Hands Off, Gabriela! (Various One Piece Men x Fem!Reader)
Lolita's Note: okay, i can't stop writing headcanons. i really want to write a serious fic but like, I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS! 🤦🏻♀️ and i'm getting really antsy waiting for new episodes and chapters 😔 to keep myself from going insane i made these really short… im so sorry :'3
ー reader is a really feisty and protective one who doesn't like it when others get into her coop (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑also i can't stop listening to katseye??? hello? gabriela, gnarly and gameboy are bops. and the dances are soooo hot. baddies fr.
𓍯 cw: swearing, mild aggression, slight angst on crocodile's, alcoholism, hint of an open relationship on rayleigh's and just a really feisty reader (●｀ε´●)
Luffy
look, he's not really the type to have women fawning around him often because he moves around a lot and is everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
the only times you'll find yourself protecting him is when obnoxious pirates/rookie marines who aren't aware of his true power decide to disturb him while he's busy eating, partying or doing his usual luffy antics.
there was one time where a pirate decided to get handsy with him and offered him a spiked drink.
"hey. i know what you put in that drink." you were beside luffy watching the scene unfold, already glaring daggers into the pirate's eyes. luffy turns to you and is about to ask but when the pirate attempted to run, you immediately caught them and forced the drug infused cocktail down their throat.
he'll be like 😯 then 😁 and he's slapping your back laughing saying something like, "you got them good!"
whenever things like that happen again he chooses to sit back and watch with a huge, proud smile on his face.
Zoro
secretly loves it.
sometimes he lets women flirt with him just to see your reaction, but he never flirts back. he just looks at you and smiles to himself, enjoying the way you get so pissed off.
"why don't we take this somewhere private, handsome?" the lady caresses his arm. zoro doesn't really respond and just continues what he's doing, because he knows what's about to happen.
"zoro~" you say with a very taunting smile as you sat next to him, kissing his cheek while side eyeing the woman who took a chance on him as if to threaten tell her that "he's already taken."
the woman panics and excuses herself, and now it's his turn to face your anger.
you get into an argument when these things happen. things will get heated… and then… the rest is up to you ;)
Sanji
you don't mind it when he gets really clingy towards nami and robin and does the same things he would for you.
when you see him ogle at models in magazines, or heck, even cry about how he misses vivi, you could care less.
the thing that will really get you is when strangers blatantly flirt with him and try to insult you while you're around.
"i can't believe you with someone who's…"
she didn't get to finish the sentence bc you slapped her face so hard she almost collapsed.
sanji gets taken aback and considers helping the lady get up, then he realizes you're still there. he'll look at you with a mix of fear and adoration.
apologizes and makes it up to you by buying what you want/making your favorite food back at the ship.
this is why you never take him to a red light district ☝🏻🤓
Law
i'm sorry but this guy has no game. at all.
he's that one guy at a bar who stands in a corner (or is sitting at the counter) while everyone is dancing and partying, having a moment for himself.
gets really awkward around women so you indulge his reaction when someone finally flirts with him.
of course you don't let it get to a point where the lady can make any more advances. and law would rather leave than entertain her any further.
almost heaves a big sigh of relief and stops himself from saying "thank god!!" when you sit next to him.
"i'm sorry, he's already taken." you say with a threatening smile.
she immediately apologizes and leaves embarrassed.
you'll tease him about it for days. and he'll be speechless about it since, well, you're not wrong.
Kid
he has huge anger issues and women are actually scared of getting near him most of the time because he quite literally SNARLS at them.
"hah?!" "what the fuck do ya want?!" are what he often says to anyone disturbing him.
seriously, even you don't know how you fell in love and got in a relationship with him.
that said, it's not like there aren't any ladies who will shoot their shot.
not before you catch them at least.
"need something from him?" you ask coldly, looking over from kid's shoulder.
"well, i was just wondering if he's free for the taking." the lady bites back.
suffice to say, she didn't come home unscathed.
like zoro, kid finds it hot when you do that. he likes his girls hot and feisty ;)
Ace
ooooohhhhh giiiirllll… this man…
you already know how much he attracts attention from men and women alike.
it doesn't help that he carries the manners that makino taught him as a kid. women totally love how respectful he is.
however, he's usually oblivious about it. until you start practically shooing everyone who even dares to make a move on him.
when he realizes that, you're def gonna try to make each other jealous. like a contest on who caves in and goes to the other to finally stop this impromptu flirting shenanigans (you do. every single time).
"hey, who is she?" when he hears that tone in your voice, he freezes and thinks of a million ways to apologize to you. and you weren't even angry yet.
after that, the whole crew immediately noticed the tension between you two.
it will take a bit of cuddling and silly pick-up lines jokes for you to forgive him.
Sabo
here's another heartthrob incoming…
he's usually very polite about it, and unlike ace, he doesn't really entertain flirts because he already has you.
doesn't mean he hates it, though.
"care for a drink, pretty boy?"
"no thank you, i've got enough company for tonight." sabo grins, then he moves aside and gestures towards you, who already has an eyebrow raised and arms crossed over your chest.
lowkey has a thing for showing you off every time that happens.
Katakuri
you will never catch this man in a bar, or anywhere else outside the whole cake chateau (unless he's on a mission). plus, he values his merienda (way too much) and would rather use that time to eat sweets and drink tea with you.
Rosinante
who wouldn't fall for a silly, clumsy man like him?
one time, he tripped while walking on the street and it caused the bags of groceries to topple over.
"do you need help?" someone asked, with no intention of flirting…
he was about to thank them when he heard your footsteps
"i can do that for him, thanks!" you say, almost giving away that you're pissed.
poor stranger, they just wanted to help.
rosinante laughs it off and ruffles your hair, finding the whole situation unnecessary and your protectiveness, adorable.
Shanks
two words. good luck.
he revels in your reaction every time he gets hit on. he even goes as far as calling you over (much to the stranger's dismay and disbelief) just to tease you about how much of a slut hot he is to have people fawning over him like that.
it's a perfect way to rile you up, honestly. bonus points if you're both too drunk.
"what the hell do you think you're doing, woman?" you slur at the lady beside him, who's brazenly caressing his arm, slamming the mug of beer on the table.
"easy, sweetheart. she's not gonna hurt me." he tries to calm you.
everyone at the bar could swear you must've used conqueror's haki the second you glared at him. he got so taken aback.
but this was what he's looking forward to.
you chugged another mug of beer, gave him an earful (with the stranger forgotten), and he didn't sleep beside you that night.
makes it up to you in the morning with… whatever he can think of, if you know what i mean.
Beckman
he looooves making you sit/stand next to him, like a guard dog with watchful eyes.
like shanks, he adores seeing you be so protective over him.
he always notices when someone would try to flirt with him, and he always notices how your aura will just be so strong that you don't even give them a chance to walk and start a conversation with him.
you don't even need to speak a single word to let them know that he's yours.
"relax, i'm not going anywhere." he chuckles, hand on the small of your back.
Crocodile
being with him is already a power struggle in and of itself.
so when women flirt with him, you choose not to bother, even if you want to. it's not like what you have is something that's gonna end up in marriage…
you do, however, try to confront him behind closed doors.
it will blossom into an argument. and if you're someone who gets offended easily, you'll most likely end up receiving quite a bit of hurtful words from him.
he's gonna say things like "what you're doing is pathetic."
good luck thinking of witty comebacks to keep him on edge ;)
Mihawk
he is another katakuri. unless he's out making underground deals with the cross guild, he'd rather be alone or spend time with you.
you won't really need to be protective over him since he will reject them outright. no questions asked.
i mean, why would he entertain someone else when he already has you?
you'll be the one watching in amusement when those poor unsuspecting flirts are about to have an embarrassment to remember in their life.
Rayleigh
my prayers go out to you…
he's always out drinking and there's probably some occasional one-night stands, but it's never with the same people.
he has a habit of going MIA for months, but he will return and stay for a bit… only to do the same thing again 😭
on the VERY rare times you're out together, he won't really entertain anyone besides you.
it's very casual and endearing, and even if it's not obvious, people will definitely feel that you two are a power couple.
and no one will dare to mess with you both. especially you!
I've always found amusing and quite hot the idea of you having a secret relationship with your pirate blorbo (as secret as two lovers can be when banging inside the confines of a ship), and then, for whatever reason, one of you decides to "break" that secrecy bfore your crewmates.
Imagine you in the morning, all sore after an enthusiastic night and strategically adjusting your collar to hide the biting marks while you casually chat with your crewmates, mug in hand while everyone has breakfast. Then, your lover walks in, and instead of his usual waving to everybody and taking a seat nearby, he just walks straight to you, lowers the edge of your shirt to expose the marks on your shoulder, and kisses you sweetly on one of them.
"Good mornin' sweetheart" he nuzzles into your neck.
Your face goes red.
Your crewmates eyes go wide.
Someone accidentally dumps a spoonful of sugar on the table, while another makes their coffee overflow all over the counter. The head of someone bangs on an open cabinet door and all you can smell is burnt eggs sticking to a pan.
"Good morning, lads" he greets the rest of them, cool as ever.
Of course, depending on the blorbo, it could be HIM innocently having breakfast, and you unexpectedly kissing him and making his cheeks go up in flames (beautiful).
You’re in the kitchen with Nami. Soft conversation. Warm lighting. Laughing a little over booze.
“I mean, I don’t think he even realizes how much I watch him,” you say, smiling. “He’s always so focused. So serious.”
Nami raises a brow. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”
You nod. “I know.”
Then softer—like it slipped out:
“I love him.”
Around the corner—Zoro stops walking.
Completely.
Stares ahead like someone just threw a sword through his chest.
He backs up. Quiet. Leans against the wall.
Breathes. Once. Twice.
“…Shit.”
When you leave the kitchen later, he’s waiting outside.
Doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you to him, forehead resting on yours.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
You blink. “What?”
“I need to hear it. Straight from you.”
You soften into a smile. “I love you.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like finally—
then kisses you like he plans to hear it every day for the rest of his goddamn life.
SANJI
You’re helping Robin prep some herbs for dinner. Quiet. Peaceful.
“He’s such a flirt,” you say. “But he doesn’t realize how sincere he really is. He’s gentle. He listens. He remembers.”
Robin hums knowingly. “Sounds like you’re awfully smitten.”
You laugh, bashful. Then:
“I love him, Robin.”
Outside, just beyond the doorway—Sanji nearly drops the wine bottle he was carrying.
His heart is pounding like cannon fire.
He peeks in. Sees you smiling. Glowing. Talking about him.
He exhales slowly. Hand on his chest.
“Mon dieu…”
Later that night, when everyone’s winding down, he pulls you aside. Hands shaking just a little.
“Did you mean it?” he asks. “What you said... to Robin.”
You blink, cheeks already flushing. “Y-You heard that?”
He grabs your hand. Brings it to his lips.
“I felt it,” he murmurs. “And I’ve never wanted to hear something so badly in my life.”
When you say it again, against his lips, he doesn’t kiss you.
He hugs you first. So tightly you start squirming.
Then kisses you like you’re an oath he’s taken for life.
SMOKER
You’re talking to Tashigi. Voice soft. Steady.
“He’s not easy to be around,” you admit, a little smile on your lips. “But I’ve never felt safer. Or more seen. I don’t think he realizes how much that means to me.”
She smiles behind her glasses. “You care for him very deeply.”
You nod. “I do. I love him.”
Out in the hall, Smoker freezes.
