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).
Whitebeard: sees right through you and laughs fondly, then gives in to whatever you want (he loves spoiling you)
Marco: is never fooled, and will only relent if he's tired or overwhelmed by his work (you give up quickly, he's no fun compared to the others)
Ace: falls for it so easily, he hates to see you upset and is clueless when it comes to manipulation (you sometimes feel a little bad for tricking him)
Jozu: is confused because he knows you're not genuinely upset, but gives in because he doesn't like to see you cry
Thatch: falls for it every time and always gives you the most dramatic reactions, he's the most fun to mess with and he never makes you feel bad for tricking him
Vista: knows you're playing with him (most of the time, you can fool him if you try hard enough) and will sometimes tease you a little before giving in, too happy to see your sad pout morph into a pretty smile
Blamenco: laughs at your antics and will placate you with some strange trinket or little gift he keeps in his many magical pockets (you can't trick him, but you'll still get a little something from him)
Rakuyo: 50/50, he's either completely fooled or calls you out on your lies with a loud cackle
Namur: does not understand your strange displays of fake emotions and will call someone else for reinforcement (if he gets Marco you're getting scolded, if he gets Thatch or Ace you're getting your way)
Blenheim: it depends what you're crying for, he tries to be reasonable and not spoil you as badly as the others, but he can't really resist your teary eyes and pouty lips
Curiel: so easy it's almost too easy, he caves in immediately and is one of the reasons Blenheim tries to be more stern
Kingdew: he doesn't understand what there is to cry about, and your little show doesn't work very well on him so you give up after a few disappointing attempts
Haruta: becomes very uncomfortable when you start crying, and it became more fun to try to make him cringe rather than try to get your way
Atmos: chuckles at your little show because his younger brothers tried that on him many times before, and you're no better than them (he thinks you're very cute so he will still spoil you, don't worry, he'll just make you work extra hard for it)
Jiru: frazzled and worried he'll get in trouble for making you cry, so he tries to remedy the tears immediately, which makes him both an easy and fun target
Fossa: is never fooled but always gives in with a heavy sigh, then gently reprimands you for trying to trick him like that (which Blenheim always tells him is pointless, since Fossa keeps rewarding your behavior)
Izou: unsurprisingly, he is never fooled, no matter how genuine you try to appear, and unlike Fossa he doesn't reward your attempts and will wait until you calm down to respond to your request
Roger: falls for it soooo easily, despite Rayleigh's assurances that you're tricking him, but will try to comfort you instead of giving you what you want
Rayleigh: chastises you and refuses to give in, so you don't often try that trick on him unless Roger is nearby
Gabban: laughs at you and then gives you tips to put on a better show and be more convincing (and will probably give you whatever it is you came crying for, he doesn't care either way)
Shanks: is (almost) never fooled by you, but can't resist spoiling you despite Beckman's admonishments (sometimes you really do fool him, and his crew will laugh at him for a while)
Beckman: responds with tired silence and tries to patiently lecture you, but his efforts are thwarted by his captain (and in the end he loves the smile you give him when you get your way)
Buggy: panics and gives you random things before finally listening to you and giving you what you wanted (you'll leave with an extra carnival plushie, balloons, candy, coins, whatever was in his pockets, and what you initially wanted)
Mihawk: your attempt to fool him is endearing, and he might let you work for a bit before either caving in or denying your demands (it's always worth a shot, you never know what mood he'll be in)
Crocodile: hates it when you cry and will throw expensive things at you to get you to stop, he doesn't really care if you're genuine or not, he just wants you to stop
He shifted in the bed, tucking you closer to his chest as though that would help at all to soften the argument from outside. “My children?” he repeated, voice thick with sleep.
You huffed and shifted around in his arms, giving him a look that he probably couldn’t even see in the dark room. “They’re in the hall,” you pointed out. “And it’s the middle of the night.”
“And what do you want me to do about that, love?”
“Make them quieten down.”
He grumbled something under his breath but pushed himself upright, taking most of the warmth with him. You immediately stole his side of the bed, pressing your feet into the heat he’d left behind.
The door creaked open and a strip of lantern light stretched across the floorboards. Two familiar voices rose with it, Buggy sharp and indignant and Shanks whispering just loudly enough to make everything worse, before Rayleigh cleared his throat and the hall went blissfully quiet.
“Can you two go fight outside the captain’s room instead? His snores will drown all this nonsense out.”
“But he was in my bed!”
“Buggy said –”
“If it’s not life-threatening, I don’t particularly care. Somebody else in this room is still a little sick and doesn’t appreciate being woken up.”
“Fuck off,” you muttered. “I got over that cold last week.”
Two heads emerged around the cracked-open door a second later, expressions carefully quiet as they peeked toward your bed. You sighed and lifted your head slightly from the pillow to look at both of them.
They both cautiously tiptoed over and Rayleigh, like the traitor he was, let them both in.
“Are you dying?” Buggy asked.
“Yup,” Rayleigh said with a smile you knew meant trouble. “She’s developed a chronic allergy to loud noises. Too many and she’ll just drop.”
You rolled your eyes but unfortunately, the two young boys were far too tired to distinguish lies from truth and both of their expressions fell.
“What?” Buggy exploded. “But we live on a pirate ship! Old man, you better take her off right now before the Marines attack again! She’s going to die from the first cannon going off!”
“Buggy!” Shanks whispered, still far too loud. “You’re shouting!”
“I am not!”
You groaned and reached out to catch Buggy by the wrist. He squirmed like an angry cat as you dragged him onto the mattress and tucked him beneath your left arm, pulling the blanket up around him before he could wriggle free.
“There,” you said. “Now sleep. Shanks won’t bother you.”
Rayleigh cleared his throat. “Love, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re bringing the noise source into our bed.”
Buggy was settling though, still muttering under his breath about angry old women, but quieter. It was the easiest way to stop him from flopping around like a dead fish.
“I know,” you said. “But it took you too long to make them quiet so I’ll do it. Go to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep in your stupid bed!” Buggy barked even though he’d stopped squirming and was now lying deathly still.
“Allergic to loud noises,” you mumbled.
You glanced toward the edge of the bed to find Shanks staring at you, a small smile on his face. You sighed and shuffled closer to the wall, moving to your back.
“Fine.”
He immediately scrambled over both of you, causing another round of protests from Buggy that you hushed with a sharp pinch to his cheek. Shanks tucked himself between you and the wall, clearly smug and you put a hand on his head before he started anything.
Rayleigh closed the door to the hall, sending the room into the darkness. “My kids, hm?”
“Loud noises,” you told him even though he was, by far, the quietest person in this room. “Buggy, if you don’t stop kicking, we’re all going to sleep on the floor. Shanks, stop antagonising him.”
“I’m not!”
“You are. Sleep facing the other way.”
“But I don’t like sleeping that way!”
“Too bad.”
Rayleigh chuckled softly. “I’m not sure there’s space for me anymore.”
“There is. Just don’t squish one of them.”
You didn’t remember exactly when you fell asleep but the next morning, you woke up to find Buggy snoring half across your chest, both arms wrapped around Shanks. You grumbled at the weight, moving him to the side so they were lying together before you shifted closer to the warm chest next to you.
Rayleigh brought an arm around you, pulling you closer to him. “I don’t like having kids in our bed,” he mumbled. “They move around too much.”
“They’re your kids,” you said.
“Roger found them. They’re technically his.”
“Roger couldn’t keep a fish alive if he tossed it in the ocean.”
Rayleigh chuckled softly and moved you slightly more onto his chest, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of your head. “Is this a one-time thing or do you plan on kidnapping them every time they fight at night?”
“It shut them up quickly,” you pointed out. “Faster than you did it.”
“You could have given me a minute before snatching one.”
“A minute was too long for them to still be talking.”
Of course, your peace could hardly last forever because no sooner had they woken up than they started arguing again. Though thankfully Rayleigh handled it with a warning tone that had them both scrambling for the door even if that meant you got stepped on a little.
You’d almost forgotten about his tease from the previous evening until you reached the breakfast table. Roger was already laughing heartily but the moment they saw you, both kids launched at him, angrily hushing him.
He caught them on instinct, freezing up at their insistence. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re going to kill her!” Buggy snapped. “She’s allergic to loud noises!”
“You have to laugh quieter,” Shanks implored.
Roger looked over to you and you shrugged.
“Can’t be helped, can it doc?” you asked, looking at Crocus. “Just came upon me last night when I heard some yelling in the hall.”
He scoffed. “Sounds more like a hangover. But if you want an allergy, have an allergy.”
Buggy pointed at you. “You can’t be hungover! You weren’t drinking yesterday!”
“No,” you confirmed.
“See!” he implored Roger, shaking the captain’s coat.
Roger was trying his hardest to hold in his laughter, chest shaking with the effort that only redoubled when he met Rayleigh’s eyes. That did nothing to soothe the children’s panic as they looked toward the first mate.
“I do prefer her alive,” he acknowledged.
“Boys,” you said before one started getting properly upset. “Get off the captain. You can climb all over him again when you’ve eaten your breakfast.”
They listened, despite their glares.
You put their plates down a good distance apart and Shanks immediately tried to move his closer to Buggy’s. You sighed and sat between them on the bench before that could turn into a fight. They’d really been riling each other up something awful lately.
Rayleigh leaned over you to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Should I get you something to eat, darling?”
“I would appreciate it.”
He hummed in a way that said far more than words. You gave him a look and he smiled placatingly as he stepped away.
“Are we docking today, Captain?” you asked.
Roger was slowly turning red in the face from his desperate attempts not to laugh. The moment you looked at him, a half-stopped chuckle managed to break through, loud enough that Buggy immediately jumped up and tried to cover your ears. Shanks did the same a second later and that broke every ounce of self-restraint left.
Roger laughed louder than you’d heard him before, a deep, belly-aching sound that bounced around the dining hall. Both kids pushed harder against your ears to try and stop you from hearing it.
You sighed and took your plate from Rayleigh as he sat across from you, smile amused. You mouthed your thanks and waited for the captain to be done, wondering if you should stop this little deception or if it would turn out useful.
By the time he’d managed to calm down, the children were complaining almost as loudly as he had been laughing, something you could absolutely still hear through their tiny hands.
“Boys,” you said and they both quietened. “Breakfast. Now.”
They both glared at the rest of the crew before they let you go. Rayleigh held out a napkin and you used it to wipe some food from your cheek. You caught Shanks’ hand before he could go back to his plate and cleaned off his fingers.
