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Da-hah-hah!
Laughter.
Unfiltered, rambunctious laughter.
His laughter, to be precise.
Ever boisterous and ever exuberant.
Oh, skies above and seas below, how you loved that (cacophonous) noise, that kaleidoscope of stupid snorts and guffaws and hiccups.
The beach was stunning in both vastness and scenery. The night was spectacular. The stars were bright and twinkling.
The sand was warm under your bare palms, and the tides were slothfully lapping at the shore as you and your dear, dear crew were celebrating just because the weather was nice, or maybe because the company was great, or perhaps because the booze was superb, that perfect blend of saccharine and bitter.
Earlier, you had docked in time for trouble.
Huge trouble.
The island’s Chief had contacted Shanks in an incredible hurry. He had warned, in a rather desperate fashion, that a vessel full of bandits and thieves was vigorously trying to ransack the virginal territory they called their paradisiacal home, hunting for their precious hidden bullion while threatening the locals with their sharp weapons, holding them at sword-point.
The island was in Shanks’s domain.
He would not let that detail slide.
No, Siree. Not now, not ever.
The Red Force mermaided its way across the ocean, quickly chasing after any traces of smoke lingering in the air, striving for that ideal moment to strike and vanquish those idiots who had menaced people on his piece of land.
Did his intimidating flag not mean anything to them? Did they give a flying damn about the skull depicted in said flag? Did they not fear the iconic daggers, the crossbones, the scars? Fools, the lot of them.
It was a walk in the park, really, defeating them —nothing out of the ordinary.
Regardless of the height of the men, nor their skills, each and every one of them was either slain (for valid reasons and circumstances) or kicked out of the island like a pack of wounded wolves, whimpering for their mother and bolting away with their tails between their legs.
Cowards.
Shanks was no saint, of course, but he was merciful to those who surrendered in front of his very presence. His moral code was definite and fixed: clemency he granted to the foes who had been forced into battle or who were smart enough to understand the influence of his red-hued authority. Cruel, he was not; he never was, but there were always exceptions to the rule. Unfortunately.
To praise your crew’s (effortless) victory, the humble and grateful senior Chief, along with the equally appreciative inhabitants, decided to throw a party in commemoration of your visit.
You would return sailing again in the morning, after having packed raw supplies, mostly meat, vegetables, and fruit for the next months.
A party wouldn’t hurt one bit; you had collectively agreed on that.
You deserved it, didn’t you? The chance to entertain yourselves on land after so long riding the waves with no clear destination in mind.
It had been a couple of rough days, too: storms, winds, and on occasion, a gale had rocked the ship!
Yes, you had earned your relaxation fair and square.
So?
There you all were, in a circle, singing shanties around the vivid bonfire, clapping at the rhythm of the energetic music played by the musicians banging on their drums and blowing their flutes, and cheering the male and female dancers on and on and on, applauding as they flawlessly moved their feet in tandem with the silks they shook in the air.
Enthusiasm engulfed your group of feral Pirates, encouraging them to guzzle sake, gobble beef, and ease their previous inner turmoil thanks to the festive revelry the villagers had generously offered.
You were happy, naturally, fascinated by the spectacle before you, when one of the women beside you murmured teasingly.
“My, how he looks at you, honey.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
“Sorry?”
The same woman, Savita, an old friend of yours, chuckled.
She jerked her chin forward, towards the flamboyant Captain sitting across from you, her grin unashamed; her mug, filled to the top with amber-coloured rum, was lifted to her lips, as if to mask her obvious amusement.
“Him, your man. The way he looks at you, I said.”
Oh? Your man? What was he doing now?
Your gaze discreetly followed in the direction she had pointed.
Shanks was watching you intently; that was true, ignoring the carousal around him as if it were mere static.
His cheeks were slightly flushed from his liquor.
His eyes possessed a hooded shape, and his irises burned because of the orange flames.
His smirk was tugged upwards.
Your heart skipped a beat. Maybe a dozen beats, in reality.
You could feel the sudden shift in the atmosphere, a thread connecting the two of you in spite of the distance.
Public intimacy he didn’t intend to disguise.
He winked at you, briefly so, a cocky sign of his charisma, and raised his tankard to his mouth, sipping its contents as he maintained eye contact with you.
And then? The eroticism he had dared create vanished like leaves carried across the gentle breeze, for he was violently yanked by the shoulder by a tipsy Yasopp, who demanded his whole attention as he nudged Benn on the ribs. “Oi, Boss, Beck here is pissing me off! Listen to the type of bullshit he’s spewing!” You heard the sniper complain from afar, his voice slurred and grumpy.
The heat in your tummy diminished.
Not the ardour on your skin, though.
Savita noticed this.
“I’m envious of you,” she admitted, in good fun, and spared you another grin. “Lucky you, lucky him, hm?” She stated, softening her playful disposition, which you valued.
You gulped your alcohol, contemplating her words.
“I…suppose.” You replied behind the rim of your cup, glancing down at your wedding ring. The accessory hadn’t lost its shine yet, even after years of wearing it day in, day out. Tenderness slipped through your lips. “We are lucky, Shanks and I. You’re right…” You added, smiling at her, genuinely joyous about your marriage.
Savita analysed the fondness you displayed for your husband.
She groaned.
“Ugh, every time you come here, you seem to have grown more and more enamoured with him,” she jested, scrunching her nose, feigning disgust; you knew she fancied fairy tales; no matter how much she denied it, it was a fact. “It makes me want to vomit; I am not joking, I mean it.” She grumbled, reposing her temple on your shoulder, seeking your compassion for her poor, sensitive soul.
You were the only woman on the Red Force.
Cohabiting with a rowdy bunch of sailors, all of whom were of the opposite sex, was…definitely not for the weak of spirit. Different, ‘peculiar’ odours have constantly invaded your nostrils for the past ten years, odours you preferred to forget whenever laundry weekend finally arrived. Ooh, shivers.
