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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 8 months

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I’ve had a, um, soft spot for Sabo for sometime.

But goodness.

I need to sit a moment, maybe get something cool to drink. 🥵

In Fruit There Is Truth

Character: Sabo Reader: female (cis) CW: explicit NSFW content, second-hand embarrassment, porn with some plot, Devil Fruit shenanigans, mutual crush, love confession, glove kink, handjob, vaginal fingering & sex, spanking, biting, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, dirty talk - lots of it (this boy has quite filthy mouth on him hehe) Word Count: 3981 Summary: No one was ready for this edition of Sabo's reckless idiocy. And especially not you, once confronted with the sudden outburst of unrestrained naughty honesty, caused by a very unfortunate meeting with a certain Devil Fruit. A/N: horribly late due to circumstances but better late than never: my entry for @onepiece-blorboexchange written for lovely @secretsnailor <3 wishing you all the best in the new year, hope this little gift was worth the wait :3 your prompts & choice of characters were so.good. that I struggled more choosing something than writing what I in the end chose lmao I wish I had time to write all 4 fics I figured out from them :c

Soldiers of your rank aren’t called directly to the supreme leader…well, usually. ‘Cause the orders you’ve received were definitive and clear: Dragon awaits you in the command headquarters, right now, preferably literally, drop everything and teleport, if you can—or at least spit your lungs out when running. Almost choking on the last piece of breakfast you managed to snatch before the call had ended, you indeed speed through the corridors, bumping into people on your way, lavishing elbow hits and chaotic apologies. You don’t even take time to catch your breath once you make it to the door—you just burst inside as you are, wheezing, hair and clothes messy, bent in half with stitches in both sides.

The view you find has…nothing to do with what you’ve expected.

The supreme leader is red. More: he’s beetroot red and looking so impossibly stupid you don’t recognize him at first. His eyes shoot at you for a split second and immediately wander far over you—something you would expect from a teenage boy in front of his first crush, not from a middle-aged serious man. Reflexively, you glance down, maybe a button or two has opened as you were running… But your ladies are hidden and cozy, there’s nothing inappropriate enough to embarrass anyone yet, a man of Dragon’s caliber. Even more confused, you run your gaze through the room, but besides you two there’s only Sabo, weirdly scrunched in his chair, face suspiciously blank, and twirling thumbs over his lap. In other circumstances your heart would beat faster—as it always does in the presence of this man, the leader of your unit, a good friend and, as for last few months, a raging crush—but now you try to catch his eyes only for any crumb of explanation.

He only stares at the opposite wall, dead inside.

“We have…” Dragon clears his throat, his eyes even more dead. “A delicate problem.”

If you were stressed before, now your anxiety levels have broken through the ceiling and are on a good way to reach the escape velocity.

Your mind is rushing through all you have done as lately, cold sweat running down your spine, even if a moment earlier the fine shirt you wore seemed thick like a woolen sweater. What on earth has happened to earn you a direct scolding from the supreme leader?

“Not you,” Dragon sighs. Your thoughts must have been written all over your face. “That idiot.”

He nods towards Sabo and cringes. You follow the move, your gaze finally meeting Sabo’s, you see his wide-famous cheeky grin blooming despite sheer panic in his eyes, and…

“Your tits look absolutely delicious when you’re heavy breathing like this.” He says, his face growing dead pale.

What the fuck?

Pain and shame in his eyes, Sabo opens mouth again, but Dragon smashes open hand on his lips—whatever was aimed for your ears, has turned into incoherent, muffled babbling.

“I’ll keep this short before he makes it even more awkward,” Dragon says through gritted teeth as he puts all might into not looking at you. “He made a hero out of himself and got right into a Devil Fruit attack. We don’t know what exactly it was, but apparently, he can’t lie anymore, and the more he tries to hide something, the more it spills out of this stupid mouth of his.”

Your lips form into a soundless oh, no words feel suitable for this…bizarre situation.

“It may last a few hours, might go for weeks as well. All we know is that you’re the only person able to make him shut up because, quoting, around you all he can think of is—”

He cuts, face not red anymore but purple, and makes a vague gesture towards your neckline. You clutch hands over it, suddenly feeling very, very naked and lewd, even if all you’re wearing is your casual outfit, now sweaty and messy on top of that.

Sabo mumbles something into Dragon’s palm. Dragon presses his mouth harder.

“Please.” His voice is soaked with desperation. “I beg you. Do something. Not—” He coughs into fist— “literally what he says. I’m sorry he’s making you feel uncomfortable. But he’s going to reveal every.single.operation.plan. if we let him run free. You have my permission to mistreat him however you feel it’s right, just don’t shoot him…to death, you may even tie him—”

Sabo’s eyes flick from panicked to very interested.

“—Please, don’t tie him. Anyway. Just keep him away from anything that could make his brain cells click in a dangerous direction.”

No one, even Dragon himself, would blame you, if you said no. The whole mess is awkward and hysterical beyond your understanding, every trembling nerve of yours screams at you to run and hide—not because of fear, just embarrassment burns you alive. Who could possibly face…all of that, right in front of their boss? Who’d bolt from there even more gladly than you? This is ridiculous!

But there’s also that…curiosity. This little devil whispering your own naughty ideas right into the sphere of your mind willing to listen. Such an unambiguous opportunity doesn’t appear easily, even if the costs already burn you from inside—in a way, so far at least, having nothing to do with desire. No more silly games of cats and mice. No more cautious flirting between missions, sneaky stares and testing touches. No more moral dilemmas, and thorough plans, weighing pros and cons, and learning the subtleties of his language. No more second-guessing: oh, how tempting it is to pull on his tongue before the power—whatever it is—runs out, and Sabo can return to his cheeky, flirty, hard to read self.

You still have a lot of hesitations—but at least you’re sure the object of your longing and fantasies returns your interest enough to rail you once. And who knows what else…

“Yes, sir.” You click your heels.

Dragon is so relieved he’s aged down twenty years just exhaling.

***

Easier said—and thought—than done.

You have been dreaming about this moment, Sabo sprawled on top of your bed is a common image from your fantasies, keeping you awake and heated just right during your sweet private time. But seeing it with your own eyes, additionally sprinkled with a kicked puppy look on his face, has you spiraling into so many directions at once you can just sit on a chair like a good girl, legs clenched close, and so tense you feel you might explode if only you move a little.

Overly confident, reckless, cocky Sabo often drives you insane. But this Sabo, who seems out of place, is even worse.

“Well, if it isn’t awkward,” he sighs, falling back into your pillows and rolling sleeves up. He has already loosened some buttons but hasn’t taken the gloves off. The view, naturally, has your insides churning with need—and your legs clenching even closer.

When the symptoms of weird power didn’t ease through a few hours—horribly embarrassing and filled with Sabo throwing dirty and cheesy thoughts and compliments as casually as if he talked about the weather—you’ve decided to share your room with him until he’s back to his usual self. He’s been banned from leaving, your comrades brought his clothes and utensils, as well as dinner for you two. Luckily, you have a rare luxury of your own bathroom—if you had to walk him to the toilet to keep him away from spilling every tea he ever tasted, you would surely implode.

Being spared of embarrassment—and shock, once you’ve got used to his…dirty antics—has opened a new door, pushing your own thoughts into one and only direction. As if Sabo’s single-tracked perverted brain rubbed on you with its all might. On one hand, you really…don’t mind it. There’s nothing new about wanting him, except his very real presence. There’s nothing new about your interest being reciprocated either, there’s always been chemistry between the two of you, some touches and trial tastes already happened… No promises were made, and no mile steps were done, but you’ve assigned your chances are pretty high.

But on the other—

“Believe me or not—weeell, now you’re kinda forced to believe it anyway—but this is not how I wanted it to go.” Sabo stutters, by sheer luck wording what’s swirling in your mind. “I should have at least started with something…slightly more platonic than drooling over your tits.”

You can’t help some laughter, “At least we have skipped the small talk. I ain’t mad, you know?”

No lies on your side as well. How could you be angry at this kicked ball of awkwardness? That’s, somehow, succeeding in stirring your interest in a quite…heated way?

He whines your name with a roll of eyes, then sits up, leaning towards you over comfortably spread legs. “Heeey, and here I’m doing my best to not come over as an idiot who thinks with his dick.”

“You don’t?”

A crack in his expression tells you words slip past his intent again, “I do. Who wouldn’t around you? One look at your boobs and my thoughts dance only about tearing your shirt open and— Arghhh, do you see where I’m getting with that?”

You nod with understanding. You’ve been seeing the past few last hours.

With a sigh of surrender, Sabo hides face in hands, gloved fingers threading through his fluffy golden locks, “Alright. My mouth is useless now. Hey, can you pass me my jacket?”

“You’re not planning on bolting, right?” You watch him with a suspicious smirk as you throw him his iconic coat.

“Oh, hush your pretty lips, mistress. I got something for ya.”

It takes him three tries to pull the right thing out of a pocket. With a triumphant “ha!” he shows you a frail package, something wrapped in brown paper, teared on the side and awkwardly pulled together with a cord.

“Impossibly expensive gift I’ve stolen from a shop for rich pigs,” he announces proudly—and for the first time today you’re not sure whether he’s having a slip of tongue again or is it his honest and planned take. “C’mon, don’t be shy.”

Under the ugly wrapping there's a surprising gem—fine, light and slick in touch. Delicate leather feels against your skin like fluffy down; you weigh it on the palm of your hand, so gently as it could fall apart at the slightest move. He flexed with his choice, that smug bastard, not only finding something practical, but also elegant, matching your taste in fashion and even suiting your skin tone.

Of course, someone dressing as good as Sabo knows what a good pair of gloves is.

“Even if you stole it—” Words don’t want to come out of you as smoothly as you want. “Sabo, I— I can’t accept it just like that.”

“Naaah, you can.” He snatches them out of your hands, already pulls on your wrist and forces you into a glove. The hold of his nimble yet insanely strong fingers is like an electric shock—every single time and especially now, under the weight of the spiral of horny confessions, proximity and his irresistible charm. Breath hitches in your chest, a flicker barely palpable yet reflected in his eyes, darkening with longing as they glance shamelessly into your cleavage.

Sabo is gentler with the other glove, be it your lack of resistance or the switch of atmosphere. You feel like a diamond adorned with the softest velvet under the ministrations of his fingers. His hands are huge, from so close, in comparison to yours, even bigger than you estimated. He cradles your gloved palms with ease, strong thumbs rubbing soft circles on their backs. You saw what he’s capable of, crushing bones like wafers and tearing stone like paper—but there’s no fear in you, just a sudden, uncontrollable urge to be touched more, carnally, truthfully to his sincere claims.

You’re not sure whether the gloves are that warm—or is it your own body heat skyrocketing under his touch.

“That was supposed to go with dinner or at least coffee.” An awkward blush ghosts on his cheeks, but his voice is already lowering in tone and volume, leaning into sensual whisper faster than your breathing grows. “With a letter and everything. But I’m just a horny idiot, and I want to fuck you as bad as I want to scream how much I love you.”

A loud thudding of your heart almost drowns his words. You’ve started to hold your breath as he was speaking, lack of oxygen growing prominent, but you still don’t dare to inhale. As if a draft of fresh air would destroy the moment. As if he would dissolve if you dared to breathe.

“Please, don’t look at me like this,” he chuckles low, his pupils dilating as he leans to even your height. “You’re looking like a little, confused prey, and it’s awakening things in me I was not aware I have.”

Finally, you take a breath, shaking and lust-infused. “Goddammit, Sabo. You’re the most bold and charming horny bastard I have ever met.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” He grins. “And many desires. The things I wanna—”

“Well—” You quickly cut into another spree of horny confessions. “You love me. Seems I love you too. You said enough to push my imagination where it should go. And gave me pretty gloves. If you can’t stop yourself from adding more…we can as well just put your ideas into good use.”

A gloved hand rests on your chin, gently tilts it up.

“I love the way you do the math.”

***

“Mnhhh, your hands feel so good.”

He’s twitching between your fingers, heavy against your palm. His own hands secure you from behind, a handful of your curves in each, his gloves deliciously rough. Seated in his lap, in nothing but panties and open shirt, you pump him to your desire, not rushing anywhere, just lavishing yourself with his enthusiasm, with the weight of his gaze skimming from one love mark to another.

You’re adorned with them, especially your breasts. He hasn’t left them alone since you abandoned your bra, barely peeling away to get a better look at your flushed face. He smirks, his eyes gleaming at you with lust and cockiness, as if testing how far you’ll push the both of you before you cave and let him take the lead.

“I wanna cum all over them. All over you. I wanna see you whole covered in my cum, your breasts, your face, everywhere.”

The Fruit hasn’t eased its power even for a second. Sabo lets words flow, they spill freely, ridiculous, dirty, moist and heavy with lust. You got used to this forced boldness, but you haven’t heard this timbre ever before, ghosting together with his breath over your sweaty skin. Like in trance, you squeeze him between your hands, your new gloves stained with precum and saliva. Exclusive leather, the highest quality, ruined with a whim of your bodies; he looks and feels excellent, so right, hard and burning-hot. On the verge of bursting under your fingers.

With a low groan, Sabo throws his head back, a rowdy, impish smirk flashes at you as he bucks between your palms, “You look so fucking good. So needy. C’mere.”

He tosses you up so easily, your weight meaningless for his insanely strong hands. Barely giving you time to grab his shoulders for balance he dives between your legs, gloved fingers harsh between your sensitive folds. But discomfort lasts only as much, the skill and sheer power take any unpleasant sensation away, immense pleasure quickly taking over your body and mind. For a split moment you wonder how many he treated before you to be this good, but he doesn’t leave you a second to delve into this thought.

“So wet for me,” he coos, his eyes growing even darked at the lewd, sloshing sounds, his fingers sliding into you with ease. “So fast? How badly do you want it?”

He guides you closer, hungry lips skim along your neck before they settle over your ear, words murmured between wet kisses and nibbles, “You want my cock, don’t you? Do you think you can take it? You’re so tight around my fingers…”

He scissors them, stretches you with stubborn precision, testing every inch of your slick walls for your reactions. Never before did you suspect fingers can feel that good, so strong and meticulous, as if he had control over every single nerve in them individually. You start clawing at his shoulders, delicate leather barely a barrier between him and your nails. The familiar feeling of pressure in your abdomen hurtles you towards the blessed snap, arches your back and hips for more. Sabo smirks against your ear, bites its shell as he curls fingers to reach a spot he’s been looking for.

And gods, if he didn’t have a good guess.

“I wanna hear you more.” He groans as you mewl helplessly, rutting hips against his hands to squeeze more of his fingers. “Tell me. Do you want to ride my cock? Do you want to cum on it?”

You would agree for anything to get more of him. Enthusiastically, you plead and beg, as if the Devil Fruit still keeping him in power started affecting you too.

