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A familiar crowd of riotous pirates had shouted at you like anguished giants, crowded you like a flock of disturbed seagulls.
Why had they aired their grievances so ardently?
What had been the cause of their restlessness?
What could they have possibly clamoured for?
Attention? Booze? Card games? Unfair bets?
Well…
Something far more complex than those four items combined.
Here are some of the most important quotes they had thrown at you:
“Lass, you gotta do something —the Boss is driving us nuts with his stupid pouting. We swear we’ll compensate you!”
“That’s right, honey. We can’t stand him glaring into the horizon anymore! As if we were already in dangerous grounds, agh, that lunatic!”
“Yes! And his Haki, it's- it's constantly draining us, making the floorboards squeak, putting everyone on edge —he’s got to stop, or else we’ll be an easy target!”
“Toots, we don’t usually ask much from you. We would never trouble you, you know that, but we really need your help —the Captain needs to take a break. ASAP.”
Oh?
Well, well, well.
Why just look at that.
Were you being deceived?
Were your crewmates, that stubborn and rowdy bunch, begging for your assistance?
Offering you desserts, less onerous tasks, and money in exchange? (Charity you immediately declined, of course)
Were these men actually seeking your aid?
Stripped of their pride?
Stripped of their ‘masculinity’?
Stripped of their ‘manly’ abilities?
…
Ah, how marvellous.
Euphonious music to your ears.
Your saviour complex was downright buzzing at the moment, for the glorious sounds of-
Please!
Save us!
Find a solution!
Were fueling your ego like gasoline does to fire.
It seems like it might rain tonight!
This was, to be perfectly and unapologetically blunt, a miracle.
A rare event on the Red Force —only witnessed every few hundred years or so, when blue moons shine in the nocturnal sky, and Popes die wrapped in their cashmere blankets.
Intermittent. Sporadic. Infrequent.
An occurrence which, considering your expertise on this sort of delicate matter and your finesse with tact, you would not dare gloss over.
No, sir.
Instead?
You were going to extirpate the chaos wrecking the vessel into pieces!
You were going to rescue your friends’ fragile sanity!
You were going to subdue the waves and tame the tides!
You were going to…!
Talk to Shanks.
In his office.
This late evening.
Oops.
Underwhelming much?
The thing was that, when the crew had bombarded you with complaints regarding their chief in command, interrupting you mid-sip of your steamy cup of coffee as you stood by the railings (rude of them, surely, but as if you could ever hate those loveable barbarians), you had blinked, baffled at their evident annoyance.
You had encouraged them to speak, to tell you all about their discontent —an altruistic Empress in disguise, a therapist without her official degree.
And once they gave you enough reasons?
You believed them.
Because, come to think of it, you HAD noticed a certain change in your lover’s behaviour during the past days.
For the worse.
Invisible nuances in his daily demeanour which had you investigating the mysterious origins of every tick of his brows and each narrowing of his lids.
Even so, you had opted to let Shanks be, to grant him some space while simultaneously being attached to the hip.
He was an adult, at the end of the day, extroverted and resolute.
But…
They had been correct.
Because suddenly?
Hosting copious banquets and organising corybantic celebrations were no longer his most cherished hobbies —he apparently preferred to perform quiet activities now, like meditation (not taking into account how his missing left arm could affect the results of such recreation), or indulge himself in a placid state of momentary reverie.
Umami-rich alcohol and chewy lobster were pushed aside at lunches and dinners, replaced with a more moderate diet consisting of tropical fruits (except blueberries —he detested them with a passion: “They’re so…bland! Where’s the flavour? Nowhere!” He would grumble aloud, cringing down at his bowl like a toddler), kimchi fried rice (thankfully one of his favourite dishes —nutritious, minus the sodium boost), and refreshing water.
Booming high jinks and mischievous pranks he had a knack for executing aboard had become practically non-existing as he had recently chosen to merely snicker behind his tankard or stand near the ship’s main bow, uncharacteristically silent, gazing at the vast stretch of ocean in front of him.
As if he were preparing for… battle.
Bracing for war.
Then it hit you.
It sank in.
You realised why he had been acting so strangely lately.
The voyage, the destination, and the speculative results of the expedition.
The possibility of creating an unstable alliance.
The chance of engaging in aggressive conflict.
The prospect of getting involved in undesired risk.
The threat of confronting fiendish enemies…
And…
You touched the side of your neck, the pads of your fingers brushed a specific spot, traced the faded stitch marks, where white thread had held your skin together a year prior…
Ah.
Uh-oh.
You'd better hurry up and speak with him.
After having pacified the lot of irked sailors, promising them that you would fulfill their unanimous request, you embarked on a short journey through the boat’s interior halls, your feet leading the road to his office in light steps, stealthy.
The ship, although imposing in height, design, and magnitude for many fresh recruits and Marines, provided you with a sense of comfort as you walked along its cavernous corridors.
Your gaze, sharp yet relaxed, scanned the ligneous scenery.
The same unsophisticated rustic walls, the oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the multiple rufous-coloured doors, and the beige floorboards.
A normal setting for you.
Cozy, too.
Your home.
Quite the peculiar home, since homes usually don’t have salt water around them which forces their inhabitants to grow a pair of brand new legs akin to that of baby gazelles, but a home nonetheless.
Where loyal friendships, social security, and romantic love resided.
You did not need anything else —the bonds you have succeeded in forging through your extensive time spent there and the numerous memories you had the pleasure of retaining in your skull satiated your spirit.
Let’s not wander too far from our tale, though.
You had a Captain to reassure.
And pronto.
Soon, you halted at the sounds of ceramic shattering and a muffled curse coming from…you can probably guess the location-
“Ah, shit, no- fuck, this should not be happening to me, motherfu…”
You strained your ears, curious.
Pressing your temple and your palms on the surface of his office entrance, you listened in for more noises.
A rough sigh, for starters.
Plus more vulgar mutterings.
Dog-level profanities.
Obscenities you did not have the heart to reproduce during festivities (in the form of sea shanties), or in the most heated of nights with him.
The difference was that they were not directed towards you, thank Gods, but to inanimate objects.
It was…well, it was funny to some extent, you had to admit.
Shanks wasn’t prone to anger.
Hell, it was extremely difficult to summon his wrath.
His genuine wrath, I mean, the ire only unfortunate souls witness.
Despite his status as one of the four Emperors, he pursued peace and courage, not violence and cowardice —an uncommon perspective.
A person could spill their drink on him at a bar, cover his entire body in liquor, and he would…cackle at the incident!
Maybe he would even pay the offender another round while at it! (It has happened)
Life was too damn short to maintain everlasting rivalries —that was his prime philosophy.
For instance:
‘Resentment is a nasty plague, love,’ Shanks had warned you when an imprudent bandit had mocked him from afar, when you had been this close to strangling said crook if he ordered you to. ‘There’s no point in unnecessary ruthlessness, don’t think about it, let it go…’ He had advised you, kissing your cheek to ease your temper, and angled your weapon away.
However, now?
Ooh, he seemed really angry.
It was time to intervene.
Operation relaxation.
.
.
.
A tad cheesy, apologies-
You rapped your knuckles on the wood, producing a series of cautious, shallow knocks.
five taps, to be precise.
A melody which was universally recognised.
‘The shave and a haircut’ knock, unfinished.
You called…he shall respond.
You weren’t waiting for those final two bits.
It would have been comical but improper.
Abruptly, the verbal blasphemies stopped behind the closed entry.
You could perceive the rustling of clothes, the hasty fumbling of bottles, and the gathering of papers.
You remained there, hands folded, curt, patiently expecting him to speak, expecting him to either accept or refuse your presence in that charismatic manner of his.
A measured and remorseful: ‘Sorry, I'm quite busy at the moment.”
Or a gentle and encouraging: ‘Yes, what is it?’
You were not going to barge in like you owned the place unless he allowed you to do so —you wouldn’t venture that far in spite of the fact that you were his girlfriend.
Not out of submission.
No, no, no.
Out of respect.
However, to your utter delight, Shanks cleared his throat, and, within the confinement of his office, declared: “Yes? Who is it?”
Alright, a subtle invitation.
That was good.
You could go with that.
You smiled as you leaned against the door, your arms folding over your chest, your ankles intersecting paths.
The image of casualness —mostly used to hide your inner concern.
“I don’t know, Boss, what a fascinating question you just posed,” You replied, keeping your tone to a roguish lilt, feigning confusion. “Who am I? Who could I possibly be?”
He obviously knew who you were.