You cherished the company of your feminine peers, despite the short-term acquaintances due to your odd lifestyle.
You would sometimes miss the casual gossip, the mischievous whispers, and the complicity you had been able to forge with them, especially Savita.
Well…
About the former item-
Another girl, vivacious and characteristically chirpy, chimed in on your private conversation.
“He must be a savage, no? In bed?”
You almost choked on your spit. No, wait. You did choke on your spit. You began to cough in your fist, loudly and harshly, and had to slap your chest several times to relieve your abrupt fit.
Savita patted your back throughout your attack.
She glared at the beaming woman, displeased.
“Ay, Juniper, you cannot ask that out of the blue, you mutt!”
Juniper immediately sagged, pouting at the pair of you, disappointed at her sister’s hostility.
“Aww, but I’m purely curious, Savi!” She protested, locking her arm with yours to show her sincere apologies. “No harm done! I was listening to you talk about the Emperor- he suuuure loves to look at you like you're a snack!” She exclaimed, unaware of the effects her scandalous proclamation could enable.
“Shhh, quiet your tomfoolery down!” Growled Savita, putting a finger to her lips. “Can’t you see you’re making her uncomfortable? Sex may not be a taboo topic for us, but it is for her.”
You paled and coloured simultaneously —a unique phenomenon of shades.
Sex wasn’t ‘taboo’ per se (you were a Pirate, weren’t you? What hadn’t you witnessed was the real query here); you were a seasoned seafarer, indeed. However, you certainly weren’t used to exploring the subject in such an open setting.
Juniper shrugged, as if coitus were ordinary, which, in their village, was typical.
“It was an honest question! I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.”
Savita, seething, reached out, over you, and pinched her sister’s cheek, causing Juniper to yelp like a jumpy mouse.
“Mind your business, will you?” She reprimanded her, gritting her teeth. “This is between us gals and us gals alone, got it?”
Juniper groused, her features contorting into a frustrated scowl.
“Owch! But I was just curious!” She repeated, “You cannot punish me for being curious, Savita, come on!-”
“No, but I CAN punish you for eavesdropping AND being morbidly curious instead!” The older woman countered, releasing her sibling’s cheek with a click of her tongue. “Stay out of this, shoo now, bye.” She urged Juniper, waving a dismissive hand at her.
“So evil…” Mumbled Juniper, rubbing the sore spot on her face as she sat on your left again, despondent. “So rude…”
You debated whether to indulge the girl’s curiosity or not, whether to satiate her juvenile doubts on the topic or not. Savita had a bad habit of mothering her, sadly, even if little Juniper was not so ‘little’ anymore. She was at that awkward age where being freshly twenty-five appeared both too young for some discussions and too old for others.
Turning to the neglected sister, resolute, you started: “What did you want to know?”
Juniper arched her brows at your invitation, eager.
“What!”
Savita spat out her rum onto the sand, near a swaying dancer, shocked.
“What??”
You attempted to calm the parties —benevolence at its finest.
“Easy, girls, easy, don’t bite each other’s limbs off, please,” you advised (or begged), exhibiting an awry smile. “Not while I’m here, at least.”
Savita scoffed and folded her arms over her chest.
“I won’t if Juniper doesn’t try anything funny. You don’t have to answer her dumb questions, you know?”
You sent your friend a pacifying look, an expression which assured: ‘don’t worry about me.’
“It’s fine,” you told her, tapping on her thigh to appease her discontent. “Juni can ask, and I shall deliver.” You affirmed, giving her a confident thumbs-up.
Savita exhaled and grabbed her mug once more. Her eyes drifted, focusing on the hypnotising performers at the centre of the crackling bonfire.
“Good luck with that…” She muttered into her beverage, impatient to drown her objections in her booze.
You faced Juniper, prepared to hear her out.
“So, what is it that you-”
“Who is usually on top?”
Oh, this should be fun.
You cleared your throat.
“He- uhm, he usually is on top.”
You deliberately avoided mentioning any crass details.
“No left arm and all?”
“No left arm and all, yup.”
Juniper nodded.
“Uh-huh, and?”
You frowned.
“And, what?”
She grinned at you, akin to an excited schoolgirl writing fiction.
“And what else!” The woman cried out, resting her elbows on her knees, keen interest etched on her visage. “Go on, please! I wanna know!”
Oof.
“And uh…” You trailed off. “We have… fun?”
Juniper slumped at your ambiguous response.
“You just ‘have fun’?” She quoted, tilting her skull, inquisitive.
You huffed a sheepish titter.
“Ahhh, well, he…”
You stole a glance at your husband.
Shanks was laughing, beam broad from ear to ear, as expected, charmingly dissuading Yasopp from punching Beckman with a humoured “Hey, cut it out!”
His panache was unmatched, for he exuded sweet, sweet pizzazz —a leader of rugged elegance and boyish flair.
“He’s quite silly, you see, sappy,” you admitted, remembering the hilarious nights spent in tangled blankets, as naked as newborn babies, cackling as he tickled your waist with his ruthless fingers or scraped your neck with his prickly stubble. “That’s his essence, I reckon- being a jokester.”
Juniper egged you on with a bob of her head.
You spoiled her.
Not applying vulgar language. On the contrary, with bona fide reverence.
The singing, the dancing, the chatter faded.
You smiled into your half-empty cup.
You could discern your reflection mimicking your smile back at you.
“He’s also gentle, respectful,” you confessed, reminiscing about the candlelit nights spent basking in mutual pleasure, him massaging your tense muscles, distracting your concerns as he worshipped your body with sensual kisses and nips and licks. Fire brewed in your belly. But you digress. “And very attentive. Shanks always puts me first when it comes to intimacy.”
Savita’s sister heaved a dreamy sigh.