“Your cries are so sexy,” Sabo rasps, his hand clenching on your hip so hard you whine, not sure yourself if with pain or ecstasy. “Fuck, I want to push you on your knees, make you beg more for it. But you wouldn’t like it, hm, babe? You just want to get fucked, don’t you? You wanna cry on my cock?”

“Fuck, yes!” In desperation you thread through his locks and pull, his sharp hiss vibrating down your spine. “Sabo, please! I want more!”

“Oh, you will get more.”

So fast you barely notice the move he pulls fingers out of you, stable now grasp on your ass guides you to his cock and press down. Sharp inhale squeezes his name in your throat, he pushes deeper and deeper, in merciless chase to please your whims. He’s thick, filling you up so perfectly, as if you were made to take his cock and his cock only. In no time he doesn’t have to put any pressure, you bob on his length with hunger, no care for anything but chasing the need burning your insides.

“My oh my, you whine so loud someone will hear you.” He licks your juices off his glove, then presses a thumb to your lips, your taste still lingering on leather. “I should have choked you with my cock. But fingers will do, won’t they?”

No thought, just immediate response: you open for him before he words his order. His fingers muffle your cries just a little, if only riling you up even more as you eagerly suck and gnaw, your saliva dripping down your chin and his hand.

His eyes become almost black as he watches you with wicked interest, letting you use him to get off—but still being the one in control, your selfishness being nothing but fulfilling his wish. He’s so frustratingly calm, all the last crumbles of prior embarrassment gone and replaced by confident, cocky smirk you know way too well. He knows he has you in his net, wrapped around his pinkie at this moment, the Devil Fruit affecting him only on his behalf.

“Ain’t ya a pretty, desperate, little thing?” Out of sudden, he slaps your ass, the echo louder than your surprised gagging as you bobbed your head forwards, taking his fingers much deeper. “Just look at you, so tight on my cock, so good for me…”

The next ones have you howling in pleasure, your hips immediately picking up a fast and steady rhythm. He reads your limits almost at the first try, soon adjusts, and strikes with such precision you squirm in immense pleasure. His other hand leaves your mouth, lets you sing for him as he reaches for your breast, kneading and pulling to his desire, fingers tracing the marks his lips and teeth left.

“Will you cum for me?” He grazes your nipple with a thumb. “Will you cry my name as you come?”

His hips, rather still until now, buck up, meet your rhythm half-way, force it to stutter and break, leaving you helpless against his whims. You lean against him, your legs giving up with the switch of the mood—but he doesn’t let your head bounce off the edge and die out. The thrusts into you freely, with perfect precision recreating the angle you chose and hurtling you towards you high so fast you lose yourself in sensation, your vision, hearing even, going blank.

“Fuuuck, sucking me in…” Holding you close, Sabo waits for your return, his words filthy, but hands surprisingly gentle, stroking your back in slow, calming moves. ”You wanna milk me for all I have, huh?”

“May—” You manage to choke out before you’re in motion again, suddenly in the air, swirling with his cock still buried in you. The bed whines under the weight of two bodies as he presses you, not so gently, into the mattress, your legs hooked up, the strain in your thighs almost unbearable.

At least, for once, he doesn’t have anything to say.

He gives you only a few seconds before pounding you back into haze. Seconds filled with his intense gaze, eyes full of lustful darkness, wet locks plastered to sweaty forehead, cheeks flushed with exertion and desire. Leather sinks into your skin, he spreads you open—and takes everything, no thoughts, no remorse, just stream of pleasure, tide sucking you in with such power you can’t think anymore.

In chaos of pleasure and sensation you feel his teeth again, clenching desperately on your throat. He groans something, no words, feral growl rather, maybe an attempt to shut what the Devil Fruit tries to drag out of him. If he could, he would tear you, that’s as much as you can be sure as you drown in another orgasm, marked with teeth and jaw as strong as his fingers.

And hell, you would let him.

Sabo chokes out a word—your name? —another desperate, overstimulated high of yours finally dragging him with you. At the last moment he pulls out of you and comes all over your stomach, soon slumping on your, your legs falling helplessly by his sides.

A hot, sweaty and sticky mass—of both of you.

“Did I…hurt you?” He eventually rasps out, concerned, gently tracing an especially nasty bite mark. “Shit, sorry… This must have hurt like bitch…”

You shake your head and show him a thumb up. You’re still unable to talk, but you don’t want him to bother himself with such details. You want to bask in bliss, aftercare and all the consequences can wait.

Sabo rolls on side with a satisfied groan, takes the gloves off and pulls you close, his fingers soon tracing aimless lines on your back.

“It’s…the first time I touch you,” he muses with a little chuckle. “Bare hands, I mean. Wait. I wanna do this again. Without gloves.”

“Have mercy…” The offer sounds tempting, but the mere thought of straining your exhausted body more is already painful. “Can you at least wait until my legs stop shaking?”

“Sure. We can’t get out of here anyway. I don’t think I’ll shut up about how good you felt on my cock.”

He peels your remaining clothes away, leaving the gloves for the end. He inspects them from close, equally proud and perverted grin beaming from his face. “But as soon as I can get out, I’m getting you a new pair of those.”

#the blunt honesty was so well done #I loved the pacing too #Sabo is just a fantastic mix of cheeky-gentleman-dom in my mind #and yet so fun to tease and fluster too #bas writes #x reader #reader insert #sabo the revolutionary

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 8 months

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Oh this is one of those fics that really goes well with my pfp.

And *goodness* - I've always had a soft spot for Smoker, no inclination to write him much on my own, but whew. WHEW. he is a prime blorbo indeed. ♥

I want Smoker to hold me down. Gently, because I know he can be gentle. Just firm enough that I can’t wiggle out, and use me as he sees fit. He’s a Vice Admiral, after all. I’m not one to follow commands, but I can be persuaded. Especially with those muscles of his. And the scars. And his chest. Just hold my hair while I’m settled between his thighs, or my wrists as I’m on top- I can controlled, just not for long.

Control is something not everyone can have, after all. I’m happy to hand it over to him.

cw: penetrative sex

Something in the tone of your voice has Smoker touching you with immense respect. He always has it for his partners, even for those for only one night, but with you he’s extra respectful, wary even. Tense at times, ready to turn his firm hold into one carrying weight and power. But never doing so.

This uncertainty, balancing on the edge of thin line, makes his dick, buried deep in you, throb with excitement and anticipation.

Moving his big, warm hand up your spin, Smoker slowly drags his hips back, just to slide himself back into your tight yet welcoming hole. The pace is agonizingly slow but he thrusts deep, keeping the angle he found perfect for the both of you. Helping himself with one hand on your hips, nails digging sharp, sure to leave some marks to view tomorrow, he guides your back to arch for him. The hold wanders towards you neck, towards the line of your hair, as if he pondered whether he should pin your further down or rather yank your head up.

“Is this what you wanted?” Smoker’s words are chapped, breaking in between breathing and grunts, and yet, the firm tone behind them has you squirming a little.

The moment he’s been looking for.

His hand presses at the base of your neck, still gently, but giving you an undeniable proof of power behind his droolworthy muscles, “Stay still. I am in control now.”

#smoker x reader #smoker x you #smoker x y/n #smoker imagine #smoker scenario #bas writes #do you confess #op #smoker #sinful #gender neutral reader

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 8 months

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…. Hngh.

Oh Sabo,

You wouldn’t know what I dream about at night. You wouldn’t know how my body trembles at the thought of you. You wouldn’t know how bad I want your hands over me. You wouldn’t know how bad I want you to corrupt me, or how bad I’d love to be your slave.

You wouldn’t know how much I love you.

I want to punish me, punish me for loving you. I want….no need your love. I offer myself to you: my body, heart, and lust. How would you do about me, master?

cw: teasing, masturbation talk, implied voyeurism at the end

“You sure I wouldn’t?” Sabo sets his hat aside, his usually frizzly hair flat, as if licked by a huge creature. He ruffles them into the right order with a few quick moves of a gloved hand and smirks. “You have those thought written aaall over your face, every time you look at me.”

He approaches, his smirk growing with each step he takes towards you. He’s not the tallest man you saw around but something about his presence makes you curl yourself up. His aura is just overwhelming. A born leader—or rather a born master, given the context of your bold confession.

Gloved hand cups your cheek for a good measure, then slowly wanders towards your forehead and gathers your hair back, out of the way of his gaze.

“Have you been touching yourself to those thoughts?” Sabo asks, the other hand wandering towards your face, leather-covered thumb tracing your lips. “No, wait! Don’t tell me yet! I have an idea.”

Hu guides you towards his bed with a quick motion of head. Legs weak and head hazy from his simple touch, you follow the order. He locks the door behind your back, then pushes one of the chairs the way he can sit right in front of you.

“C’mon, be my guest.” He crosses legs, like a gentleman, not a revolutionary you see for every day. “Sit down and show me how exactly you have been thinking about me at night.”

#sabo x reader #sabo x y/n #sabo imagine #bas writes #do you confess #gender neutral reader #I just… I mean… I’ve … that’s uh….#that’s quite the confession and goodness quite the response!

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 8 months

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Between the Three of Us

Marco x afab!Reader x Shanks

CW: omegaverse elements (it is such a small part of the story I almost hesitate to mention it), violence, group sex, sex, swearing, it's a noir detective AU I'm sorry I really don't know what else to say.

Chapter 2: Ponderance

You’re in another room with no windows, a level down from the office itself. This room is sterile to the point that even the door leading in has a heavy seal on it to help keep it that way. You’re sat up on an operating table, your shoulder bag in your lap, and your shirt pulled up over your head so it’s in front of your chest.

The straps and accessories of your bank job were already long removed during your run, and your shoes were off in a corner.

“You sure you don’t want to lay down?” Marco asks for the third time. You learned the two men’s names before coming down into this lower level.

Marco D’Edward was a doctor, and the feathery side of Feathered Talon as far as you could tell. He certainly had a softer aura than the one-armed red-head, Shanks MacKenna.

“I’m sure.” You reiterate.

“It’ll be easier on the doc if you do.” Shanks says. He looks relaxed, but you’re not sure he actually knows what it is to relax.

“We’re not going to confiscate what’s in your bag.” Marco assures you.

“It’s what you were hired to steal, isn’t it?” Shanks asks, his eyes shifting down to the bag and back up to you. Your grip on the satchel tightens for a second, as though his gaze was enough to pull the bag from your hands on its own.

“… It is.”

“We’re going to know what it is then anyway,” Shanks asserts. “Since you need to pay for this patch job with a good story.”

You sigh. Honestly, if these two wanted to know what was in your bag you had no way to stop them. You didn’t have any viable defenses for yourself no matter what they might decide to do. A little give and take could go a long way, and you needed the bullet out of your shoulder regardless.

“It’s…” You relax a little and reach into the bag, pulling out the orb. “Supposed to be the map to the One Piece.”

You aren’t sure if Shanks relaxes after seeing it, or not. You could feel Marco flinch behind you, and he lets out a low whistle after a second.

“Stole from the museum.” You can hear the grin in Marco’s voice. “I can’t imagine how long the prep for that took.”

“Long enough.” You put the orb back into the bag, and then lower it to the floor, and adjust so you’re laying down on the table. “Arm up or at my side, doc?”

“Side’s fine.” Marco says. “I’m going to give you a shot, I promise, it’s not anything that’s going to knock you out. It’s just going to numb your shoulder so it won’t hurt as bad.”

“Sure. S’not much I could do even if you did put me under.” You say it a little more defeatedly than you mean to, but after the brief sting of the needle poke, Shanks clears his throat.

“So – you prepped for this job for however long, it goes well enough you have the orb, but poorly enough you get shot in the shoulder. What happened?”

“I was betrayed, in a sense.” You grumble. Talking let you focus on something that wasn’t Marco working on your shoulder, so you leaned into it. “The job went fine. Smooth as silk. Probably one of the best practiced, best executed jobs I’d been on with a team in years.”

“We have an expert thief in our midst.” Shanks teases. It’s a jab, but it doesn’t actually hit like a low blow.

“Treasure hunter, if I could’ve gotten off this damned island.” You grunt, moving your hand just enough to flip him off. “But sure, thief. We can go with that. Even thieves need to eat and pay rent.” You’re quiet for a moment, but no one says anything. Marco pulls the slug from your shoulder and it hurts, feels surreal to have a piece of metal pulled out like that, but it doesn’t hurt so much you can’t take it.

“They decided I was the key to the map, or at least the key to deciphering it, and instead of letting me be on my way, they seemed intent on me going back with them.” You grin despite it all. “They insisted I come with them, I insisted that I wouldn’t. It was a bit of an impasse.”

Shanks snorts, and then just full-on laughs. “Bit of an impasse!” He repeats, and you can hear a soft chuckle escape Marco. “So, how’d it resolve? Sure, you got here, but how?”

“Two broken noses and a dislocated knee.” You say flatly. “I took the orb and ran.”

“You got the drop on mafia?”

“No one expects a little thief to be able to fight, and I don’t – when I can avoid it.” You sigh again. “That secret’s out now though, and I’m not that good of a fighter, I needed that element of surprise.”

“Hmph. So, two broken noses and a dislocated knee bought you enough space to get the orb and run. How long?”

“Not sure. Three hours at least, maybe a little longer. What time was it when I got here?”

“3:42.” Marco says flatly as he cleans the wound. “Twenty minutes later and I would’ve been up on my own.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you didn’t wake me up.” Marco admits. “You’re impressively quiet, ladrona.”

“It’s (Y/N).” You say. You hadn’t shared your name earlier when the other two had introduced themselves. You had still been trying to think of a way you could leave, and you weren’t giving two gumshoes any free information.

“Don’t apologize, (Y/N),” Marco reiterates. “Shanks sent me a text, and that’s what woke me up.”

“A text?” You look over at Shanks as realization dawns on you. “You saw me!”

He smiles and shrugs, the most genuinely relaxed actions you’d seen from him all evening. “Lucky timing. I was on my way here from the pub and noticed you coming into the courtyard in a mess.”

“A mess? I was exceptionally composed for someone with a bullet in their shoulder.” You nearly growl. His earlier jab didn’t feel low, but for some reason this one did.

He grins and you realize that he’s enjoying riling you up. “Back to the story. It was 3:42 when you got here, how long were you on the move?”

“We started at 11:33.” You admit. “Guard patterns and all that fun stuff. It was a 13 minute and 47 second plan. The conversation went south as soon as we finished, and couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes.” You hiss a little as Marco starts stitching the bullet wound. “We’ll call it 11:50 to 3:40 then? Just shy of 4 hours.”

“That’s quite the merry little chase, to end up barely a dozen blocks away from the museum.” Shanks seems completely amused.

“I shed most of my gear. Stole the bag.” You admit. “And before you give me any kind of lecture, I have every intention of returning it, but I didn’t see anything like a wallet or even money in there.”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that.” Shanks is laughing and you can hear Marco laughing too. “We already know who this belongs to. He’ll be home in another hour when his shift ends.”

