Miscellaneous One Piece Story Dump

One Piece stories I haven't sorted into different side blogs. Includes poly relationships (18+ only )

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Welcome Discerning Reader!

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

These works are intended for Mature Audiences Only and unruly people will be knocked up =p

This is a sideblog to @quinloki - and includes my multi-partner pieces as well as character pieces I don't have a sideblog for.

You can also find them other places - Ao3 - Wattpad

Works in Progress:

Phraseology - Sabo/Reader/Marco - Current chapter 1 - This is my March Writing Challenge piece, so expect it'll update fairly often this month.

Hat Trick - Kid/Law/Reader - Current Chapter 6 - Kind of on hiatus, I wouldn't dive into this one until I'm updating it again. ^_^;

COMPLETED

Office Hours - Shanks/Reader/??? - 9/9 Chapters - Enemies to lovers to... more lovers?

Tag List

All Works: mfreedomstuff

Currently this blog doesn't interact except to reblog/post One Piece items not covered in other side blogs. If you want interactive following please follow the main blog listed earlier <3

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (Marco)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, minors dni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 9: Promising

You let Shanks carry you into the bathroom, and even let him linger while you got cleaned up. There was a light knock at the door, and Marco came in, joining you in the loosest sense, the three of you shifting around one another as you all washed up after your early morning greeting. You tried not to think too hard about how easily the three of you moved.

How easily you could all fit in the decadently large bathtub.

How easy it was to let Shanks dry you with an over-sized towel. 

How comfortable it was to just go through the mundane motions with the two of them. You weren’t even bothered when you all ended up dressing in the same space, though, dressing might be overselling the word. Shanks and Marco both seemed perfectly fine putting on loose jogging pants and not a godsdamned thing more.

The two helped you get dressed by asking if you really needed anything on under the clean shirt Marco had offered for you to wear. 

You supposed you didn’t.

Shanks and Marco went back and forth on why you were wearing one of Marco’s shirts, and not one of Shanks’ shirts. You were tempted to bring up the fact that you had a change of your own clothes with you, but it was more entertaining to listen to their loving bickering.

You heard a lot of the same inflections in Shanks’ voice when he spoke to Marco that you’d heard in his voice when he talked to you, and it was really the first time that the depth of his feelings was starting to truly press against you. You’d seen him talk on the phone, the shift in his body language, the changed expression on his face. There was no doubt he believed that Marco hung the very stars in the sky.

And he spoke to both of you the same way.

They sat on either side of you when the three of you settled into the living room, Shanks getting up only long enough to accept the delivered breakfast that Marco had ordered before joining you both in the bathroom earlier.

“I know you enjoy cooking breakfast, but I’m just saying this is also nice.” Shanks hums, setting out the meals with a little assistance from Marco.

“It is. It’s rare that either of us get a home-cooked meal, that’s why I make breakfast when I can, yoi.” Marco replies, giving you a quick glance. “What about you, pretty bird, do you enjoy cooking?”

“Mmm, cooking for myself is just a matter of course, but cooking for others is nice.” You admit after a moment’s thought. “Not that I’d be sad if I didn’t have to cook, though.”

“Well, we could take turns.” Shanks offers.

“Can you even cook?” You question teasingly. Marco chuckles and Shanks looks taken aback.

“Of course I can cook.” His pout isn’t sincere. 

“Mmhm, let me guess, you’re really good on the grill.” You poke and Marco nearly chokes.

“Laugh it up, both of you, next time you can get Beckman to grill those imported steaks.” He says, a grin on his face despite the sour tone in his voice. 

“Benn’s pretty good on the grill.” Marco says smoothly, stabbing a bit of sausage from Shanks’ plate, easily reaching across the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, annnnnnd?” Shanks prompts.

“You are better, akagami.” Marco looks over at you and smiles when you look up at him. “Admittedly, Shanks does his best work with a wok. He does a pineapple stir fry better than any restaurant I’ve been to.”

“Pineapple?” You muse looking between them. 

“It’s his favorite food,” Shanks explains, pointing to Marco with his fork. “It’s got enough sugar in it that it caramelizes really well when you grill it, or get it going over the high heat of the wok.”

“It needs something sweet since you’re always trying to sneak kimchi in everything.” Marco grumps.

You crinkle your nose. “Kimchi and pineapple…” 

“Yeah, well, our favorite foods might not mix well, but we make it work.” Shanks grins.

“That we do.” Marco agrees.

“Maybe you’d like to be the rice in this?” Shanks prompts, looking at you.

“The rice… the - wait, are you saying because there’s kimchi fried rice and pineapple fried rice, that that makes me the fried rice?” You laugh at the sheepish look on Shanks’ face. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Poor food metaphors aside, if you are comfortable with it, I’d love the chance to date you.” Marco says, bumping his shoulder into yours lightly before kissing the top of your head. “Shanks would as well, though he’s too shy to just say it.”

“I’m not shy, I was just trying to ease into the subject.” Shanks asserts.

You nearly snort, covering your face and looking away from him when he looks at you in confusion.

“You were both certainly ‘easing into the subject’ earlier.” You point out, laughing when realization dawns on Shanks’ face. Despite his words, his cheeks turn pink and he shakes a finger at you, not saying anything else.

“We can go at your pace,” Marco says, pulling the conversation back on track. “Check in every couple of months and see where we want to go from there?” 

“I…” You fall silent for a moment, but neither Marco nor Shanks speaks up. “I’m just worried that things will change.”

“Things always change.” Shanks admits with a small shrug. “Two months from now that stuffy bird could decide he’s had enough of me, whether you’re a part of things or not.” 

“Two months from now, you might decide that being caught between two bastards like us isn’t worth it.” Marco adds, stabbing his fork into your breakfast plate and stealing a bite from it. “We’re both quite greedy.”

“But,” Marco continues, taking a moment to swallow his pilfered food. “It’s just as possible that in two months you’ll wonder how you got by before now. You’ll realize waking up to a certain mop of hair, or a certain sleepy pair of eyes, or just the lingering warmth of their presence, is something you’ve always needed.

“Even if you’ve only just now found it.”

“Aww, you do love me.” Shanks teases, reaching toward Marco’s plate with his fork, only for Marco to knock his fork aside. 

“Not that much.” He scoffs, taking a bit of his breakfast similar to what he took off your plate and setting it on yours.

“That’s low,” Shanks pouts and you can’t help but laugh.

“I suppose whatever it is, it won’t be boring.” You admit, putting the gifted bit on Shanks’ plate.

“If you spoil him, he’ll be insufferable.” Marco chides with a mischievous grin.

“If he becomes insufferable, I’ll have Beckman send him on a work trip.” You assert.

“Listen to you, you’re both so mean.” Shanks says, a smile on his lips and warmth in his voice as he eats the gifted bite of breakfast food.

You go silent for a moment, enough that Marco and Shanks stop eating and sit back, waiting for you to speak. 

“No shenanigans at work.” You sigh looking over at Shanks who nods.

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, but I’ll behave at work.” He promises.

“And… well, I’ve never been in a relationship like this before, or an open one, and I’m not going to ask either of you to stop being open, but if you could give me some time before I meet any other partners, I think that would help.”

“Getting settled into a rhythm with the two of us first would make any other introductions easier.” Marco agrees. “Though most of are other partners aren’t close enough to bring home.” 

“Eh?” 

“Most everyone else is just a one night stand, or friends with benefits.” Shanks clarifies. “No one comes here except us.”

“Well, and now you.” Marco hums, looking over at Shanks. You follow his gaze and watch Shanks’ face turn a deeper shade of red by the second.

“I- me?” 

“He hasn’t brought anyone else over.” Marco hums, his voice low as the heat rises in your face to match Shanks’. “I can understand why you though, pretty bird.”

“I’m just…” You pull your gaze from Shanks and catch the look in Marco’s eyes, the words dying on your lips. 

“Perfect.” Shanks sighs, his fingers slipping beneath yours to bring your hand up to his lips. “Just like Marco.” 

Looking back at Shanks you don’t really know what to say. It’s hard to deny the look on his face. The warmth of his lips against the back of your hand. The heat of Marco’s body snuggling up against your back.

The damnable comfort of it all.

“You… you can’t look at me like that during office hours.” Your voice is soft, and Shanks smiles.

“I’ll do my best, but that’s a tall order, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, I could come by the office.” Marco offers. “Bring you coffee.”

“Eh?” You and Shanks question at the same time. 

“Imagine the feathers that would ruffle.” He muses.

“Benn would go grey instantaneously.” Shanks laughs. “Years of keeping things under wraps and the news breaks that we’re competing for my head of HR.”

“It would make for an amusing change of pace.” Marco hums. You could swear he was practically preening at the idea.

“Absolutely not.” Crossing your arms, you shake your head. “Rejected.”

“Oh?” They both ask at the same time and your brows furrow.

“I can already imagine the headlines, and I refuse.” You assert. “At best it would be something stupid like Helena of Troy reborn, or some such. At worst it’d be something mean. I don’t want my looks up for debate like that.”

Both of them lean in, sending a sweet shiver down your back and throwing off the concerns of newspaper headlines that would never come to pass.

“I would say you could just stay here,” Marco hums, brushing your hair away from the back of your neck.

“But you’re not the kind of bird that would want to be caged.” Shanks agrees, leaning in for a kiss and stopping just a breath away from your lips. His honey brown eyes look up into yours. 

“Unless…”

~fin <3

A/N - I leave it to you, dear reader, if your ending is caged or not <3 

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 8: Three's Company

When you woke up the next morning it took a few minutes to remember what year it was, never mind what you had been up to most of the night.

Shanks had not been all bluff and bluster, not that you had expected that of him by this point, but you were pretty sure you’d never slept so deeply before. You were sure you’d never been so wholly exhausted that well either.

Your legs had been useless jelly by the time he stopped. 

Your brain had been useless by the time he stopped as well. You clung to him when he was making you scream in ecstasy, and you clung to him when he carried you to the bathroom to get you both cleaned up. 

You can vaguely remember dozing off against his chest while sitting in the warm water of the tub, but everything after that was hazy. Considering your condition right now, Shanks made sure you were nice and dry and all tucked into bed, even giving you one of his t-shirts to wear.

Sitting up and stretching, you look over at Shanks who is still fast asleep. He looks so peaceful, and still so hot. It’s endearing and you want to just poke his cheek, or scold him. It’s hard to decide, but he did a good job, so you decide to leave him to rest a little longer.

Coffee is usually easy enough to make no matter what space you’re in, so you slip off the bed and head into the kitchen area. Once you start to make it down the hallway, you can already smell coffee.

Either Shanks set it up to happen automatically, or-.

You could hardly believe your eyes when you stepped into view of the kitchen. In the middle of the space, surrounded by the breakfast bar and the alluring scent of fresh coffee was one of the most famous models in the entire world. One that you were very familiar with because he was your favorite model, and had been for years.

Given his comfort with being in this space, he had to be Shanks’ spouse.

He turns toward you, blonde hair shifting softly, warm smile slipping easily along his lips, body completely relaxed. He’s in nothing but a pair of sweats and an white A-shirt, the subtle lines of his trademark tattoo just beneath the thin fabric.

“You must be the lovely Miss H.R. I’ve heard so much about,” Marco says while pouring a cup of coffee and setting the mug down on the breakfast bar. You nod mutely, sitting down in the seat that aligns with the offered cup. “You look surprised to see me, yoi.”

“I… am.” You admit, your mind is going so fast it’s lost all traction and is just spinning in place. “He told me he was married, but he didn’t say anything more than that.”

Marco smiles, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “He worries. My job’s far more high profile than his, and he doesn’t want to see anything blow back on me.” He explains, taking a drink. “I’ll be retiring for good soon though, so it won’t matter after that.”

You take another sip of your coffee, realize it’s not hot enough to burn you, and gulp down nearly half of it before stopping. Marco’s brows raise briefly when you set the cup down but he doesn’t say anything. Looking down at the mug, you wonder idly if it would be rude to request a second pot.

“There’s plenty for a second cup, yoi.” He offers with a smile. 

“Do you two read each other’s minds for fun?” You question with a laugh in your tone.

“Hardly. We just both work in places where being aware of everyone is useful.” He brings over the pot and pours more into your up. “Since you haven’t asked my name, I’m going to guess you know me.”

Nodding, you take a sip of the hotter coffee before managing to look up. “I’ve… been a fan for a while now.” Clearing your throat you can feel your face heating up. “Your foundation actually saved my life when I was younger.”

“Truly?” Marco questions, his actions stuttering a little in the process of pouring himself more coffee.

You nod. “Yeah. South Blue Fever, in the East Blue. But thanks to the Phoenix Foundation the medicine was transported quickly.” You clear your throat. “I was comatose when the medicine arrived, it was really close.”

“That would’ve been the second or third year of the foundation’s existence.” Marco murmurs, the weight of it settling on his shoulders. “Well, considering how much Shanks cares for you, I’m glad I was able to be of assistance, even if it was tangential.” 

You flinch, your face heating up even more. Even though Marco was relaxed, and seemed to be completely unbothered by it, it was a little awkward to have such a personal conversation with him right now. You knew there relationship was open, but talking about a man’s husband after he’d just finished railing the soul out of you, without that man present, was certainly a new experience.

You can hear Shanks coming down the hall, the soft patter of lazy morning steps, and the loud yawn and stretch you can’t risk turning toward to watch. Marco is already getting a 3rd cup when Shanks pulls up a seat beside you.

“How lucky I am, seeing two of my favorite people first thing in the morning,” He hums happily. “How’d you sleep, pretty bird?” 

“Well, despite getting in late.” Marco answers easily, setting a mug in front of his husband. “Though I don’t think my song can compete with the melody I heard last night.”

Shanks hums, and you can feel both of them looking at you, even if your attention is pointedly on your own precious cup of coffee.

“How’d you sleep, sweetheart?” Shanks questions, one finger tapping the underside of your chin and beckoning your gaze toward his. 

“Good,” you answer, the word barely making it past your lips. You couldn’t help it, you were distracted. You had amazing sex the night before, and here you were, still riding that high, barely awake enough for much of anything, and you could feel the tension in the air.

The needy throb between your thighs. You didn’t exactly feel guilty about it, but you weren’t sure what to say or do. And given the way these two are looking at you, you can likely just follow their lead.

“Better than I have in a long time.” You finally admit.

You’re nervous, but not scared, shifting your gaze away from Shanks and toward Marco. They both look like they’re ready, and willing, to eat you alive. You’ve thrown caution to the wind since Shanks bent you over his desk a few weeks ago, and you’re not sure you really need to over think anything right now.

You’re not sure you could over think anything right now, honestly.

“They say that you shouldn’t make big decisions when you’re manic or depressed.” Marco starts.

“Or horny,” Shanks adds.

Marco leans down and demands your attention onto him. He was flawless, and not even because you were a fan. His skin was without a single mark, the scruff along his jaw the only indication he hadn’t just been chiseled out of marble. Blue eyes with flecks of teal and gold in them, which had been the highlight of several of his photo shoots, but there was no camera that could do them justice.

“Will you sing for me?” He questions, his voice low and his tone inviting. “I bet I can make you sing even better than that scruffy-,”

“Oi!”

“Aggravatingly hot, red-head can.” Marco offers. “Maybe if we can clear away some of this,” his eyes shift down before coming back up to yours. “Need, we could have a clear-headed conversation afterward.”

“About?” You question, not following along with anything except for the prospect of more amazing sex.

“What happens after this.” Marco answers.

“For now, don’t over think it,” Shanks offers, a warm hand on your shoulder. He leans in enough to speak softly right into your ear. “Do you want Marco to make you cum, sweetheart?”

Shanks’ warmth is against your body, and Marco’s gaze was making your heart race.

“Yeah,” you admit quietly, nodding your head.

The one word was enough for the two of them, and with a few polite words, and searching questions, they had you on your back on the breakfast bar. Marco had your legs spread wide, and Shanks was steadying your head.

Each of them are devouring a different set of lips, and you’re mewling into Shanks’ mouth as soon as they begin. Marco’s hands are hot against the insides of your thighs, and Shanks’ hand is firm at the back of your head, his lips tender.

He leans back, to watch you, leaving your sounds to slip into the air so Marco can hear them better. You’re holding onto Shanks with one hand, the other gripping the counter’s edge. You’re stable, you don’t feel unbalanced, but you need something to ground you as Marco’s tongue sends your senses floating away.

Shanks moves enough to hike the T-shirt you’re wearing up enough to expose your breasts. One hand reaching around to tease your stiffening nipple, his other hand keeping your head braced. He leans over and licks your other nipple just as Marco begins to tease your clit with his thumb, his tongue delving even deeper than before.

The combination has your body already tensing.

“Holy hells!” You cry out, a breathy, strained moan on the heels of the words. It’s difficult to say much of anything with two mouths and three hands working your body over. 

Shanks tugs your hair, sending a thrill through you and bracing you against him more securely when your orgasm starts building. No matter how you scream or thrash, neither one of them lets you go. They have a solid hold on you, and all you can do is accept the pleasure rushing into your body.

“Hnngh!” Your body tenses, and you scream when Marco spreads your legs even wider, his tongue pushing in just a little deeper as you cum against it. The extra stimulation has you crying and singing your pleasure into the room without any hope of holding back.

Shanks was helping his husband, his fingers pinching your nipple when you came, his teeth teasing the other one, making the sweet pleasure sharper and more intense.

“Fuck, fuck, wait, I-.”

“One more sweetheart,” Shanks hums as you’re practically beating him with the hand that had been holding onto him. 

“Please, please!” You want them to stop before you lose your mind, but you don’t want them to stop either. “C-cocks!” You cry out, trying to get them to stop for a second. “I-want-to… to, fuck. Fuck!” 

Communicating was difficult when you were on the precipice of another orgasm already.

The sweet melody of your second orgasm shivered as much as your body was, the keening sound wobbling in the air as they finally started to slow down, giving you a chance to come down from the extended high. Shivering, panting, you smack Shanks a couple more times, even as he chuckles.

“We were a little mean, sweetheart, sorry.”

“Inside me,” you huff, trying to shake Shanks, but barely even shifting his arm. “I want you both, in…inside me.” You say, looking over at Marco as well. “Please, please, I can take more.”

“At the same time?” Shanks questions, sounding concerned.

“I have more than one, er, I mean, you can…” Hazy pleasure and adrenaline were already leaving you, and conscious understanding was settling back into your brain. You furrow your brows at Shanks in aggravation and he looks more concerned for a moment.

“I’m saying let me suck your cock while your hot husband fucks me, dammit!” You pout in frustration. “How is it you can read my mind until I want you to?” 

You can hear Marco trying to stifle a laugh. “Well, if that’s what you want.” 

“Yes please,” you assert, tugging on Shanks so he’ll stand up. “Years of sex being kind of okay, then you go and mess it all up. You should take responsibility for that.”

“I didn’t do well enough last night?” He teases, him and Marco shifting you a little bit so that your head was a little more supported without Shanks knelt beside you.

“You did too good,” you assert, glaring up at him. You’re still on your back on the counter, but now Shanks’ cock is just above your face, and the bastard is looking down at you with a bemused, if not slightly confounded, expression. “You’ve made me greedy.”

“I think I can live with that,” Shanks hums, shifting a little as you reach out for him and guide him to your mouth.

It wasn’t even that you enjoyed what you were about to do, not the action itself at least. It was always just something you did because it was what you thought you were supposed to do. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t ever really enjoyable either.

Right now, however, you were just hungry for him. You wanted more. More than just Marco’s tongue inside you, more than just Shanks’ lips against your skin. You wanted all you could take.

Marco said not to make big decisions when you were horny, and so you didn’t worry about the parts after this. Just on what you wanted right now.

Sucking the tip of Shanks’ cock you see him put his hands on the cupboards above the breakfast bar, bracing himself as a sharp hiss breaks past his teeth. You can feel Marco’s tip slipping between your labia, moving up and down your slit in patient motions, giving you ample warning before he presses in. The sweet sensation of penetration has you humming against Shanks and you can feel him tense.

“So wet,” Marco sighs, pushing in deeper and deeper.

“S’your fault,” you moan, licking along the length of Shanks’ shaft.

“What a sweet thing to be at fault for.” There’s a smile dripping from his words as his hips spread your thighs wide and his body pushes flush with yours.

“Don’t you slack off,” You say, looking up at Shanks, faced flushed, words shivering from the slow pace Marco was starting to set, his thumb already teasing your throbbing clit.

“Anything you want of me, sweetheart, just ask.” He answers, shifting his hips and making it easier for you to lick his length.