“So, land today?” you repeated.
Roger’s grin looked almost painful. “Yes, we’ll dock,” he said. “Think we need to restock on some good drinks. All we got left in the hold is that swill from two islands ago.”
“She’ll be staying on the island,” Buggy said confidently. “Because pirate ships are too loud. Especially with you here!”
“Is she now?” Rayleigh asked. “My bed’s going to be awful cold then. Maybe I should see if I can win myself some company for the night.”
You gave him a sharp look. “Not without me there, you won’t.”
He smiled. “That would be even better.”
“You’re staying on land?” Shanks asked. “But you belong on the ship. You can’t just stay here.”
“I’m not staying on a random island,” you corrected him. “I’m just going shopping. And I’m taking you two with me because you’re needing new clothes. Look at the tear in your shirt.”
“Just keep an eye out,” Roger noted, a slight seriousness bleeding into his tone despite his smile. “We’re expecting you-know-who to try again soon.”
Your lips twisted into a slight grimace but you nodded.
“Who?” Buggy asked. “If it’s that stupid Marine again, I’m not scared. He doesn’t stand a chance!”
You didn’t answer, just pulled Shanks a little closer and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He frowned up at you, clearly confused by the sudden affection. You squeezed his shoulders and made as though you were untangling a knot from his hair.
“Nothing you two should worry about.” You looked up at Rayleigh. “Are you coming with?”
He nodded. “Of course. I can’t expect you to watch both of them by yourself.”
That reassured you considerably. Managing two seven-year-olds was easier with him there, but it was more than that. He carried himself with such unhurried confidence that most people with sense knew better than to come too close.
By the time the Oro Jackson eased against the dock, the afternoon sun had turned the harbour bright enough to sting your eyes. You caught the straw hat before the wind could carry it into the water during the squabble on deck and planted it on the wrong child’s head as you walked past, ordering both of them to follow you.
Shanks snatched it back immediately, glaring at Buggy as though the theft was his fault.
“How loud is too loud anyway?” he asked as he hurried to catch up to you on the gangplank. “Because it’s really loud here. And one of the ships blew its horn.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s too loud.”
Rayleigh caught your arm before a porter shouldered past with a crate and guided you to his other side, placing himself between you and the busiest part of the dock. The boys fell into line at your heels, still yapping at each other over who had nearly lost the hat as Rayleigh’s hand settled warm and steady over your lower back.
“Thank you,” you hummed, leaning slightly into his touch.
“I don’t see why they’re only mine,” he said, voice low against your ear in a very distracting way. “The rest of the crew deserves some of the blame.”
You leaned slightly against him. “Are you this scared of fatherly responsibility, love?”
“All I’m saying is they haven’t learned their poor manners from me.”
“Are you certain? Because that hand of yours seems to be forgetting we’re in public.”
“Hm?” He hummed innocently and made no move to remove it from where it was slipping further down your spine.
You checked over your shoulders to make sure the boys were still following and hadn’t been distracted by anything. It would have to be an early night for them if everybody was going to go out drinking.
You found yourself rather looking forward to it when Rayleigh was touching you like that.
“Want to flip a coin for Buggy?” you asked. “Then we’ll meet for an early dinner afterward.”
“I’ll take heads.”
It was tails. Sometimes you really benefited from his gambling luck. You smiled innocently and tucked the coin back into your pocket.
“Shanks, you’re coming with me, okay? Buggy, you’re going with Rayleigh.”
“What? Why?” Buggy complained loudly. “I don’t even need new clothes!”
“Yes, you do and because I said so.”
Shanks smirked proudly. “It’s because I’m quieter.”
“No! You’re way louder than me!”
“Funny,” Rayleigh chuckled. “Seems neither of my kids want to go with me.”
“For the same reason the others don’t go shopping with you,” you pointed out. “You get too distracted when you find things you want me to wear. Although, I’d save your money for this evening. You’re not getting anything more when you blow it.”
He leaned closer, stubble tickling your cheek as he kissed the corner of your mouth. “I shouldn’t have wasted all my luck getting you. I have none left for the tables.”
You laughed at the flattery. “Still a no, but with such nice words, you may get lucky tonight no matter what the cards say.”
“Is that so?”
There was a shout and you sighed, looking over at the two boys before they got into a proper fight. “Come,” you said. “The faster this is over with, the faster we can go find something to eat.”
Shanks was a delight to shop for most of the time. Mainly because he didn’t really care about clothes as long as they were loose enough. You were just grateful that you didn’t have to shop with Buggy who was an absolute menace. Still, Rayleigh had a bag and a sulking child when you met up with them again, which was the best possible result.
The boys didn’t seem too interested in eating though as they both immediately fixated on a group of children playing in the square outside.
“They’re racing,” Shanks said excitedly.
You looked over and hummed, taking a seat at one of the tables. “They are. Don’t start any fights.”
The two of them grinned at each other in a way that made you severely doubt your request would be followed but they both bolted before you could give them further orders. You shook your head and Rayleigh settled into the seat next to you.
“They’re going to start a fight.”
“At least it will be over there,” you said. “I’m not responsible when they’re over there.”
You nudged his knee with your own and he caught it before you could pull it back, thumb brushing idly over your thigh as his hand slid higher.
“Behave,” you warned.
“I’m doing nothing.”
“That hand moving on its own?”
He looked down as though surprised to find it there. “Strange.”
You tried not to smile too obviously when your drinks were brought. Beyond the server, you spotted the boys both arguing over positions on the starting line and you sighed, raising your voice just so before they began elbowing.
“If you don’t behave, you’re not allowed to race anymore!”
They both immediately froze, looking over at you and slowly lowering their arms. They didn’t answer, but their argument dissolved into quiet muttering instead. You shook your head and thanked the server for your drink.
“Those two yours?” she asked, amusement warming her expression.
“They are,” you agreed.
She laughed and moved away.
The race began and you left them to it, deciding that you could handle the problems that came when one won later. They were considerably faster than most of the other children so you had no doubt it would be one of them.
You looked back toward Rayleigh when he lightly squeezed your thigh, his smile small but unbearably pleased.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling far too smugly for it to be nothing.”
“I’m having lunch with a beautiful woman. Surely, I can enjoy myself.”
You shifted closer, catching his jaw to bring him in for a quick kiss before you grabbed his hand and slid it back down to a much more appropriate spot on your knee.
The racing continued far longer than it had any right to. Shanks kept edging ahead of the starting line whenever nobody was looking and Buggy blocked anyone who came close enough to pass him, both of them shouting accusations the moment another child returned the favour. They were pirates. You could hardly expect anything better.
By the time your food arrived, they were red-faced and dusty. One of the parents who had organised it called them over for a small prize and you laughed, watching as they ran back at full force to where you were sitting, each gripping one side of something fluffy.
“We won!” Shanks announced.
“I won!” Buggy corrected.
“I helped!”
You nodded to their plates. “Eat now. You can fight later.”
They looked at each other and then, with matching pride, they held out their prize toward you. A pair of thick, fluffy earmuffs.
“They block noise,” Buggy said.
“For your allergy,” Shanks added.
Rayleigh snorted next to you and you kicked his ankle. “Were there no other prizes?” you asked.
“They were the only good ones,” Buggy huffed.
You took the earmuffs carefully. They were a little too large for you and the fur was an alarming shade of purple but both boys were grinning as though they’d just brought back the best treasure across the Grand Line.
“You won these for me?” you asked.
“You need them,” Shanks said.
You put them on. They were more for keeping your ears warm than they were for blocking sound but you smiled at both of them.
“Perfect.”
Shanks beamed and Buggy’s chest puffed up. You caught both of them before they could escape and pressed a kiss to the top of their dusty heads.
“They’re sweaty,” Rayleigh commented.
“They’ll just have to bathe later.”
Buggy immediately started protesting the idea of him being sweaty while Shanks stayed exactly where he was, clearly pleased with himself. They both settled in to eat and you were certain it wouldn’t be long until they were far too tired.
Your assumption proved true before you’d even finished paying. Buggy’s chin kept dipping toward his chest between bites while Shanks had gone boneless against the back of his chair, one dusty hand still curled around the edge of the table.
You looked at Rayleigh and he only shook his head, already amused. It took more effort than you expected to lift Shanks from his chair. His legs hung lower against yours now, his weight settling solidly into your arms in a way it never used to, and a faint sadness pressed beneath your ribs. You weren’t going to be able to carry him like this for much longer.
He curled into your chest on instinct, his cheek warm against your shoulder, asleep before you had properly settled him. Rayleigh tucked Buggy beneath one arm and gathered the shopping with the other, the boy’s soft snores almost lost beneath the noise of the square.
“They absolutely cheated,” you mentioned as you walked back.
“Of course. They’re pirates and they’re yours. You always cheat at cards.”
You shifted Shanks a little higher against your chest and smiled. “Oh, do I now? Or is that just you being distracted when I wear something low-cut enough?”
“I can’t help what I’m weak to,” he said. “But they didn’t learn to play dirty from me.”
You brushed some dirt from Shanks’ cheek as best you could because they probably weren’t going to be awake enough to bathe that evening.
“At least it’ll make them good pirates,” you said. “Though they are ours. I wouldn’t expect anything different.”
“Thought they were mine.”
“They are.”
Rayleigh chuckled softly. “Alright. As long as you’re not wanting a third, I think I can accept it.”
- Benn lies on his stomach when he lies with you in the night, he has a few back problems with age and experience of being a pirate,
- Keeping that rifle steady and his shoulders squared whilst hes covering Shanks during enemy and ally encounters has done some damage,
- Benn usually slings an arm over your lower back, his calloused thumb rubbing patterns across your skin to help you fall asleep, moving his hands soothes him too. Hes always doing something with his hands, either cleaning his rifle, or pulling the ropes for the sails, or dragging you by the collar back to his side when a stray bullet hits,
- The pillows are covered in grey hairs, Benn always takes his low ponytail out when he goes to sleep, its long so sometimes you even braid it loosely to help him fall asleep when his back is giving him problems,
- Benn's voice is more raspy in the morning, his left eye always cracks open first, half lidded as he grins, watching you wake up,
"Mornin y/n, ready to face the day? Captains gonna be making barbeque out of that crews ship"
- Benn always makes the bed in the morning, sometimes, on the very rare occasions that Benn's tired, youll do it and pull the blanket back over his as you go on deck to get a few tasks done to make his day easier,
- Shanks has a habit of putting his cold feet by yours in the morning, usually to test if you're still aslewp so he can blame you that hes stayed in bed a bit longer, cat rules, he cant move because hed disturb the cat (you),
- Usually it ends up with you kicking him under the covers and he laughs,
- Shanks always sleeps shirtless so its usually soft muscle that you wake up on, Shanks is usually pretty cold so its damn good to sleep next to him with all of the summer weathered islands,
"Haha! Ow y/n, cmon! Im cold, you wouldnt hurt me, im your captain!"