“Probably hot under the collar.” Marco adds.

“Bah, cranky cause his bus snacks are missing, but he’ll survive.” Shanks grins.

“… Are you telling me out of all the bags in this city, I stole one belonging to an employee here?” The statistical improbability of that was already starting to melt your brain.

“A-yup.” Shanks answers with a wide grin. “It’ll be a good lesson for him. You wouldn’t have nicked it if it wasn’t an easy target, right?”

You make a bit of a face, but he’s not wrong. You couldn’t risk any sort of commotion, so everything you’d taken had been easy pickings.

“All done.” Marco says, and you can feel him pressing a bandage over your shoulder. “We’ll get you set up in a spare room, get some breakfast in you before the hot head gets home, and once you two finish arguing about the bag, you can get some rest.”

You sit up, putting your shirt back on, surprised at how little your shoulder hurts and only vaguely remembering that Marco had numbed it earlier. “Rest? I can’t stay here. You’ve both already-.” You stepped onto the floor and vertigo hit you like a bag of bricks. Shanks was already by your side steadying you.

“You lost a lot of blood.” Marco says evenly as Shanks helps you keep your feet. “Between the wound, all your running around and what you lost while I was patching you up, you need food and rest. Even if I had blood on hand for a transfusion, I don’t know what your type is.”

“I don’t know it either.” You admit, trying not to hurl on Shanks. You were trying not to think about how rock solid this guy was. For someone who moved so fast and quiet he felt like he was made of metal.

He smelled really good too. You expected him to smell like stale booze and sweat honestly, but there was a sweet, cinnamon scent, and something warm and soothing, like bourbon-soaked butter.

“F-food then, thank you.” You manage to get your feet steadied underneath yourself and take a couple steps under your own power. “We’re heading back upstairs then?”

“Grab her stuff.” Marco says, pulling off his gloves and pulling off the mask and apron he’d put on. “I’ll get her upstairs.”

“Sure thing, doc.” Shanks grabs your shoes and the shoulder bag with one hand and heads upstairs.

“Help me up?” You question groggily. Your head feels a little fuzzy, and you’re certain that it’s a mix of the numbing agent, blood loss, and your own exhaustion. Running about town for nearly four hours wasn’t easy under the best of circumstances.

“Aye.” Marco crouches down and scoops you up in his arm in an easy motion. It jostles your shoulder a little, but not much. By the time you have sense enough to tense from the action you’re already well-secured, and Marco’s opening the door to head upstairs with you.

“I – I’m – I can walk!” You nearly cry the words. Relying on others isn’t high up on your general priorities list, and they’ve already hid you, mended you, and are going to feed and shelter you. Being carried is a step one too many.

“Not easily. This is more efficient.” Marco assures you. “If you topple going up the stairs there’s no safe way to catch you without risking your stitches.”

“… I’m accepting under protest.” You grumble, trying to relax and resting your head on his shoulder.

“Noted.”

“You smell nice too.”

Marco pauses halfway up the stairs. “… huh?”

“The smarmy drunk smelled nice – like cinnamon and boozy butter.” You explain matter-of-factly. “You smell like…” You stop for a second, breathing in without thinking. “Pineapple and honey, and something smokey.”

“… I… see.”

“Oi, Marco we’ve got -.” Shanks stops, looking up as Marco walks into the kitchen with you. “Are you-.”

“What do we have for breakfast?” Marco interrupts. He’s knelt down and steadied you on your feet before helping you sit.

“Eggs, bacon, and enough buttermilk to make pancakes if you want.” Shanks answers. There’s a grin on his face that catches your attention and you turn to look at Marco, but whatever has Shanks amused, you miss it.

Marco considering for a second. “Bacon and eggs. Black pudding would be better if we had any.”

“Little bit, enough for our guest, at least.” Shanks admits, pulling items from the fridge. “Can I leave the cooking up to you?”

“Sure.”

Marco and Shanks trade places, and Shanks sits down next to you at the dining table. “So, your story’s not over yet. What made them think you could decipher the orb?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I’m good at puzzles, and… stuff, but there’s no reason for them to think I can use that orb.” Lying was harder when you were groggy, but you’d worry about dodging the red head after you’d had some sleep. Giving half-answers and being vague was all you had in you right now.

“Should’ve just left it where it belonged.” Shanks says, and you give him a funny look, but you aren’t sure what to say.

“Technically it belongs to the W.G.” Marco says. He’s busy cooking and his back is to both of you. Something about their tone and words is irritating you.

“It belonged to Roger.” You nearly snap the words.

Shanks gives you a look you can’t sort out. “You his kid or something?”

You relax a little, sitting back in your chair. “No.” You answer flatly, eyes on the satchel that has the orb in it. “But he’s dead, and I’m alive, and I’m keeping it.”

#Between the Three of Us #x reader #reader insert #marco the phoenix #red haired shanks #portgas d ace #benn beckman

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 8 months

Text

Between the Three of Us

Marco x afab!Reader x Shanks

Summary: A One Piece Noir Detective AU x reader story

You've stolen the treasure of the century - a puzzle orb that's a map to Gol D Roger's treasure. But the map itself has some secrets, and so do you. Pursued by the Mafia family that hired you to steal the orb you find yourself in Feathered Talon - an agency of freelance detectives with connections across the island - and the Grandline.

Are Shanks and Marco your unexpected saviors? Or will you be betrayed yet again, and handed over to the iron will of Absolute Justice - the mafia family in control of the Grandline?

Chapter 1: Caught

The whole thing had been simple.

Break into a heavily fortified, World Government subsidized museum and steal its crowning jewel - Roger’s map to the One Piece. Get in, get the goods, get out. It had been meticulously planned, and the plan had been rehearsed dozens of times.

Your benefactors had money to spare on such an endeavor, and the treasure that Roger’s map led to, was rumored to be incomprehensible in value. Gold and jewels aside, he had found the One Piece, and while many believed he had tossed the accursed item into the depths of the ocean, your client seemed to believe it was all still in his cache.

Gol D Roger - treasure hunter to some, gentleman thief to others. He had retired some years after finding the One Piece and had become a sort of Legendary Detective, along with a few people from his original crew.

The government had never been able to pin him with actual proof of law breaking, and so his agency had been legit. He went from having the government as an enemy to having the government and the mafia families as enemies, and yet at the same time there were strange alliances mixed all up in it.

Disease and bad luck had been the end of his days, but to so many people he was practically a god. A miracle of a man who had lived his life to its fullest with nothing to apologize for.

You had a solid appreciation for Roger yourself, avid inner city treasure hunter that you were. Little less appreciation for him turning his coat to the side of the law, but being a free lance detective was a far cry from being a government dog, so it was forgivable.

Roger and his past wasn’t your problem right now.

The job had gone off flawlessly. So flawlessly you’d had extra time to spare in the museum before you had to leave and came upon an interesting discovery. The map wasn’t just a map.

About the size of a bowling ball, but unbelievably lighter, the brass orb with its lines and circles was believed to be a sea chart. Coat it in ink, roll it out on paper and it would provide you a course.

Provided, of course, you knew the correct way to roll it out, and how to set it before inking it.

The orb’s surface shifted seamlessly. The craftsmanship was completely beyond anything anyone could manufacture nowadays. Whatever ancient genius had made it before was still eons ahead of his time, but what that meant was that the orb had an innumerable number of settings.

In this sense you could use it to navigate the entire world. As long as you knew how to set the surface of it, it could get you anywhere. But that also meant, if you didn’t already know how to get somewhere you couldn’t set the surface correctly, and in this way it became a museum piece, instead of the pride and joy of the world government.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t, perhaps, wise, but you were really good at puzzles. Especially spatial ones. You were also good at languages and pattern recognition, but that was a facet of dumb luck. You had an eidetic memory, more photographic than auditory, but your brain was a one way trap for information, bypassing your short term memory in record time and becoming an easily accessible long term memory immediately.

You didn’t always know what to do with the information you gobbled up, but you always had it.

Most of the time you transcribed things and sent them to Ohara, or sold them to information brokers to pay your rent. It was a gift you kept separate from your working identity - if people knew you were practically a walking camera, they wouldn’t do business with you.

But right now your knack for puzzles and your gift were coming together. Without really thinking about the consequences, you whirled and snapped the orb into a frenzy, stopping all the parts where you wanted them.

The small orb lined up perfectly as a map of the world, one island raised ever so slightly above the rest. You ran your thumb over it, applying just the barest hint of pressure and the little island shifted and dropped, with a satisfying click.

An invisible seam along the redline parted, letting you open the orb into two halves. You knew, as soon as you saw it you knew what you were looking at, but the gravity of it was enough to make you bring the two halves together again. A few turns, a couple twists, and the orb was back as you had found it.

You left the museum, mind reeling with possibilities. Your only immediate option was to finish the job. Hand off the orb, take your payment, and be done.

But the hand off had gone bad. Your presence was requested, the people around you knew what you could do in unsettling detail, and your job wasn’t over. The night went from robbery to attempted kidnapping.

You had slipped the grasp of those around you, nicked the orb, and bolted. The two things on your side were your own skills - what made you a good thief, made you a good runner, and second to that they needed you alive.

Wanted you alive, at the least.

The short-ranged stun guns missed their mark, and the longer-range guns couldn’t risk killing you, and so the small scuffle turned into a city-wide chase. The deep hours of the night turned into the wee hours of the morning, and you had lost your pursuers a few times.

As good as you were at shaking them, they were skilled at tightening the net. You needed to get off the streets before-

The crack in the air of a muffled gunshot followed the force of impact as it slammed into your shoulder. Searing pain followed as your mind caught up with the facts, and you nearly toppled before you broke into a mad dash.

When your legs moved, your arms moved. When your arms moved your shoulder screamed. You only had the orb under control because you’d stolen someone’s shoulder bag earlier, trying to snag a collection of items in an attempt to disguise yourself and change out your clothes.

You were beginning to suspect that your gear had been tagged, but everything you’d been able to check was clean, and everything you couldn’t be sure about had been swapped out. Maybe that’s why you were being shot at now - better to risk it than to let you slip away.

It didn’t matter, your problem, and its resolution were still the same: you had to get off the streets.

You took a few errant turns and ended up almost in a courtyard of sorts. There wasn’t any grass, it was a concrete lot and a sidewalk, but the business front didn’t face a street. Just the interior of the little open area. There were a couple of alleys that came into this, and one driveway just large enough for a vehicle. There was a garage, a wheelchair lift, and a set of stairs up to what looked like the main way in.

Pulling out your lockpick you zipped up the concrete and metal stairs as quick and quiet as you could, relieved to find they were solid, sturdy, and silent. You rammed your custom tool into the lock, effectively breaking it, you didn’t have time to be gentle, and stepped in, closing the door swiftly and quietly.

You leaned against the wall, straining to hear outside and letting your eyes adjust to the interior inside. There were a few desks, but the office space was pretty open. The sign outside had been enlightening enough.

Feathered Talon, Detective Agency, at your service.

Feathered Talon. Sounded like a talisman of some sort. Mythical creature. Useless romanticism, you were sure. You didn’t hear any ruckus outside, and a few fleeting glances through the slats of the blinds didn’t show any movement.

Stepping into the office, you took a better look around. The place wasn’t just set up for business, it was set up for living. There was a kitchen down one hall, a daybed against the wall, out of the way of the rest of the needs for a kitchen. A half-bath nearby, and probably a full bath further down the hall. This one looked like it was more for clients to use than it was for whoever lived here.

Lived. Humph. You’d just have to be quiet while you assessed your damage and dodged your persistent pursuers.

You set your bag down beside the sink counter, and pulled down the collar of your stolen shirt. The soft light of a nightlight by the sink was as much light as you were allowing yourself, but at least it gave you a better look at your current problem.

No exit wound. The bullet was still inside your shoulder, probably lodged right against your scapula, if you had to take a terribly uneducated guess. You didn’t have a second mirror, and you couldn’t move enough to look at your back – the pain in your shoulder was simply too bad.

You took a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly, calming yourself and focusing on your own body for a moment. There wasn’t a sensation of blood running down your back, so you weren’t in danger of bleeding out, but the slug couldn’t stay. You couldn’t get it out, not right now. All you could hope was that you could stay out of sight long enough to make it to the Public Defenders – a kind of wild bunch who had the sort of connections, and did the sort of work you needed right now.

“I can stitch that.” The sound of the voice hit your ears and your body moved. You shifted further into the small bathroom, little more than a penknife in your good hand, eyes focused on a tall man standing in the doorway.

He takes a step back, putting his hands up. He’s trying not to look intimidating, but he’s nearly seven feet tall, and the tattoo across his chest looks a little familiar even in the dim light.

“Rough night, yoi?” He half asks, half states, and he looks down the hall just before you hear the sound as well. There’s a ruckus in the courtyard. Nothing serious, the sounds of a lot of boots and talking. He looks back at you and you look at him, and there’s a quiet understanding between you.

“How’d you get in?” His voice is soft, just above a whisper.

“… Broke the lock.”

“Not the window?”

You shake your head. “Internal break. No one should be able to tell from looking.”

A smile crosses his face, and he relaxes more. “Smart. Who is it?” He questions, inclining his head down the hall.

“B… Boss Akainu’s men.” You admit hesitantly.

“Absolute Justice?” He nearly hisses the question, leaving you in the bathroom and heading toward the front door.

You gather your things, pulling the shoulder bag snug against yourself as you step down the hall a little, listening in to whatever’s happening. If this blonde is going to sell you out, you at least want the chance to outrun him. The entrance to this place might be in an interior courtyard, but one of the other windows could face the street.

You could hear the tall man saying something out into the courtyard. You weren’t entirely sure what it was, but he sounded like he was angry at the people making all the noise – as though he was playing things off like they’d ruined his sleep, and not like he was trying to give you over to them.

Still, you’d put him, and this agency, at enough risk. It was better if you left than get them involved too deeply. Especially since, so far, they seemed like nice enough people.

Turning away from the front door you go down the hall and find a room with an open door. Peeking in you don’t see or hear anyone inside, but it’d be hard to see anything – there’s no window. You furrow your brow and step back out into the hallway.

The small hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you feel a cold bead of sweat slide down your spine. Something causes your stomach to knot, and you can’t even register the pain in your shoulder from the unsettled feeling that’s fallen over you. You want to run, but you don’t know if the hallway is a dead end, or if it wraps back around to the office areas.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look down the hall toward the source of the feeling that’s screaming for your body to run.

A man is leaned against the wall. He looks calm and relaxed, an easy smile on his lips and hooded brown eyes regarding you in the dim light of the hall, but the façade isn’t fooling you. He’s a dangerous man, and every fiber in your body is telling you to run, but you already know you’d never outpace him.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice is certainly disarming, you’ll give him that much. Speaking of disarming he seems to be missing most of one.

