hi! I really love your "not-so-secret" format and I find it real funny, I would like to ask you if you can write something like that for Benn Beckman or if you are more at ease for Shanks, either way I would love it❤️ thank you and you are amazing🫶
Not-So-Secret (Beckman x Reader)
One Piece | Beckman | 3.3k | Masterlist
A newspaper landed on the table, spun around twice and stopped perfectly in front of you. You lifted your glass before it could be knocked off and shuffled forward to see what had been brought over. Shanks paused his conversation with Lucky Roux next to you and tilted his head toward it.
“Notice anything?” Benn asked.
Shanks spun it around to face him, grin proud. “That’s a good photo. Maybe I can ask them to replace my bounty one with it.”
“Have they finally raised mine to something decent?” you asked.
Benn put his hand over it and tapped the headline next to it. “No.”
You immediately burst into laughter, head tipped back in mirth, joined a second later by Shanks. He tossed his arm over your shoulders and grinned.
“What a title,” he said. “The secret wife of an emperor?”
You smiled at Benn through your eyelashes. “Why didn’t you tell me about your promotion, love? This must be a world first. Two emperors on one crew.”
He gave you an unimpressed look. “It would seem your wedding ring has been given to somebody else.”
Shanks looked down at your hand and beamed. “You should have told me she was available.”
“She isn’t.”
“Too late. Says here we’re married,” he said, letting go of your shoulders and returning your personal space. “Though I can’t remember our wedding. Maybe we should have another party in celebration. Do you want a dress?”
“Absolutely,” you said. “But you know this is just to sell papers, right?”
“And because you enable him,” Benn told you.
“I would never. Captain?”
“Yes?”
“If we’re having a wedding party, we’ll need at least an island’s worth of alcohol. Otherwise, this is going to be a very boring celebration.”
Shanks beamed at the excuse to have a party. “Anything for my lovely wife.”
“Don’t,” Benn corrected.
Shanks grinned in response. “Don’t be so bitter, Beck. You had your turn.”
“The wife of an emperor surely gets a higher bounty, right?” you asked Lucky who just chuckled.
“Not sure that’s how bounties work.”
“It should be.”
It stopped being a wedding party almost as soon as the crew reached the next island.
Nobody on the crew really cared to organise anything vaguely resembling a ceremony when you reached the next island. But there was music loud enough to carry along the beach, tables steadily disappearing beneath bottles, and enough food to keep everyone happy. That was more than a sufficient reason for the Red Hair Pirates to celebrate.
Your main complaint was the sand swallowing your shoes with every step. It made walking far more difficult than it had any right to be.
Shanks was having no such difficulties as he moved around the party. He ended up next to the fire, one arm thrown around Yasopp and laughing loud enough to drown out the waves. A few of the local women had joined the celebration, seemingly very pleased with the attention they were getting from your supposed husband.
It was honestly funny how quickly the evening had changed from a wedding party into a just-for-fun one the moment a pretty face had asked.
You lifted your drink to the rest of the crew.
The bar had been assembled from two uneven tables near the edge of the beach. You helped yourself to another drink before reaching for a familiar bottle and pouring a second. The sharp smell rising from the glass made you wrinkle your nose.
But it wasn’t for you yet. It was just an excuse to make your way over to Benn where he was standing against one of the palms that lined the beach.
The bonfire’s light reached him only faintly, catching against the smoke curling around his face before the darkness swallowed it. His cigarette glowed whenever he took a drag and you used the faint light to navigate your way across the uneven sand to him.
Why had you chosen such impractical shoes for this?
He inclined his head as you approached, gaze dropping briefly to your unsteady progress through the sand.
“Had too much to drink?”
You rolled your eyes. “The sand is deep.”
“Sure.”
“I haven’t even stumbled,” you defended yourself.
His mouth twitched slightly.
The area he was standing on was thankfully a little less cruel and you stopped beside him, leaning your shoulder against his arm. He shifted just enough to make the angle more comfortable for you without looking down. The celebration was only growing louder and you were certain it wouldn’t stop until the morning arrived.
It would be a nice day on deck actually. Almost everybody would be hungover.
“I brought you a drink,” you said, holding out the glass to him.
Benn lifted his own identical one to show it was still half-full.
You took it from him and downed what remained, pressing the replacement into his hand. The strength of it caught the back of your throat and you coughed once, stubbornly forcing yourself not to pull a face at it.
He chuckled and shook his head. “Suppose I did need one then.”
“A wife’s intuition,” you said proudly.
His attention settled on you, quiet and warm despite the unimpressed look on his face. He appreciated your intentions, though he wouldn’t say it.
“Your supposed husband has abandoned you for three women before you’ve even finished your drink,” he noted. “Devastating.”
“I know,” you mourned. “Though luckily, I’ve found someone far better to keep me company. What do you think? It’s a fun party, no?”
He looked toward the celebration. The crew had claimed most of the space beside the fire, laughing and shouting encouragement at whoever was singing badly alongside the musicians. Several of the locals had joined the party now, bringing food and drinks that surely wouldn’t go to waste amongst the crowds.
“It’s a loud party,” Benn said. “Though it’s good to be having it out here rather than inside a tavern. Fewer windows for them to walk into.”
“Just the ocean,” you noted.
“They don’t have devil fruit. They shouldn’t drown.”
“They’ll be wasted soon.”
“A problem they should have solved in advance.”
Despite his complaints, you knew exactly who would be going around and chasing them from the waves in a few hours. He’d become remarkably adept at keeping them under control over the years.
“They’re happy,” you said.
“They usually are when they’re being given alcohol.”
You looked over the smaller groups, mainly formed by unknowns who seemed to enjoy the energy of the party but were understandably wary of getting too close to the infamous crew. A few of them stood at odd angles near the edge of the crowd, never quite facing the celebration directly. You might not have noticed if you hadn’t been looking for it.
And you were definitely looking for it.
“We’ve got some of Morgans’ rats, it seems,” you said, voice lower now to keep the discussion just quieter. “They really are everywhere. It’s annoying. With all these rumours bouncing around, they’ll probably print another photograph of me. And if they take one in this lighting, it’s not going to be pretty.”
Benn chuckled and hooked a finger beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him. The glass in his hand bumped faintly against your jaw as he looked you over, and your heart thumped pleasantly at the touch.
His thumb remained beneath your chin a moment longer than the inspection required.
“You do look tired from your battle against the sand. Perhaps you should avoid them then. You’re far too good at spotting them.”
“I’m not tired,” you corrected. “I’m just enjoying you looking at me.”
Although now that he was looking for them, you knew it wouldn’t take him long to notice the way they stood. Bodies angled away from the party, hands shifting beneath loose coats and bags, shutter clicks swallowed beneath the music and laughter. You made it a personal mission to always keep an eye out for photographers. Your bounty was seen by everybody in the world and you refused to have an ugly one.
But it also gave you an opportunity.
“Maybe we should correct what they think about me,” you suggested.
“It’ll be difficult to prove your sanity in a photograph. Particularly after marrying him.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Divorce.”
You chuckled at the idea. “That would probably chase away his company for the night. Wouldn’t want to have to deal with the moping from that, would you? Maybe something more obvious?”
You turned into Benn’s side and tilted your face toward him, making the request as obvious as you could without saying it.
He glanced down at you and took a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from you and into the sky. “You should be careful with requests like that. You could damage your marriage when it’s just started.”
You wrinkled your nose, beginning to lose patience with the joke now that it was keeping you from the kiss you wanted.
“My real marriage would only be made better by one,” you mentioned.
He extinguished the cigarette against the tree and leaned down to kiss the top of your head.
“There.”
You blinked. Then crossed your arms, mildly offended.
He simply smiled in response. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to upset the captain of the ship now.”
You let your genuine offence melt into an exaggerated pout he could see straight through. “But you’re upsetting me. I just want a kiss from my husband.”
“I thought your husband was drinking with other women.”
He smiled. Sometimes you hated how easily he saw through your dramatics. You huffed and spun on your heel, already moving a step away.
“Fine. I guess I’ll go ask him then.”
Benn caught your arm before you’d even taken your second step and pulled you easily back to him, kissing you properly before you could say a word. You hummed, smiling against his mouth, pleased. You lifted your free hand to his jaw, making sure the glint of your ring said everything as you sank into the familiar warmth of his mouth.
It should have been the final clarification they needed.
Instead, that photo did the exact opposite.
Almost a week later, Yasopp was laughing far too hard for it to signal anything good. You knew it was bad when you stepped out onto deck, met his eyes, and he cackled louder. And because you had no sense of self-preservation, you immediately made your way to him, Hongo, and Limejuice to see what was so funny.
Limejuice raised his eyebrows at you as you approached, chuckling. “Well, if it isn’t the most scandalous member of our crew.”
“What have I done now?”
He handed you the newspaper, flipped to the third page. You looked over the image and the title and a laugh escaped you purely because no other sound made sense.
“They really think so little of me to believe I wouldn’t take the ring off first?” you asked and clicked your tongue. “Honestly. It’s almost like they think I’m a pirate or something.”
“Married to the captain but sleeping with the first mate? Talk about a rumour,” Yasopp said.
You shook your head in disbelief. “It’s absolutely disgraceful, I know. How can any of you lot tolerate such harlotry on the ship? Especially when the photo with my supposed husband is of me sitting next to him.”
“Admitting they’re wrong wouldn’t sell nearly as many papers,” Hongo commented. “So, the natural conclusion is an affair. Don’t know what else it could be.”
The laugh bubbled from your chest before you could help it. It was absolutely hilarious. The photo they’d captured was honestly lovely; taken from the waist up with your wedding ring clear against his jaw.
“They also need his name in the title somewhere,” Limejuice added. “I’m just shocked this has been going on right on the ship and nobody’s noticed.”
You fought to try to contain the chuckles and held up the newspaper in answer to footsteps approaching behind you. The familiar sound of Benn’s steps against the deck stopped as he looked it over and sighed.
“That’s really their answer?”
“I’m so sorry you had to find out this way,” you told him sincerely over your shoulder. “But it seems that you’re the other man in our relationship.”
He rolled his eyes. “You should ignore it. The more you try and reason with them, the more content you’re giving over.”
Yasopp slapped him on the shoulder between his chuckles. “How does it feel to be having an affair with the woman you married?”
“Exhausting.”
“The next edition will probably be something about who the father is,” Hongo suggested.
Your mouth dropped in offense and you turned to him. “Excuse me? What’s that even supposed to mean?”
He held up his hands innocently, smirk too cocky. “Come on, it’s the natural progression from the wife scandal.”
“I do not look pregnant,” you warned.
“You’re pregnant?” Shanks asked. “You’re hiding it well.”
“Shut it!” you snapped at him. “I am not. But I do have to tell you something quite important. I’m having an affair with your first mate. I know this must be hard for you to hear through a newspaper but please understand that I love him dearly.”
Benn gave you a very unimpressed look that you responded to with a sparkling smile.
Shanks chuckled and took the newspaper from you. “They’re pretty creative with these things, aren’t they? I suppose I can forgive it this time. But only with Beck, ‘kay? I can’t tolerate this behaviour with anybody else.”
You made a sign of swooning. “Aw, you’re the second-best husband ever.”
“Only second for accepting your affair?”
“Benn can get me a drink without finishing it on the way over.”
“News must be dry for this to be what they’re using,” Benn said, entirely ignoring your compliment. “Though I suppose the seas have been quiet. At least it’s not on the front page.”
“The paternity test will be,” Hongo said. “Leave the test to me. I can make the results suitably inconclusive.”
Yasopp wiped at his eyes. “Maybe it comes out with one arm.”
Both you and Shanks immediately collapsed into laughter. Your sides ached as you leaned against him to support yourself. Benn chuckled softly under his breath, whether at the idea or because you were laughing, you weren’t sure.
He always said he was very fond of your laugh.
“We should get you a sack of flour to carry around,” Limejuice said. “We can stitch red hairs into the top.”
“And give it a cigarette,” Yasopp added.
“She needs to be pregnant before she has the kid,” Hongo insisted. “You’re skipping over at least two editions worth of content. So, we should give her a watermelon to carry for a few months.”
“I can do that,” you offered. “But I want it to be a weirdly shaped watermelon. Like really long.”
“No,” Benn said. “I’m not dealing with how sticky the deck’s going to be when it inevitably falls and smashes over everything.”
