman keeps his eyes on you, all the way until you finally lean in closer for a taste.
And this new flavor is nothing like you’ve had before.
Not many have faced your lips, and not once has a kiss ever felt like this. It could be your feelings towards him, forming a grey mist and intoxicating your mind until nothing else comes close to satisfying you the way he does, or it might just be the fact that Beckman isn't ordinary, not at all. Locking your lips with his own isn't too special, it's clear that there's a gap between you two in terms of experience, but it should have been a normal kiss.
There's nothing to get drunk off of but him, nothing here to get you higher than his grip on you, and with each passing second you get more lightheaded.
It might just be the fact that you haven't pulled away from him yet. Facing him is like a fever dream, and kissing him crumbles your understanding of your reality as you know it. Were you ever meant to take him as yours? What would you have done if he belonged to another? Is such a thing possible? Feeling his touch on your body affirms you, but just not enough, with your eyes closed tightly it feels like the only thing before you is a lie. A kiss from him alone has made you question reality itself.
A sharp pain shoots through the back of your neck, and it feels like something's pulling at your hair from the root. The size of the hand grasping you suggests that it's Beckman, and you get confirmation when you yelp and your eyes shoot open. He's panting, another anomaly.
“Slow down, girl. You tryna take me out already?” Beckman scolds you, though his tone is firm, he's got a smile creeping up on his face. He quickly releases his hand from your hair and neck, but a dull ache lingers with another sensation. “Probably shoulda handled that better. Ended up grabbing you by the scruff like a feral cat, I shouldn't have.” Shadows of shame and guilt linger in his eyes, but his hold on you is still solid— it's just now that you realize he’d been holding you up with one hand for a while now. It's your turn to feel embarrassed, now.
“No complaints here. You should do that more often.” A playful laugh and your half-joke half-truth help you process the fact that you and Beckman are a thing now; it seems too good to be true, but the lingering taste of cigarettes in your mouth helps pull you back to earth. Now that you two have officially become a couple, and your internal conflict is resolved, you suddenly remember that you two were sent to retrieve booze. Beckman, on the other hand, doesn't seem too concerned with the alcohol, and is much more invested in you at the moment. That damned smile tells you that errands aren't his priority, and they've been forgotten since you showed him what you wanted.
“Want me to grab you by the hair again?” Suddenly, he whispers in your ear, still every bit playful but with an intent that certainly isn't just to make you giggle a little bit. It sounds like a serious request. A smile of your own dazzles your face. “Does the responsible Vice Captain truly think it's acceptable to ditch a booze run for a lady?” Despite your lighthearted teasing, you begin to coil yourself tighter around him, resting your cheek on top of his head with a satisfied smile.
Beckman thinks it better to remind you that he would, in fact, drop anything for you; he begins to do so by pressing soft, fluttering kisses against your jawline. It catches you completely off guard. Though as his lips persist in their gentle shower of love against your skin, you start to heat up, unable to resist the stimulation in such a sensitive area, but you relax the best you can, in spite of your arousal beginning to crescendo. Contrasting all the kisses, his tongue moves deftly to meet the soft skin on your neck, the whispered touch eliciting a squeeze from your thighs which couldn't possibly tighten themselves much more around his waist.
Depraved and perverted thoughts plague you deeply, whispering poison into your ears about the possibilities you could open up, but, preserving some morality— you refrain from doing so.
Not completely, anyways. Your elbows still find themselves resting on top of his shoulders, but your hands find themselves tugging gently at the ends of his slicked back hair, not trying to harm him, but using it as an anchor instead; a reminder to be mindful of your actions, as you are technically still in public. A stinging pain threatens your dignity, stemming straight from your scalp, which now has Beckman's large hand tugging at the roots of your hair once more. Faced with Beckman being so amative, a moan threatens the barely-there stillness in the alleyways air, but a quick and harsh bite to your lip maintains it, muffling your moan.
“Are you really—”
Before you can question if he wants to go all the way inside of an alleyway, he reminds you of the man he is with a soft nip to your neck, and a loosened grip on your hair, which then de-escalates to a tender massage to the area affected by his earlier stunt. “If I was anybody else, maybe. But I’m yours now. Lemme getcha down.” You feel yourself being slowly lowered to the ground, but you feel as if you’ll barely be able to stand once again, though the reason now differs from what hindered your will to stand earlier.
“I’ll toss you over my shoulder if I have to. But I got barrels to carry, too.” After shooting you a look, you nod and put yourself back together quick as can be.
You start to walk in front of him, but once again, you’re hindered by a grip on your wrist. It doesn't remain there for long, because it soon moves to engulf your own hand. Only then does Beckman start to walk.
“You're a romantic, aren't you?”
Beckman shakes his head at your triumphant smirk, but breaks his brief silence with a comment that makes you begin yours.
“You’re thirsty, aren't you?”
Despite you shooting him dirty looks the entire time, he isn't fazed, and instead focuses on hitting stalls that cater to universally favored kinds of booze, ordering egregious quantities of bottles and the occasional barrel, helping you by carrying the fragile glass and a barrel here and there in a shocking display of strength, which makes yours dull in comparison, though you're confident the average marine doesn't hold a candle— you're just surrounded by absolute monsters. After carrying around what feels to be a few Lucky Roux sized barrels, Beckman locates a wagon, placing the barrels onto the device and pulling it along with you two, finally reaching to grasp your hand in his once more…
But you're still carrying more than half of the glass bottles you've bought, and your hands are full. Seeing your struggle, Beckman smiles, but because of the pile of bottles obscuring your vision, you can't see him. Met with this safety hazard, Beckman frees one of his own hands with ease, guiding you with his hand on your lower back.
Walking with poise regardless of the amount of bottles you carry, and with a guiding hand, you make it to the ship without further incident. You hear the sound of the ramp being raised, then Shanks barking out orders, and finally, Beckman speaks up.
“Set 'em down in front of you.” A flicker of his lighter is heard despite the heavy footsteps and chatter around you two, and not long thereafter you bend over and breathe a sigh of relief, your arms feeling a little sore, but the feeling isn't all that bad. When your vision is no longer obscured, the first thing you see upon standing straight is Beckman, holding his hand up to shield the flame of his lighter from the wind, cigarette in his mouth and a warm glow illuminating his face. You’re on deck, and everybody is already falling into place with their own crates of loot, some looking like life has drained from their eyes, and others looking like they won the lottery.
“I’m more hungover than the morning after I joined…”
“I got a discount! That woman was giving me the eyes, I tell you!”
“Hah! You? The eyes? She probably just saw me walk past!”
“You wish!”
Beckman turns away from you to exhale the cigarette smoke he’d gathered in his lungs, the wind picking up and whipping against you two as the ship begins to glide across the surface of the ocean yet again. Though changes have occurred, you don't think tonight will hold any surprises.
Maybe Shanks will finally win against Yasopp in a game of cards without cheating, or everybody will keep their clothes on and finally stop playing strip poker, there could even be a new competition to emerge— but all of those things are incredibly unlikely, and you won't get your hopes up when it comes to things like that. Actually, you have a question that needs a bit of answering at the moment. With your newfound romantic relationship, you're a little lost on a few things, still. Would it be appropriate to announce it to everybody? Should you let them figure it out?
Beckman's opinion matters in this, certainly— you sort of just want him to help you figure it out.
“Beck?” You begin speaking softer than normally, turning to face Beckman, with the sunset slowly but steadily painting the sky a wondrous work of colors, Beckman's shadow begins to cast itself high over you. He taps ash from his cigarette, which the wind carries away from you, and gives you a questioning glance and a curious hum.
“How do we go about telling them about us? I mean, I’ve never been in a relationship like this before, and I don't feel comfortable keeping secrets from the guys…” Even though you're asking for his input, and will most likely go with whatever he says, you still think of all the outcomes each method could yield. There could be drama, disbelief, disapproval, maybe even disappointment… If you're with Beckman, does that mean the playful flirts and jokes with everybody disappear?
You can't tell if you're gonna miss that, or if it's disrespectful to do so. So many questions about your relationship remain, and it'd be awkward to interrogate him like an admiral.
“We don't. Won’t be no secrets, either. They've been joking ‘bout us being together for a while now, so we'll just see how long it takes ‘em to notice we're for real now. I got a bet to win regarding that.”
