Summary~ You're angry at him for declining to see Luffy in Wano.
Tags~ Angst to fluff
Word count~ 1k
✧ Masterlist ✧ Dividers from @diviniyae
You stomped over to where Beckman and Shanks remained seated at the corner of the deck, the sound of boots clicking against the wooden floor echoed in the silent atmosphere, which was otherwise too silent for a crew as rowdy as Red-haired pirates.
What transmitted the crew members to silence? Well, it is your foul-mood. It wasn't uncommon to see you upset over some things, this, however, was different. Because you are deeply disaffected with Shanks' choice.
How could he not meet Luffy when we are so close?
It felt wrong to you, every muscle in your body radiated with infatuation at the man, you plopped in the empty chair. Your arms crossed, eyebrows knitted together in fury. You stared straight head, not meeting Shanks' gaze.
Shanks' demeanour shifted at your presence, and even more, as he noticed the anger in your eyes. He figured what it was, but played feign like always.
“What's wrong, sweetheart?”, he asks feigning knowledge over your foul-mood. As if he didn't know what he did.
Your head snapped in his direction with a glare, “You know exactly what's wrong! Don't give me that”, you spat out and go back to staring straight head, again.
“Come on, don't be like that”
“…”
No response is heard from you as he goes on to spout nonsense.
Your mind relays the scene which occurred a few moments ago.
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You merrily approached the Red-haired man from behind who glazed at the country over the waterfalls in front of them. You and Lucky Roux had the same question in your minds, for which you along with the man approached Shanks.
“Let's go meet Luffy!”
You suggested enthusiastically, eager to meet the stupid rubber boy after years of separation. The image of his idiot-like wide smile replayed in your head. Even though, it's been years, it was still as clear as day in your memories.
The little boy who used to run around you and Shanks like a little duckling. A wide smile formed on your face as you recalled the days spent in the Foosha Village with the boy.
However, Shanks' reply was blunt, “I have no intention of seeing Luffy”, he said with a smile on his face.
“…”
For a moment, silence engulfed the air and then, everyone squeaked in shock, “What?!”, whereas Yassop sighed from relief.
Your smile wavered, “What?! But—”
“Think about what's going on in our territories”, his voice casual, there's no underlying seriousness to it.
“Shanks, We are so—”
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Thus, the situation came to be like this.
Shanks tried to uplift your mood with a joke, which sounded rather unfunny to you at the moment. “I want to see him”, you simply stated.
“I'm sorry, not right now”, he replied straightforwardly but there was no remorse evident in his tone.
Anger flared through your veins, how could he decline to meet Luffy?
You smashed your fist on the table, “It makes no sense to come so close and leave without meeting him”
Shanks gaze avoided yours, stayed on the table where your fist met the wood. He exhales deeply, “We will have plenty of chances to see him in future”, he relayed.
“That's not the point. What's wrong with seeing—” him right now?
His voice broke off your sentence without ever fully being conveyed, “Y/n”, his voice cut through the air. The gravity of his voice as he called out your name told you enough.
“You and I do have a relationship but here, as a crew member, you listen to my orders”
Silence fell over the deck and everything stilled in the moment as if the time itself had frozen. It's a very known fact that Shanks adores you and he hasn't used his authority as a captain over you, no matter how dire the situation may be. He is cool-headed and soft man, though high-maintenance but never unkind, not to you.
Everyone's breath caught in their lungs as they waited for either side to break the ice. No one dared to speak after that statement of Shanks and it's very pretty obvious why.
You rose from your seat, and walk off without uttering any further words. The sound of your boots clicking against the wooden flooring echoed in the silence that hung over the deck.
Click, click, click.
Your form disappeared into the shared of you and Shanks. Still, no one dared to speak almost as if their breathes were caught.
“Don't mind us, continue”
Shanks waved a reassuring hand towards his stiff crew mates. And finally, everyone exhaled, relaxing their forms and continuing their previous tasks.
Shanks let out a low chuckle, “Seems like I made her angrier. Not the right of choice of words, perhaps”, he joked lightly but stress lied underneath calm exterior. A turmoil coursing through his heart and mind as he swirled the glass.
Beckman looked at his captain who feigned goofiness, “You should talk to her”, the man advised.
Shanks hoisted his body up and made his way to the room, his heart thumped loudly in his chest.
Thump, thump, thump
He could hear his own heartbeat at this point. The noise from the deck dulled into a background. Is she even going to let me in now?
He pondered for a moment before finally turning the handle of the door. The idea of just letting it be crossed his mind but he knew that was a temporary solution. The door creaked open.
He stepped inside, surprisingly she didn't threw something at his face right away. She looked at him with surprisingly tender expression. Confusion crossed his features.
But nevertheless, he had to do what he came for..
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have talked like that”
Your and his voice overlapped each other's followed by a burst of laughter from both of you having chosen the exact same words.
For a moment, laughter filled the room which died down subtly and slowly. An awkward silence hung between you two.
“So, Am I allowed to sleep on the bed or are you still evicting me out of the luxury?”, he joked in hopes of lighting the mood.
The words did earn him a light chuckle from you, “I'm still thinking”, you joked back.
“Is that so? Throwing out your captain now?”
A/n~ I don't know how it came out. I'm sorry, I don't know how to write Shanks. It's my first time writing him. Also, I hope the fic is understandable because it goes from past to present and then shifts perspectives as well.
Benn Beckman always gives you his full attention. Always. Grey eyes tracking every expression you make, focused as if you were briefing him on the New World order while you ramble on for whatever reason.
He's the most in-demand man in the Red Force; without him, emperor Shanks wouldn't be the man he is, and the crew never stops reminding him of it. "Hey Becks, the cannon's busted", or "Beck, we need more flour", or "Beck, we're out of anesthesia and the cap'n fainted", or the occasional "Beeecks, we're being bombarded, looks like a whole Marine fleet out there". But none of it moves him. Not when you're talking to him. His eyes stay on yours, and his lips never tighten around his cigarette in a pull of impatience.
"Alright darlin', don't you worry. As soon as we make port we'll find you another dress in your size, aye?" he says once you're done.
"Thank you, Becks."
"Anytime, love," he rasps, winking at you in that way that always makes you giggle
He smiles at you, thick fingers tapping you lightly under the chin to ask for your forgiveness. "Give me a sec, alright love? These lot won't leave me alone."
"Of course, Becks."
His smile holds just long enough before he turns to find Yasopp looking at him with apologetic eyes.
A/N: thank you anon for requesting "Beckman with a chubby f reader who has stretchmarks but he secretly loves her weight a lot and is turned on by it (nsfw)". I hope you like it. i have to admit i think i rewrote this like 4 times so i hope i didn't mess it up now 🙈
Word Count: >6000
Plot: you feel really self-conscious because of your curves but Beckman is there to assure you that you are perfect to him
Warnings: NSFW, insecure reader, p in v, use of (Y/N), fingering, oral (receiving but not really described) MDNI ⚠️🔞
Characters: Beckman x Freader
The deck of the ship swayed gently under your feet, the salty breeze tugging at your clothes as laughter echoed around you. Life with the Red Hair Pirates was loud, chaotic, and warm… almost too warm sometimes.
Especially when he was nearby — Benn Beckman. He leaned lazily against the railing, a cigarette resting between his lips, sharp eyes half-lidded as if nothing in the world could surprise him. But you knew better because those eyes missed nothing. Least of all you.
You were the crew’s sweetheart, sure, but in a world of sleek warriors and smart navigators, your mind often lingered on the soft curve of your stomach and the silvery stretchmarks etched across your stomach, hips and thighs. To you, they were flaws you tried to hide behind oversized shirts and high-waisted trousers.
You were leaning against the railing, the sun catching the lines on your skin peeking through a gap in your shirt. You quickly tugged the fabric down, a familiar pang of self-consciousness hitting your chest.