He’d been walking past—cigars in mouth, usual scowl in place—
But now?
Everything stops.
He leans against the wall. Quiet. Processing.
You love him.
Him.
The man made of smoke and walls and muttered complaints.
Later, he walks into your room without knocking.
You look up, startled. “Smoker?”
He walks over. Pulls you into his chest. Doesn’t let go.
“Just… say it to my face next time, would you?”
You blink. “What?”
He exhales. “The thing. That you told Tashigi earlier.”
You freeze. Then soften into a smile.
“What? That I love you?”
He groans softly—like it hurts. Then leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That.”
A few silent moments settle around you both. You smile as his thumb traces your cheek, his eyes locked on your lips.
“You mean it?” he mutters.
You smile, rising on your tiptoes as you press your lips to his.
“You know I do.”
KUZAN
You’re sitting beside Borsalino. Talking quietly.
“He’s so complicated,” you say, swirling tea in your cup. “Acts so nonchalant, but he’s kind in ways no one sees. Soft when he doesn’t mean to be. And I love him for all of it.”
Kizaru just hums with a quiet smile, nodding like he already knew.
Around the corner—Kuzan stops breathing.
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Just… caught the tail end.
But that line. That line.
It lands like a knife made of flames right in his cold chest.
He backs away slowly. Hands in his pockets. Trying to play it cool.
Fails completely.
That night, he knocks softly on your door.
You open it, surprised. “Hey.”
He stands there, quiet. Watching you. Like he’s trying to memorize you again.
Then—softly:
“You love me?”
You blink, startled. A bit scared. “...Y-You heard that?”
“Didn’t mean to.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Just… couldn’t pretend I didn’t.”
You look down. Step closer. “Yeah. I do.”
He exhales. Deep. Shaky. Then pulls you in, arms wrapping around you like you’re the only safe place left on earth.
“…Good,” he says against your hair. “Makes us both idiots.”
KIDD
You’re sitting at the workbench with Killer. Talking low.
“He’s such an ass sometimes,” you mutter. “But he remembers the smallest things. He fixes stuff without asking. And when he’s soft—god he’s so stupidly soft.”
Killer doesn’t say a word, but he ruffles your hair.
You laugh. A little embarrassed.
Then—quiet. Almost shy:
“Killer, I love that idiot.”
Outside, around the corner, Kidd has completely stopped functioning.
He was mid-lecture at Heat—paused. Mid-word. Mid-rage.
“…Did you hear that?” he says, like someone just punched him in the chest.
Heat opens his mouth. Closes it. Quietly walks away.
Kidd leans against the wall. Breathes like he’s holding back an explosion.
Later, he finds you. Doesn’t say much. Just steps in close.
“You told Killer something earlier.”
You freeze. Flush. “D-Did I?! Haha, I don't remem—”
“—Don’t even try.”
He stands in your way. Eyes narrowed. Voice low.
“Instead, why don’t you say it to me this time.”
You fold under his intense glare. “I... I love you, okay?”
He grabs your face. Pulls you in.
“You better.”
And then kisses the lights out of you.
BECKMAN
You’re with Yasopp and Lucky Roo. Laughing over drinks.
“He’s so calm, it makes you forget how dangerous he is,” you say. “But that’s what I love about him. I feel safe. Like I can breathe around him.”
They raise their eyebrows. Yasopp pulls a teasing smile.
“Ohooo, that’s a big word. We hear that right?”
You nod. “Yeah. I love him, you guys.”
Down the hall—Beckman stops.
He was walking in. Coffee in hand. Chill as ever.
Now? His fingers curl around the mug.
You love him.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t walk in. Just stands there for a minute. Soaking it in. Processing.
Then walks away.
And comes back later—heart pounding.
Finds you alone.
“Hey,” he says casually. “Got a second?”
You nod. He steps close. Not too close.
“You said something earlier. To the guys.”
You blink. “Oh. You heard that?”
He nods. “Do me a big favor and say it again. Right now.”
You smile. “...I love you, Beck.”
He exhales. Soft. Grabs the back of your neck and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred.
“…Then I think it’s about time I start acting like I’m worthy of that.”
DOFLAMINGO
You’re sitting on a couch, talking quietly to Vergo. Voice low.
“He’s... lost in his own world sometimes,” you say with a fond smile. “But I think I see more than he wants people to. There’s softness under the madness. And I love him for both parts.”
Vergo smiles. Like he sees it too. “You told him yet?”
You shake your head. “He’d laugh. Or twist it into a cruel joke.”
Then softer—
“But I do. I love him. Both parts.”
“Heaven and demon.”
Around the corner, Doflamingo has gone absolutely still.
He was headed in to gloat about something stupid.
Now?
He’s frozen. Stuck in place.
You love him, huh? Both parts?
Not just the mask, not just the monster.
Him, the two parts that make up the whole.
Later, he walks in casually. Like nothing happened.
But his glasses are off.
“You love me, sweetheart?” he says flatly. Like he's trying to push something down, while opening it apart at the seams.
You nearly drop the glass in your hand. “Wait—what—”
He’s in front of you in two strides. Looks right through you.
“Say it. I want to hear you say it when you know I’m listening.”
You stare back, defiant. “I love you, Doffy.”
He exhales. Shaky. Covers his eyes. Like he hates what it does to him.
What you do to him.
“Stupider than I pegged you for...” he mutters.
Then lowers his hand. Grabs his glasses. Grins.
Small. Real. A little shaky.
“…Fine. I’m yours, then. You better be ready for that.”
LUCCI
You’re in the corner of a quiet hallway, talking to Kaku.
“I don’t think he even knows how much I care,” you whisper. “He’s so guarded. But I see it—the little things. The way he notices. The way he protects without ever admitting it.”
Kaku nods. “You sound in deep.”
You smile. “I am. I love him.”
Down the hall, Lucci stops moving.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just… listens.
You love him.
And you said it like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t impossible.
Like it was true, of all things.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t confront you.
Just turns. Walks away. Quiet.
Later, he shows up at your door. Doesn’t knock. Just opens it.
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)
Maybe Smoker, Benn, Law, or Ace dealing with super clumsy reader who always end up in an accident every week like steeping on glass or tripping
Guess who's finally back from being sick?! I'm still feeling a bit drained and getting my energy back so for a little while at least I'll be sticking to these head canon style posts until I can tackle longer scenarios/requests/stories.
Thank you for this suggestion. I love the concept and hopefully you like what I came up with. Sadly I didn't do something for Ace but if this gets suggested again I'll do another part with him 💕
Smoker
☁️ Your clumsiness baffles him completely. Out on missions you're laser-focussed, highly-skilled and one of the best but off-duty or when you're back on the base you're a walking catastrophe.
☁️Not a day goes by were he spots you sporting a new bruise or witnesses you displaying some form of your special brand of gracelessness that in spite of his better judgement he can't help but find endearing.
☁️Smoker, a man who has been in many fights and battles, will never bat an eye at that and meet it completely relaxed. But when he watches you walk down the hallway, catch your foot on nothing and stumble, he's physically tensing. As he watches you either catch yourself awkwardly or getting up off the floor with whoever you accidentally crashed into, Smoker lets out a long breath and reaches for another cigar while muttering you're going to be the death of him (and this is before you two got together.)
☁️When you both do become a couple Smoker is a lot more used to your accident-prone nature. It's all but second nature to him now to practically time when something could happen to you and now that you're more likely to be closer to him, he's able to act in time to prevent most of your mishaps.
☁️Now anytime you stumble, he's either the one you're going to crash into and he's able to catch you. Or he's able to send his plumes of smoke out quick enough to cushion your fall and pull you back towards him where it's safe. After those incidents occur, he's either got his hand on your shoulder or resting on the small of your back for the next couple hours, just in case.
☁️Smoker will always worry for you but only because of how clumsy you are when you don't have a mission or assignment to focus you but his worries grow when he has to leave you for the rare missions you aren't going with him or if he's been summoned to Head Quarters. Because past events have proven that you can and usually do injure yourself in some fashion even when you've been left unattended, Smoker warns the others on base to watch you like a hawk. Obviously it goes without saying that there will be hell to pay if he comes back and you've managed to get so much as a paper cut that he wasn't already aware of.
☁️He knows the others can't watch you all the time but when he is back and it's just the two of you, you can be sure he's lightly pressing a kiss to any new mark you got while also giving you a small, mostly lighthearted lecture on being more careful.
Benn
🚬Benn firmly believes that you were brought into his life because some higher power believed he was getting 'too relaxed' so here you were to keep him on his toes and you manage that every single day without even trying.
🚬Over the years he has seen you manage to achieve every possible way of getting yourself into what others would see as a practically impossible incident. He's seen you fall over nothing while completely sober, you've managed to walk into doorways you'd just seen someone else walk through, you've even managed to give yourself a black eye from falling out of the bed.
🚬The latter is why Benn always sleeps on his side with a strong arm wrapped around you preventing any chance of you falling or hurting yourself during the night. This plan does have some slight hiccups because on some very rare occasions you did manage to elbow Benn in the ribs or jaw by accident when you moved in your sleep. But still he doesn't listen to any apologies. Teasingly he just tells you he knew and accepted the risks when he fell in love with you.
🚬Despite knowing your clumsy nature Benn doesn't constantly hover around you, knowing you're strong and your little accidents are never truly life-threatening. Besides even when it appears as though he's doing something else he's always aware of where you are and what you're doing on the ship so he can act if the need arises.
🚬Benn's favourite instance of coming to your rescue was when you slipped and fell backwards off the gangway when you and the rest of the crew were in the middle of loading the ship with supplies. As soon as Benn heard the splash he knew it was you and was diving overboard without any hesitation. When you were both getting dried off in your shared quarters you asked if he was sick of your clumsiness yet. At that Benn could only laugh and press a kiss against your head. "How can I hate the very thing that brought us together in the first place? Or have you forgotten literally crashing into me when a Marine was chasing you?"
Law
🫀 Law was always certain that being a doctor was what he was meant to do with his life. Even with the power of his Devil Fruit making his profession (aside from piracy) so much easier, Law never allowed his skills to dull and poured all of his free time into his continued learning and honing of his skills. What he hadn't expected to assist in keeping his skills sharp and practiced was you.
🫀When Law had extended the offer for you to join his crew you'd initially hesitated, telling him that you didn't want to slow him down or be a liability because of your clumsiness. He'd dismissed your words and insisted he wouldn't have offered if he didn't genuinely wanting you on the crew. Finally you accepted but sighed. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
🫀Yes, you did warn Law and he quickly saw for himself just how clumsy you were. He couldn't explain how you managed to get into so many accidents but you did. It didn't matter how careful you were or how observant you were, these things just happened around you.
🫀Every time you had a bruise, a cut, or a sprain, whether from day-to-day activities or battles you fought Law would be there to patch you up and treat you and never without complaint. If anything he always had a fond look of nostalgia in his gaze.
🫀It wasn't until the two of you grew closer and your relationship became romantic that he finally opened up to you and told you about his past and about Cora that you understood that look properly.
🫀One night you'd accidentally knocked over your glass of water in the kitchen and stood on one of the thankfully smaller shards you had missed in your cleanup. Law already had his room activated the second he heard the glass smash and appeared, immediately setting you on the counter to begin to tend to your wound.
🫀"So who was a bigger danger to themself? Me or Cora?" You can't help but ask, watching Law let out a small laugh.