Just before you respond, he starts to walk away, but not before patting your ass gently in what you assume was reassuring— but may have been an action borne of his woman-loving and lustful nature. You can't even respond to his impulsive gesture— managing only a curious look that mirrored his from earlier.
“TIME FOR THE SETTING SAIL PARTY, EVERYONE!”
“Dying liver? Don't know ‘er!” Hongo laughs, sparking concern in only you, it seems. Guffaws and cackles overwhelm your senses yet again, and despite the usual calm not being there, you do your best to indulge yourself in the usual party life.
“Wait— don't go too crazy on the booze, we just got it!” Sparks of panic fly from your voice, but there isn't anything for it to ignite, because everyone else laughs and waves you off as if a lack of booze would ever befall onto them. Somehow it's like only you remember the great drought that nearly took everybody out right just a few years ago.
Hours pass, waves splash onto deck, yet the crew remains rowdy as ever, dancing so foolishly that the gods of rain are on the verge of causing a great flood to wipe every last one of you out. Limejuice pulls Hongo in for a dance, but he ends up sparking another argument between the two, Lucky marches straight into the battlefield with a plate of what looks like donuts, quickly diffusing the situation with the desserts by shoving them into their mouths, making them moan dramatically at the flavor, what looks like a cream filling flooding their mouth and seeping out through the corners. Rockstar breaks out into an uncontrollable laughter upon noticing the sight, throwing his cards up into the air; much to Yasopp’s dismay. Shanks also glances with a dangerously curious smile.
“What's so funny?” Limejuice hums, catching the attention of many. There's still some filling smeared on his lips.
“Oh, nothing… You sure got a mouthful of that cream, huh?”
“Huh? Yeah, guess so… Wait—”
Hongo starts to laugh, covering his mouth with his palm. He clenches his fist, massacring the poor donut in his hand, much to Lucky’s absolute horror. Limejuice starts to form a toothy grin.
“My babies! MY DONUTS!”
The events that conspired after Lucky fell to his knees in utter despair were definitely set to be in the history books of the red haired pirates. Laughs; groans; falling to the floor with laughter that worked their tear ducts to the point of crying; banshee screams coming from a stone-cold sober Lucky Roux; the cream filling smeared on Lucky’s shirt as he cradled the donut Hongo dropped during his fit of laughter as if it were his own child; Shanks’ own laughter was the straw that broke the camel's back, however.
Everybody was laughing, ridiculously shrill giggles and deep baritone laughs, even Gab’s kind face was twisted into a smile, which made your own smile pop out even if just for a second. The same laughter failed to arouse in you, but the sight was amusing. It was a little gross watching Limejuice accidentally spit his chewed-up donut on Hongo when he started to laugh with his entire stomach, but the tussle they had afterwards made you giggle, especially when Yasopp dove in between them like he was prepared to swim.
“IF YOU KEEP FIGHTING ME ILL STRIP NAKED! LIKE A TURTLE HIDING IN ITS SHELL, BUT IN REVERSE!” Limejuice shrieked, knocked to the floor by Yasopp’s dive, but Hongo scrambles to get back to him, pushing Yasopp out of the way, which results in him rolling around until he hits a wall.
Oddly enough, after you blink, Limejuice is in his skull printed boxer briefs, and for some reason, Hongo is shirtless. Shanks, upon seeing the commotion, also goes through the motions to strip himself of his clothing. From there on out, it's like a domino effect, shirts and pants pile up, and some even strip their underwear— Gab sits on the quarterdeck, sharp teeth showcasing a nervous grin as he removes his shirt as well, and Building Snake tosses his clothes down from the crows nest, still intensely scanning the horizon for any disturbances or disturbances to be.
It's still baffling how quickly these men get up to ridiculous antics whenever they're bored, and it's even more baffling watching Shanks run up the stairs to where Beckman stands by the palm trees, previously hidden from you, and yells at him to pull his shirt off, too. As if you weren't having a hard time handling a bunch of half-naked and fully bare men, Beckman obliges and pulls off his shirt, too.
The lights on the red force barely provide enough illumination for you to see, but you think that Beckman is laughing. Much to your dismay; Shanks runs towards you next.
“Hehe… You know what I'm here for.” He waggles his fingers in front of you like an old pervert, making you freeze.
“Absolutely not.”
“You're a damned hypocrite, lady! So you can ask me to strip, but when I ask you to, I’m met with rejection! Terror!” His bottom lip quivers, and his drunken attitude is enough to distract you from his naked body.
“A good man listens to a woman.” Parroting Beckman's earlier words, you cross your arms over your chest, turning on your heel so Shanks is only faced with your back. A few who noticed your exchange boo loudly, making you roll your eyes.
“Blah, blah, blah… You're starting to sound just like the old guy! Maybe the wedding is going to be soon. Or maybe it's because he's pregnant. Hm…”
“You deal with that. I’m turning in.” Gently patting Shanks bare shoulder, you walk in the direction of your quarters, not stopping for anybody. He doesn't bother you much more, but you know for a fact when he wakes up remembering the way he treated you, he'll freak out and apologize to you on hand and knees. You've never minded when they tried to include you in their stripping antics, after all, what's a little nudity to pirates? They're half naked all the time, anyways, so it probably makes sense that they want you to feel included.
Heavy footsteps trail behind you as you reach your bedroom door. There's an odd sense of déjà vu shooting throughout your fingertips.
“Beckman?” Calling out to the man behind you, there's a nervous feeling in your bones. His cologne mixed with the usual scent of cigarettes float towards you, but it's not there to torture you, instead, it feels like that's just a preview of what's to come, though you still can't process exactly what that means. Turning around to face him gives you whiplash, as he's still shirtless, all muscular and looking extra dangerous now that he's all yours.
“I want to tell you something. Won’t do me good keeping secrets from my woman.” He throws his cigarette to the ground, disregarding the already poor state of the planks, and stubs the already dying flame out. His boots hit heavy against the ground as he walks closer to you, making you freeze in place. He isn't scaring you, or intimidating you in any way, shape, or form, but he's definitely making your heart race. Your fingers are twitching and cracking for some action, inner thighs tingling upon the remembrance of how he held you by them back then, and your pulse thunders especially loud in your neck.
“You’re still in your muddy clothes from earlier. Couldn't love you any less, though.” Your face falls immediately.
“Seriously?” Scoffing, you turn and swing open your bedroom door, stepping inside to the familiarity of your plain room. No use in decoration when the rocking ship just throws your belongings around everywhere like they owe money. Your hand reaches to shut your door, eyebrow twitching in annoyance, but a large hand slams against it, stopping you from closing it. Beckman's holding your door open.
“Hold on now— I was just jokin’. Sorry.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, eyes closed with his face donning yet another smile, and he's clearly struggling to not laugh at you. “Don't be a stranger. You know I want you.” Beckman snickers, staring down at you again.
“Do I, now? I think you need to refresh my memory.” Like you were doing so before last night, you keep testing his limits. Though you made him break them the first time you kissed him.
“Sure can do, darlin’.”
Unable to contain the feeling of pure excitement rushing over you, a smile borne of absolute and pure joy etches a beautiful expression onto your face, and you can only turn away as to not reveal yourself. Beckman is still smiling, too, but he isn't half as secretive as you, all toothy smiles and glossed over looks shooting at the back of your head. While you refuse to face him, a dance of fire and need begin in the pit of your stomach, making your stomach participate in all sorts of acrobatic acts. Only when his hand guides your gaze back to him do you start to giggle. It's a little embarrassing , but the laughter is borne of nerves, so you hope he doesn't pay much mind to it.
After all, Beckman is one of the only people who knows you well enough to guess when things have gone awry, and he certainly wasn't the last person that could guess you weren't very experienced with men in this way. As a connoisseur of women, he began to catch onto such things, and though it was never explicitly stated, he knew various things about you. Regardless of all the women, he's fueled by a raging determination. Beckman is a disciplined man when it comes to varied circumstances, and he would not abandon his own principals in a time like this.
Disregarding the fact that he nearly drove himself wild trying to get into your pants the previous night, having to distance himself from you so that he wouldn't do something he assumed you would regret— and now blessed with the understanding that it wasn't just for a single “meaningless” night that you gave him such a concupiscent look, but rather, for a way to vent your feelings buried deep down. Fully realized, the intimacy between you two is entirely apparent.