“I promise not to drop it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
By the time dinner arrived, most of the Red Force had lost interest in your supposed paternity scandal. Which was good because there was only so much laughter you could take before you developed a permanent stitch in your side. Still, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be long until it resurfaced at the next market you found with watermelons.
You made your way to the kitchen while a game of cards started on the deck and trimmed the edges of the newspaper away so you had just the photo.
You lifted it to the light and hummed. It would need a backing board. The paper they used to print on was getting awfully thin of late. You’d be happier if you could get your hands on the actual image though… maybe you should write in and ask for it.
“Are you really keeping it?”
You looked over your shoulder to find Benn standing in the doorway. You smiled and lowered your arms.
“I am. It’s a nice photo. I’ll buy a frame the next time we stop somewhere with a shopping street instead of a distillery.”
“You have very high hopes for the future.”
You laughed softly. “I could get rid of it instead if you want me to. I’m not overly attached. Or maybe I should write a formal letter of complaint?”
He stepped closer and leaned over your shoulder to look at the photo. “Somehow, I don’t think they’d be particularly worried. You can see my ring where I’m holding your wrist.”
You looked closer at the photo and immediately laughed. As you held his face, he held your arm, his hand turned to rest against your pulse point with a matching ring on his finger.
“I think they’ll use that next,” you said. “They’ll skip over the kid and think you’re cheating on a wife back home.”
“They wouldn’t care about that. Doesn’t involve Shanks at all.”
You hummed. “Fair. Though realistically, we’ve already had two. They’ll probably move on to something else in the next week. Or maybe a group of idiots will blow up an island and get far more media attention.”
Benn gave you a look. “Hopefully this is not how I learn about your plans.”
“Why would I blow up an island?”
“When you’re with that lot, I place nothing outside the realm of possibility.”
You didn’t appreciate how often you had to admit he was right. “Does it bother you?” you asked. “Not the blowing up an island thing but all of the rest of it.”
You could understand how it would. If things were the other way around, you weren’t sure you’d be pleased about the situation at all. Actually, you knew you wouldn’t be. You’d be even more bitter about the part where you didn’t have any options to correct the problem.
“Not the first time people have thought you’re with him,” Benn said with a shrug. “Probably not the last. I care very little about who a newspaper thinks you’re married to. You’re still wearing my ring.”
“It’s honestly impressive he managed to start a scandal story without even doing anything,” you admitted. “That’s a new one.”
“No, it’s not.”
You leaned against the counter and smiled. “Maybe we should start confining him to the ship whenever we make land. I think it’ll be safer for everybody.”
Benn raised a disbelieving eyebrow at you. “As though you wouldn’t be far too bored?”
“Hey, I can entertain myself by bothering you more.”
He hummed but you caught the affectionate smile that appeared for a second. “Maybe I should confine both of you to the ship. It will be safer for everybody.”
“You’re really not looking to dispel the rumours then,” you teased.
“I don’t need to. Anybody who’s met Shanks knows he couldn’t keep a wife for longer than a night.”
“And anybody who’s met me knows exactly who I have eyes for.”
He scoffed. “Even if they haven’t met you. In the first photograph they took, you were standing next to him but you were looking at me.”
“Was I?”
“Very obviously.”
You hummed and looked down at the photo you had. “Then I should get a copy of that one too. I can start a little album to document our lives as told through the newspaper.”
“That sounds suspiciously like you’re planning on causing more stories.”
“Maybe… Two photos isn’t much of an album. But don’t worry, I’ll only ask the others for their help occasionally. And I won’t bring the watermelon onboard.”
Benn gave you a long, unreadable look.
Then, before you could ask what that meant, he bent down and swept you into his arms. You laughed, catching hold of his shoulders as he carried you toward the door.
“So, is that a yes to the album?”
He said nothing which you chose to take as enthusiastic approval.
Summary: Things can't stay hidden forever. But then, do you want them to?
Warnings: Violence, Yearning
A/n: The final chapter! Thank you all for reading! I've honestly never had more fun writing any other work, and it's taught me a lot about my own personal style. I hope you enjoy the final chapter and are looking forward to the release of my Shanks fic!
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The sun remained hidden by dark clouds, just the same as the kind that had brought you here for repairs. Their presence cast the day in a dreary gloom, an ill omen lingering over the harbor, though nothing stood in the way of the ship’s departure.
Beckman remained ashore while you and the others finished preparing the vessel, combing through supply logs, checking that every crate had been loaded, and ensuring the necessary repairs had truly been completed. The work consumed most of the morning, but at last the ship was ready to sail. With little left to do, you returned to the main deck in search of Beckman at Shank’s request. He should have been back a good while ago, and it wasn’t like him to be delayed for just any reason.
After asking around, you eventually found him standing at the end of the main dock, deep in a heated exchange with the dockmaster. The contrast between them was almost comical. The other man clearly tried to make himself seem imposing, but beside Beckman he looked small and flimsy. Then again, few men could hope to appear more intimidating than the pirate.
Beckman’s brows were furrowed, jaw set in a harsh line as his hands clench, arms crossed and shoulders squared. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, and you have to remind yourself to keep a normal pace as you approach.
“Everything seems to be in order. We should be set to head off.”
Your words pull the attention of both men from their staring contest. The shorter man sneers at your appearance, as if you were the problem somehow.
“Are there any issues?” You ask, to which Beckman scoffs, turning to head back toward the ship.
“None at all.”
The other man is not so convinced, hot on his heels, face red with anger. He’s trembling, the waver reaching his voice, though from fear or anger it’s impossible to say which.
“You still owe me! Your ship is not pulling out of here until you pay the docking fee!”
“Already paid it.” Beckman replies without looking back, his pace brisque as you follow, practically jogging to keep up with his quick strides. “Not my problem if you decide to try and jack the prices last minute.”
Ah, so that’s what it was. It wasn’t uncommon for docks to promise one price to keep a place for the ship and raise it when they went to leave. The smart ones would at least try to come up with an excuse of some kind, such as staying too late in the morning or claiming that the deck had been damaged in some way from the ship. Normally they were smart enough to try and not do it with pirates though, as they were more apt to lead to a physical altercation than merchant or passenger ships. It seemed this man thought you had enough money to make it worth the potential risk.
Beckman ignores him as you continue back to the Red Force, every protest and complaint falling on deaf ears as they escalate in volume, polished shoes clacking behind you. It’s hard to see him as threatening when compared to Beckman, shorter even than you and softened with paperwork filing. Though you suppose the two also following you- roughed dockworkers by the looks of it, likely his attempts at intimidation- give him more confidence than he should have. The chance that you’ll dock at the same place the next time you come around here is slim and if the man had a better mind for business then he wouldn’t ward off future customers.
Like a persistent mosquito, his high-pitched complaints follow you and it becomes all too tempting to smack him away like the blood-sucking pest he is as he begins throwing insults into the mix. How you’re all nothing but crooks and how he’ll be glad when the Marines catch you- not to mention the fact that he also largely profits off the pirates using his docks- and that you're all nothing more than parasites leaching off honest working folks. As if the work he did was anything of the sort.
Blood boiling and pace faltering, you turn back. Your fist tightens, nails digging into your palm, ready to clobber or choke- you hadn’t decided yet- but a look from Beckman has your temper simmering, if not reluctantly, allowing his hand to settle on your back and steer you towards the ship. The trouble wouldn’t be worth it over a few words spoken. You know that. But curse everything if the temptation isn’t there.
Sticks and stones, you remind yourself. Sticks and stones.
You're only a few dozen yards from the ship when it happens. The man’s hand drops to his waist, drawing a dagger too pristine to have ever seen honest use. Steel flashes, intent clear as day. Fitting, really. A cowardly move from a cowardly man, emboldened by the absence of consequence for his loose tongue. Under different circumstances, maybe you could have respected the sudden willingness to dirty his hands. But there was nothing admirable in it. Not when it sprang from nothing more than wounded pride and blind anger.
It’s a small thing, and you doubt it would even harm him more than an annoying poke that he would complain about later. His audacity overlaps with stupidity and the only answer is that he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. No doubt his hand would be crushed before it could even do any damage, but you don’t give him the chance.
You move on instinct, deftly twisting the man’s arm back. He cries out in pain while dropping his meager weapon as the limb twists at an odd angle. You’re quick to kick it over the edge of the dock and into the water lapping at the post of the dock below, driving your heel into the back of his knee. He goes down easily, his shout drawing the attention of Beckman, attention finally drawn back to the situation as he looks back over his shoulder not looking the least bit surprised.
Your actions hadn’t drawn just his attention, the two men who had been following you as well jumping into action at the sight of their employer on the ground. The first takes a sloppy swing, only to go down as you duck and deliver a clean jut to the jaw with your elbow, knocked out cold. The second seems a bit smarter than his friend, reaching into his jacket. You expect a gun or maybe knives, only to be surprised when he tosses something small and round at you. Not quick enough to hit, but when you attempt to bat it away it explodes, smoke filling the air. The thick smog fills your lungs, burning your eyes and forcing you to let go of the man, swatting at the air in an attempt to breathe as you back pedal. It wasn’t the same burn you got in secondhand smoke from Beckman. This was more cloying, seeming to stick to your throat and lungs.
By the time it clears out they’re both long gone along with their employer. The best scenario for them, as while Beckman had seemed mildly frustrated before, he appears absolutely livid now.
He growls, steps shaking the wood as he stomps back to where you were crouch, hand on your knees and still coughing, only to stop short as his eyes flicker down.
Burning. Not the same acidic scent that normally came with smoke bombs.
At first you think it’s Beckman, but looking back you see the signature cigarette is missing from his lips. It’s only a moment later that you feel the heat, a sudden creep that has you jumping as it licks your skin. You crane your neck back, eyes wide upon spotting the tail end of your shirt on fire and spreading quickly.
“Oh fuck!”
You attempt to pat it out with frantic hands only to have the flames spread even further, much to your distress. There must have been an accelerant of some kind in those things, and it seems it had gotten on your clothes.
You pull the fabric as far as possible away from your body in an attempt to protect your skin. It’s Beckman's modified one, the modified but still large garment giving a bit more room to avoid the lames.
One moment you’re on the dock, dry and warm- if not a bit too much- and the next you’re in the water, coughing and spluttering as you resurface. It’s freezing, the missing sun not having a chance to warm the waves, and the shock has you gasping. You tread the surface, confused, before a hand appears in front of you. Looking up you see Beckman kneeling on the deck.
“Sorry about that.” Despite his words, he seems a bit amused even as annoyance still clings to him. It’s with a dawning realization you realize he’s been the one to dump you in.
As annoying as the fact was it also made sense, and you feel a bit foolish for it not being your first instinct to put out the flames. He could have at least given you a bit of warning, and he only shrugs as you glare.
Regardless, you let him pull you out of the water, trying not to note the ease of which he does so, lifting you without an ounce of strain. Just as when he had hauled you from the mouth of the figurehead months ago.
The commotion has drawn a bit of a crowd, onlookers who gawked at the situation. While some eye Beckman warily, the majority are focused on you, dripping wet and shivering as you rub your arms.
Didn’t they have anything better to do?
It’s not until you feel a breeze that you realize they’re not necessarily looking at the commotion, but more specifically you. Apparently the flames had spread even further than you realized, your shirt sporting scorch marks where it wasn’t burned off, held on only by scraps as it covers you chest and loops around your neck like some kind of bizarre-fashioned halter top with one sleeve. It doesn’t help that you’re drenched and cold, the light fabric clinging to your skin as you struggle to keep your now soaked pants up to preserve any remaining dignity.
“What are you all looking at you perverts! I’ll carve the eyes out of every one of you.” You shout between chattering teeth, skin burning as they continue to leer. You step forward to make good on your word as you snatch your knife, the item thankfully not having fallen out. One hand was all you would need.
Unknown to you, or rather slipping your mind in the heat of the moment as you decided on which person to start with, the mark along your lower back sat perfectly visible on your skin to the person standing behind you.
For a fraction of a second, Beckman’s brain ground to a halt as he processed the sight in before of him, trying to decide if he was hallucinating as he laid eyes upon your back for the first time. A part of him thought it was too much to ask for. That he was simply willing himself to see something so much that his brain was tricking him, but as you moved once again, he was hit with the reality that his eyes were perfectly fine as they traced along the dark lines.