“I want you to do the work,” you say, looking at him pointedly. “Feed me, you asshole.”

You reach up, and Shanks puts his hands in yours, letting you move his hands to your throat. Opening your mouth he lines up with your tongue and pushes in. 

“Fuck,” Shanks husks, fingers twitching against your shoulders and neck, holding you steady as he - carefully at first - begins to fuck your throat.

You’d never had two lovers before. Your hands shifted from Shanks’ arms to his pants at first, but once the two of them found a steady pace your fingers wandered to your breasts. You could hear them encouraging you, praising you, words that sank into your skin, caressing your mind sweetly.

It didn’t matter what the words were exactly, you couldn’t really focus on them anyway, not with the euphoric pleasure rolling around in your bones. When the pleasure had you moaning against Shanks’ cock his fingers tightened against your throat. Not harshly, not enough to make it hard to breathe, but enough that the pressure sent a sweet thrill through you.

A desire to try more. A need for more even as your body shivers from the growing pleasure.

Shanks rubs your neck as Marco begins to thrust into you enough to push Shanks further down your throat. The new depth kept threatening to make you gag, but you never quite did. The threat of it makes your body shiver, a strange fear mixing with the pleasure and rushing you over the edge you had been nearing.

He pulls out of your mouth when you cum, listening to your euphoric song while Marco rails you through the orgasm.

“Seas, she’s…incredible.” Marco growls the words, filling you up even as he keeps going, the slightly erratic pace sending jolts through you. 

When the harsh rush subsides and the sweet afterglow wraps around your brain, you wrap your lips around Shanks again. He stops fisting himself, pushing down your throat and emptying his load far back enough you barely had to swallow it. His hands are back on the cupboards, steadying himself as you lick your spit and his spend off his shaft.

“Haaa-shit, that’s hotter than I ever imagined.” He admits, moving away enough to kneel down by your face again to kiss you. “Better, sweetheart?”

Nodding as the two of them help you slowly sit up on the counter, you lean toward Shanks without giving it much thought. You don’t see his eyes go wide when you reach out and put your hand on his face, but he moves in toward you without hesitation. 

One sweet kiss with Shanks shifts into a sweet kiss with Marco, the hazy afterglow of it all helping you to not over think anything. Their kisses were similar, tender and sweet, though where Shanks wanted you to dance with him, Marco wanted control. 

You were fine with either, the soft pleasure was welcome.

“Well, aren’t you just a docile little thing right now.” Shanks hums teasingly. You flip him off and he laughs. “There’s my girl.”

Marco presses a quick kiss against your forehead before leaning back. 

“I think it’s reasonable to order in for brunch today,” he suggests, looking over at the clock. “We can get cleaned up and discuss things while we eat.”

“Things?” You can feel the sweet haze starting to leave you, but you’re still a little addle from the threesome.

“Yeah,” Shanks hums, brushing some hair away from your face before caressing your cheek. “What we all want from this, what we can do going forward. No pressure, sweetheart, we’re just gonna lay our cards on the table and see what matches up.”

“Mm, alright,” you nod, scooting to get off the counter so you can get cleaned up.

“Ah,” Shanks steps back and offers a hand. “I would be honored to carry you to your destination, pretty lady.” 

Looking at him for a second you turn and look at Marco. “Is he always like this?”

“If you don’t let him carry you, he’ll carry me, yoi.” Marco answers.

“I’d like to see that.” You admit, turning back to Shanks with a smile. “You so much as hold a door open for me at work and I will stab you.” Your words might be a bit harsh, but your tone is light and teasing.

Shanks’ grin turns into a laugh and he turns around so you can see his back. It’s bruised and scratched to a degree that surprises you. A few places look pretty deep, like they might actually scar. You did a number on him. There’s a low whistle from behind you, and you feel yourself flush down to your shoulders.

“Less of a deterrent, and more of a goal, sweetheart.” Shanks teases back.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 7: Flabbergasted

“I’m sorry,” Shanks offers, reaching out slowly, and tapping the underside of your chin when you don’t pull away from him. The soft tap brings your gaze up, face flushed, eyes caught between frustration and embarrassment. “I really did try to stand by that.”

Your grip on the steak knife tightens before you sigh. “… I know.” 

Something in the exchange feels sad. Maybe it’s just because you feel defeated somehow. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to be just the side piece or the other woman. Shanks is in love with his spouse, you’ve seen his body language change, heard his voice shift. It’s not something someone pretending or playing at love does.

You don’t doubt he has passion enough to include you. Him and his spouse. But… maybe it was just how you’d been raised, or because you’d looked forward to it most of your life, but the idea that you wouldn’t be the spouse seemed…

Silly.

Silly, but important.

The meal continues in relative silence, and when the waitress returns you decide to order dessert. It feels like goodbye, and it might be, but you’re not ready for those words yet, and dessert will make it easier. Something light and sweet to take the weight off the heavy, bitter feeling on your chest right now.

“You’re not ordering dessert?” You question as Shanks sends the waitress away.

“Unless my dessert requests I take her home after this, I’m enjoying the anticipation.” He answers, giving you a relaxed look that sends a sweet shiver down your back. “I believe the deal was for a full and proper date.”

Your face flushes and you look away from the gaze you can’t handle right now. “The deal was for a conversation.” You insist.

“We’ve had one of those.” He hums, dipping his head down just a little to catch your lowered gaze for a second before smiling. “I will do as the lady commands,” he assures you. “A drive home and chaste kiss farewell for the night, or a drive to my home.”

Shanks lets the words hang in the air for a moment, his smirk turning into a toothy grin when you look up at him.

“Hours of foreplay, the deck stacked in my favor, plenty of function and flourish.”

Pressing your lips together it’s everything you have to not give him a nervous laugh in response. The man was, perhaps, a little pettier than you had thought. Remembering all your words from that night and turning them around on you. 

It wasn’t just you in a tricky situation, but Shanks as well. You had effectively impugned his honor, basically saying that he couldn’t satisfy you without prep-time. 

You had a feeling he wasn’t going to do it to prove you wrong, so much as he was going to prove just how much better he could do. He’d been able to improvise well enough to have you come undone beneath him on his desk, but with time to explore and tease-.

Your dessert arrives and you request the check from the waitress. 

-:-

Shanks’ lips are on your body the second he gets you inside his pent house.

His pent house. The bastard.

It’s a bit of a dance, but he’s leading, and you’re letting him. You can still feel his words against your neck, about how he’s going to show you what he can do when given leave to do as he pleases.

His fingers are slipping the buttons of your blouse free so easily they may as well be a zipper. The scruff on his chin is barely scratchy, teasing your skin along with the heated kisses. The sweet taste of dessert might be on your tongue, but the warmth coiling in your stomach is going to melt that away soon enough.

He drapes your blouse over the back of a chair as he moves you easily through the common spaces of his home. Lifting you up by your hips when he loosens your skirt, leaving it in a neat little ring on the floor as he continues. The soft click of your heels against the wood floor, the soft smack of his lips against your skin, the soft sounds slipping past your lips as he undoes your bra.

Stepping into the bedroom he’s slowed you down to practically standing still, facing him as he presses kisses down the front of your chest. You put your hands on his shoulders as his lips descend, a giggled moan dancing over your tongue when his tongue dances over your budding nipple.

His lips pay homage to your breasts, licking and sucking your nipples, grazing his teeth delicately against the stiff flesh, while his hands slowly, oh so slowly, begin to pull your pantyhose down. His fingers dance around the band of your thong, snapping the thin strap to show he knows it's there despite his focus on your breasts.

Heated, surprisingly rough, hands palm your ass cheeks, squeezing the mounds between his fingers once he has your hose down far enough. The low moan you don’t bother to hold back has you rolling your neck, fingers slipping from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. The deep hum against your breasts a welcome reaction.

Shanks lets his lips move further down, kissing slowly and carefully down your stomach, sliding your hose down your legs and kneeling before you in one easy movement. Your fingers move from around the back of his shoulders, to the top of his head, brushing the dark red locks aside when he looks up at you.

It’s a flash of the night at his office, but there’s no red hand print on his cheek, and there’s a different electricity in the air this time. Something smoother and warmer. The kind of sweet sensation that has his teeth tugging at your thong while he removes your high heel without looking. Unbuckling the ankle strap without a second glance, pulling the hose off, one foot, then the other. The straps of your thong were nearly at your thighs, and your hands were no longer on his head.

Instead they were against the bed frame behind you, bending you back only slightly as you tried desperately to keep yourself upright. You hadn’t forgotten what he’d done before, and you ached for it. Craved it. The anticipation of him slowly stripping you had done precisely as he wished it to.

He still had everything on.

Before you could say anything about it, he licks heavy against your thong, the wetness of his tongue teasing the damp lips beneath it. His hands grip the backs of your thighs and lift you up, and back, just enough to deposit you on the bed safely. The swift and sudden action causes you to cry out in surprise, and then laugh in relief as you sink into the bedding. 

Shanks has your legs up, feet nearly at his shoulders, pulling your thong up your legs, letting the nervous energy slip away from you and turn into something more useful for him.

It’s not that he tosses the thong aside so casually, it’s that he’s holding onto your ankle and kissing the inside of it. Your toes flex, and your breath quickens when he parts your legs, his lips pressing kisses up your ankle. Your other leg is draped over his arm, cradled carefully while his teeth nip at the curve of your calf. 

When he kisses the backside of your knee you have to cover your mouth to stop the strange sound bubbling up in your chest. It tickles, and it feels good, but it’s such a strange sensation you don’t know what to do with yourself. The shift at your knee has his kisses moving up the inside of your thigh. 

“Better keep a good eye on me, Miss H.R.” He says softly, glancing at you before he continues his careful trail of kisses up your leg. You can feel the heat rush up into your face even as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Not - not that I can see mmmm-much when you’re, fuck, still clothed.” You husk the words, shivering when he nips at the tender bit of skin near your hips.

“Oh? Liked what you saw last time, then?” He questions, the mischievous glint in his eye reflected in the brief show of teeth from his grin.

You squeeze your legs together, forcing him to hold them apart so you don’t squish his face when he’s not ready for it. “I’m going to ruin another of your favorite shirts, you bastard, if you don’t take something off!” 

The chuckle that comes from him just makes you feel warmer. When he stands up, grinding his bulge into your wet slit, staining his pants as he tosses his jacket aside, you can’t help the sweet shiver down your thighs.

He watches you, watching him while he loosens his tie, pulling it off with a silky schhhh-lick, and setting it next to you on the bed. He unbuttons his cuffs first, then his collar. His fingers walk down the line of buttons, neither rushed nor so slow as to be frustrating. The tight t-shirt underneath clings to the shape of him when he sheds the expensive shirt.

You can’t bring yourself to protest when he leaves the t-shirt on, kneeling back down between your legs. The look in his eyes is one of success, and you’ll let him have the win. The show had been worth that much at least.

“This isn’t the office,” he says quietly, settled between your thighs, and spreading your labia apart with his thumbs.

“It’s not,” you agree, wondering just how much of the desperation he can hear in those two words.

“There’s no reason to hold back.” Shanks says the words pointedly, looking at you with an expression that was clear.

“I- I, I can’t, I-.” You’re unsure how to reply, and unsure if you want to reply. The stammering words are more indecision than anything else.

“Should I tie your hands then?” He prompts, pushing the tip of his tongue inside you briefly before licking a heavy line up to your clit. The short gasp and soft whine he pulls from you are sweeter than even the taste he’s enjoying. “That way you won’t be able to stifle any sounds.”

The shiver that rolls through you betrays the soft shake of your head, but Shanks accepts your conscious answer over the subconscious one. Opening his mouth, he brings his tongue out and moves toward your clit. It’s a teasing action, building anticipation. Your eyes are on him, his eyes are on your clit, and just when you think you can’t take another second of it he closes what little distance is left, licking and sucking almost painfully. 

The intense sensation rips through you, forcing you to cry out as your arms reach for him. You fall back onto the bed, body tensing against the sweet assault. Your fingers are in his hair, your gasping whine is filling the air, and his hands are on your thighs, pushing your legs wider. 

“Oh gods!” You gasp, back arching as the ache of your legs turns to a strange pleasure deep inside you from his mouth. It was like he commanded you body to process the sensation how he wanted it to.

What barely took him three minutes in his office was even shorter work right now. Your fingers tighten in his hair and your legs shiver, the orgasm tightening in your chest and stifling your sounds for a second before you can draw in a breath and moan from the sweet sensation. He doesn’t relent until you start tugging on his hair, whining softly from the prickly overstimulation.

“Good girl,” he hums, your pleasure shining against his face in the soft light of the room. Shanks presses kisses into your skin, standing up enough to kiss around your hips and stomach. It’s barely a minute of reprieve, before he’s pushing two fingers into your pussy.

He pushes one of your legs back, using his hips to keep the other one trapped while he fingers you.

“Now, where…” his voice as a melodic lilt to it, delighting in your hazy struggling as his fingers map your cunt so casually. His fingers brush a spot that causes you to suck in a breath and he freezes, giving you barely a second to relax before he wiggles his fingers against it again. 

“Wh-what?” You grab onto his wrist and he pauses again.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, no, but it’s…weird.” You admit.

“Should I stop?”

You shake your head and Shanks moves his fingers, teasing that odd spot inside you again.

“I can move onto something else.” He offers, his voice soft as he slowly moves his fingers. “Or I can make you cum so hard you’ll be screaming for me to stop.”

“… Will you?” You question after a second’s consideration.

“Stop in the middle of an incredible orgasm?” He questions, leaning forward and catching your gaze. “If you tell me you want me to stop now, then sure. But if you tell me not to stop no matter what you say… well.”

He leaves the meaning to hang in the air, thumb pressing against your throbbing clit. Looming over you enough you can feel the heat of his breath near your ear when he speaks again.

“Say it for me, darlin’.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. “I want to know, what it feels like. So… please, don’t - don’t stop no matter what I say.”

He leans in, and you know what he wants, and you want to give it to him, so you do.

Your first kiss with Shanks is hot and passionate, your lips barely meet before his tongue’s in your mouth, your hands holding onto his shirt, pulling yourself up, or him down it doesn’t matter. The kiss is sweet and sour, a mix of dessert and your pleasure, a rush of need and the heady warmth of desire.

His fingers begin moving inside you again, teasing that spot like there was no where else for them to be. The pleasure builds slowly at first, until you can’t keep up with kissing him, the shivering breaths slipping down your lips and making your arms tremble. He lets you lay back onto the bed and he braces your legs, his fingers speeding up.

The motion was short and fast, and you thought he might have pushed a small vibrator inside you. His thumb teases your clit, and the sloppy wet sounds are so loud you can’t stop yourself from covering your face in embarrassment. Shanks doesn’t stop you, doesn’t even tut or click his tongue, too focused on his task as your shivering, gasping breaths become concerned whines as the strange pleasure builds.

You mutter half swears and broken questions, not really expecting a response or answer as the pleasure builds. It feels almost heavy, like a weigh threatening to push everything out of you. 

The concern that grips you is that you’re going to lose control of your body.

“N-no!” you cry, trying to grab onto Shanks’ arm. Aside from the motion he’s doing himself the limb is completely immovable. “No, no, wait, I’m gonna pee! I’m going to-.”

“It’s alright.” He interrupts, not even slowing down.

“Mess, I’mma make a mess,” you nearly sob the sensation building up inside you is completely unavoidable. It’s overwhelming already and you can feel yourself crying from it.

“We’re not at the office,” he says evenly. “I want you to make a mess, Miss H.R.” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck you - fuuuck,” you swear and grumble, unable to get away from him or the pleasure. “Fuck - FUCK - no! No, no no no no-ooooooohhhh-shit!!” 

The strange pleasure slams into your body. You don’t know what you did, other than cum so hard your vision went white and your body felt so hot you were almost worried you were going to be sick. The euphoria was dizzying and the pounding of your heart wasn’t quite loud enough to block out the sound of liquid splattering onto the floor.

You’d heard about squirting before, and regardless of whatever it was you had splattered onto the floor you didn’t give a shit right now. The intensity of the orgasm was a little terrifying, but the pleasure and euphoria were incredible. The heavy afterglow that followed it was like cotton and honey.

Soft and sweet.

Shanks stops when you pop, and you’re grateful for it. You don’t know that you could handle any overstimulation on the heels of something so intense. The powerful orgasm has you covered in a sheen of sweat, breathing hard as he lets your legs dangle off the side of the bed. 

Still standing between your thighs, he pulls the bottom of the t-shirt up, lifting the cloth up and over his head, leaving you to watch the shift and shape of his muscles as he tosses it aside. Even in the midst of your hazy afterglow, you can appreciate the show.

“Ready for more?” He questions, hands rubbing the tops of your legs. The heat and pressure feels good and you wiggle a little bit, biting your lower lip, breathing in deep and letting it out in a contented hum. 

“I don’t think I can ride you,” you admit with a smirk, remembering the other night.

“This is about my skill,” he asserts, hooking your legs with his arms, lifting your hips and most of your back off the bed before sliding you further onto it. He takes a moment to shed his pants, crawling onto the bed completely naked. 

He presses the tops of his thighs against the backsides of yours, his hands on either side of your shoulders, pressing into the mattress and caging over you. You can feel his cock laying against your pelvis, but your eyes are on his.

“Missionary?” You hum, hooking your legs around his. “I’m not going to stroke your ego.”

Smiling, he leans down and kisses you. He doesn’t linger, pressing against your lips for a second before trailing kisses down to your neck. You feel his teeth nip the curve of your neck before his hips start to shift. 

It takes a couple adjustments, but he ruts his shaft against your clit slowly, kissing your neck, your lips, your collarbone and your shoulders as he slowly works you back up.

“It’s not the position’s fault,” he murmurs quietly, moving his legs enough to move yours and press the head of his cock against your entrance. “That you’ve had useless lovers before now.”

Shanks captures your lips before you can say anything, thrusting inside you in the same motion, causing you to moan into his mouth. Each movement is at a slightly different angle, though you can barely register it while he’s kissing you. The passionate distraction makes your moans shiver and break, but once he finds the sound he was looking for he stops adjusting.

“There we go.” He purrs the words into your ear before he starts to move. You can’t stifle the concerned whine.

It feels good. Too good. You’ve had middling success in this position before, and sometimes it feels good enough that you aren’t left frustrated, but you’ve only orgasmed before like this when you’ve been with someone who was okay with toys. The little bit of vibration against your clit was always just enough to get you over that edge.

Aramaki didn’t allow toys. He was insulted by the very idea of them, and insisted that he was all you needed.

Honestly, that should’ve been your first, and final, reason to leave him, but you knew plenty of guys who had hangups about accessories during sex. So you let it slide.

Never again.

“Haa-nngh, you’re-!” The words push into the air on the heels of a sweet moan, both of which are muffled by another kiss from Shanks. No wonder he had you on your stomach the first time, he really did enjoy kissing.

“Not… fair,” you huff between kisses, your arms wrapping around him, holding onto his back as he starts to move faster.

“Feels good,” he hums, the phrase not even a hint of a question.

“B-bastard,” you grumble as he presses in deep and ruts his body against your clit. The sensation has you arching your back and digging your nails into his, but he doesn’t stop. It takes him just a second to get back to his original angle, but he makes sure each thrust presses his body against your clit, hurdling you even faster toward an orgasm.

“Ah-ah-arrogant shuh-showoff!” you cry out, your body already shivering with the building pleasure.

“I haven’t started showing off yet.” Shanks promises you, wincing slightly as your nails press into his skin. “Finally getting around to stabbing me, hm?”

Shaking your head even as you scratch his back. “No, no, I’m naaahhwt,” you whine the word feeling the inevitable crest approaching. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Look at me.” He says, his voice and tone harsh and demanding. You can’t deny him, either too lost in the incoming pleasure, or too swayed by the tone, you don’t care right now. “Good girl.”

“Don’t—saaaaay-that!” You cry, your legs locking against his, struggling to keep your eyes on his as the orgasm shudders through you. “Fuh-Fuck you, Shanks!” 

“Say it again,” he says, a wide grin on his face as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“Shanks ♥!” You gasp the word, whining against the euphoria.

“Yeah, like that.” He husks, leaning down and kissing your cheek. “Just like that.”

The sweet whine from your lips curls around his neck and he finally stills for a moment, giving you a chance to come down a little from your current high.

“Stay the night.” He says simply, and you nod. Rolling his hips, you shiver from the sensation jolting through your body. “Good. Don’t worry, I’ll be able to carry you into the bath no matter how many times you cum, my-.”

Thrust.

“Good-.”

Thrust.

“Girl.”