“I… wasn’t exactly invited in the first place.” You reply as evenly as you can. “I thought it best to make use of his distraction and, um, not impose further.” You take a step back, but you can already feel someone behind you.

“Let me patch that shoulder.” The familiar voice behind you says. “We’re going to be more discreet than the hospital, at least.”

Your eyes are on the man in front of you. Some part of you has determined he’s the more dangerous one, though you’re effectively surrounded. It doesn’t matter who you kept your eyes on.

“I don’t have any money on me.” It’s kind of a last-ditch attempt. You’ve already realized these two mean to keep you here, one way or another. They’re just being polite about it.

“A good story has quite the value.” The red-head says, taking a drink from a bottle you didn’t even realize he was holding. Water, wine, or poison, the sharp look in his eyes was proof enough he wasn’t phased by whatever was in the container. “I’m sure your story will be worth the patch job.”

You turn toward the man behind you, and the blonde looks down at you with an equally genuine smile. Your shoulders drop, and the action reminds you that you have a bullet lodged in it. Almost nothing about this evening has gone as expected, or as you had hoped, and you weren’t yet sure if this was your luck turning, or staying the course.

“I am… in your care, it seems.”

#Between the Three of Us #x reader #reader insert #marco the phoenix #red haired shanks #portgas d ace #benn beckman

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 8 months

Note

I found you by desperately hunting for more Hawkins content. Just when I thought I read it all I found what you wrote for him and was in heaven! 💗

Would you please be happy to write for him again?

Headcannons or scenario is up to you.

Him and his fem lover are in Wano but to keep Hawkins in line Kaido does something to her? How does Hawkins deal with the knowledge his lover was hurt as a warning to him?

Thank you!

I really liked this idea! Hopefully what I've come up with is to your liking <3 This has a bit more angst than is usually in my writing. Hope that's ok. Thank you for requesting!

A good subordinate never questioned his superior.

Hawkins, however, had never claimed to be anything of the sort. Life was not so rigid that change was unanticipated, and the pirates knew that people and circumstances shifted like the waves of the sea. Even when his loyalty was sworn to a beast, a madman, like Kaido. Perhaps especially so.

The situation in Wano was something he could, to a degree, distance himself from. These people were not his people. Their suffering had been perpetuated long before he ever arrived in the country, and with that thought it was relatively easy to cast the atrocities he witnessed on a daily basis to the side and consider it 'not his problem.' For change to occur, one must take hold of their own destiny and take action themselves.

Even if he'd held the desire to see these people liberated from their troubles and woes—something he really held no strong emotional stock in—what was one man to do against arguably the most powerful Yonko in the world? Being a hero never got him or anyone he knew anywhere.

It wasn't as if he particularly enjoyed seeing the people suffer, it didn't bring him joy. The unfortunate truth was that the will of someone with greater power dictated it must be so. Hawkins was but one pirate, smart enough to ally with someone his superior to ensure survival. If that meant that Wano must burn, must decay and rot outside the gates of luxury where him and his beloved stayed, well...

Turning a blind eye was preferable. And safer. At least for him and those he gave a damn about.

And so he did.

You, on the other hand, never could let things like that go.

"Something should be done." You said once more that evening in your shared suite, preparing dinner as was your routine.

He sighed, patient yet frustrated. Hawkins had returned home a half-hour before, and now sat relaxed on the cushions along the opposite wall of the home the Emperor had provided in the Flower Capital. His careful eye watched the way your shoulder hunched and stayed that when as you spoke of your feelings. This was not the first time the two of you had had this conversation.

"I saw children today, playing amongst the flowers of the capital. Children from Okobore Town, I think They were dressed in rags. No doubt hungry." Your voice was firm and hard-set, clear anger bubbling beneath the facade of calm. "They had snuck into the city in carts and under boxes. They told the guards they simply wanted to pick some beautiful flowers for their mother's birthday."

Hawkins sat pensively silent, knowing what would come next. He was aware of the goings-on from that morning, but revealing this now would only serve to fan the flames of your ire and implicate himself.

Indignation raged like storms behind your wide eyes and furrowed brows as you turned your gaze to him. "The guards took them away towards the prison."

He knew you would not appreciate what he had to say, but he felt the need to say it anyway. "Orochi has forbade entrance into the flower patches without his prior consent-"

"The prison, Basil! They are children! They have done no wrong, caused no harm. Flowers for their mother! That was all they wanted!" Your hands rise along with the volume of your voice.

His gaze was steady even in the face of your rage. "It is still the law here, Y/N."

Your mouth pressed into a firm line. "Then what's Kaido doing about this? You know as well as I he's the one with real power here. What has he to say?"

"Nothing."

You scoff, anger getting the better of you as you turn back towards your preparations of dinner. He troops on, torn between maintaining his calm and guilt that you were forced to live in a place you so despised because of him. He would confront that later, but not now.

Besides, with you being as loud as you were, neighbors may be listening. He had to think carefully on his words.

"Kaido does not have time for such small things. His sights are set wider, as you well know. The day-to-day matters of the country are left in the hands of Orochi. His will is law. That cannot be changed."

Your silent fury is the only response he receives. It stretches for some time, until Hawkins rises from his seat on the cushions and steps behind you, wrapping his arms around you middle to draw your back into his chest. You go without resistance, though he can tell by the tension in your shoulders that the anger has not subsided.

Hawkins is careful to keep his voice low, so that only you can hear. "I know you do not like this place. I'm sorry. When I proposed the idea of becoming Kaido's subordinate, I knew there would be changes that some of us didn't like. I only regret that they are affecting you."

"I understand the need to survive, Basil." You say, your tone indicating that you too were choosing your words carefully. However, unlike him, whether anyone heard was not a concern of yours. "But look around. We do Kaido's bidding without question. We've been here for months, patrolling his streets and eliminating his threats. You no longer give the orders, they come to you from someone above you. Can you even still call yourself a captain?"

That was a bit of a low blow, he thought, but in some sense, you weren't incorrect. Not that he had to like it. He placed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, breathing in and out deeply to calm himself before he said something he regretted.

"We will do what we must to survive."

"This isn't survival. It's indentured servitude." You say with a shake of your head. Even still, he feels some of the fight leave your shoulders and your body relaxes just that little bit more into his. "Can't we take our crew and escape? Can't we just...leave Wano behind and continue on our journey? You're supposed to become the King of the Pirates, Basil. When did you lose sight of that?"

Your voice is rising again, and his anxiety grows with it. Hopefully no one is outside your home listening.

"I never have." A part of him tinged with guilt, trying his best to calm you down so you'll stop talking so loudly. "It's simply had to be pushed to the side for the moment."

"For how long?"

"I don't know, Y/N."

He lets go of you as you turn in place, now looking up to face him with those eyes full of determination and strength. You carefully reach up and press your small hand against his cheek in a tender gesture.

"I've about had it with Wano, and with you being forced to serve another."

"Defying a Yonko is paramount to suicide."

"When has danger ever stopped you? They told you that entering the Grand Line was suicide. They told you reaching the New World was impossible. They told us all these things and yet here we stand, in the most dangerous sea in the world. Alive."

He couldn't seem to muster up a contradictory retort on the matter, so you keep on it.

"You are the Captain of the Hawkins Pirates. You belong on the open seas, not on the streets of a country neither of us belong to. Gather your men and let us leave this place. Perhaps Kaido is too busy to notice a handful of his many subordinates are gone. If he's drunk enough, he won't know for awhile after. Please consider it, Basil."

He doesn't respond for a long moment, simply stands there holding you close to him, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts.

"Basil?"

"I will...consider it." The hesitation is clear as day, uncertainty of what was the correct course of action, but you knew he did everything in his power to keep his promises to you. His response seems to be enough for now, because you lift yourself and place a kiss to his lips.

"That's all I ask."

His conversation with you days prior was not on his mind when Hawkins was summoned before Kaido.

One would think after months of answering to the Yonko, you'd be desensitized to the sheer size of the man. However, Hawkins felt that familiar flutter of awestruck terror as he stepped into the throne room of sorts to the beastly hulk that was his superior.

He was watched like a particularly amusing bug as he approached closer, finally dropping into a half-crouch in deference to the giant man. His throat dry, and with feelings of insignificance weighing at his shoulders, Hawkins forced himself to lift his gaze to the eyes of the dragon. "Kaido. What do you require of me?"

What feels like an eternity of silence—though was realistically likely only a few seconds—greets the small pirate captain. His heart beats heavy behind his chest, doing all he can not to visibly cower under the power of his master.

"I don't think much of you rookies. Scurrying, barking little dogs that nip at the heels of real power, hoping for a taste of what the generation before possesses." He began, which truthfully did nothing to help Hawkins recognize what this summoning was intended to be about. "I've also been told by many of my trusted subordinates that you have been useful."

Hawkins debated whether a response was expected of him, couldn't come up with one, and so elected to stay silent instead.

Kaido continued on after inspecting the man still knelt before him. "Maybe you've managed to put your pride aside. I know you were a captain, and no captain likes to put away his title and answer to another man. Yet here you are."

"I swore my loyalty to you." Hawkins said, marveling at the way his voice sounded so confident. "I am a man of my word."

"So it seems." Kaido rumbles lowly, tilting his head and reaching down for his jug of sake. He drank several gulps from it and set it back down onto the floor, the impact causing the ground beneath Hawkins to tremor and quake briefly. The subtle reminder of power wasn't missed.

"Those who are useful to me and don't disappoint are the ones still alive. They're also rewarded." He continues on, leaning forward in his chair to look at Hawkins more closely. "A nice home in the capital is just the start. I'm sure you can look around and see what else lies ahead, should you continue your current course."

Hawkins nodded his understanding, but stilled as Kaido's frown deepened.

"I shouldn't have to remind you what failing to prove useful to me will warrant, either. But I'll do it anyway. Better to be sure I don't have a weasel who thinks he's clever rising up the ranks." He leaned back up in his chair and shifted so that his cheek now rested against his fist. With his other hand, he made a shooing gesture towards the door, and Hawkins rose to his feet.

"Go home to that woman of yours and think long and hard about the consequences of breaking your loyalty." Hawkins turned, and heard the deep, intimidating laughter of a man who knew he held all the power behind him. "I'm sure you'll come to see what the right choice is."

Fears swirled in Hawkins' head the entire time he traveled home upon his antlered steed. So much so, his attention was barely on the path before him. Several people quickly get out of his way when it becomes apparent he won't be adjusting his course to avoid them. He didn't even seem to notice this either.

The pirate suspected that his talk with you several nights prior had something to do with it. He couldn't recall any other instance in which Kaido would question his loyalty towards the Yonko. He'd have to speak with you about not voicing your differing opinions quite so loudly.

His mind replayed his entire audience with Kaido, picking apart each word that came from the Yonko's mouth, trying to analyze their exact meanings. Trying to infer threats from simply warnings. Hawkins couldn't quite tell if this were a mercy or only the beginning of the slow decline into extermination.

A flash of your passionate face breaks through the clouds of anxiety that plague him. No. He wouldn't allow any such thing to occur. You and his crew depended on him to keep them safe. He'd do more, offer more, to Kaido than before. He'd prove that he could be a valuable asset not to be disposed of so easily.

Spotting your home in the distance, some of the stress begins to thaw. The promise of holding you in his arms is cause enough to hasten his pace. His steed enters a trot for the last hundred meters distance, and he drops to the ground in front of the entrance.

He prepares for the scent of your delicious cooking as he opens the door and steps through the threshold, but it never comes. His brows descend down, concern beginning to trickle and cut through the relief he'd felt of arriving home.

A single light is on in the corner of the room, almost dim amidst the darkness of the night sky outside of it. You sit amongst the cushions, unmoving, a cup of what he presumes to be tea in your hands. You don't look up at him as he enters the home, head bowed.

"Y/N?" He ventures to say, hesitant for some reason as he approaches. Something nags at the back of his head, at the base of his spine. Something isn't right, but he can't immediately tell what.

Even as you speak, your gaze remains on the cup in your hands. "You spoke with Kaido." It wasn't a question, just a statement.

"Yes."

"I see."

Nothing else follows, and he steps closer to the point where he crouches in front of you, peering into your face. The dull glint of metal around your neck is what catches his attention first, however, and when he recognizes the horrifying contraption, the air from his lungs escapes him in a rush.

You don't even blink when he grasps the collar around your neck and pulls it closer to inspect. Identical to the ones the Celestial Dragons used for their own slaves, yours is comprised of thick seastone, heavy and foreboding in its purpose and meaning. The explosive device anchored along the side sits inert for now, deceptively inactive. Though Hawkins knows with a cold certainty that should the person in possession of your collar's remote feel the desire, the light in its corner would light up red and begin to beep upon activation.

Dread like he's never experienced descend upon him. His fingers still grip the collar, limply hanging there with such defeat and woe that he can't bring himself to speak.

Your eyes are empty and void when you speak.

"He said to tell you...these are the consequences." As hollow as your gaze, your voice is quiet but doesn't waver. You look at him without malice, but lacking the warmth that he'd come to adore in their depths. "I assume you know what that means."

It breaks his heart to see you in such a way, and it's only then that the bruise along the top and side of your face is purplish-black and splotchy comes into view. The dimness of the light in the room had shielded it until now, though as his eyes adjusted, the details were more easily distinguishable. Your lip is split, puffy and red. One hand reaches up to gently touch the damage that he had failed to protect you from. Another blow to his already fractured resolve.

"Y/N, I..." He can't finish whatever he'd intended to say, chest aching and raw. A lump sits at the back of his throat in a way that no amount of swallowing would alleviate. "I..."

Your tone is emotionless. "It wasn't appropriate for me to say the things I did before. I should not have put you in that position. I see that now. It won't happen again."

There is nothing for him to say. Perhaps the words had been yours, but he had been the one to put all of you in this position in the first place. He only shakes his head, fingers trailing gently along the bruising to your face. His touch is light as a feather, not wanting to harm but taking in all of the damage that he saw as his doing.

He should have never allowed this to happen. He should have never sworn loyalty to a man Like Kaido. He should have taken the risk. He should have, he should have...

There was no escape now. Anyone could hold the remote on your collar. And he was but one man.

"I will do whatever I can to have this removed." He says, though even you can tell that the certainty in his voice is fabricated. Nothing more than hope, rather than a promise. He can't promise anything. He lacks the power to ensure it is kept.

You say nothing, only look at him with that woeful, defeated gaze.

Hawkins swears in that moment that no matter what was asked of him, he'd go above and beyond to fulfill it. For you. Nothing else mattered now but preserving and protecting your life. If this was the consequence of his actions, so be it. He had learned his lesson.

A good subordinate never questioned his superior.