He knew that mark better than a carpenter knew wood. Had seen it before himself many times in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time he was taken aback, breath knocked from his lungs as he felt his skin warm despite the weather, tingling in a way he didn’t know how to deal with.
Before you could make it any further, Beckman stepped forward and shrugged his coat off and in one smooth motion draped it around you from behind, snugly securing the front. The heavy fabric swallowed you and warmed the exposed skin, cutting off your threats as you looked back in surprise, then embarrassment.
“Uh, thanks?”
Your mind was still half focused on violence, ready to track down the dock master and his friends when you were done here.
Beckman’s expression had gone unreadable, keeping you in place as his gaze weighed just as heavy as the hand on your shoulder. While you were used to his silence, it seemed oppressive in this moment. Not the shared, silent acknowledgment it normally held, but instead a puzzling intensity of deliberation.
As your flared temper evens out, it’s with a jolt you realize how much of you had been exposed; particularly your back where you had been so careful to keep covered. Until now that is.
Surely he must have seen it? Or maybe with your body angled the way it had been he didn’t get a clear look? Would it be too much to hope that it had been mistaken as something else, moving around too much for the lines to be seen clearly? Or course you would never be that lucky, and Beckman neither that blind or foolish. His eyes were nearly as good as Yassop’s.
You wait, frozen like a rat in a trap, unsure of what to say, mouth dry despite nearly drowning a moment ago. What possible explanation could you have for this? A tongue lashing is the best you could hope for, braced for the shouting to begin.
Instead of saying anything, his hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary, making sure the fabric stayed closed. He turned you back around, pushing you towards the ship, a single glare enough to send the remaining onlookers running.
There was no mistaking it. The mark he’d seen on your back matched his exactly, down to the slightly titled placement. Suddenly the conversation in the tavern about soulmates didn’t seem nearly as ridiculous as it had before, and he mentally kicks himself. For a smart man, he should have been able to connect the dots sooner.
His silence on the walk back was more unnerving than anything. Any chance you took to peak back at him had you quickly turning back as his gaze met yours, brows furrowed in what you could only assume was annoyance. Your chest clenched.
He already hated you now.
“What happened to you? A little trist in the alley that got out of hand?” Limejuice teases, eyeing the coat around your shoulder and the ruined fabric peaking out. “I thought you had more tact than that.”
“If you must know, I was set on fire and Beckman was kind enough to lend me his coat so I didn’t have to walk half naked back here.” You snap, pulling the garment closer, as if it could shield you from the entire situation.
Pointedly ignoring the mentioned man, you stomp onto the ship with the others quick to get out of your way. No way you could face him right now. Not without at least a little mental prep for the conversation. You definitely weren’t running away to lock yourself in the medic cabin and contemplate your life choices.
The ship set sail with no further trouble as you dry off and throw on one of your other shirts. No longer would you be forced to wear Beckman’s old modified one, though you weren’t entirely too happy about that, already missing the familiar feel of the fabric.
You didn’t go back up on deck, instead waiting for someone to come and get you, intending on staying hidden as long as possible as you pace back and forth. Staying still was impossible but so was going out.
Maybe you could act like the whole thing hadn’t happened. If Beckman was content to pretend like he hadn’t seen anything then so were you. Had he told the others already? Or would he want to keep the incident under wraps so they would pester him about it?
Nobody came to get you, even as the grey sky faded to night. You could hear the others passing by on the way to the dining hall, Snake tentatively calling out your name and knocking on the door before he was dragged away. It’s only hours later that you sneak out once sure that the rest of them have gone to bed, sneaking into the kitchen with the sounds of their snores covering any creak of the floorboards. As you steal some bread and jerky.
Before you can make it back Roux catches you, blocking the doorway. He doesn’t seem happy despite having caught you doing the same before, arm crossed.
“No food unless you show up for meals.”
“What?” Well, there goes your plan on avoiding Beckman for as long as possible. If you didn’t want to stare that is.
“I don’t know what you’ve done but Beckman’s in a mood, and not even a foul one. He just sits there spacing out and it’s creeping the rest of us out.” He says, pushing you out of the cabin without a chance to argue.
It’s impossible to sleep, lying in wake until the morning, getting up when you hear the others moving about. You’re first at the table, abandoning your normal spot for one at the far end of the table.
“What are you doing?” Punch asks, eyeing you in his seat, his own plate in hand as you stare at your own.
“Change of scenery.” Hopefully your grumbling can be attributed to the early hour and not your growing anxiety. Something that comes to a head as Beckman walks in, hair still tousled from sleep. He stops short in the doorway, his heated gaze staring holes in your face as you refuse to look up, watching the way he moves in your peripherals. It’s as Shanks approaches behind that he moves.
“Wonderful morning, isn’t it?” He yawns, stretching his arm high as he stands on his toes. It was one of the worst parts about his missing limb, he’d once told you. The difficulty of getting a good stretch in. It doesn’t seem to bother him now as his eyes roam the cabin before landing on you. Unlike Beckman, he doesn’t hesitate, tossing an arm around your shoulder as you try to busy yourself with your coffee.
“Missed you at dinner last night. What are you doing all the way down here?”
“Change of scenery apparently.” Punch offers, now in your seat. His large body provides a decent shield from Beckman who’s just settled on the other side of him, looking none too happy.
“That so?” Shanks doesn’t look the least bit convinced, but lets go regardless as you give a weak nod, grabbing a plate and taking his own spot at the head of the table. It’s not abnormal for breakfast to be quiet as everyone shakes off the dregs of sleep, but the mood hangs heavy.
You spot Beckman reaching for his mug only to find it missing. Of course it would be. You were the one who normally got it for him. But now the spot remained empty even as he stared hard, like it would appear if he focused enough. When that didn’t work he got up with a sigh, heading over to get it himself as you dipped your own drink. It was still too hot to properly enjoy but you didn’t care much, only wishing to get done and out the door as soon as possible, where you could occupy yourself with your chores and not the thoughts that had kept you awake all night. You'd even take as many from the others as they wanted. Anything to stay busy.
As such you’re the first to finish, tossing your plate in the sink and all but running out the door, ignoring the curious glances of the others.
————————————————
It seemed you didn’t have to worry about Beckman approaching you about the topic after all as he spent the next two days avoiding you just as much as you were him. An unfamiliar tension between you that neither would approach lingered in the air like a dense fog over the ship. Everyone else seemed to sense it as well, noticing how you stiffened when the other got close, your normal easy conversations silenced. Yassop tried to ask about it but was quickly shut down with a glare.
You could feel Beckman’s eyes burning into you whenever he was in proximity, shrinking under his attention as your stomach churned, hands shaky as you tried for the third time to tie a simple knot.
Only Shanks seemed to maintain an oblivious, if not sly, attitude about the whole thing. In fact he seemed absolutely giddy, practically skipping around the ship and following you like a shadow.
When he asks you to fetch Beckman for him instead of approaching as you normally would, taking any portion out you could to talk, you instead loudly call over the deck “Captain is looking for Beckman.” Something he could easily have done himself to get the attention of the man who was no more than twenty feet away.
You continued to dance around one another, acting through the others on the ship and not looking each other in the eye when you passed in the halls. That is, when you’re not darting into the nearest room to avoid him.
The only reprieve is your room, and even then you’re subject to Hongo’s scrutiny.
“What the hell happened?” Hongo finally asked after watching you tense for the thousandth time as one of the others walked past the door. He spins in his chair, fixing you in place from where you currently sit with a pillow tucked to your chest. Normally during any free time you’d be up on deck, wrestling around and playing games with the others. But that also meant facing Beckman, who remained up top.
“He found out.” You say, burying your face in the pillow, half hoping he wouldn’t hear. But you need to say it. To get the oppressive weight off your chest and let at least one person know of your turmoil, and Hongo was the only one you could. Maybe he had some sage soulmate advice. At the very least he could considerate enough to sedate you so it didn’t feel like you were going to have a panic attack every time the first mat got within ten feet of you.
Hongo sighs, standing from his seat and plopping down next to you next to you.
“You had to know it was going to happen eventually. We’ve all seen each other naked at some point.” You remember back to the memory of Snake, shuddering. ”So I guess you’re lucky you made it this far. Honestly, I expected you to break sooner.”
Hongo places an arm around your shoulder, allowing you to lean into his side. The silence thrums like a current, pushing against your will until it becomes too much.
“He didn’t even say anything.”
“What?”
“When he saw the mark. I’m positive he did, and yet he didn’t say anything. Just gave me his stupid cloak and walked me back to the ship.” You clutch said garment closer, still having neglected to return it and the owner not having asked. Another sign he wanted nothing to do with you.
“Maybe you should just talk to him.”
“I can’t! Every time I get close I feel like I’m going to puke. He’s going to kick me off the ship, I can feel it.” Your eyes burn but refuse to cry like some teen, roughly wiping at your eyes to the point Hongo grabs your hands, pulling them away.
“No he’s not. Shanks and the others wouldn’t let him anyways.”
“Then I’ll kick myself off at the next port. I can’t live on this ship with him hating me. It was what I was trying to avoid in the first place.”
Hongo sighs, rubbing his temples as he takes a few deep breaths.
“I’m not letting you off this ship until you talk with him. If you do and still want to leave then fine, but don’t go planning your escape just yet.” He grabs your shoulders, pulling you upright. “Promise me you’ll talk with him. I don’t feel like dealing with his attitude if you up and disappear."
You should promise. It would be the easiest thing to do. But you can’t bring yourself to, unable to lie to him. Because nothing in you wants more than to do what you seem to do best.
Run away from it all.
Instead you wrap the cloak around the pillow and bury your face in the fabric. It still smells like his cologne. Something he had started wearing just a short while ago, and which the others had laughed about, but the scent had already been ingrained in your mind as uniquely him. Just as was the smell of tobacco, and the specific shade between the most beautiful night and richest onyx stone that colored his eyes. The faint scent of oil that clung to his hands from cleaning his rifle.
“At least get some sleep before your watch tonight. You look like shit.” Hongo prods, expecting a jab back, only to receive silence.
Fine. If you wanted to be like that there was still another person he could go to in order to stamp out this issue. And so he sets out of the room with determination, leaving you to wallow in your self-imposed doom and gloom.
____________________________________
The sea is quiet as you sit on lookout duty. A grateful distraction from everything, giving you more of an excuse to avoid Beckman by sleeping late in the morning. It marks the longest you’ve ever gone without talking to Beckman since you joined the crew, and you yearn to hear his voice despite knowing that would mean having to talk with him. To confront what you’d been avoiding. He had hardly even spoken to the others the past three days even, spending most of his time shut up in the map room or standing at the back of the ship watching the wake of churning waves.
The ship glides steadily, the horizon a seamless blend between sea and sky, sails full and the wind cool against your skin as you sit in the crow’s nest. Beckman’s jacket is draped over your shoulders, unable to let go of the last piece you have of him. You’re reminded of the last time he had lent it to you, all that time ago when he had first coaxed you from the mouth of the beast on the front of the ship.
Maybe you should have let it eat you then and saved everyone the trouble.
The lantern below throws a soft glow across the deck, but up here the world is only shadow and stars. You should be watching the horizon for anything suspicious but instead stare up at nothing, mind occupied. Your fingers keep drifting to your lower back, brushing the fabric of your shirt where the mark sits hidden beneath like a brand.
The memory of the incident keeps replaying in your mind like some awful nightmare as your stomach twists. Except there’s no waking up from this one.
He had seen it. There’s no way he didn’t even if every part of you hoped it wasn’t true. He was too observant not to, and not even skinning the mark from your back could save you now.
You groan, drop your forehead against the railing with a painful thud.
Great. Just great. You’ve spent months avoiding this exact scenario, and now fate apparently decided you had done enough hiding. You should have known better than to tempt it. To stay so close when you knew the risk of it being seen. You should have gotten off on the first island and ran as soon as you knew but those pesky feelings of infatuation that had latched onto the man had kept you there, deluding yourself into thinking your plan could work. If you had no bad luck, then you wouldn’t have any at all.
Footsteps on the ladder make you freeze, identifying the cadence as one you had memorized long ago, not even having to look to know who it is, his very presence ingrained into your soul.
Beckman pulls himself up into the crow’s nest without a word, settling easily beside you, just as he’s done a hundred times before. Neither of you says anything, unsure as to even what you would.