- As much as the Red Haired pirates are usually quite chaotic, Shanks enjoys the peaceful and slow mornings immensley when your asleep beside him,
- Shanks, my my, that man loves to be the little spoon,
- Why the hell wouldnt he want to lay in your arms, with his head against your chest,
- Shanks' crimson eyes are half lidded as he just keeps his arm around your waist, feeling the blanket get pulled over his shoulders again,
- Usually Rayleighs cloak is draped over you when your asleep in his arms, Rayleigh always wears boxers and just a white linen shirt,
"Hmm, keeping it warm for me love? Good"
- Rayleigh sleeps on his back, with his arm around your waist, his other arm rested behind his head,
- If Rayleigh wakes up before you, hes usually reading some book that the Roger pirates had nabbed,
"You're staring again"
- Rayleigh says, a smirk on his lips, getting up,
- Rayleigh always has messed up hair in the morning, when he eventually gets up and pulls his cloak from the floor, he licks his hand and slicks his hair back, cracking his sword welding arm and pulling his glasses on, only to readjust them, and then take them off to clean them,
- Rayleigh makes a habit of pulling your shirt back over you in the morning, usually kissing your collarbone before buttoning up the rest and grinning,
- Off to deal with whatever nonsense the crew was getting up to next,
- Its quiet in the mornings at Shakky's bar in Sabaody, as with age, well, what's more to do whilst you wait then drink and share memories? So you were both hungover,
- Rayleigh finds it hard to sleep without the rocking waves, even all these decades later, he still misses the creaking wood planks of the Oro Jackson,
- But the quiet after a hangover? Maybe he was a bit thankful for that, and you still in his arms of course, though, Rayleigh usually sleeps on his side now, his arm usually rested under your head, his head rested against your upper back,
"Y/n, my arms going numb"
- But he never makes any attempt to move, you're no fool, age may have made Rayleigh age, but his body was still more put together then people believed,
- Sometimes Rayleigh presses a few kisses them. The long beard hed grown usually making you shift from how it tickled your skin,
- Rayleigh still pulls the cloak over you, still makes that same damn joke, Rayleigh won't admit it, but he really does like feeling the warmth of you when he wears it,
- This man has biceps that could crush mountains, let alone his axes, he always sleeps only in his boxers,
- There is no way that you are getting out of the cuddle in the morning until he wakes up. That man has a death grip on you lol,
- Gaban's axes are always rested by his side of the bed,
- Gaban usually drops his sunglasses on the nightstand or he just forgets to take them off all together and sleeps with them on,
"Ugh, damn things"
- Hed grumble as he goes to rub his eyes and ends up poking himself in the eye by pressing his fingers to the lense of his glasses,
- Gaban likes sleeping so hes facing you, laying on his side as he keeps you close, your head rested against his chest,
- Gaban is a deep sleeper, he doesnt wake up until he feels something off, or something coming, there have been moments where he has accidentally slept in and had to fight in his damn underwear before,
"Tch, we dont talk about that sweetheart"
- Is all Gaban says, as he can hear you start laughing, those encounters are something that the crew teases him about, but even then? Theres a sharp grin as he 'scolds' you,
- Gaban will quietly tap some sort of secret language that you'd both made up during your time together on your thigh to test if your still asleep, if you laugh? Then he knows you're not, if you dont? Then that means he gets a bit longer in bed,
- Gaban lies on his stomach now, man needs a damn hydraulic press on his back, and you my dear, will be his makeshift hydraulic press now. Sometimes you will press your elbow into part of his shoulder blades and hell groan as he wakes up, relief flooding through for a bit,
"Thanks sweetheart, thats been bothering me for a while"
- Gaban claims he is still the big spoon, absolutley no way would he ever be the little spoon, but over the years? He has become the little spoon, he loves it when you lay across his back, your head resting on his upper back as you sleep,
- Gaban keeps a calloused hand on your leg when you both cuddle. Your leg rested by his hip, usually he drags you by the leg, grinning like a moron as he drags you onto his back,
"Cmon. Time for bed."
- Gaban grunts and squints whenever the light filters in, he wakes up at the first light, usually leaning his head back and craning it over his shoulder to kiss you in the morning,
- Every morning, without fail, Gaban will defintley make some sort of sex joke, theres no escape and their always so bad,
- Roger keeps his chest pressed to your back, his head rested on the crook of your neck, the hairs from his moustache usually irritating your skin or tickling it,
- Roger is a stupidly tall man, so one of his legs is always hanging out from the blanket,
"Mhn. Ready for another adventure? We're getting close now, I can feel it. Just a bit longer"
- Roger would say as that sleep, wide grin would grace his lips,
- Roger usually drapes his cloak over you both to act like a blanket, that was in the very early days of the crew before you had done a marine raid and grabbed a few blankets for the boat,
"Stay a while love, Captain's orders"
- Unfortunately Captain's orders meant fuck all when he gets up pretty much immediately because Rayleigh and Gaban can only enable him with so much nonsense,
- As Rogers illness sets in, he starts sleeping on his back, sleeping on his side makes him cough more and you had found a few straw pillows to help prop him up,
- You'd rest your head near his heartbeat. Making sure you can still hear it but making sure your not putting pressure on anything,
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)
Silvers Rayleigh x Reader
Length 11.5 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Human Trafficking, Physical Assault, Canon Typical Violence, Threats and Coercion, Telepathy, Classism, Arranged Marriage, Age Gap
for @hiimhappysblog
Next
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
The rain on Sabaody always smelled like metal. It clung to the air, sharp and restless, sinking into your clothes until it felt like you were breathing rust. Tonight, it made the alleys shine like oil, black and slick beneath the sprawling roots of the mangrove trees. Every drop that fell seemed to echo, like the whole archipelago was holding its breath.
You waited beneath the roots, watching the shapes move through the fog. Three of them, just as promised. Bounty hunters. You could tell by their posture before you even saw their faces. Men who strutted instead of walked. Men who carried weapons not for protection but for pleasure. Confident, careless, the kind of predators who thought cruelty was simply another cost of doing business.
The oldest one stepped forward and tossed a coin purse into the mud. It hit with a wet thud. “Payment first,” he said, voice rough and disinterested, like he’d said the same words a hundred times before.
You bent to pick it up, careful to keep your head low. The weight was right. Heavy enough to pass, though you knew it would barely buy back half the freedom he was about to sell you. Behind him, the second man shifted, and you caught the faint sound of a chain sliding over his glove. It set your teeth on edge. You didn’t look at him. You’d learned long ago that looking was an invitation.
You’d done this before. Dozens of times, in back alleys and forgotten groves. Buy what you could. Bribe whom you couldn’t. Pray that the ones you freed made it onto the ship waiting at Grove Twelve before anyone noticed they were gone. But tonight something felt different. Wrong in a way you couldn’t name. Maybe it was the way the fog swallowed sound, or the way the oldest hunter smiled too easily, like he already knew the ending to a story you hadn’t even started telling.
“Where are they?” you asked, your voice steady despite the cold rain trickling down your collar.
“In the cart,” he said, jerking his chin toward the wagon half-hidden in the mist. The tarp covering it was soaked through, sagging under the weight of the rain. “Four of them. Two adults, two kids. Fresh catch from the West Blue.”
The words made your stomach twist. Fresh catch. He said it like he was talking about fish, not people.
You stepped closer, hand tightening around the pouch in your coat. The mud sucked at your boots, and for a moment, you could hear the faintest sound from beneath the tarp—a cough, a muffled sob, or maybe just your imagination.
You handed over the second pouch of berri. The leather was slick beneath your gloves, the rainwater seeping through the seams, mixing with the sweat on your palms. You could feel your pulse in your fingertips. The man caught the pouch one-handed, his movements easy, practiced. He didn’t bother looking at you. His gaze lingered on the wagon instead, as if the sight of it entertained him more than the deal itself.
He weighed the pouch in his palm. The coins inside shifted with a dull, rhythmic clink that felt louder than it should have in the quiet between you. Then he smiled.
It wasn’t the kind of smile meant for business. It was slow, oily, the kind that stretched too far across his face without ever touching his eyes. It was the smile of a man who’d already decided how the night would end.
“Pleasure doing business,” he said finally.
But he didn’t move toward the cart.
You waited. The rain came harder, drumming against the mangrove roots overhead, seeping into the mud until it sucked greedily at your boots. Water ran down your spine, cold enough to make you flinch. Somewhere nearby, the wind rattled through the hollow roots like a sigh. From farther off came the faint echo of a tavern trying to drown out the weather, music, and laughter carried thinly on the storm.
Still, the wagon didn’t move. The shapes beneath the tarp stayed silent, still as corpses.
“Open it,” you said, forcing your voice to stay level.
The man with the chain shifted closer. You heard the slow drag of the links as they scraped together, each one glinting wetly in the lamplight. His smile was smaller but meaner. “No rush,” he said, his tone deliberately light, playful in the way a cat plays with something dying. “You in a hurry, sweetheart?”
The word landed like a slap.
Your throat went tight. You took a slow step back, heel pressing into the mud until it squelched beneath your boot. The mangrove roots loomed behind you, their slick bark closing off your escape. The shadows there were deep and still, thick enough to swallow light whole.
Your stomach turned to lead. You knew a trap when you saw one. You’d walked into plenty before: Marine stings, bounty ambushes, crooked smugglers who’d sooner sell you than trade with you, but something about this one was colder. More deliberate.
“Where are they?” you asked again, quieter now, every syllable laced with warning.
The man’s grin widened, showing a mouth full of yellow teeth. “Gone,” he said easily. “Sold ’em half an hour ago.”
You blinked once, the words slow to sink in through the rain. “You sold them?”
He shrugged, the motion lazy, rolling the chain between his fingers like a pet snake. The links whispered against his glove, wet iron glinting under the faint lantern light. “Not my fault you’re late.” His eyes dragged over you, taking in the cut of your coat, the leather at your belt, the tremor that ran through your stance. He tilted his head, the grin widening until it was nothing but teeth. “But don’t worry,” he said softly. “You’ll make a fine replacement.”