“That’s pretty romantic,” she acknowledged. “I thought he was more of a beast, considering his…” She searched for the correct denomination. “Hm, size- not that I’m hitting on him, though!”
Size.
You knew size alright; excuse her.
The Captain was big.
Bicep. Pectorals. Abs. Virility.
All big, all tanned, all mighty.
No wonder you would always end up in urgent need of a break after the second round, when sweat would cling to your flesh, sparks of electricity would course through your veins in involuntary twitches, and your vocal cords would be dry from your molassy moans.
You pursed your lips.
That same, pesky warmth in the pit of your stomach ascended and latched onto your cheeks.
“On occasion, he is…” You revealed lowly, staring at the sand as if it were the most engrossing thing in the world.
Juniper whistled.
“And then you mount him, don’t you? Assert your own strength? Dominate him? Ride him?”
“Juniper!” Savita’s voice returned in the form of an icy hiss. “Shut up- that’s too specific, stop it.”
The younger girl flinched. And recoiled when scolded. An embarrassed blush commenced to decorate her features.
“Ah- sorry, sorry,” she apologised in earnest, wincing, scratching her arm. “I got carried away- I tend to do that; I’m sorry, my fault.”
In place of lashing out at her for her careless nosiness, you pondered what she brought to the table.
Huh, matter of fact, you rarely dominated your spouse in bed.
Not because he had forbidden you from taking the reins during sex.
Shanks wasn’t the sort of person who derived ecstasy from your dissatisfaction.
He prioritised your fantasies.
You yearned for him to eat you out at the brink of morning? He was up and ready to go downtown.
You wished for his calloused touch in the shower in the evening? His clothes were off the minute you beseeched it.
You craved the velvet of his delicious mouth on yours after a frightening battle? He rushed to devour you in the darkest corner possible.
The roles were simply those, more often than not.
Not imposed. Simply assumed.
Him above you.
You beneath him.
It didn’t bother you.
But it dawned on you how frequently those positions remained ‘stable’.
You beneath him.
Him above you.
“Actually no,” you declared, splitting through the series of bickering that Savita and Juniper were having on your left and right. “I don’t regularly…Ride him,” here, you whispered the verb, afraid the rest of the locals could grasp what you were saying, even if the music was relatively uproarious and sunny.
Both sisters ceased their sororal squabble, gaped at you, and blinked, astonished at the bombshell you dropped oh so nonchalantly.
You froze.
Their reaction unnerved you.
A bizarre shudder ran along your bones.
For reference, again, the weather was mild.
Imagine how confused you were.
“W-What?”
You tightened your hold around the cup, drawing it close to your chest as your fingers dug into its wood for a semi-buttress.
The pair exchanged a look, one you were not capable of recognising the nature of, unluckily.
“Why not?”
“Why not, what?”
Savita, who had been hesitant to pry, face-palmed.
She seemed irritated.
“Gods, why don’t you regularly ride him?”
You straightened your posture. And deadpanned, for you deemed her demeanour ironic.
“I thought you didn’t want Juniper to ask me uncomfortable questions? Now you’re asking me uncomfortable questions?”
The woman helped you set your beverage down on the sand and cupped your idle hands with her slender digits, cocooning them.
“Honey, this is totally different,” she decreed. “As your loyal friend, I insist you heed my advice, okay?”
You gulped, anticipating what she would recommend.
She gulped air, and with dramatic talent, sternly announced: “Ride him until dawn.”
You swore your brain had exploded, that your nose was bleeding as an obnoxious ring damaged your hearing.
“What!”
Juniper set her chin on your shoulder.
“Yeah! Be on top tonight! Ride him like a horse- like a rodeo! Try it! The stimulus is very nice.”
Their combined support made you snort.
“Girls, I can’t just- it’s kind of our routine to-”
You were interrupted, for your sake, they believed.
“You can choose the pace.”
You opened your mouth.
“Yes, I know, but-”
Zip!
“And the speed.”
“Don’t forget the view; guys love their partner nude on top of them.”
Excellent arguments.
Damn those persuasive vipers.
Alas, you yielded.
“Any suggestions?”
The sisters beamed at you.
Their excitement was infectious.
“Oh, plenty of suggestions.”
Pieces of counsel were whispered to you, each more sinful than the last.
How to angle your hips. How to rock your pelvis against his. How to convey your lust. How to drag your nails across his thorax. How to force him to submit to you.
My, oh, my.
The list of instructions went on and on and on.
Your education had been fulfilled.
By the time their lesson finished, you were dizzy and giddy, hankering to put their wise guidance into practice. Pronto.
The moon was eclipsed by a curtain of clouds, the embers escaping the bonfire had begun to die out, and the dancers were becoming tired of keeping up with their swinging movements.
What a convenient way to conclude the celebrations.
You weren’t inebriated. Not tipsy, either.
You were completely sober.
Conscious.
The tingle in your heart resembled that of a lushington, though.
You glanced at Shanks.
Your husband was already staring back at you.
‘Having fun?’ He mouthed, curving a piqued brow, curious about your strange giggling.
His tankard was empty, you observed.
How fitting.
You nodded and at last articulated:
‘Lots,’
…
Mirth dwindled once the villagers bid the brutish Pirates farewell for the night.
Your crew stumbled onto the ship at 3 AM sharp.
They were beyond elated, exhausted as they also were.
Many were yawning without an ounce of decorum; several were resisting the urge to sleep on the roofless deck, fighting against the waves’ motherly lullaby.
Eventually, you entered your cabin, hopping steps, brimming with devilment.
Shanks trailed behind you, wary of your conduct.
He shut the door, chuckling under his breath.
The two of you.
Alone in your quarters.
An oil lamp wrapped the room in shades of gold.
“Why oh why do I have the terrible hunch that you are planning something sinister?” He inquired, walking towards your king-sized bed.