From the corner of your eye you spot movement, flinching, then feeling guilty as he pauses. He stays like that a moment longer before moving again, this time slower, holding out a mug. Your favorite. A wooden piece with a rather ugly carving of a mouse on the side that you found endearing. Or maybe that was only because Beckman had been the one to gift it to you.
You blink, hesitant and wary as you debate taking it, fearing it would invite conversation. Beckman makes the decision for you, thrusting the cup into your hands, trying and failing not to jump as your fingers brush his, electricity spiking down your spine.
The warmth seeps into your fingers as you take a sip. Something sweet and spiced with a vaguely herbal note. One of the drinks he usually brings you when you’re stuck with watch on cold nights. Something to keep you up that won’t prevent you from sleeping later.
Long, sturdy arms lean on the railing beside you, too close, gaze sweeping the horizon like he’s actually checking for ships.
It almost feels normal.
Almost.
Beckman’s standing close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the chill of the night having no effect on him as the wind blows back his hair, devoid of the normal tie that keeps it back as it flies around his face.
“Quiet night?”
You nod, unable to find your voice without trusting it to crack. Another moment passes as the wind rustles the sails with a soft creak overhead. He shifts, the familiar clink of his lighter sparking before a soft glow burns in the dark. The warm light does little to smooth the harsh lines of his face, fading back out as the end of his cigarette turns to ash, burning down quickly with the deep drag he takes. When he blows out you find yourself leaning just a bit closer. The smoke had long ago lost its sting, and you were an honorary member of the vice despite only ever having tried once. An offer from Beckman when you doubted the fact it helped him warm up on chilly nights such as this, and which had left you coughing and wheezing much to his amusement. It was almost worth the shoulder shaking laugh he gave.
No, you didn’t smoke, but were addicted all the same. Only when it comes from his lips, or rather because of it.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ah. It seems the pleasantries are over. A small mercy to begin with given his normal blunt nature.
The words lodge in your throat as he waits for an answer, knowing he won’t speak again until he gets one. You pretend not to understand, not ready to out yourself on the minuscule chance that by some miracle he hadn’t seen and was referring to something else.
“About what?”
He turns slowly, the look on his face making it clear you’re not fooling anyone, least of all him. But why couldn’t he turn a blind eye to it? Let you sweep it under the rug and pretend like nothing changed.
You fiddle with the cup as your shoulders slump, running your finger along the carving. No matter what, you promise yourself, you won't cry. Won’t beg. Only accept what’s to come.
“You aren’t interested in soulmates.”
It sounds weaker out loud than it did in your head, cringing at how pathetic it sounds. You have half a mind to jump into the sea if you weren’t so sure that he would grab you before you could.
“I did say that, didn’t I.” He admits.
Your stomach sinks, knuckles turning white as you will the tears to stay away, as if keeping them from falling will prevent the chasm that feels like it's opened in your chest. It shouldn’t hurt so much, but outright rejection stings more than months of yearning. The feeling is sharp and hollow all at once, like the air has been pulled straight from your lungs and leaves nothing behind.
You hadn’t meant to hope, had told yourself not to, over and over like a mantra, and now the stubborn part of you that swooned over romance was being crushed beneath the weight of his words.
How are you supposed to take this? To face him every day knowing that you’re meant for each other, that you love him, but he doesn't feel the same? It would have been more merciful for him to say something back on the island so that you wouldn’t be stuck with him on the ship for the foreseeable future and could sneak off on your own. It felt like a knife twisting in your gut, to think of giving up all this. A place you found to belong after tears of wander on your own. It seemed the universe really did have a cruel sense of humor, dangling the prospect of a happy life just out of reach, yanking it back every time you got comfortable.
You’d never considered Beckman a cruel man. Quite the opposite, even if he could be violent at times. But never towards anyone who didn’t threaten him. Never towards you. But now you fear his wrath. Of what he would do now knowing the truth.
“But I’m interested in you.”
The words hit with all the grace of a hammer, your brain stalling, jarred from its downward spiral. Silence rings once again as you process, convinced he’d said something else or even nothing at all because there was no possibility you’d heard correctly.
Your voice cracks, little more than a whisper.
“What?”
He looks at you. The same way he does when he thinks something should have been obvious. Like he had just told you not to throw the anchor down while in the middle of a hurricane.
“I’ve been interested in you for a while now.”
You stare at him, hardly able to believe what you were hearing, his words a contradiction of one another as you try to understand. Was he trying to get you to admit something just so he wouldn’t feel bad about kicking you off the ship?
“You said soulmates were a distraction!”
He doesn’t flinch as you throw his words back in an attempt to recover your defenses, refusing to act like a complete lovesick fool despite the way your pulse races.
Instead he doubles down.
“They are.”
You didn’t like being made a joke of, and now it felt as though he was simply toying with you. Maybe it was his payback for trying to pull one over on him. Any earlier apprehension gives way to anger. An emotion you know what to do with. One that’s helped you survive other situations before, so why not this?
“Beckman-”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” His gaze never wavers as he steps forward, forcing you back until the cramped space runs out. The low wall of the railing digs into your spine, and for a fleeting second you considered vaulting over it just to escape the intensity of him.
“I can't get you out of my head. The way your face pinches when you're mad, or how your voice raises an octave when you laugh too hard. How your breathing stops just before you take a shot, or the way your hands twitch when you're being stubborn, like you’re about ready to strangle someone.”
Another step. Close enough that the end of his cigarette threatens to burn you.
“The way you say my name, like it’s the most casual thing in the world even though it makes every other thought fly out the window.”
You shift, trying not to look stupid under his pinning gaze, noting the way his eyes flicker to your throat as you swallow, processing his words.
He wants you.
He wants you.
Your heart is beating hard enough that you’re sure he can hear it as the words repeat over and over in your head. A mantra that you could never tire of. One you had already dreamed of, now brought to reality. Or was it? Maybe you had hit your head on the dock and this was all a hallucination, and if it was then it was particularly cruel. But the brush of his arms against yours as he cages you in, blocking the light of the moon above, feels all too real. As does the way your pulse spikes in response.
“You’re a complete ass.” You manage to stutter out, gripping the railing like a lifeline, trying to regain your thoughts. But you can’t. Not when they're filled with him.
He doesn’t deny it, only responding with a rough chuckle that sends goosebumps across your skin as the moment stretches taut between you.
This close, you could see the shadows beneath his eyes more clearly now, the dark circles deeper than before, as though sleep had long since stopped finding him.
Hesitantly, almost without thinking, you lift a hand toward his face. The motion faltered halfway through, uncertainty catching at you, but he reaches up before you could pull away, guiding your palm against his cheek just as he had in the medical room what felt like an eternity ago. Your thumb brushed lightly beneath his eye, tracing the tired lines carved there. The gesture was soft- far gentler than anything either of you usually allowed yourselves- and it drew a quiet sigh from him. His shoulders loosened beneath it, tension draining as though some invisible burden had finally eased. Like the weight of the world had been resting there, and if memory served correct there seemed to be a few more grey hairs dotting his temples and streaked throughout.
Beckman leans forward, closer than could be considered casual or friendly. No room for misinterpretation. His hand brushes your cheek, guiding you to look at him as he leans closer, grinning, and you realize as his finger brushes under jaw he must be able to feel your racing pulse.
Beckman’s not unaffected either. His own breathing turned uneven beneath your touch, each slow inhale sounding more strained than the last as he holds your gaze with an intensity that made it difficult to look away, hardly able to keep himself from closing the gap.
You weren’t some fleeting mistake. Some stranger he would disappear from before sunrise and never think about again. He wants you to meet him there, to show he hasn’t fucked everything up. That you still want him with the same unbearable certainty that he wants you. He can’t even imagine how you must have been feeling all this time, carrying on in silence for months, pretending nothing had changed while standing beside him every day.
Had you really feared he would reject you even after- to him- such blatant displays of interest?
He might have commended your performance if it didn’t drive him insane at the same time. Meanwhile, after only two days of knowing, he was already unraveling beneath the weight of it, trying to give you space to approach in your own time until he finally broke.
The air between you is shared, warm and electrified. Every breath tangled together in the narrow space, close enough that you could feel the ghost of his lips against yours. A question lingered there in the silence, unspoken.
Your hand brushes a stray lock of hair from his face. The simple touch draws a sharp hitch from his lungs, breath stuttering as though the gesture affected him far more than it should have.
That sound was what finally undoes you.
Your lips crash against Beckman’s with painful force, cigarette dropping somewhere underfoot as your fingers grip in the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer. Any remaining restraint vanishes the instant he kissed you back, rough and desperate, lips equally so, chapped by wind and sun. The impact of it steals the breath from your chest, all heat and hunger and weeks of unspoken tension finally snapping at once.
He still tastes of rum and smoke, delicious in how they lay on his lips, though you would never accept them delivered any other way. His hand slides to the back of your neck, possessive. The kiss is devouring, comforting, and everything you’d been wanting for months.
Beckman groans, the sound felt more than heard as he lifts you up with ease, setting you on the edge of the railing so he doesn’t have to hunch down to reach you while giving him an even better angle.
It’s a bit nerve wracking, balanced carefully on the edge with the deck a few dozen feet below, but with the way his hands- the ones you’ve had too many dreams about- latch on to your hips, your own dig into his forearm, leaving crescent marks while the other remains clutching his shirt like a lifeline. You have no fear of falling. It would be nothing compared to the fluttering that’s moved from your stomach to every inch of your body, now pleasantly humming as if the universe had been set right. The only thing you have to worry about tipping over the edge is your own sanity as his lips seal your own in a clumsy, hurried pace, as if trying to make up for lost time, groaning into the action.
Your lungs burn for air by the time you finally pulled back, though even then he’s chasing after, stealing several more hungry kisses before forcing himself to retreat far enough to let you breathe.
The two of you stand dazed and panting, the world around you feeling distant and inconsequential. Your eyes caught on the thin strand of saliva trailing down his chin, and the sight alone sends your pulse stumbling again.
Beckman looks wrecked. A deep flush spreads across his face, coloring his cheeks and reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. The most color you’d seen on him that wasn’t earned beneath the sun. His breathing came unevenly, chest rising sharply beneath your grip on his shirt, still trying to recover. Seeing him like this only made the heat curling beneath your skin worse, tempted to see how much more disheveled you could get the composed man.
Moments ago the cold air had seeped straight through you, leaving you shivering despite your layers. Now you felt feverish, heat blazing through your veins so intensely it seemed impossible your body could contain it. Like one more look from him might be enough to make you spontaneously combust.
Beckman settles between your legs, tightly clamped around his hips, both trying to get as physically close as possible and keep the other from getting away. His hand sits heavy against your back pushing you flush against his chest and you wonder over the miracle it was that you had remained seemingly so apart for so long when it felt natural to be entangled like this.
“Fuck.” Beckman breathes out, placing another chaste kiss to your jaw, slowly trailing further down as he speaks between each one. While you were still greedily gulping air, he didn’t seem as concerned. It seemed he was intent on covering every inch of skin he could reach and even more as he pushed the collar of his coat you still wear aside, humming as his fingers moved the fabric. “I’ve waited so long to do that.”
His words have your legs tensing, feeling the way his lips curl against your skin. Your fingers thread through his hair at the base, pulling him back as he grunts in annoyance.
“If you think this makes up for how you reacted, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Please,” He laughs, dipping you back over the railing just enough to have you gripping him even tighter, stomach fluttering. “I intend to make up for it. But let's not pretend you weren’t walking around for months knowing.”
His fingers tighten a fraction on your waist. Enough to nearly bruise, though the thought isn’t completely unappealing.
“That’s different! You were-”
Beckman cuts you off before you can finish, pulled you back in once again. But this time you’re just a bit more prepared, fighting for control the best you can while also trying not to melt. If anyone were to try and sneak up on you now they would have no issue. Nothing short of a cannonball splitting the mast could break you apart now, gasping as Beckman’s teeth nip at your lip.
Well, that, and one other thing.
The first shout from below barely registers. The second was louder, followed by an entire chorus of cheering that finally shattered through the haze clouding your thoughts.
You jerked back, nearly toppled over the edge of the crow’s nest, catching yourself at the last second with a startled curse. Beckman only lets out a long, weary sigh before dropping his forehead against your shoulder, as though surrendering to fate.
Below, the entire crew had gathered on deck, all of them staring upward with far too much enthusiasm. Shanks was practically folded in half with laughter, clutching at his stomach while the others hand over pouches of coins, though you see Hongo pocketing a few himself.
