Pirate law says don’t screw the crew. Beckman says: Not unless it’s him.
To gently encourage @jintaka-hane to never stop writing Benn Beckman.
Benn Beckman doesn’t walk. He arrives.
Every step is deliberate. Every movement measured, like he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second of it. He’s tall in the way that makes people straighten their backs when he passes, broad-shouldered and lazy-limbed like a wolf that hasn’t bothered to hunt yet. Everything eventually comes to him.
Salt-kissed hair falls in careless waves, streaked with silver at the temples in a way that shouldn’t be hot, but absolutely is. There’s stubble along his jaw, the kind that begs to be scraped against skin. His voice, when he actually chooses to use it, is low and smooth with just enough gravel to feel like sin you can’t afford but want anyway.
He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t need to.
One glance from under those heavy-lidded eyes and people either shut up, shape up, or rethink their life choices. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who could kill you with a look. He’d rather ruin you slowly though. A hand on your throat. A smirk at the edge of his mouth like the punchline to a private joke.
Always within reach. Cradled between his fingers or tucked into his mouth like a warning. He lights it lazily, exhales like he’s bored, and watches you like he’s anything but.
His lips are always slightly curled, like he knows something you don’t.
And his hands. Scarred, steady, infuriatingly controlled. The kind you imagine gripping the wheel of a ship or the curve of a thigh with the exact same precision.
Benn Beckman isn’t loud. He’s just there. In your space. In your thoughts. In your blood.
And if he ever really touched you?
You’re pretty sure the ship would burn down from sheer atmospheric tension. He wouldn’t even flinch.
He’s so hot. And it’s starting to make you a little pent up.
Especially since, you know, it hasn’t exactly been easy being part of his crew.
And that hypocritical asshole Benn Beckman?
Still has the nerve to act like you’re the one who can’t behave.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s doing it on purpose.
You know it. The crew knows it. Even the damn birds flying overhead know it.
Ever since you glanced, and yes, it was just a glance, thank you very much, at that long-legged mercenary in port (the one with the smirk and the suspiciously clean fingernails), Benn Beckman has made it his life’s mission to personally torpedo every attempt at affection in a fifty-nautical-mile radius.
Which would be fine. You’d respect the effort.
If it weren’t his rule. And if you weren’t quietly nursing the unspoken, increasingly loud need to climb him like a tree.
No crew hookups, he said.
No emotions. No entanglements. We’re pirates, not a soap opera.
No babies (Bold, and underlined three times)
He said it with all the smug wisdom of a man who could bed half the port with nothing but a smirk and a well-timed flash of abs. At the time, you thought it was pretty reasonable.
And yet, months later, you’re the one dry as the Calm Belt and twice as volatile.
A look. A step. That pipe leaned too casually on his shoulder as he just so happened to be standing between you and a promising flirtation. Then, almost lazily, he tapped the ash right onto the poor man’s sleeve.
No apology. Just a low, amused hum and a look that said, “Oops. My bad. You were in the way.”
You tried to sneak off during docking to meet that handsome tanner with the kind hands and the stupid, endearing laugh. Benn suddenly developed a deep, burning interest in knife-throwing drills. Right outside the exact door you needed to slip through.
You tried a drink with a sailor from another crew. Benn sat beside you without invitation, then proceeded to clean his pipe with the slow, deliberate menace of a man gutting a fish. Somehow, soot ended up directly on your date’s collar. The man excused himself immediately. You didn’t even get a sip.
You flirted with a charming rogue who wrote you a song. Benn whistled the same tune behind him. Off-key. Loud. Deeply disrespectful. The poor man gave up halfway through the second verse and muttered that he “wasn’t feeling it anymore.”
You chatted with a quartermaster from a supply ship. Benn strolled past, eyes flat, voice cool. “Didn’t know you were into men who can’t read a tide chart.” He was gone before the poor guy could finish blinking.
You danced. Just danced. With a noble in a tavern.
Half a spin in, Benn appeared like a mid-boss encounter. He stole the man’s drink right off the table, took a slow sip, then leaned in and muttered something so vulgar it made you blush. You. Who once out-cursed Shanks during a hurricane and won a bottle of rum and a lifetime of respect from Lucky Roux.
It was psychological warfare. And he was winning.
Of course they noticed. But they said nothing. They remembered the rule.
No emotional or physical entanglements within the crew.
For harmony. For professionalism.