[quinloki]

Phraseology

/screams in utter glee/

Thanks to the incredible talent of @attyrocious I now have an incredible "cover" for the Marco/Reader/Sabo story of Phraseology.

(Seriously if I can manage it expect an update during this month because it is sheer force of will keeping me on task with the birthday even right now)

Anyway, check out Phraseology if you'd like, it's only 5 chapters, but there's plenty planned. And show love to Atty who is incredibly talented and super sweet. <3

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 6: Properly

“I honestly don’t know what I expected.” You admit, as you step out of the lobby of your apartment complex to greet Shanks.

After thinking it over for almost a week, and barely seeing even a glimpse of Shanks during that time, you reached out to him and said you’d like to talk. In frustratingly short order, he convinced you to let him take you out on a date. Nothing super fancy, but a way for him to wine and dine you properly, and to give you both a place to talk that was, effectively, neutral ground.

The ease with which he convinced you had raised your blood pressure for a few moments, but you appreciated the honesty of it. Meeting outside of work could easily turn into a date, no matter what you tried to call it, and meeting at work was out of the question. You weren’t going to invite him into your apartment, and you did not need to give him the benefit of meeting at his home.

And now, here he was, in one of the most modest suits you were sure he owned, leaning against what might be the most modest car you could hope to see from him: a 1968 blood-red hard-top corvette.

His suit, at least, a simple stiff-collared white shirt with a black jacket and matching slacks, complimented your own outfit well. You dressed barely a step above what you did at work, willing to put in some extra effort for the sake of the word date, but not much more than that.

“She’s quiet,” he offers with a wry smirk. Opening the door he offers a hand you turn down with an even “thank you,” seating yourself in the leather seat easily enough.

“I’m surprised you willingly own a car without a backseat.” You say, running your hand over the interior of the door. It’s in exceptional condition, barely even signs of wear and tear for such an old car. The leather is pleasant against your fingers, real, fine leather. A rarity nowadays.

“Technically, it’s the only car I own,” Shanks admits, getting in and buckling himself in place. “And yeah, it’s a hand-me-down from the old man, but there’s no company claim on this car.”

“You two restore it together, or something like that?” You question and Shanks laughs, starting the car. It is quiet, the motor purring just below a humming purr beneath the hood.

“Nah, nothing like that. I helped him change the oil a few times, and I’ve detailed the damn thing so many times I could do it in my sleep. But I’m not much of a mechanic. Roger wasn’t either.” He says, pulling away from the curb and heading down the street.

“He had a trusted mechanic, and I do too. Sassy kid, real spark-plug, but he loves this car as much as he hates me, so I know I can trust him to do good work.”

You nearly bark your laugh. “He hates you? Aren’t you worried he’ll sabotage your car, or over-charge you?”

Smiling, he shrugs. “I can afford to overpay for quality,” he admits easily. “As for the car, I think he’d rather come at me directly than hurt this car, but I don’t think he hates me that way.”

“It’s a clash of personalities then?” You hum, your tone causing Shanks to chuckle nervously.

“Probably.” He admits, clearing his throat.

A silence falls between you, a little awkward, and a little tense, but oddly comfortable. You didn’t feel as though you needed to fill the silence, but the entire idea was to talk.

“I still want to stab you.” You admit, looking out the passenger window.

“I’d advise against it while I’m driving.” He returns easily and you barely stifle a laugh.

“I think you could manage.”

“You don’t have something to stab me with, right?”

“I’m sure I could improvise.”

“This is a manual drive,” he says maybe a little more hastily than he means, despite the easy grin on his lips. “I need two legs and arms to operate it.”

You laugh, not wanting to torment him any further. “You’re really worried I’m going to stab you.”

“I believe you when you say you want to,” he admits.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not so honorable as to forewarn someone I mean to actually stab.” You admit, settling into the seat. It was comfortable and the steady thrum of the engine was relaxing.

“So I should worry when the warnings cease.”

“If you want to take it that way, certainly.” You hum mischievously.

“I’m not going to get a break with you, am I?”

You grunt, looking over at him. You see his eyes shift toward you for a second before they’re back on the road. “Can you tell me that you don’t enjoy this?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I can’t, and also, here we are.”

Pulling into the restaurant, a place you don’t recognize, but it looks nice enough. You don’t give him a chance to come around and get your car door for you, but you do accept his elbow when he offers it. It’s a little formal, but there’s something about it that also feels like the kind of distance you want to have between the two of you for now.

The Grey Whale is a family-centric establishment. Most of the tables are meant for at least four people, and easily up to twenty or more. There are a few smaller booths along the walls that have a little more privacy with curtains hanging between the booths and the main area. One of these tables has been reserved by Shanks, and you’re both led to the seats with little fanfare from the hostess.

“Only you could manifest some modicum of privacy in the midst of a family restaurant.” You tease as the curtains obscure most of your space from the floor.

“I figured if I went with something too fancy you’d be uncomfortable.” He offers up easily and you hate to admit as much.

“I’d appreciate it if you'd stop reading my mind.” You grumble the words, and you’re both interrupted as a waitress comes in and takes your drink orders, offering to come back for your main course order when you’ve had a chance to look over the menus.

“I can’t read your mind.” Shanks insists nonchalantly, opening the menu and at least pretending to look at it.

“You leave me coffee nearly every morning.” You grouse, paying more attention to the menu than your words. “Even when you don’t grace me with your presence, it’s still on my desk, and no matter when I arrive it’s both a style of coffee I enjoy and it’s the proper temperature.”

When you look up at Shanks you can see his cheeks and ears are red. He’s desperate to be focused on the menu, but you can’t ignore the way he’s lighting up the booth.

“Did you think you were being subtle?”

“I was just trying to be nice,” his voice nearly cracks and he takes a moment to compose himself, turning back to the menu more like it’s the morning paper. “You’ve got a stressful job.”

“You make it stressful,” you quip back. “Made it stressful,” you correct, gritting your teeth. Since your breakdown at work Shanks hadn’t been a source of stress for you at work. He’d barely, technically, been a source of stress at all, honestly. Not that you were open to admitting that.

The waitress comes by and leaves your drinks, taking your orders and your menus. There’s a moment's silence between the two of you and you wonder if you can get him to blush like that again when he doesn’t have anything to hide behind.

“Do you want me to-.”

“Absolutely not.” You interject, pointing an accusatory finger at him. Narrowing your eyes you figure now is good a time as any. “Now, tell me about your spouse.”

Shanks nearly spits his drink, just barely managing to choke on it and catch what little bit escapes with his napkin. He swallows the heavy drink and coughs, cleaning himself and his immediate area up despite managing to contain most of the mess. You wait patiently, giving him a nearly bored look as he gets everything around him back in order.

In all honesty, most of your frustration regarding his dalliances at work were because you knew he was married. Not so much because you were concerned about his, or his spouse’s, honor - that wasn’t your business, but the idea that he’d leave some random employee in the lurch with a kid got under your skin.

Admittedly, most of the far-fetched outcomes that wriggled into your brain were probably unfounded. Shanks was an honorable man, if not perhaps, a bit of a horn dog. You were sure he would’ve taken care of anything that happened, and he was probably very up front about the sex as well.

“It’s an open relationship.” Shanks says as calmly as he can muster. Despite how soundly you caught him off guard, he looks pretty relaxed. He’s not denying it, which is good. “You knew?”

“I am the head of HR. I have access to more records than most of the rest of the staff.” You admit, tilting your glass toward him before taking a drink. “I knew you didn’t wear your ring often, but I’d seen you looking at it, and your, uh, voice changes, when your spouse calls.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up the other night.”

You shrug. “Your fidelity isn’t my problem,” you admit, causing Shanks’ brows to raise. “And honestly I had begun to assume that your marriage was open. I can’t imagine Beckman would’ve let you off the hook otherwise.”

Shanks chuckles. “Yeah, Benny would’ve thrown me out of a window, honestly.” He pauses, taking a drink. “My own office window, I imagine.”

You can’t help the small smirk at that. Maybe it was because a more conventional relationship had blown up in your face that you felt more comfortable with this than you thought you would be. You were setting yourself up to be The Other Woman, or the Side Piece, or whatever designation people wanted to attribute to you.

Or maybe you were just looking for some kind of closure that was more substantial than angry sex on Shanks’ desk after hours at work. A good and proper night together before you were both sated and able to go your separate ways.

Nothing lasts forever, after all, but it was hard to imagine that one more night would be enough.

“I’m not going to say I can read your mind,” Shanks says softly, pulling your thoughts out of the road they were going down. “But there’s something heavy on it.”

Maybe one more night would be one night too many.

Before you can sort your thoughts enough to answer, your food arrives and the focus shifts for a moment as the waitress gets your plates sorted, your drinks refilled, and your waters refreshed. You use the time to try and shake the heavy things on your mind, but Shanks isn’t one to let something go. His wordless glances as you both begin to eat, are enough for you to know he’s still focused on the earlier topic.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.” You admit after enjoying a couple bites of your meal. “Besides, you still haven’t told me about your spouse.”

“They know we’re on a date tonight.” He offers.

“They?”

Shanks smiles, the light of it going into his eyes. “I haven’t spoken about them in detail for so long, it’s actually harder to do than I expected. The secrecy is for both our sakes.”

“Ah. I won’t push then,” you admit, letting your attention go back to the meal for the most part.

“Wondering where you fit in?” Shanks prompts and you nod, swallowing your food quickly.

“Yes, actually.” You admit, nodding. “Please stop reading my mind, but also yes. You have… everything, and I mean, I’m not putting myself down when I say this, but why me?”

You take another bite, covering your mouth as you mumble despite it. “I mean, you can literally have your pick. You have the money, looks and all of that.”

“I suppose you’re not wrong, but then, why not pick you?” He prompts and you pause, giving him an odd look for a moment before looking away. You aren’t really sure what to say. It seemed wrong to bring up your appearance, or your lack of family lineage compared to his.

Even before the words could form on your lips they seemed to sour.

“You worked your way up in the company, and have proven yourself a dedicated, capable, and fair employee. Your coworkers speak well of you, and even people who end up in your office for uncomfortable reasons, come out as satisfied as anyone could expect.

“Your patience is almost endless.” He says and you laugh.

You level the steak knife you have available. “I’m armed, sir, don’t test me.” Your grin and tone take the edge off your joking threat and Shanks puts his hands up in mock surrender, an easy smile on his face.

“Alright, I surrender.” He quiets for a moment, the look in his eyes a little more somber before he continues. “You are beautiful.” He admits quietly, almost shyly. “But it wasn’t your appearance that caught my attention, so much as your character.”

“And thus was I chosen to be tormented.” You sigh dramatically, causing Shanks to flinch.

“Beck did say it wasn’t my best idea.” He admits sheepishly.

“He also said you make stupid decisions when you’re… in… uh…” You pause as heat rushes through you at the realization of what you were almost going to say. He doesn’t offer up a word for you, waiting for you to finish your thought. “Ah… in a twitterpated state.”

Shanks chokes.

“Sorry,” you offer him a spare napkin and he shakes his head as he takes it.

“S’fine,” he manages the sound before grabbing a glass of water. “Of all the words,” he grins between gulps. “I hadn’t expected that.”

Setting the glass down, Shanks chuckles to himself a little. You aren’t really sure why you feel embarrassed. It was like you unnecessarily used a euphemism, when you could’ve just come out and say it.  But the word was difficult.

You didn’t know if it was difficult before or after you’d been dumped. If it was something that only came easily because you had assumed it was a foregone conclusion, and the idea of agreeing to it again, of admitting the possibility of it, was just too much.

Casual sex with Shanks had been easy. Letting him move you, getting caught up in the pleasure and satisfaction of it had been easy.

The idea of a relationship with him felt -.

In the middle of your thought you look up at him, only to see him simply admiring you. He’s composed himself, and seems content to just gaze at you from across the table. The look in his eyes makes the blood rush to your face. You can feel the heat of it prickle your ears and the back of your neck, and you’re sure he knows. It didn’t matter if your face was lit up like a Christmas tree or not, he’d know.

You can’t face the intensity behind those eyes, and look down at your plate.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically, and you shake your head.

- weighty. It felt so weighty. How dare it be so weighty. How dare these feelings have such heft to them that you can’t just shrug them off! It wasn’t like you’d sworn off giving anyone a chance after you were dumped. You didn’t want to rebound off anyone, but you hadn’t talked about your relationship at work anyway, and Shanks had been… Shanks, for months.

His behavior wasn’t recent. It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t something that started when you’d started dating someone else. It had just happened.

It wasn’t shallow, and there wasn’t an ulterior motive.

“You… lied,” you say the words quietly, but you can tell from the way he shifts that he didn’t miss them. Pressing your lips together you look up at him, a mix of anger and uncertainty on your face. He almost looks pained, either at the accusation, or at the turmoil on your face, but you already know you don’t have to clarify.

Still, the words fought their way from between your lips. There was an odd weight to them, a heft that twisted your heart. It was supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be light. It was supposed to be simple.

“You said I wouldn’t catch feelings.”

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Phraseology

Fem!Reader/Demon!Sabo/Mythical Beast!Marco >.>

Summary - Urban fantasy vibes. Reader is a smut writer who does an impromptu book signing at The Archive, an old as balls library that the city has grown up around. The decision changes her life, and shenanigans ensue.

CW: Canon levels of violence, lots of sex, Sabo likes to watch, Marco likes to make reader sing. Voyeurism, oral given, oral received, fingering, the gloves stay on, sex, mdni

@mfreedomstuff

Chapter 5: Slow Down

Dinner at Baratie’s had been an experience. The food was beyond anything you had tried before, and there was nothing that left you wanting. It was, itself, nearly a three-hour affair. The courses were well-paced, and Marco and Sabo were both known by the staff again. Conversation was light, some of it about the Archive, some of it about your books, most of it was about the three of you and the past five years.

How Sabo had nearly started flirting with you when he first saw you, but figured Marco would scold him and ask if he could assist you instead. Marco admitted the rule about no fooling around in the Archive was for his own sanity, but it was also one he and Sabo adhered to. It was the only way to manage a full shift of work.

With the tension between the three of you, however, you weren’t sure how long that rule was going to last. You were pretty sure that there were going to be a lot of “let’s go home for lunch” style lunch breaks in your future.

Not that you were complaining.

While the Baratie was an experience, nothing had prepared you for the sight of Marco and Sabo’s home.

Just past the city limits sign was the turn off to the road that eventually led to their home. The driveway to the gates was long enough to be mistaken for a road on its own, and what was beyond the gates could be called little else except a castle.

Three stories of stone work. You couldn’t comprehend whatever square footage someone would dare to tell you. It was massive. It had to take several people several hours a day to keep it clean. You half expected to learn that the furniture came to life when the sun went down and did the cleaning for them.

It was, at the bare minimum, every bit as big as the Archive itself.

Marco and Sabo gave you a few moments to gawk before getting out of the car and then helping you out.

“I expected… a lot,” you admit, one hand gesturing to the grand building in front of you. “I was… that is…”

“It is a bit overly grand,” Sabo admits, looking up at the castle while he and Marco stand beside you. “It’s been in my family for some generations, and was thus inherited by me. A series of events that are poor topics for the evening, led to it being simply me in there, and then Marco and I after he and I met.”

“You’re doing better than me, pretty bird.” Marco hums, putting an arm around your waist. “My legs buckled at the sight and I sat down in the middle of the driveway.”

“I promise, sweet dove, in a few moment’s time, you won’t be worried about all this.” Sabo offers, drawing your gaze away from the impressive building toward him. “Unless you wish to delay our dessert course even longer?”

It’s difficult to notice anything else when Sabo looks at you like that. It’s a little hard to think about anything else. You’d always loved his eyes, how bright and clear they were, oftentimes even when you thought the color of his irises would be lost to shadow, but right now it was something else.

You could lean in and kiss him without another thought, though he seems to hold you at bay even as he leads you into the house. Marco is beside you, and while the details of the foyer come into your mind, you don’t focus on them. There’s beauty and care in the home itself, something that makes it both timeless and tasteful, but you can’t hold onto any specifics.

You aren’t particularly concerned about them as you walk up the marble stairs easily, following after Sabo as though you’ve walked through these halls a hundred times already. It was so comfortable, and comforting, and you were barely aware even as you entered the room that was apparently your destination for the evening.

Large windows had their curtains drawn and moonlight lit the room softly. Nothing but clear skies and the bright moon.

Nothing but you, and them.

Sabo tugs the sash that accenting your dress, and pulls it off slowly. The only sound in the room is the material of the sash against the dress, the tension slipping away as he pulls it free and begins to fold it neatly. Marco’s warmth is at your back, his hands unclasping the catch at the back of your dress, slowly pulling down the small zipper with care.

The sound of it, the feeling of cool air against your back as the material parts a little, the heat rolling off Marco that keeps it from being cold against your skin. Your lips part as your breath warms, the heat flushing beneath your skin while Sabo carefully removes the jewelry dappling your skin.

“If you need us to stop,” Sabo offers quietly and you shake your head.

“If you stop now, I might cry,” you admit softly, gasping sweetly when Marco’s gloved hands slip inside your dress and brush against your back as he brings them up to your shoulders.

“Don’t worry, yoi,” Marco murmurs, his words nearly dripping onto your neck. “If you cry tonight it’ll be because it feels that good.”

The nervous sound that escapes you has Sabo flashing a grin at you, Marco’s hands slipping the sleeves of your gown off, letting it slide down your body and pool around your feet. Sabo kneels down before you, helping you step safely away from the gown. He takes a moment to fold it neatly while Marco starts to undo the corset.

“Hold onto me, love,” Marco hums, leaning over your shoulder enough you can reach up and put a hand on his shoulder when Sabo lifts one of your feet to take your heels off. “Just like that.”

Once Sabo has your heels off, and everything set aside, Marco turns you around. Sabo takes over unlacing the corset, pulling it off you as Marco begins to undo his tie. You let Sabo move you while you watch Marco strip, tossing his tie aside and making an easy show of undoing the button of his jacket and then his dress shirt.

Sabo holds your hand in his, reaching around and releasing the clasps of your garter with one hand. The loss of the tension pulls your gaze down momentarily, but it’s pulled back up when Marco’s shirt hits the floor.

You can hardly believe what you’re seeing.

You knew Marco had tattoos, the ink peeked past the fold of his shirts and danced at the edges of his collar almost everyday, but you hadn’t expected him to be practically covered. Teals and golden lines danced over his skin, the main theme being a phoenix. It’s life, death and rebirth as far as you could gather. The work was beautiful, but so was the body beneath it.

Gods save you, you’d seen him carry around stacks of books like they weighed nothing, but you’d thought it was simply a function of repetition and not - well.

Marco left his pants on for now, walking toward you as Sabo held both of your hands in his, his voice soft against your ear, his warmth comforting against your back.

“All that’s left on you right now is yours, sweet dove.” He hums, and you look down to see your lacy bra and panties are all that’s left. The thigh highs are already starting to slip on their own, but those weren’t meant to be returned to the tailor shop anyway. “You should be very clear how fond you are of your clothes before we get started.”

“Huh? I… I,” Sabo’s hands grab your wrists as you stammer, pulling them down and back. You don’t resist the hold, especially not when Marco tilts your chin up and leans down.

“We’ll keep these,” Marco answers for you, his eyes slipping up from your body, past your lips and to your own hooded gaze. “A memento of this night, yoi.”

“Y-yeah,” you agree, voice barely a sound in the first place as your eyes fall down to his lips.

You don’t even have to ask, the shift of your tongue over your lips is enough to invite him. Warmth floods your lips as Marco presses you into Sabo with the weight of his need. You shift a little in Sabo’s grasp, but not in a way that indicates you want to be let go. He presses into you from behind and you moan into the kiss, melting between the two of them.

“Please,” you shiver the word as the kiss breaks and the two of them move.

Sabo undoes your bra and Marco pulls it away, tossing it aside. Gloved hands are teasing your nipples, Marco devouring your lips when you gasped in pleasure from Sabo’s teasing. Marco slips his hands in yours, his hot skin against yours, and he holds your arms out while Sabo teases your breasts. Marco’s thigh between yours forces your legs apart, leaning your back into Sabo’s chest and sending a thrill through you from the pressure against your pussy.

Your fingers flex against Marco’s and the rush of pleasure has you moaning into the kiss. The treatment was equal parts command and worship. They moved you as they pleased, but every motion was one you were willing to endure.

You wriggled against Sabo as the pleasure built. It was mostly your own fault, every twitch and shiver from the sweet pleasure his gloves were teasing into your nipples made you rub against Marco’s thigh. You could barely beg, Marco’s lips barely giving yours a moment’s respite.