“You’re doing that thing again,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbled behind you.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. The scent of expensive tobacco, sea salt and a cologne smelling like sandalwood gave him away every time. Beckman stepped up beside you, leaning his elbows on the railing, his dark eyes tracking the horizon before settling on you with a heavy, unreadable intensity.
“Doing what?” you mumbled, crossing your arms over your middle.
“Looking at me” he teased.
“I wasn’t!” you insisted, cheeks already burning.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he straightened, strolling closer with that unhurried confidence that made your stomach twist. “Yeah? Then why’re you starin’ at me like I hung the stars?”
He moved closer to you, too close. Always so damn close. His gaze dipped, not in a crude way, but in a way that made you hyper-aware of yourself, of your body, the softness of your stomach and thighs and the faint lines along your hips you always tried to hide.
“I should get back to—” you started but a hand caught your wrist cutting you off.
“Hey,” Beckman murmured, tone shifting just enough to make your chest tighten. “Why’re you running?”
“I’m not running,” you said quickly, avoiding his eyes. “Just… busy.”
“Busy avoidin’ me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“…No.” you stammered, swallowing hard.
He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “You’ve been dodging me all week.”
He wasn't wrong about this to be honest. Truth was you were head over heels for this man but every time you looked at him, you remembered how easy he was with women, how effortlessly they laughed at his words, how different they looked compared to you. “I just…” you hesitated, then forced a shrug. “You’ve got plenty of women to flirt with. Don’t need to waste time on me.”
For a moment, there was a heavy silence and then he suddenly chuckled. Not mockingly and definitely not cruelly just surprised it seemed. “Waste time?” he repeated, stepping even closer. “That what you think this is?”
Your heart was pounding loudly in your head because you couldn't make sense of this situation right now. “Isn’t it?” you asked confused.
His hand slipped from your wrist to your chin, lifting your face just enough that you couldn’t look away anymore. “You're always doing this, making yourself smaller, shrinking away and thinking you're not special just because you're looking different than others” he said calmly, taking a drag from his cigarette. “It's a waste of breath and you're just running that pretty head of yours into overthinking which ain't necessary” he added.
You felt your face heat up. It was typical Beckman. He was charming you even now, always knowing what to say, it was like this was part of his DNA. He had a girl in every port swooning over him. A wink for every barmaid, so why would he actually care about a chubby crewmate like you?
“Beck, stop. You don’t have to do the charming First Mate routine with me,” you sighed, looking down at your hands. “I know I’m not exactly the type of woman you usually... you know.”
Beckman straightened up, his playful aura vanishing instantly. The sheer size of him was intimidating, but it was the look in his eyes, sharp, focused and utterly predatory, that made your breath hitch.
“You think I’m playing a part?” he asked, his other hand coming up to rest firmly on your hip, his thumb grazing the exact spot where your stretchmarks began. “You truly doubt what I just said?”
“…I’m not doubting,” you tried, weakly.
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “And I don’t smoke.”
“You don’t make any sense,” you huffed, looking away again and fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
“Neither do you.”
That made you look back at him because something in his voice was making you realize that he wasn't playing a game.
“You think I just throw words around?” he asked, leaning in a bit.
“…Don’t you?” you asked quietly, breath hitching as the scent of his cologne hit you with full force and damn it was intoxicating.
His brow lifted slightly. Not offended, just… surprised. “No.” That single word hit harder than anything else. “I don’t waste my time,” he continued, voice steady. “And I don’t repeat myself unless it matters.”
You felt your chest tightened again and ypur knees started to buckle a bit. You studied his face trying to find something, anything that would show you, proof to you that this couldn't be true but you found nothing.
“So when I say I’m watchin’ you,” he added, stepping just a fraction closer, your chests now only inches apart and you felt the warmth of his body against ypurs. “it’s because I am.”
Your breath hitched and you bit your lower lip almost shyly. You didn't know what to say right now, nor what to do because you just weren't prepared for this. You were pining for this man for weeks, god probably months now and hearing him talk to you like this made your heart swell.
“You think I don’t notice how you shrink into yourself?” His gaze softened, but it didn’t lose its intensity. “How you look away when someone gets too close? When I get too close? Or how you tug at your clothes like you’re tryin’ to hide somethin’ that was never a problem to begin with.”
“I just—” you started, then faltered fingers curling instinctively tighter around the hem of your shirt. “I don’t look like the others.”
“There it is again,” he muttered, almost sounding like a sigh.
Before you could react, his hand gently but firmly caught yours interlacing his fingers with yours and you tensed. But he didn’t let go. Instead he pried your hand away from your hem. “Look at me,” he said.
You exhaled deeply and then slowly, hesitantly, you did. His expression wasn’t teasing now. Not playful, no he looked certain. He looked like he usually did when he was about to teach you something, which he kind of did right now except this time it wasn't about maps or fighting, this time it was about yourself.
“You really think I’d waste my breath on someone I didn’t want?” he asked, making your heart skip. “I could have anyone, I flirt a lot, you’re right about that.” he continued bluntly and you flinched a bit at these words. “But I don’t look at just anyone the way I look at you.”
Your breath caught and you felt like your heart was fluttering out of your chest. “I don’t wait for just anyone to walk on deck.” His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, absentmindedly but grounding. “And I sure as hell don’t keep comin’ back just to hear myself talk.”
“Then… why me?” you whispered, your thoughts spinning now, struggling to keep up and process what he was saying.
For a moment, he just looked at you, really looked at you. Like he was deciding how honest he could be without you questioning it again. “Because you don’t try to be what you’re not. You think I don’t see through the others?” he added. “All that charm, all that effort to impress… it’s easy.” His grip on your hand tightened just slightly. “You’re not easy.” That sent a strange warmth through your chest. “You’re real,” he said again, softer now. “And you don’t even realize how much that stands out.”
“You're the only one I wait for to walk on deck.” His eyes flicked over your face, your shoulders, your body, lingering, appreciative, hungry in a way that made your pulse stutter. “The only one who gets this worked up just from me talkin’.”
“I—I don’t—”
“You do,” he said, a smirk ghosting back. “You turn pink every damn time.”
“That’s not—” you tried to protest but you felt your face burn hotter and hotter.
“And those things you try so hard to hide?” he added quietly, his fingers brushing lightly along your side, not intrusive, just there, grounding. “They drive me insane.”
“What…?” you whispered, your breath catching completely and your eyes wide and confused.
“Every curve. Every line. You think I don’t notice?” He said his voice dropping, sounding rougher now as he gave a faint shake of his head. “Hell, it’s the first thing I notice.”
“That’s not funny,” you said, but your voice wavered.
“I’m not joking.” he replied firmly. There was no teasing in his expression now. None, just certainty. “You’re real,” Beckman murmured. “Soft, warm and kind. Not like the rest.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “And I like that. You think anyone could look at you and not want to touch you?” he said quietly, his voice husky with something close to awe. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
“But I don’t look like the others,” you said once again and it started to feel like you were using it as a shield.
“Good,” he said immediately, making you blink startled. “Means you’re not the others. You’re not supposed to look like anyone else. You’re supposed to look like you.””
“I…” you hesitated, then admitted in a small voice, “I don’t know how to believe you.”
A faint smile touched his lips, not mocking, not smug, just… patient. “Fine, but stop assuming I’m lying just because you don’t see the beauty that I see when I look at you.”
You stared, wide eyed, eyes watering and your hands shaking slightly. It was actually the sweetest thing someone had said to you in a really long time without trying to make fun of you. It almost felt surreal but Beckman just smiled at you and decided to close the finally gap between ylur bodies, his chest brushing yours now and one hand wrapping around your waist and digging softly and gently into your curvy hip, his fingers feeling the soft texture of your skin through the fabric.
"I’ve seen the way you look in the mirror when you think no one's watching," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear. "You see flaws. I see curves I want to sink my hands into. I see those marks on your skin and all I think about is how beautiful they’d look under me."