How could he not know who you were when all he ever dreamed of was your sweet voice wherever he was?
On deck, up on the crow’s nest, in the wine cellar, in the hull, in the bathtub, in his sheets.
Everywhere you were, he wanted to be there too.
Unbeknownst to you, the redhead blinked, surprised, and scrubbed his face in one languid stroke at your jesting.
Unbeknownst to you…he desperately needed your company.
Unbeknownst to you…he had prayed for your arrival.
He could indulge you and your scheme, he inferred.
Shanks sniggered, but it rang in the wrong pitch.
Almost ironically.
As if…tired.
You decided not to dwell a lot on that.
“Hm, who could you be?” He repeated, placing his index on his stubbled chin. “Well, let me see, I have plenty of men on my ship, you could be anyone, stranger…!” He asserted, straightening in his leather chair, the material groaning under him.
You felt your beam broaden, satisfied with his cooperation.
“Why don’t you try to guess?” You suggested, attempting to resist the rising urge to check him via the knob’s peerhole. “I'm sure you can imagine who I am- or should I give you a hint?”
Shanks, hopelessly fond of your natural buffoonery, rolled his eyes.
“No, no hints, I think I can get this on my own, thank you very much, random visitor…” He determined, waving a dismissive hand towards your direction, desiring to ‘guess’ the woman currently wisecracking.
Humming, the Emperor played with the flap of his dirty shirt (you'll discover why it was dirty in a second, missy), and nodded tersely, gambling with his hypotheses.
“So, option number one,” He pronounced, raising his thumb and propping his elbow on his desk. “You're…Beck! Except, agh, maybe you're not him- the smell of his cheap cigarettes would have already invaded my precious office- no, no, you're not Beck, you're not him, gimme another chance…”
You could hardly contain your amusement.
You giggled and shrugged, approving his silly petition.
“Mhm, go on, go on, you can have a few more chances, yes…”
Shanks whistled lowly, appreciating your generosity.
“Oh, ‘a few more chances’? My, how utterly selfless of you, thank you.” He mused, fanning himself in faux elegance. He cracked his shoulder and lifted his pointer digit, ready to announce his second conjecture. “Option number two, you're…Hongo? You're formal, you are definitely Hongo, right? Is my trusty doctor standing out there?”
You shook your head and tutted, negating his absurd suppositions.
“Nope,” you lamented, popping the ‘p’ for special effect. “I'm neither your first mate nor your doctor, wrong again, Captain.”
Shanks scoffed, faking indignation.
“And here I thought you were him!” He exclaimed, rolling a worn pencil back and forth to entertain himself while talking to you. “Are you sure you belong to my crew, darlin’? Because it's mighty difficult to figure out who’s the owner of that lovely voice, I won’t lie.”
Darling.
One of his many pet names for you.
An indication of his saccharine foolery.
A sign that, even if he were stressed out, he would not stop being who he was.
The man you fell in love with.
Your noble harlequin.
“Third time’s usually the charm. Why don’t you channel your best hunch?” You proposed, fixing your belt, tightening it around your hips —an absent-minded habit of yours at this point. “Perhaps your brain can…show you who I am? Can your Haki do that for you?”
Your partner carded his fingers through his hair, slicked the crimson locks to domesticate the most savage of tresses, and clicked his tongue, ultimately cocky.
“Nah, don’t need no Haki for this, come on, have some faith in me! Let me recap, let me recap, I'll guess who you are eventually…!”
He coughed into his fist and, once again, inhaled.
He recapped, as guaranteed.
Thoroughly.
“You're not Beck, you're not Hongo…” You could identify the rhythmic drum from the rear end of his pencil upon the bureau in front of him as he continued speaking. “And theeeeen, you're probably not Roux, or Snake, or LimeJuice, or Yasopp, or Bonk Punch and I wouldn’t believe you're Monster, although he has knocked and dashed, that devious ape…” He wagered his bets, depleting the limited quantity of fingers to count with.
For each erroneous name he listed —eight in total— you deemed his efforts both comic and waggish.
“Okay, so, technically?” You interjected, turning around in order to face the timber gate. “I feel like you're running out of options, and ‘third time’s the charm’ doesn’t seem to be working here, so, why don’t you-”
Shanks cut you off with a ridiculous ‘ah-ah-ah!’
“Wait! I have one last guess! Can you grant me that final wish?” He implored, the volume of his pitch becoming whiny.
You could hear the pout on his lips.
One of your weaknesses.
Terrible, terrible weakness.
His pout, jutted out and pitiful, would always ensure his triumph.
Bastard.
A 39-year-old bastard.
Alas, you patted your thighs, a demonstration of resignation, and snorted.
“I'll…the floor is yours…”
Superb.
Discerning your reluctant assent, the Emperor sensed his mouth twitch up into an exultant smirk.
He pondered over what to do next.
How, in a creative fashion, could he make you know he was aware of who you were without breaking the illusion that he was ostensibly oblivious?
Ohhhh.
Like this.
Shanks stood up, the action sluggish as his strong limbs abandoned his coriaceous seat.
Although, not lazy.
Deliberate.
“I have a powerful inkling…” He drawled, each syllable sticking to his gums like sugary molasses, words conveyed like those of a tenacious detective. “That you, dear stranger…” He phrased, beginning to approach the door in leisurely yet purposeful strides, “Are none other than…”
There.
When his large hand encased the spheric handle.
When the bronze knob mildly rattled.
When the shadows of his footsteps lurked.
You moved back, anticipating the sight of him before you.
He did not, however, let you take a peek inside.
No.
Not yet.
He simply let you learn the weight of his unarticulated judgement.
The air grew thick with gelatinous suspense.
At least for you.
Until he broke the silence.
Wonderfully so.
In a way which had your heart racing, skipping beats, and contracting in unison.
“My brightest diamond…”
A twist.
“My addictive panacea…”
A push.
“My hypnotic nightingale…”
A creak.
“My…”
His…?
The door was ajar, before completely agape.
It revealed him to you by the threshold.
That handsome, captivating monument.
That renowned heartthrob.
That poet behind the magnate.
Intrinsically seductive.
Your eyes drifted, drawn to his mouth, to the vague quirk on its rim and his enamelled teeth on full display.
He looked down at you, poised.
You swore his smile stretched a fraction more when he relished in your adorable expression.
His irises twinkled, and his chest rose with a mirthful rumble.
“Perfect girl…”
His perfect girl.
His woman.
His divine counterpart.
Your playfulness faltered at his effortless adoration —an instinctual response.
Your gut fluttered at your reflection in his dilated pupils —a chemical reaction.
Your visage flushed at his striking stature —an unconscious reflex.
Your previous confidence…vanished.
Under his spell.
“Hey, pretty lady…” He bowed slightly, keeping his distance from you, (an increasingly hard assignment, no doubt, for he was dying to scoop you up and hold you like a pillow). “To what do I owe the pleasure, eh? What’s the motive of your visit?”
You gulped, your throat bobbing, the movement solid as if you were swallowing a big rock and not solely a small lump of spit.
“Hi…” You greeted him back while your orbs took the liberty to aimlessly rove across the length of his upper body, his collarbone, his pectorals, and…
His ivory-hued shirt.
Except…
Not too ivory in colour, per se, for there was a jet black, oily, bold splotch in the middle disrupting the pale harmony.
The streaks of ink had trickled down the vesture’s hemline, painting his sash and crotch.
A dry mess.
“Oh, you’ve got…” You prompted, pointing at the pigmented stain decorating his garments. “Ink on you…”
What a bland observation, you scolded yourself.
…
Wait-
THAT’S why he had cursed so noisily!
That’s why you had heard the ceramic crash!
He had spilled ink on his clothes and failed to prevent its porcelain container from falling to the floor.
But clumsy, he was not.
You were acutely aware of that.
A certain grade of mastery was required to wield a sword as potent as Gryphon —a beast in name and style.
Thus, being clumsy was not exactly permitted in his personal realm of expertise.
There had to be another reason for his peculiar error.
An authentic reason.
Shanks blinked down at his shirt and pinched the fabric between two fingers.
Then, with the formidable calmness only he could manage in his situation, shrugged.
“Just a tiny mishap, love,” the redhead affirmed, untroubled by the sooty smudge, idly rubbing his pollex over it. “Don’t worry about it, I'll get changed after I deal with a couple more documents here- I should be done in an hour or so…” He disregarded, letting go of the textile at once with an elongated exhalation, projecting his fatigue in silence.
When he mentioned ‘a couple more documents’, you frowned, bothered.