#basil hawkins #x reader #reader insert #angst #well done #as always Doe delivers delightfully solid work

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 9 months

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cw: afab!reader [no pronouns used to refer to reader]; mild condescension/verbal humiliation; implied d/s dynamic; spit/gagging/facefucking with fingers [reader receiving]; vaginal fingering; a little bit dubcon wc: 900

Sabo is patient with you, his insatiable darling, when you sulk and whine that you want him, that you need him, that you can’t have enough of him. You’re respectful of his space, of his needs, of his demanding life and limited time—but when he’s yours, you want him to be all yours, to have his heated hands and his loving mouth on you whenever you wish, to serve him and be his playtoy whenever he desires. Today is simply not one of those days when he can give you his undivided attention, however, despite your best efforts.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye while he writes, observes the way you shift in your chair, smirking at how you eye him like a weak little prey animal who believes they’re a predator, trying to lure him into the trap of your sweetness to no avail.

“Sabo, are you almost done?” you ask, trying to hide the need that lingers in your voice.

He’ll take care of you soon enough, spread you wide open over his lap and press your back to his still-clothed chest so you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your skin, feel how measured his breathing is in contrast with your pretty gasps and pants—he relishes any opportunity to remind you of your desperation, of how you lack the kind of control he has over himself. He’ll hook your legs over his and place a strong gloved hand over your mouth, pulling your head back to rest on his shoulder, nice and close so you can hear him perfectly when he tells you to stay still, stay quiet, breathe nice and deep for him as he slides his bare hand down the front of you and finger-fucks your drenched cunt until you’re shaking and spasming and pleading against soft leather, the muffled sounds of your begging like a symphony to him.

But you haven’t earned it yet, he thinks as turns to you and blinks slowly at his little mock-predator.

“The more you ask,” he says quietly, words drawn out as he speaks, “the longer you’ll wait, pretty baby.”

“But Sabo,” you pout, “you said you’d be done hours ago. I’m lonely.”

“And I’ll be done when I’m done. It’s always worth the wait, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to wait—I want you now. Please?”

Ah, there it is. Now he has you where he wants you—that little bit of backtalk will never do. With a snap of his fingers and a sharp “Down,” you slide out of your chair and drop to your knees in front of him. He bends at the waist to bring his face close to yours, his blonde hair falling and brushing your skin, and he grasps your chin in one gloved hand and clucks his tongue.

“What to do with you?” he muses, embers burning in his gaze, a grin stretched across his lips that shows you just a hint of darkness beyond the smiling mask he wears. “So needy, aren’t you?”

“Please,” you ask with a flutter of your eyelids.

“Please?” He lets out a low chuckle. “My lover says ‘please,’ hm? Is that all it’s supposed to take?”

“Maybe.” Your voice trembles a little now, realizing your impatient longing has gotten you into trouble again.

Sabo knows just what to do with a mouthy little thing like you. He taps the side of your face, soft leather brushing your skin. “Open.” His breath hitches in his throat as you slowly drop your jaw and tilt your head up towards him. Before you can ask another thing, before you can utter another weakened “please,” he slides two gloved fingers in your mouth, groaning softly as you recoil a little at the taste.

“That’s it, let’s fill that feisty mouth of yours,” he coos as he moves them in deeper, pumping them in and out with a measured, insistent rhythm, feeling himself start to grow hard in his slacks at how you moan around them, how your tongue presses up and lavishes the firm leather the same way you do to his cock. He groans long and low and shoves his fingers in deep, to the knuckle, until his fist is pressed tight against your lips, just watch you gag around them, feel how your throat tightens and spit begins to trickle out of the corners of your mouth. You don’t even try to fight him, not so much as a grasp of his arm or a gentle slap to his hand—no, you’re already too blissfully fucked out and greedy, salivating around whatever he’ll allow you to have as your arms hand loosely in your lap.

“You look pretty like this, lover.” Sabo presses his forehead to yours and sighs, shushes you sweetly before he kisses away the tears that start to trail down your cheeks as you struggle, grins at the way you squeeze your thighs together and moan even more wantonly as he roughly fucks your sweet mouth with his hand, giving you just the slightest taste of what it is you really desire. “Cry a little more for me, okay? Just a little more. Show me how much you want it, and you can have me, I promise.”

And he will. He’ll give you everything for just a few more tears—he never, ever breaks his promises.

#Not me realizing my mouth was open while I was reading this.#whew.

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 9 months

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I heeded the tags, and didn't think it was going to be my vibe.

But gods it was just SO WELL WRITTEN. The whole emotional ride was as smooth as silk. I've never devoured 7.4k words so easily. Nothing felt forced or unnatural, all the vibes passed the check - gods and the feels you made me feel toward the MOTHER of all people.

Just. Delicious.

May people enjoy my words half as much as I enjoyed yours <3

Between What Was and What Will Be // stepdad!Shanks x fem!reader NSFW/18+ [minors DNI] // Read on AO3 // WC: 7.4k

A/N: Modern AU. Written for @killsaki's Family Ties Collab

CW: dead dove, do not eat--please heed content warnings; dark content; stepcest; age gap (reader is 26-27 and Shanks is mid-40's); minor character death (reader's mother); reader refers to Shanks as "dad," not "daddy"; themes of angst, unresolved grief, mourning, and co-dependency; alcohol; some dub-con elements; non-consensual voyeurism; masturbation (m and f); vaginal fingering; oral sex (f receiving); protected vaginal intercourse

Synopsis: Shanks was the raft that kept you afloat during your teenaged and young adult years, helping you navigate the unsteady waters of your family dynamic. When he's all you have left, changing tides push you apart and a distance grows between, until an impulsive decision to return home for a long weekend forces you to confront uncomfortable truths.

Monday, 11:24 A.M.

When are you going to come visit?

The text had been waiting there unanswered for days, sitting on your chest and slowly crushing you with every passing hour that you let it linger.

It had been nearly six months since the funeral, where you’d stood next to Shanks and held his hand while the world seemed to crumble away around you. She was your mother, but it felt like it was in name only; you were an accomplishment checked off a list of things to do by the time she turned thirty, an accessory she loved to flaunt and then tuck away until the next time she needed her ego stroked. You were fed, clothed, dropped at the bus stop every morning before she went to work and parked in front of the television at night to babysit you until bedtime; you never allowed yourself to believe you suffered any great injustices, other than the fact you felt alone and adrift while you watched her ship sail past you again and again.

She brought Shanks home when you were just fifteen, married him and moved him in less than a year later, and for the first time it felt like you’d found a piece of driftwood to keep you afloat in the choppy water. He had nothing but smiles for you every morning, only laughs and kind words at night when he’d squeeze you tightly before you headed off to bed. He was Dad, just Dad, in the mornings when he’d kiss your forehead and hand you your backpack on the way out the door, Shanks when he dared challenge your teenage moodiness—which he rarely attempted, leaving you to have your fits until you were ready to throw your arms around him again and ask if he’d take you to the shore over the weekend so you could sit on the dock and read your textbooks in the sun while he fished.

He’d been good to you—taught you to drive, dropped you off at college, had warmth waiting for you when you’d come back for the summers, and a hug that felt like an invitation to return home when you’d have to leave again. When you’d graduated and moved for work, he almost seemed to mourn you, despite it being just an hour away by car and despite your repeated promises that you’d come home as often as you could. In contrast, your mother had only a forced smile and a flat “good luck” to offer you—you were of no use to her now that you had nothing immediate left to accomplish, nothing she could live vicariously through, and your presence felt immaterial. But not to Shanks—to him, you mattered, always.

He’d been good to you, and despite it all, it had been nearly six months since you’d seen him. And now you sit at your desk, the hum of the office washing over your, the subtle ping of another email alert making your skin crawl, and you stare at the text, thumbs hovering above the screen as the cursor blinks, trying to think of what to say. You finally manage something, something you almost regret, and send it before you can back down: How about this weekend?

The answer comes almost immediately, and it makes your heart race. Really?

Really. You want to say more, but that’s all you can muster as you start to wish you hadn’t answered at all.

Oh that’s great, honey. Let me know details when you can.

The clacking of the keyboard echoes in your ears as you type up an email to your boss, and you find yourself smiling in a way you hadn’t smiled in months.

It unnerves you to your core.

*****

Thursday, 7:18 P.M.

Shanks stands on the front porch, the late summer sun still clinging to the clouds, casting him in dusky peaches and tangerines. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cargo pants, and a smile settles on his lips when he sees you for the first time.

“Hey kiddo,” he says, a quiet uncertainty laced through each syllable. He runs a hand through his crimson hair, pieces falling softly against his jaw.

“Hey there.” Heat rises in your cheeks, nervousness pulsing in your veins, and a sudden feeling of exhaustion perches on your shoulders as you shuffle up the sidewalk.

“How was traffic?”

You shrug, and drop your duffle bag to the ground. “Didn’t take long. It’s easier once you’re out of the city.”

He hesitantly walks down the three steps from the porch to where you stand, and places his hands on your shoulders. He studies you for a moment, the corners of his mouth raising and lowering as he sees the worry settled in every soft contour of your face.

“God, it’s so good to see you,” he says, just above a whisper. “You look good, honey.”

“So do you, Shanks.” You couldn’t bring yourself to call him anything other than his name; it tastes wrong the way it sits on your tongue, but dad sounds distorted to your ears these days.

The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins, and he suddenly grabs you, holds you tight to him, like you’ll slip away if he lets you go. Your body stiffens at the sensation, and he seems to take notice, releasing you from his grasp and taking a step back. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and glances at the pavement. “Sorry, why don’t we head inside? I’m sure you’d like to sit down.”

The house has been painted—a soft sage color that contrasts with the new, mahogany-brown leather couch that sits in the center of the room. Like the chair Shanks had in the corner of the spare room that he used as an office—the one you used to sit in while you’d watch him fix his fishing lures, pretending to do your homework but instead watching his thick fingers delicately wrap string around colorful feathers, his brow furrowed, a piece of wire held between his lips.

The kitchen smells of coffee, smoky and bitter; Shanks smells of musk, and spice, and the salt of the ocean, just like always. You sit over steaming cups too hot to drink just yet, your hands wrapping around the mug you made in ceramics class, and carry on like you’d never left home, never stopped making the hour-long drive from your apartment to this house most weekends after you’d moved to the city.

It was if that night had never happened.

You’d gotten back from the funeral, taken off those godawful dress shoes you hated, walked barefoot into the kitchen and slumped down at the table. You and Shanks sat in the dim golden glow of the overhead lamp, each with a too-full whiskey glass in your hands with the bottle positioned between you. It was the first time you had more than a moment of quiet all day—you were raw from people hugging you, crying into your shoulder, telling you how sorry they were like they thought it would do you any good. They needed you to cry, to be upset, to show some sort of sorrow over her—but instead you smiled politely and thanked them, shook their hands and rubbed their backs, let them tell you stories about a version of your mother you never had the privilege of knowing.

“It would have been ten years,” Shanks finally sighed, tilting his cup back and forth. “Ten years next Tuesday.”

“I know.” You stuck your finger in your glass, poking at the crumbling corner of an ice cube, then raised your fingertips to your lips, licking off the liquid that clung to your skin.

He downed the rest of his drink, drops of amber landing on his tongue, and snorted a laugh. “God, she fuckin’ hated anniversaries.”

“Birthdays, too.” Most especially your birthday, an inconvenient reminder of her own mortality.

Shanks placed his hand on yours, stroked you with his calloused thumb while he stared at the tablecloth, counting fibers to avoid your gaze. His touch was tender, needy, like he was trying to extract love from you with every graze of your flesh, absorb it into his skin. He leaned closer, stopping just inches from your face with his lips parted, as if to tell you something—but words never came and instead, he exhaled softly before pressing his mouth to yours. A hand slid to the back of your neck to keep you still, as he kissed you delicately, whiskey still fresh on his lips, bitter vapors in his mouth. It was the alcohol that kept you from stopping him, you told yourself—it was the alcohol, and it was because you pitied him, and it was because you were lost and grieving. You uttered not a word as he eventually pulled away, and you pushed your chair back and stood, squeezing his shoulder as you passed and headed upstairs to your old room.

As you laid in bed that night, staring at the creased and faded posters on the ceiling, you gripped the sheets and cried for the first time all day. The tears were not for her—never for her—but because you knew that moment at the table wasn’t about pity, it wasn’t about loss, is wasn’t about anything in between. It was because you wanted it—you wanted him. You wanted him to comfort you, and you wanted him to love you, and the way he seemed to smell it on you made your stomach churn and acid creep up your throat. You tore yourself from the mattress and headed into the bathroom to sit on the floor of the shower and try to burn away any trace of him with the hottest water you could stand. The sound of water rushing around you, thick droplets splashing every surface, were enough to overwhelm your wandering thoughts—and enough to drown out the sound of Shanks softly knocking on your door, pleading with you to let him in while he muttered slurred apologies against the wood grain.

You quickly packed and hurried to your car while he slept passed out on the living room floor, an empty bottle tipped over nearby, and drove back to your apartment in the city to bury yourself in bed and drink until you were good and numb. The morning came far too soon, the sun urging you awake to ruminate amongst the twisted blankets and sweat-drenched sheets. You fumbled for the phone that was hidden under the crumpled linens, seeing a string of missed calls, and just one text: Please talk to me.

You fought the urge to walk out onto your balcony and chuck the phone into the street, just to watch it shatter. Instead, you paced your living room as you called that one friend—the one who was always a little too nice to you, who brought you homemade lunches and hung on your every word, who followed you like a lost dog trying to find his way home—and told him you were lonely, that you needed him. Soon, he was in your bed, soft fingers digging into your hips, even softer lips pressed to your back, telling you how beautiful you looked in the morning light. He held you afterwards as you cried into the crook of his shoulder, and he soothed you, told you the mourning would end eventually, that all would one day pass.

He knew nothing of the grief that lodged in your chest—the anguish of wanting what wasn’t yours to take.

*****

Friday, 8:01 A.M.

“You’re up early.”

Shanks grins at you from the kitchen table, a newspaper spread out in front of him, bits of string and wire and metal scattered across the sports page. A clear plastic bin of feathers sits to one side, and something in you wants to overturn them in the air, just to watch them scatter and float.

“Am I?” You shuffle past him and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the coffee-maker. “This is sleeping in for me.”

“You’re on vacation, I figured you might want to catch up on some rest.”

You shrug and lean against the counter. “I have other weekends for that.”

In truth, since you’d last been home, sleep (or a state close to it) was what consumed much of your free time. You’d put in an appearance at a brunch, or smile through another tedious first date, then return home to listen to the comforting hum of a show you’d already watched. Lying on your couch, you’d swipe through profiles that seemed to promise you more disappointing first meetings and awkward conversations over burnt coffee or overpriced drinks, until you’d lose yourself in a haze of melancholy until bedtime.

Shanks stands and sidles up to you, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder, pulling you into the softness of his shirt. “How about I make pancakes?”

“That sounds amazing.” You lean into his chest, containing a sigh at how much you missed this feeling—of safety, and warmth, and a sweetness you could drown in.