“Look at me.” Beckman all but orders you, wrapping his arms around you, the warmth of his chest and stomach pressing into your back, making you shudder at the sensation of his bare skin barely shielded by the thin fabric of your blouse.
“Will you let me take it off?” He’s bent his knees just enough for his cheek to press against yours, a hand moving from around your midriff, sneaking up towards your jaw to turn your head towards him. On the other hand, his fingers dance across your stomach, drawing out more giggles from you, but it helps you process that he wants to take off your shirt. In an effort to help him, your own hands reach towards the hem, making Beckman stand back to give you space whilst you remove the soiled garment. When it's up and over, he creeps back up behind you, hands grasping your hips abruptly enough to make you cry out, but you calm down when they start to massage small circles into you with their palms.
Warm, slightly calloused, and significantly large hands grasp your skin, and just when you think you know what's happening, he's pressed against you again and offering something more exciting than before. There's something else prodding at your back this time, and the size of it alone tells you all you need to know, your body tenses involuntarily, flipping through pages of memories without call, to when the rain soaked through his clothes entirely. Realization hits you like a train—will you fit that ridiculously sized thing inside? Can you handle something like that?
Watchful as ever, lips press themselves against your now bare shoulder, a sneaky finger slipping beneath the strap of your bra. Under your breath, you whisper a shaky prayer to none in particular, followed by your hand reaching out to grip a finger straying from your hip, planning to dip beneath the waistband of your pants. Breathing shakily, you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing yourself for what's to come. It's not the sexual nature of this encounter that's frightening you, but it's the realization that you’d be giving yourself to him in an entirely new way, something you've just barely discovered. But you're sure he always belonged to you, as you did to him.
“I’m gonna carry you for a second.”
When it comes down to who has better reaction time, anybody would win over you. Because of this, you end up having a small heart attack when he lifts you into the air, only to gently lay you down on your bed before you can even reach out to grab him for security. Your bed must have reminded your lover of something sour, because he narrows his eyes more than usual, staring down at it with disdain as you are sprawled out on top of it. His stomach rises and falls with a deep sigh, the sight pleases you, but you don't think to question why he's sighing.
“Shoulda thought this through. Back up you go. More room on my bed, unless you want it on the floor.” Mumbling to himself, Beckman seems a little annoyed.
Beckman disregards the half-naked state you found yourself in, and reaches down to grasp your hand inside of his, hoisting you up and tossing you over his shoulder as if you were a simple barrel of rum. Terror shoots through you when he ducks beneath the door frame, and walks out into the hallway. Frantically searching the hallways yields no results, much to your relief, and everybody seems to still be out on deck, according to the loud noise.
“Aw man! Hey, where's Beck at?”
The chatter outside on deck makes Beckman perk up, and he speed walks towards his bedroom with a serious determination— but not without ensuring he not so sneakily gropes your ass, hand dwarfing it almost entirely. Feeling up your ass wasn't everything he got a hold of, his fingertips might have gone a little too close to the sun, which is, of course, your clothed heat. Now you're even more impatient. Eyes closed tight as if you were silently wishing on a shooting star, you don't even notice when you all but bounce on top of a bed, which is Beckman’s.
Opening your eyes wide in surprise after you nearly scream in shock, you can see a smoky grey wallpaper, a beautiful carved armoire, and the exceptionally large bed, that you assume was made for three, which you now lay on. Of course a womanizer has a bed made for three. He's big, but not that big, he could have sized down. Suddenly, you feel mischievous.
“A huge womanizer with a huge bed. What a surprise.” Snickering, you prop yourself up on your elbows, legs spreading out onto the soft cotton sheets as you look up at Beckman. Muscles flex as he turns back to shut the door, ensuring the nefarious amount of locks built into it are secured, you can only make the assumption that it must be to avoid being walked in on by Shanks. There have been a surprising amount of stories where your captain would sleep walk and end up in bed with another crewmate, more specifically Beckman, who had relayed the ridiculous stories to you after a few shots of whiskey, neat.
“Pretty girl with a bratty mouth. And she's got quite the body on ‘er, good enough to eat.”
Beckman looks back at you with a devious glint in his eyes. The good kind. Managing only an eye roll, you don't pay much mind to Beckman's words; at least, you pretend not to. Good enough to eat, he says… It reminds you of that rain-soaked night, the joke made in poor fashion, and you wonder if even then he knew he wasn't joking. “You’re a nasty man. Filthy, even.” Feigning annoyance, you place the back of your hand to your forehead, imitating a dramatic swoon, and shut your eyes. They spring back open once the mattress dips on either side of your thighs, and you’re meeting Beckman’s gaze again only to find that he's pressing kisses to your neck again, forcing your eyes to flutter closed.
Despite him practically caging you in with his body, it provides only comfort, his body heat flashes against your stomach in the same way the wave of warmth shoots between your legs, and it makes a soft moan escape you again. Beckman enjoys the small sound, licking softly at your throat, before pulling away long enough to nip at your earlobe, spending the rest of his time kissing alongside your jaw, suckling softly on your throat and collarbones, but never long enough to form hickeys. He was always the first one to comment on how childish it was for the younger men to have hickeys on their collarbones and necks exposed, scolding Shanks especially.
Benn Beckman’s experience shows in many ways, this isn't even half of it— it's not a quarter of what he could do to you, you're sure. He knows you, inside and out, all the complaints you threw at him, the bickering that suddenly wasn't funny when he teased you about a certain thing, it's all the tools he needs to dig your grave. But you might come undone before his belt does. Is this a normal thing? All you can think of is what comes next, and it's exciting, truly, but the moment presented to you has you shaking. Beckman leans in towards your lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. They don't meet. You chase his lips without a second thought, and he indulges you, satisfied with your chase.
Before you can deepen the kiss, you find that Beckman is already pulling away, shuffling backwards on his bed until his head is just above your thighs. This mattress is a ridiculous size. Fraternizing with your fellow crew isn't really allowed, says the pirate world. But when Shanks brought you back and Beckman showed his face, he should have known this would happen. Especially when you know Shanks was already expecting this.
“Want me to make you feel good?” Two of his fingers are already reaching down to trace your hip, jumping over the belt loops on your pants to reach your zipper. He pauses for just a moment, but he already knows your answer. Yes, you nod, but he stalls. You can read his mind at this point in time, but he still says it.
“You can do better than that.” It's clear and soft spoken, a quiet urging that seemed dull the first time you heard it, when you were sitting at a bar many islands ago, nursing a drink to commemorate your initiation. Beckman came up to you, commented on your drink choice, and spoke those exact words. You thought he was prick. He is, sometimes.
“I want you to make me feel good.” Your voice isn't nearly as soft as his, which would usually be the opposite.
He unbuttons your pants with a singular hand, like he deals with these things everyday— you know he does, or, well, he did. Soon enough, your zipper is unzipped, and your pants are being pulled down to your ankles, before Beckman tosses them onto the floor or a corner, you think. Your eyes remain laser focused onto him and his hands, the notion of him undressing you is more erotic and sacred than you'd ever remembered it when it came from someone else, something that would only earn a nervous smile has your heart skipping more beats than what's healthy. Maybe you need to see Hongo.
Slower than anything else thus far, Beckman's fingers run along your panties, gently teasing your clit through the fabric, surely leaving a mess in the thin veil left between your secrets and his drooling mouth making way for hot whispers. The fabric laps up what melts from your core, but your want proves to be too much for the soft cotton.
Beckman fails to hide his pleased smile.
One of his hands trails down his own body, and you can hear the soft clinking of his belt buckle being undone. The sound makes you jolt, pressing yourself into the fingertips which tease your clit. Beckman’s leather belt hits the floor as soon as your thighs tense up. So soon? Desire has been driving you crazy, and surely it has been doing the same to him, if you're every bit desirable as he says…
You continue to eye up the man below you, his breathing that remains out of sync with yours is a tantalizing glimpse into a future you wish could catch up sooner than later, and with that you manage to calm yourself. Only you know your body best, but Beckman is shaping up to be in competition with you. More successful with women than his own captain, if one person knows romance and sex, it's always going to be him.