The other two moved in without a word. The space between you shrank fast, the smell of rain and sweat and gun oil thick in your nose. Your hand went for the pistol at your hip, the cold weight of it a small comfort in the chaos. You barely had the grip before the nearest man slapped it away. The weapon hit the mud with a dull splash, spinning once before it disappeared under the water pooling at your feet.
One of them reached for your arm. You swung instead, grabbing at the coin purse and using it to crack against his jaw. The seam split, coins scattering like a burst of dull stars. He staggered, but only for a second, then laughed through blood and rain.
“Feisty.”
“Let me go.”
“Not yet.”
The chain lashed out before you could move again, snapping around your wrist with a sting that tore through your glove. You twisted hard, but the cuff only bit deeper, cutting into the skin beneath. The nearest man shoved you back, driving your shoulders into the mangrove trunk behind you. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. Bark tore through the back of your coat, splinters scraping skin as the roots dug into your spine.
“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said, his breath hot and sour against your cheek. “Now, why don’t we make this easy? Take off the necklace. Earrings too.”
You froze. “What?”
“Your jewelry,” he said, tapping the chain against your throat. Each tap left a faint red mark on your skin. “All of it.”
“It’s worthless,” you managed.
He smiled, slow and cruel. “Then you won’t mind.”
His hand came up, fingers finding the clasp at your neck. You jerked back, but the chain around your wrist held tight. The necklace broke with a sharp metallic snap, the sound cutting through the rain like a gunshot. He let it fall into the mud and moved for your earrings. You felt the sharp tug, the flare of pain as metal tore free, the wet warmth of blood running down your ear before the rain washed it away.
The men stepped back, admiring their work.
“Look at that,” one said with a low laugh. “Didn’t even fight.”
“Gullible little thing,” another added, voice thick with amusement. “Must be nice, thinking everyone plays fair.”
You said nothing. The air tasted like rust. Your pulse roared in your ears. Your hands trembled. Not from fear, but from the cold that had started to spread through you. It began where the chain had touched your skin, a creeping chill that slid down your throat, curling beneath your ribs until it felt like the world itself was narrowing around you.
The rain blurred their faces until they became little more than shapes in the fog, smudged silhouettes moving against the glow of the lamps. The light wavered, thin and sickly, like it, too, was afraid of what lingered beneath the mangrove roots. You could hear your own heartbeat beneath the storm, steady, angry, and growing louder with every breath.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell too fast, the ache in your ears sharper than the sting of their laughter. It echoed through the hollow space under the roots, bouncing off wet bark and slick stone until it felt like the whole grove was mocking you. You wanted to spit, to curse, to draw your gun from the mud and remind them who you were, but the words stuck behind your teeth. The air was too heavy to breathe, thick with iron and ozone and something you couldn’t name.
Then it happened.
The world pulled sideways.
The sound of the rain warped, dulling into a low hum. Every noise. The laughter, the wind, the waves all folded in on themselves until it felt like the air had been scooped out of the world. The ache in your chest deepened, sharp and electric, until it felt as though something inside you was cracking open, spilling light into the dark.
And then, beneath the storm, you heard it.
A voice. Quiet. Rough around the edges. “Is this…?”
You froze.
It wasn’t spoken aloud. You would’ve sworn it came from inside you. The words brushed against your thoughts like fingertips tracing fogged glass, gentle and searching.
“I can feel your panic,” it said, low and certain. “Are you okay?”
Your breath caught. You stumbled back, boots sliding in the mud. The rain hammered harder, each drop like a nail against stone. The bounty hunters were still laughing, still talking, but their voices had turned distant, muffled, as if you’d fallen underwater.
The voice came again, clearer now, threaded with calm authority. “You’re bleeding.” A pause, soft but heavy with something ancient and unfamiliar. “Where are you?”
You didn’t understand what you were hearing. All you knew was that something vast and old had stirred awake inside you, something that hummed in your bones and behind your eyes like the vibration of a blade drawn from its sheath.
The world snapped back into focus all at once. The rain. The roots. The men closing in again. There was nothing to lose, and if you were going crazy, you’d do it in style.
You could taste blood in your mouth, salt and iron, and for the first time that night, you weren’t afraid.
“Sabaody, in Grove Eleven!”
You thought it as loud as you could, half expecting nothing, half praying for a miracle. The thought tore through you like lightning, bright and desperate.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the voice shifted, warmer now, closer. “Good girl. Now stay calm, and share a visual of what’s happening.”
Something unseen stirred in the air, a ripple that cut clean through the rain. The nearest bounty hunter frowned, glancing over his shoulder as if he sensed a shadow move behind him. The storm had changed. Each drop seemed slower, heavier, stretching in the lamplight like time itself had thickened.
You could feel him then, whoever he was, threading through your thoughts with calm precision. His mind felt steady, practiced, like a man who had been through worse storms than this.
“Three of them,” he murmured in your head, reading the scene through your eyes. “Oldest one’s armed on the left hip. The chain, don’t fight it. Loosen it.”
Your breath caught. You swallowed hard, the rain cold against your tongue. “What are you?” you thought, dizzy from adrenaline and disbelief.
“Someone who hates seeing good people cornered,” came the dry reply. “When I tell you, duck.”
The bounty hunter with the chain leaned closer, his grin twisting as he yanked your wrist upward. “Thought you could buy freedom with pocket change? You’re lucky we don’t sell you instead.”
“Now,” the voice said.
You dropped.
The chain snapped upward, catching only air. You didn’t understand what had happened until you saw it.
The chain had struck the lamp behind you, snapping back with brutal force. The iron links whipped straight into the bounty hunter’s face. His smirk froze, and he dropped, crumpling into the mud with a wet thud.
The others turned sharply, shouting, their boots slapping through puddles as they tried to make sense of it. You stumbled back, heart hammering so loudly you could barely hear the rain.
“Good,” the voice said inside your head, calm and certain. “One down. Two left. Keep moving, to the left.”
You flinched, gripping your wrist where the broken chain still hung. “How—”
“No time,” he interrupted. “They’re circling. Step left.”
You obeyed without thinking. A blade flashed past your cheek, close enough to cut a strand of your hair. The man who swung it cursed, overbalanced, and slipped in the mud.
“Now run,” the voice ordered. “Keep to the roots. Stay low.”
You bolted. The mangroves loomed like pillars in the fog, their roots slick and tangled, the air alive with the sound of pursuit. Mud splashed up your legs, cold and thick, but you didn’t stop. The voice in your mind stayed with you, steady and unhurried, as if this were all routine.
“Left again. There’s a slope ahead. They’ll try to cut you off. Take the incline, not the path.”
You skidded up the embankment, boots sliding, breath burning your throat. Behind you, one of the men shouted that he saw you. A shot cracked through the rain, splintering bark inches from your shoulder.
“Don’t panic,” the voice murmured. “Let them aim where you were, not where you’re going. Keep your head down and count to three.”
You did. One. Two. Three.
The roots ahead shifted beneath the waterlogged ground, a slow, creaking sound like a groan from the earth itself. The mangrove dipped with the weight of the storm, sending a surge of muddy water over the hunters below. They swore, blinded for an instant.
“That’s your opening,” the voice said. “Go.”
You sprinted. The fog opened for a heartbeat, revealing the faint shimmer of a narrow walkway leading toward the distant grove. Lantern light glowed in the distance—Grove Twelve, where your bon chari bubble bike would be waiting. You could almost smell the salt of the sea beyond the storm.
“Don’t stop until you’re inside,” the voice continued. “These are the type to hold a grudge.”
You vaulted over a broken railing, your coat snagging on a root before tearing free. Behind you, someone shouted, or maybe just cursed. You didn’t turn to find out.
The rain pounded harder, stinging your face, but the voice remained calm, close, almost at your shoulder now.
“You did well,” he said quietly. “Keep moving. Stay low and steady.”
You stumbled once, nearly falling, but the path leveled out beneath your feet. The glow of the grove widened ahead, lanterns swaying in the wind. You didn’t dare look back.
You reached the edge of the walkway, chest heaving, heart wild. The storm swallowed everything: the shouting, the waves, even the sound of your own footsteps. All that remained was the voice in your head, steady and low, a single calm note against the chaos.
“Almost there,” he said, gentler now. “You’re safe for tonight.”
The path curved beneath the hanging roots, slick and glistening like veins under glass. Lanterns swung in the wind, their flames stuttering against the downpour. You slipped once, your boot skidding over the slick planks, and caught yourself on a railing slick with moss. The wood creaked under your weight. Every breath came out white and shaking.
Then, through the veil of rain, you saw the bon chari, half-submerged beneath the mangrove roots. Its round hull reflected the lantern light, gleaming like a glass trapped between worlds. The propeller fins turned lazily in the current, waiting.
You slid down the slope toward it, boots splashing through puddles, mud clinging to your clothes. A shadow passed overhead—just a bird, you hoped—and then the wind shifted, carrying the smell of salt and metal. Your hands fumbled with the latch, numb from cold, but the hatch gave way with a hiss of pressurized air.
You climbed inside and sealed it shut behind you. The outside roar vanished instantly, replaced by a muffled hum. The sudden quiet felt almost violent after the storm. The air was warm, dry, and faintly sweet with recycled oxygen. The walls glowed with soft amber light, the kind that made it hard to tell where the machine ended and the sea began.
The bon chari rocked once, as if testing your weight, then began its slow ascent. The shift in pressure made your ears pop. You pressed your palms against the glass dome and watched the world sink away.
The roots disappeared first, their tangled shapes swallowed by darkness. Schools of tiny fish scattered from the glow of your vessel, flashing silver as they darted into the murk. Bubbles rose around you like drifting stars.
For the first time since the ambush, you exhaled. The sound came out shaky, uneven. The silence that followed pressed around you, heavy and unreal, the kind of silence that felt alive. You rested your head against the glass, watching the mangrove roots fade into the dark below, their long shadows vanishing into the still black water.
You leaned your forehead against the glass. The faint warmth of the interior seeped into your skin, a small mercy after the cold bite of rain. Beyond the dome, the mangrove forest faded into shadow, its roots stretching down like the fingers of some ancient god. The faint hum of the vessel blended with your heartbeat until you couldn’t tell which was which.
Your reflection hovered over the dark water, pale and ghostly. Mud streaked your cheek, and blood still clung to the torn edge of your ear where the earring had been ripped away. You reached up to touch the spot, and your hand trembled.