“I told you!” he shouted triumphantly, pointing up at the two of you like he’d just won the greatest bet of his life.
Heat flooded your face so fast it bordered on painful, burning in an entirely new way than before. Meanwhile, Beckman simply looks down at the others with the exhausted expression of a man who absolutely should have seen this coming, yet had somehow convinced himself he might be spared the humiliation anyway.
“I’m going to kill them.” You growl, already turning as you reach for your slingshot, ready to notch a stone at the ringleader as you spit profanities of them being perverts and creeps amongst other insults.
Beckman, despite the situation, finds himself grinning. Because now he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking glances when you're not looking, or feeling as if he has to stick beside you every time you dock in fear someone else would try to woo you, though he doubts any would have been successful. Still, the thought of someone else touching you after that kiss made something possessive curl low in his chest.
You made it halfway down before the crew scattered in complete panic. Men bolted in every direction, scrambling for cover and retreating to the quarters below deck, slamming the door and bracing it before you could reach them.
Shanks, traitor that he was, only laughed harder. Even he wasn’t saved from your wrath, dodging a shoe thrown his way with frightening accuracy and speed.
You were preparing to leap the last few rungs when Beckman finally intervenes. With the ease of someone entirely unbothered he catches you around the waist and hauls you over his shoulder before your feet even hit the deck.
“Beckman!”
“You’ll survive.” he says calmly over your continued swearing, one large hand keeping you firmly in place as he carried you away. Shanks and Hongo watch in amusement, the only two left on deck, one smug and the other seemingly relieved.
At least the doctor’s talk with Beckman had gone better, much to his relief. The man was already so infatuated all he needed was a little push in the right direction. And to think Beckman thought you were going to reject him, and that its why you’d kept it a secret.
Ignoring both them and your continued threats of violence, Beckman heads toward the medical room instead, unable to hide the smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You had a lot of lost time to make up for, and he intended to show you exactly how he’d been feeling all these months.
A/N: thanks for this nice request Anon about either Beckman x reader x Rayleigh or Beckman x reader x Sir Crocodile. And since i already did Beck and Crocodile I decided to go with Beck and Ray this time sorry it got so long. I changed quite a few bites during editing so if anyone finds any mistakes please let me know
Word Count >8.000
Plot: you are working at Shakky's bar and have a "special" work relationship with her and Ray and when one day the Red Hair Pirates come by a certain First Mate catches your attention and who would say no to some fun with the Dark King and the First Mate of the Red Hair Pirates
Warnings: NSFW, fingering, oral (receiving and giving), use of toys (slightly), p in v, threesome/double penetration (front+back), teasing?, overstim, slight edging, spanking in the bonus part, MDNI ⚠️🔞
Characters: Beckman x FReader x Rayleigh, cameo by Shakky
The bell above the door of Shakky’s Rip-off Bar didn't chime for the Red-Hair Pirates, it seemed to groan under the sheer weight of the power rolling off the men entering.
In the main lounge, the party was already starting. Shanks’ laughter was booming and the clinking of mugs signaled a long, expensive night for the Red-Hair crew. But at the far end of the polished mahogany bar, in the "family" corner, the atmosphere was different.
You were mid-pour, the amber liquid swirling into a glass, when a warm, calloused hand settled firmly on your hip. You didn’t need to look up to know the scent of sandalwood and aged rum.
"Careful, darling," Rayleigh’s voice rumbled near your ear, his breath a puff of heat against your skin. "You’re pouring a bit heavy. Though, I suppose I’ve always liked how generous you are with your... spirits."
He leaned in closer, his silver hair brushing your temple as he reached around you to claim his glass. His other hand stayed on your hip, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive circle over the fabric of your clothes, a familiar touch that sent a practiced shiver straight to your knees. He knew exactly what he was doing, he had seen you come undone in the private quarters upstairs enough times to know your rhythm.
"Ray, leave the girl alone for five minutes so she can actually work," Shakky called out from the other end of the bar, though her smirk told a different story. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, her eyes shifting to the man standing just behind her husband. "Besides, we have a guest who’s been waiting for a drink. And he looks like a man with very specific tastes."
Rayleigh didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned slightly, keeping you tucked against his side as he looked at Benn Beckman.
The First Mate of the Red-Hair Pirates didn't look like the rest of his rowdy crew. He looked like a storm held in a bottle. He pulled a cigarette from his lips, his dark, hooded eyes traveling from Rayleigh’s hand on your hip, up your spine, finally settling on your face with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
"Specific is one word for it," Beckman said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate in your chest. He leaned his elbows on the counter, the scent of sea salt and expensive tobacco paired with a hearty cologne filling your senses. His presence was cutting through the familiar warmth Rayleigh provided with something sharper, cooler and undeniably predatory.
"I’ve heard stories about this bar," Beckman continued, his gaze never wavering from yours. "And the young lady working here."
Rayleigh chuckled, a low sound of pure amusement. He squeezed your hip, a silent acknowledgment of the challenge. "Careful, Beckman. She’s seen every trick in my book. You’ll have to do better than a compliment if you want to impress her."
Beckman’s lips quirked into the faintest, most dangerous smile you had ever seen. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from your chin, waiting for you to bridge the gap.
"I'm not interested in tricks, Rayleigh," Beckman murmured, his eyes darkening. "I’m interested in seeing if the legends about her are as true as the ones about you."
The air in the bar suddenly felt too thin. Between Rayleigh’s hand sliding from your hip to your thigh, bold and knowing, and Beckman’s heavy, calculating stare, your breath hitched. Especially knowing that Rayleigh could make you come undone right here if he wanted to while Beckman seemed like a man who had already figured you (and your needs) out.
Shakky’s sigh was the final permission. She didn't even look up as she wiped down the counter, waving a hand toward the beaded curtain that led to the private lounge. "Go on, then," she murmured, a smirk playing on her lips. "The boys are clearly going to be useless until they’ve had their fill. I’ll handle the rowdy ones."
Rayleigh’s fingers danced at your hairline, a silent encouragement. "Shall we show him how we spend our quiet nights, darling? Or should we let Mr. Beckman show us how a First Mate handles his business?" he purred into your ear.
You looked from Rayleigh’s crinkled, smiling eyes to Beckman’s hooded, intense gaze. Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat by the sheer weight of their collective focus. Rayleigh didn’t pull away, instead he stepped closer, his chest against your back now. He took the rum from your limp hand and set it on the bar, effectively dismissing your role as an employee. "She’s a creature of feeling, aren’t you, love?"
Beckman took a final drag of his cigarette and crushed it out in a nearby tray, never taking his eyes off you. "Good thing I'm a man who enjoys making a pretty lady feel everything," he rumbled and you felt a rush of heat run through you. He slowly and deliberately reached out, his fingers were cool as they brushed the stray hairs away from your neck, his touch a stark contrast to Rayleigh’s lingering heat. "The tension in your shoulders… it’s a crime."
"A crime we're happy to help solve," Rayleigh whispered against your ear. He leaned down, his silver beard tickling your skin just enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. He didn’t kiss you, not yet. He simply breathed against the sensitive hollow behind your ear. "Remember what I told you last time? About letting go? You trust me, don’t you?"
"I…" Your voice failed you, coming out as a faint, shaky breath. Oc course you trusted him but right now you were completely overwhelmed by their sheer presence and the power they seemed to hold over you.
"Look at me," Beckman said firmly. It wasn’t a shout, it was that low, steady tone that commanded attention, even within the rowdy crew of the Red Hair pirates. You obeyed, meeting those dark, intelligent and knowing eyes. "You’re safe here. But you’re also going to be completely ruined by the time the sun comes up. I think you should decide right now if you’re ready for that."
Rayleigh’s hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his palm broad and warm, pulling you back against him until you could feel the steady thrum of his heart against your spine. "She’s ready, Beckman. She’s been ready since you walked through that door."
"Is that so?" Beckman’s thumb traced the pulse point on your wrist, feeling the frantic, hummingbird beat of your heart. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then let’s stop talking. I’ve always preferred a more… hands-on approach to negotiations."
Shakky sighed again looking between the three of you. "How much longer are you going to stand here? If you don't leave now I'm going to take (Y/N) back there myself while you two can do the work here" she said taking a drag from her cigarette.
Rayleigh just chuckled before he finally steered you toward the back, his hand never leaving the small of your back, guiding you with a practiced ease. But it was the heavy tread of Beckman’s boots following close behind that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
As the door clicked shut, the muffled roar of the Red-Hair Pirates vanished, replaced by the sudden, deafening silence of a room occupied by two of the strongest presences on the sea.
Rayleigh moved first, claiming the velvet chaise longue and pulling you down between his legs before he even sat. He didn't wait, instead he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "You're shaking, darling," he vibrated against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, melodic amusement. "And we haven't even started."
"She’s overwhelmed, Rayleigh," Beckman’s voice cut through the haze. He didn't sit, he stood over both of you, shedding his heavy coat to reveal the broad shoulders and scarred arms of a man who had survived everything the Grand Line could throw at him. He looked down at your flushed form, trapped between Rayleigh’s knees and completely exposed to his gaze.
Beckman reached down, his large, calloused hand cupping your cheek and forcing you to look up at him. His thumb dragged across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the damp heat inside. "Rayleigh knows how to make you sing," Beckman murmured, his eyes scanning your face like he was mapping a new territory. "I can see it in the way you lean into him. You’re used to his touch. You’re comfortable." He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of tobacco and his cologne rolling off him. "But you aren't comfortable with me yet, are you? You don't know what I like. You don't know how I take what I want."
Rayleigh’s hands slid under your shirt, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your ribs, making you gasp into Beckman’s palm. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Rayleigh whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe. "Beckman just wants to see if you can handle two of the strongest first mates at the same time. I told him you were more than capable, and you know I'd never let anyone close to you who I wouldn't trust to treat you right."
Beckman’s eyes darkened at Rayleigh’s words, a silent challenge passing between the two men over your head. He didn't try to pull you away from Rayleigh. Instead, he dropped his hand to the buttons of his shirt, his gaze never leaving yours. While Rayleigh cupped your breasts, his calloused palms catching your weight just right, a sharp gasp escaped your lips, echoing in the quiet room.
"Show me," Beckman commanded, the word a low, vibrating rumble as he discarded of his shirt. "Show me exactly why the Dark King won't share you with anyone else besides his wife."
The sight of Beckman’s bare chest, a map of scars and hard-won muscle, was enough to make your head spin and your knees weak. The scars and that broad chest, combined with those strong arms was doing things to you. The fact that another fucking handsome and hot man was right behind you didn't help either. Beckman kept his eyes locked on you as if he could read your thoughts.
"So many layers," Beckman remarked, his voice dropping an octave. His large, steady hands reached for the top button of your shirt as Rayleigh’s own moved down from your breasts to your waist. Beckman didn’t fumble, his fingers moved with the same surgical precision he used to clean a rifle. "A bit formal for a private party, don’t you think?"
As the first button gave way, Rayleigh’s arms tightened around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply, a low groan vibrating through your skin. "She always did like to keep herself tucked away for the thrill of the game," Rayleigh chuckled, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck. "But she melts so beautifully once you get past the surface."
"I can see that," Beckman murmured as he flicked the next button open, his knuckles occasionally brushing the swell of your breasts. Each touch was light, almost testing, but the heat behind it was scorching. "You’re flushed. All the way down to your chest."
As the last button popped open he parted the fabric, exposing you to the cool air and their burning gazes. Rayleigh’s hands moved higher, his thumbs tracing the underside of your bra, while Beckman’s eyes never left yours.
"There she is," Rayleigh hummed against the pulse point of your neck, his thumbs slipping into your bra and flicking over your already stiff nipples with a rhythm that told you he knew exactly how much pressure it took to make your back arch. "Always so responsive for me."
But as you leaned back into Rayleigh’s chest, Beckman moved in. He stepped between your spread knees, his presence a towering wall of muscle that blocked out the rest of the room. He reached down, his hands sliding firmly up your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there to keep you grounded before letting one single finger trail over the damp fabric between your legs.