The idea of him staying in his office for the next sixty minutes, isolated and secluded, made your bowels ache.
He wasn’t a hermit.
He had never been a hermit.
Shanks could embody other roles in the Major Arcana.
The Fool: a free spirit.
The Hanged Man: sacrificial.
And the Sun, too: joyous.
He was the portrayal of multitudinous characters.
Boiled down to one great warrior.
Boiled down to a warrior who strived for introspection, yet not for solitude.
Scrutinizing his appearance, you were able to distinguish the thinly veiled emotions he was struggling to suppress in the span of milliseconds.
The faint dark rings beneath his eyes. Bad omen.
The tousled mop of crimson hairs. Very bad omen.
The shabby conditions of his attire. Incredibly bad omen.
Apprehension. Trepidation. Consternation.
It was screaming at you, the physical neglect he was enduring while mutely prioritizing paperwork in case you…in case he…nevermind.
He could pretend he was ‘fine’.
But you were smarter than that.
Well…EVERYONE was smarter than that.
You recalled your objective.
You wanted to soothe him.
Correction.
You yearned to soothe him.
“Can I come in?” You wondered, stepping forward. “I haven’t seen you since lunch, I thought I should…check up on you,” you explained kindly, lifting your paws to smooth the wrinkles along his shirt, not inclined to avoid the ink, not willing to avoid the proof of his stress. “And, there’s something we could…discuss as well…”
Shanks took a brief moment to indulge in your touch, in the way your caresses, so careful and so mindful, little by little expunged the transparent ghosts haunting, stalking, and harassing him. He shut his eyes, shoulders droopy under your appeal.
‘There’s something we could discuss as well…’
The sentence wasn’t ominous, it didn’t emit irritation.
It transmitted…a certain type of knowledge regarding the unspoken topic.
His façade instantly cracked.
The Captain put his hand over your own on his thorax, his weathered digits encapsulating yours in a snuggle embrace of limbs.
“You're always welcome in my office, sweetheart…” He assured you in earnest, slowly backpedaling in his sandals to lead you both into his private lair, where you were positive you were going to efficiently slice through his concerns with a slash of your tongue.
Showing him a grateful, lopsided simper and uttering a hushed ‘Thank you…’, you followed him inside and closed the door behind you.
Confidential affairs were about to be initiated: a tête-à-tête.
You discreetly commenced to study the ample room around you, your attention locked on every corner, every surface, and every piece of furniture.
There was a trio of adjectives that crossed your mind to describe the cabin.
Stuffy. Fuggy. Heavy.
An organized chaos which was charged with pessimistic energy.
The lamps’ fiery contents were bright enough to illuminate the area in flickering albeit persistent flames of gold.
Crumpled atlases were scattered, with blue circles scribbled upon exotic, puzzling locations.
Dispersed spyglasses of various sizes had their cylindrical lenses impeccably cleaned and wiped.
Manuscripts were haphazardly lying on his caoba-tinted counter, piled into unknown categories.
Quills and ink pots were strategically positioned in the center of said counter (to inhibit the likelihood of any new ordeals).
A hefty bookcase was sited at the far end, with several baubles, trinkets, and souvenirs perched on each shelf.
The desk itself was accompanied by a duo of chairs, both equal in rich, pulpy quality.
A metallic compass, fueled by organic magnetism, was signalling West.
Gryphon reposed near his seat’s leg, sheathed and fit to be used, its blame honed and its pommel shiny.
The Emperor’s cloak was untidily draped over the chair’s top rail, cloak which more often than not concealed his left deltoid.
A wall clock chimed, its hands ticking repetitively in serene ‘tick-tack-tick-tack.’s
The scent of paper mixed with musk and stale air penetrated your nostrils.
Was that really an office or… a crafted bunker?
Shanks, attentive to your vigilance, offered your head a pat, before trudging to his seat. He unceremoniously slumped against the cushion, flaccid, and groaned, legs spreading wide, head tipping back, broad chest puffing, singular antebrachium falling on the armrest.
A tanned, weary daemon who has reached his maximum limit.
You furrowed your brows, ready to ask about his bewildering conduct in the last week…
When he —drowsy gaze still fixed on the ceiling— beckoned at you, index and middle fingers crooked inwards in a come-hither motion, and murmured a gruff: “Please, c’mere, baby…”
Your initial confusion morphed into anxiety, your heartbeat thumping in your rib cage like strident thunder.
His raspy ‘please’ was the true detonator, for alarms began to blare in your brain.
Have you been blind to this? To his lassitude?
Gods, you couldn’t bear it.
Even more when you had a good guess why he was acting this way.
As instructed —or better said as pleaded— you proceeded to walk towards him, your esophagus tightening with remorse, skin crawling in goosebumps.
Once you were at an appropriate range, near his split knees, you waited for your lover to converse with you.
He did not.
Instead, he angled his head to analyse you in a slothful style, while the office’s light engulfed him in aureate hues —which did not match his unreadable expression.
A second…two seconds…three seconds too long.
…
“Shanks, ooh-”
His name unexpectedly perished in your vocal chords with a squeaky yelp.
He rapidly straightened his spine, captured the mini gap in your filled belt loops and yanked so you would be forced to stand between his sprawled thighs.
Astounded by the abrupt whiplash, you stumbled and blinked down at him, your fists flying to grip his shoulders for support.
“What are you thinking about?” Shanks inquired, bending his neck, burrowing his profile within the warm refuge of your carpeted bosom, his palm creeping up your left hip, digits splaying on the curve of your waist, clinging to territory already his from the start, “Right here, right now, what are you thinking about?” He phrased again, his speech steadfast, his words blunt but not harsh.
Right here, right now?
It was complicated to ascertain one single thought.
You drank him in.
The guy, sat in front of you.
Holding you as if you were his last chance at redemption.
Hesitantly, you rubbed his tense shoulders, where knots had amalgamated, and slithered a path skywards to explore the silky red strands of his hair, combing, and untangling them.
The man stiffened under your exquisite grooming skills, before dissolving into a puddle of pure, secular bliss. He inhaled the fruity notes lingering on you and buried deeper into your bust with a rumbling hum, the hand on your hip snaking around your flank.
“Right here, right now? You wanna know what I'm thinking about?” You echoed, cradling his nape to gently coax him into raising his face, “I could ask you the same thing…” You stated, delicately maneuvering his chiseled jaw to be plopped on the ravine between your breasts, an exclusive, intimate comfort reserved for him.
Shanks contemplated you, eyes shrouded, lower lip tugged to the side, rueful.
He didn’t answer, simply observed.
So, you continued.
“On my behalf, I'm thinking about how you need to shave…” You joked with a sneer, dragging your thumbs to scratch his chin. The shape remained basically intact, but his beard had grown just a tad scruffier without you noticing, prickling you like the thorns of a rose. “Or are you trying to go for a different look, hm? I thought you were quite happy with your stubble- I'm quite happy with it…” You added on, squishing his cheeks together to…persuade him into, at the very least, smiling.
You had to earn his confession, bring out the demons eating him alive.
Thanks to your endeavour, he did smile, and then huffed an airy chuckle.
“No, no, I'm not trying out a different look,” he proclaimed bitterly, sliding his calloused hand across your covered torso, wiggling the limb to slip beneath the fabric of your tucked shirt, the flesh of your vertebrae meeting his warm touch. “But you're right, I do need a shave- I've just been…occupied.”
Occupied.
What a great introduction.
You spared a glance at the items on his desk, the clutter, the heap.
“Talking about that…” You remarked, bopping the tip of his nose at the ‘that’. “Many birdies complained to me that you’ve been too stressed out, and I see what they mean.” You divulged your friends’ protests, excluding the more…crude details.
The redhead grimaced, his features scrunching at your valuable intel, the triple scars on his left half creasing from the stretch of his facial muscles.
“Hah, that obvious?”
You nodded, affirming his question with a prolonged, sympathetic ‘Mmmhmmm’.
“Yeah, it is that obvious.”
Shanks grunted, both crestfallen and aggravated.
Busted.
“And here I thought I was being sneaky about it…”
You snorted at your lover and pushed his wavy hair back, exposing his forehead to your affection.
“Why would you even have to be sneaky about it in the first place?” You chided in, your frown depending as well as your incredulity.
He could always be frank about his feelings with you no matter what.
Besides, he was a leader of great candour.
What had changed?
“Be honest, what’s going on? Why are you cooped up in here, Shanks?” You insisted, leaning down to plant a coaxing kiss between his brows, the gesture fierce in essence. “Please, help me help you…” You mumbled, your lips brushing against his skin with each word uttered.