“Not yet.” He reassures you as if reminding you not to shoot too early, all he's missing is the hand held up in the air, but it's resting between your legs, tugging at the trim of your panties to pull them aside and bare your body to him. As the air hits your cunt, there your body lay, nearly every inch throbbing with need, the rest of it is dusted with admiration, the kind you feel in your bones every time another touch lands itself between your legs. In an effort to relax, you take a few deep breaths. Beckman, perhaps wanting to spike your heart rate again, or maybe just impatient, stops your efforts when he tosses your legs over his shoulders, and hoists your hips up with his forearm just enough for your clit to meet his mouth.
All that sounds throughout the room is your quiet breath. The touch is earth shattering in its own way, but a kiss to your clitoris isn't all he has in store for you, you're sure.
“Tap me three times whenever you want me to stop.”
He peeks at you from between your thighs, giving way to another smile from you. Normally stood big and tall, you hadn't thought of how he would look on his knees, until he decided to show off to you tonight.
“Got it.”
He adjusts himself again, and presses a warm kiss right where you split open, his tongue wiggles out to lick at your opening, the sloppy kisses are like the ones he pressed to your neck, in the sense that they're making you feel so good, but they simultaneously remain detached from him just simply kissing you the way he would any other way. When his lips meet your own, it's a testament of passion, as his tongue touches your neck it's a tease he loves to drag on, but when his lips and tongue touch you right where you've been needing it, nothing compares. Beckman would agree, too.
Your first time together, and the tart taste you leave on his lips is a flavor he knows he won't find anywhere else, a drinking source he would go to day after day, night after night, each and every evening, he would drop to his knees before you, not caring how sore they’d gotten, nor what other things he may have had in store that day.
This delicacy was something irreplaceable, an alluring gem lost at sea. He’d found it, after fifty years of his life waiting from the first breath he'd taken. It draws him in deeper, his tongue moves deeper inside of you, coaxing out more fluid; you're wet enough that he can't differentiate his own drool from your arousal. Your unclothed heat continues to wash out anything else he'd tasted earlier that day, which was mainly just the tobacco from his cigarettes.
In the warm lighting of his bedroom, the glistening liquid dripping between your legs patters against the sheets like the rain leaking on stormy days. Beckman’s tongue finds its way to the leak, plugging it right at the source with a practiced movement, honed over the years. His arms wrap around your thighs, squishing them and pulling you in close like a snare trap, until your lower body is hoisted up high by him. He’d shifted into his knees, and was still crouching, yet you felt the blood rushing towards your head slowly.
And still remains the gushing between your legs. This night is starting to feel like one that won't end, it shouldn't. What with Beckman’s skilled tongue massage, there’ll be tears to shed when he lets up lapping at your hot pussy.
A foggy feeling creeps inside of you. Biceps grip your thighs tighter, and your heels bang against hardened shoulder blades, instead of your murmured apology, a whimper comes out. The feeling becomes clear, and quicker than you'd ever had it. Beckman can surely feel your walls twitching, hear the breaths you’re sure are soft moans, and feel the way you jerk against his face, but tense up as if shocked by yourself.
With a smack of his lips to your clit, and a push of his tongue inside of you, only for him to pull it out and flatten it against the wetness of your cunt and firm clit, the man holding you by your thighs has you on the edge of greatness. But instead of your weak grasping at it with a floppy wrist, your eyes go wide before they squeeze shut, your legs jerk and your heels dig in an effort to scramble closer and closer, every thread of you is splashed with seawater, and not for the first time nor the last, your body bursts with life.
Something satisfying flourishes, in swirls of heated sparks from the wildfire inside, at this moment your skin feels to be glittering in artificial lighting through every crevice. The fire blazes still. Your joints stiffen, and your eyes creak open, gazing in awe at the way the fire spreads throughout even the tallest trees. In a beautiful, dangerous display, Beckman’s eyes are closed too while he bathes in the heat coming down on him. You peer at the man, beginning to feel that a fire is bound to happen within him soon.
As silent as possible, you're lowered back onto soft cotton sheets that smell like the hands that linger on your skin. Some parts are cool, others warm from your thrashing. Even the smallest twitches of your fingers and toes make you jerk harsher, but Beckman patiently waits, pants unzipped and belt long gone, he splays his heated hand across your stomach and rubs gently; everything melts away quicker. Still blinking away your bliss, you are finally able to take in the scene fully again, and find yourself paying the most attention to Beckman’s wet lips and moist chin. The lighting on his skin still finds a way to further arouse you, and your eyes go back to wandering as if you'd just entered his room for the first time again.
While you lay back and catch your breath, you find yourself closing your eyes, as if you were tired. It's not over yet, you know. After a moment or two, your eyes snap open, unable to ignore the feeling of Beckman shifting to loom over you. You look down at your legs, verifying that his pants are still there— he notices your worried expression, and barks out a laugh. “Scared? I’ll take good care of you.” As he speaks, he leans back down to your neck, kissing gently, slowly trailing his lips across your jaw until they press against your cheek, licking at the corner of your mouth until he finds himself pressed against your lips. Your eyes close again, and your hands find their way to Beckman’s back. It's still shocking to you that you can barely wrap your arms around him, and despite your efforts, your hands can't map out all of his back. Instead, they dance towards the back of his neck, pulling him in closer just as he attempts to pull away.
He grins into you, and presses his body into yours, but not before gently parting your thighs, trailing his index finger along your labia. Not once in your life have you recovered from an orgasm so quickly, ready for another. If it's him, you've decided that you’ll be greedy.
You breathe into him, and he inhales all of you. His middle finger dips between your labia, gathering the arousal falling from your slit and begins to press against your hole again, just to see if you could take it. The need inside of you catches you both by surprise by sucking in Beckman’s finger with a shocking urgency, as if he could let go of you at any moment— you pull away from the kiss, struggling to catch your breath. His finger reaches deeper than his tongue did, and Beckman swirls it inside of you, helping with easing your walls up enough so he could slip a second finger in.
His ring finger slides in right next to his middle one, the two digits cozied up next to each other as if they were one, they explore the inside of you, mapping out what spots to hit later on. A strangled noise crossed between a gasp and moan slips from you when you feel one of Beckman’s thumbs brush against your clit, while his fingers reach a spot deep enough for your whole body to go limp. All thoughts escape you, and the fingers inside of your warm pussy don't falter in their movements now that they seem to know just where to press. In a singular flick of his wrist, the man on top of you makes your own wrists crash weakly onto the bed, laying by your side.
Facing such sexual expertise, your body shivers. It doesn't feel real, how quickly he made you cum; with him beginning to finger you now, you worry that when his pants drop, you won't last even a minute. Even with all your worries, you remain impatient and anxious all the same, craving to the point there's vicious pangs shooting through your clit, and worrying to the point your thighs don't just shake from pleasure. Just for now, you're hoping so intensely that you can handle it.
Loving kisses like these remind you of heavy rain, bringing a warm air yet soothing touch. Your heart pounds rapidly, your body remains still, and whimpers ease their way past your lips when Beckman finds a steady rhythm to attend to. His fingers help your mind ease up, and as his movements continue their rhythmic thrusting in and out of your vagina, something inside of you tells you to open your eyes again, even if for less than a second. But you close them tighter. Beckman notices, assuming you're uncomfortable— his free hand slides towards your face.
“You alright?” His words are murmured against your skin, and he presses a tender kiss to your forehead, he waits for a response without another movement. It's a gesture that gives you confusing feelings.
“I’m good. I didn't mean to worry you.” Every vein in your body bulges. With gritted teeth, you avoid sounding whiny, but end up sounding out of breath in the process. Beckman blinks at you, and your eyes open again, to reassure him further. He hums, reaching his hand towards your cunt again, but the building suspense inside of you had dissipated quickly in your panic to get Beckman reassured. A quiet groan of frustration leaves you before you correct yourself. He stifles a laugh, and shakes his head.
“Just got worried about ya… Didn't mean to rile you up like that. How can I make it up to you?” Beckman smiles, his eyes fixate on your own. He retracts his hand from between your thighs, and raises it up to his mouth, and just as you think he might be wiping them off, his fingers find his mouth. His tongue licks between the webbing of his fingers, it's a tantalizing sight that makes your body heat up as if you didn't have his face between your legs just a moment ago. While he teases you with soft licks to his own hand lapping up all the arousal remaining on it, your eyes remain on him, unblinking. He's the first to break eye contact, and he does so by looking down at his thighs. When his hand falls, you follow his eyes, and meet them at the waistband of the black boxers, the bulge in them is intimidating enough to make your eyes scramble to look at anything else… But they simply can not. Is it really going to be as big as you saw? What if… What if it’s bigger?
