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soleilnomoon · 1 year

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⋆.ೃ࿔*:･titled — “lady(bug) killer.”

9k words (shh i know i know), fem reader, nsfw, 18+ mdni; angst city, there’s fluff somewhere somehow i think, smut obviously; shanks is a bully and an ass but that’s why we love him, reader has no self-preservation (when has she ever lbr); feat. cute stuff like making out, alcohol, some smoking, oral (f receiving), biting, reader being shameless; shanks is mean when he’s jealous and reader is equally as ridiculous, also benn beckman, yasopp, and lucky roux make a tiny cameo. anyway this was 1000% self-indulgent, but idc.

this is for @strawhatsoraya, and even though it’s *calculates* 7? months late ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ lmaooo i finished bb, a labor of love for u because i’m absurd and u enable me. don’t blame me for nothin, i did what i could!!! (if u see typos/grammatical errors no u didn’t.)

DELUSION X IS X INEVITABLE

the seas are not, and never have been, kind — nor are they patient. weakness is rarely tolerated, so to combat that, to give yourself some semblance of strength, you tell yourself stories in the hopes of extracting a bit of courage. there’s one in particular that you like to tell yourself when things get to be a little too much.

it’s about the impossible love between the sun and the moon — the two seemingly trapped in an endless cycle of cat and mouse, chasing one another across the skies for eternity.

golden-hued, dazzling, brilliant; a deity above all others with a kingdom as expansive as its reach — grand and all encompassing. the sun is a powerful, overwhelming force of nature, able to disrupt the earth as he sees fit, his heat infiltrating any crevice it can find with each new day. the stars serve as reluctant guides, leaving behind crumbs for the sun to follow. they’re much too quick, twinkle out of sight, and the moon is nowhere to be seen. she’s a shadow, a mirage, an entity that’s completely out of the sun’s reach no matter what he does.

the moon, in contrast, is serene when in rest, shimmering proudly in the dark sky — illuminating the seas for wayward sailors, dreams, and the like. calm, the epitome of grace, yet unyielding; forever dictating the tides as she sees fit. there’s a sharpness to her beauty; it’s cold and unapproachable — a single rare flower that blooms nightly in the sky, her spores a sweet poison that serves to ensnare unsuspecting stargazers, adding yet another devoted follower to her massive collection. a hopeless romantic deep down, admiring the blazing trail that the sun leaves behind. fear forces the moon to hesitate, never to embrace the sun’s brilliance and warmth.

despite being the biggest star hanging in the sky, the sun remains out of the moon’s reach; and despite priding herself on her uncanny ability to pluck the truth from anyone, she conveniently evades revealing her own dark truths.

the ocean is a reluctant playground, her mirror of truth; if the moon looks hard enough, she can see the golden light from the sun touching the water. if she hangs back, then maybe she might be able to grab onto some of that warmth. she’s always so cold. it’s evident in how she approaches life. her rage is frigid, hidden, forbidden from ever coming out; a stated beauty from afar, breathtaking and life changing up close.

everyone is too afraid to approach her; no one wants to risk her wrath — except the sun.

where the sun chases away his own shadows, the moon welcomes them. there’s poetry in the dance they do; a ballet in several parts — steps light and well-rehearsed, as the stars play a sweet, melancholic melody. it’s indescribable; a work of art fit to inspire the masses.

ascending along the expansive sky, the sun begins his rhythmic march, reveling in the sparkling remnants of light that moon has left behind. it’s always been said that the sun lusts after the moon, but it’s not quite as simple as that. the moon leads the dance — measured, practiced, perfect; while the sun clumsily follows along, sure-footed, and honest. a never-ending cycle of what ifs and maybes; a love affair that is in a deadly, hypnotic loop.

yours is a story about love, about life, and about losing bits of yourself in someone else.

shanks has always been fond of the sun, of its power, its size, and its impact on life; he’s always reached his arms out every morning, soaking up as much of the warmth and heat as he can, forever rejuvenated by its light. you have always favored the moon — its eerie silence, the way life seems to hold its breath for it, how you can gaze at it without consequence.

both of you are fueled by the whims of their love — the former a frenetic storm, hounding islands and ships, dangerous when provoked; the latter a frozen lake, one step and the ice cracks on the shallow surface, pulling bright-eyed victims deep under, freezing them from head to toe.

in stories of antiquity, the two never truly meet, but somehow in this story, you and shanks experience what may be considered the most difficult sort of love to bear. potentially ill-fated and destined to fail, you delude yourself into thinking that you can have the entirety of his heart and not suffer any consequences. there’s no greater love than the one you desperately want to attain and can’t; it’s an addicting cycle that neither of you want to break.

PASSION X NOT X PAIN

from your father you learn obstinance; it’s carefully woven into your daily routines, each stitch tighter than the last, the thread unbelievably strong even as it’s pulled taut underneath your skin. by the time it reaches your bones, you’re already well into adulthood, fragility and naivety carelessly discarded, the remains intentionally desiccated, crumbling underneath your feet as you navigate through life. a never-ending labyrinth of torment and desire, a hunger for the unknown gnawing continuously in the pit of your stomach.

from your mother you learn humility; a tradition, she tells you, but adds as an afterthought: an eternal obligation. it sits on your shoulders, weighing you down, making you question every decision and thought. you never say what you truly mean, never ask for the things you want; resentment lines the crevices of your teeth, dictating your tone and choice of words. your tongue a maestro, pushing out each phrase with purpose; every word pinpricks your skin — a dull, cumbersome pain chipping away at your sanity.

you become obsessed with spontaneity, rejecting routines, and deviating from the norm. they can never keep you indoors long enough; you’re usually climbing something, running somewhere — enticed by the possibility of adventure. you leave your hometown to travel across the grand line, staying on various islands for months at a time — to learn about regional dishes and cultivate your skills.

your heart, unfortunately, has always been a flighty thing — falling in and out of love, leading you down a treacherous path, one that leaves a deep scar you can’t seem to heal no matter what you do. still, you fortify yourself any way you can; it’s not permanent, but it does the job somewhat effectively.

like clockwork, you find yourself in the middle of a busy street, perusing the market. you look over a round, shiny apple before buying a few to take home. unbeknownst to you, your day will quickly derail, bringing about impossibly rash decisions on your part.

as usual, it takes forever to dock the ship; he doesn’t even bother yelling t the new recruits, because he’s trying to ignore the hangover that’s kicking his ass right now. yasopp is cackling off to his right, tears flowing freely as he recants drunken tales from last night. he’d love to join his friend in all that revelry, but there’s a pounding in his head that won’t quite go away.

shanks downs another cool glass of water before loudly announcing that they need to find provisions before heading to their next destination.

the island isn’t hard to navigate, so they wander until they reach the lively town. it’s when you’re fussing with a vendor over the outrageous price for a small bottle of seasoning, that shanks notices you for the first time. as someone who takes pride in swallowing a great deal of pain without complaint, he’s finding it very difficult to not rub his chest — to somehow calm down that foolish heart of his.