Which would be fine. Noble, even. If Benn Beckman weren’t out here acting like you belong to him, without having the decency to follow through.
Every time someone flirts with you? Benn shows up. Every time you flirt back? Benn exists louder.
You haven’t even kissed anyone in months. Not a stolen kiss in a shadowed hallway. Not a drunken mistake after a raid. Not even a pity peck from a crewmate with too much rum and not enough self-preservation.
You’re going mad. Horny. Lonely. Emotionally blue-balled by a man who won’t even break his own damn rule.
He’s not possessive in a way you can fight. He’s calm. Polite. Maddeningly composed. No theatrics, no yelling. No sulking in the corner like a jealous idiot.
And it’s not even jealousy. He’s not possessive.
Casually. Constantly. Confidently.
You’re starting to think he’s enjoying it.
Every thwarted suitor. Every lingering stare. He plays the calm, superior puppetmaster of your dry spell every moment.
A silent, pipe-smoking shadow who somehow appears at just the right moment to obliterate your chances at intimacy like it’s a goddamn hobby.
You're not even sure why anymore. Does he think he’s protecting you? Is it some twisted sense of duty? Or is he just a power-tripping hypocrite who enjoys watching you suffer?
At this point, you’re not sure whether you want to slap him, kiss him, or set his stupid pipe on fire.
You flutter lashes. You laugh at jokes that aren’t even funny. You lean forward during card games and pretend not to notice when shirts ride a little low. You compliment knife skills. You fawn over his muscles. You even complimented a very unfortunate mustache because the owner had good calves.
Because Benn Beckman is everywhere.
Like salt in the sea, like mildew on wood, like some extremely judgmental barnacle that has emotionally latched onto your libido and refused to release it from the hull.
You try again with a visiting swordsman. A tall one. Sweet. Mutter's poetry when drunk.
Benn walks by mid-conversation, glances at your companion’s sword, and says, “Bit small for compensation, isn’t it?”
The man leaves instantly.
Then there's the shy medic from a nearby ship, who offers you flowers. Real flowers! You get one whiff before Benn “accidentally” drops his coat over them and says, “Allergic?” You aren’t, but the medic panics and runs anyway.
The next guy, you try to kiss. Try. You’re in a shadowed hallway, lips inches away, and a pipe taps lightly on the wall beside your head.
You both freeze. And Benn, not even looking at you, says casually, “Captain’s looking for you. You were going to report in an hour ago.” The man flees like a rat from a sinking ship. You’re left alone. Again. With a heat in your veins and a scream caught behind your teeth.
You really try to be normal about it, at first.
You flirt like a polite menace. You offer compliments. You even bake—bake—a pie for a carpenter who helped fix a busted plank near your quarters.
Benn drops the entire dessert into the ocean with a casual “Oops.” The carpenter pretends it never happened and never speaks to you again.
You flirt harder. You wear a necklace with cleavage implications. You lean against barrels in suggestive ways. You ask questions like “Do you believe in soulmates?” with all the sultry poise of a woman about to commit crimes.
Each time, Benn appears. Never angry. Never loud.
He looks at men like they’re bread left out too long. One man you try to woo tells you, “I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to be buried at sea.”
He gestures vaguely in Benn’s direction. “He looks like the type to anchor a man with weights.”
Eventually, you grow unhinged enough to ask Shanks for help.
Desperate times. Desperate measures. Spoon in hand.
“Shanks. I haven’t been kissed in six months. I’m going to throw myself off the side of this ship and hope I land on something hot.”
He doesn’t even blink. Just grins that ridiculous grin and takes a sip of his drink like you didn’t just declare a romantic emergency at sea.
“Sounds like you already did,” he says.
You throw a spoon at him.
Not hard enough to cause damage, but with intent.
He ducks, still laughing, and yells, “Yasopp, she’s officially snapped! We’re five days from a Beckman-related homicide!”
From the crow’s nest, Yasopp calls back, “I give it three!”
Down on the deck, Lucky Roux mumbles something about prepping a mop, just in case.
And somewhere behind you, you can feel Benn’s gaze burning into your back like a storm rolling in.
You’ve got at least one more spoon in your pocket.
And if he says something smug tonight, it’s going straight between his collarbones.
The celebration night starts simply.
Rum flows. Music plays. The Red Force is riding high off a fresh victory, and for once, you think…maybe tonight?
You wear your best shirt. The one that says, "I’m available, dangerous, and fully prepared to ruin lives with eye contact alone."