Your heart was drumming against your ribs like a trapped bird and your face was now the color of a ripe tomato. "Beck..."
"I'm a man of many vices," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips before returning to yours with a terrifying sincerity. "And every single piece of you is my favorite one. Don't ever let me catch you hiding from me again."
He rested his forehead against yours and you felt like you were going to pass out because your heart was racing like crazy. He pulled back slightly and his lips brushed your temple before he let go just enough to give you one of those devastating, slow smirks, the one that usually meant trouble for the rest of the world, but today, it was just for you.
He finally stepped back and then flicked his cigarette over the side before he leaned in to whisper in your ear “Meet me in my cabin tonight, I wanna see you, all of you.”
You froze, your brain was short-circuiting. Did he just invite you into his cabin, just you?! Inwardly you were screaming, you were completely gone and he just chuckled as he looked at you and then took your hand, gave it a kiss like a gentleman and walked like a king below deck. While you remained there, trying to process what just happened.
Later on you found yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror in just your underwear. The marks on your thighs, hips and stomach, the lightning bolts that made you feel so insecure, clearly visible and for a moment you closed your eyes wishing they'd be gone when you opened them again but of course life didn't work like that — unfortunately. You sighed unsure if you should really go to see Beckman, after all you didn't feel like you were worth it or if you'd be enough for him. You ran a hand over your face before you put on your clothes again and with all your courage decided to go see him.
The walk to his quarters felt longer than usual, every step shadowed by the nagging urge to turn back. You smoothed the fabric of your shirt, over-aware of how it sat against your skin, hiding the "lightning bolts" you had just been mourning in the mirror. You wondered if he’d see the hesitation in your eyes before he even saw your body, Beckman was observant like that and he saw everything.
When you finally reached the heavy wooden door of his cabin, you paused, your fist hovering inches from the surface. The Red Force was relatively quiet, the distant sound of laughter from the deck muffled by the evening salt air. You took one last breath, grounding yourself and knocked.
“Come in,” his voice rumbled, deep and steady.
Pushing the door open, you found him sitting at his desk, the faint scent of tobacco and sandalwood clinging to the room. He didn't look up immediately, finished marking a map before setting his pen down. When he finally shifted his attention to you, the air in the room seemed to thicken. He didn't say a word at first, he just watched the way you stood there, slightly defensive, your arms crossed loosely over your middle.
He rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace, closing the distance between you until the heat radiating from him was palpable. He could clearly sense the storm of insecurity brewing behind your gaze. Without a word, he reached out, his large, calloused hand settling firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the spot.
He made you look up into his eyes, his gaze heavy and dark. Beckman was a man who appreciated strategy and substance. He had never been interested in the fragile or the fleeting. To him, every curve of your body was an indulgence, a testament to a life well-lived and a beauty that felt grounded and real. His hand slid downward, his palm flattening against your stomach. He didn't shy away from the texture of your skin, he leaned into it. His fingers traced the faint lines on your skin like he was reading a map he had long ago memorized.
“Beck,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “The marks... the weight…”
“Are perfect,” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Do you have any idea how much I crave this?” He squeezed the soft flesh of your waist. The look in his eyes wasn't just affection, it was hunger. It was the look of a man who had finally found exactly what he wanted and had no intention of letting it go. “You’re mine,” he growled, his lips ghosting over yours. “Every inch of you. Don't you dare think I want you any other way, don't you dare think you are not enough because you, sweetheart, definitely are everything I want.”
He lifted you up, his hands supporting your weight with effortless strength like you weighed nothing, his eyes never leaving yours as he carried you toward the bed. He loved the way you felt in his arms, so warm, so soft and entirely his. He gently placed you down on the and hovered over you smirking down at you and brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear before letting his finger trace down the side of your face and to your chin tilting it up and kissing you slowly before he pulled away to your stunned face and then with a gentleness that betrayed his built he began to tug at your shirt lifting it up.
The shirt was discarded as an afterthought, fluttering to the floor like a white flag of surrender. As the fabric cleared your upper body, the cool air of the cabin hit your skin, but the heat radiating from Beckman's gaze was enough to keep you flushed.
Out of habit you wanted to cover yourself but Beckman didn't let you, stopping your movement with just a look. “Don't, let me see you, all of you. Every beautiful little curve, every perfect inch of your skin.” He braced his weight on his forearms, boxing you in. His eyes traveled over you with a slow, deliberate hunger, taking in the swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your belly, and the intricate, shimmering lines that mapped your hips. To anyone else, they were marks maybe even flaws but not to Beckman. He let out a low, guttural growl, a sound that started deep in his chest and settled right in your bones. It wasn't a sound of frustration, annoyance or disdain, no it was far from it, it was of pure, unadulterated want.
“Stop looking so stunned” he murmured, noticing your wide eyes and parted lips. He ghosted a thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. “I’m a man of appetites, (Y/N). And you’re the only thing that satisfies them.”
His large hand descended, his palm spanning the width of your stomach. He didn't just touch you, he kneaded the soft skin there, his fingers sinking into you with a firm, worshipping pressure. He watched the way your flesh gave way beneath his touch, his smirk deepening into something darker, more predatory. “Look at you,” he rasped, his voice thick with a sudden edge of heat. “There’s so much of you to hold. So much of you for me to sink into. You think these marks are flaws? I think they’re a goddamn invitation.”
He lowered his head, but he didn't go for your lips this time. He pressed his face into the side of your waist, inhaling the scent of your skin. His stubble grazed your softest parts, a delicious friction that made your toes curl into the sheets. He traced the ‘lightning bolts’ on your thighs with his tongue, a slow, damp heat that made you gasp and arch your back. “I like the way you feel under me. Don't you ever try to hide from me again.” he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and igniting your nerves.
He shifted, his heavy frame settling between your thighs, and you could feel exactly how much his words weren't just talk. He was hard, his body reacting viscerally to the sheer abundance of yours. He wanted to lose himself in you, to be surrounded by your warmth and the soft, beautiful curves.
He leaned up, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was no longer slow or gentle. His tongue was moving against yours in a kiss that felt like a deep devotion. It was demanding, tasting of tobacco and a desperate, burning need. He wasn't just loving you for how you were, he was devouring you for it. The air in the cabin grew stiflingly hot, charged with the electric friction of his skin against yours. Beckman’s kiss was an anchor, heavy, grounding and deep. His tongue swept against yours with a rhythmic, possessive confidence, mirroring the way his hands began to work over your body with practiced ease.
He didn't fumble. Even with the size of his hands, he moved with a surgical precision born of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. The snap of your bra echoed in the quiet room, and a moment later, he was sliding your pants down over your hips. He didn't rush the process, he let his palms graze the fullness of your thighs, his touch lingering on the softest parts of you as if he were savoring the texture of a fine silk.
When you were left in nothing but your panties, the cool air hit your damp skin, but the chill didn't last. Beckman’s hands immediately found the weight of your breasts, tracing a teasing fingertip softly over the flesh and your nipples, making you gasp into the kiss and arch into him. He broke the kiss just an inch, enough to watch your face, but close enough that his hot breath hitched against your lips. You let out a broken moan, your head tossing back against the pillows as his large, calloused fingers began to knead. His hands were rough, scarred from years of sea-faring and combat, making the pillowy softness of your chest feel even more delicate in comparison. He didn't just touch, he claimed. He used his thumbs to roll over your nipples, his gaze darkening as he watched them peak and harden under his care.
“Listen to that,” he growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from the floorboards. “The sounds you make when I handle you... that’s my favorite song on this entire ocean.”