it’s doing things it’s never done before; beating much too loudly, making his thoughts scatter around — it’s bothersome and he doubts he has time to deal with it. he almost voices that very sentiment out loud, but is distracted by your smile, which makes him take another step forward. then you’re laughing, another ordeal for him to suffer through — your voice melodic and hypnotizing.

shanks rubs his eyes repeatedly, blinking away any residual fatigue; surely it’s the fault of the bourbon they drank, because he must be dreaming. it wouldn’t be the first time he’s mistaken a dream for reality, although this strangely feels real to him. he’s not sure if it’s the shape of your jaw, or the roundness of your cheeks, but there’s something wholly familiar about you. he frowns at that, brings his hand to his chest to rub the ache away. it’s beckman who catches up with him first, dark eyes landing on shanks for a moment before following his line of sight.

throat dry, head a little fuzzy, shanks asks, “do you see her?”

the question is absurd, but he has to know; and even though it takes a moment, beckman finally answers him. “yes,” he says, voice low but certain, “she’s real, captain.”

he has no need to shop for vegetables, but winds up at the same stall as you. if he wasn’t so damn obvious, you probably wouldn’t have said anything — except, he’s crowding your space a little too much; but when you turn to tell him off, you hesitate. there’s no reason for him to be that tall, no reason for his ruggedness to add to his overall attractiveness — enough to incite irritation, that makes your face burn and siphons all your logic. his voice is doubly offensive — deep, husky, and gravelly, touching parts of you that you don’t want to think about.

what starts as a friendly conversation — of him asking about local cuisine, of you giving him recommendations on dishes to try — somehow morphs into shanks teasing you as if he’s known you for much longer than ten minutes. you’re not normally this social, preferring to keep to your own so that you won’t be bothered by people in general. the townspeople are more than friendly, and a little too overwhelming to be around; yet you don’t mind talking to him and find that it’s nearly impossible to pull yourself away.

fear — of vulnerability and intimacy — threads itself around your fingers, makes your hands shake as you hold onto your bags.

eventually, you give in and grace him with your name. he says it a few times, mostly to himself and you dislike the way you stand there, listening to him — caught in a thick net, completely unaware that the fortress you’ve built over the years has completely fallen apart. a terrifying feat, you think; one that makes you want to run until your legs give out. intrigued by your stubbornness and insatiable curiosity, shanks decides to stay on the island a little longer. his crew doesn’t mind, they like the break. yasopp tries to pry for more information, but shanks simply says he wants to relax for a bit.

it doesn’t take long for them to chisel away at your reluctance, a friendship that buds and transforms quickly. against your better judgment, you grow fond of them — with their rowdiness and frank manner of speech, with their crude jokes and ability to turn any gathering into a large party. adventurers and treasure fiends, a group with monstrous strength, not the sort of people your parents would’ve expected you to hang around.

and maybe that’s why you hardly resist their charm — or, his charm, you should say. because that’s what it really is, much to your disapproval.

you offer to cook for them one night, and after the first bite shanks asks you to join his crew. your initial refusal is met with a frown on his part; he insists that you join them — one can never have too many chefs on board, and lucky roux has already taken a liking to you. still, you refuse; and when shanks asks you the following morning, you refuse again.

there’s no real reason why you keep saying no. it’s mostly because you like seeing how frustrated he gets, where he huffs about it all damn day, claiming you’ve broken his heart for the fiftieth time that week. the best part is how his crew mates make fun of him for being rejected by you again.

he takes it all in stride, though — laughing along with everyone else, ordering another round of drinks. as wary as the townspeople were by shanks’ presence initially, they’ve come to appreciate his generous patronage. it’s not often that pirates settle in a specific area for longer than a few days, but shanks is determined not to leave without you. he’s not exactly sure why he feels compelled to take you along, and while a few of his crew mates have some sound theories as to why that is, he ignores them completely.

it's beckman who manages to convince you after eating a third lemon square; he’s impressed by your talent for creating delicate and delicious pastries, even more so by the fact that shanks to enjoy eating them more than he should.

“he doesn’t really care for sweets,” beckman says carefully, sipping his tea slowly, enjoying the warmth wafting from the hot drink.

you know better than to ask, but the question rolls off your tongue anyway. “who doesn’t?” you feign ignorance, fuss with a stray curl, tugging and playing with it while he eyes you critically.

the vice-captain reminds you that you can only travel so far along the grand line alone; and he’s right, you came to terms with that a while ago. it’s an opportunity for adventure, and a chance to hone your skills.

“fine,” you say, while crossing your arms, leaning forward on your chair. “how much?” not that you really care about the money, but they’re pirates — notorious ones, at that — you won’t risk your life sailing with them if the reward isn’t worth it.

a small smile works its way onto his lips as he motions for you to scoot closer. you oblige without hesitation but end up hopping out of your seat when he whispers the amount in your ear.

“that’s a lot of fucking money.” you almost don’t believe it, but beckman isn’t the childish sort, nor does he lie for the sake of lying. you swallow hard and don’t bother acting coy. “when do we leave?” it’s not exactly the sort of job you’d place on a resume, but you can’t say you aren’t excited to traverse across the ocean.

shanks offers more gold than necessary, but you’re not one to complain, nor do you care about bleeding a pirate dry of his stolen treasure. he decides to spend one final night on the island, so naturally his crew throws a large feast in celebration. you doubt you’ll ever get tired of their impromptu parties, or the raucous way they laugh and sing, voices carrying out into the sleepy streets. the energy is addictive and hard to escape; you soak it all up, allow it to loosen your bones. you laugh and drink with the others but keep your distance from a certain red-haired captain. you’re not sure how to be around him, especially now that you’ve accepted his invitation after fighting him for so long about it.

it’s completely by chance that you spot shanks near the bonfire; you think you’re being subtle when you watch him from afar, admiring the way his throat bobs when he tilts his head back to down a full glass of liquor. the fire emits a deep glow, one that extracts a memory from the back of your mind — oranges and yellows draping over him, an enigma that will always remain out of your reach no matter how hard you try.

the truth of it sits on your tongue — raw and distressing — so you down a shot of whiskey and maneuver through the crowd of people to find a place to sit and rest.

yassop and lucky roux tease shanks mercilessly throughout the day, so much that he ends up smoking more than he means to. a light haze clouds his rationality, and he mumbles under his breath, which only makes them laugh louder, pointing out his plight for all to hear. no matter how much he denies it, or how much he tells them that they’re full of shit, the story remains the same: boss has fallen in love. it’s annoying, to say the least. just because he feels calmer whenever you’re around, and just because his heart continues to beat louder — heavy, relentless, and unsettling — doesn’t mean that he’s fallen in love with you.

if anything, it means he needs to get off this damn island quickly. “it’s probably something in the water,” he tells himself. no need to stay long enough to carry it with him elsewhere.

a few hours later, nearly everyone is passed out, either from drinking or eating or both — and shanks, unfortunately, can’t seem to sleep. neither can you. he finds you walking alone on the beach, sandals in hand, humming something soft and familiar. before he can even make his presence known, you look over at him and a smile tugs on your lips. you’re not sure what compels you, but the sight of him standing there, watching you like you’re some sight to behold — and if anyone asked him at that exact moment, he would say that yes, you are — invites a small warmth to circle around your chest. an irresistible flame that grows hotter the closer he gets.