He debated whether or not to tell you.
Somehow, though, he already knew that you knew what malevolent memory was tormenting him.
That hellish event.
A year ago.
What had caused you tremendous pain, anguish, and panic.
It was not easy to digest, his past mistake.
“I'm taking precautions,” he whispered, his tone lacking his usual bravado. “Treaties, escape routes, safe zones- that island we’re heading for can be an ally in the future, a source of supplies, but it could also…”
The Emperor slouched on his seat, retreating from your compassion to squint his orbs at you, guilty.
It was your turn to be speechless.
You witnessed his sole hand, on its own accord, abandon your midriff, only to let his firm knuckles separate the threads of your mane hiding your neck. There, beneath your hair, he stroked the tender area with nothing but intense reverence, and tapped on the linear outline of a scar —as if it were brittle china.
You didn’t flinch at the implicit message.
“It could also mean potential danger…”
Ah.
Uncertainty: the most primitive and humane fear.
It has existed for centuries.
Every generation, every civilization, every community, and every soul has sensed its sinister vicinity seep into their bones, corrupting their judgement in macabre ways, clouding their decisions, ruining their perception of what is real and what is fake.
Silent but always present.
In a nutshell, you had been shot during a hectic battle.
Had you been deceived by the islanders? Threatened? Ambushed?
You didn’t fully remember, plus the gory story varied from crewmate to crewmate.
Anywho.
No point in reminiscing about an anecdote that shouldn’t be reminisced about.
The silver bullet had pierced through several layers of your dermis.
In and out.
Swift. Lethal. Accurate.
It had hit, as Hongo would later explain during your lengthy recovery, your Jugular Vein.
The Jugular Vein’s relevance is massive.
Crucial.
Absolutely critical in the internal anatomy of creatures.
When punctured…
Well, it hadn’t been a pretty episode.
You had no idea, nor could you imagine, that you could lose blood so fast and so much.
A hemorrhage.
A severe hemorrhage, to be more specific.
The crimson fluid had soaked your paws, stained your shirt, and reduced your level of consciousness.
Had Shanks not reacted as quickly as he had, had he not registered you had dropped your weapon while you were gasping for air as you applied pressure onto your wound, had he not literally thrown you over his shoulder and flown to the ship’s infirmary, had he not tended you and spent sleepless nights watching you like a guardian angel, you wouldn’t have survived.
Six feet under, that’s where you would be at the moment.
The Captain had blamed himself, and still did, for what had happened —when you had croaked out a soft ‘Shanks…?’ After having the injury stitched and having rested for practically three days straight, he had sworn he was in debt with whatever God had listened to his prayer, with whatever deity he had invoked during his orison sessions.
He was in debt with life itself for saving you.
In the months following the brutal conflict, he had been reluctant to leave his territorial jurisdiction, adamantly declaring that he would rather navigate the same seas over and over and over again than try to develop partnerships beyond his terrain of domain.
Until now.
The redhead had received a fancy envelope.
A letter written in cursive.
It had denoted an impression of an opulent lifestyle.
The note, which had regarded him with professional titles such as ‘Mr. Yonko’ and ‘Sir’, had simultaneously praised Shanks’s influence in the New World and sold what he had dreaded: an alliance.
A Golden Opportunity.
For disaster, in his opinion, even if he accepted to confront his fate and sail towards ‘Emerald Peninsula’ nonetheless.
In conclusion, you were right.
He was preparing for trouble.
The origin of his anxiety: your trauma.
Trauma you have already healed from.
Has he not realized that?
“Hey, now, wait a second…” You prompted, covering the back of his palm on the triangle of your neck with your own. “I'm not worried about ‘potential danger’,” you mimicked his phrase, using quotation marks with your other hand, “And if I'm not worried about that, then you shouldn’t be worried about that either.” You punctuated, giving his knuckles a squeeze before lacing your fingers together.
Shanks pursed his lips, vacillating.
You glared down at him, a glimmer of hope and frustration in your pupils, and raised his wrist to your mouth.
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” you reassured him, pecking his carpus, helping him feel just how vigorous you were, how your lips were humid and smooth, how your grasp was strong and rigid. “It was no one’s fault, so forget about it- I've forgotten about it.” You advised, inspiring his vague oakmoss fragrance, similar to a dryad coddling her favourite tree.
The picture of you, pallid, bloody, and frightened appeared in his brain in the form of fleeting flashes.
He was…
Gods, he was terrified of losing you.
Of losing the one he loved most ardently.
You were his twin flame.
As he had said: his brightest diamond, his addictive panacea, his hypnotic nightingale.
His perfect girl.
You complemented him, accompanied him, completed him.
And as corny as it may sound, he believed that to be true.
Your lover heaved a sigh, carrying the burden of your tragedy.
“But-”
“No.”
You shushed him with your index digit on the chapped border of his maw, opposed to having him spiral out of control.
“But nothing,” you dictated, stern, and dipped your skull, inching closer, your breath fanning his face, “But nothing, I'm here with you, on the ship, in your office, alive…” You expressed, cupping his mandible to direct his attention on you, your thumbs caressing the hardened tissue of his cheekbones.
“Yeah?”
Your incandescent decisiveness carved a hole in his heart, both tearing the pumping organ to shreds and mending the mess of intertwined veins and arteries into place.
Your resolve was his ultimate demise.
His sweet, sweet demise.
And at the same time? His antidote.
Nodding, Shanks absorbed your order and gulped, washing away the sour taste of sorrow on his gums, and grasped your waist.
“Aye, yes, I see you …”
His fingers instinctively flexed.
To anchor you, and in doing so, himself.
You were satisfied.
Though not a 100%.
You examined his visage.
The entirety of his atypical fatigue.
You noticed that the tension kept on looming over his frame despite his confirmation.
A little less…but damn was it palpable.
Audible too, if you were intuitive enough.
How could you persuade him into relaxing?
Counsel him? No, you have just tried that.
Scold him? No, it would destroy your prime intention.
Slap him? Why would that be an option?
Maybe…
.
.
.
Oh.
A great idea struck.
That should do it.
Your hands relinquished their tender strokes along his cheeks, tentatively moved elsewhere, skimmed across his defined chin, across his taut neck, and landed on his stiff shoulders. There, you began kneading the muscles above his shirt, fondling them in gliding motions.
Pliant clay under your heavenly touch.
Back and forth — back and forth — back and forth.
Shanks released a strangled hiss, wincing at the dense pressure coming from the heel of your palms, and clutched your waist, pulling you onwards so you stood within chest’s reach between his thighs.
“Do you want a break, Shanks?” You asked him, your voice a soothing, ethereal melody to his tortured senses. “I can help you out, remind you I'm here…” You guaranteed, massaging his scapula, inclining your head to further make him recognise your presence.
You were offering him salvation.
Even if you often offered him salvation.
‘Reminders of you’ were imprinted on your shared mattress already —an eternal mnemonic.
How could he ever deny you?
Deny this?
Impossible.
He would be insane if he dared refuse this.
“Hm…” Shanks murmured, convinced, and slipped his eyes shut when you rubbed his neck again in circles, luring him into complying with your plan. “I, Gods…” He moistened his lips, seeking your physical therapy, “Mhm, I want- I need a break…” He replied hoarsely, drawing patterns on your midsection in camouflaged appreciation. “I really need a break…”
He didn’t have to tell you twice.
You grinned at him, pleased from his admission.
“I'm glad, Captain…”
Every push of yours was a reward.
Every grind was a boost.
Every squeeze was a wonder.
‘Feel me,’ your rhythmic touch communicated. ‘Focus on me…’
You investigated the spots that had him exhaling, the plains that had him gritting his teeth, the slopes that had him twitching.
Every groan of his was an incentive.
Every grunt was a spur.
Every growl was an encouragement.
(If only you had oil…)
“How does this feel? Are you enjoying it?” You inquired, massaging his temples, your pollicis orbiting his sideburns delectably.
Shanks snickered, the huff as rough as sandpaper.
“Darlin’, is the grass green?” He deadpanned, exhibiting a crooked, sheepish smirk, and stationed his single hand upon the region below your belt, hovering above your rear.
The weight of his palm made you involuntarily shiver as he drew you closer once again with a subtle shove. His legs trapped you; a docile horse and their hooves caught by cattle rope.
