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Two years ago, when your belly first did that stupid mini somersault during the climax of the ill-famed Summit War, you didn’t give it much thought, if you were honest. The circumstances hadn’t been appropriate to gift that haunting sensation any particular names, and you believed apprehension and anxiety had blinded your rational judgment temporarily, which was valid considering the nature of such a conflict.
You had just joined the Red-Haired Pirates a few months before the dreadful events at Marineford.
Full of potential, the men had praised you upon meeting you in your humble town.
Full of ideas, the members had agreed upon witnessing your many skills with your trusty staff.
Full of life, the same crew had laughed upon justifying their decision to invite you.
A bright star in the making in the world of Piracy, worthy of a permanent spot aboard their rambunctious ship —that’s what you were. That’s what you had been told you were, at least. And you were not planning to contradict them, either.
There had been a unanimous consensus among that bunch of rowdy barbarians at last: you could be one of them in the long run. They saw it, your future with them. You were capable of learning their methods, they had reckoned.
You had accepted their generous offer in stride, thanking them with a beaming smile and a respectful bow, eager to explore islands beyond the vast expanse of that golden-hued horizon before your young, cosmos-scattered eyes.
And learn you did. Thoroughly.
You were a quick study.
Determined. Tenacious. Intelligent.
Never losing your kindness (and aside from sporadic moments of melancholic homesickness), you carried yourself with flawless perseverance aboard the vessel. Your actions were akin to a chameleon changing its colours, adapting to its new environment as if it were a second layer of keratin scales.
You fit right in. The Captain had applauded while celebrating your one-month anniversary (uhm- or rather monthversary?) with him and the others, throwing a party to commemorate your fair share of achievements so far.
The Captain.
The legendary Red-Haired Shanks.
Oh, that Captain.
That handsome, handsome Captain.
Ever charming and ever sensible.
He had not been a stranger to you, mind you.
You had known it all.
The various rumours. The impressive power. The high bounty. The enigmatic past. The missing arm. The triple scars.
He had initially intimidated you, for his height was monumental and his deep vermillion gaze was penetrating, piercing through layers you hadn’t been aware existed within your soul.
However, once his lips, thin and faintly booze-coated, had spread into that easy, irresistible grin of his, and he had patted your shoulder with nothing but bona fide enthusiasm, you realised that you would be safe, that you would enjoy his company, that you could fly above your station and enrich your knowledge thanks to his aplomb leadership.
And then, in slow, slow time, a formal ‘Sir’ became a tentative ‘Cap’, which then became a casual ‘Shanks’, which then became an endearing ‘Red’, and now, on occasion, for silly mockery’s sake, it has also become a fond ‘Babe’ or a funny ‘Dumbass’.
You have been dating him for a little less than a year.
No rushed confessions. No hasty movements. No hurried expectations.
Simply a hushed, albeit sincere ‘I really like you, pretty lady.’ uttered in the midst of passes of a half-empty wine bottle between you two. An indirect kiss, cedar musk, fingers grazing one another, and a smile so dazzling it could smoothly rival that of the sun. The moon as the High Priestess. The dark ocean as the biggest spectator. The wooden railings as your anchor.
It had been a…relatively natural transition.
Him, from your idealised Boss to your late-night Friend to your loyal Partner.
You, from his favourite Rookie to his compassionate Comrade to his treasured Sweetheart.
Laughter soon enveloped your days and noons, teasing and scandalous, as well as subtle protection and crucial anecdotes worth memorising by heart. Seduction soon engulfed your evenings and dawns, private and claiming, as well as suffocating passion and ragged noises worth memorising by spirit.
His optimism was the quality that attracted you the most, among other positive traits, of course. He always wore that same charismatic armour, didn’t he? Magnetic. Carefree. Strategic.
Except? Not ‘always’.
He wasn’t prone to fury, but he didn’t smile at Marineford when Ace’s corpse lay dead on the ground. Or when Kid threatened him and his allies with his weapon of mass destruction. Or when Bartolomeo burnt his flag on Gartel Island.
No playful whistles.
No lazy tug of lips.
No roaring guffaws.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
You had silently stayed a few feet away from him during those three events, close to the inner hall, close to Hongo and Beckman. Not because you were afraid of Shanks —his anger had not been directed towards you, you had no reason to fear him— but because you had grasped how utterly bizarre it was to see him like this.
Hostile. Feline. Poised.
Lethally serene. Icy disposition. Ire simmering beneath the crimson flames of his Conqueror’s Haki. Words devoid of that tender warmth you had recently grown accustomed to falling asleep to as he caressed your nape in circles with his calloused thumb.
And yet? Despite his authoritarian attitude in the face of chaos? Chaos, he deemed a necessary evil, even when confrontation in general drained him (for the sake of his reputation)? Despite his glare, his muteness, and his covert wrath?
Your body, that magnificent combination of limbs, organs, and nerves, betrayed you.
Once. Twice. Thrice, it betrayed you.
Fright did not curse you like it cursed his enemies.
You shivered, but not from terror.
You exhaled, but not from panic.
You stiffened, but not from horror.
No.
Allure, a sick type of allure, instead, was the treacherous culprit.
You recognised that —the libidinous message of your anatomy, slick and scorching like venomous molasses— too late. Really late.
What was there to feel? What was the appropriate emotion to feel after discovering the appalling fact that Shanks acting stern turned you on? Horrendously so.
Shame?
Guilt?
Mortification?