You shrugged in faux ignorance and approached the bathroom adjoining said cabin.
“Hmm, no idea what you’re referring to, my love.”
Shanks flopped down on the messy blankets with a groan and sprawled. His long legs dangled off the mattress. He kicked off his sandals and brushed his wild crimson mane with his large fingers, taming the mullish strands.
“If I had just met you tonight, baby, I would have trusted your adorable words and that sugary tone you just used,” the man remarked slyly, rolling onto his side so his gaze would be trained on the bathroom, where you stood by its threshold. “However,” he raised his index for emphasis, “I have been married to you enough years to know whenever you’re scheming.” He added, propping up on his sole elbow, like a deity teasing his favourite human. “I’m afraid I’m immune to your charms- you can’t bewitch me.”
If you had pencil and paper at the moment, you would sketch him.
You retreated into the toilet, smirking all the while.
You closed the wooden entrance and spoke from inside.
“Hah! You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
Shanks lay on his back again and scrubbed his hand down his face, stretching the scarred flesh. There were hints of pink, hints of his earlier imbibing. He toyed with his stubble as he waited for you to come on out, the mount of Venus on his palm gliding his chin.
“My alcohol tolerance is still extraordinarily high, thank you very much- that has never changed and will never change,” he replied, confidence dripping from his silver tongue, and folded his arm beneath his nape. He exhaled and relaxed, his lazy gaze fixed on the ceiling.
You rummaged through each drawer, scouring for particular garments.
“Sure.”
The Emperor detected the faint noises from within the bathroom: fabric rustling, objects clinking, drawers being slammed against their respective cabinetry.
Before? He was intrigued.
Now? He was baffled.
“So, you seemed real invested with Savita at the bonfire,” he mentioned, endeavouring to decipher the purpose of your enigmatic mission. “What did you girls talk about? Enlighten me, please- your poor husband is bored.” He pleaded for entertainment, pitifully pouting skywards.
You grinned to yourself.
“Oh, girl talk.”
The Captain blew a raspberry.
“Girl talk?” He echoed, “What- nothing but girl talk??”
You found what you wanted in the dusty depths of one of the drawers.
Beginning to undress, you repeated.
“Yeah! Girl talk!”
Shanks sat up on the edge of the bed.
He glared at the door as if it had personally offended him in the past.
“Well, that’s not fair!” He accused you of betraying his faith. “My boy talk was not nearly as amusing as yours; I’m jealous.”
You studied your figure in the mirror, your curves, your bosom, your moles.
Smug, you popped the tiny herbal root —a boost of courage— that Savita had gifted you into your mouth and swallowed it.
Done.
“Aw, I’m sorry,” you apologised, mocking him. “Perhaps I can compensate for your awful jealousy with…”
Creeeeeak.
You emerged from the toilet.
And his jaw slackened in disbelief.
“This?”
Your outfit.
What a beautiful, bold outfit.
Scarlet lace shrouded your hips, crotch, and breasts.
Flimsy. Skimpy. Fiery.
Shanks gawked at you, stunned to itty bits.
Then, with a modicum of civility, murmured:
“What.The.Fuck.”
Bingo.
You had him hooked.
A first victory.
“You like it? I realised I hadn’t worn this since…what, last year’s Valentine's?”
He scanned you, glued to his spot; his pupils strayed and drifted as they appreciated the divine vision in front of him.
“Uh-huh, last year’s Valentine’s, uh-huh…” Was his quiet babble.
He was drinking you in, drooling, if you were truly perceptive.
You caressed your bust, your waist, your thighs. Slowly. Agonisingly slowly.
You tempted him with your glorious sensuality, a type of sensuality which you had recently acquired thanks to your ‘girl talk’.
“What you think?”
He stiffened.
Yes, the Yonko, the Legend, the Myth: Red-Haired Shanks stiffened.
Because his wife was wearing forgotten lingerie.
“I think…” He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes with his fist, testing his sight. “I think- I think that maybe I am drunk- or dreaming, holy shit.”
Shanks beckoned at you, hungry to remove your clothes.
“C’mere, need to look at you better.”
You tutted at him, rejecting his request.
You didn’t advance.
You didn’t obey.
“Nope.”
He dropped his palm on his lap and puckered his lips.
“‘Nope?’”
You hummed in affirmation, a dralwed ‘Mmmmhm.’
Impish.
“Nope.”
The man slouched.
“That’s cruel, sweetheart.”
He patted the area where that hammering organ resided under his ribcage.
“Breaking my heart, you being this cruel to me.”
You put your arms behind your back and rocked on your heels.
“Am I killing you?” You jested, letting your hip jut to the left.
He snorted.
“Oh, murdering me.”
You nodded.
“I’m glad I am.”
A lightbulb lit in his brain.
Ding!
“Ah,” he uttered, comprehending your ultimate goal. He languidly spread his knees —a subconscious motion to extinguish the heat pooling in his core. “We’re playing hard to get, is that it?”
You bit your lip, unable to keep your naughtiness hidden much longer.
“Girl talk taught me something sexy, wanna see?”
Shanks emitted a guttural ‘hmph’ at your mysterious, albeit enticing proposition.
His maroon irises darkened.
There was a blazing twinkle in them as he smirked, wolfish and starving.
He obliged you.
“The stage is yours.”
That was your cue.
Your soft palms climbed your body.
They mapped your neck, grazing your pulse with grace.
They delineated your deltoids, testing the straps of the bra.
They encircled your breasts, squeezing them roughly.
You moaned —an ethereal harmony of desire— enchanted by your own strokes.
Your husband’s chiselled jaw clenched, his teeth gritting in the process as he felt his libido mature.
His pants were tight, suddenly, for a boner had emerged. His cock had awoken. You were to blame for his ache.
His hips shifted, too, bucking for nonexistent friction.