He squeezed the soft sides of your breasts, pushing them together, his eyes fixed on the way your skin yielded so perfectly to his strength. He was a man who appreciated the ‘more’ of you, the way your body reacted to him, the way you filled his hands and the way your curves spilled over his fingers. “You're shaking,” he noted, a smudge of a smirk returning to his face. He leaned down, his lips catching a stray tear of pleasure from your cheek. “Is it too much? Or is it because you finally realize how much I've been wanting to get my hands on all this? That I wasn't just talking but that I really meant what I said?”
He didn't wait for an answer because he knew. He could feel your heart hammering against his palm, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. He lowered his head, his mouth replacing his fingers on one aching stiff nipple, his tongue swirling around the tip before he wrapped his lips around it, taking it fully into his mouth and sucked deeply. The sensation sent a jolt straight to your core, a needy moan escaping your lips, your hips instinctively bucking upward against his heavy thigh. Beckman let out a muffled grunt of approval, his hand sliding down from your chest, over the soft slope of your belly, and hooking into the waistband of your lace.
The friction of his stubble against your breast was a sharp, intoxicating contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. As his mouth focused on your breasts, one of his hands didn't just hover, it slid beneath the elastic of your lace, his fingers finding the slick, sensitive heat of your slit. He moved with a slow, agonizing rhythm that made your vision blur, each stroke a silent promise of what was coming.
By now you were a mess of soft whimpers and frantic pleas, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until the fabric groaned. When he finally pulled his mouth away, your skin felt cold where he had been until he replaced the sensation with the searing heat of his gaze. “Patience, sweetheart,” he rumbled against the skin of your neck, his voice like gravel and velvet. “I told you. I want every bit of your beautiful body.”
With a single, fluid motion, he hooked his thumbs into your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them aside without a backward glance. Now, you were completely bare beneath him, your body laid out like a feast he had spent years craving.
Beckman moved lower, his heavy frame shifting between your knees to give him a full view. Most men might have rushed to the finish, but Beckman was a lover, he enjoyed the journey. He leaned in, his eyes tracing the silvery, jagged lines across your outer thighs, the marks you had spent years trying to hide. He didn't just look, he leaned down and pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to the center of a stretch mark on your hip. “Beautiful,” he muttered against your skin, his breath hitching as he felt you tremble. “Like lightning on the water.”
While his mouth worked a slow, worshipful path across your curves, kissing the soft dip of your belly and the lush fullness of your thighs, his hand remained exactly where it needed to be. His fingers stayed buried in your heat, circling and pressing with a calculated pressure that kept you on a razor's edge.
You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as his tongue followed the path his hand had set. The combination was too much, the worship of your body, the weight of his presence and the relentless, expert movement of his fingers had you feeling dizzy from pleasure. “Beck... please…” you gasped, your hands moving from the sheets to catch in his hair, pulling him closer.
He let out a dark, satisfied chuckle against your thigh, his hand spreading your soft flesh wider to give his mouth better access. “I’ve got you,” he growled, looking up at you with eyes that burned with a fierce, protective lust. “Just let go. I’m right here to catch you.”
The world shattered into a kaleidoscope of heat and light as Beckman pushed you over the edge. His mouth and fingers worked in a relentless, synchronized rhythm until you were sobbing his name, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as the first powerful wave of an orgasm crashed over you. He held you through it, his large hands anchoring your hips to the bed, making sure you felt every spark of the fire he had built.
As the tremors began to fade into a heavy, delicious aftermath, Beckman finally pulled back. He didn't move far, just enough to sit back on his heels at the foot of the bed. He watched you with a look of pure, unadulterated pride, like a king surveying his most prized territory.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice thick and dark. “Flushed and ruined. Just how you're supposed to be.” He didn't give you long to catch your breath. With a slow, deliberate grace that seemed impossible for a man of his size, he began to undress. He kept his eyes locked on yours, making the act feel like a deliberate challenge.
He shrugged his heavy dark coat off his shoulders, letting it thud heavily to the floor. Next came the shirt, pulled over his head to reveal the sheer expanse of his torso. You had seen him work on deck, but here, in the dim light of the cabin, he was breathtaking. His chest was a roadmap of scars and hard-earned muscle, the dark hair on his chest tapering down into a tantalizing line. His hands moved to his belt, the leather creaking in the silence. When he finally stepped out of his trousers, the sight of him made the air leave your lungs all over again.
He was built like a mountain, solid, scarred and imposing and so damn manly and hot. As he looked at your soft, plush curves waiting for him on the sheets, his expression softened into something almost reverent. He knew the contrast between you was stark, his hardness against your softness, his jagged scars against your silvery marks. “Your turn to watch,” he murmured, his smirk returning as he saw your eyes travel over him. He crawled back onto the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his impressive weight.
He moved over you again, but this time there was no fabric between you. The feeling of his rough, hot skin against your soft breasts and his erection against your belly was an electric shock. He was heavy, deliciously so, and he made sure you felt every bit of him as he settled between your thighs. “You still think I'm looking for someone else, pretty girl?” he asked, his hand sliding under your hip to tilt you up toward him. “When I have you to sink into?”
Your fingers trembled as they made contact with his chest, toying with the hair there, traveling along the skin, the texture of it a stark contrast to your own. His scars felt like raised ridges of history beneath your fingertips, smooth, hardened and permanent. You traced a particularly long mark over his pectoral, feeling the iron-solid muscle jump beneath your touch. Beckman let out a low, vibrating hum of approval, his eyes hooded as he watched you explore him. He didn't move to stop you, instead, he leaned into your hand, a predator enjoying the attention of his favorite person.
“That's it,” he encouraged, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I'm all yours to map out, sweetheart.”
But Beckman wasn't a man who stayed still for long and his hunger flared back up. He reached down, his large hand wrapping almost entirely around the thickest part of your thigh. The heat of his palm felt like a brand against your soft skin. With a sudden, deliberate movement, he ducked his head. He didn't kiss you this time. Instead, he sank his teeth into the tender, plush flesh of your inner thigh, right over one of the silver stretch marks you had been so worried about.
It wasn't a nip of pain, but a firm, possessive pressure that sent an electric shock of pure white heat straight to your center. You let out a sharp, high-pitched gasp, your hips jerking upward as your legs instinctively tried to wrap around his head. He stayed there for a long moment, his hot breath fanning against your skin before he licked the mark he had just made. He looked up at you from between your legs, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes.
“Mine,” he growled, the word vibrating against your thigh. “I want to leave my mark all over these curves. I want everyone on this sea to know who you belong to without me saying a damn word.”
He slid upward then, his heavy chest dragging against your sensitive nipples, the friction making you whine into the crook of his neck. He used his knee to nudge your legs wider, settling his weight firmly between them. The sheer size of him was overwhelming in the best way possible, a solid, unshakable force that made you feel safe and completely consumed all at once.
“Wrap those beautiful legs around me,” he commanded, his hand sliding behind your head to tangle in your hair. “I want to feel every bit of your weight pressing back against mine.” The moment he finally pushed inside you, the world narrowed down to just the two of you. He moved with an agonizing, delicious slowness, his jaw tight as he buried himself deep within your heat. You let out a long, shuddering moan, your head thumping back into the pillow as your body stretched to accommodate his impressive size.
“God, you're so tight," he rasped into your ear, his voice breaking with the sheer force of his restraint. "Like you were made just to hold me.” Beckman didn't just stay still once he was inside. He settled his full weight onto you, his massive chest pressing your soft breasts flat against him. He wanted to feel the friction of your skin against his, the way your plush curves cushioned his hard angles. As he began to move, slow, deep thrusts that hit every nerve ending, his hands remained busy. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, guiding your head for his devouring kisses, while the other descended to your hip.
His calloused thumb traced the silver trails of your stretch marks with a rhythm that matched his thrusts. It wasn't just a touch, it was a worship. He loved the texture, the way your skin felt like velvet and silk under his rough palm. He trailed his mouth down from your lips to your collarbone, leaving dark, blooming marks in his wake. Then lower, to the swell of your breasts, catching a nipple between his teeth and tugging just enough to make you cry out.