Acceptance was out of the question, no doubt.
You couldn’t speak of this, of how your imagination ran wild whenever his fingers deliberately traced swirly patterns across the golden pommel of his sword, awaiting the other party to divulge what sins they had committed.
You couldn’t speak of this, of how your throat contracted whenever his cape billowed in the breeze, calculating and tolerant, as he decided what merciful punishment his opponent should receive for having troubled the people he had vowed to defend.
You couldn’t possibly speak of this, of how your panties became soaking wet whenever his tone dropped in pitch, an octave lower, and his ultimate penalty was decreed, his chiselled jaw taut, his posture enchantingly straight.
Shit.
You adored his foolish side, the mischief in his orbs, the dumb wiggle of his brows, the tenderness of his mouth; but you were sure you could also worship the Emperor inside him, drag the man to bed, obey his command, crawl between those mighty legs of his, and-
Holy shit.
You supposed these three fundamental reasons were fair enough. You could avoid him. For a few days, if you were lucky. For a few weeks, if you were clever.
Unfortunately, you were neither blessed nor smart. Not in this case.
After the Barto Club’s ship was sunk by a single bullet from Yasopp’s deadly rifle, after Shanks had whirled around, abandoning the railings in search of you —since it was obvious how excited he was about the raw faithfulness a supporter of Luffy’s had recently exhibited— you dashed away, spewing lame lies and vacant excuses, leaving the poor Captain disoriented on the polished deck.
“Sorry, I’m gonna check the hull!” False.
“And then go to the Crow’s Nest- talk to you later!” Fake.
“And uhhh take a bath, too!” Not tr- no, wait, that last line was true.
That’s what you did.
You took a bath.
A pretty extensive bath. A Thorough shower.
Scrubbing. Cleaning. Washing non-existent grime to satiate your stress (and your idiotic lust-).
The cool water cascaded down your naked frame, and each drop that hit your flesh helped ease the throbbing tension in your gut. The hissing of the spray, the only sound in the confined space, aided you, cocooned your tremors, for soon your psyche mastered the wonders of peace in the dewy mist.
Once you were done, you padded along the corridors, barefoot, a fluffy towel clinging to your silhouette, your fists pressed against your moist chest —careful not to appear conspicuous. You could hear chortles, music, and tankards clinking in the distance. Typical. Your crew was revelling, which was an auspicious omen.
Upon entering your cabin, you turned on your lamp, hastily got dressed, dried your hair, and departed again. You returned to the bathroom in order to put the towel back into place. The rectangular mirror was fogged as it saluted your new arrival; the bathroom possessed that lingering, ethereal vapour. You rubbed the surface of the glass with your fist and inspected the state of your visage, assessing your reflection, whether there were any nuisances which could incriminate you.
None.
Perfect.
Somebody shouted your name from afar, most likely Lucky Roux at the galley.
Dinner was about to be served, the same person announced.
Well, fingers crossed.
You exited the toilet and paved your path towards your next destination: the dining hall. The passages were narrow, you suddenly registered —your doom was near. Wooden walls and doors upon doors greeted you as you prayed you could behave yourself with normalcy while eating.
You were successful.
Moderately.
Your lover sat at the head of the table. Normal.
You sat on his left. Normal.
Your crew fought over bread rolls and salt. Normal.
You had assumed he would interrogate you, that Shanks, instinctively attentive and perceptive, would quirk a brow at you, grab your chair by its top and pull you closer to him, whisper questions in your ear.
He did not.
Yes, his eyes did occasionally lift from his plate of buttery prawn, studying your expression as he chewed on his food or played with his fork. Yet? He didn’t intervene. Not one bit.
You would concentrate on the piece of turkey in front of you, and the man would calmly sip from his jug, savouring the bitter taste of ale on his tongue as if it were Paradise.
You were sure he had noticed your discomfort. It was quite apparent. You were worried he could somehow read your mind, decipher the lewd imagery your neurons conjured up like cinematic movies on repeat.
Sterness.
Dangerous sternness.
Tempting sterness.
You grimaced as you bit into your poultry.
Shanks reacted.
“The food’s bad, sweetheart?”
His voice, carrying that emblematic spirited lilt, rang beside you.
You paused, your canines stabbing through the protein, and glanced at him.
“Oh, no, no,” you replied, shrugging in faux nonchalance, and waving your hand at him —a dismissive motion. “The food’s perfect.” You affirmed, sparing him a crooked smile and a tiny titter.
Something akin to curiosity flashed in his pupils, a glimmer of scarlet-coloured intrigue. Before it vanished as swiftly as it had come.
Then the bastard, while jabbing a portion of his beloved lobster, as cool as a cucumber, advised: “Okay, try not to choke on your meat, yeah?”
You choked, regardless of his counsel.
How could he be oh so cruel!
Couldn’t he register how his innuendo was affecting you?
You poor, poor woman!
Were you ovulating?
Probably.
But there had been various antecedents, as fore-mentioned. You couldn’t merely blame it on your lunar cycle. You weren’t a she-wolf in estrus, were you?
When dinner ended (after what you reckoned to be an eternity), you stuck around, sweeping the junk-covered floorboards and erasing scraps of food on the many, many ceramic dishes. Your crew were beasts; they were voracious. So, you spent some time entertaining yourself, humming and singing catchy tunes from your childhood below your breath.
Then havoc wrecked your meticulously crafted harmony.