You sit at the table and watch him move through the kitchen, listening to his stories about clients and work friends, people whose names were engraved in your mind. The kitchen soon smells of vanilla and nutmeg, and the richness of butter, and the cloying sweetness of store-brand syrup. It reminds you of mornings not long after he’d moved in; suddenly, old friends—ones who’d long drifted away from you as high-school began to wane and adulthood appeared over the horizon—wanted to come over and gawk and giggle at your handsome new step-dad, whispering to each other about how his biceps flexed under his thin white t-shirts, and his chest hair peeked out over the collar. He seemed to know how to handle their kind, and would give them a chaste wink and a smile when they’d ask to stay for breakfast after impromptu sleepovers; he’d tell bad jokes and make French toast for a table of whispering, tittering teenagers while you silently seethed at the feeling of being used.

As you watch him now, flipping pancakes onto chipped plates with a flourish, trying to find any way he could to make you laugh, you grow heated as you find yourself unable to take your eyes off him, how he’s only gotten more handsome as he’s gotten older. You admire the way the muscled plane of his back stretches the grey cotton t-shirt, how the veins and tendons of his large hands move and flex under his tanned skin, how his red hair frames his face and his wide smile still feels like it’s meant only for you.

He places a plate in front of you and kisses the crown of your head, grabbing your coffee cup to get you a refill while he hums to himself, some silly little seafaring song he claimed his father taught him. Your hands settle in your lap, and your stomach turns while you watch a pat of butter slip off the pancake onto the plate, and it starts to dissipate into the puddle of warm syrup. It wasn’t a feeling of being used that made you fume all those years ago while your friends blushed and bit their lips at Shanks while he politely indulged their affections—it was jealousy.

*****

Friday, 9:31 P.M.

“So, how’s your dad holding up?”

“Shanks is fine,” you correct her as you sigh into your wine glass. You watch your friend check her phone again—the babysitter needs to know where the fruit snacks are, she says distractedly.

“Ugh, that poor man, all alone,” she pouts as she downs the last of her chardonnay. “You let him know if he needs anything—anything at all—that I’m only a call away. Well, we’re only a call away.”

You smirk at the way she catches herself, as if one mention of Shanks and, for a moment, she hadn’t been married for the last five years. She had sniffed out that you were in town for the weekend and suggested you catch up, and the last few hours were spent sipping overpriced cheap wine and watching her nibble on a salad, nodding and smiling through polite conversation until your face starts to hurt. You finally interject, saying you need to get home and check in with work before long, and so you hug and say your goodbyes and promise to get together soon, each of you knowing full well it’s a lie.

The door is unlocked when you get back, as if he was waiting for you to come home—just like the nights you’d sneak out to see your friends and drink in the woods behind the school, and he’d leave the door cracked so your keys wouldn’t jangle and your mother wouldn’t wake. He never said a word when you’d come downstairs for school still stinking of cheap vodka, only hand you a thermos of coffee and a bottle of water, whispering after you to take a shower before class; he was your accomplice, a delinquent teenager’s dream. As time went on, you started to find it less interesting to take late-night drives with older boys and have to cram for school in the morning when you could simply come home instead, and Shanks would cook you dinner and help you study for your chemistry final while your mother left for another social gathering, leaving the two of you to your devices. Disobedience became infinitely less attractive as a means of combatting the loneliness that lived within you when you could spend your time with someone who seemed to want you there.

You walk upstairs, avoiding the steps that creak, the placement of each one still burned into your synapses from innumerable nights of trying to slip in unnoticed. As you place your hand on your doorknob, you hear something, noises that are utterly unmistakable, coming from Shanks’ bedroom across the hall: quiet moans and grunts slipping out from under the door, accompanied by the slick sounds of skin on skin.

Blood drains from your limbs and you stop, holding your breath, trying not to make even the smallest sound as you approach; it’s only to make sure you’re hearing right, you tell yourself, not for any other reason. Your back is pressed to the wall beside his door, shivering gasps passing through your lips as you hear him groan again—some part of you always wondered what it would sound like, how he’d groan and growl if he had you under him. A sudden ache builds in your core despite the way your stomach flips as you stand there, listening to him pant, hearing the creaks of his bedframe and you wonder how he does it—if he bucks his hips and thrusts into his hand, or if he lavishes himself with long strokes instead—and you start to lose yourself in your vile fantasies.

It’s wrong, it’s fucking wrong, but your hand lowers to the front of your jeans, two fingers pressing the firm seam into your clit, and you stifle a whimper as you throb. And then you hear it—your name. Your name, clear as day, mixed with a long, low groan. Your fingers move faster, pressing against your heat, your knees weakening as you hear him grow louder; his breath gets harsher, your name still escaping him in between occasional curses, his pace quickening. The bed creaks more, and Shanks lets out a long growl, followed by a strangled sigh. Your hand flies up to your mouth as your own climax takes you, and you pulse under your fingers as you try to keep yourself still and silent. The bed creaks again, and you quickly head back down the stairs, avoiding the troublesome steps you know, but suddenly discovering that a new one has developed a whiny squeak.

“Honey?” Shanks shouts from upstairs, a hint of panic in his tone. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, just got in!” you shout back as you freeze in place.

You hear rustling and heavy footfalls down the hallway; Shanks comes to stand at the top of the stairs, his face flushed and pupils still blown, perspiration glistening at his temples.

“You’re back early,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest to hide how it rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Oh, yeah.” You slowly climb a couple more stairs, your back sliding against the wall. “Things sort of fizzled out, so I figured I’d just come home.”

“Well, ah—do you maybe want to watch some TV or something?” He swallows thickly and glances at the floor. “I could make some tea, if you want.”

“I don’t think so. I have some work I should catch up on.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Yeah, even on a Friday night.” You slip past him and can smell it on him still, the desire mixed with his sweat, and it makes your spine tingle.

“Well, I’ll be up for a little while if you change your mind, sweetheart,” he says as he starts down the stairs, glancing back up at you for a moment. There was something close to guilt written in the lines around his mouth as he gives you a tight-lipped smile and nods before heading down to the living room.

It takes everything you have not to follow him, if for no other reason than being with him in strained silence, holding your perverted secret tightly in your chest, would feel better than being alone.

*****

Saturday, 6:18 P.M.

“So, whatever happened to that guy you were seeing? The big guy, the one with the earrings?”

You shrug, swallowing the cheap chardonnay that you’d found in the back of the fridge, the ghost of your mother haunting you still. “Didn’t work out. We broke up, like, a week before I came here for—well, the last time I was here.”

“Hm. That’s too bad.” Shanks raises his eyebrows as he sips his whiskey. “He seemed nice.”

“Yeah, well, he was. But nice isn’t always everything.” You sigh and chug the rest of the wine, setting the cup on the table beside you. “Dating is fucking hard.”

He leans forwards to gesture at you with his glass, and the ice clinks as it knocks against the sides. “See, what you need to do is find yourself an older man.”

“An older man?” you grin, raising an eyebrow at the suggestion, your heart thrumming as you pondered his intent. “What, you mean like Benn? I haven’t seen him in a while, is he still single?” “What?” Shanks looks at you aghast before he dissolves into rich and robust laughter. “No! God, no. No, I don’t mean like Benn, he’s not good enough for you.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“Just—just someone older.” He glances down at his liquor. “An older man would know how treat you right.”

You roll your eyes at him, and feel a tightening in your chest. “Do tell.”

He leans down and grabs the bottle of alcohol that sits at his feet, pouring himself another glass. “See honey, men your age, they—well, they don’t know what they want.”

“I mean, I’d say they certainly do know what they want,” you chuckle, raising your eyebrows. “It just doesn’t seem to align with what I want most of the time.”

“And what is it that you want?” Shanks shifts in his seat, moving just a little closer to you on the couch. “You’re not interested in one-night stands?”

You swallow and clear your throat as his knee brushes yours. “Not really. I mean, I am. Sometimes.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Just to, you know. Chase off the lonely nights.”

“So what is it that you do want?”

“I don’t know. Something stable. Something that feels…permanent.” You fiddle with your shirtsleeve and feel heat spreading in your cheeks—perhaps the result of too many glasses of boxed wine, perhaps the result of having Shanks interrogating you, his muscular body encroaching on your space. “Not like, marriage. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“No? Not for you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Marriage never seemed something that was meant for you, not after you watched your mother cycle through husband after husband, until she landed on Shanks. You feared you were doomed to the same fate, chasing after satisfaction and validation from people who were kind enough, handsome enough, smart enough, but never exactly what you were looking for.

You inhale deeply and glance up at Shanks. His one arm stretches over the back of the couch, fingers dangling off the cushion near your shoulder, his other hand brings his glass to his lips. He half-smiles at you, his dark eyes seeming to study your face.

“What are you staring at?” you ask, a tension starting to build within you, something twisting deep inside, coiling up like piano wire wound too tight.

He sighs and blinks slowly at you, peering at you through half-lidded eyes, while his fingers brush your upper arm. “You’re just so damned pretty, you know.”

You force a smile, waiting to hear the same words everyone always tells you, even if you can’t see it yourself when you look in the mirror. “It’s ‘cause I look like her, isn’t it?”

“No.” He raises his hand to the side of your face, stroking your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb as his eyes settle on yours, holding your gaze. “I don’t think you look like her at all.”

His words feel like an invitation you can’t bear to decline, and before you can give it any more thought, you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his, hearing him sharply inhale at your gesture. His kiss tastes like it did that night—like whiskey, and warmth, and a fraught need for love. He doesn’t stop you, only sits still for a moment as you take what you need from him, his hand still pressed gently to the side of your face.

“Fuck,” he sighs into your mouth, and his tongue slips between your lips, entwining with yours with a bittersweet fervor. His whiskey glass drops to the carpet with a thud, the ice clinking as the remaining liquid spills out. You swing your leg over his lap and straddle his hips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders; his one hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you firmly against him as he claims your mouth again and again. The filthy secret that you had tucked away in your chest starts to claw at you from the inside, even as heat floods your lower body and you feel the weight of his interest start to press up into you.

“Wait. I need to tell you something.” The words are stilted, caught in a whimper as Shanks lets go of your lips and begins to lick and suck at the sensitive skin of your neck.

“What’s that?” he murmurs against you, his hands lowering to cup the swell of your ass.

“I heard you.”

He stops for a moment and warm, harsh breaths spread across your skin. “What do you mean, kiddo?”

“Last night.” You lean back so you can look at him, shaking hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself. “I came home early from seeing my friend, and I—I heard you. I heard you saying my name.”

A moment passes as he stares at you, his already-flushed cheeks burning hotter, his breath quickening. “And?”

“And what?”

“What did you do when you heard me?”

You swallow hard, your mouth opening and closing as you try to find the words, but nothing manifests. He already knows—he has to.

“You listened, didn’t you?” he says with a wry grin, his words beginning to slur as he nips at your jaw.

“No!” You climb off his lap and back away from the couch, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “That’s disgusting!”

“Is it?” He stands and walks towards you slowly, stumbling a little as he reaches you. He looms over you, a lascivious grin starting to form on his lips. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Shanks, stop it.” You can feel the heat coming off him, and you can smell the alcohol drifting in the air—if you’re tipsy, he’s intoxicated.

“What?” He leans and runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “If I’m disgusting for thinking about you like that, aren’t you just as dirty for wanting to hear it?”

“I think you’re drunk.”

He slides a hand up the inside of your thigh and holds his palm against your heat. “And I think you’re wet.”

A shiver runs down your spine and you grip his biceps for stability, a low whine leaving your lungs as he starts to press up into you. You need this—you need him. You need the way he loves you, and how he makes it feel like you’re not broken and alone, and how he loves you like you’re all that matters to him in this world.

“Goddamit, we can’t do this.” You wrench yourself away from him and take a few steps back, feeling the tears starting to burn in the corners of your eyes. “Not again. Not like this.”

“Fuck.” He sways where he stands, his mouth hanging open as he sees you start to fold in on yourself. It’s clear he wants to pull you to him, to hold you to his chest and cradle your head while you cry, but all it will do is compound the hurt he’s already caused. “I’m so sorry, kiddo.”

“Me too.”

Without another word between you, you walk up the stairs to your room and shut yourself inside, and start to pack, readying yourself for the drive home tomorrow; you might even stay to say goodbye this time.

*****

Sunday, 9:34 A.M.

The clang of pots and pans had startled you awake, the smell of coffee drifting in under the door. He was trying to lure you downstairs with breakfast, something he’d do when you were particularly quarrelsome or in the midst of some silent stand-off with your mother. But it wouldn’t be enough today, and you sat on the end of your bed, drafting an email to your boss that you’d need tomorrow off; you didn’t think that you could stand having to smile to strangers on the elevator and field well-intentioned questions about your weekend without wanting to scream. You send off your message, and stiffen at the sound of a knock on your door.

“Can I come in?” Shanks mutters from the other side.

You consider saying no, if only for a moment, of waiting until he leaves so you can gather your things and sneak down the stairs to your car unnoticed. But it hurts—it hurts to imagine leaving without a goodbye, without at least one last embrace to remind you that you would never fully be alone, so long as you had him.

“Sure, yeah, come in,” you mumble, tossing your phone behind you and sitting back on the heels of your palms.

He pushes the door open, leaning against it as he forces a smile. “No breakfast today?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You shouldn’t drive home on an empty stomach.” He hesitantly approaches you, resting his hand on your shoulder. “Come down and eat something with me. I can make something else if you don’t want French toast. Or at least have some coffee.”

You close your eyes at the welcome weight of his hand, and you lean your head against his arm, soft hairs bristling against your cheek. “Maybe.”

Shanks sits down next to you on the end of the bed, his hand next to yours, almost touching but not quite.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything.”

“Me too.”

“Oh sweetheart, no—you don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He envelops you in a tight embrace, pulling you against him, cradling your head to his chest until you can hear his heart racing under you. “And you never, ever did.”

The tears come quickly, leaving blooming wet spots on his shirt, and you shiver as your arms wrap around his torso. He’s everything you crave, everything you know that you deserve—yet, he’s everything you know you can’t ever claim as yours. And yet, you want him anyway, even if only for right now.

“Dad, I—I need you.”

“How?” He pulls you away from his chest, grasps your face with a hand on either side and meets your gaze, holding it. “How do you need me?”

A sob hitches in your throat as you shake your head slowly, and your voice cracks as you force the words out: “Like I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, honey, don’t cry.” He drops to his knees in front of you, pressing his fingers into your cheeks while he looks you over, as if to find the source of your pain. “If you need me—then I’ll make it all better, okay?”

You nod, swallowing back a hiccup. “Okay.”

“That’s my girl.” Shanks stands and pushes you back on the bed softly, deftly unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down your legs. As you reach for the waistband of your underwear, he stops you.

“Not those,” he says, dropping to his knees again and placing a wide hand on each of your thighs, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Not yet.”