"It's not a competition but Cora was worse than you've ever been."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"I'm serious." Law smirked, "You've never accidentally set yourself on fire before."
When he wakes, Crocodile never puts effort into remembering his dreams. He has them, often more nightmare than dream, but he’s quick to forget them in pursuit of whatever his tasks for the day were. The day he wakes up after having a wet dream about you, he works hard to burn it into his memory, not wanting to forget even a moment of it, the sight of you and sound of your voice. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real, he refused to forget it.
When he continued with his morning into the shower, he was reluctant to touch himself, it was long since beneath him. He does it anyway, panting as he leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall, working himself hard and fast until he coats the wall in cum, barely avoiding moaning your name as he did it. In that moment, his plans for the day changed to centre around you. He was going to recreate that dream if it was the last thing he did.
Mihawk
Considering how little he sleeps, Mihawk has dreams incredibly rarely. He sleeps so lightly, unable to dream in that state. Mihawk also isn’t repressed by any measure, but he doesn’t often pursue physical intimacy as he has little need to do so, and very little interest in the people around him. So, that being said, if he were to have a wet dream about you he’d be incredibly surprised. It’s been many years since he’d had any sort of wet dream, which leaves him feeling like a foolish teenager again.
That doesn’t stop him taking his cock in hand to work it lazily, visions of you flitting over his eyelids. It isn’t often he does something like that, certainly not on the open ocean where anyone could see, but he didn’t even think twice as he pushed his trousers down to have proper access. He could still hear your voice in his mind, moaning his name.
Safe to say, he rushes home.
Buggy
His sheets are already damp when he wakes up, but he isn’t embarassed no - Buggy dreams of you often, and more than once he’d woken up to find he wasn’t just leaking but he’d already cum in his sleep. He took his cock in hand to hurriedly finish himself off, hips rutting wildly upward, already beyond desperate. It doesn’t take long for him to be cumming in his pants, not having bothered to pull them down to touch himself.
After cleaning up, Buggy sets on his way to find you. Calmer, less needy, but still eager to recreate what he saw with you for real. He’s sure you won’t refuse, after all, you never had before.
Shanks
It happens to Shanks for the first time when he’s napping on the beach of an island they’d docked at to restock. He only wakes up, very rudely interrupted just as he was about to watch you cum, because some of the guys are whistling at him. He doesn’t realise why at first, until the wind changes directions and he realises his pants are damp. He’s rock hard, a small wet patch where his tip was weeping just a little. He laughed along with the guys at his own expense, and headed back to the ship to change his pants.
Naturally, on his way there, he found you and hauled you over his shoulder to take you with him because no way was he going to head back to the ship hard and dripping without fucking you within an inch of your life. Then he could change his pants.
Beckman
If there’s anyone that absolutely owns it, it’s Beck. He wakes up and takes a moment to adjust to being awake again, blinking away the sleep in his eyes before he simply throws his legs over the side of the bed to get up and find you. He doesn’t waste time touching himself, or anything else, just finds the source of all his issues. Your moans still ring in his ears as he roams the ship, flashes of images of you in various places on his travels. He’s bent you over just about every surface on the ship in real life, as well as his dreams.
It doesn’t happen infrequently, Beck snatching you up while you’re in the middle of a task to have his filthy way with you, but after he’s had a wet dream about you he’s particularly rough. He’ll bend you over the first surface he can find that’s semi-private and pound you until he’s happy. Of course, he won’t neglect your needs - he’s a considerate lover.
Hongo
Unlike most of his crew, Hongo is more patient. He’ll let his desire subside, and get on with his day as intended. He has an important job as crew doctor after all. But, once the sun begins to set and he’s done for the day, Hongo starts his plan. He sets up everything he needs to recreate the dream he had, then spends dinner whispering it in your ear, just a little bit at a time. Driving you both wild, knowing what was coming once the meal was over. He spares no detail, uncaring of who overhears, though most crew members know better than to listen in on what he whispers to you by now.
Then, he does precisely as he promised, he takes you apart bit by bit, driving you both to ecstasy more than once, all in the name of making his dreams a reality. That’s the point of being a pirate, after all.
Benn Beckman x Reader
Length 12.5 K+
Rating: 18K+Warnings: Violence, Implied Sexual Coercion, Predatory behavior, Loss of bodily autonomy, Captivity, Psychological Manipulation, Stalking, Threats, Abuse of power, Fear, Suicidal Ideation/self-harm planning, Entrapment,
or @svalrost
Merry Christmas, you cool cats.
Next
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
The sea is a quiet place. Not quiet in the sense of silence, for even in the deepest trenches there is always something breathing, shifting, or singing its long, low note across the dark. There is the sigh of a current curling past your ribs, the rumble of distant stone, the bellow of creatures who never rise high enough to see the color of the sun.
Yet compared to the surface, compared to the wild cacophony humans insist on creating with every motion of their bodies, their ships, and their cities, the sea is nearly hushed.
It is the kind of quiet that invites thoughts or memories. Or, in your case, neither, because the ocean doesn’t encourage nostalgia in hunters. Most of your kind learned long ago to let the past dissolve into currents.
You only left the safety of the deep twice a year, when the coven rose together. The ascent was slow and ceremonial, a spiral of pale bodies drifting upward until the moonlight filtered down and painted your tail luminescent, mostly hidden in an old cove on a long-lost island.
The older sisters called it remembrance. They called it honoring what was left of a lineage that had once ruled every coastline with teeth and song. Now there were fewer of you each season, swimming in narrower circles, as if afraid the air above might swallow the last of your generation whole.
Your mother always spoke of the ‘old world’ with a hunger that bordered on longing. She used to say there had been thousands like you, gliding through the dark with hair that streamed behind them like drifting kelp and eyes bright enough to shame the lantern fish. She said you had been beautiful in the way a shark was beautiful. Sleek. Purposeful. Unquestionably lethal. You had been made to hunt, born with teeth so sharp they could shear through bone, and with enough grace that prey rarely understood what had touched them until their blood was already clouding the tide.
She reminded you of this often, as if she feared the world would convince you otherwise. As if she worried you might look at your reflection in the still pools and believe yourself harmless.
But she also said the surface had changed. Everything above the waterline had grown dangerous. Humans, once her favorite quarry, had learned to fight with weapons that sizzled and cracked beneath the waves. They no longer traveled alone. They no longer drifted close to the rocks in foolish ignorance. They had learned that the ocean held things more cunning than sea kings and far more vicious than fishfolk.
Your mother told stories of feasts that lasted until dawn, of sailors dragged screaming into the depths, of entire ships pulled under by nothing more than coordinated hunger. She always smiled when she talked about it, but the smile never touched her eyes.
For you weren’t a simpering creature of shallow coves and soft scales, some harmless mermaid with surface dreams. You were carved from generations of perfect design. You were meant to stalk the beasts who walked on legs, who breathed air, and believed themselves superior because they could not feel the pressure of the deep crushing their bones.
You were made to hunt humans, and your kind had done so with riotous success, until the day the prey learned the shape of your shadow. The ocean still remembered the shift. The currents still whispered about the moment humans stopped trembling at your silhouettes and began preparing their own teeth. It had changed everything.
So your people dove deep, to the bottom of the sea.
The only problem with living so deeply, burrowed in the dark cradle of the lower trenches, was that you could not properly sing. Your mother had told you once that your voice was a gift shaped by moonlight and open air. Down there, the water that you filtered through your gills softened every note before it ever reached the world. You could still produce sound, but it was not the sharp, commanding music your ancestors had woven into storms. It was a distant, distorted echo. Haunting, yes. Powerful, no longer.
Sometimes the sound still rose through the water in trembling waves, the kind of melody that made fish scatter and made octopi pulse with unease. On rare nights, it even reached a drifting sailor, nudging him just enough off course to peer into the gloom.
The others in your coven were far better at living without their song. They learned to stay low and quiet, drifting through ancient ruins on the ocean floor and clinging to forgotten currents. They found a new business where the old one had died. Some guarded sacred trenches. Some tended to undersea plants that glowed like watchful eyes. Some collected relics that fell from wrecks above, treating them as curiosities rather than reminders of lost triumph.
They mingled. They adapted. They accepted a life without song.
You, however, did not.
To sing that old music was all you craved. You dreamed of it, the sound of your voice unbound by water, carrying across the air like a blade mixed with honey. Your throat ached with the want of it. Your chest tightened with the memory of something you had never fully possessed. You would rise close to the surface sometimes, high enough that the moonlight brushed your shoulders. You would open your mouth and try, only for the water to swallow the sound whole, leaving behind nothing but bubbles and disappointment.
The others took extreme care to avoid even the faintest trace of humans. They slipped beneath ships like shadows passing under clouds. They changed course whenever they sensed vibration patterns that did not belong to natural beasts. They treated humanity like a wildfire that had once been manageable but now burned too hot to approach.
You did not share their memories. You had never tasted human flesh. You had been born too late, when the songs of the hunt had become whispers, and the feasts had become warnings. You had only seen humans at a distance, pale shapes leaning over wooden rails, unaware that a predator watched from below. They looked fragile to you. They looked soft and unfit for the legends your mother described.
Yet the coven still feared them.
You tried to understand their caution, but something inside you disagreed. Something deep and old, something woven into your bones long before you were born, insisted that the world above was not a threat. Perhaps it was foolishness. Maybe it was instinct or the echo of a song that needed to be completed.
But every night, when the coven curled into their clusters and silence settled over the dark, you felt the surface calling to you with a voice that was not your own.
You did not fear humans. You feared only the possibility that you would never understand why you needed to sing.
The night the coven planned to rise for the Winter Singing had a particular heaviness to it, the kind that settled over the trenches like a waiting breath. Even the smallest creatures fled the area, sensing the ripple of intent that moved through the water. The old songs carried weight, and the sea knew how to listen.
You felt the shift as soon as you drifted toward the gathering place. A slow circle of bodies hovered around the spiraling column of moonlight that pierced the surface above, each siren suspended in the water like a piece of living sculpture. Their hair drifted around them in long ribbons. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark. No one spoke yet. They were waiting.
You did not expect the tide-sister who reached for you with a flick of her fin. Her touch brushed your arm like the cool sweep of seaweed. When you turned, her expression was gentle, but something buzzed beneath it like a hidden current.
“Moon-Voice,” she murmured.
Your head tilted slightly, the water stirring your hair as you twisted toward her. The title settled over your skin like a cool shell. You had heard it countless times before, a quiet teasing thing, but tonight it felt heavier. Almost ceremonial.
She continued softly. “The Bone-Singer says you should lead the chorus tonight. She thinks it will help you. Reach for the instinct.”
The words drifted around you like the slow unfurling of an old net.
Instinct.
The coven never used that word lightly. Instinct belonged to the ancient part of your kind, the part that remembered the taste of storms and the sound of sinking ships. It meant you were being called. It meant the song inside you was stirring.
A faint vibration buzzed in your throat, a response you did not fully intend. Your mother used to say that true song began in the bones long before it reached the tongue.
“Did she tell you why my instinct is strong tonight?” you asked. Your voice was quiet, but it still cut through the water with surprising clarity.
Your tide-sister glanced toward the circle where the Bone-Singer floated, old scars threading along her ribcage like carved glyphs. The elder siren’s eyes were closed, but her awareness was unmistakable.
“No,” your sister said. “She only told me that the chorus must rise from your voice first. She said the sea is listening for you in particular.”