You travelled to your personal quarters, desperate for the cosiness of your bed, unaware of your human mistake. The door creaked from the weight of your push, and you stepped inside. The lights were off, which puzzled you. You could swear you had left them on.
“Weird…” You murmured to no one in particular, kicking off your boots and grasping the hem of your shirt, ready to tug at its fabric and toss it over your head. You could manage the darkness; it had never spooked you.
However, what lurked within the darkness? That was an entirely different story.
“Aye, funny- that’s exactly what I was thinking, too.”
Startled, you froze, toes curling, clawing into the wood beneath you, and speedily fixed your clothes.
Clack Click.
The lamp’s luminescence revealed him to you, the shadows highlighting and devouring the prominent parts of his solid physique.
Shanks was there, perched against the edge of your oak desk. His sole elbow rested on its sturdy plane as he toyed with a fountain pen you had bought on an island not so long ago —an ordinary souvenir— transferring it through each knuckle, a trick he had learnt when he was a kid on board the Oro Jackson.
“Care to explain what happened at dinner, hm?”
Amusement.
That smirk. That glint. That snark.
Crap.
You were trapped. He didn’t need to summon his Haki, for the bottom of your skeleton remained glued to your spot, evil ivy vines maintaining your ankles chained.
Your palm moved, discreetly climbing the length of the door behind you.
The Captain instantly caught your (pathetic) effort at fleeing, similar to a predator who catches its prey’s fight or flight instincts in the span of milliseconds.
He set the ink-filled marker down and snapped his fingers at you, the harsh noise reverberating across the dimly-lit room in the form of a booming echo. His sly grin faltered, morphing into a serious glower, portraying his boiling vexation.
“No, do not touch the knob.” Shanks dictated, absolute in manner and conclusion. “We are discussing this right here, right now.”
Discipline. He was demanding discipline from you. Very Uncommon of him.
Gods, that exquisite discipline seeped into your pores like sizzling poison.
If you had a tail, it would be wagging despite the thick tension in the air. Fast. If you could bark, your shouts would be deafening.
Your muscles strained while your bones buzzed with that peculiar electricity.
You shuddered, goosebumps tickling your spine.
The red-haired Chief didn’t move. Neither did you.
He stared, you cowered.
You fidgeted, he scrutinised.
He cleared his throat, you hesitated.
You grumbled, he waited.
“At dinner,” your lover repeated quietly, sagging due to your vacillation, not much of a ‘threat’ anymore, and drummed his nails rhythmically upon the desk —a consistent chorus of thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky-pinky, ring, middle, index, thumb against the coarse exterior. “Why were you acting so strangely?”
Your gaze roamed about him. From the base of his sandals to the top of his skull.
The tilt of his strong hips.
The defined line of his exposed pectorals.
The veins of his single arm.
The tanned complexion of his neck.
The circular stubble on his chin and upper lip.
The delicious shape of his nose.
The intense hue of his irises.
The mahogany strands of his unruly mane.
So, so masculine.
It drew you in.
When did it not draw you in, though? When was he not mesmerising to you? You weren’t idealising him. No. Not like in the past. These were universal facts. Hard-rock facts. He was a scarred statue, meant to be revered by an audience.
“It’s…embarrassing.” You stated timidly, keeping your ugly secret vague, safe, and locked in the depths of your pocket for now.
Shanks emitted a rumbling purr, a critical ‘hmpf’ which originated from the profundity of his thorax. Quizzical.
“Embarrassing?” He reproduced your answer, incredulous, and scoffed. “I’m pretty immune to ‘embarrassing’, no? Thirty-nine years riding these waves isn’t just a number on a calendar." That humoured mien emerged again. “So shoot, c’mon.”
You cringed, your features scrunching, rosy heat creeping up your profile, dusting your cheeks and ears in (hopefully) inconspicuous shades of cherry.
“Nggghhh, nooope, I don’t want to.”
Shanks heaved a heavy sigh. He circled his temple, easing his gradual discontent.
“Baby, c’mon- I’m not gonna be mad at you for being honest with me.” He promised, seemingly solemn and diligent. “Who do you take me for?”
You recoiled, your arms folding across your chest, to guard yourself and your wavering honour. Your dignity was on brittle ice.
“But it’s embarrassing!” You squealed once more, finding solace in the cotton texture of your garments. “I’m not kidding, Shanks- it’s really, really embarrassing.”
Oh, but he was relentless. As stubborn as a mule, this menace of an Emperor. Charms could break your walls. Pet names could…bend your sentiment.
A ping-pong match commenced.
“Sugar…” He drawled, experimental.
“No.” You responded, assertive.
“Treasure.” He opted, confident.
“No!” You exclaimed, veiling your face with your sweaty palms.
“Pumpkin?” He prompted, testing the ridiculous moniker.
“Pff- N…No.” Ah, but your mouth curved upwards.
“Love?” He asked, not missing a beat.
You were about to object, to decline his request for what seemed like the hundredth time, when he interrupted you with an avalanche of cliché nicknames…one more absurd than the last-
“My lady?”
Cute.
“Princess?”
Adorable.
“Cupcake?”
Yummy.
“Sweetie Pie?”
Pardon?
“Honey Bunny?”
What??
“Snuggle Bug?”
WHAT???
Creative, wasn’t he? Obnoxious, you preferred to call him.
You released a muffled groan for each goofy tag. ‘Snuggle Bug’ was the straw that broke the camel’s back, logically. Your stoicism, already quite fragile, cracked.