You continued your erotic performance.
Your delicate fingers delved lower.
They traced your stomach, haunting your navel.
They massaged your glutes, cupping your plump dermis.
They taunted your groin, reaching for the nucleus of your arousal.
Fuck, the aphrodisiacs Savita had supplied you were effective.
Your hand dipped below your panties.
You exhaled —a skinny whine of agitation— and threw your head back.
“Shanks…” You whispered his moniker as if it were a sacred hymn, gathering the creamy slick your slit had produced, and smearing it along your sensitive folds.
Shanks, on his behalf, grunted.
“Yes, baby?” He asked, his voice gruff from unmistakable excitement, itching to rise to his feet, toss you over his shoulder, and ravish you on the bed. “What is it?”
You struggled to speak.
Your free hand travelled to your tit, beneath your bra.
“Touch yourself…” You implored, above a winded mumble.
The Emperor conformed to your command.
Without a minute to waste, he hastily untied his floral-patterned trousers, whipped his weeping length out, and petted his bulge. The throb of his member caused him to hiss as he wrapped his tanned fist around it. Shanks jerked himself off, watching you with half-lidded eyes and bated breath.
You admired each other.
The shared lust.
The shared excitement.
The shared zeal.
You orbited the hood of your swollen clit, your fingertips steady as they pleasured the bud until it palpitated.
He orbited the tip of his fat cock with his thumb, his weathered fingertips caressing the beating veins on the base.
Your middle and ring digit slipped inside your wet cunt, and you gasped. Your knees buckled. Gravity tugged at your limbs. You endured nonetheless.
Shanks growled.
He sped up his pumps.
His tongue sneakily darted out, moistened his upper lip.
You mewled at the magnetic view.
His beard.
His flush.
His ogle.
“Oh, Gods, I wanna fuck your tongue so badly.” You blurted out in the midst of your masturbation, simultaneously groping your warm breast and playing with your drenched pussy.
Your spouse’s dick stuttered at your delectable cry, sticky pre-cum dribbling along his knuckles. His hips canted, aiding his manhood into slipping in the hole his hand had created.
“You wanna fuck my tongue?” He reiterated, showing you a lustful grin. “You wanna ride my tongue, darlin’? Cum on it, too?”
You melted.
“Ye-es,”
Your stammer was music to his ears.
He instantly reclined on the mattress —an invitation— let go of his bobbing cock, and scrutinised you from his angle.
“Hop on.”
Tap. Tap.
You almost did.
Wait.
You were supposed to be in control, not him.
Remember what Savita had told you.
‘You can win the battle AND the war; astonish him, make him crave you. Desperation looks good on all men, everyone agrees.”
So? You didn’t hop on.
Not yet.
Instead, you stopped stimulating your most carnal of senses.
You fooled with your clothes and relished in your solitary companionship.
Shanks’s toes flexed and unflexed.
“I thought you needed to fuck my tongue?”
You sluggishly disrobed.
Unclasped your bra. Plucked at your knickers.
Click.
Peeling layer after layer.
You stood naked.
Silky smooth, exposed for him to feast upon.
“I want to hear you beg for me to fuck your tongue.”
Beg???
He froze.
Yet? That wicked grin returned in full force.
“That so?”
You nodded, stepping forward.
“Yes, that so.”
Okay, bet.
He could comply with your requirements.
Easy peasy.
Shanks cleared his throat.
“Ride my tongue, please.”
Please?
Ooh, that was nice.
You hummed.
“Yeah? What else?”
Your shin sank into the blankets.
He squirmed slightly, anticipating your arrival.
“I have to taste you,” he stated bluntly, “I have to taste that sweet pussy of yours, baby, c’mon, hop on.”
You crawled over him, straddled him, your knees on either side of his flank.
“What else? Gimme more.”
The scent of you, the mixture of your arousal and your soap, made his nostrils flare.
His nails clawed at the sheets.
“I love licking your clit, best feeling in the whole wide world, I’m serious,” the Captain declared, attempting to restrain his primitive desires as you ascended juuuust a tad higher, caging him between your lovely thighs. “I love how you moan when I make you feel good- that, too.”
You spread your cunt with two fingers once his nose reposed on your inner quad, revealing your tumefied clit. You hovered above his face, wiggling your hips before lowering them, seeking the friction.
“And…?”
His pupils dilated.
You on top of him.
Him beneath you.
Your pussy pressed against his lips.
He groaned, like a panther ready to catch its prey.
“And…” he repeated, his voice muffled by your perspiring skin, kissing your pubis, lingering for a fraction more than necessary. “I need you to cum on my tongue before I collapse from stress…” He announced in earnest, nuzzling against your flower, gently sucking your clit. “Hm, pretty please…”
You kept your oozing cunt open. Open for him to eat and inspire. Open for him to lap at and devour.
You shivered.
A hushed laugh escaped you.
“Good job,” you praised, breaching the gap between his mouth and your intimacy. “Go on, you’ve earned it, Red…”
Shanks grumbled at your permission.
“Fucking finally…”
He craned his neck onwards.
And flattened his expert tongue, as promised, on your slit. The muscle trailed a broad, lazy stripe of spit along your quivering pussy, aiming for the bundle on the apex of your pelvis. Once he located your clit, he swirled around it, circled it with the tip, made damn sure it got lubricated from your natural juices and his saliva.
You sang a wonderful song: delighted gasps, whines, and purrs.
His palm slithered, sneakily paving a silent path towards your ass.
Only for you to snatch his single wrist and pin it against the pillow.
He complained, a gravelly vibration ripping off his throat, and frowned up at you.
“Ngh, I can’t touch you?”
You ground against his mouth, your hips rhythmically dancing as they pursued his fervid licks.
“Nuh-uh,” you dictated, shaking your head. “You touch yourself, or you don’t touch me at all.”