“Please,” you gasp finally, hips rutting into his thigh no matter how much you tried to stop yourself.

“The seams of the gloves are a little rough,” Sabo admits, shifting his teasing so he’s rubbing the pads of his fingertips against the tips of your nipples, instead of using the seams to send thrills into your chest. You’re so worked up, however, that it just makes you whine more, hands twisting and flexing in Marco’s grip. You swear you can feel the supple grain of the leather like they’re bristles of a brush you’re so sensitive.

“You’re allowed to cum,” Marco promises against your lips.

“Y-yeah,” you nod breathlessly but you aren’t sure if you mean you are going to right then, or if you’re just acknowledging that you can.

“Seems a shame to let such a treat soak into your pants, love.” Sabo says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking to Marco.

“True, she is our dessert this evening.” He agrees, and before you ask them what they need you to do, Marco is on his knees.

“Oh gods,” you husk, hand in his hair as he releases his hold on your right hand to heft your leg up onto his shoulder. “Oh gods,” you repeat, your mind unable to think of anything else.

“We’re not,” Sabo hums. “But if you say his name…”

Marco’s thumb hooks your lacy panties and pulls them to the side. “Dessert so sweet she’s dripping.” He hums, and you can feel the heat of words against your labia.

“M-Marco, please,” you murmur the words and he looks up at you, bright teal blue eyes with flecks of gold, and you swear it’s almost like they’re going to catch on fire. “Fuck.”

“In a moment, sweet bird,” he promises you just as his tongue flicks out and licks the slick from your pussy. “Dessert first.”

Nuzzling into your cunt he licks and sucks your clit, holding onto your left hand still and letting your right hand get tangled into his hair. If you’re gripping his hair too harshly he makes no indication, focused on the task before him.

“N-no,” you gasp involuntarily.

“No?” Sabo hum inquisitively, still teasing your nipples relentlessly.

“Guh-gonna cum!” You cry, shivering between them.

“That is the intent,” he coos at you.

“Mercy, please, it feels too good, I can’t,” you’re nearly in tears at the pleasure that seems to do nothing but build and build inside you.

“You can,” he assures you.

“I’mma cum, Sabo, I’m gonna scream!” You shake your head, but you can’t throw off the building euphoria.

“Several times tonight if all goes well,” he replies, pinching your nipples as Marco’s mouth sends you over the edge. The sharp tweak and the heavy rush of pleasure has your body taut between them, gasping breaths from you that you can’t contain anymore.

Marco licks and kisses you through the orgasm, letting go of your hand to steady you when your legs start to shake. They keep you in place for a minute until you catch your breath and your legs steady again.

“It was assumptive on our part,” Sabo says, bringing you over to the bed so you can sit after Marco helps take your panties off. “That you wanted to cum, but your words were a bit at odds. Perhaps we could employ a safe word or two?”

Smiling, you nod. “You assumed correctly, but that would be a good idea.”

“Alright, then for now, touching me is red.” Sabo says, putting a finger under your chin and tilting your gaze up. “Lest I put your hand there myself, okay?”

You nod lightly, closing your eyes as Sabo runs his thumb over your lips.

“Based on your books, one would assume you don’t mind things getting a little rough, but we can wait for that.” He muses, pressing the pad of his thumb against your tongue when you open your mouth and eyes, looking up at him as he holds your tongue in place. “Perhaps something more… filling, for that sweet mouth of yours.”

You flush as the bed shifts from added weight. Looking over as best as you can while Sabo still has a hold of your chin, you realize Marco’s seated next to you. As far as you can tell the only thing he has on are the gold dangling earrings he likes to wear, and his tattoos.

“Oh the curiosity in your eyes.” Sabo purrs, urging you to stand up and keep your eyes on him for a moment longer. “So obedient.” He leans in, as if to kiss you. Instead he turns you around, so you’re facing Marco.

Sabo’s gloved hands rest on your shoulders as you watch Marco openly take you in with his gaze. You almost want to cover yourself up, but considering his mouth was between your thighs a few minutes ago, it seems a silly thing to do.

Instead, you let your own eyes wander. Slipping off the end of the earrings that caught the soft bits of moonlight, down to the tattoos that hugged the curve of the muscles of his body. The feathers that shivered against the curve of his arms, the scenes that mimicked some part of his life across his chest, that were woven through a stylized cross, and traveled further down.

To his…

The heat rose in your face as the elegant tattoos were shoved out of your mind. Marco wasn’t just tall he was proportionate.

Very properly.

Proportioned.

“Perhaps you would like to return the earlier favor?” Sabo purrs into your ear, hands slipping down your arms as you both step closer. Marco opens his legs for you, and Sabo’s hands on your hips has you bending over at the waist to get to what you want.

Marco’s hand in your gets you to tilt your head to the side, and you lick up his hard shaft, watching his thighs flex until you take the tip of his cock into your mouth. The soft sigh and gentle flex of his fingers in your hair is enough to urge you on. Using your tongue you teas his tip for a moment before you begin to take him into your mouth. A little more each time, distracted only by the knowledge that Sabo was certainly staring.

Once you get about halfway down on Marco’s cock you feel Sabo’s gloved hand against the curve of your ass. Moaning, you squirm a little, but the two keep you in place easily.

“I’m just going to make sure Marco can get his fill when you’re done.” Sabo hums, pushing a gloved finger into your vagina. The leather makes the single finger thick and you groan against Marco again.

The glove itself is a new sensation, making his hand cooler than it would be, and you can feel his finger shift beneath the leather a little when he pulls out before pushing back in. He continues until you can hear the messy wet sound of your own arousal over the wet sound of the blow job you were giving.

Licking your tongue up the length of Marco’s shaft, you let the tip pop out of your mouth with a messy sound, one followed quickly by a loud moan from you as Sabo pushes two fingers inside you. Marco tugs on your hair, pulling your head back as your body arches from the initial pleasure.

The look on his face is one of absolute authority, and you feel like you’d walk outside right now if he told you to. Instead he holds your gaze for a moment, watching your face as Sabo fingers you.

“His fingers feel good, yeah?” Marco hums and you nod. He leans down and nuzzles his cheek against yours softly before speaking low into your ear. “Tell him, yoi.”

Marco leans back enough that you can see the easy hooded gaze he always has. He’s close, so close, and you can’t look anywhere else.

“S-Sabo, you feel - your fingers feel good,” you stammer, the heat rushing into your face as a smirk slips over Marco’s face. He’s drinking in your embarrassment and there’s no escape. “They - aahhh!” Your hand goes to Marco’s side as Sabo pushes three fingers inside you. You knew from looking at him he was going to be solid, but having your hand on him like this was something else.

“I think you’re ready, yoi.” Marco says and you whine softly.

“I can,” casting your eyes down you reach out with your free hand and wrap your fingers around him. “Did you get bigger?” You question, your original statement lost to this new information. Marco loosens his grip on your hair when you look down. At the same time Sabo shoves his fingers deep and you flex your hand against Marco’s cock.

“I’m ready.” Marco growls, leaning down and picking you up easily. You yip at the sudden shift, Sabo’s fingers no longer inside you, your feet no longer on the ground, your body pressed against Marco’s chest.

He lays you out on the bed so that the head of the bed is on your right, and the foot of it is on your left, and you have to tilt your bead back to see Sabo, who has already pulled up a chair and is getting comfortable. Marco comes onto the bed by your feet, hands on your legs, making you sigh as he rubs your ankles.

He kisses your thighs and massages your calves, working up your legs slowly, spreading them carefully. The slow build up is going to be the end of you, but you can’t dare ask him to hurry up. As much as you want him to fill you up, you also want the night to last forever. Instead you tilt your head back and look over at Sabo, reaching out to him without thinking.

“Red, sweet dove,” he says softly as you lay your arms back down on the bedding. “Worry not, I’m enjoying every moment of this.”

A kiss pressed into the inside of your thigh pulls your attention back to Marco. His hands on your hips, his lips leaving hot kisses up your stomach. The tip of his earring drags softly against your torso and you can’t pull your eyes away from him. A soft lick against your skin, brief and playful, eyes that aren’t looking at you, but are aware you’re looking.

He pauses over your breasts, lips a breath away as your nipple stiffens from anticipation before he finally leans down and kisses it. His fingers slip between yours, pushing your hands into the bedding as his lips and tongue tease your nipple, one side until you squirm and moan and then the other. Marco kisses the center of your chest when he finally shows you mercy, trailing kisses up your neck slowly as his legs spread yours even further, causing you to rest your thighs against his.

The heated kiss against your lips doesn’t last as long as you like, but Marco leans back and watches you soundlessly as he starts to push inside you. You’re so wet there’s no resistance as he parts your lips and starts to fill you up. All you can do is practically pant, tears at the corners of your eyes. You don’t even know why you’re crying, but it feels good, the stretch relieves an ache you didn’t even know you were feeling.

“Please,” you gasp, and Marco kisses you softly. “Please,” you sigh again.

“Please what, pretty bird.” He prompts with a tender tone, steadily sinking in deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you nearly beg him.

“I won’t.” He assures you, letting go of your hands and shifting enough to hook your knees with his arms, pushing your legs back further before finally pressing down until his hips are flush against you.

Marco sighs as you grab his arms. “No, no, no, oh-gods-don’t-move,” you whine the words in quick succession and Marco pulls back before pushing back in again, grinding into you. “No-no-no-gonna-cum-gonna-!!”

He doesn’t show you any mercy, teasing and thrusting until it pushes you over the edge again. You can’t believe you came so fast, but Sabo’s fingering had put you so close and the teasing and anticipation from Marco after had been enough. Once he’d hilted inside you it was a mix of physical and emotional ecstasy and you couldn’t hold on anymore.

The pleasure blotted your skin like the ink on Marco’s body, a gentle moan slipping from your lips as your body trembled softly beneath him. Marco gave you a moment to catch your breath before he started to move again. Each motion sent shivers through your body, the pleasure was sweet and persistent and you were willing to be drowned by it.

He snaps his hips into you quickly, pushing you back just enough that your head tilts back off the bed, letting you look back at Sabo easier. You hold onto Marco’s arms so you don’t get pushed back any further, looking up at Sabo.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out and pressing his gloved palm against your cheek. You nuzzle into it, breath falling out in heavy, heated huffs as Marco starts to pick up the pace.

“You seem to need assistance,” Sabo says, his tone mischievous. “And I need someone to clean my glove.”

You open your mouth, and he pushes two fingers inside. The mix of leather and arousal is delicious, and muddles your thoughts even more than they already were. You would happily become a sweet little doll if it meant being between these two for the rest of your days.

Marco’s lips mark your shoulders and chest carefully, Sabo’s fingers push into your mouth, playing with your tongue and threatening to gag you until he eases up. You’re caught between the two of them and the growing euphoria is bigger this time than it had been so far.

When you whine Sabo pulls his fingers out of your mouth, bringing his dry glove to your lips and grabbing your tongue. The grip is light enough you could pull away, but tight enough that he is holding onto it.

“I’m going to see your face when you cum this time,” Sabo commands, a shimmer flickering through his eyes.

“’Esh,” you agree, and he releases the grip on your tongue. You keep looking at him, the position making you dizzy as the bliss within you rises, blood rushing to your head.

Marco shift, leaning back onto his legs. He’s braced one of your legs against his, pinned the other beneath his leg, and started teasing your clit with his thumb. Your eyes go wide as your body goes taut from the rush of stimulation and Sabo puts a gloved hand on either side of your face.

“Don’t fight it, sweet dove,” he hums as your whole body begins to shiver. You’re white-knuckling the bedding unable to move between the two of them. Marco has your legs pinned, you can’t grab hold of Sabo, and you can’t look away from him.

There’s nowhere for you to go.

“I’m gonna,” you husk, your voice is coarse and scattered by the heavy panting breaths rushing the words past your lips.

“So’s he,” Sabo hums, eyes shifting over to Marco before looking back at you. “Mmm, in or out?”

“In, in!” You cry. “In, please, please, I’m gonna cum!”

“I bet you look divine covered, but as you wish,” Sabo hums and all you can do is nod as pleasure over takes you again.

Tears slip from your eyes, soaking into Sabo’s gloves as pleasure jolts through you. Marco’s thumb at your clit pushes the dizzying bliss to a new height, and your eyes nearly roll back for a second as your body tries to curl.

You can’t break the grip you’re in between the two of them and when the first wave passes you’re able to suck in a breath and cry out as the euphoria rushes through you. You can feel the slick of Marco filling you up as you start to come down from your high and the sensation is enough to send an extra thrill through you.

You can’t help the pouting whine that slips your lips as Marco pulls out of you. He chuckles a bit as the two of them move you into a more stable position on the bed. Marco kisses your tummy, and you kiss the pad of Sabo’s thumb when he presses it against your lips.

“You did good, pretty bird.” Marco hums, laying down behind you and pulling your back to his chest so the two of you can face Sabo comfortably.

“If it was half as good as it looked, I imagine you’re suitably satisfied.” Sabo adds and you nod.

“You prefer to watch?” You question, sinking into Marco with a contented sigh and looking into Sabo’s eyes.

“For now.” Sabo answers, a genuinely relaxed smile on his face you aren’t sure what to do with.

Except wonder idly if you could handle taking both of them. Sabo left most of the work to Marco and you were tired down to your bones. If it had been both of them, you think it would take you a week to recover.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Phraseology

Fem!Reader/Demon!Sabo/Mythical Beast!Marco >.>

Summary - Urban fantasy vibes. Reader is a smut writer who does an impromptu book signing at The Archive, an old as balls library that the city has grown up around. The decision changes her life, and shenanigans ensue.

CW: Canon levels of violence, lots of sex, Sabo likes to watch, Marco likes to make reader sing. I'll add details as they come along but right now that's the best I got for you.

@mfreedomstuff

Chapter 4: Understandings

Your afternoon on the town with Marco and Sabo was fun and distracting. The three of you visited two different museums, had dinner at a hole in the wall restaurant that was so tasty you weren’t entirely sure the food hadn’t been laced with something. All three of you looked terribly out of place in the small diner, but Sabo’s compliments to the chef, and his and Marco’s appetites put you in the owner’s good graces at the very least.

Seven full plates between them, twelve counting your meals and desserts, and Sabo overpaid the bill twice over plus a generous tip, promising to be back again. You were certain he was going to be in here all by himself, three-piece suit and top hat, eating a dozen bowls of ramen and likely paying the tabs of the entire diner himself.

Afterward they took you back to your apartment, your goodbyes were a little awkward. None of you seemed quite sure where the most comfortable line was, though it did feel like Sabo and Marco were more comfortable about all of it than you. It wasn’t uncertainty that held you up, it was wanting them carnally and being fairly certain that an offer to come up to your apartment was going to be declined.

Not for lack of wanting on their part, but it felt like steps in a dance, and you had the sense that both of them wanted to treat you to the best they could, before they treated you like dessert.

Or so you hoped.

The next four days at the Archive were comfortable. A little awkward first thing in the morning on the first day, but Marco and Sabo smoothed everything so naturally that you did feel a bit caught up in a dance. A very warm and comfortable one, and it made waltzing through your work, and your writing, much easier than expected.

It also made the days go by quickly, despite how much you were looking forward to your date with Sabo and Marco. Sabo, admittedly, did make sure that you caught the last bus home every evening, with apologies. If they gave you a ride home this week, he was concerned he would direct Marco to simply drive you to their home, and he was fairly certain Marco would comply.

As tempting as that was, he didn’t want Natiatin’s hard work to go to waste. You weren’t entirely sure if he was exaggerating or not, but it was more endearing than anything else, and so you’d played along. While it was tempting to see if the two of them could keep you to themselves for four days straight, it was also something that could be learned after the fancy dinner and it’s fancy clothes were enjoyed to their fullest.

After all, you’d never really gone in on something that was just indulgent like this. Custom tailored clothes was something you’d never even dreamed of owning because it seemed an impossibility, and Baratie’s was the kind of place you read about and only wished you could afford. The premiere restaurant was also one of the world’s most renowned food banks too, acting as a hub for almost twenty other food service charities around the world.

It was probably easier to pay for a 100$ steak that way.

When the day of the date finally arrived, it started out similarly to the outing you had five days ago. Sabo and Marco arrived at your apartment and picked you up. It wasn’t ten in the morning, but rather three in the afternoon. Sabo was as dressed down as you think you’d ever seen him. Slacks, a turtleneck, his gloves and no top hat. It took you a second to recognize him.

Marco’s clothing was more relaxed as well. For him at least. Tight jeans, and an equally snug t-shirt. You almost wanted to just go back up into your apartment in protest.

The only thing any of you were wearing that would stay on you after you reached the tailor’s, were your underclothes. Sabo and Marco would keep their shoes, but you hadn’t owned a pair that matched your new dress, so they were included in your accessories for the evening. Natiatin’s full service option meant your hair and makeup would be done.

As this was simply a fancy date, and not a ball, charity event, wedding or something similar, it wasn’t going to take long to do the extras.

“I never thought I’d ever see you without a cravat.” You tease Sabo, glancing up into the visor mirror so you could see into the backseat without irritating Marco by turning around.

Sabo gives you a mischievous grin. “Of all things; I expected it was the hat you’d miss.”

You return the cheeky grin, giving him a pointed look in the reflection. “Oh that I was sure would come off someday.”

Sabo presses his lips together, putting a gloved hand over his mouth. He’s desperate not to blush, but you can see the pink rising in his cheeks. With such fair skin it’s hard to hide something like that.

“I’m surprised you expected the cravat to stay on during sex,” Marco hums and now it’s your turn to try and hide your face.

“S-Sabo doesn’t seem like the type to take off anymore than he needs,” you offer a little hastily.

“Skin to skin is divine,” Sabo hums behind you, a gloved finger tracing up the back of your shoulder, moving lightly up your neck. “But why be hasty, when this touch is just as sweet?”

You stifle a soft whimper. “I did this to myself.”

Marco pats the top of your thigh, closer to your knee than your hip. “You did, and you’re saved by us being at our destination, yoi.”

Pulling into the tailor shop the next two hours are a full whirlwind of activity. Natiatin and the bulk of her staff assist you directly. You’d kept your underclothes intimate, but simple, and added to that was a corset and garter.

By the time Natiatin and her crew were finished you were in a very flattering evening gown. The neckline skirted just below your collarbone, resting lightly on your shoulders. The sleeves hugged your upper arms, flaring out at the elbow and disappearing into the flow of the gown itself. It gave it an older elegance, and made it functionally easier to keep your sleeves out of the way while you ate. A wrap accented the gradient of the dress, and matched with the jewelry that was on loan for the evening.

Natiatin reassured you that the insurance and cost was covered by Sabo, and not for you to fret about it.

“I haven’t seen these two pamper someone like this before,” she hums as she works. “They bring in people for mends and alterations and cover the tab, but nothing like this.” Leaning in at one point she grins. “Whatever the reason or occasions, relax senorita.” She breathes in deep in such a way you mimic her without thinking and follow her lead as she lets it out slowly.

Repeating the process a couple times you feel yourself relax. You hadn’t realized how tense you’d gotten over the last couple hours.

“There we go!” She holds up a mirror. “See? You are beautiful when you come to me, and you are beautiful when you leave, just in a different way, no?”

“Oh,” is the only word that passes your lips at first. You weren’t a slouch with your day to day look, but professional makeup was certainly something else. “Yeah. Wow.”

She grins in a knowing way. “Ah, if you’re reacting like this, I cannot wait to see their reactions.”

Offering a hand to help you stay steady, she walks with you, poking her head out into the main area to be sure Marco and Sabo were ready and waiting. Looking back at you she smiles.

“Look at their faces first, their suits second.” She instructs, giving you one last look before stepping aside.

Smiling, you thank her for the suggestion and, after taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, you step out into the shop proper.

Natiatin’s advice was worth it. The looks on Sabo and Marco’s faces were something you wish you could’ve caught on film. Sabo’s jaw is slack, an uncharacteristically dumbfounded look on his face. Marco’s eyes are as wide as you’ve seen them, though he recovers quicker than Sabo, but his face is flushed red to his ears.

Sabo presses his lips together as he scrambles to gather his composure, and you can see the pleased smile on Marco’s lips as your eyes finally wander to their outfits. You’re able to control yourself more than them, but the suits were exceptional. Sabo dressed to the nines most days, but the way he matched with you and Marco was new, and this outfit had no hat. It was a rare treat to get to admire the wavy golden locks he had, especially styled in a deliberately messy way like they were.