You want him to just take everything off for you to see. Beneath your bra, it feels too suffocating all of the sudden, and you lift yourself off the mattress with weak wrists to undo the clasp in the back— you should have expected then, that Beckman would have wanted to do it himself. The heat is becoming unbearable.
“Gotcha.” With a sudden and surprising force, Beckman yanks you towards him, lifting you with ease as soon as he shifts his own body to sit upright, with his back against his headboard and your thighs over his own. A yelp almost escapes, but he holds the palm of his hand to your mouth, pressing his index finger to his own to shush you. On top of his lap now, you can definitely feel the bulge in his pants. The girth, and the length, both entirely foreign to you, because, well, you've never had sex with any men, much less Beckman. It's a life-changing experience, an event that allows you to see the world in entirely new colors; that was something Beckman joked about whenever asked about his sexual proclivities. It probably has much truth to it.
Some lewd fluids of yours soak through the fabric of Beckman’s boxers— just like that rain soaked night before, everything is visible, and this time you're not just staying and staring, you're feeling it. Beckman has a monstrously sized dick in his pants— maybe you knew that, with a man his size, and especially one with his confidence, that he would have something to back up his bravado and brags. But it's just downright unfair for a man to be so romantic, loving, funny, sexy, and still be packing what must be at the very least 15 centimeters. From what your inner thighs and clit can feel, it's got to be heavy, too. Something that thick shouldn't be attached to a man already so perfect.
“Fuck, that's… Is that gonna fit?” That last part was whispered, but Beckman had definitely heard it despite your efforts to cover it with your nervous laughter. He smirks. It embarrasses you, tenses your thighs and makes you press them together— but you grind against his hard-on instead. You wish something that sexy was planned, so that you could offer something that wasn't just a whine, something to make his brain explode the way yours is. Beckman can tell by the look on your face. You want it, and he wants to serve you in every possible way he can.
“Depends. How bad do you want it to fit?” A chill runs down your spine, Beckman’s fingertips alone could destroy civilizations— this touch was meant to be, right here and right now you aren’t sure you would have wanted to do anything else, you can’t tell right now, but with each soft stroke against your back, he might feel the same. In your lovey daze, you feel his fingers unclasp your bra in a singular motion, and the article of clothing slides down your shoulders for just a moment before Beckman throws it down to the floor, making sure to caress your arms as it slides off, but his gaze avoids your eyes.
It reminds you of the few rare moments you’d see him get “shy”, if somebody like him could feel such an emotion. Before, he had avoided looking at you too long, and right now he just can’t stop staring. His eyes are more intense than ever.
There’s a wild look in his eyes you solemnly see, it would be a blatant lie to state that it wasn’t hungry, his gaze is powerful and strong, and every feeling of his he wouldn’t say outright are swirling around in them. This look is thirsty, lustful, and still it feels so intimate and loving, and when you stare back at him you wonder if you’re giving him a look worthy enough, but you aren’t worried about much else. When his eyes rake over you, his hands do the same, they start at your thighs and trail upwards, but Beckman decides he needs a better look at you— grabs you by your thighs and lifts you from on top of his groin, albeit reluctantly.
Arousal sticks to your outer labia, and it’s clear there was more, but Beckman’s clothing has soaked most of it up. Before you can shake beneath his daring eyes, you tilt your pelvis towards him, offering a better view of your twitching sex, your eyes remaining cast onto your lover’s body while you feel your clit throb.
Soon enough, after getting another good look at you, Beckman sits you down onto the bed again, earning narrowed eyes from you; they turn wide when you see him tug his pants down. A sharp gasp escapes you, and you watch in real time as he removes his pants first— and then moves to tug at the waistband of his boxers. With bated breath, you remain focused only on his bulge, and this time you can’t blame it on anything other than your own lustful feelings. More than him, perhaps, you find yourself checking him out.
While you wait for him to shed the final layer of clothing, sitting patiently and quietly, save for your heavy breathing— he doesn’t make any further moves, and instead reaches a hand out to your face, pulls you in close to him, but doesn’t even glance down at his thighs. When you shuffle close enough for him, he hoists your bare pussy onto his exposed thigh, which you’d unfortunately failed to pay attention to during your previous fixation on his dick. Well, it’s not like Beckman won’t be getting undressed in front of you ever again. If you had it your way, he would be naked most of the time, his body is too much of a treat to be only for special occasions.
It takes a moment for you to adjust, but you do, wrapping your thighs around one of Beckman’s own proves to be difficult, considering the sheer width of them, and the battle you’re fighting to not drag your pussy along it, but you prevail. This time. Beckman's hand reaches for your face again, and pulls you close to him as if preparing for a kiss, but his warm breath hits your ear instead. “Will you do the honors for me, pretty?” He caresses your jawline, trailing his thumb over your throat and moving down towards your sternum, before he gently cups one of your breasts. He easily fits it into his hand, the same he likely would no matter the size.
Before you get caught up in his tender touches, it takes some effort to shake your eyes open and peek down at his lap. “I will.” With a shaky hand, you reach out to grasp Beckman’s waistband, squirming against his palm and fingers wrapped around your breast, surely he could feel your beating heart easily this way. Being so close to actually getting a glimpse of him in this way is thrilling, the excitement makes you shake, and it's in more than just one way. You dip two fingers beneath the elastic band, staring intensely at Beckman’s stomach and lap, you’re still unsure of what other ways he could rock your body once you pull his boxers down.
You move your other hand to the band, and slightly tug down the fabric. The suspension makes your pussy even wetter, and you shift your thighs nervously, still resting on Beckman’s own thigh— you hear a few lewd noises when you move, but ignore them in favor of uncovering the object of your attraction. When you tug his boxers down one more time, just another pull away from paradise, you shift closer yet again, to where your stomach is almost against Beckman's, one lurch forward from being pressed against him.
His hands make their way to rest on your hips, palms pressed to the bone and sprawling his fingers on your stomach, almost reaching to your breasts, despite the anticipation of it all, he doesn't seem panicked, and remains with his usual demeanor, continuing his soft massage on your hips.
Even though you’re taking quite some time just to get his dick out, he doesn’t seem too upset, instead, he presses his hands deeper into your skin, effectively soothing you without another utterance from his lips, but he’s sure you wouldn’t have minded. One final thought sparks in your mind, just before you finally tug them down, you wonder; can I take it? Looking back up at Beckman, he doesn’t tell, only spares you a look, and that one look was all you needed.
Finally, you tug the fabric down, uncovering him entirely. Almost immediately, his cock springs out from his boxers, his hands don’t falter at all during your hip massage, and continue moving as if he didn’t have you staring in shock at what he’s got between his legs right now. It slaps against your stomach as you tug the fabric down as much as you can, earning an involuntary moan from you, one you’d wished you had been able to muffle, considering the volume. Warmth creeps against you, beginning at your stomach, trailing down your legs to where you remain rested on top of Beckman’s thigh— you can feel yourself throbbing at the sensation, and you think your heart may have stopped, or it’s simply beating too fast, because it’s apparent to you just how impressive the man you can call yours really is.
He’s not circumcised, you haven’t seen many dicks, but Beckman must be the biggest; when it comes to the girth, that is— that would have been eye-catching by itself already, if he didn’t have so much length for you to stare at. From what you can tell just by eyeballing, his dick must be 25 centimeters, which is already terrifying to stare at. He hasn’t shaved, but it isn’t messy down there like you’d expect from a man, he’s trimmed himself nicely, but he’s still got a bit of a bush, which you enjoy. What you don’t enjoy is how you’re thinking of ways he could cram that thing inside of your vagina, but fail to come up with any logical explanation on how that monster could fit even the tip inside of you.
Speaking of the tip, he’s leaking pre-cum, a pearly white color, just like the ones on his earrings, but it’s a bit transparent. A weight removes itself from your hip, then you hear a drawer opening, you don’t blink, instead, your hands release the elastic of his boxers, before falling onto your thighs.
While Beckman rummages in his bedside drawer, your body shakes with disbelief, and before you can stop yourself, a shaky hand is reaching for the base of his penis, gripping it softly in a somewhat awkward manner. He doesn’t even flinch at the touch, merely offering a soft glance that you can’t even see before he settles back down, now with a condom in hand.