You lock eyes with a visiting sharpshooter. Dimples. Fast hands. Good aim. He makes a joke that’s actually funny, and you nearly cry from the sheer relief.
He invites you to dance. You accept before Benn can emerge from the shadows like the final boss of celibacy.
The deck glows with lanterns. The stars are bright. The music is rowdy, but melodic. The sharpshooter’s hands settle just right on your waist. Confident. Respectful. Warm.
You laugh at something he says. You lean in a little. It feels… nice. Not electrifying. Not dangerous. Just easy. Normal. The kind of moment you haven’t had in months.
He dips you in a practiced move. Eyes bright. Smile easy.
The air tightens. The laughter dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. The music still plays, but now it echoes like it’s coming from the bottom of the sea.
You don’t have to look. You feel it.
You turn your head just slightly. And there he is. Benn Beckman.
Leaning against the mast like he owns the moonlight. Not borrowed. Not shared. His.
His coat hangs open, sleeves pushed to the elbows like he just handled something violent or intimate—maybe both. The lantern glow catches the line of his throat, the edge of his jaw, the slow drag of smoke curling from his lips like he’s sculpting the tension on purpose.
Hair tousled by the sea breeze. Scar barely visible under the lamplight. Cigarette balanced between two fingers like a threat. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.
Not even looking at you. He’s watching him. The sharpshooter who unknowingly walked into his territory.
Assessing. Judging.Plotting a deeply personalized murder, with footnotes and a dramatic conclusion. Complete with a warning label and monogrammed body bag.
You try to ignore it. You force yourself to keep dancing. You laugh again, louder this time. Sharper. Petty. Just to prove you still have free will.
But Benn’s gaze doesn’t shift. He’s locked on you like you just committed high treason in full view of the mast. Like the moment you let another man’s hand touch your waist, you started a war.
The sharpshooter dips you again, still smiling, still unaware he’s dancing in a blast radius. You meet his eyes. And then, he kisses you.
Soft. Simple. Perfectly acceptable. You let it happen.
It’s not fireworks. It’s not poetry. But it’s something. And for one brief, fragile second, you think maybe the curse has been lifted.
But in your periphery, Benn straightens.
He moves with that infuriating calm. Like gravity, parts for him. One step. Two.
Towering. Broad-shouldered. All slow fury and sharp angles, radiating heat like he just walked out of a fight, or your last three fantasies.
His coat shifts with every step, open just enough to flash the knife-honed lines of his chest, sea-worn and sun-bitten. That scar along his side catches the lantern light, his cigarette glowing dim between his fingers like a fuse counting down.
His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, flick to the sharpshooter with all the warmth of a storm cloud about to ruin someone’s year.
Just close enough to make your skin burn.
The sharpshooter opens his mouth to say something.
But nothing comes out. Not a word. Not even a breath.
Benn doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
The look he gives is a sentence, a verdict, and a funeral all in one.
The poor bastard swallows hard, nods like it was his own idea to leave, and looks away so quickly you wonder if he regrets ever being born.
Benn turns to you. Slow. Unhurried. Dangerous.
His eyes drag over you with the weight of something that sees too much and dares you to flinch.
You say nothing. You can’t.
Not with the way your pulse trips in your throat like it forgot how to function.
He takes another drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on yours.
Then he exhales. Smoke, silence, and something that coils in the air between you like a wire pulled too tight.
But your whole body knows he could.
You’re not sure the ship would survive it.
You’re not sure you would.
Benn doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It slices through the music like a blade to canvas; clean, cold, and final.
Your poor dance partner releases you like you’re made of dynamite. He takes one last glance at Benn, stammers something about needing another drink, and vanishes like a man fleeing death.
You turn. Jaw tight. “What is your problem, Beckman?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You.” His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.
“You and your damn flirting. You and every bastard who thinks they can put their hands on you.”
The words hit like a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving.
You’re too stunned to speak. Too furious to breathe.
And then he steps closer. Too close.
Close enough that the scent of smoke and sea salt curls into your lungs, warm and dizzying. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’s been holding back fire, and you’re the match that finally struck.
His eyes never leave yours. They’re dark, hungry, infuriating. And his voice drops. Smooth. Dangerous. Unapologetic. The sound of a man who’s done waiting, and doesn’t give a damn about consequences.