Marco’s hair was a little more controlled, but not so much that it looked odd compared to his usual look. His earrings matched your accessories, which matched the cuff links and pocket watch Sabo had. Marco gloves matched Sabo’s and both were wearing white ones.

All the times you’d wondered what Sabo’s hands looked like under the gloves, you were surprised to find you’d never wondered what Marco looked like with gloves on. The answer was good. He looked good.

Sabo reaches out toward Marco and Marco smacks his hand.

“Ow!” Sabo grumbles, shaking his hand.

“There, now you know you aren’t dreaming, yoi.” Marco grumbles. “You’re supposed to pinch yourself anyway.” He turns toward you and smiles. “You look… incredible. Would that I had better words for it, pretty bird.”

Oh you were going to burn the makeup off your face with how quickly the heat rushes through you.

“Paradise has come, and the birds are all plain, save one.” Sabo adds, and then waves it away as he and Marco step toward you. “Superfluous, I suppose, but there is ought else but poetry to describe how glad I am to be here right now, and how beautiful you look.”

“You’re both going to kill me at this rate.” You say, holding your hands up to block them without touching the makeup on your face.

“Not even if you begged,” Marco hums, holding out a gloved hand. Sabo does the same and after a beat you put one hand in each of theirs. Both lean low and stop short of kissing the top of your hand, pantomiming the action, as though they have no right to touch you directly.

Or maybe if they did they wouldn’t be able to hold back any longer.

“I don’t believe Baratie’s is going to have anything satisfying on the menu tonight,” Sabo laments dramatically as the three of you exit the tailor’s shop.

“Skipping dessert would be for the best.” Marco agrees as they escort you to the car.

“It’s my first time at Baratie’s, and I would like dessert,” you huff.

“My dear, you are the dessert.” Sabo hums, opening the car door for you and helping you get seated.

“I would like to eat some before I become one then,” you return, trying to stifle the rush fluttering in your chest over the look he gave you when he said it.

“Then we shall indulge you, yoi.” Marco says as he and Sabo settle into the car. “This is a night to celebrate you first and foremost, especially since the topic of… us, has certainly been settled already.”

“I… suppose it has.” You agree.

Sabo’s hand rests on your shoulder, and he waits a moment until you relax again. “If we assume anything in error, you can certainly tell us. Barely contained as our desires might be at this point, we are not mere beasts.” He insists.

“I won’t let you two bully me into something I don’t want.” You assure him, patting his gloved hand with your own. “I promise.”

“Good -.” Sabo starts.

“Which is why I’m going to have dessert before we leave Baratie’s no matter what kind of puppy dog pout you give me.” You interrupt, and Marco laughs.

“I was going to say someone as sweet as you doesn’t need more sugar, but perhaps you’re more of a little tart than I thought.” Sabo teases in return, and you turn your head enough to stick your tongue out at him in response.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Phraseology

Fem!Reader/Demon!Sabo/Mythical Beast!Marco >.>

Summary - Urban fantasy vibes. Reader is a smut writer who does an impromptu book signing at The Archive, an old as balls library that the city has grown up around. The decision changes her life, and shenanigans ensue.

CW: Canon levels of violence, lots of sex, Sabo likes to watch, Marco likes to make reader sing. I'll add details as they come along but right now that's the best I got for you.

@mfreedomstuff

Chapter 3: Page Turner

“Of course I’m amenable to the idea!” You blurt out, looking over at Sabo before covering your mouth. Sabo’s grin is delighted, the heat rushing to your face so fast you start to feel dizzy.

“I can’t believe I said that.” You murmur from behind your hand, eyes wide and held in place by Sabo’s.

“So passionately too,” he muses, his eyes hooded and alluring. He taps the tip of your nose with his gloved hand and your gaze escapes his, turning to Marco. He had the audacity to reach out and pull your hand away from your mouth.

“A relief for us, yoi.” He hums, slipping warm fingers between your own slowly and carefully. “And for you as well, it seems.”

“I…” you can’t believe how nice it feels to have Marco’s fingers tangled in your own like this. Covering your eyes with your free hand you can’t stop yourself. “I thought it was wild you’re both so hot. The Archive should be packed with people just trying to catch a glimpse of you.”

Low chuckles escape the two of them, and Sabo taps your hand, urging it away from your eyes.

“They did, at first.” He admits. “But then Marco stopped sitting at an open desk in the front of the building and moved to his nest in the stacks.”

“You got so good at dodging people, half the regulars think you’re a ghost, yoi.” Marco adds, a hint of irritation in his voice. You’d learned over the years he preferred it to be called his office, and often - hilariously, you thought - ruffled at the bird connotations directed at him.

“Mm, that too.” Sabo hums in agreement. “But back to the matter at hand. Dinner, yes? To celebrate many things certainly, but with a focus on you.”

You flush, nodding. “Dinner sounds lovely.”

“The Baratie, then?” Marco prompts and your eyes go wide.

“I… I don’t think I can afford to walk through the door there.” You admit. “I doubt I even have anything nice enough.”

“We can fix that.” Sabo says easily, waving away your concerns with his hand. “It is an event worth a little indulging, the three of us can go to Natiatin’s and get new clothes for all of us.”

“The tailor? Isn’t she, I mean, they’re not cheap either. You… I knew you were rich, Sabo, but you’re scaring me a little bit.” You say it playfully but you mean it legitimately.

Sabo was the Archive’s sponsor. He kept the place out of the red no matter what the city provided, so that Marco could focus on pulling from the city what the Archive was owed. There were events and such to bring in extra money as well, but you got the impression Sabo’s wealth could keep the place going another 800 years at least. Everything else was a matter of principle.

Especially now, with how easily he was talking about the number one places in the city. You were pretty sure the tailor alone was a weeks-long process unless you had the money to buy priority.

Sabo smiles, and it’s not putting you at ease. “Let’s go over tomorrow, and next week we can go to dinner. That allows Marco and I time to properly celebrate you.”

“No shenanigans at the Archive, yoi.” Marco says and you look over at him. He gives you a warm smile. “We all have plenty of work to do, after all.”

“Mm, for now.” Sabo retorts, looking less like a man and more like a cat before he looks back over at you. “An acceptable plan, then?”

“Y-Yeah.” You stammer, not entirely sure what to do with all the information bouncing around in your head right now. The revelation of mutual interest was enough on its own, you could’ve celebrated somewhere that required unwrapping your sandwich and getting ketchup for your fries.

But Baratie’s? The premier restaurant in the new world, and the number one place to dine in the metro? You almost wanted to turn it down because it felt rude to accept it, but something in the back of your mind was certain they weren’t going to easily budge on those points.

“Perfect, let’s get you home then,” Sabo declares, standing up and grabbing your bag for you. “You can enjoy a nice shower, a warm rest, chew on all of this a little bit, and we’ll pick you up after breakfast?”

“Sure,” you don’t see anything wrong with that plan, and in the whirlwind of the moment the idea of having a few moments to yourself feels nice.

“Is ten too early?” Marco questions, offering a hand and prompting you to stand up. You’re grateful for the assistance, you aren’t sure you could sort out walking to the car with as much other stuff there is going through your mind.

“Oh, no, ten will be perfect.”

“Excellent. We’ll collect you and head over to the tailor’s. By the time we’re done we can grab a late lunch.” Sabo decides. “Or an early dinner, however you care to view it.”

Marco and Sabo talked and walked you to his car, driving you home as was the habit the last year - between working there and writing there, you were often there until close. You’d taken the bus for so long that even when you could get a car you hadn’t bothered. It was a treat to get a ride home with Sabo and Marco, and part of you hadn’t wanted to let that go either.

When you got home your apartment seemed distant. Colder than the Archive, quieter. There weren’t any rowdy neighbors to drown the hum of electricity and the occasional clunk and click of appliances. You hadn’t had a roommate in over five years, the last one moving out just before you self published your story.

The feeling of being alone pawed at you from time to time, but it never lingered long. It never felt heavy or overbearing, and you could easily slip away from it by focusing on writing or focusing on your work at the Archive. The people there.

But right now you wanted them around. You wanted them to tell you what to think of all of this. You wanted them to just tell you how things were going to be, and it wasn’t because you couldn’t make the decisions yourself, you just didn’t want to think about it.

About breaking your lease, about moving, about what tomorrow would bring, about what the dynamic would be of coming into a relationship with two people who had been together for at least a few years before you even met them. You didn’t want to fret over risking five years of very comfortable friendship with the possibilities and complexities of romance.

At the same time…

Shaking your concerns away you went through the process of your evening. An easy dinner, a long shower, and rest that came more easily than you expected. When you woke up the next morning you felt refreshed and getting going was relatively easy.

It might not be the best decision, but in the end you decided to just go with the flow. You found comfort in the idea of letting Marco and Sabo take the lead, and you decided to effectively do that. You weren’t going to be some mindless doll for them to move about as they pleased, but you weren’t going to stress things beyond the moment at hand.

If the offer to move in came up, you’d likely accept. If things didn’t work out down the road you trusted both of them to be civil about it. If they were complete assholes you’d like to think you’d have gotten some sort of inkling over the last five years. People can mask, sure, but that would’ve been a long time to never have a concerning slip.

So that was your plan. Go with the flow, but don’t let yourself get swept away.

It was a very good plan. Easy, concise, and adaptable.

Standing inside the tailor shop after breakfast, with three assistants measuring you and getting your input on the colors and styles you preferred, you weren’t entirely sure where the line was between going with the flow, and getting swept away by the flow.

You answered questions almost as quickly as you were asked them, and whenever you’d hesitate the head tailor, Natiatin, would show you examples or make suggestions based on your other answers. By the end of it the color, style, cut, and accessories were chosen and set, and everything was going to be ready in four days.

Your dress, and Marco and Sabo’s suits. Similar, but different. Lavender for Marco’s suit and jacket, and a deep satin blue for Sabo’s three-piece suit, and a soft purple with pink and blue accents. The accessories were highlighted with gold for all three of you, and in that way you looked cohesive without matching styles or colors directly.

“Four days is absolutely insane! For three full outfits like that, are you-.”

“Oh it’s nothing,” Natiatin assures you. “I’ve got a full staff this week, and we were ahead of schedule. I’ll bring in Pappag and some of his staff and we’ll be fine. It is the least I can do for Sabo.”

“For -,” you turn and look at Sabo and realize he’s always in tailored suits. Marco has plenty as well, but he tends to wear them more casually than Sabo does. You shouldn’t be surprised, but the two dressed how they dressed for so long you stopped really thinking about it.

It was easier to just appreciate the result.

“I’m paying triple for the rush as well,” Sabo explains. “I insist,” he adds, putting a hand up to stop any argument that might be coming from Natiatin. Frankly you wished you had enough money to show your appreciation for all the fine work she’d been doing.

Once the rest of the details were sorted, the three of you left, heading to a nearby café to get something to eat. It wasn’t Thatch’s café, that was too far away and he wasn’t open on Saturdays.

“Are you two really going to take two full days off from the Archive within a single week?” You tease them as you settle down to eat.

“We’ve taken time away before, yoi.” Marco insists.

“I’m not convinced you or the Archive won’t fall apart or something.”

“The Archive is dear to us both,” Sabo says. “But we’re not bound to it. I like to hope it’ll stand long after we’re gone as well.”

“I’m sure it will. Someone will come along and fall in love with it the way you both have.” You muse.

“Brook certainly seems smitten,” Sabo hums.

“Brook is a retired old man,” you level your sandwich toward Sabo before taking a bite. “He’s elventy-hundred years old already, you need to consider someone younger. I’d say Robin, but she’s pretty happy in O’hara with all those other scholars.”

“Fully deserved too,” Sabo agrees.

“Hiyori just graduated middle school, she’s had an interest in books.” Marco muses. “I’ll have to reach out to Oden and see if Toki wants to bring them down.”

You remember Toki and Oden from one of your book signings. Oden was a long-time friend of Marco’s and he and Toki had been married at Marco and Sabo’s estate. Manor. Home. You hadn’t been there yet, but you were left with the distinct impression it was a large home. Despite the reassurances that he and Sabo weren’t bound to any building, you really expected it to look like the Archive.

It was just difficult to picture these two living anywhere else after all this time.

Gnawing idly on your lower lip when there’s a lull in the conversation, you weren’t sure how to ask what was on your mind. The way that Marco and Sabo both talked you were left with the feeling that they had feelings for you for a long time. Sure you thought they were hot from the start, and you definitely grew to admire, and desire, them over the years.

But…

“When?” The word slips past your lips and they both look at you. “…When?” You try to say more, to ask your question fully, but you can’t seem to get the other words out. It’s hard to say if it’s because it seems foolish to ask, or if because you’re afraid of the answer for some reason.

Marco and Sabo exchange a look before they both smile. There’s one warm hand on yours, one gloved hand on your arm.

“From the beginning.” Marco answers.

“When else could it have been?” Sabo questions, his cheeks dusting pink when you look up at him. “Maybe the very first day it was just a small thing. A connection over shared interest in a pen.” He pats your arm gently, as though he wishes nothing more than to remove his glove and touch you, but he doesn’t, and you wouldn’t dare to press him.

Not after all this time. Not with the way he never makes direct contact with anyone.

“How much you appreciated and respected the Archive.” Marco adds, his fingers idly slipping between yours for a brief second before he set them atop the back of your hand. Like he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but he’s not ready to pull his hand away just yet.

“How diligently you pursued a massive life change, knowing that even if you did your best, failure was a far larger possibility than success.” Sabo continues. He leans back just a little, resting his cheek lightly on his knuckles, regarding you softly.

“Desire led to admiration and respect, and at a certain point we knew we needed to say something.” Marco sighs when he says the words, finally pulling his hand back. When you look at him he gives you an apologetic smile. “Your third and fourth book happened in such quick succession we didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“We meant to save this tale for dinner, but at the risk of being too honest, it’s hard to deny you, sweet dove, when you ask like that.” Sabo says, a nearly identical apologetic look on his face. Clearing his throat after a moment he straightens up. “Well, then, the day is still young and so are we.”

Folding his napkin as though it were made of cloth, he makes a great show of removing his hat and holding his hand toward you. Despite the obvious exaggeration it was still so graceful and smooth it was nearly unfair.

“Let’s not waste the day. Would the lady allow us the honor of escorting her about town this fine afternoon?”

Laughing while you place your hand in his, you nod. “Yes, please. I would be honored.”

“The honor, pretty bird,” Marco hums, bringing your other hand to his lips. “Is all ours.”

Oh no, you thought to yourself as heat rushed you through you yet again.

You’re a bit outnumbered.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Phraseology

Fem!Reader/Demon!Sabo/Mythical Beast!Marco >.>

Summary - Urban fantasy vibes. Reader is a smut writer who does an impromptu book signing at The Archive, an old as balls library that the city has grown up around. The decision changes her life, and shenanigans ensue.

CW: Canon levels of violence, lots of sex, Sabo likes to watch, Marco likes to make reader sing. I'll add details as they come along but right now that's the best I got for you.

@mfreedomstuff

Chapter 2: Down the Road

The next day you return to the Archive and are relieved to find there is actual staff in the building. A young woman with a deep strawberry blonde bob of hair, greets you when you arrive. Exchanging names you learn her name’s Koala and that the vast majority of Archive staff was dedicated to keeping things cataloged and organized.

“When there’s a school field trip or something, it’s all hands on deck,” she explains, walking you through the building toward Marco’s office. “But otherwise most of our patrons are themselves librarians, researchers and the like, and rarely need assistance finding something. I think most of them know the cataloging system better than I do.”

Koala puts a hand out toward a hallway. “There’s only one way to go from here, a couple rights and you’ll reach the nest.”

“The nest?” You quirk an eyebrow.

“Oh! Yeah,” she laughs sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s what we call Marco’s office. It’s tucked back into the other side of these stacks, and, well, you’ll see.”

“Alright, thanks.” You give her a little nod as you head down the corridor of books. The Archive itself was fairly open by the entrance, giving people plenty of space and room to file in and adjust to the library. The further back you went the less space there seemed to be.

Room enough by the stairs and the elevator, and the space you used for your book signing was cozy. Not wide open like the entrance, but a little more intimate than the area with the reading tables. This, however, was getting into the area where you were pretty sure a regular patron would be becoming worried about how safe it was to squeeze between the shelves.

Or crying for help because they got disoriented and couldn’t find the exit.

Walking down the aisle, you glance at the books as you walk, catching the occasional title here and there. It was an interesting collection of mythology books, nature books, and bdsm titles. You weren’t sure if it was Marco’s personal collection, or simply books that hadn’t yet been properly organized back into their respective locations.

If there was a unifying reason for them, you couldn’t figure it out during your walk, but you also didn’t stop and look at everything either.

Two rights, and then a door on your right.

The door was either built into the stacks themselves, or the stacks built up around the space, but you had to admit that a door surrounded by bookshelves was pretty cool. You knock, grateful that the door is solidly in place.

“Come in,” the muffled voice calls out and you open the door.

Inside was something else. You understood why Koala called it a nest.

It was neat, and organized, but it was full. Papers and books were carefully stacked in places, and charms and baubles hung from the strings of lights that served to illuminate the room. A desk lamp offered more concentrated light, but overall it was well lit. Full and cozy for sure, with a large thick rug helping to dampen the ambient noise within the room even more than the books it seemed.

It was like you’d walked into the room of a very organized, slightly introverted, magpie.

“Ah, the lady of the hour,” he hums the words with a smile on his lips, pulling your attention toward him.

First Sabo, and now Marco. You were surprised the Archive wasn’t filled with more people just trying to catch a glimpse of these two.

Tall, even sitting down you were pretty sure he was crowding seven feet, and rudely dressed as far as you were concerned. The button up shirt had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos peeking out past the fabric. His skin was pretty tanned for a guy hiding back in the stacks in an office with no windows. Gold and teal bangles on one wrist, a leather and gold watch on the other. Suspenders helped keep the shirt in place, the top couple buttons undone showing off another peek at a tattoo and find blonde chest hair.

Round gold-rimmed glasses gave way to bright blue eyes behind them. His hair was a messy mop of blonde on top of his head, giving way to a clean fade. Like Sabo he was refined in ways you couldn’t really articulate. It was more like something wrapped around something else, instead of it being a foundation.

You tried really hard to not stare, but the space and the librarian were both a lot to take in all in one go.

“Please, have a seat.” Marco prompts, pulling you out of thoughts.

“Right, yes, thank you. Sorry.” You babble, moving for a second as though you were trying to remember how to actually have a seat. Closing the door, you sit down in the only chair that doesn’t have books and papers piled up around it.  

Sitting down does not calm the nerves rolling around in your stomach. You’re not worried about Marco doing anything to you, you’re worried the words that come out of your mouth are going to be nothing but how handsome he is.

“Sabo informs me you’re open to learning more about becoming an author by trade, and so I’m going to go over the process with you and we can go from there, yoi.” He moves some papers and books around as he speaks, eyes shifting from what he’s moving to you, an easy smile on his lips that matches his relaxed look and tone. “Do you want me to start with the overview and go from there, or should I dive right in?”

He pulls a laptop out from somewhere, after having made room for it, and turns it so you can both see it easily.

“Uh… overview, first, please.” Given how difficult it was to focus currently, you hoped the overview would give you a chance to come to your senses.

It did help, by the end of it. You and Marco talked for almost six hours, with just a few interruptions from other employees. You saw Koala twice, and a barrel-chested man with an impressive pompadour who dropped off food for Marco. He came back a couple minutes later and offered you a club sandwich and some water as well.

Marco assured you that Thatch would have been inconsolable if he hadn’t at least offered you something to eat, and thanked you for accepting it. You’d also been effectively gifted a leather bound notebook; once the details had become detailed you scrambled to take notes. Marco had handed it over smoothly and you’d been several pages in before realizing you weren’t writing in a cheap notebook.

By the time you were heading home you had half a plan to get started and a scarily detailed sense of direction to take your life. It had been one foot in front of the other for most of your existence, but now you had a plan.

Not just the vague scraps of one either. Marco had helped you stay organized and focused and you had a legitimate five year plan tucked under your arm. It almost felt like you had the most priceless treasure in the Metro between your fingers and you didn’t know what to really do with it.

Except try your best to follow through.

And so you did.

The routine was maybe easier to set in place given the Archive’s proximity to your home, and also probably because there were two hot guys there. Plus a lot of other really nice people. The old building became a second home to you, and you were there almost everyday.

You ran into Sabo the most, or more correctly he seemed to find you when you needed him. Koala ended up giving you her personal number after the first five months, not just in case you needed her but because you’d become friends. You got to know Thatch well, and the bakery he ran just across the street.