You wrapped your legs as tightly as you could around his waist, your ankles locking behind his back. The extra weight of your thighs pressing him closer only seemed to spur him on. Every time your hips rose to meet him, he let out a low, animalistic grunt of approval. “That's it,” he groaned, his pace quickening as the friction built to a fever pitch. “Take all of me. Show me how well you can hold me, sweetheart.”
The cabin was filled with the sound of his heavy breathing, the rhythmic creak of the bed, and the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin. You felt completely surrounded by him by his intoxicating scent, his crushing weight, and the absolute certainty that, in this moment, there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than lost inside the softness of your body.
All of a sudden though he decided to switch positions and the shift was sudden and powerful. One moment you were looking into his smoldering eyes, and the next, his large hands were under your hips, effortlessly flipping you onto your stomach. The feeling of the cool sheets against your front was a sharp contrast to the furnace-like heat of his body as he settled over your back.
Beckman let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sigh as he took in the sight of you from this angle. He didn't just see a body, he saw a masterpiece of soft curves and shimmering silver lines, making you shiver as he trailed a hand down your spine till he reached your ass giving it a squeeze that made you jolt and squeak. He let out a low chuckle before he guided himself back inside you with one heavy thrust that made you cry out into the pillow, your fingers clawing at the fabric. From this position, he was deeper, hitting spots that made your toes curl and your head swim.
His large, scarred hands reached around your waist, his fingers digging into your love handles. He didn't just hold them, he squeezed them with a possessive intensity, his thumbs tracing the soft dip of your waist and you were sure he'd leave marks. He leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, and began a trail of damp, biting kisses along your shoulders and spine while one hand squeezed the back of your thighs, right where your marks were most prominent.
He reached forward, his arms wrapping around you to grope and knead your breasts from behind. He was definitely enjoying the way you felt in his hands and before you knew it you cried out when you felt his teeth sink into your left butt cheek. “Listen to you,” he rasped against your ear, his voice thick with the coming storm. “So loud for me. I want the whole ship to know how good you feel. I want them to know I’m never letting you go.” Every time he thrust forward, his palms would squeeze your chest, his rhythm becoming more frantic, more primal.
You were lost in a haze of sensation, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the delicious sting from his bite, the friction of his rough palms on your soft skin, and the way he worshipped every ‘imperfection’ you had once hated. He made you feel like a goddess, a woman of beauty that a man like him would go to war for to protect.
His pace shifted from calculated to desperate. He began to pull back almost entirely before snapping home, his hips slapping against the plush curve of your backside with a wet, heavy sound. You were sobbing now, your breath coming in short, ragged hitches as the tension coiled tight in your gut.
“Beck—Beck, please!” You gasped voice raw.
“I've got you,” he growled, his hands shifting from your breasts to your hips, steadying you so he could drive even deeper. “Cum for me, (Y/N). Let me feel you break.”
The tension snapped like a mast in a hurricane as Beckman drove into you one final, soul-searing time, his body went rigid. You felt the hot, pulsing evidence of his release fill you at the exact moment your own world dissolved into white light. You screamed his name into the pillow, your hips trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Beckman buried his face in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural roar vibrating through his chest and into your very bones.
For a long minute, the only sound in the cabin was the heavy, synchronized thrum of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again and the ragged sound of air returning to lungs. Gently, Beckman shifted his weight. He didn't pull away immediately, he stayed draped over you for a moment, a protective mountain of warmth, before sliding out and pulling you back against his chest in a spooning position. He tucked the duvet around both of you, his large arms wrapping around your waist, pulling your back flush against his front.
His calloused hand settled right back on your stomach, his thumb lazily tracing the soft skin he had so thoroughly worshipped. “You're quiet,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear.
"Just... thinking," you whispered, the old flickers of doubt trying to resurface in the cooling air. “About everything you saw. Everything you touched.”
Beckman didn't let you spiral. He turned you in his arms until you were facing him, his hair a bit messy, his eyes soft with an intimacy he rarely showed the world. He took your hand and pressed it to his heart, then moved his other hand to rest firmly on your hip, his fingers dipping into the curve of your flesh.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. When you met his gaze, there was no smirk, only a terrifyingly honest devotion. “I’ve spent my life on the sea, (Y/N). I know what’s valuable and what’s just flash. You think these marks or this weight are things to hide? To me, they’re the best parts of the map. I love your stretch marks. I love your thighs. I love your stomach. You… you’re mine. And I’m never letting anyone tell you you’re not desirable, because you’re exactly what I want.”
He leaned in, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth before finally pressing his lips fully against yours.. “There is nothing wrong with you. Not a goddamn thing,” he rasped. “I don't want any other woman. I want you. I want this. I want the way you feel in my arms at night. If you ever feel ashamed again, you remember how I looked at you today. Because I’m never going to stop wanting every single inch of you and I'm never letting you go again."
You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of his words finally sinking in. He wasn't just saying it to be kind, Benn Beckman didn't have a dishonest bone in his body. He truly, deeply loved the skin you were in. He pulled the covers higher, tucking your head under his chin. “Now rest,” he grunted, though his touch was incredibly tender. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere, love.”
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)
thinking about how shanks would be like when you’re pregnant with his child…
he’d be a mix of quiet strength and mischievous warmth - the same way he commands his crew but softens completely around you. everyday, he watches you carefully, like you’re the most precious treasure he’s ever laid eyes on.
not just you, but the life blooming inside of you, too.
he fusses over your every need, but never like you’re fragile - more like a captain tending to his crew:
when you stand too fast, he’s instantly there, steadying you with his hand and a teasing grin, brow raised, “careful, you’ve got precious cargo now.” and even as he jokes, his eyes never leave your face, always alert, analysing it for any sign of discomfort or pain.
the crew? they’re on high alert, benn carries your plate before you can even reach for it, lucky roux tries to sneak in healthy meals (which shanks secretly finds hilarious), and hongo stands watch like a loyal guardian, waiting to leap into action with his medical tools if you sneeze wrong.
your nausea though, hits hard sometimes, and shanks tries everything - singing off key sea shanties to your belly, offering lemons and pickles (sometimes both at once, just to see your reaction), and holding your hair back with the gentle patience of a man ready to be a father.
he’s hopelessly earnest, but it makes your heart ache with endless love every single time.
at night, when the world is quiet and the ship sways gently on the waves, he pulls you close, resting his hand over your bump whispering stories about luffy - the stubborn, fiery kid, his voice softens, warm and full of pride.
you smile against his chest, feeling a peace you never knew you needed.
this is the family he’s always dreamed of, and he’s ready to protect it with everything he has.
a/n: you could never convince me that he's a deadbeat
Can you write some headcanons about being the only female crewmate in red hair pirates?
Being the only fem!pirate on the Red Hair Pirate crew
Masterlist
It was a weird vibe at first.
Half of them were really awkward with you, trying not to be too manly cause they think that would make you uncomfortable.
The other half treats you like you are one men more and that can cause some really strange situations.
It was a matter of getting adjusted to the situation and having you around.
One example was the brothel parties, of course they made you a little uncomfortable at first, but you tried to cope with it cause you are the newest member.
Shanks realized this and aproached you one night that you were on the bar drinking.
You talked a little and he realized that it wasn't the best idea to do that, in fact, he realized some things that he didn't know about the brothel industry... cause you said it to him.
You thought the crew would hate you cause Shanks stoped the brothels parties, but when Shanks opted with pub and bar nights, they were all happy.
And so you could breathe happy and relieved.
The other thing that just made you laugh is that they didn't quite know period and all the things that come with that.
Yassop came one day with 6 packs of tampons and asked for your pussy size.
You laughed like crazy but seeing all their stunned faces made you realize that this was going to be a tough talk.
You were really embarrased talking to all these men for a whole hour about how periods work... but they got it now.