He kisses up your inner thighs, teeth grazing you with soft nips and bites, using his tongue to soothe each mark he leaves behind. He reaches the apex of your legs and stops to breathe you in, kissing and tonguing you through the thin fabric, nosing at your clit while his breath warms your swollen pussy lips, drawing a sigh from you. Every little noise you make only seems to urge him on, and soon he has your panties pulled to the side as he noisily sucks and licks you, his wide tongue lapping at your clit, devouring you in a way that says this is like second nature to him.

“F-fuck,” you stammer as you reach down and grasp a handful of his hair, tugging it at the roots. “So good.”

Shanks only smiles against your cunt in response and a river of saliva runs down your thighs. He slides two fingers in your drenched hole, crooking them upwards to stroke that spot inside you that makes electricity run through your limbs, and every moan of pleasure that escapes you elicits one of his own in response. Soon you can barely hear yourself, words muffled like you’re underwater, as you warn him how close you are, how you’re almost there, how bad you need it; your body starts to arch off the mattress, but he grips your hip with his free hand and holds you down as your stomach tenses and your thighs shake. You cry out his name with unabashed abandon as you’re suddenly overwhelmed with uncontrollable, shuddering spasms.

“That’s my good girl,” he rasps, pulling his fingers out of you and giving your slit one last long, slow lick. “Feel a little better?”

You manage to push yourself into a sitting position and almost whimper at seeing Shanks between your legs, his face flushed, his goatee glistening with your wetness; you lean down impulsively and kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips, greedily sucking at his bottom lip before pulling away. “Dad, I—”

“Tell me what you want,” he quickly interrupts, a look of sudden desperation on his face. “I’ll give you anything, anything at all, I promise.”

And you believed him. He loved you, more than anything in this world, and the way he looked at you, you knew he would gladly give you whatever you needed if it would make you feel complete.

“I… I want you inside me.”

“Yeah?” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and strokes your cheek gently with the back of his hand. “You sure?”

You nod, knowing he must be able to see the desire etched into your features, the yearning that glimmers in your eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He stands and kisses you on the forehead, and you see the thick outline of his cock pressing against his pajama pants. “Just wait here for a minute, I’ll be right back.”

Shanks doesn’t give you enough time to reconsider and comes back quickly, a condom and a bottle of lube in his hand. You want to tell him not to use protection—that you’re on the pill and you want him to cum in you, that you want to belong to him in all ways. But you hold your tongue and hope that perhaps there will be a next time, another day you can beg him to spill himself inside you and make you feel like his and his alone.

He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the powerful, muscled body that you had secretly tried to catch a glimpse of more times than you would ever admit. Heat rises in his cheeks and he grins as he notices the shamelessness with which you ogle him as you scoot further back on the bed; he runs his hands over his broad, hairy chest, his fingers trailing down the softness of his stomach to the waistband of his pajamas. He slowly pulls them down over his hips, down his muscular thighs, and your eyes widen at the sight of his thick, half-hard cock.

“You like what you see, honey?” he teases as he climbs onto the bed with you and kneels between your legs, softly moaning as he strokes himself hard.

“Yeah, I do,” you murmur, watching him as he carefully tears away the foil of the condom wrapper and rolls it on. He drips lube onto his sheathed cock and rubs it along the length, as if to prove how much he loves you, how much he wants to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. Shanks moves between your parted legs and cages you in on one side, his hand pressed into the mattress, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

He sinks himself into you without hesitation—he knows what you want from him, and to ask you again if you’re sure, if this is what you really want, would only keep you apart for longer, and you’d already waited long enough for this moment. He holds himself there, pushed inside you as far as your body would accept him, feeling how you stretch to accommodate his girth. You wrap your arms around his neck and nod as if to urge him on, and he slowly starts to move his hips; your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of him filling you, over and over, as he delves deeper into you with each rhythmic push.

“Oh, sweetheart, you feel so good,” Shanks groans as he leans down to kiss your neck. “You’re taking me so well.”

He rocks against you gently, almost as if to comfort you more than to fuck you, to bring you whatever relief you need to take from him. A soothing warmth spreads through your thighs as he fucks into you with a measured, insistent rhythm, and you lift your hips upwards to meet each thrust.

“I wanna cum again,” you whimper as you feel yourself pulsing and tightening around him, balancing on the edge of another climax, “with you inside me.”

“Then cum on my cock, sweetheart,” he grunts, thrusting faster as you writhe beneath him. “I want to feel you.”

You reach one hand between your bodies and quickly press your fingers down on your aching clit, feeling an almost immediate tightness building within you.

“Fuck, dad, m’so close,” you whimper as you feel yourself tensing, almost as if you’re seeking his approval.

Shanks leans down and presses his lips to your ear: “Go on—cum for me, sweet girl.”

You reach your climax with a profound shudder, and cry out as you clench around him, reveling in how he fills you with every thrust as you spasm and shake under him.

“God, I’m almost there, sweetheart,” he groans as his hips snap against you faster now, your orgasm urging him quickly to his own. “Just hold tight to me, okay?”

He fucks you with an impatient need, as if it hurts not to take you, gasping and heaving as he pulls you tightly against his chest. You sob into him, moaning his name again and again as you thrash beneath him, lifting your hips to his thrusting body. Strands of his hair brush against your face as he kisses you, hard and urgent, his goatee scratching at your skin.

“That’s it,” he pants as his muscles tense and his hips move in an erratic rhythm. “Fuck—that’s it sweetheart—gonna cum for you.”

Shanks groans long and low into the crook of your neck and his body shudders, overcome with a jarring, pulsing climax as he convulses against you. His thrusts slow and he pulls in lungfuls of air between the soft kisses that he leaves along your neck and jaw. He pushes himself up on his hands and kisses your cheek. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You don’t think you’ve been this okay in a very, very long time. “You?”

“Yeah.” He smiles at you, that smile that grounds you and reminds you that you’re his, and slowly starts to pull out of you. “I’m gonna go clean up, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here.” You watch him as he walks into your bathroom and shuts the door behind him, and you already miss the way his cock feels, the way it made you feel whole, the way it felt like he fit perfectly in you, like you were meant to be fucked by him somehow.

He returns and joins you under the covers; you cling to him, running your fingers through his thick chest hair, some of it going grey, patches of it matted to his skin with his sweat and your tears. It’s the closest you’ve felt to something like normal, something like happy, in a long time. You want to stay here in this moment as long as you can, even though you know that it can’t last—it’s not something meant for you to have.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Shanks says quietly as his fingers brush your shoulder. “Maybe you could move back home.”

You chew on the side of your tongue for a moment while you force yourself to hesitate, to keep yourself from blurting out something you wouldn’t want to take back. “I mean, I can’t just break my lease.”

“Yes you can.” His hand clutches your shoulder tighter. “I’ll pay for it.”

“But it’s an hour drive to work.”

“I’ll buy you a better car.” His fingers sink into your skin deeper, almost bruising as he pulls you close. “Better yet, just find a job here. Not like you need to pay rent if you live at home.”

“I can’t,” you shake your head as you bury it against his chest, gripping a handful of hair between your fingers. You can—you could. But you shouldn’t. Not yet, not now.

“I know.” He sighs as his hold loosens, his thumb rubbing over the tender spots where he gripped you. “It’s just empty here without you.”

A soft wind shakes the tree outside your window, and a branch scrapes against the glass.

“I just…really need you, sweetheart.” His voice cracks as he speaks, the words quiet and pleading.

Your lip quivers and you choke down more tears as he says what you want to hear, what some part of you has always needed to hear. “I need you too.”

“Promise you’ll think about it? About coming back home?”

“I promise.”

And you knew you would. It would consume your thoughts, it would rule your waking hours, it would rouse you from fitful sleep every night—the notion of returning home to him, to the safety of his arms, and the whiskey-smooth sound of his voice, and the honeyed sweetness of his kisses would drive you to distraction until you gave up everything and stood on his doorstep, waiting for him to welcome you home.

Shanks pulls you closer, kisses your forehead, breathes out to breathe you in. “I love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, dad.”

#tw.stepcest #shanks x reader #tw.dark content #cw.incest #lo writes #lo writes really damn well

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poly-thot-one-piece-edition · 9 months

Text

Hat Trick

Eustass Kid x cisfem!Reader x Trafalgar Law

CW: Language, violence, sexual themes, crass humor -

Summary: Hat Trick is a purely self-indulgent story. It's more porn than plot (at least at the start), but there's a story in there too.

It's my first multi-love story, and little slow going, but I hope you enjoy it.

18+ as always.

Chapter 6: Un-Law-Fully

You: Text me when you get here. I’ll unlock the door so you can let yourself in.

Law: Sure. Everything okay?

You: Yeah, I just don’t want to ruin the surprise.

Law opens the door to your apartment when he arrives, stepping into the dimly lit hallway and taking his shoes off as he closes and locks the door.

“(Y/N)-ya?” He calls out, setting a bag of clothes on the on hall floor.

“St-stay there, I’m…” You poke your head out from your bedroom, and see that he’s still by the entrance. “Close your eyes.”

There’s a crooked grin and you see him close his eyes. “Sure.”

You step out into the hall and start toward him. You’re in knee-high socks and Mary Janes. You’ve got a very short skirt and thong on, but those aren’t visible yet because you’re wearing one of Law’s shirts over top it all. Sachi and Penguin helped you get a hold of a light-yellow button up shirt. It practically went down to your knees, but that worked well for you, because the micro-skirt was the second part of your surprise for him anyway.

“Okay, you can look.” You say softly. You can feel the blush rushing up to your face even before you can feel his eyes on you.

“Is that… mine?” He asks, and you nod. “You observant little thief.”

He takes a step forward and you unintentionally take a step back. It almost seems like his eyes are glowing in the low light of your apartment and you catch his tongue trailing along his lips.

“What other secrets do you have, I wonder?” He muses, reaching out and grabbing the collar of the shirt you’re wearing, guiding you to the wall in the hallway. Once your back’s against it he tilts your chin up and kisses you. You can feel his eyes on you even though yours are closed, and his fingers begin to undo the buttons of the shirt.

One.

You gasp a little, lips shivering into the kiss, you can feel heat radiating off your face.

Two.

Your fingers are on his forearms. You’re not pulling his hands away or trying to stop him, but your legs feel a little weak already and you want to steady yourself.

Three.

Cool air against your skin, his fingers grazing the skin between your breasts, causes you to gasp more than before.

He steps closer, tongue pushing into your mouth and demanding more from you. His hands slip the shirt off your shoulders bringing your arms back down to your sides and leaving everything at and above your cleavage exposed. One arm slips behind your back, the other is cradling the back of your head, pulling you away from the wall a little.

The long deep kiss goes on for so long you start to squirm, and you’re gasping a little for air when he finally breaks it off. Your face is flush and you see a smirk on his lips for a second before he continues to kiss you, trailing his lips down the line of your face. Law moves you gently but firmly, as he teases your ear, and moves slowly down the length of your neck.

Soft, shivering moans and quiet cries of pleasure escape your lips as he nips and licks at sensitive places you didn’t even know you had. He turns you around as he continues to rain soft kisses against your skin, pressing you against the wall a little as he moves your hair aside. The steady, tender kisses sent jolts and shivers through you in unexpected ways and those pleasures only seemed to amplify as he moved along your back.

The steady, quiet, almost impossibly soft actions were driving you to ruin. They were delicious and pleasing, and relentless, but not enough to push you over anything, not enough to addle you completely, but enough to garble your thoughts and words. Not for the last time you were reminded of fire and ice.

The slow kisses down and along your back were a delicious distraction as he tugged the shirt lower and lower. Just as it seems that the tug would pull it down to your waist he stops, taking a step back and straightening up. You stay against the wall, red down to your shoulders, trying to catch your breath, and senses, enough to speak.

“I haven’t asked where you want me,” Law says. His tone is teasing, and a single slender finger sliding down your spine causes you to squeak in surprise. “I already know what you want.” He adds, leaning in and practically purring the words into your ear.

You make a sound that’s half need and half frustration. Not because you’re honestly frustrated, but because you aren’t sure how to answer the question of where.

“A-anywhere.” You say, turning around to face him, the shirt just barely over your chest. “Everywhere, just… um… keep… touching.” Your voice falters and you look away as your face goes red. “Me.”

His finger slides under your chin and tilts your beet red face upward. The sardonic smile on his face makes you shiver in a good way, and it also makes you terribly nervous too.

“I’ll be nice tonight,” he assures you. “But I expect your requests in the future to be detailed,” he leans down and kisses your forehead, “precious,” then the tip of your nose, “little,” his tongue slips over your lips before his yellow eyes grab your gaze. “Snowdrop.”

Between his gaze and the nickname, you almost felt like a collar had been snapped around your neck.

His hands are at your thighs, lifting you up and eliciting a soft squeak from you as he moves you from the wall to the counter behind him. Setting you on the counter puts you at a better height for him and he resumes kissing you, teasing your neck and ears and shoulder the most.

He tugs at the shirt, teasingly, clicking his nail against the next button, as though considering whether or not to release it. You tug at the hem of his shirt and he helps you pull it up over his head. His long sleeved shirt and t-shirt are gone, leaving behind a white a-shirt. Your fingers slip over his shoulders as you scoot to the edge of the counter, pushing your hips into his.

A soft approving grunt escapes him before he begins to kiss you more aggressively. His tongue pushes deep into your mouth, hot and demanding, pulling breath and moans from you as he leans into you a little. There’s nothing behind you, and so you put one arm on the counter, bracing against it a little to steady yourself.

He guides your other hand to the same point, leaning you back a little further and breaking the kiss the as he finally undoes another button on the shirt. Something about how slow he’s going, how steadily he moves to the next button, how you can feel his eyes wandering over the lines of your body. You can’t hide behind your hands, because your arms are keeping you steady, and every slight shift of his hips as he works on the buttons rubs between your thighs, and causes your breath to hitch.

He never says anything about the noises, but you can see the smirk playing on his lips. The fact that as many buttons as he’s undone, he hasn’t pulled the shirt open. The teasing flutter of fabric that is just barely hiding you from him, a false sense of modesty that causes blush to bloom across your chest. You can’t stop your breath from coming out heavy and needy and there’s a strange sense of release as he undoes the last button.

You were beginning to regret having buttoned them all in the first place.

“Mm, what’s this?” He muses, teeth running over his lower lip as he moves the shirt aside enough to see the pleats of the short skirt. He pushes the shirt aside a little more, catching sight of the line of the thong underneath. “You pay attention very well.”

Law grabs your arms and pulls them forward, steadying you in their place as he leans you back further. You’re effectively draped over the counter, your body arced a little as your shoulders and head hung off the other side of the counter. Your legs dangled off the other side, on either side of Law’s waist. The position pushed your hips up and while the whole thing wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“Don’t forget your colors,” he says, hand in the middle of your chest as he disappears from sight, knelt between your legs. He pushes your legs open, kissing against your clit through the thin material of the thong. You gasp in pleasure and surprise, hands grabbing onto the far edge of the counter, as he runs his teeth over the fabric.