“Okay, enough, enough, stop!” You begged aloud, massaging the many creases on your forehead, an acute migraine rapidly maturing. “Shut your trap. I’ll tell you, but please stop.”
Triumphant, the man didn’t even attempt to conceal his chuckle, rich and baritone in essence, akin to saccharine syrup. He ceased his mocking, as pleaded, and sat on your desk, its counter creaking from his total weight. Ducking his head, he invited you to speak.
You prepared for your impending ruin, greeting angels and demons alike in Heaven and Hell, organising the indispensable details of your funeral: a brown casket was the first vision that popped into your mind, with bouquets of vibrant flowers thrown on top of it. Fantastic.
“Well…” You trailed off, scratching the scruff of your neck, awkward. “Something happened today that made me realise something else.”
Wow.
Ambiguous much?
He squinted at you and puckered his lips, suspicious.
“Something happened today that made you realise something else…”
You nodded, clasping your hands behind you.
“Yes-”
“Enlightening, truly.”
You gave him a look that said ‘don’t,’ not willing to anticipate further interventions from your partner.
To appease you, he raised his paw, presumably apologetic, made a zipping motion with his fingers, bringing them from one extreme of his lip to the other, effectively shutting up.
“Sorry, noted.”
You proceeded after taking a deep, deep inhale.
“So, yeah- uhm…it’s a terrifying revelation- so, don’t judge me- bear with me here.”
Shanks neither judged nor dared to open his big, loud mouth —a miracle, certainly. He simply blinked languidly. Bemused. An inaudible invitation.
“I realised…”
Silence. Torturous silence succeeded.
Your cabin was a coop.
Your floor was gravel.
Your lamp was fire.
You shuffled in place, sheepish. And caved in. Because maybe? Maybe you needed to get this off your chest. Maybe you sought personal closure. Maybe you yearned for freedom of speech.
“I realised that…you…I think you look hot…”
Indeed, he did look hot.
From morning to dawn, he looked hot.
But, where was the outrageous pièce de résistance?
“When you’re angry- specifically when you’re angry at our enemies.”
There you go.
Admission on a shiny silver platter.
The Captain gaped at you, jaw slacked, eyes as wide as saucers, genuinely shocked for a guy who had witnessed the otherworldly in person.
“That-that so???” He probed, his query a squeaky shrill.
“Mhm, yes.”
“You think I look hot?” He pointed at himself for unnecessary clarification.
“Well, yes, but-”
“When I’m angry.”
“Correct.”
“Huh...”
To be frank, he hadn’t predicted that THAT had been the main issue earlier in the evening —why you had avoided him as if he were the tangible manifestation of the bubonic plague. If anything, he would have thought you had accidentally shot at a barrel of grog. Again.
Shanks’s mouth twitched, a tiny tug at the side. And he began to cackle. You swore the imposing ship tumbled forward, not from the ripples below the vessel but rather from his jovial laughter.
You blushed. Profusely. Discomfiture and bashfulness intertwining like tight shoelaces, equally tormenting and destructive, while he taunted you.
“Hey! I told you not to judge me!” You protested, feeling bile churn in your belly. “Oh, don’t laugh at me! See? It’s embarrassing! You’re the woooorst…” You added, slurring the final phrase, struggling to find a silver lining in that awful, awful situation.
Shanks wiped a tear from his eye —a very real tear, by the by— and continued laughing, to your dismay.
“I’m not judging you!” He countered, grin broad and devastatingly wolfish, as he tried (and miserably failed) to regain his composure in the midst of his hilarity. “I’m flattered, actually- I didn’t think you thought of me that way, is all.”
The gears cranked in your brain.
Tick. Crack. Tock.
…
“You’re…wait- you’re flattered?”
The man stood up from your desk with that effortless, rugged grace of his. He shrugged one shoulder, visibly unfazed by your confession.
“Yeah, flattered,” he confirmed, approaching you with a carefree yet measured gait, the chirp of his sandals hitting against the floor resembling that of an ominous, sinister orchestra. “I’m curious, though- why?”
You observed his lethargic stride.
“Why what?”
His toothy grin expanded, if that was even feasible.
First step.
“Why do you find me hot when angry?"
You swallowed the troublesome pebble in your trachea.
“Well- you’re always hot.”
Second step.
He snorted.
“Right.”
Third step.
“But- I don’t know, maybe because I rarely see you angry?”
Fourth step.
“Hm, right.”
Fifth step.
The gap between you was shortening. He was getting closer and closer and closer. Your discourse was almost gibberish by the time his scent, a blend of sandalwood and spice, surrounded you.
“And- it…”
You mumbled, your sentence left unfinished. His tall and robust frame eclipsed yours, his sole hand resting above your hair, his nose a small distance from your own, his collarbone a piece of art you couldn’t help sneak a glance at.
“And it…?”
He had you cornered.
You prayed that the Gods would help you vanish into dust or turn you invisible, that your atoms could match those of the door, so you could supernaturally go through the timber and escape him. Alas, you had not eaten a Devil Fruit which could grant you such a marvellous ability. Pity. The sea was fairly welcoming tonight, persuading you to jump and perish in its navy blue underworld.
He cocked his skull to the left, luscious crimson strands framing his sharp cheeks from the lazy motion, and raised a brow at your nervous stance.
“What?” Shanks asked yet again, inclining towards you, causing your breath to abruptly hitch at the minuscule proximity he had forced, your heart hammering in your ribcage, your blood pounding in your arteries. “What does it do to you…” His voice decreased in volume, transformed into a wicked rustle as it ghosted over the shell of your tender ear. “Seeing me being stern out there, eh?”