Ow.
Lethal.
Shanks could easily ignore your order.
He was stronger, massive.
However? He surrendered.
His fingers laced through yours.
“Clear?”
In retaliation for your bossiness, his canines grazed your outer folds and soothed them with a long swipe.
You squeaked.
“Aye, clear.” He replied, though his smirk was cheeky. “Clear, ride- hm, yeah, that’s it…”
You rode his nose and his tongue, as predicted; undulated and rocked on him like a wanton whore in heat.
Your other hand gripped the headboard in a hurry, your knuckles turning white at the fatal pressure.
Shanks analysed you from beneath his lashes.
Your breasts. Your lips. Your blush.
You were suffocating him.
But what a way to go to Pirate Heaven.
He pecked your clit repeatedly, sucked on it, enveloped it between his lips.
You gazed down at him, maintained vehement eye contact as your waist swayed, as your pelvis bucked, as your thighs tautened with every brush of his devilish tongue.
There was something undeniably empowering, you recognised, by getting him to submit to you so willingly.
Intense euphoria was building, building, building.
Your mouth unlatched.
No sound came out.
Purely a ragged huff.
He inhaled.
His licks never once ceased.
In fact, they became more demanding, more ravenous.
The taste of your ambrosia intoxicated him.
His stubbled jaw scraped against your flesh, his puffs fanned against your dripping core.
A winded giggle left your lungs.
You twirled a wavy tress of his crimson hair, for it had plastered against his forehead.
“You like it when I’m on top, honey?”
Such an endearing title.
Honey.
Shanks’s chest rumbled, and his brows furrowed in deep concentration.
That was his answer.
A suppressed roar vibrating through him.
He flicked his tongue along your folds again, parted them, and plunged its tip into your hole.
Your moan was high-pitched.
You sensed his hand tic in your hold.
He murmured your name as if it were a raw prayer.
There was predatory greed in his orbs.
It was your turn to listen to him.
You guided his paw, carefully putting it over your beating breast.
The man cradled the offered mound beneath his touch, kneading it roughly.
His calloused thumb encompassed your pebbled nipple, rolling it like a rosary bead when his pointer joined, pinching the erogenous peak.
“There…” You dictated, inclining your hips forward, so his wiggling tongue could further penetrate you. “Ah, there, there…”
His cock, neglected, sprang up at your whine.
Oh, the misery.
No second arm to soothe the severe ache.
His legs spread, his knees rose, and his abdomen thrusted upwards, in a pitiful attempt to relieve the pain your melody had provoked.
Your climax was pounding at the door, pleading to absorb your rationale, pleading to satiate your appetite.
Five trembling fingers slid into his hair, grabbed a fistful of scarlet threads, and coaxed him into quickening his efforts.
“Sha-anks,” you mewled, rushing the speed of your grinds, fire invading your organs, its flames scorching you from the inside out. “Shanks, there, faster, there-!”
Your candied supplication forced his large hand to squeeze your tit and his mouth to unlatch, so it could consume your pussy, so his nose could stimulate your clit, so his tongue could lap up at your succulent nectar.
You gasped.
And with a shuddering, thunderous scream, a scream which you would probably regret in the morning were you not so utterly horny, you orgasmed.
Shanks slurped your milky cum while you writhed and squirmed; guzzled every delicious drop that trickled down your fluttering slit.
You felt vertiginous.
Content.
“Mhm,” he hummed, parting from your cunt, equally affected. His beard showed the proof of your release. The liquid painted his lips a glossy shine. He licked the remnants, his tongue erasing them in a clockwise swipe. “Tasty.”
You snickered, humoured.
“Tasty?” You mimicked him, gently cleaning the rims of his mouth with your knuckles.
Shanks nodded and grinned at you, dishevelled and vain, and nipped at the digit close to him —a playful bite.
“Too tasty, correct,” he paused, allegedly pensive. “Actually, I think I’ll get another taste, excuse me.” He bent his neck forwards, and, not caring that he had already gotten rid of your fluids, dived for your addictive pussy again.
You squealed.
Your shaky thighs clamped shut around his head.
“Eeh! Shanks!”
There it was, that laughter he adored.
He continued drinking from your treasured crevice.
Until he reclined with an obscene ‘pop’.
His lips were lustrous. Again.
“Sorry, I had to check if you were still tasty!”
Idiot.
You sighed.
“What am I gonna do with you, huh?”
Your hips jolted as he smooched your ruddy clit. An unrefined, lewd succession of ‘mwah, mwah, mwah’ followed in suit on that same zone.
“Kiss me?” He proposed, nuzzling against the small bud. “I bet you really wanna kiss me right now, don’t you, darlin’?” He husked, giving you a big dopey smile.
You sank your teeth into your bottom lip, hard, repressed the impulse to twitch and covered his nose with your palm.
“Not quite,” you answered quietly, avoiding the pang of soreness in your hamstrings. “But maybe I could kiss you somewhere else...”
Shanks rested his skull on the pillow.
He crinkled his eyes at you, his scars creasing.
His hand, dormant on your pliant breast, crept.
He caressed the slope of your waist with reverence, his square nails drawing patterns on your warm skin.
“Somewhere else?” The Captain mumbled behind your palm.
His smirk was palpable.
Soon, you slithered across his toned body, peppering sloppy kisses on any inch available.
His throat. His collarbone. His sternum.
“Mhm, somewhere else, yes…”
You deftly unbuttoned his shirt.
The fabric was shed off, exposing planes of rippling muscles, bronze pectorals, and intricate scars; stories of battles and combats you have already memorised.
Handsome. So devastatingly handsome.
You seized the opportunity to settle betwixt his mighty legs, kneeling, contemplating how to proceed.
You tugged at the textile of his russet pants, pulled his briefs down, and clumsily tossed them to a corner, too busy marvelling at his defined V-line and the trimmed bush of ruby-hued filaments.