You met Robin and some older scholars - they were working on rebuilding a library on another island and were utilizing the Archive to help build up the collections and community. Her sense of humor took some adjusting, but she got along well with Sabo.

She called him the “ghost of the stacks” so much you started to believe her. Koala allayed your growing fears by asking Sabo if she could pat his shoulder, and then nearly knocking him over with the pushy thumps she gave him once he’d agreed.

“See? Solid and dense as a rock.” She had teased. Sabo played at being incensed, but it was just a few minutes later and the two were bickering in their usual way.

You saw Marco the least, but the times he did come around to help you he stayed the longest. Every major step you accomplished, he was there. Him and Sabo both, though the latter seemed perfectly happy to take a back seat when things got really specific. Details were more Marco’s strength, and Sabo did what he could to assist, which mostly meant staying out of the way, it seemed.

The rest of the staff helped you as well. You’d felt a bit like you’d been adopted by the majority of the Archive.

Two years later you were working part-time at the Archive, and writing the other half of the time. Everyone’s efforts had landed you your first agent, though the celebration had been bitter-sweet. The same time you were celebrating your success, you were also celebrating Koala’s success. Having completed college she was moving on to bigger and better things, bidding her time at the Archive farewell.

The year after that you said your farewells to Robin and her group. Their work had been completed and they needed to return to their own library. There hadn’t been a farewell party then, Robin had declined it and instead you’d just had some tea and pastries from Thatch’s shop, talking about the things you both hoped to accomplish in the next few years.

Three years in and you had your second book signing at the Archive.

Then your third, and fourth the year after.

Five years at the Archive, and you were promoting your fifth book. Your work at the Archive was almost simply out of habit, and you’d tried to get Marco to let you volunteer, but he wouldn’t agree. Writing was fickle, and the steady income would help keep you from getting stressed once things settled. If you became so rich you didn’t have to worry about money for the rest of your days, he’d consider it.

You weren’t making enough money to eat gold-leaf steaks, but you were making good money. You couldn’t just say it was a hobby anymore, and you couldn’t write-off things to luck. You tried to say it was all of Marco and Sabo’s hard work, and both insisted that while they had helped, they weren’t the ones doing the actual work.

You’d not only found a place that was comfortable, but you’d found people who were comfortable. Most of your friends had been from your last job, and over the years you’d drifted apart. Schedules didn’t align, things came up. It was a normal part of life, but the consistency of the Archive, the soft ring of a text from Koala, the steady scratch of your pens against paper.

It was comforting and a little terrifying at the same time. The shift of life from hectic and unplanned, making things work from one day to the next and just hoping that the ground at your feet would stay stable. To this. To right here. To right now.

Your bills were paid. You had auto-draft for everything except your rent and you weren’t nervous about having to choose between electricity and groceries. You’d had a solid network to support you, but being able to support yourself was something else entirely.

“It feels surreal.” You hum softly in the quiet evening hours.

The Archive was empty this late on a Friday. The clubs were open, the restaurants were bringing in the last few rounds of patrons, and the city was both winding down and waking up. Sabo was checking the last little nooks and crannies of the building to make sure no one was accidentally locked inside, and Marco would be by shortly to offer you a lift home.

Two years in you’d teased him and Sabo that they were actually apparitions of the Archive, cursed to living within the stone walls for eternity, ever unable to leave. The look Marco gave you was somewhere between amusement and indignation. That night you learned several things in quick succession:

Marco and Sabo lived together in a very nice house just on the line of the city limits. Marco’s car was actually technically Sabo’s, though he never drove it, only Marco did. Marco and Sabo were together.

Together, together.

Your fluttering little crush over two of the hottest people you’d ever met was dashed before you’d mustered up the courage to make an idiot of yourself. So there was that, at least.

“What feels surreal, Pen?” Sabo questions. The nickname was almost more your name than your actual name at this point. Though it was hard to say what shape your nickname would take.

Pen, Penny, Pen-Pen, Ink Pot, Little Book, Successful-Author, etc. Sabo seemed to delight in calling you a long collection of book, pen, paper, and writing related terms in lieu of your name. It was endearing, and sometimes a little frustrating since he didn’t use a nickname for anyone else, not even Marco.

Well, he called him a “mean old bird” sometimes, but that wasn’t the same thing.

It felt like a kind of flirting, but since you knew him and Marco were together, you knew better. Still, it was nice. Warm, in it’s own way, and just another thing that made your time at the Archive feel comfortable.

“The inevitable and enviable march of time,” you sigh dramatically, giving him a crooked grin. “Or something like that. I was just thinking back over the last five years or so.”

“Mm, quite a bit has changed for you, hasn’t it?” He muses, sitting down with you. “It was a rather random suggestion of your friends to reach out to us, wasn’t it?”

Smiling, you nod slowly. “Yeah, and it’s… just surreal is all.”

“Fate, perhaps.” Sabo offers, giving you a knowing look when you scoff.

“I don’t believe you believe in it.” You retort.

“I indulge the possibility from time to time, but you’re not wrong.” He admits with a hum in his voice. “I have no use for something so cruel as fate.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you agree. “It just bothers me as a concept.”

“No matter one’s effort, the outcome is determined, so why try?” He prompts and you nod.

“Yeah. It diminishes accomplishments, brushes aside failures, and turns experience to dust. It just irritates me when I think about it too much.” You grumble.

“Well, then let’s not say it’s fate,” Marco says, setting his satchel on the table. “Joyous happenstance?”

You laugh, the aggravation falling away from your tone and expression. “Certainly.”

“Then, let’s capitalize on this joy, and take it further.” He continues, sitting down and looking at you with a rare intensity. You look over to see Sabo gazing at you in a way that makes heat rush to your face.

“We would like to take you to dinner.” Marco explains, and you can barely lift your gaze up from the table. It felt sudden, and overdue at the same time. So many moments slipped through your mind in succession, so many things you told yourself you were imagining because they were together. “To celebrate your fifth book, your fifth year, and… perhaps… to consider the next steps in your life,”

“With us.” Sabo finishes, his tone low and warm. “But only if you’re amenable to the idea, of course.”

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Phraseology

Fem!Reader/Demon!Sabo/Mythical Beast!Marco >.>

Summary - Urban fantasy vibes. Reader is a smut writer who does an impromptu book signing at The Archive, an old as balls library that the city has grown up around. The decision changes her life, and shenanigans ensue.

CW: Canon levels of violence, lots of sex, Sabo likes to watch, Marco likes to make reader sing. I'll add details as they come along but right now that's the best I got for you.

@mfreedomstuff

Chapter 1: Book Signing

Nerves twist your stomach as you stood outside the doors to the old library. The Grandline Mystoria Historical and Linguistic Archive, more commonly called The Archive, was an old library. The city had effectively grown up around it over the centuries, but you were pretty sure it pre-dated the void century. There was a school field trip that had brought you here once before, but otherwise you hadn’t been back.

You were here now because your friends, the same ones who had nearly shoved you into publishing your writing in the first place, had suggested it as a good location for a book signing.

A book signing for a vanity press seemed silly, but you had put everything you had into it, and so had your friends. They helped you fund-raise for the cover art, and even gifted you the funds needed for a full and proper editor. The only thing your book lacked at this point was the backing of an agency’s marketing tools.

But you weren’t trying to make this your full time job, at least you didn’t think so, you had just wanted to put your words to paper and hold them in your hands. Even if it was just once.

The Archive was solid neutral ground, however, and as you stepped inside you could feel yourself relaxing. Something about the smell of old books, and the way the city was immediately muted when the door closed and set you at ease. This wasn’t the hustle and bustle of the Grandline Metro, this was the calm stillness of a safe space.

Perfect for you and a dozen of your friends and family to use to satisfy your little fantasy.

Stone walls and floors, heavy and immovable wooden shelves that seemed almost melded into the stone work, it was little wonder this building had stood the test of time. It felt as sturdy and inevitable as a mountain, though at a mere three stories, it was hardly as tall as one. Seeing signs set up guiding people toward your book signing, beginning at 2pm this afternoon, made your stomach knot a little bit again, but not so much you couldn’t push it aside.

You had no idea what kind of traffic The Archive received on a daily basis. You only know that the gentleman who helped you set everything up over the phone a couple weeks ago, had recommended the time. His voice had been relaxing, and it was so easy to talk to him you’d thought the library must host book signings every other day.

Drawing closer to the location of where you were going to sit, you notice copies of your book set in view around the area, neat hand-writing on small cards reminding visitors about the date and time of the book signing. You’d only sent the books a few days prior, but you were getting nervous about how many people might end up showing up.

You hadn’t expected any advertising, and you’d almost picked a local bar because you figured at the very least you could have some drinks and hang out with your friends if nothing else. It would be much easier to accept a lack of interest with a few drinks and some socializing.

The table where you’re meant to sit has a few more well-written signs on it, with a couple small stacks of books. The side shelves of the racks nearby had more copies of your book. It was a little embarrassing in the end, but a young man fussing with one of the displays catches your attention.

Wavy blonde hair falls down loosely, almost like inverted fire swirling around his neck, but not quite reaching his shoulders. He looks over-dressed; suit, vest, jacket, and matching shoes. They fit him well, the white suit is clearly tailored, and impressively crisp and clean. Blues and golds accent it, but nothing overtakes the snow white fabric, even his shoes are unmarred and a soft snow white.

He turns toward you, red - wait - blue eyes taking you in with a charming smile on his lips. His face is scarred over his left eye, slipping beneath the loose mop of hair and under his collar. Compared to the rest of him it’s barely noticeable, and you find yourself smiling back at him.

There’s a beat of awkward silence, but he breaks it easily.

“Ah, may I help you find anything?” He offers and you can’t stop a nervous chuckle.

“I’m (Y/N),” You reply, holding out your hand. “Here to sign the books.”

His face brightens, and he shakes your hand. The leather of the glove is warm and supple, if not for the seams against your fingers you might not have realized he was wearing them.

“The lady of the hour, perfect!” He turns toward the table with the books on it and you shift that way as well. “We have everything set up for you and ready to go. The head librarian organized the majority of it as we don’t often host something like this, but if there’s anything you need please let me know.”

He grabs his top hat from the nearby shelf and puts it over his heart before bowing deeply. “Sabo of Goa, at your service. I’m merely the sponsor of this fine old building, but it is always my pleasure to lend a hand when I can.” When he straightens back up he puts the top hat on, leaning on a black cane you hadn’t even noticed before now.

“Well, thank you for all of this.” You say, walking over to the table. “It’s more than I expected and I’m… a little overwhelmed, but very grateful.”

“Certainly. I can fetch some water if you like, or perhaps a different style of pen.” He offers, looking down to see a few simple disposable pens laid out.

“Oh no, I…” You reach into your shoulder bag, rummaging around for a moment before holding up a couple pens. “Brought my own. I thought if I ended up signing more than I expected I should make sure the pen’s comfortable.”

“Are those Alabastian fountain pens?”

“Huh? Yes, actually. I’ve never had someone recognize them before.” You admit, holding one out to him. “My mom gave them to me a few years ago when I turned eighteen. I’ve heard they’re expensive, but I’ve never looked up how expensive. I didn’t want to get scared away from using them.”

“Well, value is often found in the use, not the cost.” He replies, handing the pen back, a soft smile on his face. “I think it’s wise to decide to use them and not worry about anything else.”

Sabo chats with you for a few more minutes until your friends arrive, and then excuses himself quietly. You and your friends gush about The Archive and how cool it is. How old it must be, how interesting the old books must be.

You sign and chat for a couple hours, surprised at the number of people who you don’t know that come through and buy a copy, asking you to sign it for them. Some ask for a synopsis, some for just a one-liner. A surprising number of people buy it as a gift for someone else, and two people you end up talking out of buying a copy, because they didn’t realize how graphic it was going to be.

If you knew how many strangers you were going to have say the phrase “it’s a monster fucker romance” to, you might not have agreed to the signing. You were certain your face was lighting up like a christmas tree, every time you had to explain things with as straight a face as you could desperately maintain. Fortunately, your friends sang some of the praises for you, talking at length about other stories they’d read, and what they liked from yours.

It wasn’t nearly as horrifying as you were worried it was going to be, and by the end of the entire thing you’d sold almost every copy you’d brought with you. Taking off the cost of buying the books yourself, you’d still made a profit by the end of it.

Taking a drink of water after the last of the customers and your friends left, you froze, and looked down at the glass you’d so casually drank from. Your eyes shifted to the nearly empty glass pitcher nearby and your brow furrows.

When had someone brought over water? Why were you drinking it so casually? You don’t even remember asking for water or telling anyone you were thirsty. You hadn’t seen Sabo, or any other library employee during the signing, and while you’d been too distracted by friends and such to think on it earlier, now it was sticking in your head.

There had to be extensive staff here, the place was sizable. Three floors aside it commanded most of the city block it was on, with stalls and stores crowding around it, but nothing was going to dominate the space quite like the Archive itself. It would take ten people just to keep everything cataloged at the bare minimum.

You were starting to think the place might have it’s own magic, like the old fairy tales about how places that exist for long times get their own souls, or faeries move in, tending to the dust and keeping things organized. The mental image of Sabo being harassed by faeries makes you smile, just because the idea of him running after his hat while it floats away is harmless enough.

“It’s good to see a smile on your face.” Sabo says, nearly causing you to leap out of your skin. He smiles, and you’re certain there’s mischievousness at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t tease you further. Instead he holds out a copy of your book. “I read it during the signing, and I was hoping you were up for signing one more copy?”

“I - you - that’s - I mean… S-sure.” You stammer, taking the book from him. “I didn’t expect something like this to be up your alley.”

“Oh?” He hums and you wonder what you could possibly say. “The world building was solid, and the way you wove in history lessons for the reader without making them feel like a history lesson, was a testament to your skill at story-telling.” He grins when you look up at him, still unsure of how to sign the copy.

“The build up to the sex scenes was just as good as the concupiscence feelings they elicited. Your pacing made the emotional shifts feel quite natural.” He says it so easily you’re almost more embarrassed by the praise. “What really came through, however, was that you were having fun, and I find I appreciated that deeply.”

Grinning, you chuckle a little and look back down at the book, signing it easily. “Thank you for appreciating my joy,” you say as you write the words inside the cover, signing your name easily beneath that. You keep the cover open for a moment, giving the ink time to dry. “That was very kind praise, thank you.”

“I would say it was the least I could do, but, I was hoping to offer you something more.” Sabo says the words with the same ease as before, gloved fingers barely grazing yours as he pulls the book away. He seems to scrutinize the dryness of the ink for a second before closing it in satisfaction.

You tilt your head, brow furrowing slightly. He couldn’t possibly be hitting on you, right? He was handsome, and probably your age, and certainly he’d enjoyed your book, but he looked like he was a dozen tax brackets above your wildest dreams.

“I -.” You aren’t really sure what to say and he clarifies for you.

“I spoke with the head librarian briefly, but we’d like to offer you use of the Archive if you’d like. If you wanted to pursue a career in writing, we would be willing to help you. There are resources for finding an agent, publisher, and all of that rot.” He waves his hand, clearly unconcerned about the details. “There’s no pressure of course, but having read an innumerable number of books, I can say that I think it would be good for you to give it a try, if you so desire.”

“For… smut?”

You can clearly see amusement in his smile, but then it shifts to something more genuine. “Smut is but a small portion of the story you wrote, was it not? The descriptions, the world itself, and the struggles and joys of the characters within. You had nearly eight thousand words in that book, not counting the three pages of thanks, and of that a little over a tenth was smut. Even then there was emotion and story within the… sheets.” He grins, tapping your forehead lightly with the book itself.

“So no, not for smut, but also yes. Because the inclusion of it shouldn’t be given room to diminish the rest.”

“… I really don’t know what to say.” You admit sheepishly.

“Then for now, say nothing. Sleep on it, a day or two, or even a week if needed.” He offers. “There’s no need to rush such a decision. You’re also welcome to come back tomorrow and discuss the details with Marco and go from there if you’d like. He has a much better head for that stuff than I do, and the extra insight could help you make a decision.” Sabo assures you. “He set up most of this on his own, and sadly only left the sign making to me.”

“Perhaps wisely,” he muses with an easy smile after a moment’s pause. Something in his tone or movement relaxes you, and the fret that had been building over the idea of becoming a full-time, actual professional author fades.

“I can do that,” you agree, turning your attention back to packing away what few books you still had left. “Come back tomorrow and talk with him, I mean.”

“Mm,” Sabo hums happily, watching you for a second longer before speaking up again.

“Do you want to donate the few copies you have left to the library?” You pause at the question and look back up him. “I could buy them, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable, but you can donate them. We have half-a-stack for Sora Norberts novels, we can certainly keep a couple of these in stock without issue.” The look on his face leaves you with an impression that he’s not exactly a fan of Mrs. Norberts novels.

“I, yeah, actually. If I could donate them, that would be great. I’ve already given copies to everyone I know that would’ve been interested, so I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do with these anyway.” You admit honestly. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” He replies smoothly, walking with you to the front of the library.

You notice people milling about in the library, but no one looks at Sabo as you’d expect them too. His presence is striking, in contrast with the dark work and muted stones of the library, clean and while not bright, certainly brighter than his surroundings. The cane and top hat alone stood out against the more relaxed fashion of most of the city. It seemed rude to point it out, and maybe those who regularly visited the Archive were simply used to him.

Or maybe he-.

“Is everything okay?” Sabo prompts and you shake your head, scattering the odd thoughts that you were losing yourself to.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Everything is good. Sorry, I think I zoned out a little.” You give him an apologetic look. “This old library pulls me in and I think my mind gets a little too creative.”

“Not such a bad thing if you’re going to use it to help you write.” He offers with a smile. “Ah, that came out with more pressure than I intended. I’m merely excited at the idea, forgive me.”

You return his smile as you step back out into the city. “Certainly, and thank you again for letting me have a book signing here.”

He lowers his head in a slight bow, giving you a wink as the door closes. For a split second you swear you see something change, but you can’t even hold onto it enough to wonder what would’ve caused it. Despite your strange thoughts, you leave the Archive feeling light and good. The book signing went well, and your conversation with Sabo was an exciting prospect.

Tomorrow you’ll meet the head librarian and find out what’s involved in making the transition from where you are, to where you think you might want to be.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 5: Aftermath

You did not sleep well.

Truth be told, you didn’t sleep at all. Every time you closed your eyes you could see his. Every time you drifted off into enough of a sleep that you could dare to dream you woke with a start, the shivering memory of his tongue between your legs making your heart pound.

You did everything to wear yourself out, and it took three hours and more toys than you actually knew you owned to orgasm enough to fall asleep for more than a few moments. By then it was already past two in the morning, and when your alarm went off at five, you nearly threw the damnable device across the room in frustration.

You kept breakfast light so that a full stomach wouldn’t lull you into a desire for sleep, drank a whole pot of coffee and managed to stay alert - if not a little jittery - during the commute to work. When you made it into your office the coffee on your desk was marked decaf, and you only wanted Shanks to show up so you could throw it at him.

You did need to pump your brakes on the high octane, but this uncanny ability for him to know what you needed, when you needed it, was only irritating you currently.

Handling a few pieces of business that couldn’t wait first, you pulled out an incident form from your desk and began to fill it out. It felt awkward to be filling out an incident report for yourself, but you’d turn it over to Beckman, and go from there. You doubted anything major would come from it, at the most a couple people were relocated to other offices, but they’d all been willing.

None of Shanks’ actions ever negatively impacted anyone else involved in them, and for that you were grateful. But you were also the head of the HR department, and it was very probable, and very understandable, that the CEO could make an example out of you. Something about hypocrisy you were sure.

You find a slip of time available on his calendar, and snap it up with a meeting request. Almost immediately Beckman sends you a message.

CEO: Mind terribly if I eat lunch during this?

You: Not at all.

CEO: Good. See you then.

It was his last block of open time for the day, so you didn’t think much of it. Probably not a bad idea to get lunch for yourself beforehand though. Your light breakfast was fading fast, and while the lull in caffeine intake was good when you had it, right now you needed more. You could sleep when you got home, but if you were yawning every thirty seconds during work it was going to get old fast.

You only saw Shanks for a brief moment, he was stepping into the elevator on the way back up as you were stepping out into the lobby. He was talking to several other people in suits, actually doing his job as COO from the looks of things, and didn’t notice you. You couldn’t face him right now anyway, aside from your own exhaustion nipping at the edges of your capacity, you weren’t sure if you wanted to stab him or… something else.