A cold shiver rolled down your spine. The sea did not listen unless something was coming. Something old. Something hungry. Something that remembered your kind far too well.
Above you, the moon waited behind the trembling surface, bright as a pupil staring down into the dark.
“I have never led,” you whispered.
Your tide-sister touched your cheek, a fleeting gesture that carried both reassurance and sorrow. Her palm was cool, almost weightless, as if she were brushing away something only she could see.
“No one knows how to lead the first time,” she said quietly. “But they are claimed by the song. They simply let it rise.”
The truth of it pressed against your bones. The song was not yours to command. It was something older, something that moved through you when it wished, something that treated your body like an instrument carved from salt and memory.
You looked toward the surface. The thread of silver light shimmered across your hands, bending and warping with every beat of the tide. The faint vibrations in the water grew stronger, humming along your gills like a secret only you had been permitted to hear. It was not a call you recognized, yet it felt frighteningly familiar, like a memory from a life you might have lived long before your coven dwindled, long before your mother had whispered stories of feasts and storms.
Something inside you stirred in answer.
Your tide-sister saw it before you did. Her smile softened, yet it carried something unnerving, a quiet acknowledgment that fate always chose before it explained. “When you breathe the air tonight,” she murmured, “you will understand why the Bone-Singer chose you.”
You swallowed the ripple of uncertainty and let the rising power unfurl within your chest. It spread slowly at first, like cold water filling a hollow space. Then it quickened, gathering strength, turning heavy and luminous. The sound that built in your throat was not yet a song, but a promise of one. It was beautiful in a way that felt wrong, haunting in a way that curled through your ribs like a ghost.
And so you did as you were asked.
You let it rise.
Your voice began as a low vibration, a broken hum that darkened the water around you. The other sisters felt it immediately. They drifted into motion, forming their slow, spiraling circles with no spoken command, guided only by tradition older than any story you had ever heard. Their fins brushed the silt from the seafloor. Their hair spread like living ink. Their eyes turned toward you.
The first true note escaped your mouth.
It rippled outward in a pulse that seemed to bend the entire sea. It was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was a sound that felt like the ocean remembering something dangerous. The coven followed, voices intertwining with yours, rising and sinking, swirling into a chorus that throbbed against the cavern walls.
Your voice pulled them upward.
The song gathered force, and the sea itself carried you. In one unified ascent, the coven broke through the water, bodies slicing upward like pale shadows rising to claim the night.
The air struck your face first, thin and cold and startling. For a heartbeat, you froze, suspended between two worlds, feeling your lungs fight to remember how to take in something that was not water.
The half-hidden cove welcomed you like an old ruin awakening. The collapsed cave roof hung open above, revealing a torn mouth of rock that framed the moon in fractured silver. Moonlight spilled across the water, turning every sister into a streak of pale light and dark hunger.
Your song faltered for an instant as you drew your first breath of open air. The air was sharp and thin and tasted unfamiliar, almost metallic. It slid down your throat like something alive. Your chest tightened in confusion, caught between two instincts, neither willing to give way.
And then your voice surged.
It rose enormous and ancient, a force that did not belong to your young body alone. It claimed you completely. Your spine arched with the sound, and the vibrations rippled through the cavern, striking the stone like a trembling hand. The caves shuddered with the echo. The sea itself bowed, folding its waves low and reverent as if afraid to interrupt.
The moment your voice broke free of the water, it changed. The thick weight of the ocean no longer muffled it. Your notes sharpened and brightened, pure and crystalline, drifting across the cove with a sweetness that felt unnatural. Even your sisters, who had lifted their voices out of devotion and tradition, quieted.
Your song curled through the air, soft at first, then spiraling upward in a sweeping arc that sounded like the very memory of the sea. You sang of waves and water and the glittering passage of moonlight drifting across the surface. You sang of the ancient kingdoms that rested in the shadowed trenches, kingdoms where only a few sisters still dared to swim. You sang of ruins covered in coral and of forgotten feasts that had once stained the tides red.
There was sorrow in your song, though it was not intentional. It slipped in on its own, woven into the melody as naturally as breath. It carried the loneliness of a dwindling coven, the ache of traditions nearly lost, the longing for a voice that had never been allowed to bloom. Perhaps a longing for something or someone more.
You sang long enough that your lungs began to burn. You did not notice at first. You only felt the rhythm in your bones, hollow and resonant, guiding you higher and higher until the final note trembled in your throat and dissolved into the night.
When your song finally ended, your body sagged with the release. Your throat felt raw from the strain, scraped thin in a way you had never experienced before. A little flicker of apology tightened in your chest, as if even your own flesh marveled at the force of what it had carried. It felt as though you had cracked open some hidden part of yourself, a place that had waited far too long to breathe.
The silence that followed was not empty. It felt fuller, swollen with something unseen. The air pressed in around you with a quiet that was heavier than any sound could have been. It was thick. It was expectant. It was unmistakably watching.
Your sisters floated in a loose circle around you, hardly moving, their eyes wide with a strange and reverent awe. Even their gills were still. They seemed afraid to disturb whatever lingered in the wake of your final note. The sea lapped softly at the cavern walls, slow and timid, as if cautious of breaking the spell.
After a long moment, they finally nodded. A small, synchronized motion, subtle and respectful. One by one, they tilted forward and slipped beneath the surface, their bodies vanishing with barely a ripple. The water welcomed them like closing hands, swallowing color and light until you were the only one left above.
You lingered, hovering just at the edge of the waves. This would be your last breath of open air until the next season. You wanted to savor it. You wanted to feel the moon on your face for just a few heartbeats more, to let the strange weight of the night settle properly into your bones. The cove felt different now, as if it held its own breath, waiting for your decision.
You inhaled, preparing to dive.
And just as you were ready to slip back under the waves, the air around you shifted. It was subtle, the kind of tilt that made the world feel uneven, as if something unseen had finally leaned close after hiding for far too long. The moonlight shivered across the cove. The water beneath you grew cold.
A voice drifted out of the dark, too close.
“You got a pretty voice, sweetheart.” The voice seemed to grin, “You planning to drown me, or is this a friendly introduction?”
You jerked so hard the water slapped against the rock behind you. Your tail snapped in a defensive curl, every fin stiffening as instinct threw you into motion. The moonlit pool churned around you. You twisted in a full circle, clawed fingers cutting through the air as you searched for the intruder.
The voice had no direction, but it did carry heat and weight. It carried the cadence of someone leaning casually against a wall, folding their arms, and planning their next step.
But there was no one. The cove remained empty. You even lifted a rock or two near the wall, just to be sure.
But the voice didn’t stop.
“Try again, darling.”
And there he was! Again!
The voice was human; it had to be. He had that lazy, overeasy tenor human tone of humans, an arrogance unrivaled and unwarrented. This voice held confidence. Humor braided through it like a lazy current. A dangerous kind of ease.
You could almost taste the air in his lungs.
You hissed, a sharp clicking sound that bared more teeth than fear. Your gills fluttered wide. The vibration deep in your throat became a warning trill. “Where are you, human?”
A low laugh brushed your ear. You whipped in that direction, but again, nothing waited there. No man stood near enough to whisper, no human scent touched the air as if… his voice wasn’t coming from outside your head.
“Won’t work,” the man said. His tone was smooth, amused, dangerously unbothered. “Your singing did something cute. I am not exactly there, though I wish I were. What a voice.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs as the truth set in.
He wasn’t there.
The cold water didn’t ripple the way it should have if a human were approaching. No footstep disturbed the stones. No breath disturbed the cave air. No pulse beat through the shallow tide.
He was not in the cove. He was probably not anywhere near the cove.
The man-human spoke again, softer now, speaking directly into a place no stranger should ever reach inside you. This one sounded as if he were leaning close, lips almost touching your ear, smiling while he spoke.
“You a fishfolk, darling?”
He was in your head.
How? How had this happened? You hadn’t ever encountered such a sensation before!
The voice threads into your mind, like an accompaniment. It made your thoughts twist sideways, made your chest tighten with something that was not fear but something far more ancient.
Your song.
You felt it now, the faint buzzing under your sternum. The way the water around you curled as if magnetized to your skin. A delicate filament tugged at your heart, threading outward, reaching across some vast distance toward a single point.
Something primal inside you recoiled as you recognized it very well may have been that cursed, needless, want to sing that had seduced you into reaching too far into ancient magics.
Had the moon seen you as too eager and decided to punish you?
Your throat vibrated again, this time with a deeper, feral sound meant to chase away predators. You sank halfway into the water, body coiling defensively, eyes wide with the instinctive terror of something unnatural.
“This is a human curse,” you sizzled. “Begone, vile power.”
The man hummed thoughtfully. Almost pleased. “Well, if I knew how I got in, sweetheart, I would tell you, but this seems a little permanent.”
“Cease speaking forthwith!”
He did not.
The man’s chuckle was warm and low and disturbingly delighted, the kind of sound a predator might make if it found something worth playing with. “I’ll take an educated guess and say you didn’t mean to let me in. Shame. I was hoping to connect with a gentle lady-love—Guess you’ll have to do.”
Your spine arched in fury. Your gills flared so wide they trembled. A deep, primitive heat shot through your body, not desire but the pure instinct to strike. You were half a heartbeat from diving beneath the waves and shredding whatever throat had dared to speak to you with such casual disrespect. How dare he speak the title of lady-love as if you were some shy reef-born creature. How dare he linger unseen. How dare he name you something weak when you were anything but.
“I’ll rip your throat out,” you snarled. The water churned with your anger, and your claws curled so tightly your knuckles ached.
Another laugh brushed across your mind from your elusive tormentor—He was enjoying this. You could feel it in the way his amusement slid through your thoughts, warm and intimate in a way no stranger had the right to be. You could feel him smiling as clearly as if his breath touched your cheek. The sensation was wrong, far too close, far too warm. It pressed against the inside of your skull like an unwanted hand.
“Don’t mock me! I will spill your blood and paint my face with it!”
“Spooky. You’re into some interesting things, aren’t ya, honey?”
You snarled, but he continued.
“Where you at, sweetheart?” he asked. His voice stayed smooth and maddeningly calm, as if you were simply having a conversation across a tavern table. “We can meet up, or if you want to play difficult, I’ll come to you.”
You hissed, a high, sharp sound that vibrated the water around your teeth.
Your tail snapped violently, slicing the moonlit surface. The entire cove answered with a hiss of churning water. Your heart beat so hard it rattled your ribs. The terror tasted metallic, sharp, almost electric. Something inside you screamed to flee. Something older wanted to bite down and drag him under the moment he appeared.
“Cut your throat and dive into the sea. I will meet you then.”
He did not falter at the threat.
Instead, his voice slid into your mind again, softer this time, almost coaxing. “All right, darling. If you want to hide, go on. But I will find you regardless.”
There was no threat in his tone, only certainty. Lazy certainty. Confident certainty. The certainty of a man who understood his own mind and now, terrifyingly, understood yours.
Before you could pull deeper underwater, before you could silence even a thought, he continued.
“Might as well have names while we are bound up like this,” he drawled. “Name’s Benn Beckman—You’ll want to remember that.”
Your breath stuttered. The bond thrummed in your bones at the sound of his name, as if the syllables were a key turning inside your chest.
“I’ll hunt you.” You snarled
“Excellent. Also, since this connection seems permanent,” he added lightly, “I figure you should also know I intend to be your husband.”
You bolted backward in the water, tail lashing hard enough to send a spray of silver waves into the air. You tried to tear away from the sound of him, from the pull of that invisible thread, from the impossible way his voice stroked your mind like he owned it.