"You're already so slick, even with him just touching your top half," Beckman noted, his voice a low, analytical drawl that made your face flush crimson as his finger brushed over your clothed core. He wasn't just looking, he was mapping your reactions to see what would drive you insane. "I wonder... if I do this" he stopped and slid his hand higher his fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms and pulling them down just enough to expose you to the cool air and his scorching gaze "...does your heart rate skip like the reports say it should?" He smirked already knowing and seeing the answer as he looked at your dripping core.
"Look at you, so completely under our spell. You’re body can’t hide how much you like this sweetheart," Beckman said, his voice a soft command. He reached out, his rough palm cupping your cheek. "Doing so good, sweet little lady. Just keep breathing for me."
"It’s the way she feels so completely undone, being unraveled and worshipped while at the same time reminded that she’s exactly where she belongs," Rayleigh whispered, his hands covering your nipples, his warmth seeping through your skin. He squeezed gently, a firm, grounding pressure that made a soft whimper break from your lips.
"Is that so?" Beckman’s smirk was dangerous as he made quick work of the rest of your clothes. He stepped back for a brief second to admire you, his silhouette broad and intimidating in the dim light. "Then let’s make sure she doesn’t forget. Rayleigh, hold her steady."
"I’ve got her," Rayleigh promised, his voice thick with a sudden, raw hunger that discarded the Dark King persona for something much more primal. "I’ve always got her."
Beckman stepped back into your space, his hands finding the skin of your thighs, sliding upward with a slow, agonizing deliberateness. "Good. Because I want to see exactly how long it takes for that composure of yours to shatter completely."
The shift from undressing to preparing you for what was to come next, was handled with the kind of methodical intensity only two men of their experience could possess. They didn’t rush, no, they treated your body like a fine instrument they were tuning to a pitch only they could reach.
Rayleigh guided you back onto the chaise, his hands firm on your hips as he settled you against the cushions. He didn’t leave you, though, he hovered over you, his silver hair catching the low light as he trapped you with his weight. Meanwhile, Beckman knelt at the foot of the lounge, his presence a heavy, grounding anchor.
Beckman took your left leg into his and then leaned down and began trailing kisses from your ankles up to your thighs. "Rayleigh," Beckman said his voice low as he reached out, his large hands sliding up the insides of your thighs stopping there, forcing them wide. "She’s already shaking. Look at her."
"Of course she is, she’s a needy little thing," Rayleigh murmured amused. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of high-end rum and his pure, unadulterated silver-fox charm. It wasn’t a frantic kiss, no Rayleigh never did that. His kisses were always deep, slow and possessive, claiming your breath as his own. His tongue was sweeping against yours and you immediately responded by letting your own move against his.
While Rayleigh occupied your senses above, Beckman’s focus was entirely below. He didn’t look away as his fingers found the center of your heat. "So wet, sweetheart," he noted, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the way you were falling apart under his touch. "But we’re going to make sure you’re more than ready. I don’t like to see my ladies struggle…..unless it’s for the right reasons."
He slid one finger inside, testing the tight, pulsing honey of you. You arched off the velvet, a sharp gasp breaking through the seal of Rayleigh’s lips, your hips already grinding towards Beckman.
"Patience," Rayleigh whispered against your skin, his hand moving to grip your wrists, pinning them gently above your head. "Beckman is going to do the first part of the warm up. We want to make sure you can take every bit of us."
Beckman added a second finger, stretching you with a slow, rhythmic deliberation that made your head light. He used his thumb to circle the bundle of nerves at your core, his movements steady and unrelenting. "Relax for me," he commanded, his dark eyes flicking up to watch the way your features contorted in pleasure. "Let go and open up. Trust us to take care of you."
You were caught in a vice of pleasure. Above, Rayleigh was a whirlwind of sensation, his mouth on your collarbone, his fingers expertly teasing your breasts until you were whimpering. Below, Beckman was a steady, relentless force. He began to work at your center with a clinical precision that was somehow more erotic than any frantic touch. He moved his fingers like a man who knew exactly how to make a lady feel good.
"Rayleigh, she’s trembling," Beckman murmured, his eyes locking onto yours as his fingers began a slow, rhythmic intrusion that made your hips jerk involuntarily.
"I know," Rayleigh chuckled, his hands squeezing your breasts and toying with your nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. "She’s a delicate thing, Beckman. But she can take a lot more than she lets on. Can’t you, sweetheart?"
"haa — ye—" you couldn't even form a real sentence. You were already on the edge, vibrating between Rayleigh’s teasing touch and Beckman’s intense, focused exploration. Every time you tried to focus on the pleasure Rayleigh was giving your nipples, Beckman would shift his pace, a low, knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he watched your pupils dilate.
They weren't competing, they were harmonizing, which was worse (or better). Rayleigh provided the foundation of pleasure you knew, while Beckman added layers of intensity you weren't prepared for, leaving you utterly undone in the space between the Dark King and the First Mate of the Red-Hair Pirates.
Rayleigh followed the trail of Beckman’s work, his hand sliding down to cover your stomach, pressing down slightly to help you meet Beckman’s rhythm. "That’s it… just like that," Rayleigh encouraged, his voice a warm hum in your ear. "See how well he takes care of you? He’s making space for both of us, darling."
The sensation was overwhelming, the friction of Beckman’s calloused fingers stretching you open, coupled with Rayleigh’s mouth wandering down to your throat, to your nipples licking and sucking there, marking you as theirs was driving you insane. You were being unraveled, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the raw, aching need they were so carefully cultivating.
"She’s close, Rayleigh," Beckman grunted, his pace quickening just enough to make your hips stutter. He curled his fingers, finding the exact spot that made your toes curl into the velvet and letting a loud moan escape your lips. "She’s perfectly ready."
Rayleigh pulled back, his eyes dark with a hunger that promised no mercy. "Then I think it’s time we stopped being quite so… patient."
You were lost in heaven. They were driving you to the edge and within seconds Beckman's fingers pumping inside you hitting that sweet spot over and over while Rayleigh bit and licked your nipples just right made you cum for the first, but definitely not the last time.
The world was a blur of silver hair and dark eyes as you were carried to the bed in the next room, your back hitting the cool familiar silk of the sheets. The air in the room was stifling, saturated with the scent of your own orgasm and the heavy, masculine musk of the two men orchestrating your undoing and it was intoxicating. Rayleigh moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew your limits better than you did, opening the drawer of the nightstand. You knew exactly what was in there, knew every little vicious toy that Rayleigh and Shakky used on you during your nights together.
"You know the rule, sweetheart," Rayleigh murmured, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous sort of affection. "I never start the main event until I’m sure you’re well and prepared enough and since Beckman is our guest tonight, I think we should let him choose. What do you think, darling?" Rayleigh asked with a smirk and you simply nodded, a bit nervous and curious but at the same time eager for them to continue.
Rayleigh, took the nipple clamps then looked at Beckman and stepped aside letting Beckman pick a toy, while he lay down next to you tracing a finger over your skin. Your chest was still heaving and your skin flushed a deep rose from that first, explosive peak, Beckman’s gaze drifted to the nightstand. His eyes narrowed slightly, then a slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, his long fingers trailing over the various toys, glass, silicone and polished wood in all sizes and forms that lived there for your nights with the Dark King and his wife.
"Well, now," Beckman murmured, his voice like gravel over velvet. "It seems I’ve been underestimating just how much 'training' you’ve had with Rayleigh and Shakky."
Rayleigh laughed, a low, rumbling sound as he propped himself up on one elbow, his hand sliding down to rest possessively over your stomach. "Shakky and I believe in variety, Beckman. Though, I think she’d agree that we haven't found anything yet that she enjoys quite as much as the real thing."
Beckman picked up one of the toys, weighing it in his hand before putting it back down for now. He crawled onto the bed, looming over your legs like a predator. "The real thing is good," Beckman agreed, his voice dropping an octave as he moved back into your personal space. "But I’ve always been a fan of using every resource to achieve the desired result. And the result I’m looking for..." He paused, his hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, his thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already thrumming from Rayleigh tracing his fingers over your stomach down to your hips and back up again. "...is to see exactly how many times we can make you lose your mind before the sun comes up."
Rayleigh moved behind you, pulling your back against his chest so you were sitting up slightly, supported by his strength. He reached around to cup your chin, forcing you to look at Beckman. "He’s a perfectionist, darling," Rayleigh whispered against your ear, his breath hitching as he felt your body react to Beckman’s touch while Rayleigh's free hand put the first clamp down on your nipple making you hiss. "He won't stop until he’s mapped out every inch of you. And I? I’m just here to make sure you’re well-taken care of while he does it." Rayleigh kissed you softly and then tilted your chin back to make you look at him as he attached the second clamp, both connected through a small band that Rayleigh teasingly kept pulling at.
Beckman didn't wait, especially not since your hips arched toward him. He moved with the precision of a man who had spent his life calculating trajectories, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh while his hands moved to coordinate with Rayleigh’s.
You were trapped in a masterclass of pleasure. Rayleigh provided the rhythm and the safety, his hands and mouth wandering your upper body, pulling the string connecting the clamps like a harp player and he did it with a lover's familiarity, while Beckman provided the raw, focused intensity of a man who had finally found a puzzle worth solving. And he decided it was more fun to bully your pussy with his tongue, occasionally biting your clit softly not hurting you but making it stinging and your hips jolt.
You were moaning and gasping as Beckman’s tongue was relentlessly driving you to an orgasm and Rayleigh kissed you deeply while toying with your nipples. When you got close though, so damn close, they stopped. The shift in the room was instantaneous. One moment, you were a chaotic mess of sensation already giving in to the orgasm building up and the next, there was a void.
Beckman withdrew just enough to leave you feeling hollow and Rayleigh pulled his hands and lips back just an inch, his silver beard grazing your skin as he wore a look of mock-innocence. The sudden absence of friction made your breath hitch in a pathetic, high-pitched whine.
"Now, now," Rayleigh murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of your areola and tugging at the clamp, keeping the fire simmering but refusing to let it catch. "Where are your manners? We’ve been such attentive guests, haven't we, Beckman?"
"Remarkably attentive," Beckman agreed, perched between your legs, looking down at you with a gaze that was cool, dark and utterly dominant. He didn't look affected by the heat of the moment, he looked like a king waiting for a tribute. "But I think she’s forgotten who’s in charge of her pleasure tonight."
Your face was on fire, your vision swimming with need. Your hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, trying to find the friction that had been so cruelly stolen. You looked at Rayleigh, pleading, but he only gave you a wink, the same look he gave you when he and Shakky were about to push you to your limits.
"Please," you whispered, the word breaking in the middle. "Please... Ray, Beckman... I need... please."
"Please what, sweetheart?" Beckman asked, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He reached over to the nightstand, his fingers wrapping around a small, sleek glass toy that shimmered in the low light, holding it up enough for you to see. "Ask us nicely. Tell us exactly what you want us to do to this beautiful, trembling body."
You swallowed hard, your pride dissolving into the sheets. "Please... use it. Please, Beckman... put the toy in me and... Ray, please don't stop. I want you both to push me over the edge. Please."
Beckman’s smirk was sharp enough to cut steel. "Good girl."
He didn't waste another second. While Rayleigh surged back forward to capture your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss and tormenting your nipples in the best way possible, Beckman’s hand guided the cool glass toy to your center, spreading your labia carefully and then tracing the toy along the newly exposed skin. The contrast of the chilled glass against your oversensitive, burning heat made your entire body lock up for a split second before the first vibration hummed through the device.
Rayleigh’s hands slid under your hips, lifting you to meet Beckman’s renewed, relentless pace. With the toy buzzing against your entrance hitting your walls and Beckman’s heavy, rhythmic deep-circles he drew with his thumb on your clit, the world didn't just blur, it shattered.
"That's it," Rayleigh groaned into your ear, his calm gentlemanly persona finally slipping into something raw and hungry as he felt your internal muscles clench around Beckman. "Take it all. Show him how well we taught you to cum."
You were a symphony of undone hitches and broken cries, caught between the veteran who knew your soul and the strategist who had just conquered your body. Your body was on fire and you were a mess of moans, gasps and curses.
"Fuck — haaa – shit – I’m gonna – hnng – cum" you cursed and moaned as you came hard crying out and arching off the bed as good as you could. You felt the rush run through your veins and as if you were losing your breath (and maybe mind too).
Rayleigh carefully removed the clamps and kissed each nipple almost lovingly while Beckman finally withdrew the toy to reveal how slick and prepared you truly were, smirking as he looked from the toy down at your spent and beautiful form.