“Fuck.” You grumble the word under your breath, putting on the best smile you could muster as you walked into one of the small food places on the lobby level. Bagel sandwich, some chips, a chocolate muffin because why not, and a breakfast blend tea. If it didn’t help level you out a little softer than a coffee, there was still coffee on your floor you could make.

You had to keep kicking thoughts of Shanks out of your head every time it started to wander. Aggravation at the fact that he was giving you all of that work on purpose. Aggravation at how you couldn’t even be mad at him for it anymore because you’d done the same fucking thing. Aggravation at how good he was.

You’d never drooled like that.

The fact that his cock twitching inside you made you feel good. Not just feel better, but feel good. As though you were desirable.

You’d never really struggled with your self-worth, but after your long term relationship ended so abruptly you’d been struggling with who was really at fault. Self-depreciation had reared its ugly head in the small hours of the evening and even though you knew, it was still hard to hold onto it. Anger had given way to depression over your breakup, and you were better now, but you didn’t realize how much you needed that validation.

Breathing in through your nose you let it out in a small sigh.

Shanks might have made you feel amazing last night, but that’s all it was. Casual sex. He got his conquest, you got your… whatever it was you needed, and that was that. Just like he’d said.

And you’d agreed.

Tossing your trash you head back upstairs and get back to work until your meeting with Beckman. There’s only a couple floors difference between your office and the executive floor, and you take the stairs to get there. The click of your heels against the concrete stairs was always soothing for some reason. It always made you think of those dramatic entrances in shows with the heavy click of steps against marble or something.

It was a short walk to his office, and you kept your eyes ahead in case any one you didn’t want to see was in a room. It felt a little weird, less like you were telling on yourself, and more like you were telling on Shanks.

Beckman was unwrapping a sandwich when you walked in, and motioned for you to sit.

“I hope you’re doing well today, Miss (Y/N)?”

“As can be sir.” You answer, setting the incident report on his desk. He grunts, but doesn’t look at it for more than a second before looking at you.

“Give me the run down verbally, so I can eat.”

“Sure.” You fall into your Professionally neutral tone and start from the top.

“A couple weeks or so ago, my boyfriend of 2 years broke up with me and blamed the entire thing on me.” You begin. Beckman stops mid-chew, takes another bite and swallows, setting his sandwich down entirely. “I drank myself stupid in the privacy of my home for the duration of the weekend, narrowly avoiding alcohol poisoning, and came into work Monday hung over. Shanks found out after stopping in my office because of an incident report from the cleaning crew.

“We discussed it, came to a resolution, and I called him an asshole before he left because of the aforementioned hangover.”

You pause. Beckman’s looking at you, sandwich moved aside, and motions for you to continue.

“While I worked through my breakup and got my feet back under me, I received not a single incident report regarding Mr. Shanks. I was relieved by this at first, but then became irritated. Last night I confronted Shanks on the matter even though it was late and I should’ve simply headed home.”

“And the confrontation turned into… relations?” Beckman prompts.

“Yes. In his office.” You admit, your tone turning toward irritation. “Consensually, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I was not,” Beckman admits, picking up the incident report and reading over it. “Shanks said you two had a conversation last night and it hadn’t gone as well as he would’ve liked, but that it shouldn’t be an issue.”

“As well as…” You murmur and then stop.

“Are you pressing charges against him?” Beckman asks it nonchalantly, but it catches you offguard.

“What? No. No, it was - I knew what I was doing.”

“Mm. Are you requesting a transfer?”

You shake your head. “If I’m not going to be forced to another location, or asked to resign, I’d prefer to stay where I am, I think.”

“Alright, if that changes, let me know.”

“… So… I’m not being fired?”

“Nope.”

“Reprimanded?”

Beckman shakes his head, picks up a remote and clicks it. The doors to his office lock and he looks at you.

“I’m going to tell you something that’s not exactly the most important secret of this company, but it’s one I don’t need to see in the morning coo.” Sandwich seemingly forgotten he takes out a cigarette and lights it, and you watch as a vent system sucks the smoke up and away from him and you. “Shanks is, by all rights and legal considerations, the owner of this company. He’s COO on record because he does better work in that position, and I’m the CEO on record because people get overly focused on me and underestimate Shanks.”

He takes a drag and lets out a slow breath. “But he’s like a beast. Every snap decision he’s ever made, every major direction of the company, one winner after another. I’ve seen him stand in a room with half a dozen people reading him reports and he just takes it all in. In twenty minutes he’s taken in more information than I could in a day.

“I’m telling you this,” he says, stubbing out the half-used cigarette, and giving you a moment to process everything he’s said. “Because I need you to know he’s not an idiot. He’s not the horn dog idiot we let the media and most of the company think he is.

“I mean, he’s certainly voracious, but not recklessly.”

You couldn’t argue with Beckman’s words. You’d seen plenty of moments of terrifying clarity come from Shanks during your time with the company. Pay adjustments, the coffees - the consistently perfect coffees were a little unsettling if you thought about them too long. The way no one was ever hurt by anything he did. No scandals, no payouts, not one person storming into the office building with a baby bump screaming about how the COO owed child support.

The most drama that ever happened were the incidents reports on your desk, and dealing with those was your job. If everyone else handled the processing of those reports with the same grace and ease as Shanks, and he did so from the very beginning, then your job would be even easier.

“Frankly, the only time I’ve ever seen him do anything stupid, objectively stupid, mind you, is when he legitimately falls for someone.” Beckman is looking at you in a way that makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair.

“Stupid, like-.”

“Causing minor incidents at work so he had a legitimate reason to bring a coffee to the nice, hard working lady who was head of the HR department. Better that she wants to stab him with a pencil than feel pressured into anything if he does something more normal, like flirting.”

You clear your throat. “Ah.”

Ah. Ah? That’s it? That’s all you can think to say? Ah. The CEO has just told you the COO has a crush on you big enough to make him do Stupid Things to get your attention like some twitterpatted teenager, and instead of bringing frogs into the office or tormenting you with bugs, he created mostly harmless situations to give himself an excuse to talk to you.

Without making it look like he was flirting.

Which could’ve caused you to feel pressured to reciprocate, since he was your boss.

The realization hits you and you put your elbows on his desk, holding your face in your hands as the weight of it all sinks in. You can vaguely hear Beckman begin to eat his lunch again. He was Shanks literal life-long friend, so there was no one else who was going to be able to be as candid about the man than him.

He said you wouldn’t catch anything from him, not even feelings, but hadn’t his voice, hadn’t the sound of it, the look on his face? You’d been so angry and so flabbergasted by his audacity that you hadn’t really paid attention. You didn’t want to let yourself feel anything, at first because you were in a relationship, and you weren’t going to give yourself space to risk it. Then you weren’t in a relationship but you weren’t in any place to be in one either, you were trying to reset.

He gave you space for weeks, and even after he was sure you were doing better he didn’t go back to what he had been doing. Did he think it was his actions that had broke you? Until you had finally cracked and told him you were dumped had he been worried?

The flicker of emotions on his face. Relief that it wasn’t his fault, a twinge of something in realizing you’d been dating someone, and then that look that lingered. The one that left you feeling like you were wrapped up in a bow and under a tree. The perfect gift.

“I can send him on a business trip for a couple weeks if you need the time.” Beckman says after a few moments.

“No, I… he likes me?” You ask incredulously.

“Mm.” Beckman hums positively. “Bit more weight to it than that, but sure.”

“Might help with your stress."

“Are you sick?”

“If you still have a headache after lunch, go home.”

“I could walk you to your car…”

“Aww, I wasn’t misbehavin’,” he drawls sweetly. “A little over exuberant, maybe.”

“I… I need to go home.” You say the words almost automatically. You’re reeling and there’s nothing you’ll be able to accomplish at work. Dozens upon dozens of moments are playing in your mind, all the little gestures, all the words of concern. “I need to… I can’t work… I mean…”

“You’re not driving in that state.” He says it so assertively it snaps you out of your haze a little bit. “Let Hongo drive you home, I’ll have someone bring your car over later.”

“Sure?” You felt like if you started to argue you were going to lose and do nothing but waste the CEO’s time.

Beckman calls in Hongo, he was kind of an everyman in the company. Coordinated the safety committee, got people CPR certified, was a licensed doctor, and liaised between departments during large projects. Hongo leads you without a single touch, moving to the elevators and into the parking garage. He opts for one of the more discreet company vehicles, a sedan as opposed to a limo or SUV, and drives you home.

He doesn’t say much, just a few questions to make sure he was going the right way. No small talk about the weather, a couple questions about your physical state and if you needed or wanted help up to your loft.

Standing inside your home you wonder a little how you even got there.

“What am I going to do?” The words mumble past your lips as you kick your shoes off and meander into your own home.

“He’s an idiot.”

“A complete and utter playboy, he’d never be faithful.”

“How can you only be stupid when you’re in lo— no.”

“No.”

Bit more weight to it.

“No.” You shake your head. “That’s… No way. He’s gorgeous. There’s no way, there’s - I mean, he’s an Executive, he inherited the business. His father was fucking Gol D. Roger of all people.”

“I’m just… Well, I mean, that’s not fair either. I’m not less just because I’m not disgustingly rich with a bestie who does the job I don’t want to do so I can be all smooth and bad ass in a better role. It’s not that he’s lucky he was adopted, it’s that he’s lucky he’s smart.”

“And hot. By the seas did no one think to warn me he was built like that?” You laugh as the question comes out of your mouth. “Oh come on, what the fuck was someone going to say? Go on and unbutton the COO’s shirt and admire the… the…”

Sitting down on the couch you sigh, your mind not thinking about his chest, his tongue, or even that horridly dashing smile. All you can see are the eyes that see you.

Putting your head in your hands you wonder if anyone else paid attention to you like that. Enough to know what coffee you liked, and what kind of muffins you’d eat. Small little details you didn’t get from someone’s file. You’d think it was obsessive or something except he never left you feeling like you owed him for the considerations.

It always felt like something done simply for the kindness of it.

“Aw, fuck.” You groan the word, accepting the fact that you were going to have to, at the bare minimum, sit down and talk to him.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 4: No Strings

His mouth was buried between your thighs, tongue bullying your cunt with such ferocity you could barely keep yourself stable.

You were pinned against the backside of his desk, ass just barely seated on the lip, one foot on his shoulder, another an inch off the floor. One hand was behind you, bracing against the desk, the other lost in his hair, pushing the messy locks aside so you could keep an eye on the bastard.

Your shoes, hose and panties were set neatly in his chair. He’d taken his time, kneeling down before you and taking them off, hands against your legs, lips kissing your legs through the stockings. His cheek was red from where you’d slapped him, but even as the force of your smack had turned his head aside, he never lost his affable expression.

Of course you were angry! It had been remarkably easy for him to cease being a thorn in your side, and the only reason he’d shown you mercy was because you’d been dumped. He hadn’t even known until you’d bellowed as much at him, but it was like it was suddenly Christmas - and you were every gift he ever wanted, set pretty under the tree.

“Did you just seriously offer me casual sex to make me feel better?”

“Absolutely. You’re an adult. So am I. There’s nothing morally wrong with enjoying one another’s company.”

“Enjoying people’s company on Company Grounds IS THE PROBLEM.”

“We won’t get caught.”

“… Historically speaking you cannot back that up.”

“Do you want to get caught?”

“I don’t even know that I want to fuck you in the first place, you asshole!”

“Hahaha! Listen to you, I love it.” He’d stepped up close, not exactly trapping you, but itching to hold you in place. “If we get caught I’ll resign.”

“Wha-what? You…” It was the look in his eyes that got to you more than the situation or the declaration. If he was feigning at being serious, he was doing an exceptional job of lying.

“Let me prove how much it’ll help.”

“You don’t want to help, you want a conquest.” You grumbled.

He grabs your leg, moving it off his shoulder. Leaning you back he stands up, lips still mostly attending your throbbing clit. His hands are on your knees, holding your legs wide as your feet dangle off the desk’s edge. Both of your hands are in his hair, keeping his face buried in your cunt.

The wet, warm muscle knows what its doing, and you can feel the pleasure building in your gut. You refuse to whine for him, but heavy breaths escape your lips and you let your body get into it. It feels good, and something about his demeanor, his words, his actions, everything had come together to leave you feeling safe.

You weren’t going to get caught. It was late, the building was empty, the cleaning crew was gone, you’d only been here because you were catching up on the paperwork that had built up while you were getting over your breakup. You were only here because you’d realized it was 9pm and Shanks was still in his office.

You’d tried to keep your composure when you confronted him, but more and more you’d realized he had been getting caught on purpose. The entire conversation had been shattered when he offered to fuck you.

“If I wanted a conquest,” he’d said, truly caging you, looming over you. He was looking down at you, a look in his eyes so intense your legs shivered. “Things would’ve gone differently.”

Your fingers tighten in Shanks’ hair. You know he’s going to be able to tell where you are even if you’re nearly biting through your lip to stay quiet, but you don’t care. You don’t care because the sweet high you’re chasing is divine. The way he’s barely been at it for three minutes and you’re ready to break isn’t fair, but you don’t care.

You’re not going to tell him it’s the first time someone else has made you cum. You’re not going to tell him no one’s ever eaten you out before. You’re not ever going to tell him it’s already the —

“-Haa, fuck!” You whine the word as the coil snaps and the orgasm forces your legs to shiver in his grasp. He doesn’t stop. No amount of tremble or shiver from you deters him, and he bullies your clit through the entire orgasm, only slowing when the first shivering whimper escapes from your tight lips.

The hands on your thighs shift carefully, and you’re oddly aware of how calloused his hands are. Heated lips press hungry kisses into the lines of your hips before he pulls your skirt down a little, getting the bunched up material out of the way. Unbuttoning your blouse the kisses continue on your stomach and you can’t even think of a reason to make him stop.

His deliberate actions and tender kisses, meandering up your stomach to your chest, should be giving you time to compose yourself, but you can’t. Your thoughts are scattered and hazy; angry, needy, frustrated, sated. There’s too much swirling within you to hold onto any one thing.

You want to kick him.

You want to kiss him.

You almost want to kill him.

His lips find your neck, his fingers push into your dripping cunt, and you can’t keep quiet any longer. The sweet cry that escapes you has your legs wrapping around his waist, and your hands grabbing onto his shirt. You feel the buttons give from your desperation, he raises one of your legs up, turning you onto your side, before hilting inside you in a single thrust.

It’s slow and harried, frantic and calm. His hand is over both of yours as his hips grind into your body. The pleasure is maddening, the sensation of being pinned makes you growl in frustration. The chuckle that tumbles down his chest grabs your attention and your mind stutters.

The broad chest, the curl of brick red hair that slips along his tan skin, trailing down and disappearing back behind the buttons of his shirt you hadn’t ruined. You knew he was fit, but you hadn’t imagined it this well. This alluring.

Gods have grace he wasn’t wearing a tie or necklace you would’ve pulled him into a kiss before you had sense enough to stop yourself.

“I like this shirt.” There’s a smile in his tone and on his face, you’re not sure if he’s being sincere or teasing you.

“Shame,” you huff. He pulls out, rolling you onto your stomach and thrusting back in. You pound your fist onto the desk as you nearly cry out from the action even though you expected it this time.

Shanks pulls your loose blouse up, leaving it bunched up around the clasp of your bra before leaning down and nipping at your shoulders. His hips move long and smooth, pulling nearly out of you before sliding back in at the same speed. It’s not slow, it’s not fast, it’s some fine line that has you scrambling beneath him.

“Not - haa - like this,” you gasp, clawing at the desk.

“You want to face me, sweetheart?” He purrs the question, teeth nipping at your ear. “I don’t think you’ll let me kiss you.”

“Then lemme - lemme ride you!” Your voice nearly betrays you, his cock bullying your insides so well you almost saw stars.

“This was about my skill, darlin’, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“Fine, fine then. Right here, right now.” You said. “No chance for you to stack things in your favor.” You’d wriggled away from him, stepping around to his side of the desk. “No bullshit date crap, no hours of foreplay or flirting, function over flourish.”

“Alright.” He’d agreed, locking the door and pulling the blinds, cutting off his office from the common areas. “I’ll prove the benefits of no strings sex.”

“Tell me you have condoms,” you managed to say the words flatly, but the fact that the train was moving was making you nervous.

“I do.” He assured you. “I promise, you won’t catch anything from me.”

Standing in front of you, he knelt down, eyes holding onto your gaze. “Not even feelings, Miss H.R.”

The kiss between your shoulders is almost enough to make you bite through your lip to hold back the moan that was making your clit throb. It made sense that he’d be skilled with his mouth, considering how he never shut the fuck up.

The way his leg lifts your hips just enough for him to get his hand around your waist, is almost disorienting. You can’t even dwell on it from the fingers holding you in place and teasing your clit. His cock is grinding in place and your limbs start to twitch involuntarily again.

“Not… not again…! Hells!” The internal and external stimulation is too much and you’re cumming hard against him. “F-f-f-fuh! Fuck!” Your back arches and Shanks nuzzles into your hair for a second before licking your neck.

He begins to thrust faster and you shake your head, at least as much as you can with him kissing the crook of your neck.

“I’m - not - I’m - not - not again, not!”

“One more time sweetheart, you can do it.” He moans the words into your skin and you feel something inside you melt.

“I’mma… stab you,” you cry the words and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“After you cum.”

“After I c-cum,” you try to grumble the words, but your resistance is mud in your hands. You don’t bother to hold back the heavy, sweaty moans that drip from your lips onto his desk. You can barely grab enough oxygen as he fucks the air out of you with heavy thrusts that never go too deep, that never hit a bad angle.

Nothing to slow the pleasure that crackles through your muscles like electricity. The high you can’t seem to come down from. There’s no room for your defiance, but he never says it with words. He never demands your acquiescence.

It’s simply a matter of course.

He wants you to cream against his cock, and that’s what you’re going to do. One more time, or three if he demands it, how could you possibly hope to say no and mean it? How could you even pretend enough for him to believe you? It felt so good, too good, it was scary the way you felt like you were going to lose control of your body every time.

“Don’-.” Your teeth clench and your body tightens and he holds you against the desk with one hand.

“I won’t make you squirt at the office,” Shanks hums. You aren’t sure what he means, how he could know that it felt like you were going to make a mess, but your tongue is hanging out of your mouth as the pleasure rolls your eyes back. He might be able to picture you coming undone, but no one can see your face, and you sink into the euphoria.

Something about the twitch and throb of his thick cock inside you, as you slowly come down from your high, feels satisfying. It would be far too much, if the bastard had focused on you to the point of denying himself entirely. The revelation would have simply been horrible.

Shanks, caring and selfless?

“Bah.” You huff, sweat matting your hair to your face and making your clothes stick to you in slightly uncomfortable ways.

“Dissatisfied in the end?” He questions and you shake your head.

“A different thought.” He helps you up, letting you sit on the desk while he sets your things nearby. “Your… statement wasn’t without merit.” You begrudgingly admit.

Shanks smiles so brightly you’re a little surprised you don’t have to squint. “You feel better then?”

“I… don’t know.” You sigh, and then wave him off. “I feel like I got bamboozled into sex in the office so you could get away with it going forward.” You grouse.

“I see,” Shanks hums the words, but there’s less bounce in his voice. “Neutral is better than negative, at least.”

You snort, buttoning up your shirt and stepping down near your shoes. You’re not going to worry about putting the hose back on, and Shanks turns away when you start to put your underwear on. An odd chivalrous act, considering he’d spent some time face-first between your thighs a few moments ago.

“As educational as this has been, I need to be heading home.” You do your best to keep your voice neutral. You needed to be able to set this down and be done with it. Casual sex was, admittedly, useful, but not with your company’s COO. Not on company grounds.

If Shanks ruined the efficacy of your vibrator you were truly going to stab him.

“I could walk you to your car,” he offers, setting a few buttons on his desk as he opts to just unbutton his shirt the rest of the way.

“Precisely the kind of rumor that would make my morning interesting,” you grumble, waving him off as you unlock the door of his office and walk out. “No thank you, sir.”

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff, @guillotine-enjoyer

Chapter 3: The Break

Dragging your ass out of bed when your alarm goes off Monday morning is a feat of legendary proportions. You’re dehydrated, your head is playing the drum line from Wipeout, and you’re pretty sure you still have a fever. There’s no coffee in the world that will save you, but you force two cups of water and dry toast down your throat before nearly crawling to your car.

It would be a miracle if you got into work without a complaint already on your desk. It was going to be a miracle if you got into work in the first place, honestly.

Half focused on the drive, half focused on keeping the water in your stomach, you realize it was a bit of a miracle you didn’t drink yourself to death. You’re lucky to be dragging your wretched hide to work, instead of being hooked to tubes and monitors over some guy.