“I WILL END YOU!”
His laughter followed you, warm and certain, as if he knew exactly how fast your heart was beating. “Swim as deep as you can, sweetheart. Makes the chase more interesting.”
The words slithered through your mind like smoke, impossible to catch, impossible to shove out. You wanted to curse at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to bare your teeth and tell him exactly what part of his spine you planned to snap first. Your breath faltered as another surge of unwanted heat crawled up your neck, your instincts flipping between rage and fear so quickly they tangled in your chest.
You opened your mouth to spit venom into the empty air, but something cold and familiar touched your wrist. A sister, eyes were wide with confusion, catching only the frantic tension thrumming through your body.
She rose beside you in near silence, her pale hand sliding around your arm with a steady, practiced gentleness. She did not hear the voice. She did not feel the pull. She only sensed that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Before you could protest, she tugged you downward.
The surface broke above your head with a soft crackle of bubbles, and the moment the water closed over your face, the voice cut off.
Silence bloomed.
Real silence. Sweet silence. Silence so thorough it makes you feel almost crazy for threatening an invisible man. You relished it and let the saltwater wrap around your mind like a shield, thick enough to smother whatever had reached into you.
Your lungs filled with cool water as your gills fluttered open again. The shock of it made your chest tighten, then ease, as your instincts reasserted themselves in the familiar pressure of the deep.
The bond that had felt like a hook in your ribs moments ago now felt distant, and you trembled with relief so powerful it almost hurt.
Your sister brushed her forehead against your temple, worried and wordless in the way only a sister could be. You clutched her arm, still shaking, still tasting the ghost of a human voice at the edges of your thoughts.
The currents around you whispered again, soft as a lullaby, trying to soothe your frayed nerves. Together you descended, and you swore, swore to the depths and on Poseidon itself you would never ascend again.
-X-Unexpected Sights-X-
It would be two long years before you even considered singing again.
The ache never truly left you. It lingered like a phantom limb, a hollow pressure in your chest where sound used to live freely. Whatever had brushed your mind that day, whatever ghostly encounter had allowed a human voice to slip into your thoughts, it had unsettled something deep and instinctive. Siren songs were meant to flow outward, never inward. Voices were not supposed to answer you. The memory of it left you shaken to your core, rattled badly enough that you refused to resurface at all.
You stayed below. Far below. Where the human voice couldn’t find you.
You avoided the upper currents, avoided the places where light fractured too brightly, and the water thinned. You swallowed your songs before they could rise, forcing silence into your throat until even your sisters began to look at you with quiet concern. You still hunted. You still guarded the borders. But the part of you that sang simply went dormant, curled in on itself like a wounded thing.
And then the fishmen came.
They drifted through the outer reaches of your territory like a living tide, broad silhouettes moving with unsettling confidence through waters few outsiders dared to enter. Their forms were large, powerful, unmistakably organized. Fishmen were rare at these depths, rarer still in numbers like this, and the coven noticed immediately.
Sirens gathered in silence among the jagged spines of coral and stone, their bodies half-hidden in shadow as they watched the procession pass. Eyes tracked every movement. Fins twitched. Claws flexed slowly against rock. The water itself seemed to tense, currents shifting as both sides assessed one another.
The fishmen knew where they were. That much was clear. They moved carefully, alert but not panicked, aware that a single wrong step could turn the sea hostile. Sirens were not friendly creatures, and fishmen learned early in their lives which waters demanded respect. No fishman wandered into siren territory by accident.
There was tension immediately, thick and unmistakable. Each side parsed the other with cold precision. Strength. Numbers. Intent. Threat.
And yet, there was no bloodshed. But not thanks to mercy, but rather thanks to calculation.
Fishmen knew the stories. They knew sirens were brutal, territorial, and merciless when provoked. But they also knew the unspoken truth that had shaped encounters like this for centuries. Sirens did not eat fishfolk. They never had. There were lines even monsters did not cross.
More than that, there was another truth, older and far more uncomfortable.
Sirens could mate with fishmen.
Fishmen were one of the very few peoples whose bodies could endure the crushing pressure of siren depths, whose physiology did not shatter under the weight of the deep. Their bloodlines could intertwine with yours without producing weakness, without breaking what made a siren a siren. It was not romantic. It was not gentle. It was biology sharpened into survival.
The elders knew this.
That was why no attack order came. That was why the coven remained still, watching rather than striking. The fishmen were not guests, but they were not prey either. They were an opportunity, however distasteful.
An old, unpleasant, deeply practical gamble, and one that seems to leave you alone in your disquiet.
Perhaps it is because you are among the youngest remaining. Precious, they call you, in the careful way elders reserve for things that must not be wasted. You are only just considered fully formed, your body grown, but your experience thin, your songs still young in the long memory of the coven. You have never taken a mate. You have never been asked to. Until now.
Many of your elder sisters act on the calculation without hesitation.
They move through the band of fishmen with practiced calm, selecting mates with a detached efficiency that leaves no room for doubt or ceremony. There is no courting, no illusion of romance. It is done quickly, deliberately, as if they are tending to a necessary but unpleasant task. When it is over, they speak of it in hushed, rational tones, careful to frame it as survival rather than choice.
They say it is not intimacy. Not truly. They say it is biology, no different from hunting, nesting, or guarding territory. Continuation, they call it, as though the word itself can make it clean.
To you, it sounds hollow.
The thought alone makes your scales prickle along your spine, a restless discomfort you cannot shake. Your stomach churns when you imagine it, a slow, nauseating twist that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with violation. It feels wrong in a way you cannot fully explain, wrong beyond instinct or logic, like something sacred being handled with the same careless indifference as breeding stock.
And yet, the decision is made quickly.
The elders do not linger on debate. They never do when survival is involved. It is agreed that the fishmen will be allowed to remain temporarily within the outer reaches of your territory. Long enough to mate. Long enough to see what is produced. Long enough to determine whether this gamble will strengthen the coven or doom it to something unrecognizable.
The terms are laid out with chilling clarity. When offspring are born, they will be divided by gender. The sons will go with the fishmen, raised among their kind. They will be stronger, more vicious, bearing siren teeth and voices that might one day shatter hulls and bone alike. The daughters will remain with the coven, sirens with altered blood, new hues blooming along their scales, new abilities surfacing alongside their songs. Pressure tolerance. Enhanced strength. Variations the elders speak of with quiet, calculating interest.
It is spoken of like an exchange of resources. Like trade.
The fishmen do not object. If anything, most of them seem pleased.
They accept the arrangement with little resistance, some with open satisfaction. To them, it is easy sex, sanctioned and plentiful, offered by creatures whose beauty is already half-legend among their people. There is no visible shame, no discomfort. Some boast quietly among themselves. Others grin with sharp teeth, already measuring which siren might be assigned to them.
Watching them, something tightens painfully in your chest, not fragile but sharp, like a hook setting deep. The water feels heavier around you, as though it recognizes the shift before you do. And you wonder, ‘Is this truly all there is?’ Survival reduced to bargains? Desire stripped of meaning? Bodies weighed and traded as if they are nothing more than resources?
You know with absolute clarity that you do not want this. Not in the way your throat aches when you think of singing. Not in the way your voice once carried choice, not compliance.
That is when the bullshark fishman notices you.
He is their leader, and there is nothing subtle about him. Massive and heavily scarred, his body is built to crush resistance rather than negotiate with it. Every mark along his skin speaks of violence survived and violence inflicted. He does not carry himself like a diplomat or a suitor. He moves like a weapon that has learned patience. The water seems to shift around him instinctively, currents bending as though they already know to give way.
Several of your sisters drift closer out of reflex, curious, appraising, already weighing what use he might serve. He does not even bother to look at them. A single sharp motion of his hand sends them away, not dismissive so much as absolute. They retreat without argument.
Because his gaze has found you.
You are half-hidden behind a ridge of stone, deliberately withdrawn, but it makes no difference. His eyes lock onto you and remain there, unblinking, predatory, stripped of any softness. There is no admiration in his stare. No wonder. He looks at you the way a hunter looks at prey he has already decided belongs to him.
Your iridescent scales catch the dim light and shimmer faintly, colors sliding across your body like oil over dark water. Your hair drifts slowly around you, luminous and unavoidable, framing your face in a way that draws the eye whether you want it to or not. When your tail shifts with the current, revealing its rare hues for only a heartbeat, something cold settles behind his expression.
Old blood. Valuable blood.
You feel the exact moment it clicks for him. His body goes still, not in awe but in focus. His attention sharpens into something brutal and intent, no longer casual, no longer weighing options. There is hunger there, yes, but it is the hunger of ownership, not desire. A calculation made and concluded in silence.
To him, you are now prey.
To you, it feels like being measured and found useful. Like a decision being finalized without your consent or consideration. The water around you suddenly feels thinner, less protective, as though the sea itself has stepped aside and left you exposed.
You have not merely been seen, you have been selected.
And you know, with a deep and sinking certainty, that he is not the kind of creature who releases what he decides is his.
He asks who you are.
The question is not gentle. It is not curious. It is spoken like a demand, carried through the water with the weight of authority. When you answer, your voice is low and controlled despite the tension tightening your chest.
Moon-Voice.
The name settles into him immediately. You can see it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way the sound seems to anchor something in his mind. Names have power, and he treats yours like a claim newly learned rather than a gift freely given.
Then his courtship begins.
It is nothing like the careful, distant rituals of your own kind. It is aggressive, blatant, and unapologetic. The sirens bristle at it, teeth flashing, tails snapping warnings through the water. They don’t like how directly he targets someone so young, someone so untested. But there are larger concerns occupying the elders. The survival of the coven outweighs personal discomfort. And spreading more of your blood, rare and valuable, is considered a benefit rather than a risk.
No one stops him.
His interest is immediate and overwhelming. He circles you openly, broad and imposing, his bulk cutting slow, deliberate arcs through the water until his presence presses in from every side. There is no attempt at subtlety, no effort to soften himself or disguise intent. He wants to be seen. He wants you to feel him there.
He brings offerings ripped from wrecks and coral beds, dragging them through the water with careless strength. Heavy, broken things meant to demonstrate power rather than care. Bent steel twisted by brute force. Cracked hull fragments still smelling of rust and rot. The trophies of destruction are placed at your fin as though they are proof of worth, evidence that he can break what stands in his way.
You refuse him without hesitation.
He does not accept it.
Instead, he begins to follow you.
Through kelp forests where thick fronds tangle and whisper around your body, brushing your skin like grasping fingers. Through stone trenches where sound bends and echoes strangely, turning every movement into something amplified and exposed. Through hunting grounds you once claimed as private, places where you used to feel safe and sovereign. Now, his shadow stains them all, too close, too constant, a dark shape that never truly recedes.
No matter where you turn, no matter how fast or how far you swim, his presence lingers behind you like pressure building before a storm. You can feel it in the water, in the way currents shift as he moves, in the weight of his attention pressing between your shoulders.
His courtship turns aggressive, openly possessive, as though your rejection has only sharpened his fixation. What should have ended becomes a pursuit. What should have been a choice becomes a challenge. You begin to feel hunted in your own waters, every familiar path suddenly compromised.
You learn quickly that there are only two ways to escape him.
One is downward.