You refused to communicate your intimate thoughts.
Him instructing you to heed his orders.
Him guiding your body as he pleased.
Him employing that sternness that had come to bewitch you.
He tutted. And carried on with his monologue.
“Because, in my opinion?” He mentioned, further cloaking you with his daunting presence, letting you sense his exciting warmth, an inch away from you. His lips rested over your temple, a brush of dry flesh upon perspiring flesh. The man smirked, victorious. “I believe you like it when I’m a little mean, darlin’...”
You fought back a mortified whimper as you evaded his vehement gaze and slid down the door, the screech of your boots discernible the more your figure seemed to melt, similar to margarine under the blazing sun.
Your palms rose and shrouded your hot face, impatient to hide how utterly ashamed you were at the moment.
The Emperor —your Emperor— tsked. He was quick to take hold of your wrists, his toughened fingers, a result of countless battles and arduous training sessions, wrapped around them. They did not squeeze; they only gripped. They did not assert dominance; they only acknowledged thrumming vigour.
“Ah-Ah, no, no, no, no hiding,” he declared. Yes, sternly. “We’re not done discussing this, are we?”
You nodded fervently, opposed to his suspenseful game of cat and mouse.
“Yes! We are done discussing this- hmpf!”
You stifled a yelp.
His knee had parted your legs, sneaking in betwixt them, urging them to yield.
“Why don’t we agree to disagree?”
His kneecap pushed higher, grazing the textile masking your crotch. You immediately clamped your thighs shut, an instinct as old as the sky. But your pupils? Oh, ballooned.
Every fibre in your being desisted except for your quads.
“Be honest, my love,” Shanks requested (or better said, demanded). He freed your wrists to cup your jaw. There was a mixture of roughness and refinement in the manner in which he stroked your cheek, as if you would break if he were too pitiless. “What do you feel when you see me angry at our enemies?” He asked one last time, angling his fingers so their pads could gently gloss over the corners of your mouth.
You focused on him with half-lidded eyes.
Gulping, you surrendered.
“Hot…”
Just that, you murmured.
Hot.
What a revealing adjective.
Scorched. Branded. Seared.
The Pirate hummed, evaluating your submission.
“Hot?”
He tipped your chin a fraction.
You were jelly.
Pure, gelatinous jelly.
“Yes…”
He moistened his upper lip.
You found that brief lick incredibly erotic.
There, in your poorly-lit cabin.
Nowhere to go.
The dilemma here was, though: did you actually want to run? Did you want to bolt away? Or was that just some mediocre excuse to keep your primitive desires at bay?
“Does it turn you on?”
Ding. Ding. Ding.
He couldn’t have been any more precise.
Your gut tingled, roaring with hunger. Your hips shifted, lowering. Your groin touched the joint trapped by your legs. You crooned.
“Y…Yes…”
Shanks’s fiery irises never strayed from your face.
They watched, monitored, and ravaged.
“Ah…” He replied, noticing the subtle grind you had given his knee, the faint buck of your waist as your core sought friction.
His nonchalant response made you pout, for it was maddening to have him this near and also this far off. Your lover spotted your escalating appetite. He decided to award you relief.
Lenient in substance, jesting in action.
“Let’s put that theory to the test, then.”
Oh, how weak a human you were.
His mouth sloped over yours, and you were gone. You couldn’t retain the dulcet moan that slipped through your larynx. The kiss was messy from the start.
His tongue, fierce and overwhelming, instantly delved into your cavity when you gasped as he nipped at your lower lip, exploring your gums and teeth with delight. You could savour the traces of ale lingering on the wiggling muscle. You felt dizzy from the sour flavour, buckling.
You snaked your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you, pursuing his affection and dominion.
His knee ascended, applying mild pressure against your most intimate zone. You mewled and used your hips to accept such a filthy advancement.
A rough exhale left his throat. Your zeal entertained him —a lot.
“Hah, you are enjoying this, aren’t you?” He asked above a hoarse mutter, continuing to move the articulation in circles, loving how much you squirmed and twisted thanks to his ministrations. Your hushed ‘mhm’ brought him immense satisfaction. “Hmm, of course you are- c’mon bounce on my knee, show me.”
You did as told. Like the dutiful sailor you were. You obeyed him because he exuded control. Who were you to deny that reality? You carefully bounced up and down, grinding and rutting against the joint beneath your core, striving for pleasure despite the layers of clothes still separating you.
His single hand deviated, wormed its road along the centre of your sternum while he made out with you, ending up on your bosom. He cradled your right breast through the fabric of your shirt, groping and kneading.
“Avoiding me at dinner, tch…” Shanks grumbled, kissing you until your lips felt swollen, numb, and tasted of his strong booze. “You shouldn’t have- I would have dragged you to my quarters if you had just admitted you wanted me this much tonight.”
You were in a daze. Lust was the main criminal. Logic battled for a room in your brain.
“I’m- sorry,” you apologised for…why the hell were you apologising? “I thought you would- find it weird…”
The Captain, currently consuming your cries, grunted. He squeezed your tit, perhaps in retaliation for your dumb remorse. You whined.
“Are you kidding me? I want to be whatever you want me to be, even in bed,” he explained, leaning back to properly look at you beneath the curtain of his lashes. “Which means that, if you enjoy me being stern- I can do that, too.”