One thing that they really love about having you aroudn is that you make their looks improve.
The amount of times that Yassop, Shanks or Benn asked you for a fit check is almost hilarious.
Also, when they first saw you using a face mask they got really scared, it was dark at night and with no lights.
Then one day you found one of them with the same masks, and that was the start of the make up and glow up nights.
Where you help them trim their hair and beard, you do face masks and drink detox juices.
They really became drama queens and got some of your features.
They are more than glad to have you around, cause you are amazing and you are their girl.
Even though sometimes thay can be really awkward, but they love you a lot.
lookkkkk what if Shanks accidentally showed his very clingy side with reader infront of his crew? I mean shanks would probably be the type who wouldn’t mind to display public affection but maybe he was just too drunk and starts acting clingy in a way(or maybe different types of actions)that the crew would not expect?
hopefully this could give you some ideas!!<33
The Red-Haired Pirates Love
Shanks x reader
Words: 4,794
Warnings: alcohol consumption, vomiting, mild language, threat of violence, and caregiving themes.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The gentle rocking of the Red Force was a familiar lullaby, one you’d grown accustomed to over your years with the Red-Haired Pirates. It was a life of salty air, boisterous laughter, and an unspoken understanding that wove through the crew like the threads of a well-worn sail. And at the heart of that understanding, for you, was Shanks.
You never needed to announce it. There were no grand declarations, no whispered confessions overheard by nosy crewmates. Instead, your relationship with Shanks was etched into the very fabric of daily life aboard the ship. It was in the way his hand would subtly find the small of your back during a heated discussion, a quiet anchor in the midst of the chaos. It was in the almost imperceptible press of his lips to your forehead when he thought no one was looking, or the soft brush against your cheek that felt more intimate than any passionate kiss. These weren't constant displays of affection, but rather fleeting moments, stolen glances, and quiet touches that spoke volumes. The crew had seen it all—the way he’d pull you a fraction closer when you were standing side-by-side on deck, his fingers lightly grazing your arm, or the almost absentminded way he’d press his lips to yours, a soft, comfortable gesture that meant more than any word.
And then there were the conversations. "Oh! That reminds me of when you wake up," Shanks might chuckle, a wide grin spreading across his face as he recounted a particularly chaotic morning escapade involving Benn Beckman and a misplaced map. The crew would glance between the two of you, a knowing glint in their eyes, before turning back to their drinks. Or perhaps you'd be admiring a particularly vibrant sunset, a rare moment of quiet contemplation, and find yourself saying, "Shanks would love that," knowing full well the kind of joy such a simple beauty would bring him. It wasn't just your words; it was the way you’d both speak of each other, not as separate entities, but as intertwined halves of a whole. Everyone saw it, everyone felt it. You were Shanks's, and he was yours, in a way that needed no formal title or public display. The crew just knew.
The night was a symphony of celebration, the red haired pirates alive with the raucous joy of the crew. Sake flowed like a river, laughter boomed, and the aroma of roasted meat mingled with the salty sea air. You, however, were an island of sobriety in the boisterous sea. Your glass remained untouched, a silent sentinel beside you. You knew all too well the consequences of Shanks's enthusiastic drinking—a charming, albeit headache-inducing, whirlwind of a man who would need your care later, and even more so in the harsh light of morning.
Your gaze, seemingly casual, drifted towards him every few moments. He was a vibrant blur in the center of the revelry, bottle after bottle disappearing down his throat with alarming speed, his booming laugh easily cutting through the din.
"And so I told Yasopp," Benn Beckman rumbled, a thoughtful puff of smoke curling from his cigarette. You were supposedly discussing the finer points of long-range marksmanship and the surprising resilience of certain sea kings. "A true sharpshooter relies on instinct, not just aim. A calculated risk, you understand?"
"Mhm," you murmured, your eyes flickering back to Shanks just as he clinked bottles with Lucky Roo, a spray of sake arcing into the air. He was already leaning heavily on Yasopp, his arm slung around the sniper's shoulders.
Benn’s observant gaze followed yours. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny ember in the dim light. "He's certainly... in his element tonight," he drawled, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Worried about the hangover, are we?" It wasn't a question, more an acknowledgement of the unspoken duty you always took upon yourself.
You let out a soft laugh, a small, knowing sound that was almost lost in the din of the celebration. You brought a hand up to your temple, pressing your fingertips against your forehead as if already warding off the phantom headache that would undoubtedly be yours tomorrow. "You know it, Benn," you sighed, shaking your head good-naturedly. "He'll be a complete mess. Demanding hot towels, complaining about the light, probably swearing off sake until the next port." You glanced at Shanks again, who was now attempting to dance a jig with a rather bewildered Rockstar, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Someone's got to keep him from sailing us into a storm cloud, right?"
Benn took another slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, softening just a touch as he watched you. "It’s a tough job," he finally said, his voice a low rumble, "but someone’s gotta do it." He paused, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his gaze. "He’s lucky to have you, you know. Most people would have thrown him overboard by now, especially after a night like this." He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "He’d probably still be smiling, mind you, even as the sharks circled."
He extinguished his cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray, the faint hiss swallowed by the surrounding merriment. "It's more than just the hangovers, though, isn't it?" Benn mused, his gaze drifting towards Shanks, who was now attempting to lead a singalong, albeit off-key. "You keep him grounded. He flies so high, he needs someone to remind him where the deck is." He looked back at you, a knowing glint in his eye. "He trusts you. More than anyone else, I reckon."
You felt a warmth spread through you at his words, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken bond you shared with the boisterous captain. It was true. You were his anchor, and he, in turn, was your unwavering compass. You wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant another morning spent coaxing him out of bed with strong coffee and a steady hand.
Both you and Benn watched Shanks for a few moments, a brief lull in your conversation as the captain continued his boisterous revelry. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Shanks suddenly stilled. The wide grin faltered, replaced by an ill, greenish tinge that spread across his face. His eyes widened slightly before he bolted, a desperate dash to the edge of the ship. He leaned over, a retching sound tearing from his throat as everything he'd consumed that day, and likely much of the day before, violently exited his stomach.
"Oh, for crying out loud, Shanks," you muttered, already moving. You were there in an instant, pulling his long, red hair back from his face with one hand while the other rubbed soothing circles on his shaking back. "Rough night, huh, Captain? Just get it all out." Your voice was soft, laced with a familiar blend of exasperation and concern. "You’re going to hate yourself in the morning, you know that?"
The crew, who moments before had been roaring with laughter and song, fell into an abrupt, almost comical silence. Lucky Roo paused mid-bite, his drumstick still in his mouth. Yasopp lowered his tankard slowly, his eyes wide. Even Rockstar, who had been tangled in Shanks’s ill-fated dance, seemed to freeze in place. They knew this routine. It was a common, albeit pungent, side effect of their captain's boundless enthusiasm for sake. A few of the more seasoned members merely sighed, shaking their heads in a mixture of pity and amusement. Others, younger and less accustomed to Shanks's dramatic exits, exchanged wide-eyed glances, trying to stifle their snickers. Benn Beckman simply watched, a faint smirk playing on his lips, as if to say, told you so.
Shanks heaved a few more times, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Finally, he straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A slow, almost triumphant smile spread across his face, completely oblivious to the green tinge that still lingered on his cheeks.
"Alright, that's enough of that!" he declared, his voice a little hoarse but already regaining its usual booming quality. He pushed off the railing, swaying slightly. "Now, where were we? The party's still going, isn't it?" He looked around at the still-stunned crew, who were slowly beginning to resume their previous activities, albeit with a new, cautious energy.