Your hand can just barely fit around him, that transfixes you even more. Retracting your palm, your pointer finger drags along the length, tracing from his frenulum to the head of his dick— you gather the leaking pre-cum on the pad of your finger, and shudder at the sensation. Not quite cum, but it means you're close, right? Er, maybe not get ahead of yourself…
“I wonder what’s gettin’ you so worked up and wet… See anything you like?” Beckman teases you, making you jolt as if you were caught doing something that you weren’t supposed to, pulling your hand away, and to that reaction; he chuckles. “It’ll fit, even if it’s just the tip. I promised to take care of you, didn’t I?” For a while now, he’s been able to tell just what you’re thinking of, what might worry you, all from a quick look into your eyes; despite his rhetorical question, his words carry a sincere air, one you trust more than anything.
Once again, one of his hands reaches for your cunt, and it’s this notion that pulls you fully from your daze, making you lift your hips just enough for two of his digits to slide between your labia, gathering the slick gathered, rubbing your needy pussy for just a moment, before he pulls away, making you huff out a breath you had held in— you’re tempted to drag his wrist back, but he’s probably checking if you’re ready. You feel shaky when he grabs his own cock, pulling it away from where it comfortably laid against your stomach to slip on a condom he’d quickly unwrapped; you watch him roll the latex on, he does it easily, and you almost lose yourself watching him.
Beckman taps your hip to catch your attention, letting go of his cock to grasp your sides. When his length slaps your stomach again, that’s when your head snaps back to him; he leans in close to your face, pecking your lips as you blink, and pulls away to speak once more.
“It’s your first time; do you think you wanna get on top, or have me on top of you?” He hums, drawing shapes on your skin with his thumbs
“Uh, I don’t— I don’t know, really.” You admit, feeling a sudden frustration at your indecisiveness.
He tilts his head to the side slightly, barely enough to notice.
“I can help with that.” Beckman declares, sliding his fingers down your midriff, to your hips, stilling for just a moment.
“Do you like being held like…”
“This?” His hands grip your ass firmly, making your breath go away, his fingers span across your thighs, rubbing your skin a bit more, the touch sending shivers down your spine.
“Or…” Faster than you can process, he grasps your waist firmly.
“Is this better?” Once again, he flips you over, and you bounce against the mattress, you’re starting to think Beckman is really liking manhandling you, especially when the smile on his face grows whenever he picks you up or slings you around. Because you somewhat expected it, you aren’t all that surprised by him pinning you down this time, but you are certainly thrilled by it. One thing you’d especially liked about him pinning you down, was the fact that his dick was resting against your pubic mound, just close enough to your clit, but not exactly there yet, he could have seen it on your face, but he awaited verbal confirmation.
“I want you on top.”
He smiles at that, and leans in close to you. But the look in his eyes is different, you recognize the look— but you can’t do anything about it. One more time, hopefully the last, he hoists you up, and moves your head to lay on the various pillows laid about his bed, they smell like his cologne more than he does at this point in time, all you can smell from his skin is sex and sweat. Beckman shifts his body, leaning over you in a sort of plank position for a moment, before he shifts to a better position, he holds himself up with his forearm, and his other arm is occupied reaching into his nightstand drawer, you start to wonder what else he might be rummaging around for.
“Lube. We’ll need lots’a it, even though you’re soaking my damn sheets… Best if we get you nice and lubricated, so it’ll slide in real easy.” Beckman reads you once again, and you can only offer a shy look to the corner of the room.
“Embarrassed? Cute, but it’s good you're wet. The more you relax, the better it ends up feeling.” He looks back at you, brandishing a clear container filled with a gel-like substance; you don’t have lots of experience with lube and the like, but the guys have dragged you into sex stores to browse the wares, and you've been handed a pamphlet. You definitely don’t have half the experience Beckman has, but you aren’t completely clueless when it comes to sex. “I’m not clueless, you dick.” Managing a raised brow, you reach up and gently slap the side of his face with your hand, making him chuckle.
“Yeah? Watch out then.” After being given such a short notice, you don’t have enough time to react to him squeezing lube out of the bottle onto his fingers, even less when the cold gel meets your warmth, earning a yelp from you, before you hit Beckman in his ribs with your foot in retaliation. “Fuck you—” When his fingers slip into you, the tension in your shoulders lessens, and the rest of your body loosens up at the stimulation, despite your annoyance with him smearing cold lube onto your pussy, his skills make you forgive him, and they make you breathe a shaky moan just as easy.
The lube melts as it comes into contact with your warm skin, dripping down towards your ass from your pussy, it’s a lot messier now. You look down at him, between his legs, and notice that he’s lubricating himself a fair amount too, you shake in excitement.
“You’re about to, settle down now, girl.” Sparing not even a single moment, Beckman grasps your legs, his palms hook beneath the back of your knees and push them towards your chest, you can feel every inch of you pulsating with renewed vigor, adrenaline teeters off the edge of a cliff inside of your veins, not daring to shoot through your body yet, but it waits for the right moment, the moment Beckman would at long last penetrate you.
Before you really know what you’re doing, only feeling the wetness of the lube from his fingers on the back of your knees, your own hands grasp your legs, holding them in place where Beckman had lifted them. He looks curiously at you. “Fool around some?” It’s a joke, but it doesn’t embarrass you any less, if your hands weren’t holding your legs, they’d either be covering your face or slapping him, you suspect he wouldn’t care either way, as long as you aren’t legitimately uncomfortable.
“Ready? It’s gonna be a big stretch. Not as bad as being stabbed— if it feels like that, tell me. Because it shouldn’t.” His attempt at a pep talk turns into something less helpful and motivating, into something a tad sillier, and maybe a little concerning. “I’m ready.” You nod.
Beckman doesn’t waste any words after that, all he needed was your confirmation, and for you to be in a position comfortable enough for the two of you, just so he wouldn’t hurt you. Quickly, he holds the base of his cock, pressing the lubricated tip into your vagina, he’s making sure to provide stimulation to your clit, just enough for you to stay relaxed, and not too much, he doesn’t want you to climax until after he’s gotten at least the tip inside. At first, it doesn’t sting, but the more he pushes himself in, he meets some resistance, and that's because you’re realizing you haven't taken anything as wide as him inside of you, not any toys, and certainly not another man. Beckman knows this, but you feel a little panicked, especially with his earlier words.
Instead of offering comforting words, he thinks of a better solution; Beckman leans in towards you, brushes his nose against yours, and pulls you closer for a kiss. For a moment, you relax again, pressing your lips to his and allowing yourself to be taken away by the gentle caresses of his tongue against the inside of your cheek, the taste of him is comforting to you, your muscles which had previously tensed up relax again, and as soon as you were softly moaning into his mouth, he presses himself deeper into you. The tip of him stretches you out with such ease, despite your earlier panic over whether or not it would be hard for him to cram himself inside of you, the panic in your mind melts away, and you feel your pussy tingling for more.
Eyes shut tight, your hands grip your own flesh, your lips chase your lovers, and his own don't allow themselves to escape yours, his breath is taken in by you, your inhales are his and his exhales are yours, the two of you breathe each other in all over again, as if it's the first time. Beckman presses you deeper into the mattress, the soft pillows stuffed with cotton seem to rise above you and swallow your head whole, tickling the sides of your neck as you kiss him, keeping your legs spread.
Beckman presses the head of his cock deeper inside of you, in tune with his tongue daring to lick along your teeth, they take risks that yield great rewards. Very quickly, you find yourself adjusting to his girth, you think it could be the lube aiding— or maybe that Beckman keeps turning you on even more, if possible. Deeper he goes, testing your limits, and he's yet to reach them.
The pleasure is undeniable. You find yourself unable to hold back from being noisy, and instead let your jaw go slack as you moan into his mouth, each time he moves deeper, you swear you can take even more than he's giving to you now, in your lust hazed state, you pull your legs back closer to your chest, and Beckman, now able to push himself deeper inside of you without holding himself by the base, shifts more of his weight onto you, driving his cock even deeper into your vagina, touching parts you’d barely ever reach during masturbation.
Shock shoots through your body at the realization of the fact that you're actually able to take something so ridiculously sized— it drives air from your lungs, and you pull away from his lips, gasping for air in a desperate attempt to not pass out, whether it be from surprise, pleasure, or lack of oxygen. It could have been all three.