"Are you ready for more, darling? Or do you need a moment before we let Beckman have his gift while I make sure you’re nice and stretched for both of us?" Rayleigh asked genuinely, in the way a lover would. Because after all Rayleigh didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or hurting at any moment.
“I’m f-fine. We can c-continue” you breathed before you shifted and got on all fours, waiting, offering yourself, like you usually did when it was you, Ray and Shakky.
That was all Rayeigh needed from you. He moved behind you and adjusted his grip on your hips, tilting you upward. With a slow, merciless pressure, he began to tease your entrance with his cock, leaving you whining and whimpering for more. He traced the tip through your slickness and every now and then pushed slightly into you before pulling back out again.
"A gentleman is savoring such moments, not rushing them, darling" he chuckled deeply at your whimpers, making you groan, hating when he did that. "Besides I need you focused on Beckman first, it'd be rude to ignore our guest don't you agree?" He teased as he looked at Beckman and nodded with his head towards the headboard.
Beckman, who had been watching with a dangerous and hungry smile, moved like a shadow. He settled himself on the bed, his broad back against the headboard, and guided your head toward him. "A gift, he says," Beckman grunted, a rough, appreciative sound as he unfastened his trousers. "I’ve always admired your hospitality, Rayleigh."
As Rayleigh finally stopped tormenting you and pushed inside you, mimicking a deep, relentless pace that stretched you to your absolute limit, Beckman’s hands tangled in your hair tilting your head till it was eye level with his hard member. He didn’t force you, he didn’t need to, he simply guided you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. You stared at his length, heavy and big. Your mouth watered and you were already in a daze from Rayleigh working your pussy.
You opened your mouth carefully taking the tip inside at first, tasting the precum. Then you took in more, slowly like Rayleigh had taught you, adjusting to him. Thanks to Rayleigh who had put you through some deep throat training you had less trouble than you feared. Their cocks seemed to be of similar size which was in fact really helpful right now but at the same time making this even more thrilling and hot.
The world narrowed down to two distinct, overwhelming sensations. Below, Rayleigh was systematic. He used his cock like a weapon, finding every internal curve that made you moan while one of his hands splayed across your lower abdomen to feel the way your muscles spasmed around the intrusion and occasionally flicking your clit the way he knew was making you feral.
"Look at how she takes it, Beckman," Rayleigh praised, his voice low and vibrating against your thigh. "Stretching so wide for us. She’s almost there."
Above, Beckman was a different kind of storm. As you started to bop your head he let out a long, shuddering breath, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair. His dark eyes watching the way your throat worked with a look of pure, predatory satisfaction. He moved his hips with a slow, grinding rhythm that forced you to focus on the taste of him, the salt and the smoke, even as Rayleigh pushed you toward a screaming peak.
"Good girl," Beckman rasped, his eyes hooded as he looked down at you. The calm gentleman was fraying at the edges, his breath hitching as your tongue worked against him. "Take it all. Show me what Rayleigh taught you."
Between Rayleigh's cock inside you hitting your G-spot perfectly and the filling presence of Beckman hitting the back of your throat, you were being stretched thin, your mind fraying, tears of overstimulation falling down your cheek. Rayleigh increased the tempo, his thrusts becoming shorter and sharper, hitting the sensitive entrance of your womb until your vision sparked.
"She’s close," Rayleigh warned, moving his thumb over your clit in a steady, maddening pulse that synced perfectly with the vibrations of Beckman deep in your throat.
The friction was absolute. Beckman groaned, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate against your tongue as he felt the tremors of your impending climax beginning to ripple through you. Rayleigh felt it too, his pace quickening, his Haki flaring just enough to make every nerve ending in your body feel like it was glowing.
Your body buckled and a scream tore through you that was muffled by Beckman’s cock in your mouth, the vibration making him grunt lowly. You were trapped, pinned by Rayleigh’s weight, filled by his cock and silenced by Beckman’s length. You didn't just cum, you shattered. The world turned into a kaleidoscope of stars as you reached a peak so violent it left you sobbing into Beckman’s skin. You felt yourself clench down so hard on Rayleigh that he followed you shortly after filling you up, not letting go of you until every muscle in your body had stopped twitching.
"There she goes," Rayleigh muffled against your lower back, his voice thick with triumph. "Give it all to us, darling."
The tension in the room didn’t break with your climax, it only thickened, turning heavy. Beckman wasn’t finished with his 'gift' and Rayleigh, ever the attentive host, wasn’t about to let your nerve endings rest for even a second nor his guest left unfinished.
"Don’t drift off yet, darling," Rayleigh murmured, his voice a low, grounding hum as he pulled out of you. "Beckman isn’t quite finished with you."
Above you, Beckman’s breath had turned into a series of jagged, controlled growls. His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his gripmfirm but not painful. His hips started a final, heavy press. He was a man who took what he wanted with a silent, devastating efficiency. You felt the shift in him, the way his muscles corded, the sudden heat of his skin.
"That’s it," Beckman rasped, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. With one final, deep surge, he filled your mouth completely, his body shuddering as he claimed his release.
You choked back a whimper, your eyes watering, but Rayleigh’s hand moved to the back of your thigh, softly tickling you to keep you present and at the same time soothe you. "Take it darling," Rayleigh encouraged softly. After a long, silent moment, Beckman slowly pulled back, but only enough to look down at you. His thumb hooked into the corner of your mouth, prying your lips open.
"Show me, pretty lady" he commanded. It wasn’t a request, it was an order from a man used to being obeyed across the Grand Line, yet it didn't sound like one. You obeyed, revealing the evidence of his climax pooling on your tongue. Beckman’s gaze was dark and clearly satisfied. "Good. Now swallow every drop. I don’t want you to waste a single drop I've so kindly given you."
You swallowed, the salt and heat of him sliding down your throat, making you feel marked from the inside out. Beckman let out a slow, appreciative breath, his hand softening as he stroked your cheek. "Well done sweetheart" he breathed
Rayleigh chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their light ticklish movements up and down the back of your thighs, before leaning down to kiss along your spine making you shiver. "She’s a treasure Beckman and I think that she’s ready for the main course"
You exhaled deeply, yourbody collapsed forqrd o to the sheets, feeling like it was on fire but still tingling for more because this was completely different from the times you had spent with Rayleigh and Shakky. Where Shakky had that female finesse these two had the experience of unraveling enough women during their young years, Beckman probably still having enough women knocking on his door for a good time, to make you never want to leave this room.
You looked over your shoulder and smiled faintly. A wordless confession that you were ready, that you wanted them to take you, to claim you, to finally mark you as theirs once and for all. Rayleigh smiled back at you and kissed you deeply, a kiss that wasn’t just lust or need but of trust, love and care. Beckman watched you both and he leaned down too, kissing your cheek softly. "You are indeed very special, sweetheart." he whispered gently.
Rayleigh and Beckman exchanged a wordless look, words were unnecessary anyways before the transition from 'warm-up' to the main event started and it was a masterclass in slow, delicious torment. These were not men who fumbled or rushed, they moved with the terrifyingly smooth coordination of two predators who had cornered something precious.
Rayleigh settled between your legs again, his large, warm hands parting you with a reverence that felt almost holy. He didn’t enter you immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his silver hair brushing your skin as he whispered against your shoulder. "I know that shiver, darling. I know exactly where you’re aching and me and Beckman are going to make sure you feel like the most precious thing in the world."
True to his word, he entered you with a single, agonizingly slow thrust. It wasn’t just a physical act, it was a reclamation. He hit that specific spot he had discovered during your nights with him and Shakky and stayed there, grinding his hips in a slow circle that made your vision white out.
Beckman moved behind you, his massive frame bracketing you. He didn’t just watch, he conquered. His large, calloused hands roamed over every inch of your skin, kneading your breasts, tracing the line of your ribs, and finally finding your mouth again this time though it was his thumb that pushed past your lips, making you suck on it as Rayleigh drove deeper.
"You’re over-sensitive here," Beckman observed, his voice a low vibration against your ear as his other hand found the sensitive skin on your sides, squeezing just enough to make your hips buck and let out a few squeaks. "And your pulse… it’s screaming for more, isn’t it?" He added, more as a matter of fact, as his tongue swept over your neck.
"W-want m-more" you muffled against his thumb, making both men smirk.
"In that case who would we be to deny you such a request," Beckman growled as Rayleigh picked up his pace and Beckman began to trail biting kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your shoulder blades until you were sobbing from the overstimulation from both of them.
The dual assault was relentless. They left no part of you spared. If Rayleigh wasn’t kissing you, Beckman was. If Beckman’s hands weren’t mapping your curves, Rayleigh’s were. You were caught between the two legends and they were showing you exactly why their names were whispered in awe across the Grand Line.
The atmosphere in the room reached a fever pitch, the air so thick with the scent of sex and salt that it felt like a physical weight. Rayleigh’s rhythm was a steady, deep-seated thunder, but it was the silent understanding between the two men that truly signaled your total unraveling.
Beckman moved with a quiet, devastating intent. He didn’t ask, he simply took. His large, calloused hand slid beneath your hip, tilting you upward to expose the delicate, untouched heat of your back entrance. He spent a few agonizing moments stretching you with his thumb, a deliberate, methodical preparation that had you sobbing into the crook of Rayleigh’s neck.
"You’re doing so well, sweetheart," Rayleigh whispered, his voice a gravelly caress to calm you down. He leaned up, capturing your mouth in a deep, tongue-tangled French kiss that tasted of hunger and victory, muffling your cries and distracting you from the stretch as Beckman finally pushed himself inside your ass.
The sensation of being filled by both legends was beyond anything the human mind could categorize. It was a complete invasion, a total occupation of your body. Your back arched, your fingers digging into Rayleigh’s back as you were caught between the Dark King’s relentless, thrusts into your pussy and Beckman’s steady, unforgiving power from behind.
To them, your screams weren’t just noise, they were music, a symphony of their combined mastery. Of your surrender and at the same time of their care and need for you. They worked you like a finely tuned instrument. Beckman’s hands were everywhere, kneading your breasts with a firm, possessive grip while his thumbs caught your nipples, pinching and rolling them until you were seeing stars. Rayleigh, meanwhile, focused on your neck and collarbone, his teeth grazing and biting, leaving dark marks that would serve as a map of this night for days to come.
"Look at her," Beckman rasped, his voice vibrating through your spine as he pushed deeper. "She’s vibrating. I think she’s reached her limit, Rayleigh."
"Not quite," Rayleigh chuckled, a dark, predatory glint in his silver eyes. "I know her better than that. She’s got one more break in her."
For the finale, Rayleigh decided to be mean. While they both kept up a punishing, synchronized pace that left you breathless and blind with pleasure, Rayleigh’s hand slid down between your bodies. He didn’t offer the soft, swirling caress from before. Instead, he pinned your clit between two fingers, applying a sharp, vibrating pressure that was pure torture. He toyed with you, stopping just as the wave hit, then doubling the intensity the moment you tried to catch your breath.
"Please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the cushions. "Ray, please!"
"Please what, darling?" he murmured, his thumb clicking against your sensitive core with a ruthless rhythm. "You want me to stop? Or do you want to show Mr. Beckman exactly how loud you can scream when you finally break?"
"C-cum — haaa — want to c-cum" you screamed though the words were a stutter.
The combination of the double penetration and Rayleigh’s merciless attention to your clit was the final blow. Your body locked, your internal muscles clenching around both men in a desperate, rhythmic spasm. You screamed, a raw, high-pitched sound of total surrender, as your world shattered into a thousand jagged pieces of light.
They followed you shortly after, two titans of the Grand Line pouring their strength into you, claiming every inch of your spirit and flesh as their own. As the room finally fell into a heavy, ringing silence, you were left trembling and utterly spent, a beautiful, broken masterpiece held between the two men who had just rewritten the meaning of gentleman.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of three ragged breaths syncing up in the dim light of the room. You lay there, breathless, your skin flushed and slick. The world was still spinning and your mind was a hazy fog of pleasure.
Bonus:
Rayleigh withdrew slowly, the absence of his heat making the air feel suddenly sharp. He sat back, running a hand through his silver hair, while Beckman remained looming behind you, a dark, silent shadow of satisfaction.
The Dark King watched you for a long moment, waiting. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes struggled to focus. But as the seconds ticked by and you remained silent, drifting in the afterglow, his expression shifted from soft affection to something a bit more… instructional.