You snort despite it all. You expected Shanks would’ve put you in the hospital before anyone else.

Stepping into your office, there is a complaint on your desk first thing in the morning. The weekend shift cleaning supervisor hopes you can convince Mr. Shanks to gather his own trash if it contains biohazardous materials in the future. You can feel your brow twitch and your headache get worse.

Shortly after you get settled in, Shanks arrives with a cup of coffee for you again, but the bright smile on his face fades quickly.

“Are you sick?” He questions in a tone that grates against your ears because right now his very existence grates against your soul.

“It is more likely that I am simply dehydrated.” You grumble, standing up and nearly snatching the coffee out of his hands. “Thank you.”

Shanks sits in “his” chair, his strange puzzled demeanor coming into clear understanding. “You’re hungover.” The grin on his face is pleased and sympathetic at the same time. Man’s probably had hangovers that he should’ve been hospitalized for, you’re sure.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.” You grouse. You have neither the time nor the inclination to pamper his ego as boss or as a man currently. “Please be sure to take home your office trash when you leave… deposits in it.” You say, changing the subject to the task at hand as you tap a page on your desk and take a drink. Once again it’s the perfect temperature, even though you didn’t leave it to sit on your desk this time. “The process for dealing with biohazardous waste puts a strain on the cleaning crew. More so over the weekend because it’s a smaller crew.”

“Should we hire more cleaners?” He prompts, his tone more neutral than you’re used to. Something about it prickles your skin but you aren’t going to waste perfectly good coffee, no matter how much you want to throw it at him.

“I think we should give them bumper raises or bonuses, frankly.” You answer dryly. “Not that it’s my call to make, sir.”

“Hm, alright.” Shanks stands up, and is halfway out of your office when he stops and looks back at you. “If you still have a headache after lunch, go home.” He says the words as a parting shot, and you grunt dismissively.

“Don’t play at being nice now, asshole.” You grumble into your cup without thinking. When you set the cup down you realize that Shanks is still in your doorway, shock scrawled on his face.

You take a moment and just close your eyes. You hadn’t thought he was going to linger after his zinger, and you were wondering if maybe that getting-fired vibe wasn’t going to happen after all.

“Fire me, or go away, sir.” You drone after a moment, not even looking at him.

Shanks pats the door frame a couple times, just nods, and then walks off. For the next thirty minutes you expected him to come back with Beckman in tow to have a conversation with you. After an hour you assumed he was just compiling the information needed to fire you himself without getting Mr. Benn involved.

By the time lunch rolled around you weren’t sure what was going to happen, and you didn’t have the capacity to worry about it and do your job. Worrying just made your headache worse, so you decided to focus on work. If they walked you out it would be rude to leave a mess for the next person, and if they didn’t fire you, it would be rude to leave a mess for yourself.

You didn’t see Shanks, or Beckman, for the rest of the day. With a decent meal and a proper shower and a new set of sheets you woke up Tuesday feeling almost normal.

Coming into work you didn’t have a complaint on your desk, but you did have a cup of coffee waiting for you.

At the perfect temperature.

The realization made you growl to yourself, but you didn’t throw it out. You’d been sticking to water since you got home last night to try and quell the remnants of your hangover, and the coffee was welcome. Tomorrow you’d make a thermos of coffee yourself and bring it in with you.

Wednesday - no complaint on your desk, and coffee. You’d forgotten to make a thermos to bring in and contemplated throwing it out anyway.

Thursday, Friday, and the following Monday. No complaints, and a perfect cup of coffee waiting for you. Monday there’s a muffin to go with it from the coffee house the coffee was from. It’s not your favorite, but you’d buy it for yourself, at least.

It actually pairs well with the coffee and despite how good it is you still find yourself wanting to punch him in the face.

He’s not spying on you, that just wasn’t his vibe. He’d gone a whole week without a single complaint about him on your desk. By Wednesday you’re starting to wonder if he didn’t just up and die and no one told you. Or he was committed for rehab and Beckmann hadn’t informed you about the hiatus.

Both were highly unlikely. Despite his personality and reputation, Shanks never crossed the line from partying and such into addiction. Everything he did had just enough affection and positivity that even the people who filed complaints against him did so almost apologetically.

But it was how the office worked.

You got complaints about everyone at some point. Shanks was just the most repetitive offender. But all issues threaded through HR, and most of them you handed off to your mediators. You took care of the executives directly, but you saw and sorted every complaint so you had a good idea of the overall morale of the company.

Drinks with the office on Friday are the first time you see Shanks in two weeks. He’s doing fine, same old same old, and gracefully keeping to himself. He spent enough time in your office that he never approached you during the office drinking meetups.

Friday was a good night for you. A couple weeks removed from your breakup you were able to vent about it with your coworkers, and your corner of the meetup turned into a mini roasting session of your ex. And a lot of your coworkers’ exes, as everyone began to share their experiences with the woes of dating.

By the end of it you were a little too toasty to drive, and so you hailed a Bubble Ride home. You were trying to ignore Shanks getting into a different taxi with someone new. He was welcome to fuck who he wanted, frankly, but the sound of his laugh was like nails down a chalkboard to you.

As you got into your ride you realized some of your irritation was from his absence at work. If it had been so easy for him to behave before, then why hadn’t he? As the Bubble drove by you noticed Shanks was still on the sidewalk. You could swear the asshole winked at you as you went by, but it had to be a trick of the light.

You let the alcohol shove the thoughts out of your head, going to bed and worrying about things like showers in the morning.

Saturday morning was closer to mid-morning by the time you got out of bed, showered, and took a Bubble back to the office to get your car. You weren’t expecting to see anyone in the parking deck on a  Saturday, whether it was coming up on lunch or not.

And certainly not Shanks.

You were in baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and converse, hair pulled up and out of the way. Not your full on lounging look, but certainly nothing you’d wear to the office. Shanks took a second to clock it was you and then smiled.

“Well, good morning,” he says easily. His clothes aren’t too different from yours. Usually in the office he’s in a suit, or at the very least a button up dress shirt and suspenders, but the man in front of you now was a few buttons away from being a beach bum by comparison.

Admittedly you were fairly certain he could wear a burlap sack and come out looking good. The casual look was almost enough for you to forget what a headache he was for you.

“You look like you’re doing better.”

“Even the flu clears up after a week or two, sir.” You answer a little dryly. “And we both know I wasn’t sick. Does this mean I can expect a complaint on my desk Monday?”

He laughs, and it doesn’t sound nearly as grating as it did last night. “Would you like to see one on your desk Monday?”

“Absolutely not.” You answer, but then turn toward him and level him a severe look. “If it was this easy for you to behave, why the sudden change?”

“Aww, I wasn’t misbehavin’,” he drawls sweetly. “A little over exuberant, maybe.” He muses, looking innocent and devious at the same time.

You cross your arms, waiting for the answer you wanted.

Sighing, he puts a hand behind his head in a sheepish gesture. “You just… looked like you could use a break, and since you didn’t go home after lunch even though you were still dealin’ with the headache, I didn’t want to be the straw that broke yer back.”

“… You didn’t want me to stab you with my pencil.”

“I did not want you to stab me with your pencil.” Shanks agrees, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Humph.” You grunt, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. He was a dangerous man, that was true. “Have a good day, sir.”

The drive home was distracting. You almost sat through a green light at one point, going over things in your head. When you finally made it home you turned on your computer and started typing in a few internet searches.

How to tell if someone is flirting with you

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff

Chapter 2: The Fracture

It had been a long day, especially for a Friday.

You’d been putting up with Shanks’ shenanigans for months, maybe even almost two years at this point, and the last week he especially seemed to be trying to get under your skin. He was in your office every single day, and three times were due to filed complaints, the other two days was to talk about changes to the Employee Handbook.

You couldn’t stop him from making changes, in a way it was almost respectful of him to come to you to talk about the changes before implementing them, but that respect came with having him in your office for half the day.

The trade off was not worth it.

You’d been stuck over most of the week because of it. Aside from Shanks, you enjoyed your work, so it wasn’t the end of the world, but it did mean a good bit of takeout on the way home, versus being able to cook something. You skipped drinks with the office after work, however, to hurry up and get home.

Someone was at home waiting for you, and it had been a couple weeks since your schedules had lined up. Considering he was in sales and did a lot of traveling, and you could end up with long hours because of issues (Shanks) at work, it could be a week or two easily. Neither one of you would sacrifice sleep to see each other, mostly because you’d done so at the start of things and managed to give yourself the flu.

Which you then passed off to him.

And he gave back to you.

It had been an unholy nightmare, and not something you’d wanted to repeat. Especially since Shanks kept trying to bring you all sorts of cockamamie home remedies. On the plus side you had a valid reason to keep him at least ten feet away - at the door of your office - and make sure all interactions were brief.

It wouldn’t do to give one of the top executives of the company the flu.

Stepping inside your home, you turn on the light and kick off your shoes, setting your bag down on the counter and unbuttoning your work clothes. A nice shower, and a little tidying up, and you’d be ready for your weekend long guest.

With luck you could get him to bring a box of condoms with him, some rope and some flogs. You needed to work a lot of tension out of your system after the week you had. Toss in some wax and ice cubes while you were at it. Really dig deep.

You send a text, setting your phone on the counter as you peel off your clothes and step into the shower. You could hear the reply come in a few minutes later, the soft ding carrying either an affirmative, or a clarification. The last time you did the whole whips and chains routine in the bedroom, he’d been surprised to find himself on the receiving end.

A little give and take was good for the soul. You didn’t need to be in control all the time, but sometimes, especially lately, you didn’t feel like you had much control. Taking charge in the bedroom was grounding.

Plus he came so many times he called a yellow because it was starting to ache.

The hot water of the shower relieved the tension in your shoulders. You ran the tank empty by the time you turned the water off and stepped out. Wiping the phone off with your towel you check the reply.

Him: Check the bedroom.

Your brows furrow in confusion, but you have a smile on your face as you head to your bedroom. He had a key, so it wasn’t impossible for him to be a step ahead of you. Patience enough to be waiting for you, but you would’ve expected him to come into the shower if he was already here.

Opening the door to your bedroom you didn’t see him, or any signs of him. Turning on the light you step in further and see a single envelope sitting on the comforter. Frowning, you reach out for the envelope - it feels like an apology.

Until you pick it up, and it has all the weight of a farewell.

You know your key’s inside the envelope before you finish opening it. It doesn’t matter if you read it at this point or not, the point has already passed.

Standing in your room, nothing but a towel on, you read the words on the paper.

The hand writing is neat. The language is almost formal. It’s like being told farewell by someone who had been betrothed to you. Not that it had been the case between the two of you, but that was the emotion that settled around you as you read.

It wasn’t him, it was you.

It wasn’t his fault that your schedules matched so poorly he met someone else.

It wasn’t his fault you hadn’t accepted his offer to provide for you months ago.

It wasn’t his fault that you couldn’t be a proper woman.

The letter concluded that he was gentleman enough to keep your secrets. He wouldn’t ruin your professional image, or smear your name in a way that would lessen your chances of marriage. You were, after all, a nice enough person. Intelligent and kind.

You’d come around, he was certain.

It was a good thing that useless fop was too chicken shit to say such things to you face to face. Crushing the wretchedly florid missive beneath white knuckles you roar, throwing the crumpled wreck to the ground and stomping it with your foot before grinding it into the carpet with your heel.

“Craven little weasel!” You growl, storming out of your bedroom and snatching your phone off the counter where you’d left it. You start to type something in response, typing and deleting.

Breathe out.

Typing and deleting.

Breathe in.

Typing…

The next breath that came out was nearly a sob.

He was a spineless bastard, a completely cruel soggy bastard, but for two years he had been-.

Your sob turns into a nearly manic laugh. Acceptable. He’d been acceptable. You had been settling because your job kept you from really looking. You’d been settling because he’d managed the barest level of attention, and you were too busy with work to be truly bothered by it.

You’d almost settled because despite all the issues gnawing at the sides of your mind, there was nothing directly wrong. He wasn’t bad, but he had been just acceptable. He wasn’t rude, or certainly not directly enough that it couldn’t be dismissed as poor phrasing on his part, but after this letter you realized how nearly every compliment that had ever escaped his lips had been painted on the back of his hand.

You were hurt, angry, ashamed, and frustrated.

Instead of ordering in, you drank. That night alone you emptied two whole bottles of scotch. When you woke up Saturday afternoon you drained a bottle of tequila, some manner of left over food that you found in the fridge and water only because you were just lucid enough to know that dehydration would suck if you didn’t drink any.

A few crackers, a pint or two of ice cream and the last ten cans of a twelve pack you’d picked up last Tuesday. Usually you only had a beer with pizza or wings, but you chugged cans between spoonfuls of death by chocolate while watching some kind of weird campy horror movie sometime around 3am on Sunday morning.

It wasn’t him leaving that had really sunk you, it was the time wasted that kept pissing you off. Nearly two years of your life you could’ve been doing better things. Could’ve been doing better people.

You growl at the annoying thoughts rising back into your consciousness and crack open another can of beer. The sounds of your chugging blot out the dialogue of the movie you’re watching, but if you hadn’t sorted out what was going on before now, you didn’t figure it was going to matter.

The sunrise poked you in the eye on Sunday before you realized what time it was. Swearing in the face of the bright light you wander into the kitchen and fill a glass of water, drinking it down in heavy gulps.

Unfortunately, you’d reached a limit of what your stomach could hold, throwing up beer and water into the bathtub when you tried to grab a quick shower before bed. When you woke up in the afternoon you were cold, damp, and sore as hell, having fallen asleep in the tub by the time your stomach had settled.

Everything aches, but your pounding head is enough to have you crawling through your house. You eat some crackers while sitting on the kitchen floor, taking sips of water as the horrid realization sinks in that you’ve literally drunk yourself sick. You’re cold, but you can feel the heat rolling off your skin.

You didn’t need to check your temperature to know you were running a fever.

Forcing yourself to your feet, you grab the kitchen bin and drag it into the bed room with you. You put on a couple extra layers to help you sweat things out, drinking as much water as you felt you could risk, before setting an alarm and burying yourself under the blankets. With the trashcan by your bed, hopefully you could grab the edge and throw up into it without any other fuss if needed.

Pride won’t let you call off work because you fucked yourself by drinking too much, but seas and gods save you, if Shanks gave you so much as a smarmy grin you were going to stab him. It would add the perfect layer to the last two years, getting fired from your job for stabbing the office slut.

Your brow furrows as you start to drift off. It was very rude of Shanks to intrude on your thoughts outside of business hours, frankly. Maybe you’d file a complaint of your own on Monday. It wasn’t like he read any of them anyway.

[poly-thot-one-piece-edition]

Office Hours

Cisfem!Reader x Shanks x (????)

Also on Wattpad and Ao3

Summary: If Shanks lets you stab him with your pencil you think things between you would improve.

Blame @hannahbarberra162 for this - she wrote the initial exchange between Shanks and the Reader for this first chapter, and has graciously allowed me to run away with it, cackling like the madman I am. <3

CW: Office AU, Enemies to lovers, mdni, so much swearing and even more smut.

Chapter 1: That Asshole

You had a great job.

A wonderful job!

An absolutely fantastic fucking job!

You were the head of Human Resources for a very successful company, and not only did it pay well, but it came with incredible benefits. The company had been founded by Gol D. Roger some fifty years ago, and One Piece Solutions had flourished ever since.

Eventually illness took the original owner’s life, and the company was now run by the friend of his adopted son. Benn Beckman had been best friends with Shanks since they were kids, and while there had been some concerns among people about how Shanks would take his friend being given the company over him, nothing could’ve made the boisterous red-head happier.

Shanks was COO to Beckman’s CEO, and the two worked so well together that One Piece Solutions was an international company with one of the highest ratings in both services offered, and as a place to work.

You’d think being rated one of the best places to work would make the human resources job relatively cushy.

And mostly it was.

With one notable exception, there was hardly anything to be worried about. Hiring processes, and the occasional firing or processing someone leaving the company voluntarily for any number of reasons, was about as complicated as things got. Interpersonal relationships were stable, and aside from a couple mediated scuffles a year at most, there wasn’t much in terms of stress.

And then there was “The Asshole.”

You hated this man’s very existence.

He held the record for number of complaints filed against him. You dealt with him the most, and he never seemed to give a single care. Nothing he did was enough to fire him, but if you could your job would only feel half as busy as it currently did. It wasn’t as though he was truly being protected either, while the CEO was his best friend, his impact on the company had been so lucrative, he’d almost have to blow the building up to do enough damage for it to be worth firing him.

And Shanks wouldn’t do anything like that. You might hate the man, but he wasn’t a vile man. There weren’t any rumors about him having left a bunch of little bastard babies up and down the Grand Line, and no one ever came forward to accuse him of anything hinky.

He was just, well, Shanks. Handsome, smooth, rich, well-loved, jovial, laid-back, and you were pretty sure he’d let the end of the world roll off his back.

You really just wanted to stab him with your pencil.

Speak of the devil, as that fucking asshole Shanks saunters into your office again, his legs crossing. He hands you a cup from the café just down the block. You don't know how he knows, but it's your favorite drink from there. You'll drink it after he leaves, you don't want to give him the satisfaction but also....the chai latte isn't the one giving you more work.

And since it isn’t currently comprised of 50% bourbon by volume, it’s not really going to help you with the work sitting across from you, either.

"What did I do now?" he asks with a grin. You don't return it, eyes moving from the cup to his bright expression. He always seems happy to be in your office. The less you want him there, the happier he seems.

Or he’s always got that infuriating grin on his face and it just appears brighter the less you want to see him. It’s hard to say.

"Employees caught you fucking the new secretary.” Long and Suffering hang from your words like old friends as your eyes look back to that tempting drink before you sigh. “On the copier.”

“Again." You quantify, looking back at him.

There is not the least bit of professionalism left on your face. You can’t fake a smile around Shanks at this point. It wouldn’t matter how much he paid you, what he promised you, or if he even managed to stop being the single most common item in your office aside from yourself.

No power in the whole of the universe was going to get you to smile at Shanks.

"Oh, so we need a new policy about employees staying after hours?" he asks, leaning back further in the comfortable chairs he bought for your office. He said he spent so many hours in your office already, and he wanted to have a better seat for when you gave him his spankings.

That alone was another report.

"No. We already have a policy about not fucking your employees on company property." you deadpan, handing him the report to sign.

He laughs jovially. Your eye twitches.

"Rules were meant to be broken. Maybe you could try it sometime. Might help with your stress." He says easily, signing the paper. The pencil in your hand snaps, but neither of you pay it any mind.

“I’ll take your words into consideration, sir.” You say automatically. If you argued with him he’d try and sway you to his point, and if you admitted to having done so before he’d want all the details.

You couldn’t sort out why he often seemed determined to spend more time in your office. You’d think by this point he’d be sick of being here. He even bought the fancy chairs to make it more bearable.

Setting the paper on your desk, he gives a charming smile. You envision the same smile on his face with a few of his teeth missing and it’s almost enough to make you grin.

You don’t relax until he finally leaves, sinking into your chair. He’d also bought you a nice comfy chair, and considering you sat in it for a good portion of the day, you were grateful. It had felt like a bribe on some level, but Shanks even showed you the work order - he’d had Beckman take care of the process specifically so it couldn’t be taken that way.

You knew the CEO would do a lot for his friend, but you also knew Beckman’s ethics were on a different level. If he slept around as much as Shanks, he did it in a way that left people none the wiser. He was good looking as well, if not in a different way than Shanks, but there was no way you were going to entertain those thoughts either.

Never mind that you were in your own committed relationship, but there was no way that you were going to get tangled up with someone within 7 degrees of separation to Shanks if you could help it.

Taking a sip of your drink you were irritated to find that it was at the perfect temperature. It was something else that always seemed to happen. You never had to wait for a drink to cool, and it was never cold by the time he left.

Even if he peppered you with questions, or told you about details regarding the newest incident that you did not want, nor need, to know. He still managed to leave at a point when your drink was perfect. It wasn’t that the consideration was out of character for him, Shanks was considerate, it was the way it worked out like that every time.

It did nothing but piss you off more.

He was some perfect little playboy who got away with everything, and he was still considerate, good at his job, and not an utter waste of space. He was easy to like, and if you didn’t have to deal with him as the head of HR you might actually like him. You could see being friends with him at the bare minimum.

Maybe next time you’d ask him if he’d let you stab him for the sake of becoming friends.

[yamiyamiart]

Demon and priest LawSan for my giftee 🌹

for #AllSanGiftExchange2024 on twtter