OBSESSED X & X IRRITABLE

what starts as subtle flirting rife with teasing jokes and lingering touches, turns into something frighteningly intense. shanks routinely teases you in front of everyone, and while you’re embarrassed by it sometimes, you actually like it. there’s a push and pull, where you also have him backed into a corner that he can’t escape from with his sanity intact.

shanks starts being more bold when he touches you, kissing you randomly in hallways when no one’s looking, his hand roaming down to your ass and squeezing it playfully. the rush makes everything worth it; he likes the way you push him away, and you like the way he chases you. if he knew that you’d fallen in love some time ago, he’d never let you live it down. his touches make your skin hot and your head fuzzy, leaving you light-headed and wanting for more. after a few months, though, he’s still given you no indication on whether this is a casual thing or something more.

you��re too afraid to ask at this point, always losing your nerve when he sweet talks you late at night. you swallow back your questions, but they pile up eventually, until you can’t take it anymore. after that stunt he pulled in that pub, he drunkenly tells yasopp to make up a shirt for you that says “angry when wet” on the front. your face burns, both in anger and in embarrassment when you receive the gift, and shanks laughs loudly when you throw the shirt at his face. he confesses that he forgot he even asked for yasopp to do that, which only makes him laugh harder.

in a fit of fury, you tell shanks that you refuse to have sex with him and that he has to keep his hands to himself. for a month, at least. he figures you’re all talk and only agrees to it because you’re so determined and cute when you’re angry like that. when the others find out about the ban, they ridicule their captain mercilessly. he tries to act unaffected, but something about the way you insist on seeing this ban through rubs him the wrong way.

it’s been twenty-two — no, twenty-three — days, and you’re barely keeping it together. shanks thinks it’s hilarious that you believe he’ll cave before you do; and you’re determined to make him suffer. now granted, you are to blame for the predicament you found yourself in just a month prior — even now, you still suffer from that embarrassment — when shanks fucked you in the back of that dingy pub.

they’ve all taken to calling you ladybug — bug, for short; something shanks thought up in the moment, spurned by yasopp’s laughter at the matter. and despite fighting against it initially, the nickname grows on you. shanks appears every bit as unaffected as he always does, still flirting with you whenever he can, but respecting your wishes all the same. regardless of that, he still finds ways to get under your skin. it’s your hope that holding out will make shanks realize that he wants you in a deeper way than just physical intimacy.

you should just let him go and move on, but you can’t. he always pulls you back, always finds a way to make you smile — the warmth from his presence is enough to burn you alive most days — and you find yourself wrapped up in him without realizing. incidentally, shanks also can’t let you go, and never intends to anyway. he’s a selfish creature by nature, not cognizant enough to recognize his own role in that.

on a sleepy morning, you take your time and carefully bake pastries for the crew. last night you promised them something tasty and sweet — your specialty, really — and they’ve given you room to work without interruption. as a chef for the red-hair pirates, you take pride in your work; in feeding the crew, in ensuring that they eat well-balanced meals that give them strength and energy. shanks has always been in awe of your talent — your hands are delicate and exact, skilled laborers that make brilliant works of art whenever you’re in the kitchen.

you’re humming a nameless tune to yourself, cutting up strawberries neatly, as another person silently invades your small sanctuary. while you wash your hands in the sink, shanks approaches you and a sudden awareness makes you freeze. his body barely touches yours, but he reaches over you to crab a cup out of the cabinet above your head. given the difference in your height, it always seems like he’s crowding you without trying. although in this instance, he’s intentionally doing so.

a groan rolls out of your mouth, frustration eating away at the remainder of your patience. you’ve been giving him short answers lately, barely looking at him — although, that isn’t exactly true; you’ve stolen more glances than you can count over the past month — so whenever he can, he finds ways to tease you mercilessly.

“oops,” his hand lowers so he can rinse out the cup, “didn’t mean to interrupt you, doll.”

teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you count to ten, breathe out of your nose and smile tightly. “uh huh,” his body is still much too close for your liking, “just make it fast.”

a sly grin, one that you can’t see, drifts onto his lips. “you know i can never turn down a quick fuck.”

you slap his hand, make him drop the cup into the sink, and spin around to face him. your face burns painfully, the flush a permanent fixture now that he’s moved on from light teasing, to full out being insufferable around you. “shanks, enough.” you shove his chest, much to his amusement, his eyes gleaming with mischief, but you can’t exactly look at him properly, can you? and when you manage to get over a bit of your embarrassment, manage to look up at him through your thick, dark lashes, you struck by his stupidly handsome face. despite his rugged exterior, you know there’s a gentleness that periodically comes out when the two of you are together.

an unexpected ache plagues your chest and you ignore it; but you miss touching his scars, miss kissing him and being kissed by him. he already smells like smoke and bourbon, a scent that you’ve come to covet over the past few weeks.

belatedly, shanks realizes that he miscalculated; your beauty still takes his breath away, especially when you’re this close to him. his eyes drift along your soft, round features, linger on your plump lips — where he’s suddenly overcome with the desire to trace your cupid’s bow with his fingers — and stare a little too hard at your neck that’s been blemish free for a while. a shame, really, as he likes when your neck shows proof of his affection for you. if he’s not careful, he’ll get sucked back into your orbit; as always, your brown eyes — intense, unyielding, a fusion of dulce de leche and tree bark — keep him rooted in place. your dark, curly hair continues to remind him of a storm that he desperately wants to navigate alone.

caught in a daze, he almost forgets that you’re mad at him, until you roll your eyes and push past him. he watches you languidly, completely smitten with you all over again, eyes transfixed on your retreating form — round ass and thick, curvy hips captivating him entirely.

you stomp away and leave the pastries to their own devices, reeling over the fact that shanks had the audacity to say that to you. but as you keep walking, the brisk morning air whipping around you, you realize you’re not upset because he said it. you’re upset because he didn’t actually try to fuck you in the kitchen.

a shame, you know, but you can’t help the thought.

it’s becoming more and more apparent now that you might be the only one suffering from this ban. you decide you need a better plan, one that is strong enough to withstand shanks’ careless attitude, one that might just push him to the edge.

a childish impulse strikes you, and you opt to give him the silent treatment, which only further amuses him. he watches you lazily, grinning each time you turn your nose up and stomp past him. you make it so easy he doesn’t even have to try riling you up. you ignoring him isn’t much of a big deal — so he tells himself — but when he sees just how friendly the crew is with you, something sinister builds inside the pit of his abdomen and works its way up to his chest. when you head back to finish working in the kitchen, he tells his crew that he’s implementing a new rule.

“no one,” he says, after gathering everyone else, surveying his crew mates critically, eyes particularly landing on yasopp and benn beckman, “touches ladybug. understood?”

they all agree, although beckman, lucky roux, and yasopp pull him aside to ask what this new rule is all about. shanks being shanks, playfully waves them off and starts drinking instead. beckman exchanges wary glances with the others, but they don’t push the issue. every time you try to get closer to someone — whether it’s a crew mate, or an overly friendly resident of a sea faring town — he finds a way to sabotage, laughing as you eye him angrily, hands balled into small fists, which only makes him laugh more.