“Depends on where we are, no?” You retorted, weaving your fingers within his hair, alleviating the soreness on his scalp, your new goal. You released an amused giggle when the man deflated thanks to your magic, ducking his forehead to relax against your chest.
He emitted a lazy hum, a hum which signified his utter surrender, a hum which vibrated as if it were a lion’s drone.
“Oh, that feels…nice, baby…” Shanks complimented, shifting his ear to rest the shell upon the zone where your heart was submerged in your ribcage. He basked in its constant pulse, ever persistent and reassuring.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
Lords, how fabulous.
Why was he grieving you?
Grieving a human with a tempo?
‘Move on…’
He shall.
Driven by renewed liveliness, he commenced to pepper refined kisses along your sternum, dainty tokens that represented raw devotion, his lips sweeping over the textile of your blouse, grazing you in a worshipping fashion.
Ticklish, you bit the interior tissue of your cheek, all the while your hands continued to dance on his flesh, searching for any obstinate knots or strains on the column of his nape. You twirled a few locks —silky crimson threads in your gentle possession—, comforted at the vision of his crescent optimism.
The office floors elevated and dropped, steered by the waves lapping against the hull.
His kisses mapped and delineated familiar soil, piloted by his psyche.
The acid in your belly bubbled and fizzed, seduced by his numerous emblems of love.
Gradual heat enveloped you in ripples as his nose nuzzled your sensitive neck, as his large paw traced an agonizing path over the curve of your behind and the globes of your ass, as his pencil-thin stubble scraped you, as his canines nipped, as his smooches triggered you into a vaporous stupor.
You hastily slid your palms across the ruffled flaps of his collar, stretching them before blindly delving under the diaphanous barrier, skating on his bare shoulders, tracking his bronze scars, surveying the pronounced bone of his clavicle.
“Can I?” You panted out, your femora weakening when he caressed the underside of your thigh —seemingly regulating the ferocious urge to haul you onto his sturdy lap.
Shanks shuddered at your question, incapable of declining such dulcet wish.
Incapable of ever declining you.
“Yes- yes, go on, yes…” He babbled hotly against your cicatrix, equally frenzied. The Emperor devoured your perfume with a sharp inhale —the hints of peony and raspberry fuelling his flaring wildness—, and parted, opting to recline in his chair to grant you the reins.
Not scorched by you.
Oh, no.
Wholly affected.
And what a spectacle he was to behold.
Flushed complexion. Orbs hooded. Breaths ragged.
Was he perhaps your sparkling ruby? Your exhilarating remedy? Your courageous griffin?
Perhaps he was simply…flawless.
You rolled up your sleeves (figuratively) and got down to business.
You unbuttoned and shrugged off his upper garment in urgency, carelessly tossing it aside, exposing the toned lines of his broad chest. You marveled at them —couldn’t exactly not ogle—, your fingertips gracefully descending along the ridges of his pectorals, along the center of his abdomen, and finally along his navel, where his sash protected his pelvis.
A scarred canvas. A Herculean sculpture. A mahogany harp.
Art in its hominoid form.
Shanks’s rapt gaze burned you as he witnessed you crouch, groaning huskily once you pried his thighs apart to properly sink to your knees in front of him. He seized the seat’s armrest, knuckles turning white and blood speedily rushing south at the mesmerizing way in which you uncoiled the cherry waistband wrapped around his midriff, until you got a nice glimpse at the tie on the hemline of his baggy pants.
Your last obstacle.
That woven cord.
You deftly unfastened it, like an eager kid who was about to rip a Christmas gift at the break of dawn.
And hooked your nimble fingers into the floral article.
The Captain automatically lifted his hips to assist without speaking, a firm, forceful roll which allowed you to effectively yank the pair down his quads.
Once the fabric was removed and pooled around his ankles, you were met with his dark briefs.
Briefs which couldn’t conceal the delicious silhouette of his member.
Thick. Conspicuous. Endowed.
The view sent a bolt of electricity through you and settled in the hollow pit of your stomach.
Shanks suppressed a choked sound of sheer hunger when you petted the erogenous field in maddening rotations, and lolled his head back on the chair’s railing, spellbound.
You traced leisurely stripes, swirls, and streaks.
From the base to the apex of his dick, provoking his erection to augment in size and slant, arousing him to tumefied peaks, enhancing the amount of pre-cum leaking out of his florid tip, staining the material in the shape of a wet, opaque patch.
He swore you were being a temptress, for you weren’t even trying to scout below the last piece of clothing clinging to him like a vice, which was tightening with each excruciating brush of your dactyls.
“Ugh, love…” He mumbled, impulsively canting his loins to perch on the edge of his leather seat. “You…please, take it off…take it off…” He pleaded, reaching for the hand languidly teasing his bulge, and shoving your wrist inside his underwear. “Fuck, touch me, touch my cock…”
So vulgar!
So smutty!
So…enticing.
The bulky, veiny flesh reacted as you obeyed his bidding —weeping for your attention.
You yanked his briefs, disposed of them in the same method as you had gotten rid of his loose-fitting slacks: briskly.
His shaft slapped against his pelvis and he moaned low in his throat at the sensation of his pre-cum dribbling down in syrupy, gooey tears, the ridges pulsing, the bottom throbbing.
Your pupils zeroed in on the sinful bows.
His laboured wheezes and your sugary name on his lips cut through your hypnosis.
“Touch me, baby…” the red-haired man ordered, no bite behind his baritone voice, only pure, sexual need while he guided your paw again, wrapping your fingers around his manhood, and instructing you to stroke him up and down, just how he liked it best. “Need you to remind me you're here…” He added solemnly, frowning at you, his mouth agape, and his hips egging you on.
You nodded, avidly taking charge of the situation.
“I will,” you promised, calmly swatting his single hand away so you could handle his pleasure yourself. You shuffled a bit closer, close enough to have the tangy waft of his nectar suffocate your smell. “I will, Shanks, let me…” You emphasized, craning your neck onward, your tongue darting out to taste a lonesome drop on the side of his member.
Your lover gasped, his oxygen punched out of his lungs, his chest expanding at the jolt of energy galloping within his body.
You fisted him, gobbled him, and excited him further.
One palm jerked his cock, massaging the warm organ.
The other palm stayed upon his balls, fondling them.
Your tongue guzzled his sour essence, roaming the fleshy crests.
Your maw —moulded into an ‘o’— embraced him, retracting your teeth as not to scrape the appendage.
Your head bobbed, continuously sucking the phallic object as if it were merely a bitter lollipop.
Shanks draped his arm over his face and sprawled, frail from your passion —a puppet on strings.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, combatting the urge to gag you with his girth. “Hm-, I thought you weren’t a fan of blowing me.” He rasped, overwhelmed, but thoroughly delighted.
Your lips curled into a proud grin as you parted from his tumescent cock with a lubricious ‘pop’, a twine of his pre-cum dripping along the corner.
“Well, this time is an exception to the rule,” You countered, carrying on with your ministrations, the wet noises echoing in the office. “Am I good at it?” You asked him, unabashedly pressing your cheek against his inner thigh, and batting your lashes before you strayed to kiss his V-line.
The Yonko released a winded ‘Hah!’ and soon plucked your hair in his fist, gently urging you to resume devouring him.
“Sweetheart,” He purred the pet name charmingly, his beam mischievous. “‘Good’ is an understatement…” He flattered. “So, go on, taste me some more…” He proposed, angling his brawny hips skywards. “If you want to, of course, no pressure at all…”
Consent was a sexy, sexy thing.
To answer him, you experimentally kitty licked his dick in one, swift stripe, and snickered when his shins shook.
“An honour, Boss…”
Here’s the issue, though.
With every ounce of greedy appetite put in your endeavour, with every teaspoon of mellifluous ‘yes, yes, like that, that’s it, darlin’, you suck my dick so well.’, and with every twist of his fingers in your improvised ponytail, your core began to ache.
But you had to concentrate.
You couldn’t stop now.
You couldn’t play with your drooling cunt while kneeling.
You couldn’t satisfy your personal hankering.
Not when he was just…so close to ecstasy.
It was painfully evident: you could savour it, detect it, scent it.
Tears had started to gather in your orbs as you doubled your efforts, even if he carefully avoided thrusting into your inviting mouth.
You craved to appease your arousal, yes, desperately so.
But you craved to see him unravel a lot more.
You were committed to seeing him demolished.
The redhead gave your hair a warning tug.
His pelvis bucked, untamed.
“Hmpf- love- I'm- fuck- you're gonna make me cum if you don’t-” he stammered, his toes digging into his sandals to confine his savagery. “If you don’t stop now-” there was a hitch in his breath that didn’t allow him to finish his sentence.