You plunge into crushing depths where the water grows cold and heavy, where darkness thickens until it feels almost solid. Pressure clamps down on your body, squeezing until every movement costs something. Your bones ache under the weight. Your lungs burn, each breath dragged in by instinct rather than comfort. Surviving there is an act of stubborn defiance, held together by old blood and sheer will. You can endure it, barely. He cannot. If he follows you into those depths, the sea itself will finish what his obsession began.
The other escape is upward.
Toward the surface he fears. Toward thinning water, toward light that fractures and stings the eyes, toward air and the vast, unknown world above. Many Fishfolk avoid it with instinctive dread, and he is no exception. It is a hard boundary etched into him by survival. No matter how obsessed he becomes, he will not cross it.
But you dare not go just yet.
The coven hates him. They bare their teeth when he lingers too close. They hiss when his shadow stains the reef and his presence pollutes familiar waters. Left to instinct alone, they would have driven him off long ago.
But desperation corrodes judgment.
Too many sisters are gone, lost to hunters, storms, and time. Too many nesting chambers sit empty, silent reminders of what the coven is becoming. Survival begins to outweigh disgust. Numbers begin to matter more than comfort.
They come to you quietly, with voices softened by careful choice and eyes hardened by necessity.
They ask you to consider him.
Just once, they say. Just one mating. They promise it will be quick and controlled, over before it truly begins. They insist he will lose interest afterward, satisfied and finished, and move on with his band as though nothing of consequence has occurred. They remind you of your rarity, of the value of your bloodline, of what you owe the coven that raised you and sheltered you when you were small and defenseless.
Their words press on you heavier than the depths ever did.
It is not fear that hurts the most, nor even the implication of what they are asking. It is the realization that they are willing to choose the benefits he brought over your comfort. That they can weigh your body, your autonomy, and your fear against survival and decide you are acceptable collateral. You had never thought a sister would do that. The pain of it settles deep, sharper than pressure, colder than the deepest trench.
Something inside you changes quietly.
It does not break all at once. There is no dramatic snap, no violent surge of emotion. It is a slow, inward shift, like stone settling under pressure after too many years. A realization takes root where certainty used to live, heavy and irreversible. The coven you trusted, the sisters you believed would always choose you, have drawn a line and placed survival on one side and you on the other.
And you understand, with painful clarity, which side won.
For the first time since you vanished into the depths, the world above begins to feel less like danger and more like escape. The surface no longer represents fear or vulnerability or the unknown. It starts to look like distance, like a place where choices can no longer be taken from you piece by piece.
Life continues regardless.
The fishmen remain. The bullshark’s shadow still moves through your territory, patient and unrelenting. Your sisters go about their routines with careful normalcy, pretending nothing fundamental has shifted. Days blur together in the dim blue dark until the currents begin to change and the light above grows different.
The moon rises again.
Its pull seeps through the water, subtle but insistent, threading itself through the currents and into your bones. It stirs something old and aching in your chest, something that has waited patiently through silence and fear. The song answers before you allow it to, a familiar pressure building in your throat. It is time for the singing.
You tell them you will reconsider after.
You say it calmly, evenly, with the careful composure of someone still weighing a difficult choice in good faith. There is no tremor in your voice. No visible resistance. The elders exchange glances and accept it with visible relief, eager to postpone conflict for even a few hours. The coven allows it because the song is necessary. After all, it always has been. Sirens sing to mark the moon, to steady the waters, to remind the sea of who rules it. No one questions you further.
The bullshark fishman smiles.
It is a slow, confident expression, heavy with assumption. He believes he has finally won. That time and pressure have done what force could not. That your silence is surrender, your patience acceptance. His gaze lingers on you with possessive certainty, already counting something that was never his to take.
So you gather what’s left of your hopes and dreams and make a decision.
You want to let your voice rise one last time, unrestrained and unafraid, without calculation or restraint. You want to pour everything you have left into the water and the night above it, to unravel yourself into sound and echo. You want the moon to hear you clearly, to feel you as you once were. You want the sea to remember you before fear hollowed your chest and bargaining carved pieces out of your soul.
And then you’ll beach yourself, and be rid of the creeping dread and sharp teeth of your admirer.
This plan is risky, as it doesn’t necessarily account for the alarming voice that had haunted you last time you surfaced. But you’d one thousand percent take that smooth mystery voice in your head over the very real, very black intentions of the Bullshark Fishman.
It does scare you, the surface. Your plan to die at the mercy of the wind and sand. You can imagine it with unsettling clarity. The slow, brutal drag of your body onto cold, unforgiving sand. The way the tide would hesitate and then retreat, abandoning you beneath the open sky. No crushing depths. No hands on you. No choices made in murmured councils or forced through your body. Just stillness. Pain. And finally, silence.
But this feels less like surrender and more like control, and so you agree to sing and, after, commit.
And beneath the surface, while your sisters prepare and the moon climbs higher, you hold your secret close. You move through the water already half-gone, already drifting toward the only freedom you believe remains.
What you don’t know is that you are not alone in your plotting.
Above the surface, beyond the reach of your sight and far from the quiet calculations of the coven, a man is standing beneath the same moon. He listens to the sea with a patience born of long obsession, of years spent chasing rumors that others dismissed as superstition. He has crossed half the world guided by fragments of song, by maps that refuse to behave, by whispers of an island that can only be reached by the eye and never by compass.
He, too, is making plans.
He does not know your name yet. He does not know your face, nor the weight of the choice pressing down on your chest. But when your song breaks the surface, it will not vanish into the night as it always has. This time, your solo will become a duet.
-X-The Man you are-X-
Benn Beckman had always loved the sea, though if asked, he could never give an exact reason. Freedom, salt, spray, and impossible horizons lived in his blood. Adventure had always been his preferred meal, and he had never learned how to go hungry.
He took to the water early, and because he was Benn Beckman, success followed with irritating ease. Where many sailors found the reality of the sea stripped the romance from their rose-colored compasses, Beckman only fell deeper in love. The danger sharpened him. The vastness steadied him. The sea made sense in a way land never quite did.
Then the soulbond settled quietly into place at the back of his mind.
The first time he heard your song, everything clicked. Benn Beckman loved the sea because you were there. And he already knew he loved you.
And if there was only one thing he loved more than sailing, it was the wife he had yet to find.
Women had always come easily to him. All kinds, all shapes, all temperaments, drawn in by charm, confidence, and the sort of quiet gravity that made people lean closer without realizing why. Beckman enjoyed them, appreciated them, but he had never been inclined to settle. Not because he lacked romance. Quite the opposite. He was deeply romantic enough to believe that fate, when it finally chose him, would do so deliberately.
So when he heard your song, he knew.
He had never heard anything like it. And he would follow it to the end of the Grand Line, and beneath it, if that was where you were hiding.
At first, the bond was distant and muffled, like sound traveling through deep water. Even then, the weight of it told him enough. The pull carried the unmistakable pressure of the sea. He deduced you were fishfolk almost immediately.
That did not make the task any easier.
Finding a woman who lived beneath one of the world’s many seas was never going to be simple. Especially not when your hostility bled through the bond as clearly as your presence. Fishfolk were rarely welcoming to humans, and you were no exception.
And then there was the song itself, which filled in the rest.
Most fishfolk sang the way humans did. For enjoyment. For work. To impress. Your song was something else entirely. It pulsed with longing and power, a personal aria so potent it reached him across miles of ocean, leaving him thin and aching with it. There was something ancient woven through it, something predatory. It did not merely beckon.
A siren.
That was the truth of it.
Fortunately for himself, and unfortunately for your peace, Benn Beckman had always had one thing firmly on his side. He was smart. Too smart half the time, and tenacious as hell when the right woman was involved.
He followed rumors the way other men followed maps, with patience and a ruthless eye for patterns. Where most sailors dismissed tavern talk as superstition or drunkard nonsense, Beckman cataloged it. He noted what details stayed consistent and which ones shifted depending on who was speaking. He paid attention to what people laughed off too quickly, and what they lowered their voices to say. Lies always bent under repetition, but truth—even when buried—tended to stay stubbornly the same.
He learned the seas the way scholars learned languages: Currents became sentences, trade routes became grammar. He memorized which winds carried ships swiftly and which dragged them off course, which islands attracted merchants, which attracted fugitives, and which ones people avoided without quite knowing why.
He waited when impatience tapped at his resolve, adjusted when leads went cold or twisted sideways. When a trail ended, he did not curse it; rather, he circled back and asked different questions. He changed ships, crews, flags, seeing even more of the four seas and the Grand Line. He learned when to push and when to vanish, letting the world rotate around him for a while so that it would speak more freely.
And through it all, the bond was mostly quiet, as if the sea was against him.
Benn Beckman loved the sea, but he’d never let it get the best of him. And slowly, inevitably, the sea began to narrow.
The world that had once felt endless started offering fewer places for you to hide. Routes overlapped. Rumors clustered. Silence itself became a signpost. And somewhere beneath the waves, Beckman could feel it with growing certainty.
He was getting close.
So at the ripe age of twenty-seven, Benn Beckman stepped foot on William’s Island with salt in his long black hair and a cheeky tilt to his handsome smile. Women paused to appreciate his tall build and fitted shirt, as their husbands eyed him warily, until he passed without a wink.
The tavern he chose was one of the less posh establishments, full of men of the sea with tongues that were looser than their wallets. The place sagged with age and humidity, its floor warped from decades of spilled rum and seawater tracked in by boots that never fully dried. Voices overlapped in the lazy, circular way of men who had told the same stories too many times and still enjoyed hearing them again.
Benn paid for a round without comment, immediately befriending the nearby drinkers. As he lit up a cigarette and faded into the background, more and more shoulders loosened. The locals warmed to him as he occasionally spoke in their language—salt, sand, and currents.
And after an hour or two, he finally got an answer.
Around twenty miles northeast off the southern tip of William’s lay a small island called Calypso.
At first, the name alone was enough to sour the mood.
The older sailors exchanged looks over their cups. One spat onto the floor. Another made a warding gesture he probably had not believed in for years, but habit lingered longer than faith.
Benn listened without interrupting, smoke curling lazily from between his fingers. It was the alcohol that finally broke them. Rum always did what courage could not.
The first man leaned forward, elbows heavy on the table, eyes glassy but sharp. “You don’t try an’ sail to that place,” he said, lowering his voice despite the din. “It’ll eat a man alive.”
A few men laughed, uneasy and loud, but no one contradicted him.
“They say it’s cursed,” another added. “Old curse. Old as hell. Can’t chart it, can’t leave it easy either.”
Benn tilted his head slightly. “People still go,” he said mildly.
That earned him a snort. “People do plenty of stupid things.”
“What happens to them?” Benn asked.
The table went quiet in that way that meant everyone suddenly realized they were saying too much.
One man drained his cup and slammed it down. “Ships disappear. Or they come back missing crew. Or they come back with men who won’t look at the sea again.”
Another leaned in, breath heavy with drink. “And sometimes,” he said, voice dropping, “sometimes the sea gives something back instead.”
Benn’s eyes flicked to him. “Like what?”
The man hesitated. Then laughed, sharp and brittle. “Women,” he said. “Voices.”
That did it.
The room seemed to pull inward, sound dulling around Benn as the word settled in his chest like a hook. He gave a saucy grin, but hid it behind another puff.
“Sirens,” someone muttered.
A few men scoffed reflexively, but the scoffing lacked conviction. Superstition lived comfortably beside sailors. They might laugh at it, but they never ignore it.