His length spasmed due to your meticulous scrutiny, anxious for the embrace of your fist.
“What’s on that pretty brain of yours?” He asked you, his voice hoarse and seasoned with urgency.
The aphrodisiac in your anatomy endured, even after you had found your pleasure a few minutes prior.
“You,” you commented, lowering your face to meet his leaking cock. The rich aroma of his arousal excited you. You kitty-licked the sticky tip —an experiment— and purred. “You are in this pretty brain of mine…”
His pelvis tensed; his guts coiled.
Shanks groaned as you confidently savoured his length, drenching it in your drool, licking its humid top.
Your hand wandered, sneakily stroked the sensitive area below the pulsing base you were currently worshipping.
He screwed his eyes shut.
“Oh, fuck…” He whispered —a crude sonata— looping his arm around his neck so that he could grip his own nape for an anchor. “Yeah, fuck, yes, keep that up…” He requested, sighing when you audaciously took him into your mouth.
You sucked the meat of his cock, your skull bobbing up and down the more your cheeks tended with his girth.
His pornographic sounds spurred you.
A lot.
Shanks was a vocal man.
Your cabin was filled with a symphony you knew perfectly well.
His gasps. His moans. His grunts.
You glanced up at him.
Hunger on display for him to monitor.
He almost convulsed at the image: your tongue out, licking a stripe along his mushroom-shaped end.
Sinful.
“Don’t do that, woman…” He warned you, biting his lip, wearing a wobbly sneer.
You hummed.
Your fist substituted for your kisses.
“Don’t do what?” You inquired ‘naively’, pumping his dick. The pace was languid but repetitive, your fingers squeezing him just right.
His robust body trembled, his loins canting skywards, fucking himself into your closed fist.
A broken noise of desire abandoned his puffed chest.
“Tha-at,” he stammered, zeroing in on your innocent countenance. “Don’t tease with that hazy look.”
You snickered.
“Ah, but I’m not teasing you, Captain,” you rubbed the flexible skin of his frenulum, where the root of his thrill dwelled, and lapped at the salty precum which had seeped. “Am I?”
He melted.
“Ngh, shit…”
You felt triumphant.
Savita and Juniper would be so proud!
You couldn’t wait to tell them tomorrow.
As his pants became heavier, your arousal flourished; for Gods you were burning alive as he neared his climax.
You slipped your idle hand between your parted legs, aiming to appease the flames of your fresh excitement.
“Hmm,” you moaned, angling your digits, circling your newly awoken clit, coating your fingertips with your wetness, dipping them into your hole.
In tandem with your imperative swirls on your pearl, you nursed his manhood, burying the centimetres into the back of your throat.
He was on the edge, thrumming.
It was obvious.
You occupied his naughtiest of thoughts.
Your discarded scarlet lingerie. Your roguish giggle. Your smutty actions.
“Love,” he slurred, reaching for you, his knuckles threading through your mulled mane, and shoved you lower, craving for your suctions. “Damnit, gonna cum- gonna cum on your tongue- fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Oh, no.
That won’t do.
You were determined not to grant him that blessing.
Not yet.
So, you rapidly withdrew from his member, wheezing for air.
Shanks was disoriented from your departure.
You had ruined his ecstasy, denied him the privilege of painting your throat white.
“Agh- no, no, no, no,” he stuttered, panicking —a most surreal event. “Where- why- what- huh?” He rasped, dolorous in the way children were when denied their favourite confectionery by their parents.
You wiped the remains of his seed off your lips and acknowledged his immature cries.
“I have better plans, honey; be patient.”
Your weight straddled him once again, your nakedness mingling.
“Bear with me, eh?”
The Emperor pouted.
His cheeks were almost the shade of cherries.
Sweat had accumulated on his temple.
“You’re malice incarnate,” he accused, pinching your waist, steadying you atop his frame. “I didn’t know I married such an evil lass. Years cohabiting this ship and now I realise that you’re a temptress, how sad.”
You adjusted your hips, dropping them so your cunt could press directly against his gluey groin.
“Nah, don’t be dramatic.”
You placed your palms flat on his broad chest, above his ribs, your fingers splaying on the surface, bracing for impact.
“Dramatic?” He echoed, raising his brow at you, incredulous. “I’m being the opposite of dramatic! I’m stunned- where the hell did my wife go? I don’t recognise this alluring creature on top of me!” He jested, cheekily mapping the curve of your ass, fondling the globe.
You smiled, equally cheeky.
“I am your wife,” you replied (as if your wedding ring weren’t evidence enough), inclining your haunches so you could grind against him; your crotch against his moved back and forth. “A part of me has gone on sabbatical, is all. Plus…” You trailed off, leaning down slightly. Your mien screamed ‘mischief’. “Guess what?”
Okay.
The truth?
He had absolutely no clue whatsoever.
His silence encouraged you.
“Savita gave me an Aphrodisiac.” You susurrated conspiratorially, balancing on his cock, ready to sink the appendage into you, ready to engulf him whole.
Shanks gaped at you.
For the third or fourth time tonight, he gaped at you.
Now that you mentioned it, it made sense.
You?
So daring and so brazen?
Adrenaline’s miracle.
His other guess would have been witchcraft.
Not a bad guess.
“An aphrodisiac???”
You nodded, amused by his shock.
“Yep, exactly-”
“And you didn’t think of sharing?”
Your libido decreased momentarily.
You guffawed.
“It just happened, Shanks! She suggested it- I took it!”
“You could have offered one to me, too! I love to experiment!”
You exhaled, exasperated at the delay.
“Oh, for Gods’ sakes, less talking, more sex.”
You squatted, held his length, and guided it inside you, centimetre by centimetre.
Upon entering, he moaned.