You hummed, knowing the vibration would bring him to the verge of euphoria, and sucked faster, slurped, spat, mixing your saliva with his slick substance.
The ideal ingredient: enthusiasm.
He took it as a green light.
So he succumbed.
The fervour in his abdomen was devastating.
It crushed him.
Brutally crushed his reputation as Emperor, transformed him into an ordinary mortal.
An ordinary mortal who…
“Oh- ngh- fu-uck!”
Has attained paradise.
As his muscles contorted and the sticky spurts of his orgasm coated your tongue, your tears cascaded down your cheeks, and your hands paused after one final squeeze.
The flavour?
Awful.
Controversial, if you preferred to be polite.
You had forgotten about the collateral.
You weren’t accustomed to this type of result.
What?
Were you expecting his sperm to be tasty?
In spite of his change in diet, his semen portrayed his nutrition, which was…quite poor.
Lobster and alcohol? Not a good combo.
You gasped before detaching from his leaking cock, your jaw tingling, sore.
You really, really wanted to swallow.
But your palate was suffering.
Shanks, in his post-orgasmic glow, that is to say wrecked and sweaty, lazily scanned your kneeling frame.
At bliss.
However, once he discerned the manner in which you had clamped your mouth shut (a string of his cum trickling along your chin), how you had cringed during his nebulous trance, he muttered a quiet ‘uh-oh’.
Abruptly aware.
“Wait, wait, agh…” The Captain recommended, still misty-eyed from his high, and struggled to sit up straight as his spent manhood slowly hung again. “Don’t swallow, don’t swallow, you don’t need to do that…” He relinquished your tresses in order to fumble with the drawer on his desk.
Wobbly pulling out two handkerchiefs, he extended one to you.
“Spit it out, I know it's not too pleasant…” He commented, a little timid, and hurriedly brushed the streaks of tears from your visage. “If I gave blueberries a try, you think I would taste better?” He jested, beaming at you with a silly although apologetic expression.
You thanked him for the pocket square and immediately used it to rescue your buccal cavity from the pungent tang (a hazard).
“I think you would…” You trailed off while cleansing your lips, folding the cotton to retain its viscous contents from seeping out. “I think you would taste bland- and I don’t know if that’s worse or not.” You joked with a wry smile, rising to your feet.
Shanks chuckled while he also sanitized himself, patiently rubbing the handkerchief along his draped length.
“Yeah, bland…” He repeated, clicking his tongue at your quip. “Probably, my love, probably…”
A moment of tranquility passed between you both.
Almost a domestic procedure.
You tossed the dirty item away, so did he.
He fixed his pants and his ink-tainted shirt, so did you (even if you hadn’t undressed).
The same course of action.
Once your mouth returned to being owned by you (once your tongue explored your gums and was happy to taste ‘nothing’), you approached him again, your gait breezy.
Goal obtained.
“I hope you are satisfied with ‘remembering me’,” you told him, clapping his shoulders, “Because I don’t want you touching another document for the rest of the evening, you hear me?” You threatened, narrowing your eyes at him, and poked his collarbone.
“Oi, easy, tiger, easy,” the redhead mused in mock defence, “I won’t touch another document for the rest of the evening, you have my word…” He pledged, saluting you as if he were a Boy Scout before placing his palm upon yours.
Smug, you grinned.
“Good,” You celebrated, kissing his nose with a tender ‘mwah’. “I'm off to our cabin for a nice bath, though, because…”
Because…?
In truth? Your panties were…damp.
Beyond damp.
Drenched.
Did you have rational excuses to justify your embarrassing circumstances?
How could you account for your arousal?
“Because it's getting late.”
Late?
Laaaaaaame.
“So, yeah, I'm going to leave, Red.”
You attempted to sever your connection, to spin on your heel.
But his hold, unyielding and steely, imprisoned you.
Shanks snickered, a humoured, sly jingle.
Huh.
“Where do you think you're going, lady?” He wondered, amused at the alteration in your expression: from complacent to flummoxed. “You don’t actually believe I'm NOT going to return the favour, right?”
Return the favour?
Return the favour for having given him a blow job?
“Oh, no, no, Shanks- I don’t need you to do that,” you stressed, a blush creeping on your features at the innuendo. “I mean it, you don’t need to return any favours…”
His gaze raked over you in a sweeping flap.
“Hm…”
…
He tutted his jaw towards his right knee.
“Sit.”
That was his verdict.
Brusque. Unvarnished. Plain.
S.I.T
Three letters, an imperative verb.
“Sit?” You quizzed.
“Mhm, sit on my lap,” he dictated, tone casual, languidly patting the robust joint —a deluxe throne. “Or do you want me to spell it out for you? C’mon, hop on.”
Agitation surged in your womb at the idea.
“You don’t need to…” You reiterated, hesitant.
Only for your lover to twirl you around and clamp his hand on your hip bone, nails clawing at your vestment, fingers coercing you into plopping on his thigh with your legs on either side of him, catching you off guard.
“I said,” Shanks insisted, readjusting his position on the chair, the surface of his quad making contact with your crotch, your back perfectly fitting against his chest. “Sit. Down.” He accentuated, his command sultry and irrefutably attractive on the lobe of your ear.
His femur bounced and your protests quickly died in your larynx.
His arm encircled you and your heartbeat frantically stuttered.
His hot breath ghosted your temple and your waist involuntarily squirmed.
“O-oh…” You crooned, scrambling for his sleeve, so you could have something to clutch and grip and scratch, “Hm- oh, shit…” You cursed hushedly, unable to endure the glorious flames licking your nerves.
The Captain rejoiced at your progressive submission, particularly mirthful when he registered the imperceptible roll of your pelvis.
“Ah, see how much you like this? And you were being as obstinate as a damn mule.” He taunted, placing his chin on your shoulder and worming his calloused hand across your figure, teasing a cloaked breast, tweaked a stoney nipple (you weren’t wearing a bra), caressing your navel, and tapping your silver belt buckle with his tantalizing pollex.
He traced the rectangular article while his knee continued to jounce, boosting the levels of your ivory arousal. A dreamy mewl escaped you when he unclasped your garment, when his lips pecked a road of humidity on your neck (especially your scar), when his fingers untucked your shirt, undid the button, and dipped into your trousers.
“Did you get turned on while sucking my cock, baby?” The foxy Emperor purred, the lewdness in his speech tangible, his middle and ring digit running above the stripe of fluids clinging to your knickers, his thumb crooking into the elastic band, shifting it, before officially submerging below the fabric. “Seems like it, you're soaked…” He remarked, groaning at the vast amount of the secreted nectar along your slit.
Shanks collected your viscid, sapid essence, raised it to his mouth and sucked his dactyls dry with gusto. “Hmm, and you taste better than I do…” He flirted roughly, delving into your clothes to carry on with his impious chore.
Your waist betrayed your former judgement, and instead sought carnal proximity by undulating, consequently permitting his immaculate pressure to rub your sex in feathery flicks. You, in your cloudy haze, vigorously rutted against his thigh and his fingers.
Every moan of yours was a song.
Every coo was a prize.
Every whimper was a guerdon.
You accepted his advances, reciprocated his amatory keenness once he unhurriedly circled your clit, the organ already enlarged and tumefied. He then spread your labia, the inner petals —as predicted— moist and claggy.
Every swirl of his was a gift.
Every poke was a contribution.
Every swipe was a plus.
His wrist moved as he toured your folds, fiercely so, the same fingers being inserted into your fluttering hole in one gratifying shove. You hunched at the sting before slumping back against the trunk of his torso, enamoured by his talents.
“Sha-anks…” You called, arching your spine at the magnificent feel of his open-mouthed kisses on your neck again, his bristly beard reddening your sensitive skin. “Oh- can I just- Can I…?” You drawled, the dirty squelches reverberating in the otherwise empty office.
He smirked against your pulse, his expression knowing.
“Mhm, ride my fingers, beautiful- of course you can do that,” Shanks replied, giving your pussy a sudden flex of his dactyls and granting your puffy pearl a stroke to encourage you from within. “Ride my fingers, ride my leg, ride my knuckles- whatever you want.” He invited gravelly, keeping on guiding you, rocking you on his quad.
You squealed, your feet trembling and your hands spasming. You gnawed on your lower lip to control yourself from finding your pleasure too early.
Even so, you humped him, the friction intense, your cunt’s liquids ruining your panties, painting his intrusive extremities in creamy rivulets, as he energetically put his knuckles in and out of you.