Your voice is low. Shaking. With rage. With exhaustion. With months of unmet needs and tension wound so tight it’s a miracle you haven’t combusted on the spot.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in, all six-foot-something of sun-bronzed, scar-marked, sea-weathered menace, radiating heat and bad decisions.
His shirt’s open at the collar, the dip of his throat catching the lantern glow. That scar along his ribs was just visible beneath the edge of his coat. His hair was tousled like he had just rolled out of someone’s bed, his cigarette was forgotten between two fingers, and smoke was curling lazily past lips you’ve spent far too long imagining.
And his eyes, dark, hooded, locked on yours with the precision of a man who already knows what you taste like. A man who could wreck you with a look. A man who is.
He steps closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough that your breath stutters, and your pulse has nowhere to run.
“You’re not mine.” He breathes the words like a vow, slow and deliberate. Low enough that they settle against your skin. “But if I’m not allowed to have you—no one is.”
Silence. Around you. Between you. Like the moment before a storm breaks. Still, sharp, electric.
And he just stands there, too good-looking to be legal, with the firelight turning him into temptation carved from smoke and salt and every bad idea you’ve ever wanted to make twice.
Someone drops a mug. Somewhere, Shanks mutters, “Thank the sea gods—I was two weeks away from staging a fake wedding.”
You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.
It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. It’s months of frustration. Of sabotage. Of cockblocking so relentless it deserves its own bounty poster.
It’s a collision. Of ego. Of need. Of finally.
And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting, like every smug look, every quiet stare, every damn lit cigarette was just foreplay he’d been layering like kindling.
You don’t remember how you ended up below deck. One second you’re biting his lip; the next, there’s a wall at your back and Benn’s hands at your hips, kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s been starving. For you. Specifically.
He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t rush. He devours with the steady, unhurried confidence of a man who’s thought about this in excruciating detail.
Later, when you’re pinned against a storage crate, breathless, barely dressed, and actively questioning your spinal alignment, you pant against his throat.
“Is this against your rule?”
He doesn’t even pause. Just mutters against your skin, warm and wicked: “An exception.”
Clothes? Gone. Pipe? Dropped and probably rolling somewhere beneath a barrel. Your dignity? Folding like a busted card table.
You moan something that might be his name or might be a new swear invented on the spot, probably one the crew will adopt out of context.
He kisses your throat again, biting this time. A warning or a reward. Then mutters, “New rule. Just for you.”
“What’s the rule?” you pant, somewhere between delirious and ready to throw him down again.
His mouth brushes your jaw as he grins, slow and cruel in the best way: “No one touches you but me. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically. Twice on Sundays just to be sure.”
You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re too busy making absolutely sure he never rewrites that rule again. Possibly ever.
Up above, the crew takes bets on how long you’ll last before you both break something important.
Shanks wins. He bet on ten minutes and a broken table.
You wake up in a supply room. Naked. Sore. Smug.
And unfortunately? So is he.
Benn Beckman, in all his post-sin glory, is still half on top of you. Bare chest rising and falling, scarred and golden in the early light slanting through the hull beams. His hair’s a mess, his lips are kiss-bitten, and one hand is still resting possessively on your hip like he’s asleep but ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong.
And he’s hot. So hot it’s personally offensive.
The kind of hot that should come with warning signs. All long limbs, sharp edges, and that low, lazy strength that screams if you run, I’ll catch you—and not in a healthy way. Even now, bruised from your fingernails and still smug from last night, he looks like he walked straight out of your most unhinged fantasy and into a problem.
You glare at his perfect jawline and whisper:
“You’re still an asshole.”
He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just smiles, the smug bastard, and murmurs,
“You can glare all you want. Doesn’t change who you woke up under.”
The worst part? You can’t even pretend to be mad. Not when your legs are still jelly. Not when his scent is still warm on your skin. And definitely not when his hand is still resting exactly where it shouldn’t be, curled possessively on your hip like he knows you’re not going anywhere.
Because you’re not. Not yet. Not when he’s this warm, this close, and just barely awake enough to be soft about it.
You sigh. "You’re lucky you're pretty."
He grins without opening his eyes. "That’s not the only reason you kept me."
You smack his chest gently. Mostly.
Upstairs, Shanks updates the crew manual.
Section 6B now reads:
Crew fraternization is forbidden.
Addendum: Unless your name is Benn Beckman and you're a tall, pipe-smoking menace with sniper eyes and slutty forearms.
In which case, fine. But at least pretend you’re conflicted, you smug bastard. Also, buy her dinner, you coward.