"Beckman," Rayleigh said softly, his voice regaining that calm, gentlemanly authority. "I think our girl has forgotten her manners in all the excitement."
Beckman’s hand, which had been idly tracing the curve of your hip, stilled. "Is that so? I’d hate to think she’s ungrateful after we went to such lengths to make her comfortable."
You blinked, the fog in your brain clearing just enough to realize your mistake. Your heart, which had just begun to slow, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. Rayleigh and Shakky had a very specific rule after sex - gratitude was a requirement, not a suggestion.
"I… I’m sorry," you breathed, your voice barely a rasp. "I—"
"A sorry isn’t a ‚thank you‘, young lady," Rayleigh interrupted gently. He leaned over you, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He looked disappointed, which was far more terrifying than if he had been angry. "And a late thank you… well, that requires a reminder. Wouldn’t you agree, Beckman?"
"Absolutely," Beckman grunted. He reached out and gripped your waist, flipping you over onto your stomach with effortless strength. The sudden shift made your head swim. "If she’s too tired to speak, maybe we should find another way for her to show her appreciation."
Rayleigh reached for a crop near the nightstand. He didn’t look like a monster, he looked like a teacher about to deliver a necessary lesson.
"Since you’ve lost your voice, we’ll give you something else to focus on," Rayleigh murmured. "Ten for the house, and ten for our guest. And you’ll count every single one, won’t you? To show us you’re paying attention."
Beckman leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Start counting, darling. And make sure we can hear you. We wouldn’t want to have to start over."
The air in the room grew clinical, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. Rayleigh stood over you, the crop held loosely in his hand, while Beckman’s heavy weight shifted. The Dark King didn’t look angry, he looked focused, his silver hair catching the amber light as he prepared to deliver the 'house’s' portion of the lesson.
"Ready, darling?" Rayleigh asked softly and younjust exhaled deeply.
The first snap of the crop against your ass was sharp and stinging, a sudden shock to your over-sensitized skin but you'd be lying if you said it was unpleasant.
"One," you gasped out, your fingers clutching at the sheets.
"Louder," Rayleigh prompted, his tone as calm as if he were ordering a drink.
Snap. "Two!"
He worked his way through the count with a rhythmic, steady hand, each strike a hot brand that pulled a sharp cry and a number from your lips. By the time he reached "Ten" your skin was tingling with a fierce heat, and your breath was coming in ragged gasps.
"Good girl," Rayleigh murmured, dropping the belt and leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. "That’s for the house. Now, Beckman… it’s your turn to collect."
Beckman didn’t reach for the crop. He let out a low, thoughtful hum that vibrated through your thighs. "The rare is a bit impersonal for a first meeting, don’t you think, Rayleigh?"
Before you could process his words, Beckman’s strong hands gripped your hips and hauled you backward. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you over him, positioning your aching, swollen core directly over his face. You were suspended there, pinned by his strength, looking down at the legendary First Mate.
"I think ten of my own style will stick in her memory much better," Beckman rasped.
The first lick was a revelation his tongue was broad, hot and rough like sandpaper. He didn’t just taste you he used his tongue to deliver a forceful, agonizingly slow stroke from your bottom to your clit.
"One," you wailed, your back arching.
"Sorry sweetheart but I didn’t quite hear you," Beckman teased against your wet skin, his breath sending a shiver through you.
Then came the suction. He caught your clit between his lips and gave a sharp, demanding pull and your world tilted. "Two!" you screamed, your hands flying back to find purchase on his shoulders.
He proceeded with a torturous deliberation. Each lick was a deep, punishing slide of his tongue that felt like it was trying to map your soul, followed by a suck that felt like he was trying to draw the very life out of you.
"Five… Six…" you moaned, almost obscenely, your voice breaking, your body unable to stay calm and your chest heaving unevenly.
Every time you tried to close your legs or pull away, Rayleigh was there, his large hands on your knees, holding you wide and open for the guest’s inspection. Rayleigh watched with a scholar’s interest, his thumb occasionally stroking your cheek as you fell apart.
"Seven… Eight…"
By the ninth, your body was on fire. Beckman’s tongue was unrelenting, flicking with a precision that drove you toward a peak you didn’t think you could survive, after everything that had happened before.
"Nine! Fuck!"
"Last one, sweetheart," Beckman whispered. He didn’t just lick you, he buried his face against you, his tongue pushing inside while he sucked with a ferocity that finally broke the dam.
"TEN! TEN! TEN! OH FUCKING HELL"
You collapsed against his chest, your body a shattered mess of tremors. Beckman’s punishment had been far more effective than any spanking could have been. You were entirely spent, your mind a blank slate where only their names were written.
Beckman chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that rumbled against your chest. He looked up at Rayleigh, a dark smirk on his face. "I think she’s learned her manners now."
Rayleigh smiled, leaning down to brush a stray, tear-soaked hair from your face. "I think you’re right. Now, let’s get her cleaned up. We wouldn’t want Shakky to think we didn’t take proper care of her. She can get really angry when the young lady isn’t treated right afterwards."
The shift in the room was instantaneous. The heavy, oppressive weight of the 'lesson' evaporated, replaced by the soft, expert care that defined both men when the storm had passed.
Rayleigh sat up, pulling your limp, sweaty body against his chest, while Beckman leaned over you, a fresh cigarette held unlit between his lips. He reached out, tracing the line of your collarbone where he had left a deep, purple mark earlier.
"Shakky’s going to have a lot to say about this tomorrow," Rayleigh chuckled, his voice raspy as he pressed a lingering, stinging bite into the curve of your shoulder, marking his territory right next to Beckman’s.
Beckman smirked, leaning down to press a final, firm kiss to the center of your forehead, his thumb smearing a bit of stray moisture from your cheek. "Let her talk," he murmured, his eyes lingering on the map of bruises and bite marks they had painted across your skin. "I think we left enough evidence to let her know she shouldn't have left us alone with her favorite girl."
You were tucked between them, a warm, marked prize of the Grand Line's greatest legends, drifting off to the scent of rum, tobacco, and the lingering heat of a night that had changed everything.
Taglist: @jintaka-hane @fleetadmiralsoffice @hakiofdreams @welcome-to-the-grandline @sailing-to-laugh-tale @legends-of-the-grandline @devilfruitdiaries @waannty @luna-the-moon-guardian @sweetsaltygingerbitch (once again I'm just reminding you that if you want me to stop tagging you please tell me or if someone wants to get added)
The music still pulsed in the distance—laughter, drums, the hum of voices—but the shoreline held a different rhythm. Softer. Slower. The kind of quiet that felt intentional.
Hibiscus walked ahead of it all.
Barefoot again, sandals left somewhere behind, the hem of her dress brushing against her legs as she stepped onto the sand. The tide rolled in gently, cool water kissing her toes before retreating like it knew better than to linger.
She exhaled.
For the first time that night, she was alone.
“…You’re not subtle.”
Her voice carried easily over the surf.
Behind her, Benn Beckman stepped out from the shadows of the path, hands in his pockets, expression calm but entirely unconcerned with being caught.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
She glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifting. “Of course you weren’t.”
He stopped a few paces away.
Not too close.
Never too close.
“You left,” he said.
“I needed air.”
“You had plenty of that in the square.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Not the same kind.”
Benn nodded slightly, understanding more than he let on.
The space between them settled into something familiar now—no longer awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Charged. A line neither of them had crossed.
Yet.
Hibiscus turned back toward the ocean, arms folding loosely as she watched the horizon disappear into darkness. Lantern light from the festival flickered behind her, catching in her hair, in the curve of her shoulders.
“You always follow people when they walk away?” she asked.
“Only the ones I don’t want to lose track of.”
The answer came too easily.
She stilled.
Then, slowly, she looked back at him.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” she murmured.
“I’ve said worse.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
A breeze moved through, lifting strands of her hair. One of the hibiscus flowers tucked behind her ear loosened—then slipped free, tumbling softly into the sand between them.
Neither spoke.
Benn noticed it first.
Of course he did.
He stepped forward, closing the distance just enough, and bent down—one knee pressing into the sand as he reached for the fallen flower.
Hibiscus watched him.
Really watched him.
There was something… disarming about it. About him, like this. Not standing tall and unreadable, not watching from a distance—but grounded, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the quiet focus in his expression.
His fingers brushed the petals carefully, like they were something worth preserving.
He stood again.
Closer now.
Closer than before.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then he held the flower out to her.
“You dropped this.”
Her gaze flicked from the flower… to his face.
“…I noticed.”
She didn’t take it immediately.
Instead, she stepped forward—just a fraction—and the air between them shifted, tightened, like something invisible had been pulled taut.
“You’re very attentive,” she said softly.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “Observation?”
His eyes darkened slightly. “No.”
That single word lingered.
Heavy.
Honest.
Her breath caught—not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Benn did.
Of course he did.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reached up—slowly, giving her every chance to pull away—and tucked the flower back behind her ear.
His fingers brushed her hair.
Her skin.
Warm.
Deliberate.
Not accidental.
Hibiscus went very still.
The world seemed to narrow—to the sound of the ocean, to the warmth of his hand near her face, to the way his gaze didn’t waver from hers.
“There,” he said quietly.
Her voice came out softer than she intended. “Thank you.”
He didn’t step back.
Neither did she.
The distance between them had disappeared somewhere along the way—close enough now that she could feel the heat of him, steady and grounding.
“Beckman,” she said, almost a warning.
He tilted his head slightly. “Hibiscus.”
That did something to her.
The way he said it—not teasing, not distant, but careful. Like it meant more than just a name.
“You shouldn’t—” she started.
“Shouldn’t what.”
Her lips parted.
Closed again.
“You don’t belong here,” she said instead, though it came out quieter than she meant.
His gaze sharpened. “And yet, I’m still here.”
“For now.”
“For as long as I choose.”
“And when you leave?”
There it was.
The question neither of them had asked.
Until now.
Benn studied her face—really studied it. The tension in her expression, the way her shoulders held just a little too tight, like she was bracing for something that hadn’t happened yet.
“I haven’t decided,” he said.
Her eyes searched his. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only honest one I’ve got.”
Silence stretched between them.
Not empty.
Full.
Too full.
The kind of silence that made everything feel louder—their breathing, the ocean, the space that no longer felt like space at all.
“You’re frustrating,” she muttered.
“I’ve been told.”
“You don’t think about consequences.”
“I think about them constantly.”
“Then why—” she stopped herself, exhaling sharply. “Why make this complicated?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because it already is.”
That landed.
She looked away first.
The ocean gave her something to focus on—something steady, something that didn’t look back.
“…You’re not staying,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
Benn watched her profile, the way the lantern light barely reached her now, leaving her half-shadowed, half-gold.
“No,” he admitted.
The word hung there.
Honest.
Unavoidable.
She nodded once.
Small.
Controlled.
“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” she said.
There was no anger in it.
That made it worse.
Benn stepped closer.
Close enough that if she turned, they’d be—
He stopped himself.
Barely.
“Who said I wouldn’t finish it,” he murmured.
Her breath caught again.
She turned then—slowly—and they were there.
No space left.
No distance.
Just heat and tension and something dangerously close to breaking.
“Careful,” she whispered.
“You said that before.”
“And you didn’t listen.”
“I’m listening now.”
“Then hear this,” she said, voice low, steady despite everything. “I don’t do temporary.”
His jaw tightened.
“Neither do I.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
And that—
That changed something.
They both felt it.
The line blurred.
The moment stretched.
And for one reckless second, it seemed like—
A voice carried faintly from the festival.
“HIBISCUS!”
The spell snapped.
She stepped back first.
Of course she did.
Her hand brushed her hair—checking the flower, grounding herself.
“…They’ll come looking,” she said.
“Let them.”
She shook her head, a small smile breaking through despite everything. “You don’t understand this island at all.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“Not tonight.”
She turned, taking a few steps back toward the path—then paused.
Looked at him one last time.
“Don’t follow me this time,” she said softly.
Benn didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched her go.
And for the first time since he’d arrived on Kalypso Isle—
He felt something dangerously unfamiliar.
Not exhaustion.
Not responsibility.
Not even tension.
But the quiet, undeniable realization that whatever this was—
It wasn’t simple.
And it wasn’t temporary.
The tide rolled in.
The flower stayed where it belonged.
And somewhere between the ocean and the lantern light—