He was proposing a certain set of healthy boundaries.
Outside? He would pamper you and dote on you, however you favoured.
Inside? He would be affectionate or malicious whenever you favoured.
Win-win for those involved.
And the enigma was out of the bag.
And you craved him carnally.
And your body yearned for him.
And your soul thirsted for him.
For the gruffness, for the ferocity, for the savagery you knew he could exploit.
You didn’t nod, didn’t speak, didn’t dither this time.
It wasn’t that your sex life wasn’t fulfilling already.
He had plenty of devices, plenty of ways to disarm you whole, no matter his lack of a bicep. In fact, you believed that that exact absence enhanced the distinctive virility of his character.
You forgot why you had been shy in the first place, why you had hesitated to tell him about your dirty fantasy.
“Yeah, I would…like that.”
Excellent.
His grin returned.
And he pounced on you —a lion gobbling its target.
Shanks briefly crouched, hooked his arm around your calves and threw you over his shoulder. You shrieked as he marched towards your bed with arousing determination, your square nails digging into his linen garment for an anchor, your giggles contagious and constant. To further occupy your naughty thoughts, he slapped your ass with his large palm, and your foot kicked reflexively.
“Eeh!”
He chuckled.
“Ah, she goes ‘eeh!’”
You were dropped onto the mattress unceremoniously. Your breath was bated from the sudden manhandling, your eyes zeroing on him, your limbs twitching from anticipation.
“Sit up, lady.”
You sat up, your elbows propping your weight.
He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.
“Nah, sit up.”
Oh.
You corrected your posture, arching your spine, your palms on your lap. Linear.
Shanks stepped forward.
You admired him as he stood before you. Exhaustively so.
Your thighs rubbed together, aiming to ease the fire between them while his gaze contemplated you. He raised his index, placed it under your chin. His lips hovered above yours when he ardently asked:
“What do you want to do?”
What a riveting question.
What did you want to do?
Many things. Many impious things. Things which were better left unsaid.
“Whatever you want to do…” You responded, evenly zealous.
He groaned at your melodious plea, at your eager disposition to please him.
Whoa, was sternness that big of a deal for you?
His fingers descended, snaked around your wrist. They guided it towards his stomach, slithered it lower, until it pressed against the evident tent of his pants.
The message was transparent.
Touch.
Suck.
Explore.
You mapped the contours of his swollen member through the fabric. It was familiar to you, the shape his cock possessed.
The Yonko grunted, his brawny hips following the rhythm of your caresses. He did not demand. He simply waited.
You reached for the cord on the apex of his abdomen and yanked at it. His pants loosened, slackly clinging to his pelvis. They then fell, pooling around his ankles.
Next, you tugged at his briefs, which had begun to feel like a vice for him, and got rid of that item as well.
His thick girth sprang to life, slapping against his flesh. It pulsed and weeped, bobbed and leaked.
You quite literally moaned at the sight, drooled at how needy and ruddy it appeared to be.
Shanks stroked himself in front of you, his paw languidly pumping his delicious erection, paying special attention to the humid top, his thumb swirling about the erogenous area. He offered you a laboured huff of laughter when he noted your reaction —not that he hadn’t seen such a wonderful effect previously.
He collected the pearly-tinged liquid on his thumb and pressed it against your lips: a vulgar proposal. You promptly accepted, greedily sealing your mouth around the extended digit.
There was awe in his stare.
“Take the lead for me.”
Your hand moved faster than the speed of light, replacing his in the process. You firmly jerked the tumid organ in your custody, questing after his satisfaction.
“Oh, fuck-” He gasped, shutting his eyes, shutting those maroon rocks you adored to regard. “Ngh- yes, good, very good, sweetheart.”
Ah, the worship. Empowering.
But? There were other cards to play.
You bent your neck frontward, keenly licked a stripe along a distinguished vein near the base. Your tongue flattened on the side of his throbbing cock, paved a beautiful path of wetness until it discovered his moist tip. There, you pecked, gathering the fluids which had coated his skin in tangy pre-cum.
Your partner hissed. The hot velvet of your mouth caused him to wince. His hand immediately sought your nape. He held you close, his calloused fingers tangling in your hair and gripping your skull for dear life. Shanks didn’t thrust into you or choke you with his shaft. Not yet, anyway.
You hummed against him —a crude incentive.
“You like your pretty mouth to be stuffed by my cock?” He cooed at you, letting you sense the pressure of his strength, angling your face just a bit, as to deepen the connection. “Can you take more, hm?”
You nodded, your eyes becoming glassy with sparkling tears as your jaw commenced to ache —he was big, really big, always big. You doubled down, though, and accepted his challenge. You didn’t stop. Your tongue and lips sucked harder at the meat, smeared it in your spit.
Shanks emitted a shuddering sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, praising you, patting your head, encouraging you to lick his reddish tip again. “Attagirl, go on doing that, and you’ll get a reward soon.”
Your palm twitched against his thigh, where it had rested for the time being.
Reward?
Soon, because you remained obedient to him, his touch deviated courses. It skimmed past your collarbone, groped your breast, slid down your ribs, and finally settled on your belly. His digits delved into your pair of shorts a second later, searching for the nexus of your heat. Your knickers were wet. You were soaked, your juices decorating your inner quads.
“Shit, you’re dripping…” He cursed, not from anger but fascination. His thumb, despite the weird slant, rubbed your puffy clit in circles.