THREE’S X A X CROWD

part of your duties is to accompany the crew as they go into town to scope out any local fruits and vegetables that you want to try. you like talking with the townspeople, like getting their insight on their regional dishes. you just live for the thrill of creating new, exciting meals and want your crew mates to feel the love that you pour into everything you make for them.

on a particular island, the ship is docked far enough away to not attract too much attention. there aren’t any major navy bases nearby, but one can’t be too careful in the new world, can they? there’s a festival in town, one that they keep advertising for. you catch wind and want to go, but shanks decrees that only a portion of the crew is allowed to disembark, while the others stand by on the ship. too many pirates traversing through the island will set off alarms; thankfully, the island is partial to the patronage of pirates, so they aren’t too upset that shanks’ crew has docked there.

somehow, you’re part of the group designated to stay on the ship, much to your annoyance. you try to plead with beckman, even go as far as pouting your lips, but he doesn’t budge. “captain’s orders,” which seems to be the norm these days. and when he sees the way your shoulders drop, he says, a little quietly, “sorry bug.” you know they’re just going to drink and act foolish on land, so you wait and take your time dressing up. you have an actual reason for wanting to go into town; you need ingredients and don’t trust the others to shop properly for you, so you take matters into your own hands.

no one dares to stop you as you make your way off the ship; you tell the others you’ll be right back, and of course they believe you — why would you lie to them?

and you’re not lying, per se, you do want to get ingredients — although that isn’t your primary focus at the moment.

the festival is loud and seemingly merry with alcohol and food everywhere. thankfully the music makes the shitty alcohol taste better. shanks sits at a large table with the others, drinking, smoking, laughing as various people fawn over him and feed him cut up pieces of fruit. flirtatious by nature, he doesn’t even blink when they allow their delicate fingers to linger on his lips, or when they whisper things in his ear, or when they take turns to perch themselves on his lap.

for some reason, despite knowing that he should, he isn’t exactly stopping their advances.

guilt eats away at his crew mates at the sight of shanks on his usual path of self-destruction; yasopp tries to get him to see reason, beckman too, but he waves them off, saying he can do as he pleases. which only tells him that he’s still annoyed about you not talking to him properly these days. and, despite him not openly saying it, he’s suffering too.

you have fun watching the fireworks for a while, mesmerized by the loud explosions of color decorating the sky; before long, you find yourself in the middle of all the festivities, humming to yourself as you scope out the stalls. you get swept up into a small crowd of people and get turned around when you slip away. as you try to catch your bearings, you hear a familiar laugh and, on instinct, follow the sound of his voice.

while standing off to the side, you watch shanks and the others, heart beating far too loud for comfort. your hands ball into fists all over again, and you sink your nails into your palms when another woman drapes herself over shanks, giddy and tipsy, blushing every time he smiles her way. you know he’s just doing this because he’s pissed off at you, and rather than get sad, you decide to head to the pub and drink.

three drinks later, you saunter back out into the night and join the festival. you enjoy the way the music thrums underneath your skin, the beat thumping in your veins; a cool breeze travels nearby, making you feel light-headed. you forgot how freeing it is to be on your own — without a group of people to worry about, and a selfish captain who tramples over your heart and feelings repeatedly with his blasé attitude. maybe it would be better to just leave? but, the more you think about it, the more your head hurts, so you decide you’d rather enjoy yourself for a bit before heading back to the ship.

the alcohol makes you bolder than usual, and you’re all smiles with flushed cheeks when the vice-captain runs into you on his way to get more food. an incredibly foolish, petty idea crawls into your mind — it barely sits long enough before you act impulsively again.

“what are you doing here, bug?”

you simply shrug, as if you’ve embarked on an innocent expedition and didn’t expect to see him. beckman doesn’t buy the act one bit and pulls you into a nearby alley to talk with you privately. sighing loudly, he fixes you with a steely glare. “you’re suppose to be on the ship,” he says carefully, “d’you know how much trouble you’ll be in if shanks sees you here?” there’s no reason for him to tell you that, but you can’t fault him for trying to be nice. still, the idea of shanks thinking he can just dictate how you live your life, pushes you closer to the edge with your sanity barely intact.

and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “i am not a child,” you say angrily; your annoyance has reached the point of no return, so you let the irritation flow freely and allow it to fuel your pettiness. beckman pauses for a moment before chuckling darkly, shaking his head at your antics. from the determination on your face, and the way you don’t seem to want to budge on the issue, he can understand why shanks is so smitten with you — in fact, everyone on their crew understands — so he relents.

“fine, i’ll accompany you, then.”

you hadn’t expected him to offer, and you feel the tension leave your body slowly. maybe you were overreacting a bit, and maybe you just need to relax and enjoy the night like everyone else. you visit several stalls and shop around for a bit; you like the vice-captain’s company as he doesn’t say much, nor does he complain when you make him try various sweets to see which ones you should recreate. and while you might not intend to, you can’t help but flirt with him a little — touching his arm, laughing at his dry humor, standing much closer than necessary. beckman knows what you’re doing, but he doesn’t stop you; maybe shanks will get his act together if he thinks he has competition. you doubt he will, but it’s always worth a try, right?

DIAMOND X IN THE X ROUGH

after a while, the merriment feels stale; shanks’ laughter is hollow, forced, and unbecoming. and while on the surface it looks like he’s soaking up all the attention that’s being given to him, he’s not happy about it at all. a small frown works its way onto his lips as he tries to work out the cause of his unhappiness, completely ignoring his role in all of this. he’s not sure what’s missing — or, rather, he’s sure, but he just doesn’t want to say it out loud. that would make it real, and while he doesn’t want to make a habit out of it, shanks has been lying to himself for some time now. he knows that if he’d let you come with them, he’d be having much more fun — that thought alone makes him reconsider how he’s handled everything between you two.

the universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor. as his thoughts continue to berate him, he spots you walking with beckman. he narrows his eyes at you both but offers a smile — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes — once you approach the table.

jaw clenched, shanks manages to greet you without fail. “hey there, lovebug.” there’s tension in his shoulders, and that amiable demeanor of his is shed, which makes the women near him a little reluctant as they squirm awkwardly in their seats. “thought i told you to stay on the ship,” he says lightly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. beckman sighs, knowing that shanks will most likely read into the situation incorrectly; but before he can explain himself, he sits back down in his seat and pours himself a drink.