And because he was Shanks, that charismatic Yonko whose ideas, no matter how ridiculous they were, were always disclosed without a tablespoon of shame, he couldn’t shut up.
“Yeah, you’re right; less talking, more sex.”
His hips surged up, penetrating the velvet walls of your cervix in a single powerful thrust.
You bounced on him, the position allowing you to impale yourself on his dick fully.
The springs within the mattress squeaked.
A hoop of mixed cum started forming near your slippery pussy, squelching whenever you rose and descended, whenever you gyrated and swallowed him again and again and again.
You tossed your head back and scratched his pectorals.
Your breasts jiggled.
Your nails dug into his flesh.
Your eyes rolled into the bottom of your skull.
And your husband?
Mesmerized.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured hotly, watching the manner in which you mounted him, how your muscles strained, how you pursued your pleasure. “So fucking beautiful, look at you,” he reiterated, steering your grinds, groping the meat of your flank.
You were feral, restless, frantic, overflowing with primitive lust.
“No,” you dictated sternly while riding him (luckily until dawn as Savita had urged), slapping his insulting palm off you. You arched, your heels firm on the bed, gripped his wrist, and led it towards the apex of your thighs. “There, rub- ah, rub there, rub there.” You ordered, forcing him to play with your clit.
Shanks obliged.
Vigorously, his thumb dabbed your throbbing bud, swiping the sensitive bonnet for better stimulation.
“There?” He growled, eager to witness you unravelling from his cock and his fingers. “You like it there, sweetheart?”
You were cloaked in a sheer layer of perspiration.
Your hips twitched.
“Yes!” You affirmed, plummeting down, stuffed to the brim. “Yes- yes! There!” You instructed, creating red marks on his chest, indentations which would cling to him for hours.
His gut twisted.
He was positively fascinated.
“You gonna cum on my cock?” He asked, pressing his pollex to your clit, attentive to how close you were, for your walls had begun to contract, fluttering around him. “C’mon, you wanna cum, don’t you?”
You did want that.
Badly.
In lieu of answering him, though, you doubled your efforts.
“And you?” You uttered, brushing your hair as your waist continued to move and spin, as your cunt continued to suck him in and throttle his pulsing girth. “You gonna cum in me, Shanks? You want to cum inside me?” You prodded breathlessly, dying for his reply.
As a result of your bold retort, he let out a gruff, ironic ‘Hah!’
“What you think?” He snarled, abruptly hooking his arm about you, pushing you upon his sprawled body.
You lost your equilibrium, falling flush against him.
Before you could complain, before you had the opportunity to object, his voracious mouth captured yours in a graceless kiss.
A clash of teeth, tongue, gums.
An amalgamation of bites, licks, smooches.
The tight knot in your belly snapped, shattering your sanity.
You whined over the tender skin of his invigorating lips, freezing as your orgasm drowned you in exhilarating euphoria.
One last sloppy thrust brought him his demise, for his stomach tautened when you climaxed, and ropes of his load came out, warming your satiny womb.
The sheets were victims of your erotic actions, for creamy rivulets pouring from your hole tainted them ivory.
You were both panting, huffing and puffing, gasping for clear air.
“Ah,” he said, happily defeated, in a daze, nuzzling his nose on the slope of your neck, where your pulse was skyrocketing in the aftermath, where your jugular vein thrummed with blood. His strong arm stayed around you, securing the intimacy of your sweaty embrace. “Oh, Amen to that.”
You gulped, weak, albeit satisfied.
The aphrodisiac started to wear off.
You felt cold and hot; joyous and tired.
“You can say that again,” you murmured, cracking your shoulders.
The Captain hummed and shut his eyes, basking in the fragrance of passion, which lingered in your cabin like a thick quilt.
He caressed your bare rear, keeping the two of you intertwined.
Before he spoke.
There was a lilt in his voice.
Humour.
“So, girl talk taught you how to be dominant, huh?”
You giggled and burrowed your face under his sharp jaw, next to his collarbone.
“Guilty.”
His smile turned into a smug beam.
“Please, tomorrow,” he drawled, laziness replacing his earlier drive as he tugged at the rumpled blankets, draping them over you with a whoosh. “Ask our dear friend Savita for that magical aphrodisiac she gave you.” He proposed, sliding your weary figure higher, so he could hide his scarred visage in the ravine between your perfect tits, his vermillion locks tickling you. “I’d like to give it a go, too.” He stated, peppering pecks along the span of round dermis presented to him.
You squirmed, delighted.
“I suppose you do like me being on top, then.”
Shanks patted your ass cheek: a reward.
“Well, you drove me crazy, baby, no doubt about it.”
His tongue flicked your hardened nipple.
“Aaaaand, when you’re ready,” he mused low in his throat, perching his chin on your sternum. His gaze had that saucy glint you have grown to adore. “You can ride me again until your knees can no more; how does that sound, my cowgirl?”
His brawny hips shifted.
You could sense his dick in your cunt.
Flaccid.
But with a bit of prep?
Anything could happen.
You reclined, hovered above him, and planted your elbows on either side of his head, on the pillow.
Your pupils raked over him, from his dashing hair to his masculine chest.
“A short break,” you suggested, allowing your lips to ghost his, a mere whisper away. “And then I ride you until our bed cracks open.” You concluded, assaulting his mouth with multiple kisses.
Shanks purred.
He gripped your nape.
Reciprocity.
“Ohh, that’s tempting alright.”
…
In the morning, while your crew were carrying barrels upon barrels towards the ship and shouting directions at each other, preparing for the voyage, you visited Savita and Juniper.
They were honoured to have assisted, and loved all the details you decided to reveal to them.
The women supplied you with the herbal tablets from the previous night.
Twenty in total.
For plenty of fun.
With a wink and a hug, before your boots landed on the floorboards of the Red Force, they shouted from the beach: “Enjoy you, kids!”
Yeehaw!