You gasped around his dick, your mouth parting with a winded whine, and closed your legs at the intrusion.
As you could imagine, he complained.
“No.”
Scarlet-hued Haki cloaked the room.
You stiffened, for the tension was palpable, for his commands were silk to the ears.
“Open your legs.”
Your legs automatically spread.
“Keep them open.”
You didn’t dare misbehave.
His fingers retrieved from your glistening core, abandoning you. Not for long. He lifted them to his face, inserted them in his mouth, and used his saliva to embellish each knuckle. You watched, mesmerised, and gnawed at your lower lip when they returned to your pants. The pads of those same digits amassed your slick, traced your slit as if it were a delicate orchid.
You concentrated on his cock.
Again and again, you concentrated on his pleasure. You knew the tender spots, of course. Nights upon nights with him had served their purpose.
His intimate pets were magical; they had you mewling and purring. And when he crooked his pointer and plunged it into your cunt? Oh. You were singing like a siren.
Avidly, the Chief fingered you until your mortal thighs were shaking, shifting wider to accommodate more of his fellow joints.
Your body was drumming with need, thrumming with primitive hankering. Your clothes were an obstacle, you protested. He seemed to comprehend your criticism.
One moment, you were swirling your tongue along the top of his member, the next, you were shoved backwards onto the bed. You didn’t get a moment to catch a break, however, since he flipped you over, hoisted your waist into a kneeling position, and ripped your pants and panties off you.
“Need a better angle.” He simply stated, manoeuvering the bend of your hips. Ass up, spine arched, exposed to his gluttony, he could savour the succulent view of your arousal. You scrambled for a tangible buttress, your chest heaving on the blankets, your nails clawing at them.
Shanks stood behind you. He didn’t kneel, didn’t touch the mattress. His fingers teased your pussy once more, from your clit to your hole. You buried your visage in the pillow and groaned. Your hips urgently wiggled for contact, but he didn’t bestow comfort upon you.
“No. Don’t move.” He dictated strictly, splaying his paw on the small of your back, where the size of him eclipsed your dermis.
You frowned.
“Shanks-”
“Shhh, don’t move…”
You whimpered, feeling how desperate and famished you had become. You didn’t move further, abiding by his laws.
“Good…” He complimented, tracking the goosebumps decorating your body. His palm smoothed over your buttocks, squeezed a round glute until it felt warm to his touch, and fondled it. “Very good…”
You exhaled, sweat forming on your temple.
Thankfully, he wasn’t THAT ruthless. Relief came when two of his knuckles stretched your tight entrance, when they scissored and prodded your gummy walls. You released a high-pitched melody, clutching the pillow, biting into it, crying against it.
He hummed.
His pollex orbited the bundle of nerves which never failed to send tremors down your silhouette.
Your cheeks burned from your lustful fever, your eyes were droopy as he repeated the motion, and drool slowly tinted the feather-packed object beneath your face.
“Shanks…”
“Mhm?”
Words were heavy. Too heavy. You couldn’t describe your situation, how your peak was fermenting within you.
“Ngh- please…”
He quirked a brow at you, cool and collected, even when his cock practically jumped from the honeyed sound of your ‘please’.
“Please, what?”
You were on the edge. Close, so close. So, so utterly close. Your clit was pulsing. Your hole was quivering. Your viscous sap was clinging to him and your thighs.
“Please- fuck, gonna cum…” You slurred, itching for your nirvana. “Please, please, wanna cum…” You begged in earnest, spreading your knees a tad more, pushing your weak hips towards him, so your pussy could meet his thrusts, so that the wet noises could be heard among your pants and moans.
He meditated. And decided.
“Not yet.”
His fingers forsake you, your sexual bliss bidding you farewell.
Betrayal.
“We can’t have that, baby,” the man remarked, grinning at you mischievously, his sharp teeth gleaming under the lamp’s yellow glow. He sucked his digits dry, seized your hip, and grazed your cunt with his palpitating length. “Not if it’s not on my cock.” He concluded, impaling you.
All coherence flew out the window.
Your scream was muffled.
Your toes flexed.
Your brain became putty.
Every snap was scrumptious, each forced your legs to adjust to the girth filling your slippery cunt. You scratched the pillow, almost tearing it to shreds.
You were a bridge, muscles straining, the acute inclination of your vertebrae too blatant to ignore. He noticed the subtle grimace and knelt. Merciful of him. That way, the ache ceased to exist, and the hunger prevailed.
“Now you can fuck into me,” Shanks announced, giving you the liberty to run after your interrupted satisfaction. “C’mon, fuck into me- fuck yourself into my cock.” He said again, squeezing the curve of your waist.
As you did with his fingers, you rutted into him. The slap of skin against skin was magnetic, accompanying the music of your wistful moans and his rough growls.
“Wrists behind you.”
You hesitated to do that.
He loomed above you as he detected your defiance, his broad body completely obscuring yours beneath him. His new thrust was brutal; it shook you, had you clenching around his burrowed dick.
“Wrists behind you.”
This time, you complied, putting your wrists where he desired them. You turned your cheek, spared him a discontent pout.
“Aww, don’t gimme that pout.”
His hand, dormant on your flank, crept across your thigh. It then slipped between your intertwined bodies and rubbed your clit with frightening precision. You gasped, your hips twitching as they sped up tempo, as they helped him sink deeper into you.
“Don’t act like you’re not enjoying yourself.”
You were enjoying yourself. That was unmistakable. You couldn’t hide the carnal delight in your gaze or your mouth or your pussy.