You let out a long, slow sigh, a mix of exasperation and profound affection. You were just about to scold him, perhaps suggest he consider a glass of water, when his eyes, still a little glazed from the alcohol and the recent exertion, met yours. A slow, impossibly cheeky grin stretched across his lips, the kind that always managed to disarm you, even when you were at your most annoyed. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Shanks's eyes, previously a swirling mess of drunken cheer, suddenly sharpened, focusing entirely on you. The cheeky grin softened into something profoundly tender, a look you knew intimately but one the rest of the crew rarely, if ever, witnessed. He took a wobbly step towards you, then another, until he was standing just inches away. His hand, warm and calloused, reached out, not to steady himself, but to gently cup your cheek. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down your spine.
"There you are," he murmured, his voice surprisingly low and clear, completely devoid of the earlier slurring. "My anchor." His gaze held yours, deep and unwavering, filled with an affection so potent it felt like a physical presence. "Always there to pick up after my messes, aren't you?" He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. "What would I do without you, my love?" he whispered, a hint of genuine vulnerability in his tone that made your heart clench.
A hush fell over the ship, deeper than before. The last vestiges of drunken chatter died out. Every single member of the Red-Haired Pirates, from the usually oblivious Lucky Roo to the ever-stoic Benn Beckman, was frozen, eyes wide, staring at the intimate scene unfolding before them. This wasn't the subtle touch or the knowing glance they were used to. This was raw, open affection, a side of their captain they had never witnessed. Shanks, the boisterous, carefree emperor, was openly displaying a profound, loving devotion to you. It was a sight that would be etched into their memories, a testament to the quiet, powerful love that bloomed between their captain and the woman who was his world.
Shanks, still with that uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes, didn't just lean away. Instead, he tightened his grip on your cheek, his thumb continuing its gentle caress. Then, in a move that startled even you, he pulled you closer, wrapping his other arm around your waist and effectively pinning you against his chest. His head dipped, resting on your shoulder, and you could feel the soft brush of his hair against your neck.
"Don't leave," he mumbled, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against your ear. It wasn't a demand, but a plea, thick with drunken sentimentality. He tightened his embrace, pressing his face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "You smell like… home."
He nuzzled closer, a happy, almost childlike sigh escaping his lips. His grip became even more possessive, as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his hold even a fraction. He swayed slightly, and you had to brace yourself, hands coming up to his back to keep both of you steady.
The crew remained utterly silent, their gazes glued to the scene. This was beyond anything they had ever witnessed. Their fierce, independent captain, reduced to a clingy, affectionate mess in your arms, openly showing a vulnerability that was startling. Lucky Roo nearly dropped his drumstick, and Yasopp’s jaw hung slightly agape. Benn Beckman, for the first time in a long time, looked genuinely surprised, a flicker of bewildered amusement dancing in his usually unreadable eyes.
You were, for a few long seconds, utterly frozen. Not from discomfort, but from sheer surprise. This level of overt affection, especially in front of the entire crew, was unprecedented. Your mind raced, caught between the instinct to gently push him away and the overwhelming warmth that spread through you at his desperate clinginess.
Then, as his head settled more firmly on your shoulder and his mumbled words of "home" echoed in your ear, you relaxed. A soft sigh escaped your lips, and your hands, which had been hovering uncertainly, finally settled on his broad back. You began to rub gentle circles, a familiar, soothing gesture. He was heavy against you, his familiar scent of sea salt, sake, and something uniquely him filling your senses. You leaned into his embrace, letting yourself be enveloped by his unusual neediness.
"You're impossibly drunk, you know that?" you murmured, the words soft against his hair. A small, knowing smile played on your lips. It wasn't a question, more an observation laced with boundless affection. "Absolutely, hopelessly drunk, Captain."
Shanks mumbled a soft, "I know," his voice muffled against your shoulder. He pushed his face further into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a series of warm, lingering kisses there. Each touch was soft, tender, and deeply affectionate, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous demeanor. You felt a shiver ripple through you, a pleasant warmth spreading from where his lips met your skin.
Then, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes, still a little unfocused but now with a sharp glint, sweeping over the astonished faces of his crew. His arms, which had been wrapped around your waist, tightened possessively, pulling you even closer until there was no space between you.
"What are you all looking at?" he demanded, his voice suddenly back to its familiar roar, though it held an edge of something new—a possessive challenge. A wide, almost feral grin spread across his face, daring anyone to comment. The crew, who had been gawking openly, flinched back, some quickly averting their gazes, others pretending to be deeply engrossed in their drinks. The silence that had fallen over the Red Force moments ago transformed into a palpable tension, thick with unspoken questions and newfound understanding.
You could feel the heat radiating from Shanks, both from his body pressed against yours and the sheer intensity of his gaze on the crew. It was a clear warning, a declaration of ownership that made your cheeks flush. Yet, despite the public display, you couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth. This drunken, clingy Shanks was surprisingly endearing.
"They're just surprised, Shanks," you murmured, patting his arm. His embrace, however, only tightened.
He grunted, still glaring at his stunned crew. "Well, they shouldn't be. You're mine," he declared, his voice booming across the ship, leaving no room for misinterpretation. He then buried his face in your hair again, letting out a contented sigh. "My lovely, beautiful Y/N."
The crew, having taken their cue, quickly scattered or found something intensely interesting to stare at in the opposite direction. The previous boisterous party atmosphere slowly began to filter back in, but now with an undercurrent of new understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the captain's unspoken, yet now very much spoken, relationship.
You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "Yes, yes, I'm yours. Now, how about we get you to bed before you decide to declare war on the moon?" You tried to gently extract yourself from his grasp, but he held firm, a stubborn weight against you.
"No, stay," he whined, sounding remarkably like a giant, affectionate child. He pulled back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, and leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was a slow, tender kiss, full of the kind of unspoken devotion that had always existed between you two, now laid bare for all to see.
When he finally pulled away, a triumphant, if still very drunk, smile played on his lips. "See? Much better than dancing with Rockstar."
You rolled your eyes, a smile of your own blooming across your face. "Come on, you big oaf," you said, finally managing to guide him away from the railing and towards the captain's quarters. "Let's get you cleaned up. And tomorrow, you're getting a very strong talking-to about your alcohol intake."
Shanks just chuckled, leaning heavily on you as you steered him through the lingering festivities. "Anything for you, my love," he slurred, before promptly tripping over his own feet, nearly taking you both down. You braced him, a familiar rhythm of support and unwavering affection that had always defined your life with the Red-Haired Pirates, and with him.
Navigating the bustling, still-celebrating deck with a half-conscious, overly affectionate Shanks was a familiar challenge. You chuckled softly as he mumbled about forgotten treasures and the bravery of seagulls, his weight a comfortable burden against your side. Finally, with a surprising amount of effort and a few gentle shoves, you managed to get him through the door of the captain's quarters.
The cabin was dimly lit, the only light filtering in from the single porthole, casting shifting shadows on the familiar maps and discarded coats. You maneuvered him towards the large, comfortable bed, his momentum almost toppling you both onto the soft mattress. He collapsed onto it with a contented groan, sprawling out like a starfish.
You sighed, but it was a soft, fond sound. You pulled off his boots, then his coat, tossing them onto a nearby chair. His movements were slow and sluggish now, the last vestiges of adrenaline giving way to the heavy pull of sleep. He shifted, reaching out a hand, blindly searching for you.
"Y/N?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
"I'm here, Shanks," you replied, gently pushing his unruly red hair back from his forehead. You slipped off your own clothes, leaving them in a neat pile. The cabin air was cool, a welcome relief after the warmth of the crowded deck.
When you slid under the covers beside him, the mattress dipping with your weight, he immediately shifted, rolling onto his side to face you. His arm snaked out, pulling you close, tucking your head under his chin. His breath, smelling faintly of sake, ghosted over your hair. He pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to your temple.
"Stay," he whispered, his voice barely audible now. It was a primal request, born of deep comfort and a profound sense of belonging.