There were three techniques put into play.
All of which were notoriously enchanting.
There were pettings, stimulating your slit.
There were smooches, stimulating your flesh.
And there were pumps, stimulating your glossy walls.
Oh, and there were words, naturally.
An elemental pillar for your lust to arise.
“Attagirl, check how well you're takin’ my fingers- so well.”
Tipsy.
“You're clenching around them so nicely, it's driving me crazy.”
Drunk.
“I wish you could see how pretty you look right now, a pretty moaning mess for me.”
Inebriated.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
Oh, what was that?
Your rear was hitting against something.
Something hard.
Was he getting aroused too?
His stamina was resilient. (one time you had performed four rounds in a row in the span of ninety five minutes).
You tried to pursue it, to scooch backwards and aim your ass in that direction so it would hit his prominent erection —or the swollen area of his groin.
And you received a grunt.
An alluring, guttural grunt.
Bestial in quintessence.
His paw faltered and his jaw ticked.
Bingo.
His clothes were blocking your grinds.
But you went on, anyway.
Unconsciously perhaps, animalistic most likely.
“You're asking for something else?” Shanks susurrated against your jaw, bouncing his leg yet again. “You want something else, darlin’? Not my fingers? Don’t they feel good, hm?” He provoked you, retreating from your entrance to massage your clit, smearing it with your warm liquor.
He was not wrong.
You wanted something else.
Something bigger.
Bigger than his already large digits; more fulfilling.
You nodded and squeezed his arm.
The Emperor hummed, assessing what to do, what to say, what to give.
“Tell me, then,” he ordered, pinching the bloated nub. “What do you want if not my fingers?”
You whispered your wicked wish, your abdomen bucking at the zap filtering through your pores.
Shanks tsked, disapproving.
“Nah, answer me like a big girl- tell your Captain what you want…”
He retrieved his hand from your knickers, slipped beneath your shirt, and caressed your bare breast.
“Say it…c’mon, help me help you…”
His grinning, devilish mouth returned to your dermis, kissing your cheek —a rather benevolent gesture in the heat of the moment.
“I- want…” You moaned, trapping the flat of his thigh between yours, your excitement salient. “You…” You vaguely stated, kneading his other thigh, your nails tearing at his pants. “Your dick …” You finally admitted, the noun garbled and heavy on your tongue.
His chuckled rumbled in his chest, like a feline’s roar behind you.
It had a certain dark, cryptic quality.
He planted one last peck on your temple and placed his chin on your shoulder, skull tilted to analyse your flushed profile.
“That so? You want to ride me for a bit, sugar? Make sure I'm stressed out no more?” He instigated your senses, leaving your tit alone to steady your waist. His knee stopped jerking, just so he could see you writhe.
Ride him? In his chair?
Ride your Yonko in his leather chair?
Summoning your strength —plus fuelled by primitive anticipation— you stood up.
Shanks was so surprised by your reckless escapade that his palm hovered in the air.
However, he didn’t complain.
He gawked at you.
And his vermillion gaze followed you.
Followed you tossing your belt away, followed you kicking your sandals, followed you pulling down your pants and underwear, followed you taking off your shirt…
Baring yourself to him in his office.
In his private lair —in his wooden den.
Where books, maps, compasses, and spy glasses were no longer his interest.
But you.
In tandem with your undressing, he disrobed as expeditiously as you have.
Off. Off. Off.
Everything off.
No lack of arm would ever impede him from being frisky with you.
How funny, to have redressed to be undressed anew.
His cock throbbed at the sight of you —a sorceress in saint’s clothing.
His tanned muscles flexed at your nudity.
His knees spread wider at your neediness.
“What happens if someone knocks?” You asked as he adjusted himself, sitting naked before you. You stepped forward and meticulously straddled him, legs on either side of his hips, your tiptoes barely touching the floor, hands on his shoulders —there weren’t any knots left to unwind.
Your lover’s pupils bored into yours, vehement.
The juices your pussy had discharged glazed his swollen length, causing him to grunt and shiver, goosebumps visible on his athletic body.
“Well, I guess you'd better be quiet,” He jested with a naughty glint in his irises as he winked at you, catching your hip and beginning to lead your gentle gyrations with a cant of his own pelvis. “But, to be honest, I don’t think they would knock right now- except Beck, let’s be wary of him.” He informed, his expression showing momentary perturbation.
You displayed an impish beam as your mound moved, the area below his navel pressing against you, your bosom squashed by his solid thorax, his manhood slipping between your folds oh so splendidly.
“We’ll be careful.” You promised, crashing your lips against his into a much-awaited kiss.
He melted into the embrace of that velvet mouth of yours, a muffled ‘hmph’ departing from his throat, leaving him in shambles.
A scandalous waltz of tongues, teeth, and raw urgency.
You remained quiet…
Virtually.
For the friction was grand and his aura magnetic.
For his palm drifted to your vertebrae and his nose strayed to the slope of your shoulder.
For his chair was protesting and your calves were burning.
You looped your arms around his neck and hoped for the best as you forced the florid mushroom end to push past your lubricated hole, wiggling in a seesaw motion to have him penetrate you.
You gasped.
He growled.
“Ngh, sweetheart…” Shanks phrased upon your perspiring flesh, cupping your ass as you bounced on him, encouraging your exertion. “You were made for my cock, you were made for me, hm, made for this…” He added, burying his face in your neck, breaths steamy and uneven.
The office was now less a room for paperwork and more a room full of faint slaps, hushed praise, and condensation.
After what felt like a centennial, the redhead abruptly reclined, so he could greedily gorge on your susceptible tits once they were at eye level. His wide tongue scurried out, teased your nipple before enveloping it into his mouth.
You struggled not to mewl aloud, your cunt clenching around his pulsing girth, your hips stilling, your paws curling against his nape, your nails scratching its surface.
He sensed your intermission.
And huffed, impatient.
“No, no, no,” he dictated, licking the spherical shape of your areola, skimming it with destructive elegance. “You keep on fucking into me, keep on takin’ me deeper.” He snarled, steering your buttocks to help him sheathe his dick into the depths of your cervix.
You were greeting the stars in the sky with how utterly good his plunges were.
You were overwhelmed.
Salivating.
“Shan-Shanks-” you hiccuped, your eyes rolling into the bottom of your cranium as you cradled the back of his neck with rare might, his name gritted through your fangs. “Shanks- I-I'm-”
You were so close to the end of the cliff, the one which would grant you searing Nirvana.
You were so close, so fucking close to gush on him like the torrent of a waterfall.
You were so close to letting your voice spike in volume, spike in pitch.
Thank Gods you didn’t-
A knock.
A sordid, infuriating, detestable knock grounded you, poofed your erotic hallucinations.
“Boss?”
The odor of smoke reached your nostrils, exactly as the Captain had predicted.
Beckman.
You hadn’t heard footsteps, even if the guy was quite hulking.
Did Shanks…jinx his appearance?
Shit, not now.
You both froze —ice cubes mid-liquefying.
Your lover’s lips paused their avid navigation.
His large hand shot out to cover your mouth before you could say ‘ah’, to cover the evidence of what was really happening within his study.
But he resumed bucking a second later…
Bastard carried on bucking!
Less rapidly, more measured.
The pace was excruciatingly slow, so slow, in fact, that your impending climax dwindled, prolonging your torture.
The encased appendage dragged along your walls, the milky blend of your arousals dribbling down your thighs and his lap: slipping in, slipping out, slipping in, slipping ou-
“I'm quite busy here,” he instantly explained, nuzzling the valley between your breasts, his frown tactile. “Documents, all that jazz, Beck…”
The gunman hummed behind the door.
A noise that meant he was skeptical.
A short and curt ‘hm…’
His grey gaze possibly narrowed.
Benn was not an idiot, he was (unfortunately) extremely perceptive.
You supposed that’s why he was Shanks’s first mate: his precision with a pistol and his keen observations were highly valued on the ship and on land.
“Yeah, the lads have noticed your…busyness…” Beckman replied, nonchalant yet partially inquisitive. He took a puff from his cigarette and spoke. “Your lady said she would pay you a visit, talk some sense into you- thought she would be here…”
You could identify a lilt in his words…was he amused? Was THE Benn Beckman slightly amused?
Wow, it's undoubtedly going to rain tonight.
Mind him, you did pay Shanks a visit, you did talk some sense into him, and you WERE there.