Only then did the weight of what had happened start to settle. The fact that you were unharmed at all felt impossible. Every nerve in your body buzzed with leftover adrenaline, every breath sharp as glass.
You closed your eyes, letting the soft hum of the bon chari’s engine fill your ears. It was rhythmic, almost soothing, a mechanical heartbeat against the chaos that had come before. The storm was still raging above, its muted thunder rolling through the water, but down here in the dim cocoon of the vessel, it felt distant. Safe, almost.
From here, it was supposed to be a simple trip. Up through the roots, across the shallows, and straight to the glass-fronted hotel where you were expected to be fast asleep—warm, dry, respectable, and not soaked in mud and blood, not trembling in a smuggler’s pod beneath the sea.
You let out a soft, humorless laugh. The sound fogged the glass.
Then, quietly, the voice returned. “You made it.”
You startled, eyes flying open, searching the cramped cabin as if someone might be hiding inside. “You’re still here?”
“I hope so,” he said, voice warm and edged with dry amusement. “If the rumors are to be believed, I’d say I’m here for good.”
You blinked, breath catching. “Rumors?”
“That soulmates exist,” he said. “And that when one of them nearly dies, the other tends to notice.”
You pressed a hand to your chest, the faintest tremor running through your fingers. “Soulmates? You’re joking.”
“Not at all,” he said with a soft chuckle. “But I think we can both agree this isn’t the usual way to meet someone. So, my dear, you are in Sabaody then. I suspect you don’t normally reside on the lower piers.”
You sank back into your seat, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “So this isn’t… my head being unusually useful?”
“Just a bit,” he said gently. “But also me. You’re loud, by the way. I could feel you halfway across the sea. Probably for the best, seeing the trouble you were in. Soulmates then.”
You huffed, torn between indignation and relief. His tone carried an easy confidence, the kind that came from someone who had seen far too much and found very little left to fear. He was calm, measured, and, you suspected, far too perceptive for his own good. You got the sense he was humoring you, careful not to push too hard.
“I suppose not,” you said, managing a weak smile. “And you seem awfully composed for someone who just had a stranger crash into their head.”
“Ah, but you didn’t crash,” he said lightly. “You knocked. Quite insistently, I might add.”
You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. The glass beneath your palm vibrated with the steady hum of the ocean current. “Perhaps… you could tell me where you are?”
“New World,” he replied, and you could hear the soft sound of waves threading through his words. “A week or so from Sabaody, give or take. Calm waters tonight. Stars are out.”
The image was so vivid you could almost see it: the dark expanse of the Grand Line stretched around him, the soft roll of the deck beneath his boots, salt wind tangled in his hair. A man alone on the sea, half a world away, speaking as though he were standing beside you. Dangerous waters, and potentially, a dangerous man.
“The New World?” You thought, oddly elated, “What do you do?”
“Sailing.” He replied quickly, “How are you feeling?” he asked, voice quieter now.
You looked down at yourself. Your gloves were still smeared with mud. The fine hem of your coat was torn where the mangrove bark had caught it, and a faint bruise was already forming where the chain had bitten into your wrist. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, hollow-eyed, and very small.
“In one piece,” you said finally, your voice thin but steady. “Somehow.”
“Good,” he said, and there was genuine warmth in the word. “You did well. Most people freeze in their first real fight. You kept your head.”
You almost laughed. “Barely. Normally, the slavers are so consumed with greed at the sight of berri that they just let me be, but I got cocky going out after dark myself.”
“Very much so,” he said, amused. “But the sea favors the stubborn.”
You found yourself smiling, despite everything. Something in his voice reminded you of the ocean itself. Deep, unpredictable, and strangely kind beneath its roughness. The bon chari continued its quiet ascent, drifting upward through the calm dark. The light from the groves began to pierce the water above you, soft and green, like sunlight seen through glass. The hum of the engine had steadied, low and rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Would you…” Your voice came out small in the silence. “Would you tell me what you mean by soulmates?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. You heard only the whisper of waves through the connection, the faint creak of a ship somewhere far away. Then his voice returned, warm and amused. “Ah. So you truly don’t know the stories.”
“I know of them,” you said. “Children’s tales. Myths for sailors and lovers who can’t bear the silence.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps they’re a little truer than most would like to admit.” His tone softened, edged with something older, deeper. “Two halves of a soul, parted in birth and found in life again, if the world is merciful. That’s the short version.”
You let out a breath that was more a laugh. “And which half are you, then?”
He chuckled, the sound low and rough, like the sea rolling against the hull of a ship. “Not to reveal too much of myself, but I have been waiting for you for a very long time.”
Your breath caught. “Waiting for me?”
“Aye,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Long enough to think perhaps I had dreamed it all. Then tonight happened, and I hear a voice in my head calling from Sabaody, angry, frightened, alive.”
You pressed your palm against the glass, the faint vibration of the current humming beneath it. The world outside blurred in motion, streaks of green light drifting through the water like ghostly veins. The reality of the moment wavered, fragile as a reflection in the sea.
“Are you sure you’re not just a hallucination?” you whispered.
He laughed softly, the sound warm enough to chase away the cold that still clung to your skin. “If I am, then you’re a very convincing one too.”
You flushed, torn between disbelief and something perilously close to wonder. “It’s unbelievable,” you said, your voice catching somewhere between awe and exhaustion.
“It’s rare, yes,” he admitted. His tone softened, as if he were smiling. “But not impossible. We’re talking now, aren’t we? The connection must have been blocked until something jolted it open.” He hesitated, thoughtful. “Jewelry, maybe?”
Your heart sank. The earrings—The necklace.
They appeared in your mind instantly, the small gold set your mother had left you, worn smooth at the edges from years of use. They had been her pride, a token of old money and old love, the last real piece of her you had left. You remembered how the gold had caught the light when she laughed, how she’d fastened the clasp at your throat before her last voyage. You had worn them every day since she died until tonight.
“I… left them behind,” you said quietly. The words trembled as they left your mouth, the images of the jewelry flashing in your mind. “They took them.”
“I thought so,” he said, his voice low, threaded with sympathy. “If they were lined with seastone, that would’ve masked the bond. The moment you lost them, it opened up.”
You sat there, staring at your reflection in the curved glass, the bruise forming at your wrist, the smudge of dirt on your cheek, the space where stone should have glinted. The truth of it settled like a weight in your chest.
“They were the only thing I had left of my mom,” you said softly.
“I know,” he murmured. “But oftentimes disappointment leads to opportunity. Perhaps they were meant to keep you safe until now.”
You swallowed hard, the ache behind your eyes sharp and sudden. “Safe,” you echoed, the word hollow. “That’s a generous interpretation for having a man in my head.”
He chuckled gently, the sound rich and unhurried. “You’re alive, aren’t you? Despite being capable of speaking across the sea with this strange man. How old are you, darling?”
You let out a shaky laugh, the kind that came more from exhaustion than amusement. “Old enough to know better than to answer that question,” you said.
“Ah,” he replied, voice teasing but kind. “Smart and evasive. Good. You’ll need both.”
Despite the ache in your chest, a small smile tugged at your lips. The bon chari continued its slow ascent, the pressure easing as it rose. Above, the faint green glow of the groves brightened into something closer to daylight, the promise of safety shining through the murky water. You couldn’t see him, this man whose voice filled your thoughts, but somehow, he felt real. Solid. A thread of calm woven through the storm still echoes in your bones.
You swallowed hard, the words rough in your throat. “Who are you?”
There was a pause, the faint creak of rope and the roll of a wave through the connection, as if he’d turned to look out over the sea. “Rayleigh,” he said finally. “I’m a sailor. First mate on a ship out of the West Blue. Nothing glamorous, but it keeps me busy.”
A sailor. The simplicity of it made you smile. He said it like someone who had stopped needing to prove himself long ago. His voice carried the ease of someone who’d seen too much of the world to be shaken by much anymore.
“Rayleigh,” you repeated softly, tasting the name like salt on your tongue. “Thank you. For saving my life.”
“I can’t take much credit,” he said, amusement curling around the edges of his words. You could almost hear the smile in his voice, the faint lilt of someone who found joy in understatement. “I would have preferred to be there myself—It puts a bad taste in my mouth to think what could have happened. However, you are clearly exceptionally capable. I just gave you a nudge in the right direction in a tight spot.”
“Some nudge,” you murmured, leaning your head against the glass. “You might’ve just saved my life.”
“Then it was an exceptional introduction for the two of us,” he said lightly, and somehow, even with an ocean between you, you could feel him smiling. “Just imagine our first real meeting.”
You blinked and took a breath.
“Meet?”
Rayleigh paused for a moment, as if he had been taken a little off guard.
“Is there a reason we shouldn’t?”
You hesitated, fingers tracing the condensation on the bubble glass. “I can’t have a…romantic soulmate.”
“Oh?” He replied, thoughtfully, “Are you married already?”
“Oh, no, but I am expected to marry wealthy,” you said quietly. “Very wealthy. My family’s arrangement, duty, and all.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he chuckled, low and good-natured. “Duty’s a hard thing to argue with. But I’ve learned not to fight fate too much.”
“Fate is a fancy excuse for poor decisions,” you replied, “I prefer carefully weighing fair odds.”
He chuckled.
“I can see I’ll have my hands full.”
You sniffed, regardless of the smile at the edge of your lips. “You’re welcome to think so, Rayleigh.”
The buzz between you flared brightly as he hummed at your voice, wrapping around his name.
“Rest easy tonight, my dear,” he said at last, his voice softening. “We’ll figure it out—The sea’s funny like that. It always finds a way to bring people together.”
The connection faded again, gentle as a tide going out. You sat in the quiet of the bubble, the hum of the current beneath you, your hand still pressed to the glass.
By the time the bon chari reached the upper docks, dawn was still a whisper on the horizon. The rain had eased to a mist, leaving the world washed and gleaming beneath the mangrove lights. You slipped out unnoticed, coat drawn close, keeping to the back paths that wound between the roots and bridges of the upper groves.
The hotel came into view just as the sky began to pale. Its glass walls caught the faint light like a mirage, reflecting the glow of the sea below. You entered through the servants’ corridor, moving quietly past the night clerks who were too tired or too polite to ask questions.
Your father’s suite was still dark. You could hear his heavy breathing from the next room. The deep, rumbling sleep of a man too accustomed to comfort to imagine danger could reach him here. You paused at his door for a moment, watching the faint flicker of the den den mushi lamp through the crack, then turned away. He didn’t need to know what had happened. Not yet.