You nestled deeper into his embrace, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. The rhythmic creak of the ship, the distant muffled sounds of the lingering party, all faded into a soothing background hum. You closed your eyes, a peaceful smile on your lips. Being here, with him, was exactly where you were meant to be. Drunk or sober, boisterous or tender, he was your home, and you were his. And as sleep claimed you both, you knew, with absolute certainty, that tomorrow, even with the inevitable hangover, would begin exactly where today left off: in the quiet, comforting embrace of your shared world.
The first rays of morning sunlight, usually a welcome sight, felt like daggers against your eyelids. You stirred, a familiar ache thrumming behind your eyes, a ghost of Shanks's impending hangover. He was still dead to the world, a heavy, warm weight beside you. His arm was still slung possessively around your waist, his head buried in your hair, his breathing deep and even. He looked utterly peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaotic, vibrant man he usually was, and certainly a marked difference from the drunken mess he'd been mere hours ago.
You carefully extracted yourself from his grip, a feat that usually required a surprising amount of stealth. He mumbled in his sleep, a soft, indistinct sound, but didn't wake. After slipping out of bed, you pulled a loose shirt on and padded quietly around the cabin, gathering the strewn clothes from the night before. His boots lay haphazardly by the door, his coat draped over a chair like a fallen hero. The faint scent of stale sake still clung to the air, a testament to the previous night's revelry.
You glanced back at him, a fond smile touching your lips. He was completely oblivious, sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the side. You knew what the morning would bring: the groans, the complaints about the light, the desperate pleas for water and strong coffee. But for now, in this quiet, peaceful morning, he was just Shanks, your captain, your lover, lost in a deep, well-deserved sleep.
You slipped out of the cabin, closing the door softly behind you. The deck was still mostly deserted, a few early risers already tending to their duties, their movements quiet and purposeful. The fresh morning air was a welcome contrast to the stale warmth of the cabin, and you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable chaos of a pirate ship waking up.
Your first stop was the galley. You pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of simmering stew and fresh bread washing over you. Yasopp was already there, perched on a stool, nursing a steaming mug of coffee. He looked surprisingly spry for someone who'd been partying just hours ago. He glanced up as you entered, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Captain's personal nursemaid," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Rough night, huh? Sounded like our captain had a real good time." He leaned back, taking a sip of his coffee, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though, I gotta say, never seen him quite so... open about his affections before. Quite the show for the crew."
You rolled your eyes, heading straight for the pantry to grab some crackers and then to the water barrel. "Oh, hush, Yasopp. He was drunk off his skull. You know how he gets." You filled a tankard with cool water and found a small pouch of painkillers in the medical kit usually kept in the galley.
"Drunk, maybe," Yasopp conceded, "but that didn't stop him from practically stapling himself to you, did it? And that little speech about you being 'his'..." He let out a low whistle. "Pretty sure the entire Grand Line heard that one." He leaned forward, his grin widening. "So, when's the wedding?"
You threw a cracker at him, which he expertly caught mid-air with a laugh. "You're lucky I'm too tired to chase you around the ship right now, Yasopp. Just get back to your duties before Benn finds you loafing around." You hoisted the tray with the water, crackers, and painkillers, ready to make your escape back to the cabin and your very hungover captain. "Some of us actually have a job to do."
Just as you were about to make your escape, the galley door swung open again, and in strode Benn Beckman, a fresh cigarette already lit and dangling from his lips. He took one look at Yasopp, then at you with the tray, and a faint smirk played on his usually stoic face.
"Morning, Y/N," he rumbled, his voice low and even, a sharp contrast to Yasopp's boisterous teasing. "Looks like you're already earning your keep this morning." He paused, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "Captain giving you trouble?"
"Just the usual," you mumbled, a flush creeping up your neck. You knew there was no escaping the crew's observations.
Yasopp snickered. "She's just mad because I called her the Captain's nursemaid, Benn. And asked about the wedding."
Benn raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Wedding, huh? Well, after last night's performance, I'd say it's about time. He certainly made his intentions clear." He glanced at the crackers on your tray. "Crackers, though? For him?"
You sighed. "It's all I could grab quickly. He's still dead to the world, and I just want to get him something before he starts demanding it."
Benn shook his head slowly. "He'll want toast. Thick, buttery toast. Always does after a night like that." He gave you a look that said, you know this.
"Crap," you muttered under your breath, realizing he was absolutely right. Shanks loved toast. You knew this. You just hadn't thought of it in your sleepy rush. Turning on your heel, you marched back to the counter where the bread was kept, already pulling out slices. "Alright, fine, toast it is. Happy now?" you grumbled, half to yourself and half to the two grinning pirates behind you.
"Just make sure it's nice and toasted, Y/N," Yasopp called out, still chuckling. "He likes it practically burnt sometimes, remember?"
"Oh, I remember!" you shot back, already sliding the bread into the galley's well-used toaster. "I remember a lot of things about him that I'm sure he'll regret remembering himself later today." You grabbed a butter knife, intending to spread butter on the eventual toast.
"And make sure you slather that butter on," Benn added, a smirk playing on his lips. "He needs his sustenance after such a… vigorous night."
"You two are absolutely insufferable," you muttered, turning to face them, the butter knife pointed playfully in their direction. "One more word, and this butter knife is going to find a new home in your respective eyeballs."
Just as the words left your mouth, the galley door creaked open. In a flash, a pair of hands were around you, pulling you back against a familiar, warm chest. You tensed, ready to fight, but then a low groan rumbled against your ear, and the scent of stale sake and Shanks's unique musk filled your nostrils.
"My head," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and a burgeoning hangover. He buried his face in your hair. "And you shouldn't threaten the crew, Y/N. They're good lads." His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer still, his chin resting on your shoulder. The butter knife still clutched in your hand felt suddenly ridiculous.
Yasopp burst into outright laughter, quickly joined by Benn's deeper snicker. You felt a mortified flush creep up your neck, heat spreading to your ears. Shanks, oblivious in his hungover haze, simply tightened his grip, burrowing his face further into your neck.
The toaster dinged, signaling the readiness of the toast. You carefully twisted within Shanks's embrace, his grip surprisingly pliant when you moved with purpose. You managed to butter a thick slice, the rich aroma filling the galley. Turning back to him, you held the toast up to his face.
"Here," you said softly, pushing a piece into his mouth.
He grumbled around the mouthful, his eyes still closed. "Not hungry."
"I know, baby," you replied, your voice gentle but firm. "But you can't take painkillers on an empty stomach, or you'll feel even worse." You waited patiently as he slowly chewed, the motion of his jaw a silent testament to his reluctance.
Once he had swallowed, you handed him the tankard of water. He took a long, grateful gulp. Then, you offered him the painkillers. He swallowed them without complaint, still leaning heavily against you, his familiar weight a comforting presence despite the morning's chaos.
With the painkillers swallowed, Shanks finally let out a long, shuddering sigh, the worst of the immediate nausea seemingly abating. He sagged against you, a dead weight, but his grip remained stubbornly firm.
"Better?" you asked, gently rubbing his back.
He nodded, a barely perceptible movement against your hair. "Still feels like a sea king's trying to dance on my brain."
Yasopp and Benn, who had been quietly observing the entire exchange, exchanged a glance. Yasopp cleared his throat. "Alright, Captain, glad to see you're still in one piece. We'll, uh, leave you to it." He winked at you, a mischievous glint in his eye, before he and Benn discreetly exited the galley, leaving you and Shanks alone.
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "They'll never let you live this down, you know."
Shanks just grumbled, burying his face deeper into your neck. "Worth it," he mumbled, his voice already drifting. He shifted, his body relaxing against yours as the painkillers began to take effect. You could feel him sinking back into a lighter sleep, the heavy weight of his hangover beginning to lift. You stood there for a few more moments, cradling him, the quiet hum of the ship your only company. It was a familiar comfort, this dance of chaos and calm, of boisterous adventures and tender mornings. With Shanks, it was always an unpredictable journey, but one you wouldn't trade for anything.