Your eyes shoot open, staring down to where Beckman splits you apart, and suddenly you feel weak. Somehow noticing you, he leans back and offers a better view, but yet, he doesn't stutter in his movements, not until he manages to slip himself halfway inside of you, filling you up enough already, in your opinion, but there's no such thing as too much Beckman. He doesn't say anything, but he does lean forward, obscuring most of your view as he licks your neck, nipping at it as he pulls your hips up to meet his.
Now that caught you off guard— especially when you felt him still going deeper, you don't even know how deep he's in now exactly, but with how thick he already is it feels like he should be fully inside already. But he isn't, he's pressing himself deeper each second, his neck kisses aren't enough to distract you from the sting and arousal his cock is causing you.
It's dragging against your walls, and for some reason your cunt just can't stop dragging him in deeper, threatening to swallow him whole, even if your mind screams out to you that you couldn't possibly take him all on your first try— your hands get shakier by the second, they can't even support your legs anymore, which end up nearly falling, before you instinctively wrap them around Beckman’s lower body to the best of your ability. He seems to like it and that's just about the only thing you can only assume his twitching inside of you is caused by. When you wrap your arms around his upper body, spanning your hands across his back, he grunts.
Everything in your body screams. His cock gets sucked in deeper, and your clit throbs more, the deeper he ends up, the more wet you get, and the wetter you are, the easier it is for the rest of him to slide in. “Greedy thing, huh? That's alright. Gotta feed her good then, yeah? What do you say?” Beckman sucks in air through his teeth, hanging his head to hide the way his eyes shut so tightly, but he manages to make sure you hear him loud and clear, how strained your pussy is making him sound.
But you don't think another centimeter would fit. This time, you are sure, more sure about this than anything else.
When you try to speak, nothing comes out. All that escapes is a pure, filthy, loud moan, stemmed straight from your heart and from Beckman’s thrust forward, over your own noise you can barely hear him mutter a soft apology that you wouldn't want either way, not when he's got your poor cunt stuffed to the brim, he doesn't have anything more to offer, and you couldn't even fucking take it if he had anything else. This is a first, for the both of you.
The very first time you've had sex like this, and the first time Beckman has had somebody take his whole length in one night, he will admit he was impatient thus far, his foreplay should have lasted much, much longer, because he knows that he's big, but he couldn't help it. You were far more greedy than him, it seems, when you see how deep he's gotten inside of you, it's a wonder he hasn't done harm yet, other than make you moan loud enough to wake the dead just by bottoming out inside of you.
You cry, every last muscle of your body jolts in surprise and pleasure, it's both terrifying and mesmerizing for Beckman. It terrifies him how loud he's made you, he'd nearly thought he hurt you with that selfish thrust, and it's wholly mesmerizing how your face looks when you cry out like so, but the best part would have definitely been feeling the way you clenched so harshly onto the base of his cock, trying so desperately to suck more inside of you, but nothing else comes.
“That’s it. Look at that, you got me down to the damn base, atta girl. Doesn't hurt, does it? I was being selfish with that, but you did so good, I’m so proud of you.” Beckman huffs, his chest heaves as he stares down at you in awe, and his instinct tells him to press his pelvis closer to yours, not wanting even a glimpse of his cock to be seen outside of your warm and throbbing cunt, and it's clear your body feels the same way as well.
His hands are desperate, not pathetically so, but they're moving fast towards your hips, pulling you closer onto him and grinding your clit against his pelvis, and you both still end up wanting more. “I think I’m in heaven. I died and they sent me somewhere I don't deserve to be—” Choking out a whimper, your arms and legs tighten around his body to the best of their abilities, and it's confirmed that you're too far gone when your body grinds against his through sheer instinct.
Beckman breathes out a laugh, and smiles one of the biggest smiles you’d ever seen, it's all for you.
“You’re meant to be the smart one. Certainly not an Angel, but the most precious woman I've met, you make me so selfish, I won't be able to let you go after this one.” Despite the sweet words, you can barely understand them, nothing besides the last part actually processes in your brain, and fuck, he sounds so sexy and possessive that you can't help but clamp down onto him, seeing a somewhat unknown side to him is enough to bring tears to your eyes, and they might as well. A humming starts inside of your chest, your thighs feel all wobbly, and your legs are so weak that they can't hold onto Beckman for much longer, your arms have the most strength in them, but they too, feel weakened.
Beckman holds onto your thighs, keeping you in place whilst he slowly pulls his cock out of you, this makes you panic and try to wrap around him again in a horny attempt at keeping him from escaping, but his grip is firm. A warm tear graces your face, dripping from the corner of your eye to your earlobe, Beckman reaches down to kiss the trail away, his kisses are even sweeter in this moment, but you still shake.
He pushes his hips back into yours, burying himself back inside of you in one expert movement, the realization that he wasn't escaping is calming to you, but the sensation he’d provided makes your heart pound, and fills your bones with a powerful song, one that speaks of passion a thousand different ways, yet the melody remains so gentle and sweet, like a first love. The relief is so powerful, that when it mixes with your pleasure, the product is like lighting a fuse.
“Don't be too harsh on me. I’m old now, and I can't do it the way I used to, I don't have the same stamina as I did back then. I’ll make it up to you, since you didn't get to experience my best.”
If this isn't Beckman’s best, you're certain that you would have died inside had you developed serious feelings for him earlier, and pursued a relationship. Right now you're barely holding on, simply just a thrust or two away from something dangerous, something that only Beckman can provide for you. Not a word slips past your lips, but a moan rings out when Beckman slides himself half way out this time, grabbing your thighs for leverage as he prepares to thrust back inside of you.
He kisses your cheek, burying his face into the crook of your neck and biting down on your shoulder as he prepares himself for what he's bound to help unleash, he's happy just to hear you cry out in bliss even if he doesn't achieve the same. With your stubbornness, however, you might try your best to return the favor, even if he protests.
His hips push themselves into you, showing you as much mercy as he can manage, but Beckman is reluctant to give you anything that isn't his all, he feels as if he isn't performing the way you deserve. Still, his thrust remains powerful, driving you into the mattress with a surprising force, and he parts your thighs a little more for him to fit inside easier. The pleasure ripples through your skin, it slips deeper inside, your nails claw at his back when you feel your orgasm tearing into your skin, perhaps just a single exhale away from consuming you wholly, taking you over to the point of no return.
Beckman rubs the underside of your thighs with his thumbs, tying more knots in the bottom of your stomach, forcing your pussy to suck his dick deeper inside of you, and your body is torn between driving him deeper, wanting more, and pushing him out, attempting to escape the disaster sure to ensue.
“Beck— I can't take it.” With a heaving chest, your voice sounds strained, painfully so, you're not used to hearing yourself sound like that, and it’s shameful seeing just how shameless you’ve become. What you’d promised you’d never end up doing is happening at this exact moment, the Vice Captain of the red-haired pirates, Benn Beckman, has you beneath him. Not only that, but you’d professed your love to him, as he did the same; it would be hell if the rest of the crew found out. But it feels like you’re halfway to heaven the second he breathes against the side of your face, beginning to speak in a low tone.
“Don't you worry about a thing, pretty lady. I got you, you know I do.” His hands release your thighs, and reach out to grasp your waist, snaking around them until he pulls you into an embrace warm enough to burn you. Your chest meets his, he can feel your heart thumping, you can feel the softness in his firm chest, you unbury your fingernails from his back, they find themselves gently raking down his spine to the best of your abilities, grasping onto something with a gentler approach. Beckman calms you, despite not being truly panicked, he took the time to reassure you, even if he knew that those words of yours were a cry out for help, a plea for release.
One more thrust grants you that wish, like a shooting star, your body slams into the earth— it stutters when Beckman presses your hips into the mattress, thrusting into you at an angle now, and he hits a spot that makes you sob aloud, at a noise level you don't think you’ve ever reached before, the words that utter from your lips— blessings and curses all directed to nobody in particular— are loud, you couldn't even dream of lowering your voice, because Beckman’s cock is angled towards a spot inside of your cunt that you'd never been able to reach yourself, he’s not letting up when he thrusts against it, he holds you down and fucks you into the mattress without any care for anything that isn't helping you experience the absolute best during your orgasm, he only focuses on reaching that especially warm place inside of your pussy.