You scrambled for his wrist as he thrusted into you particularly roughly despite the lazy rhythm, causing your limbs to spasm and your larynx to emit a meek yelp.
“Nope, she must be in our-our cabin,” the man currently fucking you in his chair, disarming you like satin ribbons, lied, battling against the coil in his stomach. He grunted, gulped to maintain a fragment of dignified semblance. “Ngh- is there anything else you need to tell me?”
With your mouth still hidden, you employed your palms to grasp the seat’s rail behind the Emperor’s head, and raised your frame, to then drop your weight.
Influenced by your hormones, you began bouncing on him again, faster, while his face stayed trapped in your cleavage, while the friction was reheated, while the ridges of his cock caressed your most intimate corners.
Shanks moaned.
He could always disguise it as ‘exhaustion’, though —a semi-yawn, a semi-sigh.
“Aye, that dinner will be ready in ten minutes- thought you should know, is all.” Beckman notified.
Shanks was FIGHTING for his life, trying to concentrate on whatever the hell Benn was saying.
He had to muster the energy to nod.
To simply nod.
He wanted nothing else than sink his length to the hilt of your insides and-
“Hm- alright, much appreciated- see you at dinner.”
A sprint sentence: rushed and distorted.
The first mate, who surely must have realized something odd was going on, at last, answered him with a ‘mhm, see you, Chief…’ and left.
And as soon as the strides faded…as soon as you were positive the smoke had abandoned the office…
Shanks looked up at you from your bosom, a wolfish grin present.
His palm revealed your maw to him, held your jaw open with his fingers, open enough to revel in your strangled gasp when he shifted once more beneath you, hips swiveling, impaling you.
Punishment or consolation?
“And you call me a daredevil, missy?” He mused, straightening his posture, the flat of his feet planting on the floor, surging upwards with an ominous snicker. You could distinguish the concoction of a diabolical plan in his beam. “Let's get this done.” He declared, swiftly rising, arm scooping you up against his frame, and placed you on his desk with the strength of a starving pirate.
Still intertwined, merged, and completely fused.
The table’s contents were startled out of their wits: the piles of files, formerly organised, dispersed, landing on the floor like feathers of a pillow; the ink pots, formerly arranged, tripped, rolling across the expanse of wood like tiny barrels.
Your legs were sticking in the air as he cloaked you, your spine arching at the touch of the cold timber beneath you.
You didn’t wrap your ankles around his waist —didn’t have time, really— because he started ramming into your pussy, stretching you apart, splitting your uterus, the apex of his thighs grazing your clit with each vigorous push.
You whimpered, your body convulsing as your head nearly hung on the very edge, beads of sweat dotting your skin as Shanks bent his neck to nip and lick the rim of your lips, delving his tongue into your mouth to taste the wet terrain.
The angle was empyrean.
You could feel every fleshy inch bathe you in ecstasy.
You could feel him bathe you in ecstasy.
There were no words, no warnings, no new positions.
Just pants, whines, and pressure building within you.
The desk creaked, begging for a break. (Excuse me, what was that about being quiet?)
His fingers gripped a forgotten quill, in means to limit his libido —in pitiable vain.
“Hm- you're- I don’t think- I can’t-” He babbled against your lips, his thrusts faltering and knees buckling as gusts of premature rapture assaulted his anatomy. He pressed his forehead to yours and rolled his hips again, your body briefly sliding. “You want me? Darlin’, you want me?” He whispered, your erratic breaths mingling.
What kind of question was that?
When ever did you not want him?
You nodded, snaking your arms around his neck to hold him, desperate to find bliss in unison, and silently pleaded him to varnish your womb with his seed in a series of whiny ‘yes, yes, yes, yes, yes’.
That was sufficient.
His eyes screwed shut, and with a wavering groan, his hips lurched forward once, twice, thrice.
The branch snapped.
Your orgasm hit you, enlightened you, set you on fire.
Shanks sensed the way your cunt had fluttered and drowned his twitching cock, prompting his own climax.
The spurts of his cum, slimier than yours, overfilled you, pouring out of your hole, dirtying the desk in creamy brooks.
The image was lewd.
But Gods, was it nice.
He continued to loom over you as he recovered, sharply inhaling and exhaling, his crimson hair damp, his mouth gaping, his cheeks flushed a beautiful caramel colour, his broad shoulders trembling.
“Fuck…” The man mumbled. “I'm definitely relaxed now- drained, too, hah…” He jested (classical Shanks behaviour), pecking the sticky area between your brows.
“I'm…” You responded, lying there, weary, your voice croaky and laboured, “I'm glad, Red, I'm glad…” You affirmed, blindly patting his single arm.
You spent the next few minutes connected.
Merely…chatting.
An ‘Are you okay?’ here.
An ‘Am I too heavy?' there .
Oh, and a ‘Is the desk painful?’ too.
But lust was an ephemeral thing, wasn't it? You soon considered the whole act a bit…icky.
And the sexual enthusiasm waned.
So, thankfully, there was also a ‘let's get cleaned’ thrown in the mix.
Using tissues which had miraculously been stored in his drawer aside from the handkerchiefs, he thoroughly cleaned your leaking core.
Once done, once you (weakly) re-dressed (he chased after his and your scattered clothes on the floor, he forbade you to move an inch), you sat up on his desk, elbows propped, and skin less rosy.
Shanks collapsed in his chair again and ran his hand through his hair, fatigued, for the proof of your previous activities lingered on his expression. He blew a raspberry, contemplating the next step.
…
“I think I'll skip dinner altogether…” He announced, beckoning at you one more time. “I'm not THAT hungry, anyway- and fuck, I miss my lobster…” He lamented, aware of his stupid diet. “Is that weird? To miss a beloved dish?”
You hopped off the counter and trudged towards him —your limbs were, indeed, a tad debilitated.
His lap welcomed your friendly arrival…as if you just hadn’t been bouncing on it minutes ago-
“Hmm, no, I don’t think it's weird,” you corrected, snuggling against him, embracing him while your legs dangled. “It means you're…not in distress, anymore- so you want your food, it's alright, it's healthier.”
Shanks hummed as he absorbed your statement. He cradled you against his chest, his fingers caressing your spine and twirling the ends of your mane, unconsciously protective.
Not in distress anymore?
He supposed so.
Placing his chin on the crown of your head, the Yonko clicked his tongue.
The office was so peaceful.
His anxiety had entirely ebbed away.
Nevertheless, the monsters, those pesky, monstrous memories resurfaced.
Your wound, though stitched and cured, would forever mock him.
The vivid sketch of you on the brink of death on the medical bed would forever prey on him…
Ugh, screw that.
You were alive: you said so yourself, you demonstrated that yourself.
Shanks ducked his face and sought your scar. You lolled your neck, accepting his silent wish. “Five more days…” He uttered, pecking your closed injury with melancholic reverence, finding solace in your steady pulse.
Five more days and you would be docking at Emerald Peninsula.
An enigmatic territory.
“On the bright side,” you retorted, giggling when his lips and stubble roamed across other ticklish spots. “I've heard the island has great hot springs, that should be fun, no?”
Ah, your optimism was contagious.
Shanks huffed a snicker at your proposal.
“Hot springs do sound like fun…” He conceded, before unexpectedly dipping you backwards, compelling you to squeeze his shoulders for support as gravity was triggered. “But your massages are better…” he complimented, nudging your nose with his —a cat incognito.
“No, they’re not…” You murmured modestly, crinkling your eyes.
Your lover felt his heart swell at your humility and tightened his hold on you, his arm a reliable source around you.
“But they are- magical, I would say…” He claimed, leaning forward to eliminate the gap between you both. “Or should I convince you?” He persuaded, wiggling his brows as his mouth brushed yours.
His kiss was soft, sweet, affectionate.
No teeth or tongues.
Just lips meeting lips.
The kind of kiss that transported you to ethereal grounds.
The kind of kiss that assured you everything would be okay.
Just-
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Oi! You two stopped fucking in there yet, eh? Dinner is ready, come on out or you won’t even have leftovers to eat!”
Gruff guffaws echoed, a potentially jeering lot.
Did you have an entire audience behind that door right now?
Beckman, you jerk.
Shanks wasn’t shocked at the interruption.
He couldn’t be surprised, not in the slightest.
Instead, he closed his eyes, pulled you up, and sighed.
“Remind me to take their alcohol privileges away sometime, please…” He muttered, dreading the raunchy jabs you were going to receive once you stepped outside the office.
You nodded, unable to prevent the tint on your cheeks from spreading as the crew continued to boo and clap.
“Duly noted.”