The bed creaked, but you dismissed such sinful commotion.
His taunting mockery fanned against your ear. His stubble haunted your jaw. His groans echoed in your eardrums.
“How’re you feeling?”
You were hyperventilating from his stupor, from his stamina, from the dense fog clouding your mind.
“Clo-ose…” You uttered, struggling to stay sober through your crushing euphoria. “Close- Gods, really close-” You whispered, tilting your chin, seeking his lips. “Please- need to, ngh- cu-um.”
He responded in kind to your alluring petition.
He massaged your clit, whirling the pudgy nub.
He rammed into your cervix, breaching your glossy barriers.
He kissed you, drinking the sounds your lungs expelled.
Supreme.
Close. Close. Close.
Thrusts. Rubs. Wheezes.
You unravelled.
Your climax had your limbs spasming brusquely. Your hips clashed against his as you pushed rearwards, milking him in your female essence. Similarly, Shanks froze, securely held you in place with his forearm, and burst inside you, his cum warming your most sacred crevice.
You collapsed against the blankets, fatigued and sweaty.
He draped himself over your figure, equally weary and flushed, squashing you.
You yelped.
“Shanks! Don’t forget you’re heavy!”
Your lover snickered, unashamed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“No, don’t take that as a compliment, you brute!”
He cracked his shoulders, reclined, and covered your nape and scapula in silly smooches.
“I thought you fancied my height and size.” He mumbled, pressing one last kiss on the crown of your head.
You snorted and glanced back at him.
“Yeah, when it’s not suffocating me.”
Touché.
But merely to be a nuisance, he rolled his waist, plummeting into you as vengeance for your insolence. You trembled, aftershocks of pleasure morphing into dreadful overstimulation, and camouflaged your restlessness using the pillow below your mouth.
“Behave,” he warned gravely, lazily swirling your sensitive clit for pure entertainment (and to make you suffer for a bit longer; the friction was his best weapon). “Or do I have to fuck another orgasm out of you to get my point across tonight, huh?” He sneered, nibbling your earlobe.
You quickly shook your head.
“N-no!”
The mouse.
“No, what?”
The cat.
You screeched when the mixture of his cum and your nectar mingled, when the large tip of his member threatened to puncture your womb.
“No, Captain!”
That seemed to satisfy him.
“Hm, good.” He simply answered, smacking a sloppy kiss on the apple of your cheek.
As if nothing had happened, he pulled out of you, sat on his haunches, and brushed his wild crimson mane.
His dark eyes landed on you, on the smutty yet gorgeous canvas in front of him.
You, there, knees touching the bedding, sprawled.
You, there, ass hot and bruised.
You, there, cream trickling down your oily folds.
All because of him.
All because you had asked him to be authoritarian.
Shanks patted your butt, watched the globe jiggle, steadfast. He examined you, deemed his craft a masterpiece.
“Gonna grab something to clean you.”
What he promised, he accomplished in the span of ten minutes.
Soon, you were as pristine and as spoiled as a newborn infant, wrapped in your robe and tucked in your sheets. He made sure you were as comfy as possible, considering his earlier asperity. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t appreciate the bare bits and parts of you. Oh, no. He had his sneaky paw on your breast and his lips on your neck.
Then came the questions.
Lots of questions.
“So, you did like it, right?”
A kiss on the column of your throat.
“Mhm, I did.”
A kiss on your clavicle, the scruff of his beard tickling you.
“Me being stern- you liked it?”
A kiss lower, on your sternum, his fingers peeling off the flap of your garment for better access.
“Yes, I loved it.”
“Loved it?” He echoed, pausing for a second to address the topic. “Wow, big word- loved it???”
You giggled, amused by his astonishment, and twirled a stray lock of his hair.
“Well, yeah- I suppose so…”
He planted a kiss on the valley between your tits, and lapped at a lonesome, neglected nipple, his tongue encompassing the bud which then grew pebbled.
“Kinda clear about it now, no?” You added, resisting the urge to sigh as he buried his face into your naked chest.
His silence was quite peculiar.
Shanks was a natural chatterbox. Anywhere. Everywhere. Almost all the time.
And yet, he just nodded.
“Yeah, pretty clear. I’ll keep it in mind.” He affirmed solemnly…before blowing a raspberry right where your heart had begun to decelerate. “But I also want to be gentle with you! You’re too precious to meeeee!” He proclaimed, nuzzling against your flesh, akin to an emotionally dependent kitty.
“You can be both!” You countered, embracing him. You rocked him from side to side. “I love you being gentle AND rough, I realised that. Be as goofy as you’d like one day, and be as strict as you’d like the other day.”
How easy it was to arrange a deal with him.
The legendary Red-Haired Shanks.
That handsome, handsome Captain.
Ever charming and ever sensible.
In your bed, with you and only you, jesting and… waiting for you to arrive at your cabin whilst being in the shadows. Huh.
“Shanks?”
At the sound of his name, said so gingerly, he lifted his head from his dear warm sanctuary and blinked at you.
“Uh-huh?”
You narrowed your eyes at him. Not from malice. But rather from intrigue.
“How long were you waiting for me to come here? You know, after dinner…”
The man didn’t reply for a minute or so. Literally. Sixty seconds passed before he would give you his story. Coyness was written all over his striking countenance.
“Definitely…for…about- er, I basically turned into a bat without the lights on, just so you get an idea.”
“Hah!”
Dumbass.