In your own room, you peeled off the wet clothes, leaving them in a heap by the wash basin. The mirror caught your reflection: hair tangled, bruises shadowing your wrists, a cut along your collarbone where the chain had grazed you. You looked like someone else entirely. Someone who had crawled up from the ocean floor.
You washed in silence, scrubbing away the mud and blood until the water ran clear. When you finally sank into the bed, exhaustion swallowed you whole. The sheets were warm, scented faintly of sea salt and expensive soap.
But sleep didn’t come easily.
Your mind kept circling back to him. Rayleigh. The stranger who had spoken inside your head as if he had always been there. His voice lingered, low and steady, like the echo of a tide against stone. You found yourself reaching for it, testing the edges of whatever this connection was.
It wasn’t hard to feel where he was. His presence sat like a faint light across some vast distance, dim but steady, just beyond the edge of your thoughts. You could sense him, close enough that, if you reached out, you might find him listening.
Experimentally, you drew a boundary in your mind. A wall, gentle but firm, separates your mental space from his. You thought of it like a street between two houses: yours lit and quiet, his across the way, windows open but respectful. If you called out, he would hear you. But unless you did, he stayed still.
The first few times, you could feel him testing the edges of it too, careful not to push. A ripple of thought brushed against yours, polite, restrained.
“Can you hear me?”
You smiled faintly in the dark. “Only if I let you.”
“Good”, came his quiet reply. “Your mind is a beautiful thing. Keep it well guarded.”
You felt the faint pulse of warmth before he pulled back, retreating to his side of the current.
You turned onto your back, staring at the ceiling as the first light of morning crept through the glass. Somewhere far out at sea, you imagined him standing on a deck, watching the same dawn you were. It was a strange comfort, this tether between two strangers, and stranger still how natural it felt.
Before sleep finally claimed you, you caught the faintest trace of his voice again, softer than a sigh.
“Rest easy, darling. I’ll keep watch from here.”
-X-Strange Happens-X-
You and your father were in Sabaody on business. That was the official reason, at least.
He owned one of the largest shipping companies in the South Blue—Chevel Maritime Trading—its name painted in gold on the sides of every vessel that left your family’s docks. The company specialized in high-end cargo: fine silks, aged wines, preserved fruits, rare teas, and other luxuries that found their way into the hands of nobles and Celestial Dragons. Half the Grand Line relied on your father’s ships to deliver indulgence and elegance to their tables.
Your father handled the visible side of things. The handshakes, the dinner parties, the kind of meetings that required charm, wit, and a well-rehearsed smile. He was good at it, too. He could flatter a broker or a Marine officer with the same polished ease, and people often mistook that warmth for naivety. It was a mistake that always worked in his favor.
You preferred the quieter part of the work. You managed the ledgers, balanced the accounts, monitored the freight manifests, and tracked the shifting tariffs of every island your family traded with. Numbers made sense to you. They stayed honest. They never smiled to your face while plotting behind your back. It was your handwriting on every agreement, your careful arithmetic that kept the company running as smoothly as its finest ship.
It had been your idea to come to Sabaody this time. The new Grand Line tariffs were being renegotiated, and several Celestial brokers had suggested that your family’s participation might help smooth the transition. You had agreed. Partly out of duty, partly out of curiosity. You liked Sabaody in theory: the glowing mangroves, the luminous air, the way the city seemed to float between sea and sky. But every visit reminded you how thin that light really was. The wealth shimmered above while the lower groves sank deeper into decay.
You were staying on Grove Fifty, in one of the high-rise hotels that overlooked the shipbuilders’ district. He liked to say that proximity to power was good for business. You knew better. You preferred to stay behind the scenes, focused on balance sheets, listening to his smooth voice through the walls as he entertained clients with imported wine and exaggerated laughter.
It was strange, then, to think how close you had come to being taken beneath those same mangroves last night. The irony of nearly being sold into slavery on an island famous for its auctions was not lost on you.
As light filtered through your window, you could hear your father stirring in the suite next door. His voice carried through the thin partition, smooth and composed, speaking with the staff as though nothing in the world had shifted overnight. He requested his morning papers, the latest trade reports, and a fresh pot of coffee from South Blue beans. Beneath it all, you could hear him humming under his breath, some old sea shanty he used to sing when you were small, back when ships still smelled of salt and wood instead of polish and perfume.
For him, the world had already settled back into its usual rhythm. He would attend his meetings later, dressed in fine wool and confidence, his cufflinks glinting like coins in sunlight. He would shake hands with brokers and investors, speak about supply lines and tariffs, and boast that his ships were the most reliable on the seas. And you would be there beside him, quiet and composed, ledger in hand, ready to fill in the numbers that turned charm into profit.
He didn’t need to know what had happened. Not yet. How could you possibly explain it? The voice that had spoken to you through the storm, calm and familiar, as if it had always been waiting for you? A voice that now lingered faintly at the edge of your thoughts, polite but present, as if standing just outside a doorway and waiting to be let in.
The only difficult thing to explain that morning had been the absence of your mother’s necklace and earrings. You had told your father you’d misplaced them, perhaps left them behind when you packed. He had frowned but said nothing, though you’d seen the disappointment in his eyes. Those heirlooms had been part of your family’s image, symbols of old wealth and respectability. To appear at breakfast without them had been careless. To him, it was just another sign that you were too absorbed in numbers and not enough in presentation.
If only he knew.
You stirred your coffee in quietness as he read the morning paper, every page rustling like a secret you could not share. If he ever discovered where you had really been last night, what you had been doing while he drank wine with shipwrights, it would ruin everything.
No respectable company dealt in idealism, and certainly not in rebellion. The Celestial brokers were ruthless, their wealth built on chains. To expose yourself as someone freeing the very slaves they auctioned would destroy your family’s business, your father’s reputation, and your place in a world that rewarded silence.
You stared into your cup, the dark surface reflecting the faint shimmer of light through the window. The scent of rain still clung to your hair, sharp and metallic. You could almost feel the mud on your boots again, the weight of the chain around your wrist, the cold voice that had cut through the storm to reach you.
Most of the week passed in a blur of business. Your father spent his days in meetings, shaking hands with Celestial brokers and high-ranking traders, securing new contracts and polishing old ones. You followed where expected, sitting through dinners where every smile was a transaction and every toast a performance. When you weren’t by his side, you worked quietly in the hotel’s study, balancing ledgers, reviewing cargo reports, and arranging shipments bound for Marie Geoise.
But you sent others to handle the work that mattered most: the work he could never know about. You met your intermediaries through coded notes and discreet messengers, coordinating what you could from the shadows. The networks you’d built were fragile and small, but they had saved lives. This time, though, success was harder to come by. The markets were shifting, the buyers growing paranoid, and the smugglers who had once taken your bribes now looked over their shoulders before meeting your gaze. You were losing ground, and you knew it.
“Why do they matter to you?” Rayleigh asked one evening, his tone thoughtful, not accusing. “The slaves?”
You froze, your pen hovering above the inkpot. The question hung there, suspended in the quiet of your room, calm and curious; the kind of question only someone who already suspected the answer would dare to ask.
Outside, the city murmured. Sabaody was never truly silent; even at night, the groves hummed faintly with life, the soft pulse of air bubbles and distant laughter from the taverns below. The lamplight shimmered across your desk, catching the edges of open ledgers and the faint glint of gold ink pressed into the paper margins.
You set the pen down slowly, the faint scent of ink and salt mixing in the air. “Because someone should care,” you said at last. Your voice came out quieter than you intended, steady but tired. “My mother cared.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. You could feel him there, far away yet somehow close enough to touch, his attention steady and deliberate. It wasn’t prying, only listening, the way a sailor listens to the sea before it changes course.
You leaned back in your chair, tracing the ink stain on your thumb with your opposite hand. “She used to smuggle food to the servants when she thought no one noticed,” you continued. “Said that being kind was the one rebellion we should strive for.”
There was a faint pause before he spoke again, his voice softer now. “She was a brave woman.”
“She was,” you whispered. “And foolish. It got her killed.”
The faint hum of the bond shifted, like the sound of waves retreating from the shore. You could almost feel the wind over distant water, a breeze carrying sympathy from somewhere far away.
“I’m sorry,” Rayleigh said quietly. “Loss has a way of carving into us, refining us.”
You huffed, trying to laugh, but the sound came out uneven. “It’s nothing. It’s pathetic, really. She did so much more. I just push numbers around and pretend it makes a difference. People who have far less than I.”
“Most people in your position wouldn’t risk it,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful again. “They’d look away. Your desire to honor her and do good is commendable.”
You tipped your head back, staring at the ceiling. The light from the mangroves outside filtered through the curtains, painting faint ripples across the walls. “I wasn’t raised to look away,” you said quietly, “but looking doesn’t stop it from being wrong. And it doesn’t excuse me for staying silent when it’s convenient.”
You could feel his presence shift again, patient and listening, as though he wanted to reach through the space between you but knew better than to try. The hush between you stretched, filled only by the faint scratching of the pen you still held and the slow rhythm of your own breathing.
“Would you choose freedom?” he said at last, his tone measured, quiet enough that you almost thought you’d imagined it. “If it meant leaving what you have now? To live free and help others, but be poor as a sailor?”
The question rooted itself deep in your chest, heavy and dangerous. You stared at the ledger before you, at the neat columns of numbers that represented your family’s fortune, your father’s empire, your inheritance. The ink shimmered faintly in the lamplight, each mark a record of the life you were supposed to protect.
“Is this a hypothetical question?” you asked, setting the pen down. Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Or is this a soulmate pitch?”
For a heartbeat, the connection was silent. Then came his laugh; low, genuine, and unmistakably amused. It rolled through your mind like distant thunder, warm enough to make you forget for a moment that you were speaking to someone a sea away.
“A pitch?” he said. “I can see I’ve met my match. I apologize for being so transparent. Do I sound like I’m trying to convince you?”
“You sound like you might be,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Freedom, purpose, noble causes. It’s a very persuasive combination. All things you think you can offer the strange woman in your head.”
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But no, it’s not a pitch. It’s a question. Soulmates or not, you strike me as someone who’s been living inside the same cage for a very long time. Someone who is pushing a token effort for real change, but missing the mark.”
You leaned back in your chair, the leather creaking quietly under your weight. The lamplight shimmered in your teacup, the faint steam curling upward like smoke. Outside, the mist had begun rising, a soft whisper against the window that made the world feel smaller, more private.