“you don’t own me,” you say with a slight huff, glancing over at shanks from the corners of your eyes, “i’m allowed to go where i please.”

shanks almost laughs at that, but keeps it inside; he wants to tell you that you’re wrong, but he knows that this isn’t the right time or place for that sort of discussion. lucky roux offers to make some room for you, but you smile sweetly and announce that there’s no need. they all look at you, confused and a little intrigued, and before lucky roux insists again, you say, “i have a seat already.”

without warning, you gently perch your round ass on top of beckman’s lap, effectively silencing the group around you. it suddenly feels as if time has slowed down for shanks, who shifts in his chair as he watches you and beckman.

the vice-captain sighs again and playfully pinches your side, a move that does not go unnoticed by shanks, of course. you let out a small shriek, cheeks burning, and swat his hand before scooting up higher on his lap. the move alone nearly sends shanks and beckman into an early grave, for different reasons, obviously. meanwhile you’re smiling like a cat — mischievous and proud, as if you’ve cornered your prey and you’re ready to pounce.

you look so damn smug and shanks wants to fuck your mouth for all of that insolence.

beckman holds onto your hip as you cross your legs, revealing the deep slit in your skirt. your legs are on display, catching the eyes of everyone at the table and the random party goers passing by. shanks clenches his jaw so tightly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked his teeth. he knows that you’re provoking him into acting out, and while he doesn’t want to feed into it, his jealousy knows no bounds right now. especially since he knows you’re not wearing any panties — it’s why you chose that particular skirt.

you really only wanted to tease shanks a little, so you’re on cloud-nine when you notice how bothered he is over your little act.

it takes an inordinate amount of strength, on shanks’ part, to not split beckman’s face in two for his complicit behavior. he’s being unfair, he knows that — but he doesn’t really care. yasopp and lucky roux try to diffuse the situation with lighthearted banter and jokes — they also tell their guests to leave, because knowing shanks this might not end well.

beckman leans forward, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear, making your body warmer than necessary. “settle down, bug, we don’t want to cause a scene, do we?” you shake your head at that and swallow back whatever complaints you want to say when you see the hardened look on shanks’ face. you’ve only ever seen him that serious when his anger reaches a certain point — so you know you’ve fucked up pretty badly. you have the decency to act ashamed as you slide off beckman’s lap and grab your bags. you should probably say something to shanks, but you don’t bother looking back at him and instead head back to the ship.

you’re absolutely furious right now and so is shanks.

beckman rubs the back of his neck before leaning forward. “i told you, captain,” he keeps his tone friendly, yet firm, “if you’re not careful, one of us will take bug away.” at that, shanks casts a sharp glance at the other crew members seated at the table — the intensity behind his gaze forces them to turn away and look at other things. shanks motions for one of them to slide the bottle of vodka his way, and beckman groans audibly.

“not again, shanks, let—”

as shanks isn’t in a negotiating mood, he cuts his first mate off quickly — maliciously, even — with venom sifting along his tongue, the layer thick enough he almost chokes on it. his voice is much too hoarse, but he spits out, “drink.”

it’s not a game that the red-hair pirates ever like to play with shanks, and he knows it; which is why he keeps insisting, and why his best friend keeps refusing. shanks’ anger reaches a tipping point; it transforms into a fire that steadily burns along the back of his neck, hot enough to make impulsive thoughts gather around him. the idea of extinguishing it never crosses his mind, although he knows that eventually he’ll need to face it head-on. and as he grips the bottle of alcohol tightly, a sharp moment of clarity hits him.

it’s by chance that he swallows it back, not wanting to make this even messier than it already is.

beckman shifts in his seat, a disapproving frown settling comfortably on his face. “it won’t be fair, i’m practically drunk already.”

“spare me the bullshit,” shanks says with a smile that serves as a small warning; he places a glass in front of beckman. “drink.” beckman pinches the space bridge of his nose and exhales a bit of his irritation. but when he picks up the glass, he recoils from the strong scent.

“this is practically rubbing alcohol.”

shanks only hums while shrugging lazily, before knocking back the drink; the burn revitalizes him, the pain reminds him that he’s alive. in a game of endurance, shanks always comes out on top. so it’s no wonder that beckman taps out after two shots.

“i value my liver, unlike you.”

this time, shanks’ laughter is genuine; he hops out of his chair and claps a hand on beckman’s back. “you’re forgiven,” he says when he leans down. as an afterthought, he adds, “this time.”

you’ve done a good job derailing his night — not that he can really blame you, he was being absolutely shameless in the worse way — so he’s decided he’s had enough. somehow, he’s rationalized that you’re the only childish and ridiculous person in this situation because he intends on stamping that attitude out.

SUN X STARS X MOON

you peruse shanks’ room while sipping from the bottle of rum you found. although you count tonight as a small victory against shanks, you didn’t think he’d get that mad. was all the teasing worth it, in the end? you leave the rum on the nightstand before climbing onto his bed and enjoy the softness of the mattress. maybe you overreacted, or maybe it’s all his fault. the guilt sits with you, until shanks enters his room.

“the hell are you doing back so soon?”

it’s not a proper greeting in the least, but you’re not exactly ready to deal with him just yet. but, since he’s already here, you might as well have it out. shanks closes the door and leans against it, partially obscured in the shadows as the moon bathes you in its light through the window.

“in case you’ve forgotten, this is my room and that’s my bed that you’re lounging comfortably on.”

he’s got you there. you roll your eyes in response, which draws out a chuckle from him once he pushes away from the door and goes to sit near you on the bed.

your emotions swell inside of you and become too heavy for you to keep hidden. “fine, whatever, i’ll leave.” you hop off the bed but then turn around. “you’re an asshole, you know that? you string me along for months and then anytime anyone else wants to talk to me you suddenly intervene.” the words tumble out of your mouth fluidly, you’re surprised your tongue could keep up. blinking back tears — because you refuse let him see you this vulnerable. “you piss me off so much, i… can’t do this anymore.”

it’s the first time that you’ve properly articulated how you’ve felt about this whole stupid situation. you feel a bit lighter but then sense of dread overcomes you, gnaws at your stomach — twisting and creating knots that make you want to run away forever. shanks takes a moment and mulls over your words, but his long silence is all the confirmation you need. you’re halfway to the door when he calls out to you.

“wait, come here.”

against your better judgment, you turn around and head back to his side. he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls you in between his legs, and warms an arm around you. “i hear you, bug, i really do.”

this is the first time he’s ever willingly said anything to make him vulnerable like that, so you relent, soften in his hold, allow your shattered heart to repair itself piece by piece. you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him softly. he’s normally much hastier with you — being a pirate captain, he barely has time to himself, so whenever he does get a moment to touch you, he’s always in a rush.

but tonight — the moon full and pink, hanging heavy in the sky, stars shimmering brilliantly around it — he opts to slow down. shanks takes his time memorizing the shape of your lips, tongue gently caressing yours as you sigh against his lips. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he’s afraid you’ll leave him if he doesn’t. you’re certainly in no hurry to finish anytime soon. by the time you’re done kissing, you’re a little breathless and can barely hold it together. shanks, unsurprisingly, is in a similar predicament, as his cock hasn’t given him a day of peace since your ban started.

but he decides to let go and mumbles, “thirty days is a long fucking time,” and you laugh, surprised at his words.

you climb onto the bed with him, laughing as he drops playful kisses along your neck, and straddle him once he lies down on his back. you rub your ass against his stiff length, forcing him to groan audibly. he’s always more vocal when he’s tipsy, and the rum has you feeling bolder as the minutes pass by. before you can do it again, shanks slaps your ass hard and you let out an involuntary shriek.

he laughs at you, laughs at the way you’re suddenly acting demure, as if you weren’t the one who started this. “i thought you didn’t want anyone to hear you?” he gives you a knowing look and a sly smile crawls onto his face. heat travels along your skin, making your cheeks burn in the worst way; you place a hand over his mouth on impulse.