“They’re not like the stories,” another said quickly, as if trying to regain control of the conversation. “Not all teeth and screamin’ sailors like they used ta be. They’re… quieter now. Hidin’. But Calypso—” He shook his head. “That place still has ‘em.”
Benn took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes unfocused, heart thudding just a little faster than before. “Heard they’re dangerous,” he said casually.
“Oh, they are,” the first man said. “Not just because they kill men, but because they have a voice that makes a man want to drown.”
That earned a few low, uneasy chuckles. Benn drew out his exhale, smoke slipping from his mouth as his gaze stayed on the warped tabletop, as if the wood grain held something worth studying.
“Place is a damned trap,” one man muttered, thumping his son between the shoulders. “You steer clear of it.”
“Marines won’t let anyone sail that way anyhow,” another added, jerking his thumb in the vague direction of the barely staffed Marine office Benn had passed earlier. “They turn ships back on sight.
“And if someone wanted to see one up close,” Benn said mildly, “how bad an idea would that be?”
Laughter broke out immediately, rough and disbelieving. The kind that followed a man who had clearly had one drink too many.
“Don’t be stupid,” someone scoffed. “It’s just rumors.”
“Sirens don’t exist,” another said with confidence born entirely of distance. “If anything’s out there, it’s pirates. Or currents nasty enough to chew a hull apart. That stretch brushes the Calm Belt and Sea kings nest anywhere near that.”
The warnings tangled together, half advice, half jokes, but one old sailor stayed quiet. His skin was weathered like cured leather, pale eyes sharp as they tracked Benn through the haze.
A third man leaned closer, alcohol convincing him this was privileged knowledge. “They say if sirens are real,” he murmured, “you don’t fight them. Not in the water. That’s a fool’s game.”
Benn leaned in slightly, head tilting.
The old man’s mouth twitched. “You tempt them ashore. Heard it straight from my grandpappy. They like shiny things. Gold. Jewelry. Not just expensive. Things with weight to them.” He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “And music.”
“Don’t listen to Hobbs,” someone snorted. “He’s been drinking moonshine again. What would you even want with a siren? Marry her?”
Hobbs shrugged. “An old tale says if one falls for a human, she gives up the sea. Loses the tail. Turns human.”
That finally earned a few laughs, along with some well-placed eye rolls.
Benn did not join them. He rested his chin against his hand, thoughtful.
“Music,” he repeated quietly.
He finished his drink at an unhurried pace, eyes already distant, measuring tide, distance, and odds. Then he looked back at Hobbs, boots settling flat on the floor as he shifted forward.
“So,” Benn said, swirling his glass, “What’s the going rate for something sparkly around these parts?”
-X-Through the Looking Glass-X-
It was necessity that drove you to the island, paired with an escape at exactly the right moment. You claimed you needed distance from the bullshark fishman, time to think, and prepare.
He had accepted it reluctantly, more in the way predators accept delays rather than refusals—by circling closer and closer.
The days were ticking steadily toward the singing, and he had not stopped circling you since the bargain was first spoken.
So the forbidden island became your solution.
You could not outrun him in open water in a race of endurance, nor outfight him alone, but you could disappear where his size worked against him.
So you outsmarted him.
You took shelter among the shipwrecks clustered near the island, where shattered hulls and twisted ribs formed a maze too tight for something as large as a bullshark fishman to follow. The water there was shallow enough to catch the light, cluttered enough to break lines of sight, and the currents treacherous enough that even he kept his distance.
There was one place in particular. A collapsed section of wreckage wedged against stone, forming a narrow pocket where water met air. You could rest there with your head tilted back, lungs filling, fingers braced against splintered wood. Close enough to breathe, but never long enough for any stray human voices to register you. Long enough to recover. Not long enough to be found.
It was a fragile solution.
The bullshark fishman could not follow you into the wreckage, but he learned it. Learned the currents that fed it. Learned the way you entered and how long you stayed gone. He began waiting instead of searching, circling wider, cutting off exits you had not realized were narrowing. Each visit grew shorter, and each return was heavier with pressure. The wreck stopped being a refuge and became a trap with teeth outside it.
Then one day, the Bullshark Fishman changed strategies.
The moment your gills filled, the water shifted. A massive shape surged against the outer hull, too close, too deliberate. The wreck groaned around you as something struck it from below, testing, forcing you deeper into the pocket. Sand billowed. Metal screamed softly. He was not trying to reach you. He was trying to flush you out.
Panic made the choice for you.
You fled.
You slipped from the hiding place and shot into open water, heart hammering as the sea behind you exploded into motion. The bullshark came after you without hesitation, vast and fast, his bulk tearing through the currents you had relied on for cover. The wreckage that once protected you now slowed you, and you could feel the distance closing with every stroke.
So desperation pushed you toward land.
The water felt smaller by the second, every escape route folding inward. You ripped through breaths, screamed as you finally opened your mouth to express the injustice of it all, done pretending patience would save you.
You needed more speed, a getaway, and something that felt like freedom.
You veered into the shallow waterway because it was the only option left. Reef and sand rose beneath you, scraping painfully against your tail and dragging at your movement. The current there was wrong for you, too thin, too white, too uncertain. But it forced the fishman to slow his pace and tread more carefully, hesitating as his size worked against him.
You had no such fear of injury, and zipped through it, careless of being hurt as long as he wasn’t the one doing it.
You surfaced near the shore with shaking hands, bracing yourself against slick stone as you pulled your weight from the water. Your chest burned as you drew in air too fast. It tasted dry and sharp, nothing like the clean pull of the sea. You bent forward, coughing softly, fighting the tremor in your arms.
You told yourself you would not go far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to remember what it felt like not to be hunted. You could feel the Fishman there, furious and thwarted, stopped only by depth and stone.
Your fins flopped uselessly against sand and stone, scuffed raw as the air pressed in on you, thick and almost suffocating. You dragged yourself higher anyway, fingers carving deep divots as you hauled your weight across the shore, desperate to put distance between yourself and the reach of his claws.
The sky stretched blue and blinding overhead, vast and emotionless, uncaring, watching you struggle. Every inch of progress was humiliating and exposed, a slow, punishing crawl that left you certain something would strike at any moment. Your heart hammered painfully in your chest. You kept waiting for the water to surge behind you, for the familiar violence of his pursuit to break across the beach, but it never came.
You shoved yourself onward through burning sand and sharp silt until your fingers brushed dense greenery. You tumbled forward into the verdant cover of thick leaves and tangled brush, rolling until the canopy swallowed you whole.
Your gills fluttered weakly, pressed tight to your chest as they struggled to empty themselves of water. You gasped in shallow, panicked pulls, fighting the instinct to turn back, to throw yourself into the sea simply to breathe properly again.
You stayed curled there, small and shaking, for longer than you could measure, praying that whatever god those on the land prayed to, they held enough mercy for you as well.
Eventually, the dark fin at the shoreline dipped beneath the surface and did not rise again. It was not proof of safety, but it was mercy enough that you did not have to keep watching it.
The sight was enough to let your exhaustion finally settle. Your limbs burned without relief. Your mouth felt dry and raw, an unfamiliar heaviness pulling at your tongue. Dehydration crept through you slowly, insistently, until keeping your eyes open required more effort than you had left.
You let them fall shut.
Your last thought was not of the pursuit behind you, nor of the danger you had just escaped. It was of the voice you had once feared would ambush you. The human voice you had been so wary of before the sea grew more menacing than any man.
You could not even remember his name.
All you knew was that you would give anything to return to a time when he had been your only worry.
-X-The Slip Up-X-
You slept far longer than was safe.
When you woke, you knew it immediately. The drag in your limbs. The tight, papery ache beneath your skin. The way your gills burned instead of fluttered. You had stayed out of the water too long, and there was no ignoring it now. If you did not return to the sea soon, you would dry out.
The thought came with regret. You had wanted to sing one last time for the sisters before you slipped back into the waves, to sing a farewell. You’d have to face the Bullshark fishman to fulfill that dream.
You shifted, preparing to drag yourself back toward the shore, eyes sharp and ears alert. If you saw even a scale of fishman, you’d remain in the shallows and flop back ashore.
That was when you saw the bucket.
A bucket sat close to you, half buried in sand and fallen leaves, filled nearly to the brim as if it had been placed there with care. The sight made you go completely still.
No siren could have surfaced long enough to leave something like this behind. No fishman could have crossed land without disturbing the ground. Yet the sand around the bucket was smooth and untouched, the brush unbroken. There were no footprints. No drag marks. Nothing explained how it had been set so carefully within your reach.
Your pulse quickened despite your exhaustion.
You leaned closer, head tilting in wary disbelief, and then the ache of dryness pushed past caution. Slowly, deliberately, you dipped a finger into the water.
It was cool. Salty. Familiar.
Ordinary seawater, hauled straight from the ocean by someone who knew exactly what you needed to survive.
You withdrew your hand and lifted your gaze, scanning the foliage again, this time with sharper focus. That was when the arrangement finally made sense.
Another bucket sat a short distance away, placed where the ground sloped gently, and the sand held moisture longer. Far enough to suggest direction, close enough that you would not have to strain yourself to reach it. Beyond that, another waited, partially shaded, its rim catching just enough light to be seen without announcing itself.
They were spaced deliberately.
Close enough for you to follow without risking collapse. Close enough that you could move at your own pace. Each bucket offered relief before the ache could force you back toward the sea. Whoever had done this understood exactly how little time you could spend out of the water.
It was a path built to let you choose.
The buckets formed a quiet trail that slipped between trees and shadow, angled inland but never straying far from the shoreline. Retreat was always possible. An exit was always left open.
It led away from the water.
Your gaze caught on one of the items placed beside a bucket. A small metal tube, round, its bottom sealed, its surface catching the light with a soft, deliberate gleam. You turned it over carefully, and a spark of greedy curiosity flared, followed by a reckless idea.
Sirens loved objects that glittered. Despite their hatred of humans, they relished the things taken from them even more. Proof of theft. Proof of victory.
If you gathered enough offerings to appease the coven, you could sway them to your side. With their protection, the fishman would lose his hold over you. There were not enough of his kind to repel a coven stirred to anger.
All it would take was risk and a little more suffering.
The path the buckets marked had been cleared of most brambles and stripped of sharp stone, as if someone had deliberately brushed the ground aside. It was awkward, but passable. You could slither along it, pausing often to refresh yourself with water, moving just far enough inland to claim what you needed before retreating again if you had to.
You lingered only a moment longer before reaching for the next bucket.
You moved into the trees, brushing salt-stiffened hair from your face as you went, senses stretched and alert for any sign of a trap. Your sight and hearing were dulled above water, but they were still far sharper than any human’s. You listened for uneven breath. Watched for careless movement.
You sensed nothing wrong, but your instinct pulled at you. The path was so precise, so carefully adjusted to your limits, it was as if a guardian had made it for you. It accounted for your need to crawl, to hydrate, or to turn back if you chose. The realization unsettled you even as it steadied your nerves.
You carried one of the empty buckets at your side, carefully placing the bright objects you found along the way into it. Each item gleamed differently. Metals shaped in ways you had never imagined. Colors that caught the light and refused to let it go. Your mouth watered at the thought of returning to the coven with them, of laying the spoils out and watching their eyes light with approval.
Your progress was slow, but the path itself was not long.
Eventually, the trees thinned, opening onto the mouth of a cave. You stopped there, nostrils flaring as you drew in a careful breath. Beneath the layered scents of earth and stone, you caught the smell of fresh water.