“It’s a comfortable cage,” you said at last.
“That’s the most dangerous kind,” Rayleigh said softly. “The ones built of silk and gold are harder to escape than iron.”
You let out a quiet hum, neither agreeing nor denying, your gaze drifting back to the ledger on your desk. Every column was perfect, every figure precise, the numbers a reflection of the life you had built, or perhaps the one built around you.
The ink glimmered faintly in the lamplight, each mark a promise you had made to keep the machine turning, to play your part in a world that rewarded obedience. And yet, somewhere deep inside, his words had lodged like a splinter. A small, aching wound, impossible to ignore.
You closed the ledger gently, as if afraid of waking it. “Even cages can provide use, if you know how to work them,” you said quietly. “Protection, safety… boundaries.”
He laughed, the sound soft and genuine, carrying through the bond like the faint roll of waves against a hull.
“My apologies,” he said, the warmth in his tone unshaken. “I can see that I’ve crossed a line.”
You almost smiled. “You’re remarkably self-aware for a man prying into another person’s head.”
“I try to be polite,” he replied. Then his voice softened, losing its humor. “You feel like a mystery, you know. A secret I’m trying to unravel, but also a comfort I’ve been missing. A piece of me I always knew was gone and didn’t realize could be found again. Makes a man half-mad, having a comfort like this.”
You froze, every thought falling silent for a beat. His words sank through the quiet between you like stones into water.
Until he said it, you hadn’t realized it yourself—that the feeling wasn’t one-sided. His presence had settled into your mind like something natural, inevitable. It wasn’t loud or demanding, but steady, harmonic, like the sound of a piano key being tuned to its perfect pitch, or a number finally fitting into the equation where it belonged.
The realization left you still. Not frightened, exactly, just aware in a way you hadn’t been before. You could feel him even now, faint but certain, his presence a low hum against your own thoughts, neither intruding nor retreating.
You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the closed edge of the ledger. The air between you hummed with a strange warmth, unsettling and familiar all at once. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmured, half under your breath. “I told you… I’m promised to another.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and smooth, like the sea lapping against a hull. “Promises,” he said, his tone lazy with amusement, “are fickle things. People change. Circumstances change. Hearts, too.”
You smiled faintly despite yourself. “You sound like trouble.”
“Only to those who don’t listen,” he said. You could almost hear the grin in his voice. “But fine, I’ll behave—for now. On one condition.”
You tilted your head. “And what would that be?”
“Wear something covering tomorrow.”
You raised a brow, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped you. “Covering? That’s a curious request.”
“Bad weather,” he said, voice dipping just enough to make it sound like more than a simple warning. “I heard it’s going to be rainy in Sabaody.”
You leaned back in your chair, still smiling. “And you care about the weather here?”
“I care about you walking around in silk and pretending it’s armor,” he replied easily. “So yes, I do.”
You didn’t have an answer for that. The pause that followed wasn’t awkward; it was charged, like the air before a storm.
The connection softened after a moment, fading back to that quiet hum that lived just beneath your thoughts. He didn’t say goodbye, but you could feel it in the way his presence ebbed away, patient, steady, unwilling to linger too long.
Outside, the breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain through the open window. The curtains moved like lazy waves, the air heavy with salt and something else, something waiting. You caught yourself smiling, the kind of smile that made no sense and didn’t need to.
“Covering,” you muttered, shaking your head as you gathered your papers. “The Den Den said the weather is supposed to be good.”
You crossed to the window, brushing the curtain aside. The horizon beyond the mangroves shimmered with the faintest trace of silver, visible over the bright lights of the amusement park. The city below was still hopping, boats pushing off from their docks, vendors calling, the distant song of a shell radio drifting through the air. The theme park never stopped, even with bad weather.
But as you looked closer, you noticed it. The clouds forming far beyond the groves, dark and slow-moving, curling over the horizon like smoke.
-X- Through the Looking Glass -X-
The morning air in Sabaody carried the scent of salt and promise, brisk, lively, and threaded with tension. By the time you and your father stepped out of the hotel, the streets were already awake. Merchants shouted from stalls built beneath the mangrove roots, their voices overlapping in a chorus of trade. Marine officers moved through the crowds with their usual show of authority, boots splashing in puddles left over from the night’s rain.
Your father adjusted the cuffs of his coat, elegant and pressed despite the humidity. “We’ll take the longer route through Grove Forty,” he said. “The shipwrights are hosting the brokers there this morning. It’ll make a good impression if we’re early.”
You nodded, tucking your ledger under one arm. He didn’t notice the way your gaze kept drifting toward the docks, where rumors always spread faster than smoke. The whispers had been everywhere since dawn: sightings of pirate ships near the outer groves, a few smaller vessels turning back toward the open sea.
It wasn’t unusual for pirates to pass near Sabaody, but the tension in the air felt different this time. Dockhands spoke in low voices, eyes flicking toward the horizon. A few of the richer merchants had already canceled appointments, citing “security concerns.”
Your father, of course, was unbothered. “If we ran every time someone flew a black flag, we’d never get anything done,” he said when you mentioned it. “Pirates chase gold. We move it. There’s a difference.”
You followed him down the polished boardwalk that circled the upper groves, the sound of your shoes clicking against wet wood. The mangroves glowed faintly beneath your feet, light pulsing through the trunks like veins. Above, the sky was thickening again, clouds rolling in where the sun had been.
“I told you to bring an umbrella,” you said without looking back.
“The Den Den said good weather,” He replied, though his attention was elsewhere. The Marine patrols had doubled since yesterday, their ships lined like teeth near the inlet. You caught sight of a Den Den Mushi operator on the corner, shell pressed to his ear, his expression tense.
“Which pirates?” you asked one of the attendants as you entered the carriage.
The man hesitated, then said quietly, “No one’s sure. But some say it’s a crew from the Grand Line—someone important. Maybe even from the New World.”
Your father scoffed. “Old sailor tales. The big-name pirates have no reason to come here, besides coating their ships on the lower docks. It’s just nerves from the last auction scandal.”
You nodded, though something in your stomach tightened. The air had that charged feeling again, the same quiet warning Rayleigh had given you the night before.
The carriage began to move, its wheels humming softly over the slick, rain-dark boards. Outside, the mangroves swayed in the growing wind, their roots shifting with the slow pull of the tide. The air smelled of salt and sap, heavy enough to cling to your tongue.
You leaned back against the seat, letting the steady motion lull you. The hotel disappeared behind the veil of mist, and with it went the fragile sense of safety you had managed to rebuild over the past few days.
Then, as soft as a passing thought, something brushed against your mind. Familiar. Warm.
“Got any plans today, sweetheart?”
You startled before you could stop yourself, then smiled faintly, realizing the voice wasn’t aloud.
You chuckled under your breath, careful to keep your expression neutral. Your father sat across from you, muttering about tariffs and schedules, too focused on his notes to notice.
“Meetings, ledgers, the usual glamour of a shipping dynasty,” you thought. “And you?”
“Trying not to drown, mostly,” Rayleigh replied, his voice carrying a soft humor that rippled through your mind. “The sea’s decided to keep me busy today. Thought I’d check on my landlocked half and see if she was behaving.”
“Barely,” you answered, hiding a grin as the carriage jolted over uneven planks. “Apparently, there are rumors of pirates near the groves. My father says it’s nonsense, but everyone’s tense.”
There was a pause, and you felt something shift across the connection, a faint pull of thought and concern.
“Ah,” he said at last, his tone light but with a weight beneath it. “Rumors can be dangerous things. Maybe don’t test your luck today.”
You glanced out the window, watching the ripples in the water between the roots. “You sound like you know something I don’t.”
“That’s entirely possible,” he said, amusement threading through the words. “But think of it as friendly advice.”
You bit back a laugh. “You and your friendly advice are starting to sound extremely suspicious.”
“Bad weather, darling. Just promise me you’ll stay close to your father.”
“Hardly, he flutters around like a butterfly. I can hardly keep pace.”
The rain had started again by the time your father’s carriage arrived at the auction house. The sky above Sabaody was the color of tarnished silver, and the air hung heavy with salt and the scent of the mangroves. Even before you stepped inside, you could smell the place: perfume, polish, and the faint, sour tang of fear that no amount of incense could disguise.
The building rose out of the grove like a cathedral, its marble walls gleaming wetly under the lantern light. A line of carriages stood waiting out front, their passengers disappearing one by one into the grand entrance.
Your father adjusted his coat as he stepped down, his polished shoes splashing lightly against the flooded boards. “Remember,” he said, offering his arm as if the two of you were attending a social function. “We are here to do business, not to judge it. The Celestial brokers are watching everything today.”
You nodded, forcing a polite smile that did not reach your eyes. Inside, the noise and light hit like a wave. The chandeliers gleamed, the polished floors reflected the crowd, and behind all the luxury, you could hear the faint metallic rattle of the cages waiting beyond the curtain.
“Sign in,” your father said, moving to the back rooms. “Then check the tariffs. We will want copies for the company records.”
You moved toward the registration desk, trying not to look at the men and women waiting in the shadows. Your heartbeat was steady, but your palms were slick. You had been here before, not as a guest, but as a thief of freedom, slipping between the roots under cover of darkness.
Then you heard a voice behind you. Rough. Familiar.
“Well, well. Look who came crawling back.”
You froze. The sound of the crowd faded until all you could hear was the steady pounding of your own pulse. Slowly, you turned.
Three men stood at the edge of the hall, half-hidden by a marble column. You recognized them instantly, the bounty hunters from the mangroves. The one in front still bore the mark across his cheek where your chain had struck him. His smile was wide and ugly.
“Thought we’d lost you that night,” he said. “Didn’t realize you’d cleaned up so well.”
Your throat went dry. “You’re mistaken,” you said quickly, your voice cool but trembling at the edges. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
The scarred man’s grin widened. He stepped closer and grabbed your wrist, his grip hard enough to bruise. “No use lying. I never forget a face. Especially one that cost me a pretty penny.”
You tried to pull free, but his hand tightened. “Let go,” you said, louder this time. “You’re making a mistake.”
The man’s companions closed in behind him, their boots scraping against the marble floor. The crowd began to murmur. Some turned to watch, curious, while others pretended not to see. The auction clerks looked away. No one intervened.
The scarred man leaned in close, his breath hot and foul. “You think you can play the lady after running off? You cost us good money.”