“shut up, what is wrong with you?”

you hate the way you’re suddenly embarrassed about all of this. shanks, however, takes it all in stride, laughing behind your hand and mumbling something unintelligible against your palm. he knows he needs to act quickly before she makes him cum in his pants without trying. so when you pull your hand back, he says, “come on, put your pretty pussy on my mouth.” you stare at him wide-eyed, but he doesn’t relent. you mumble something about possibly being too heavy, which makes him laugh at your ridiculous excuse.

“how many times do i need to show you?” his strength, he means.

before he can do anything too rash, you pull your skirt up and position yourself over his face, pussy already slick with your arousal. shanks runs his tongue along your folds, slipping it inside to give you a firm lick; he takes his time to eat you out, his pace tortuous but electrifying. you can barely keep quiet and moan louder than you mean to as you shamelessly ride his face. holding onto the headboard, a whirlwind whips about inside of your lower abdomen as he slurps your pussy sloppily. he pulls you closer, and your arousal drips down his lips and onto his chin. your pussy is always so eager for him, so naturally he wants to treat her right.

you lose a bit of your sanity when his tongue slips inside your hole, thrusting in and out, your whimpers and moans circling around him — the best sort of lullaby he could ask for. he flicks his tongue against your clit and you buck your hips, feverishly grinding your pussy on his tongue. he likes it when you let go like this — when you’re uncaring and free. you place so many barriers in front of your own happiness, so he’s determined to knock them all down while he can. you know it’s reckless to give in to your inhibitions like this, to fly this closely to this personified version of the sun. although, you do feel a surge of power, seeing him underneath you like that, in between your thick thighs.

if shanks is apollo, then you are a nymph with ties to the moon and the sea.

it’s when shanks swirls his tongue around your clit, mercilessly stroking it, sending tiny jolts through your thighs, making you tremble above him. the orgasm is transformative — you have tears in your eyes as you whimper pathetically, your pussy puffy and sensitive; but he doesn’t care. he licks your arousal off his lips, thinking you look divine and goddess-like in the interim following your orgasm.

time slows for you both, and maybe you’re imaging it, but your heartbeat matches his once you climb off of him. of course, as usual, shanks is smug and proud of himself, but when you start taking off your clothes and tossing them onto the floor, he follows suit. pre-cum drips slowly from the tip of his cock, and when you rub your wet pussy up and down his length, you let out a breathy moan. shanks watches you with lowered eyes, inhaling sharply once you sink down onto his cock.

your pussy swallows his girth with a slow descent, and he’s losing whatever sliver of control he thinks he has over himself when it comes to you. when his cock hits a particular spot, you shudder and moan his name; he could cum from that alone, he realizes, and it shocks the hell out of him. in retaliation, shanks thrusts into you once, then twice, as you claw at his chest and cry out for more. your pace quickens as you bounce on his cock, thighs trembling as you try to keep strong; the orgasm weakened you, but rather than give in, you keep going, rolling your hips against him, hypnotizing him without completely meaning to. he won’t last much longer at this rate, which is completely your fault, he reasons.

you ride him as long as you can, before frowning and slowing down. shanks looks at you slyly, unable to stop teasing you. “need some help?”

it’s your pride that doesn’t want you to ask for help, but you know that if you don’t, shanks will edge you until you’re on your knees in tears. “please.” if he wasn’t already teetering on the edge, your desperation would make him tease you more. he rolls so that he’s on top of you and leans forward to place kisses along your jaw and neck, loving how smooth and soft your skin is. because he’s obnoxious, he sucks and bites, leaving behind bruising marks on your neck and chest. he’s burning you alive, but you want more.

you drape your leg over his shoulder, and he kisses the inside of your thigh before flicking his tongue against your skin, enjoying the way you squirm underneath him, your heart beating much too fast in your chest, making you think seemingly impossible things. shanks slips his cock back inside of you, burying it completely, letting out a shaky breath at the way your plush walls suffocate him. the angle makes you buck your hips off the bed; he laughs darkly at your enthusiasm, but doesn’t move. the frustration alone could kill you; you want him to fuck you hard enough to shake your doubts, to combat all the warmth that keeps sliding through the cracks around your heart.

he moves his hips at his own leisure, giving you broad, powerful strokes — hard enough, that his balls slap against you, pussy squelching as he powers into you repeatedly. you should be embarrassed from the sounds alone — your pussy is wet enough for him to drown, but thankfully he’s got enough stamina to handle it.

each time his cock sinks deeper into your pussy, he feels reborn; like the sea — tumultuous, dizzying, captivating, and greedy — you suck him back in each time he tries pulling out. eventually, you wrap your arms around your thighs and he feels like you’re squeezing the remnants of his soul out of him. shanks rocks his hips against yours, rough and determined, sweat gliding along his skin. when he moans your name, your heart expands faster than you thought it would. shanks keeps his hips closer to yours, giving you short, quick thrusts, fucking you to remind you that he has no intention of letting you go. his breath is warm against your skin and you kiss him again, giving him ardent, sloppy tongue kisses that do nothing to calm you down. he swallows your moans as another orgasm grips you by the throat and nearly claims your life.

your pussy clenches around him tightly, so he takes that as a challenge and fucks you harder, giving you brutal, punishing strokes — frenetic and dizzying, making your mind spin too fast for you to keep up.

“shanks, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

whatever else you say after that is lost on you, incoherent babbling that makes him laugh at you again. it’s out of adoration, you know it is, even if he won’t openly say it. shanks e works you through your orgasm, hips jerking against yours, before his own pushes him completely over the edge. after giving you a few lazy thrusts, he cums inside of you, messy but satisfying. shanks slows down and tries to catch his breath, as you push your curls away from your face. he doesn’t leave your side after he pulls out, instead he pulls you close to him, his hand rubbing up and down your back, his subsequent kisses intense and possessive.

you don’t exactly know what will happen tomorrow, but for now you’ll cherish this moment and commit it to memory. with everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want to see you in the arms of another, and you don’t want to keep pushing him away. you’re sure something’s shifted fundamentally between you two, especially when you lay on top of him and listen to the steady, powerful beats of his heart. you suppose you can give him a little leeway, but you won’t tell him that right away. there’s a warmth that cloaks itself all over you, keeping you moored to him for the rest of the night; he enjoys the silence that accompanies your presence, and decides that he’s going to keep you for as long as he can.

#it's finally done jfc #fic request #one piece imagine #one piece angst #one piece smut #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #shanks angst #shanks smut #shanks x reader #shanks x y/n #*washes hands*#‘i can change him’ 🥴#no tf i can’t!!! am i kidding?!#also… beckman… ur day will come don’t worry

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soleilnomoon · 2 years

Text

theft ; sanji x reader.