You set the bucket just outside the cave, then braced yourself with both arms as you leaned forward to peer inside. The air carried nothing but forest, damp and clean water. No smoke. No metal. No living scent that made your instincts recoil. You tilted your head, listening.
Sunlight spilled down through a natural opening in the ceiling, flooding the space with pale gold. It struck the water pooled at the center of the cave, illuminating it with an unnatural clarity. Fresh and cold. Untouched. A small wooden board slanted down into the pool, worn smooth, positioned as if meant to allow easy entry and exit.
The sight made your throat ache.
You knew you needed to be cautious. You reminded yourself to think. But you were exhausted. Dry. Strung too tight to hold onto fear the way you should have.
Before the thought fully formed, you found yourself sliding forward, hands slipping from stone as you tipped into the pool.
Cold water beautifully closed over you, like the embrace of a mother.
For the first time since you fled the sea, you could breathe properly again. Your luminescent scales flared in the space, casting colors upon the smoothed-down walls, making you shimmer in the light.
You took a zip around the pool. It was large enough for you to stretch, but had no underwater tunnels large enough for you to return to the ocean, or for the fishman to enter.
You surfaced, chest rising, hands smoothing back the stray hairs sticking to your face.
And that’s when you heard it—a sound, and not just a sound but music.
A tune fluttered through the air, uneven but undeniably lovely, scraping against something deep in your chest. It was not a song you had ever heard. Nothing born of tide or current. It was sweet in a way that made your breath catch, and you could not place its source.
Your head snapped up. You looked around the cave, disoriented, heart skidding, until your eyes finally found it.
A box sat near the edge of the spring.
Right where the wooden board had been.
You moved toward it too quickly, a rush of alarm and confusion tangling your thoughts as you stared down at the small object. Polished. Human-made. The tune pulsed from within it, imperfect and aching.
You could feel it in the way the air seemed to hold still around you. In the way the sound tugged at you like a hook sunk deep and twisted just enough to hurt.
You had been trapped.
And then, like an omen pulled straight from an old story, you felt it.
Or rather, you felt him.
The human voice you had come to dread, except this time it was not inside your head.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” the voice said pleasantly.
You twisted in the water, pulse spiking, and looked up toward the mouth of the cave. He stood before a spill of sunlight, relaxed as anything, one hand lifted in a casual wave. The wooden board rested under his arm, as if he had just finished tidying up after you. You couldn’t see his features, as the light behind him made his face too dark, but by the sound of his voice, you knew he was smiling.
A tone so calm it dipped into amusement, like he was meeting someone exactly where he had expected to find them.
“Told you I’d find you,” The man said cheekily, and you stared blankly at him.
He tilted his head, probably looking down at the spring, then the box of music, before finally landing on you. This time it stayed there, sharp and intent, the way a hunter looks at something that almost slipped away.
“I was worried for a moment,” he admitted, his voice low, touched with quiet humor. “You’re sharper than most. I half expected you to realize what I was doing and slip back into the ocean before I could say a word.”
You slowly sank deeper into the spring until only the top half of your face remained above the water, eyes just breaking the surface as you watched him.
“Would’ve been a shame,” he continued more softly, stepping closer as he tossed the wooden board aside behind him. It clattered faintly against stone. “Didn’t want the first time we spoke face-to-face to end with you running off. Took long enough to find you as it was.”
He reached the edge of the spring and knelt, attention shifting as he leaned down to retrieve the music box.
That’s when you struck.
You surged from the water in a burst of speed and fury, claws flashing, aimed straight for his throat. You would tear into him, use his flesh to haul yourself up, drag him down into the spring where he would thrash and weaken and bleed. You would take what was left of him back to your sisters as leverage.
Your claws did not sink into skin. They rang sharply against metal instead.
The shock jolted up your arm, wrong and jarring, and before you could recover, something solid met your chest. It was not a strike. It was a controlled shove, almost gentle in contrast to the fury driving you forward.
You were sent backward, water closing over you as you splashed into the pool, breath knocked loose from your lungs.
When you looked up, he was crouched at the edge of the spring, unruffled. A heavy pistol rested easily in one hand, the metal box of music in his other. He watched you with a knowing smirk as you struggled to piece together what the hell had just happened.
“Well damn, darlin’,” Benn drawled. “Even a man like me appreciates a little warning before things get that intense.”
CW: NSFW // oral sex, shameless dirty talk, Doflamingo is a menace
———
Shanks:
Swears it’s a hangover cure, and this man is hungover every single morning. He’ll wake up with a pounding headache, and before he’s even opened his eyes, he’s reaching for you. He’ll paw at you like a lazy animal until you remove your panties for him and he can fall face first into your delicious cunt. He’s trained your cunt like Pavlov’s dog, too, so that you wake up wet in the morning, your clit throbbing like an alarm clock.
“Always ready for me,” he’ll mumble in his raspy morning voice. “Nice and wet. That's my girl.”
You actually get a rash on your inner thighs from his stubble constantly rubbing against your sensitive skin, and you have to sheepishly approach Hongo for some sort of cream. Hongo has been on the Red Force long enough that he’s not phased, though you are so embarrassed you try to ban Shanks from going down on you for a while (spoiler alert: it doesn’t work).
“I’d rather lose my arm than skip breakfast.”
He’ll spend most of his time between your legs licking with broad strokes of his tongue, only pointing it and attacking your clit when you’re already on the brink of orgasm. He’ll finger you as you cum and won’t stop until you’re a crying mess, begging him to stop. Of course, he’ll only stop for as long as it takes him to get his cock out and push it in.
Beckman:
"Come here, babygirl. That's it."
Beckman drinks your juices like a nightcap. He’ll put you on his desk, the moonlight filtering in through the window and a lamp flickering in the corner, and unzip his pants to give his massive erection some breathing room before turning his attention to his babygirl. He likes to start slow, taking his sweet time with your nipples and leaving a trail of hickies around them, before finally burying his face between your shaking legs.
“Give daddy a taste.”
He’s nice and sweet about it, but don’t think he won’t hold you down if you start to squirm around too much. He goes down on you like you need it, not like you want it; he goes down on you like it’s for your own good. It’s for his own good, too, that thing that takes the edge off and helps him wind down after a stressful day. He wants your legs wrapped around his head and your hands tangled in his long hair.
Oh, and he wants you to tell him that he owns you. Nobody else is allowed to taste your pussy; it's all his, and you'd better chant that while he draws your orgasm out of you.
Mihawk:
A proponent of fine dining.
Will eat you out on the table, which kind of makes you feel like he’s doing it in public because his dining room is so large and there are massive windows with no curtains covering them; his insistence on you removing every article of clothing, not just your panties, and sitting on the table, feet on the edge, holding your legs as far apart as they’ll go only makes you feel more exposed. All the while, he remains entirely clothed.
He’ll scold you if you wrap your legs around him. It’s his meal and he’s going to enjoy it precisely the way he wants, and the way he wants is uninhibited. He drags it out, too, edging you multiple times and lecturing you about delayed gratification if you complain. When he does finally allow you to cum, he tortures your clit for a moment after to be certain he saw you through your entire orgasm.
Other times, he’ll be sitting in his chair and see you walk by and say, “y/n, come here.” He’ll have you strip down before laying you on the coffee table and working an orgasm or two out of you. Enjoys it so much that at times when he’s training or preparing for something, he’ll ban himself from indulging in your pussy because he needs to be focused.
Crocodile:
Sir Crocodile has a big cock, but he normally stretches you with his fingers. Oral sex isn’t foreplay to him, it’s a separate thing entirely. He normally engages in it very late at night or very early in the morning when he’s exhausted and you’re half asleep. He’ll run his hand down your body, stopping briefly to massage your breasts, before pulling your legs apart.
“Wake up,” he might grumble in your ear. Or he might not, instead waking you up with a few kisses to your clit.
He probably kisses your pussy more than he kisses your mouth. He’ll make out with your leaky opening, swapping your juices for his saliva, part of him wishing he still had his other hand so he had more fingers to torture you with. But he’ll settle for one, going back and forth between your nipples and squeezing them until you cry out, then squeezing them some more.
He doesn’t talk to you while he does it, a far cry from how he mocks and argues with you during penetrative sex. When he’s in an especially bad mood, he doesn’t take his hook off, and you wake up with it pushing into the soft flesh of your thigh, a silent warning not to close your legs on him. And when he’s finished, he’ll push you back to your side of the bed without a word.
Doflamingo:
Part of being his toy means being tormented with his tongue. He has a fucking giraffe tongue, and he puts it to good use, often laying back in bed and making you ride it like it’s his cock, moving it out of the way and then making fun of you when you struggle. He makes you talk to him the entire time, and when you’re not sitting on his face, you have to make eye contact with him.
He’ll talk to you, too, and is so fucking patronizing.
“Use your words, little one. Come on, you can do it. Don’t tell me it’s too much for you.”
Uses a lot of different toys while he’s going down on you, typically a butt plug and nipple clamps. Has most definitely used a transponder snail to take pictures of your wet pussy, flush and swollen after he spent an entire afternoon tonguing it; the clicking sound of the snail camera was so humiliating but it made your pussy throb so much harder.
One of his favorite things in the world is tying you up with his strings and spitting on your cunt. He has, on a handful of occasions, tied you up and allowed his subordinates to lick your pussy, but never lets them taste your cum; right when you’re on the edge, he’ll take over and make them watch while he takes your orgasm all for himself, usually with his cock.
Corazon:
Eating your pussy is his stress relief. The number of times you burned dinner because you were cooking and he came home in the middle and bent you over the counter for an appetizer is unreal. He always apologizes, but he doesn’t feel bad enough to stop doing it; he can’t stop doing it. And you’d be cruel to make him considering you can feel the tension leave his body as soon as his tongue runs through your folds.
“I needed this so bad. Thank you so much.”
When he’s not bending you over a counter, he wants you riding his face, and none of that hovering shit, either. He’ll wrap his arms around your thighs and hold you flush against his face, moaning as he laps at your folds.
“I can tell you need it, too. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
He’s so sweet about it, it’s unreal. Smiles the entire time, places so many sweet kisses on your clit and opening. A big fan of the two finger and tongue combo. Can work an orgasm out of you in record time. Never fucks you without making you cum at least once on his tongue (he’s 9’7 and his cock is proportional).
Smoker:
Smoker almost always ends up eating his cum out of you. He’s gone for weeks, even months at a time, and when he walks through that door, you’re dropping your panties or he’s ending it all. He has so much pent up energy he absolutely has to fuck you, but that doesn’t change the fact that what he’s been jerking off to every night is the thought of tasting you.
“Don’t think for a second we’re finished yet.”
He’ll take breaks to kiss you on the mouth, making you taste yourself. And then he’ll work his way back down your body, leaving hickies on your neck and biting your nipples before he’s back between your legs again, pushing his tongue into your hole to get every last drop of both of your juices out, his thumb seeing to your aching clit.
You won’t even make it to the bed, he’ll just fuck you against the wall or on the counter and then drag you onto the floor to lick your cunt. He’s attempted to get you to the sofa before, but you just end up pushed against it while still on the floor, or else bent over the arm or sitting on the edge while he kneels between your legs.
Also, the two of you don’t shower together often, but for some reason, the times you do shower together, he always ends up with his face between your legs. You’ve wasted so much water because he can’t keep his damn tongue to himself. And when he’s finished, he always places a few sweet kisses at your entrance as if to reward you for behaving.
———
Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!