The sound of steel clicking shut froze you where you stood. Before you could react, he had snapped a shackle around your wrist. The cold bit through your skin, sharp and merciless, dragging up memories you thought you had buried.
“I’m not,” you began, but he yanked the chain hard enough to pull you off balance. You stumbled, hitting the marble floor with your shoulder. The pain shot through you, sharp and immediate. Laughter followed from behind him, harsh and ugly, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
“Sure you’re not,” he said, his grin spreading. “Go on then. Try to run again.”
The chain pulled tighter. The iron bit into your skin, tearing at the tender flesh of your wrist. You could taste blood from where you’d bitten down on your lip to keep from crying out. The noise of the hall blurred; the shuffle of footsteps, the murmur of bystanders pretending not to see, the faint clink of coins as someone placed a bet on what might happen next.
And then a voice broke through it all. Calm. Smooth.
“Now that’s no way to treat a lady.”
The voice carried across the marble hall, calm and steady, yet it held enough weight to still every sound around it. It wasn’t raised, but it didn’t need to be. The laughter stopped mid-breath. Conversations died. Even the bounty hunter’s hand faltered on the chain as he turned, startled by something he couldn’t quite name.
The crowd shifted without being told to, parting as though an unseen tide had drawn back from the shore. Through the space that opened, a man approached. He moved unhurried, each step deliberate, the sound of his boots echoing against the polished marble. He walked with the confidence of someone who had stood at the center of storms and learned long ago that panic only made the wind worse.
He looked like the sea had claimed him once and decided to let him live. His long dark coat hung heavy with rain, the edges damp and curling slightly where the salt had dried into the fabric. His shirt, open at the collar, revealed a glimpse of tanned skin and the faint glint of a sword resting against his waist. The scent of brine and tobacco followed him, faint but distinct, the quiet signature of a man who had spent too many years chasing horizons.
His hair was a deep gold, still wet, slicked back in places but falling freely in others. Strands clung to his temple and the side of his neck, where droplets of rain traced the curve of his jaw. A magnificent jaw with four careful lines of scruff. His glasses caught the light, obscuring his eyes for a moment before he adjusted them with an easy motion. When the glare shifted, his gaze met the crowd’s; dark, sharp, and full of quiet amusement.
He was taller than most of the men in the room, perhaps in his forties, but there was nothing diminished in him. If anything, time had only refined him. His face bore the kind of strength that comes from surviving, from laughing in the face of danger and walking away from it. The faint lines around his mouth hinted at a man who smiled often, though not always kindly. A thin scar cut across his left eye, pale against sun-browned skin, the only rough note in an otherwise composed face. Somehow, it didn’t mar him; it just made him fascinating.
A murmur rippled through the onlookers as recognition began to set in. The older brokers whispered to one another, voices hushed, names half-formed. A few of the Marines at the edge of the room shifted uneasily, as though instinct alone warned them to stay quiet.
The bounty hunter scoffed, too ignorant or too stubborn to notice the sudden change in the room. “Mind your business. This one’s property.”
The blond man smiled faintly, the expression small but disarming. “Property,” he repeated, his tone mild. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve always had trouble telling the difference between men who own chains and men who wear them.”
The hunter bristled, taking a step forward, but the stranger didn’t flinch. His eyes, half-hidden by the glass, glinted with something sharp and knowing. There was no tension in his stance, no visible readiness to fight, yet the air itself seemed to shift around him. It was subtle, electric, as if the room had suddenly remembered how dangerous silence could be.
And then, for just a moment, his gaze flicked toward you. The noise, the crowd, the light, all of it seemed to fade. The quiet hum in your chest, the one that had haunted your thoughts since that night under the mangroves, flared to life. You knew him before he even spoke your name.
Rayleigh.
He stopped a few paces away, studying the scene with quiet amusement, his gaze steady but not cruel. He had the kind of handsomeness that didn’t need to announce itself; refined, weathered, and confident, the kind that came from living fully rather than chasing youth.
The bounty hunter sneered, trying to recover his authority. “We got a problem?”
The blond man didn’t look at him immediately. His eyes found yours first, and the noise of the hall seemed to fade around you. His expression softened, and something within you stirred in recognition. A quiet hum, deep and steady, moved through your chest, familiar and grounding.
You couldn’t have explained how you knew him, only that you did. He felt like something you had always been meant to find.
“You all right, sweetheart?” he asked softly, mouth tilting up.
You nodded once, too stunned to speak.
He smiled faintly, then looked back at the man holding the chain. “Funny thing,” he said, his tone conversational, almost amused. “I’ve seen plenty of slaves in my time. None of them wear silk with that much conviction.”
“Walk away before you get hurt,” the scarred man growled.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful, as if he were weighing the idea. “All right,” he said finally. “But before I go…”
He moved.
It happened so fast you didn’t see it, only felt the rush of air as something snapped. The chain fell to the floor with a metallic clang. The bounty hunter stumbled back with a strangled cry, clutching his arm where the blond man’s hand had struck.
“Best let her go,” he said quietly. “You’re out of your depth.”
The remaining men hesitated. The stranger didn’t draw his sword or raise his voice, but the weight of his calm was more dangerous than any threat. No one else moved.
When the stillness finally broke, it was only with the sound of rain against the windows.
The man brushed a bit of water from his sleeve and looked down at the hunter sprawled on the floor. “Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.”
You were still kneeling, breathing hard, your pulse loud in your ears. He turned to you, his expression softening. “You should stand,” he said. “Before someone decides to make another mistake.”
You hesitated, your breath still uneven, then reached for his hand. His palm was warm and calloused, his grip steady in a way that made the rest of the room fade into background noise. The scent of rain and salt clung faintly to him, grounding you after the chaos of the last few minutes.
He held your gaze for a moment longer than was proper, the faintest curve lifting the corner of his mouth. “Good to meet you face to face,” he said, his voice quiet and unhurried. “And just as pretty as I imagined.”
The words caught you completely off guard. Your face went hot before you could stop it, your pulse jumping wildly in your throat. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing coherent came out, only a half-formed sound that could have been thanks, or protest, or both.
Before you could recover, you heard familiar footsteps pounding across the marble floor.
“By the stars—what in heaven’s name happened here?”
Your father’s voice sliced through the stunned silence. He looked between you, Rayleigh, and the two men groaning on the ground, his face pale with fury and confusion. “Who are you?” he demanded, turning on Rayleigh. “What have you done?”
Rayleigh released your hand with deliberate gentleness, straightening as though the outburst hardly concerned him. “Me?” he said lightly, brushing a drop of rain from his sleeve. “Only helped your daughter out of a bit of trouble. Those men seemed confused about who she belonged to.”
“Belonged to?” your father repeated sharply, his outrage turning toward the bounty hunters sprawled at Rayleigh’s feet.
You found your voice then, your pulse still racing. “They attacked me,” you said quickly. “They said I was someone else—a runaway slave. They tried to take me.” You looked down at the broken shackle still hanging from your wrist. “If he hadn’t intervened—”
Your father’s expression softened instantly, horror replacing anger. He reached for you, his hands hovering near your face, as though afraid to touch you and confirm you were truly unharmed. “My dear, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” you said quietly, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “He stopped them.”
Your father turned back to Rayleigh, his tone cautious now. “You have my gratitude, sir. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped in.”
Rayleigh smiled politely, but his eyes glinted with something faintly amused. “No need for gratitude,” he said. “I don’t much care for bullies. Besides, I was only passing through.”
Your father nodded stiffly, already motioning to the nearby guards. “Passing through or not, I insist you come by our suite tonight. A drink, at least. It’s the least I can offer.”
Rayleigh inclined his head, his tone smooth. “Perhaps. If the lady insists.”
You blinked, still trying to gather your composure. “I—”
Your father interrupted, oblivious to the subtle exchange. “Good. It’s settled. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
As he turned away to summon the attendants, Rayleigh’s gaze met yours again. That quiet hum stirred in your chest, gentle and familiar, like the echo of a heartbeat not your own. He smiled, a small, private, knowing thing.
“You really do have a talent for trouble,” he murmured.
You managed a shaky smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you have a habit of showing up at just the right time?”
Hiiiii! I see that your requests are open so can we please get the reaction of our lovely DILFs plus Benn and Rayleigh when their younger (no longer virgin) wife say after their first time "Well... That was embressing."
The sex was great but poor lass is just embressed and ashamed with everything that just happened and don't know how to react.
(Sorry for any mistakes English is not my first language and feel free to ignore this request.)
A/N: it ended up being a little short, but I think it serves the purpose.
Masterlist
Dracule Mihawk
He gives you the most piercefull side eye you have ever experienced.
You start to sweat again and look at him really nervous.
"What do you mean embarasing? Are you implying something?"
You choke on your own spit and realize whaat he could understand and start explaining yourself.
Donquixote Doflamingo
He inmediatly rolls over on the bed and gets on top of you.
"Ohhhh, you are going to wish not have said that... I am giving you something to be embarrased off."
And just like that, he was all over you again and you can't take him out.
You tried to explain yourself and apologize, but it was impossible, another round has started.
Sr. Crocodile
His mind was blank and the only thing he thought is that you were ashamed of the situation, so he started to get dressed.
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere I don't embarras you."
He was really offended and you had to reassure him that you didn't mean it for him.
Smoker
He gets up instantly and looks at you like a deer looks at a car lights on the middle of the night.
"What?" he is really ashamed and starts to blush, "How can you say something like that after we have donde it? You could have said something in the middle."
You hug him even though he tries to separate himself from you.
You tell him what you mean and he still says that you could have said something before.
Akagami Shanks
He gives you a hig pitched offended scream and you had to turn to him.
"What you mean embarrasing?" he started to sound really dramatic, "I am not good enough for you? I didn't make the performance you wanted?
He jumped right onto you and you both feel out of the bed.
He started kissing your neck and touching your body once more, saying that he was going to show you something good.
Rayleigh
He just stays quiet, analyzing the the situation and trying to see what he could have possibly done wrong so you feel that way.
"Are you okay?" you asked, surprised that he doesn't say something flirty.
"It's nothing darling. Sometimes your words make me think too much."
You give him a little kiss and press your body against his, trying to comfort him.
Benn Beckman
He lights up a cigarrette and sits you on his lap with a lazy bored look.
"Are you saying I am not enough of a man for you? Sorry to tell you that we are already married and now you can't escape."
You try to explain yourself but you are suddently really flustered and blushing.
He smiles knowing that you don't really find him embarrasing but yourself and starts to kiss your neck.