3k words, afab reader (no pronouns), nsfw

cw: alcohol/drinking, idk sex i guess you figure it out

fic request for @strawhatsoraya, u are so patient while i give tiny bits of chaos

note: a spiritual successor to this

what starts as you whining to sanji that you want the perfect midnight snack, quickly turns into you goading him to drink with you, which then leads to both of you trapped in purgatory — not tipsy, not quite drunk—thus ending with your fifth complaint of the night.

“and then, and then,” you say, words slurring together a bit in your eagerness to tell your story, “and then when i asked if we were done with training, he laughed and said,” you straighten up in your chair, clear your throat, and let the alcohol lead your imitation of the irritable, tyrant of a swordsman. “‘we haven’t even gotten started’...he’s the worst!”

the impersonation is only finished when you start swinging around an imaginary sword. swallowing back a laugh, sanji grins behind his wine glass, savoring the way the liquid sends a comfortable warmth through his body. it makes everything light, airy, funny. although, if he’s honest, you’ve always been able to make him laugh like that.

after your fourth glass of wine, he cuts you off. you complain loudly—much too loud, he almost shushes you, but the wine dulls his movements—and shake your empty wine glass at him in dismay.

“how could you?” you ask, tone every bit as accusatory as it’s meant to be. the question has you swaying in your seat, humming to a nameless song, but he remains firm—just shakes his head, blond hair briefly covering his eyes. you don’t think as you place your glass down, lean forward, brushing those pesky strands off of his face—almost tenderly, at that.

your touch revitalizes him. where the wine made him feel warm and lethargic, you make him feel exhilarated—alive. not so much the hasty, salacious cook that flirts with anyone he deems beautiful; instead, you get the raw version of him; vulnerable, nervous, patient in ways that seem unreal. but for you, he’ll always be that. a flush travels across his cheeks that he swears has everything to do with the wine and absolutely nothing to do with you touching him like he actually means something to you.

“you’re being dramatic,” he chides playfully, voice low as he bites into a strawberry pastry. he doesn’t want to keep talking about zoro—it already bothers him that you’re letting the idiot train you; alone, for hours sometimes.

your brows furrow at his words, but soon you smooth out your features, giving way to a coy smile that takes over your mouth. you lean forward again, taking a bite out of his pastry—almost like a consolation prize—fully expecting him to give you the sort of reactions you like to see. his expressions are so genuine, no matter his mood; you’ve never met someone who can so plainly express himself without even trying. it fascinates you, so you can’t help but tease him whenever you can. like now.

his hold falters momentarily, face burning even more, but he manages to put the remainder of the pastry down on the plate next to him. when your tongue dips out of your mouth and glides along your lips, he watches—hawk-like, in absolute want; the shame he should feel practically nonexistent as he desperately wishes to be that dusting of powdered sugar along the edge of your lip.

he wonders if it’s the wine, or just you—that curiosity claws its way out of him, seeping into his mind, claiming whatever residual restraint he had earlier; has it always been like this?

the answer to that question slaps him repeatedly, but refuses to say it out loud; is it out of fear of rejection? no, well—maybe a little. mostly, it’s a fear of the unknown. with the others, he’s always seen a clear-cut path on how a future with them might play out. it’s mostly the romantic side of him, the idea of knowing the beginning, middle, and end of things always appealed to him.

but you? you’re a storm—destructive, unpredictable, a force that commands everyone’s attention whether they like it or not.

it unnerves him just as much as it entices him.

and when you do things like that, it confuses him; is it still confusion that drives him to brush his lips against yours, his tongue mimicking the path yours took earlier. suddenly, you’re aware of how close you’re sitting next to him—and yet it’s not nearly close enough somehow. this sort of desire has only struck you once before, and you barely recovered then. you should stop, go to bed, forget all of this—but you know you’ll be plagued with a nasty case of the what ifs and never recover.

whatever you’re about to say gets lost once he actually kisses you, disrupting the bit of sanity you’ve been holding on to. the pastry was good—savory, even—but you? you’re a delicacy he’ll never forget the taste of, even if he tries for eternity. he’ll never be able to recreate it, despite his skill level, nor does he believe he ever could.

remnants of the sweet, yet tart wine saturates his mouth; you taste it on his tongue—the one that he thrusts into your mouth the moment you part your lips for him, the one that’s smooth to the touch and melting away all of your previous worries. you crawl onto his lap, straddling him, your hips gravitating towards his, an insatiable sort of desire quickly growing inside of you. he didn’t expect to end the night with you sitting on him, but he’ll be damned if he’ll complain about it now.

brown fingers sift through his hair—thick, soft to the touch, divine in its own right; you almost get lost in it all, the kissing hypnotizing you, transforming you into someone you don’t quite recognize. you’ve never felt so needy, so demanding—your fingers grab onto his hair, tugging him away from your lips. the look you give him is tantalizing, his slender fingers gliding down to your hips, hands cupping your ass, a palatable warmth seeping through your thin leggings. you feel dizzy, not from the wine—but from him.

you internally curse at yourself, but have no intention of stopping. it’s much too late for that now. through his lust-filled gaze, a hint of adoration lingers; it warms you in a place that you previously thought was impossible—you buried your heart a long time ago and don’t need it springing back to life.

especially when you know that you’ll only cause him heartache, and that’s the last thing you want to do.

unfortunately, your selfishness wins out; you drop kisses down to the base of his throat, taking your time to flick your tongue against his skin, sucking forcefully; his pretty skin bruises easily, you know and don’t care. and neither does he from the bulge in his pants that seemed to grow bigger. you admire your work thoughtfully, running your fingertips against each one. his breathing slows, lids lowering, long, golden brown lashes holding your interest, beckoning you to shift closer. he groans into your ear, so you decide to keep pushing.

“let’s go somewhere else,” you prompt, voice curling around him sensually; it feels forbidden, almost, but he’ll follow you to hell if you ask it of him. to his dismay, you climb off of him, your hand finding his and tugging him along. “close your eyes and follow me. it’ll be better if you’re surprised.”

he chuckles at your reasoning and agrees to follow—not that he would’ve denied you your request. he couldn’t possibly think to do that. it’s difficult at first; you're clumsy when you’re intoxicated, even with your eyes wide open. after you stumble up a flight of stairs, he loses his composure; you shush him but can’t stop the giggles slipping out of your mouth. the path you’re taking feels familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it.

you lead him through one final hallway, reaching your destination at last; it’s a tough feat, navigating in the dark while trying not to wake up your crew mates. once you lock the door behind you, you spin around and let go of his hand.

“tadaaa.”

he blinks repeatedly, eyes scoping out this secret location of yours. he takes in the various workout equipment, the row of folded, freshly washed towels, the lockers, the weights and weight bench. his confusion is cute, and you think you like him best like that.

“what are we doing here?” he asks cautiously.