He pulls the thong aside, spreading you open. You can’t see what he’s doing and it doesn’t seem like he’s moved since he spread your lips apart. You can feel cool air against your pussy, and you can feel his fingers holding you open, and it’s terribly embarrassing to think he’s just staring.

“Haa… what are you d-doing?” You ask nervously.

“Honestly, marveling at how much you’re twitching without me even doing anything.” He says, and you can feel the breath of his words against your wet sensitive skin, causing you to twitch and squirm a little. “Just like that.”

“Don’t-haah-mmm!” Your words turn into a moan as his tongue flicks over your clit. You’re gasping into the air from the brief sensation, and your body tenses and you nearly grunt as he does it again.

“Leaves your whole body on edge, when you can’t see it coming, doesn’t it?” He questions flatly.

“Haa – yeah.” You say breathlessly.

Another flick of his tongue causes your whole body to flinch. The next time his tongue presses flat against your entrance as slowly licks up, twisting around your clit a few times before he sucks on it. The action nearly pushes you over the edge. You make a strangled kind of groaning sound as your hips push back against him.

Law leans back a little and you nearly swear, just barely managing to keep the sound to yourself.

“The thong is hot, but it’s getting in the way.” He says in a voice that’s full of bullshit, and you can tell. “Here, you hold onto it.” He says, grabbing your hand and helping you snag the flimsy undergarment. “There we go, you only need one hand for the counter, so it works.”

“You have t-two hands.” You reply, your face can’t get any redder, but you can feel a tingle running through you at the idea of presenting yourself by holding onto the thong like this.

“I certainly do,” he muses, as his arms go under your thighs and reach up your sides, staying under the open shirt, his fingers teasing your nipples and as his mouth pushes against your clit. The light flicks of his tongue from earlier are heavier and hungrier as he devours you.

Your legs curl and flex in the air as he pushes pleasure into you relentlessly. His fingers tease your breasts, pinching and twisting your nipples just enough to send jolts of pleasure through you, his arms braced against your body keep you from squirming too much. Deep, purposeful moans from his mouth vibrate against you, stopping only when his teeth tease your sensitive skin before his tongue pushes deep into your went cunt.

“Laaaaw-haaa- haaangh, ffff-!” You squirm and twist, but he has you held in place well. Your hand comes off the thong and the counter and your fingers are in his hair, pushing his face into you as your roll against him. You can hear and feel him grunt, his hands teasing you a little more roughly as he sucks and licks your clit, pushing you over the edge.

You cum hard against his mouth, fingers flexing through his hair, legs twitching in the air. You’re just aware enough to keep from accidentally kicking him in the back, given your position.

“Hnnngh! Law! Ssss-hhhaaangh!” He doesn’t stop as your voice fills the small apartment. One hand against your stomach, the other teasing your clit with his thumb as his tongue pushes into your twitching hole. You’re nearly in tears, voice shattering in your throat as you’re brought to the edge of a second climax just as he stops.

He kisses the inside of your thigh softly. “If you don’t keep your voice down, you’ll disturb the neighbors.”

Your heavy gasps as you catch your breath turn into airy chuckles as you give him the bird. You feel his breath against your skin as he chuckles in response to your finger.

His fingers slip past your gesture as he grabs your wrists and helps you sit up. Before you can say anything the assisting gesture turns into an embrace as he kisses you. Dizzy from the blood rushing to your head during the orgasm, and dizzy again from sitting up, your head swims from the kiss and you’re leaning against him to steady yourself as he brings you to your feet.

“Dizzy?” He asks knowingly.

“Lil’ bit.”

“Nauseous?”

You shake your head softly. “You didn’t mess me up in a bad way, doc~tor.” You reply teasingly, swaying against him a little.

Law rocks from side to side with you a little, loosely guiding you around in a lazy pseudo dance as he moves the two of you into the living room. You smile as he steps back and lets you twirl for him, billowing the loose shirt and giving you a chance to cool off.

“Dancing without music is a little manic,” you say as he brings you close again.

“Mm, you were making such sweet music earlier it’s stuck in my mind.” He says, dipping you low as your face goes red and your body shudders.

He brings you back upright and you’re hiding your face in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

There’s a slight squeeze against your hand as he waltzes you over the couch. Turning you toward it he urges you onto the cushions on your knees, facing the wall it’s back up against. Gently pulling the shirt off you, he kisses along your shoulders, back and arms. Light, soft kisses and equally light and soft caresses from his long fingers after the shirt is tossed aside.

“What’s on the other side of this wall?” He questions, hands guiding yours to the wall as he braces you against it.

“Pr-probably the neighbor’s bedroom.” You answer, biting your lip to stifle a gasp as his finger slides down your back.

“Probably too early for them to be in there.” He muses, putting your hands back onto the wall in specific spots. “Don’t move your hands from here.” He says, his tone commanding, but his movements are still gentle.

His hands wander over your body, caressing your curves, teasing the sensitive parts of you. In a couple minutes he has you hot and addled and you’re just barely aware of him pulling your thong down your thighs. A soft whimper falls from your lips as his hands spread your thighs apart a little.

Just enough to allow his cock to run along your slit. You suck in a breath as he begins to move against you, teasing your clit and pressing against your entrance without penetrating you.

“L-Law,” your voice is pleading. “Please…”

He pushes against you, just a little more pressure and he’ll slip right in, but his hands go over yours and he leans close to whisper in your ear.

“Here? Now? With your neighbors just on the other side?” His voice is teasing, but he begins to paint a vivid picture. “You want me to pull that sweet music out of you, right here? Notes of pleasure slipping from those sweet lips? A lewd Aria, hm? Will you tell them in detail, or leave them guessing?” His hands hold yours against the wall more pointedly. “Don’t move your hands, lovely little snowdrop.”

You’re practically panting against the wall as he finally begins to push into you. The steady push stretches you out slowly, fingers twitching against the wall as you try to stifle the mewling, whimpering sounds as your body is pushed closer to the edge. All of the light teasing kisses and steady teasing words had sunk into you without your notice.

His hand slides over your thigh, lifting your leg in a smooth motion and holding it against his hip as he pushes entirely into you from behind. You full completely full, even if there’s something different about it from the kind of fullness Eustass had given you. Both fit you well, and the deep satisfaction of it leaves you in a shared soft sigh that escapes both of you before he begins to move.

“Remember not to move your hands,” he murmurs into your ear, his other arm bracing you against him as he begins to move. Long, searching fingers, find the curve of your mound and his middle finger brushes teasingly over your clit as he thrusts slowly.

“L-Law it’s… it’s too muh-much.” You gasp, shivering and struggling to keep your hands in place.

“But I’m going so slowly, (Y/N)-ya.” His low reply is deceptively teasing and sends a rush through you along with the steady motion. “You can control yourself at this pace, hm?”

“Can’t – can’t!” You cry out the words, your breath breaking against the wall. “You k-keep hitting, hnngh!”

“There?” He muses as your voice shatters in your throat. You almost smack the wall as building pleasure shivers your body. “Mmm, or here?” He asks, shifting to a shallower spot that almost buckles your knees.

“Haaa-nnngh-fuck!” Your body shudders as you nearly orgasm. “P-please!”

“As you wish.” He says, moving a little faster, grinding against the second spot over and over, finger pressing against your clit more forcefully. “Cum against my cock, little snowdrop.”

The tension breaks, it’s not a flood, or a rush, but it overtakes you, seeping into your bones. Airy, shivering breaths, almost clawing to escape you against the building orgasm become faster and heavier. The panting mewls of your pleasure are dripping with needed release and desire, breaking against the wall as your body tenses.

The sensation tightens in your cunt and bleeds out into the rest of you, seeming to twitch your muscles piece by piece. Law’s fingers continue to tease your clit, and his cock still grinds relentlessly against your weak spot with the same steady rhythm. The pleasure blotting your body like spilled ink, sinks into you deeper and deeper. What felt like release at first becomes little more than a building crescendo. Every time you think you’ve peaked it continues to build.

You can hear his breath coming out heavier, tension in his body and fingers that wasn’t there before. Heat rolling off his usually cool skin. The thin slick of sweat on your bodies seems to mark the moment he was waiting for, and his pace quickens. His hand pushes you back into him as his teeth and tongue press into the nape of your neck.

Sharp, brief pain snaps the relentless and endless building of pleasure and your body clenches and shudders almost violently as you nearly scream against the wall in pleasure. Law’s pace shatters against your orgasm and you feel him twitch, pushing into you roughly a few times as a moaned grunt escapes him.

He steadies you against the wall for a moment, kissing the mark on the back of your neck before pulling out of you. You both make a soft sound at the motion and you can feel him smiling against your skin. He takes a moment to remove the condom, tying it off and setting it on his stolen shirt.

Settling onto the couch comfortably, he pulls you to his chest, letting you lay against him as you both take a moment to collect yourselves. You sink against him for a moment before you cover your face with your hands.

“My neighbors,” you groan.

“Enjoyed yourself so much you’re just now thinking about them?” He kisses the side of your head.

You nod. “I’ve never had it sneak up on me like that.”

“It was beautiful music,” he assures you, chuckling a little as your groan in embarrassment. “It’s a shame they missed it.”

“Eh?”

“I saw them leave as I was getting here, don’t fret.” He says, his fingers petting your hair idly.

It takes you a second before you’re laughing. “You sneaky ass! I was so worried.”

“You’re fun to tease, (Y/N)-ya.” He replies bringing your hand to his lips and kissing along your fingers. “I wonder if you were louder because you thought someone could hear.”

“O-of course not.” You insist, red to your ears.

“We could test this theory,” he murmurs into your hair. “Take you out onto that balcony of yours and see if you scream louder or not.”

“… y-yellow.” You say in a small voice and feel Law’s body twitch under you.

“Hmm… not red,” he purrs. “Interesting little snowdrop.”

“Why, um, why snowdrop?”

“Do you dislike it?”

“No.”

“It’s a northern flower.” He says after a moment. “It’s cute and small like you.” You can feel the chuckle rumble in his chest. “You’re red again.”

“You’re doing it on purpose.” You grumble. Law shifts and hugs you tight with both arms, kissing the top of your head.

“I am.” He admits. “But I’m being honest.”

His hands shift, beginning to roam your body again, teasing you from your shoulders down to your thighs, his legs shifting you a little to help his hands reach where he wants.

“If not the balcony, then the bedroom.” His voice commands, sinking into you and filling you with need all over again. “Those neighbors are home, but I promise to devour all your music with my own two lips.”

The word green barely slipped from your lips and Law was moving the two of you through the apartment again. His lips teased your skin as he shed the last piece of his own clothes, pulling the Mary Janes and socks off of you, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor as you make your way into the bedroom.

The skirt is pulled off by the bed, hanging off a post as he lifts you up and sets you onto the covers. Your fingers trace the lines of his tattoos as his fingers send shivers of pleasure through you. You can see his face flushed slightly as he continues the slow but steady pace.

He laces his fingers through yours, leaning down and kissing you deeply as his wrapped cock slides against your wet slit.

“When?” You question hazily, brain and body already sinking into the pleasure that creeps up around you.

“It’s on, don’t worry about it,” he answers, nuzzling into your neck a little before shifting his position. “Look, you can watch it go in this time.”

You can feel yourself flush as the heat rushes through you, looking down at his prompting. He moves your hips up to his and makes sure you’re looking before he begins to push in. Despite the slow pace you’re so wet the sounds are causing you to pant in growing embarrassment as he pushes deeper.

“Getting to see your face like this,” he muses, leaning down and capturing your lips before he starts to move inside you. You moan against the kiss before he breaks it, going faster than he had been earlier.

“I want to see your face when you cum.” He says, and his movements are no less accurate now than they were before. It’s almost like electricity between your thighs as he fills you perfectly. “I don’t care if your neighbors hear you.”

He hooks your knees with his arms, bracing himself against the bed, and almost bringing your knees to your shoulders. “Sweet little snowdrop, flush with pleasure, crying out my name, face and mind a mess because of me.”

Leaning down, he kisses you before you can say anything, tongue pushing into your mouth roughly as his hips smack into you at the rougher pace of his thrusts. He holds your hands against the mattress as he pounds into you, feeling you struggle and squirm beneath him, gasping desperately for air during the few times he allows you to breathe. Giving you just enough time to say a color or ask him to stop before stealing your breath again.

As the pleasure builds, he kisses you less, letting the airy gasps shift into shivering moans. His gold eyes stay on you, focused on every tremble of your lips, and the shimmer in your eyes as the dizzying after effects of his deep kisses mingle with the building rush coiling inside you. All you can think of is him and his gaze. Nothing else exists for the long moments as the pleasure builds in you.

Even at this faster pace there’s no rushing the tightening of the coil, no flood from the rising waters threatening to drown you in building pleasure. No harsh line, no break, no snap, but one moment you’re soaking in the building pleasure and the next you’re twitching against him. Against the arms holding your legs apart, against the fingers and hands pressing your arms into mattress, your toes and curl as your breath comes out heavy and dripping with sounds of pleasure.

Music to his ears. Notes of desire that you cannot keep trapped behind quivering lips. Sounds he’s no longer devouring as he drinks in every twitch and shiver of the orgasm over taking you. The shared pleasure as you clench and shudder against him, the delight as his name tumbles from your lips in shivering gasps of desire.

Shaky thrusts promise you ride out every bit of the soaking orgasm, exhausted body sinking into the bed as he slowly releases you from the hold he had you in. He’s still for a few moments, breathing heavily and catching his breath before he pushes into you and pulls one last, nearly tear-filled mewl from your lips before pulling out.

“Rest a moment,” he says in a voice full of exhaustion, kissing you softly. “I’ll start the bath.”

You nod, laying on the sheet and catching your breath against the thundering in your chest. You had no idea how you were going to choose, to decide. Law had said you could choose both, and the only thing that stopped you was how terribly greedy that felt, and how it could be cruel to Eustass. You weren’t sure how to bring up the subject to him without it sounding like you had already decided.

Letting out a small sigh, you push the thought aside for now.

“Something to talk about?” Law asks, caressing your face with his thumb as he comes back from the bathroom.

You smile and shake your head. “Not right now.” You turn and kiss his thumb before he climbs into the bed and lays down beside you. “The bath?”

“It’ll take a few minutes to fill, we can lay here for a moment longer.” He assures you, kissing your shoulder before cuddling up next to you closer. “Whatever your concerns, I hope you had a good time tonight.”

You lean into him. “I did. You are even more… strategic, than I thought you to be.” You say after a pause.

“You can call me sneaky, (Y/N)-ya, it’s okay.” He muses, kissing your head again.

“Crafty.” You say and hear him chuckle softly.

“Determined.” He says, hugging you close.

#Hat Trick #eustass kid #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #x reader #one piece fanfiction #modern au

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