Every muscle in your body feels so tight and yet so loose, your legs try and kick, but they're so weak that they feel like taps against the mattress, and even then you can't move them much, Beckman's hands are pressing your hips deeper into the mattress, his face is one of pure concentration, all he needs to see is your body falling apart and bursting with pleasure, he doesn't pay much mind to the stimulation your spasms cause on his cock, he doesn't want to scare you if he ends up getting lost in his own orgasm, though he would certainly like one.
It takes a minute, but your body stops shaking, outwardly at least. Inside of your head, your thoughts and inner monologue swimming around make no more sense than staring at a poneglyph does.
Though you aren't shaking, you're unable to sate the tightness below, Beckman slows down his thrusts, timing them with each pulse of your cunt ringing through his own body. Every time your muscles contract, he pushes himself deeper, when they loosen he slides out just enough to time his next thrust for when you're clamping down on him, his movements seem natural to him. Tears gather on your bottom lashes, threatening to spill and erupt along with your sobs of pleasure— being so vulnerable like this soothes you, even if it's embarrassing, you feel happy that you were able to share more of yourself with him.
He seems happy, too, though you couldn't possibly focus on his face through your blurry gaze, the energy he delivers between your legs speaks to you, but it could just be the absolutely crazy orgasm he'd delivered to you, and that was just the second one.
Your spasms lessen in frequency, and eventually you’re lying limp against the sheets, Beckman holds onto you with a gentler grip now. He finds it senseless to remain inside of you, especially when he notices your tired expression, and he takes extra caution as he slides himself outside of your cunt, making you whimper, but nothing too serious, thankfully. The loss of his girth inside leaves you feeling empty. He fills the hole left behind with a peck to your lips, cusping your face with one hand as he watches you continue to catch your breath. Before you can relax, your body jerks, you realize that he didn't cum.
“Wait— but you didn't finish… I finished, twice, you didn't even get close, did you?” A look of worry flashes across your face, you furrow your brows and search for a confirmation while Beckman idly presses his thumb to your bottom lip.
“S’alright. I felt good, that's what really matters. I know you didn't get any sleep last night, neither, what with our… Unresolved issues at the time.” With a knowing look, he looks off to the side with a smile, sitting up and pulling himself off the bed. For a moment, he looks down at his thighs with a contemplating expression, before you watch him pull his condom off, pulling the waistband of his boxers until they're wrapped comfortably around his hips.
“Don't say that, it's making me feel worse. You don't want anything else from me? I want to make you cum.” You have to make sure you don’t sound too hoarse, but the exhaustion in your voice is evident to him, he can see it in your eyes even when you try and clear your throat. When he tosses the condom into the trash, he sits back down in bed with you afterwards, smiling.
“We got the rest of our lives to do that.”
“You mean, until you can't get it up?”
“If I can't get it up when I’m with you, do me a favor and shoot me dead. There isn't a date crueler than that one, especially when I’ve been eyeing you up for a while now.” You watch him closely as he reaches into his bedside drawer once more— pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Maybe it's full of condoms, lube, and cigarettes. That seems like a Beckman thing to do.
“You’ve been checking me out that long? So you're a pervert now?” You tease.
“I sure don't need this from the woman who's go-to dare in drinking games is to make men strip. Too many times I’ve seen you throw money at the boss like he's a hooker, just to get him to strip more.” He turns to face you, hanging his usual cigarette between his lips like a tease, he chuckles, and you suddenly get a bold idea. With such speed, despite your nerves being shot, you pluck the cigarette from his lips and hold it between your pointer and middle finger. Beckman laughs.
“It's a miracle I can tolerate you.” He shimmies closer to you, and your eyes are drawn to his clothed cock again. He still looks hard, and you frown at the sight. Beckman takes this as an opening, and snatches his cigarette back, stealing a brief kiss from you in the process, but he doesn't light it, and sets it down on his nightstand instead. “Can you walk?” He asks a simple question, which immediately prompts you to try and stand up. You toss your legs over the edge of his bed, not before you scoot closer to it, and press your feet to the ground. When you try to lift yourself onto your feet, you fall back with a defeated expression.
“No.”
“I knew the answer anyways. Need me to carry you to the bathroom? Go get you some water? Anything you want?”
“I want…” Huffing, you roll over onto the bed again, and stare down at Beckman’s bulge.
“Another time. You need some rest before you're ready for another ride.” Beckman shakes his head, but he does show you a rather pleased smile.
“Okay, but are you sure? I mean, I can—”
“What you can do,” Beckman begins.
“Is quit all that worryin’, and start closing your eyes. I’m all yours right after you get some sleep.” He yanks a heavy blanket over you, the warmth takes you in instantly, and you snuggle into the fabric, exhaustion finally deciding to make its appearance into your story, and it just kills you that Beckman is so selfless. “I’m staying?” Sleep seems inevitable, it leaks into your voice and out into the room.
“I’d hope so. Unless the boss tries to sweep you off your feet, we shouldn’t have any problems. No more stupid question, you’re obviously sleeping in bed with me.”
Beckman continues to talk, even though he knew that you had long fallen asleep from the sound of his voice, and the aftermath of the sex you two shared. Something so sweet happening to a man like him isn’t entirely unexpected, but it's more shocking when it's with you of all people. While you remain deep in your sleep, he absentmindedly strokes your skin, not wanting to leave your side, he doesn’t dare to even consider looking away from you, even when his eyes eventually close, he’s still as close as possible to you, pulling your exposed body to his as he allows sleep to take over from there on out. When a new day dawns, you awaken in a warm bed, right next to Beckman, just like in the dream you’d had, but it’s currently your reality.
He sleeps peacefully next to you, thankfully not snoring like any of the other guys when they pass out drunk on your shoulder. Shanks was by far the worst… You still have nightmares about his snoring, which must be done to spite the world, considering Hongo said he has zero health issues.
Not wanting to wake him up, you wobble out of bed, gathering your scattered clothes from the floor, preparing to head out to the bathroom. A deep sigh escapes when you realize that your shirt is nowhere to be found, and your pants are still soiled with mud from that darned kid, who you wish nothing but the best for, even though he has inconvenienced you today. Despite the fact that both your clothes and you are dirty, you re-dress yourself, just missing your shirt, but it shouldn’t be that big of a deal… Glancing at the clock, you notice that it’s noon.
Beckman is still asleep, and considering he wakes most everybody up, they should all be hungover and sleeping. Taking this into consideration, you undo the complicated locks on Beckman’s bedroom door, and step out into the hallway, but you crash into a figure, whose arm was reached out to the doorknob you’d just pulled back. This figure has one arm; It’s the boss. You feel like you want to throw up.
He’s more naked than you, but you still move an arm to cover your chest, hoping he’s either still drunk, or too tired and hungover to notice your lack of a blouse. It takes every ounce of willpower to act unbothered, but when he starts to smile, your composure cracks little by little.
“Oh? What’s this? You’re topless, messy hair, you smell like…” Shanks smirks, pausing as if to think, he holds his chin between his thumb and index finger, he looks almost fox-like right now, his red hair is tousled and he smells of rum, nothing out of the usual, but you’re especially panicked, because above all else, you don’t want your boss to think you’re easy, but you don’t want to take the time to explain that you’re in a relationship with Beckman, you just want to take a shower and get something to eat.
“You smell like Beckman, and debauchery.” He sticks his tongue out at you, giggling now. “Think about inviting your boss next time— I hate when you guys leave me out!” Before you met Shanks, you never thought you would meet a grown man who pouts unironically, but you seem to get proven wrong more and more everyday, because the dumbass never stops pouting, like a kicked puppy. Shame floods you when you find yourself actually starting to consider it, and you turn back ready to respond, but Shanks seems to have already found an answer in your silence.
“Woohoo! See ya tonight!” He skips away, leaving you utterly bewildered.
Instead of braving the day, you find the option of returning to bed with Beckman much more comforting, you can only hope Shanks is nice enough to not spread things around… Most of the time, he isn’t.
But it wouldn’t be so bad, and if it was, Beckman promised to take care of you.
END.
you made it!!! consider a comment and reblog :P
Guys this a masterpiece, read it you won’t regret it 🤲🏻
yes chef!! o7
She was the perfect prey