“what do you think? we’re gonna have fun, clearly.” since you talked his ear off about zoro—of all people—and he sat there and listened quietly, you figure you might as well give him a special sort of reward. you sidle up to him, hands roaming along his chest, body glued to his. “it’ll be like… our little secret, y’know?”

he doesn’t need much convincing; just the fact that you want to desecrate one of the few places that zoro frequents is enough for him. your hands tug on the waistband of his dark sweatpants, his cock hardening again in anticipation. not that he needs to know, but this has been a fantasy of yours for a while. so now whenever zoro is barking at you to do more pushups, you can think about all the ways that sanji pleasured you on the equipment.

moral compass be damned; you both want each other and you refuse to turn back. when you successfully tug his sweatpants down, watch it pool to his ankles, his boxers come next. he steps out of both, and you find yourself on your knees, mouth salivating as you take in the sight. his cock is a little longer than you’re used to, but you’ve always prided yourself in rising to every challenge that’s thrown your way. this is no exception.

you lick the bit of precum that’s seeped out, your tongue circling around his tip, savoring the feel and taste of him. he can’t believe you’re on your knees like this for him, a groan slipping out of his mouth, even as he runs his hand down his face. you look up at him mischievously before you open your mouth wider and wrap it around his cock. you use your hands for whatever you can’t fit in your mouth, doing your best to keep your throat open enough as you bob your head up and down.

his moans delight you, making the ache between your legs difficult to ignore. since you rarely wear panties to bed, your leggings are now damp, your pussy betraying you in the worst kind of way. something shifts inside of him, the tightness and warmth of your mouth and tongue driving him to thrust his hips forward. you gag a little, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it—when you look up at him, eyes slightly glazed over, plump lips every bit as alluring as they were when they were on his lips, it’s almost like you’re saying yes, use me.

so he does.

it’s intense, the way his cock slides in and out, his hands threaded deeply in your curls, tugging on them as he fucks your mouth. your hands latch onto his thighs—hard and toned from years of fighting—nails sinking into his skin as a few tears pool down your cheek. you breathe through your nose, but you’ll gladly suffocate if it means sanji can fuck your pussy just as good. and while he’d love to cum down your throat, he has other plans for you.

when he pulls out of you suddenly, your saliva coats his cock, a bit of drool sliding down the side of your mouth; moonlight filters in through the windows, illuminating you both, the sight one that sanji will remember for the rest of his life. he’s breathing unevenly, but he can’t stop the momentum. he pulls you off of the floor, kissing you recklessly, his blood boiling as he lets his base instincts take over.

after tearing off the remainder of your clothes, you flash him a sly smile and make your way to the exercise bench. the bench being wide enough is your saving grace; you’re on your hands and knees before you know it, ass jiggling as you tease him with the view.

“i need help stretching,” you say playfully before he stands behind you, his soft hands rubbing along your ass, relishing in the curve and thickness of it. how you manage to keep it hidden enough during the day is a miracle, but he’s grateful—he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing it without preparation. an impish smile works its way onto his lips and he doesn’t wait around to tease you, instead opting to slide his fingers into your dripping pussy, scissoring them mercilessly, your hips pushing against his hand as you whisper his name over and over. and when he pulls them out, he admires the wetness on his lithe fingers, licking them clean.

waste not, want not; except in his case, he just wants more.

sanji slides his cock into you, inch by inch, your moans spurring him to push in as deep as he can, the slight curve ripping a much louder moan from you. music to his ears. he takes a small breath, wanting you to adjust properly to him. incoherently, you beg him to start moving; all of this teasing is ruining you in the best way possible. he doesn’t make you wait long, however, and his hips pound against yours, your pussy tight and heavenly as his pace increases.

a saner version of yourself would ask him to slow down—for you to both take your time with each other; but you’re impossibly lost in him, especially with how hard he’s gripping your hips, a hand gliding around to rest on your back, keeping you steady as he fucks you like the world is on fire. and maybe it is; at the rate you’re going, you don’t know what day it is either.

“a-ahh, sanji—please, i need…”

he grabs your hair, tugging you closer to him, forcing you to arch your back more, his hips snapping against yours roughly. his voice sets you ablaze, sweat trickling down your back as he gives you a much more intense workout than zoro ever could. something you might tell sanji later, if he behaves.

“what do you need, angel,” he says breathlessly, admiring the way your dark curls look wrapped around his hand.

“m-more, i n-need more.” the fact that you strung together those words is a miracle, you can barely think with how electrifying everything is. and when he angles his hips like that it touches a spot that no one’s ever touched before, it has you seeing stars; your eyes roll back and you call out his name so loudly that he gives you a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to keep you quiet. you cum quite unexpectedly, your pussy tightening around him in a way that makes him contemplate running away with you. if you both leave the pirate life behind, you can just spend your days wrapped up in each other, without a care in the world.

a selfish dream, one that he hopes comes true one day.

when he feels that he’s close, sanji pulls his cock out of you and cums on your ass; sticky, thick, the heat warming your skin as you both pant wildly. your heart beats out of control and if he wasn’t holding you, you’d likely collapse onto the floor. your legs and thighs tremble, the ferocity with which he fucked you pushing you past the point of no return.

eventually, his mind clears enough for him and he grabs one of the towels to gently wipe you off—a kindness that he didn’t owe you, but you liked nonetheless. after spotting the exercise ball nearby, you climb off of the bench.

“i think i still need to stretch a bit more,” you say airily, leaning back against the curve of the large ball, legs open, thighs gleaming with the wetness from your arousal. insatiable, gluttonous, wanton. you clearly have a problem, but you don’t want to think about it too much. instead, all you want, is for sanji to keep up with you long enough to satisfy you both.

your fingers dip inside of your pussy and you play with yourself until he reaches you; sanji gives you a heated look, pushing your hand aside before crouching down in front of you. you almost say bon appétit, but end up chanting his name over and over, a prayer that you can’t stop saying. his mouth is lethal, descending on your pussy without remorse, tongue slipping between your folds, sliding upward and circling around your clit slowly, your sanity slipping again. you roll your hips, hands gripping his hair again, as he tongue--kisses your pussy and reminding you exactly why you like him so damn much.

when your thighs threaten to crush his head, he uses his hands to hold you still; your voice is hoarse from how loud you’re being, but you want him to know just how good he feels. it’s more than welcomed in his book, actually, making him craft love poem after love poem with his tongue. he drags orgasm after orgasm out of you, and just when you think he’ll give you a moment to breathe, he strokes himself and starts fucking you again.

it seems the exercise ball is handier than you both thought; sanji bends you this way and that, your body more pliable than you thought it would be—and, surprisingly, you’re okay with that. you’re whimpering and stuttering, body sensitive, even as he brushes his lips against your earlobe.

“shh, i know, angel. you did good.”

you just nod and nod, face burning with embarrassment—for what, you have no idea. he helps you get dressed and by the time you survey the room again, you start to laugh, realizing that y’all are nasty as hell. sanji raises a brow, confused. you hold a hand up and shake your head.

“do you think we should clean this up?”

his snort is answer enough. “no, we’ll leave that to him to deal with.”

you smack his arm lightly and head out of the room, tired with a different kind of fatigue. “you know he’s never gonna forgive you for this.”

sanji pulls you aside for a short kiss before saying, “i can live with that.”

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