alwayssassydreamer - Tumblr blog

alwayssassydreamer · 2 days ago

Text

Under Your Skin Part 2

A/N: so this is the seconds part and I, well I think I got possessed because somehow I ended up with this part having almost 7k words since I personally am not a fan of reading stories with over 6k words in on go I decided to split it *yay* 🤣 ��‍♀️ so now we have the smut split into this "softer" one and the next part containing the "heavier" stuff (we're talking DP in one hole and two holes) and the last part also has the ending/aftermath in it. So sorry about all that smut I just couldn't stop and didn't want to cut it out

Part 1 | Part 3 (not yet posted)

Word count >3200

Plot: you were a Marine officer who regularly ran into Shanks and Beckman having to endure their relentless flirting and teasing that slowly started chipping away your resistance and made you forget about your duty BUT not much plot in this part

Warnings: nsfw, fingering, oral (giving and receiving), p in v, praising, restraints, MDNI ⚠️🔞

Characters: Shanks x FMarineReader x Beckman

A few days after that you met them again because apparently fate hated you and this time, god this time, you couldn’t take it anymore.

It happened because of something small. That was the worst part. Not some grand moment. Not battle, not even duty. Just… Shanks leaning too close at the bar again, fingers ghosting your wrist, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Y’know,” he drawled, “we’ve been awfully patient with you.”

Patient. That was one word for it. Torturous was another.

You’ve spent weeks, months, really, enduring this game. The slow smiles. The shared glances. Beckman’s low, rumbling voice curling around you in quiet moments. Shanks’ bold, shameless flirting in public. The faint touches. The way they spoke to you like you weren't a marine, like they had already won, and you were just too stubborn to admit it. The nights you lay in bed touching yourself thinking about them because apparently they had occupied your mind and you weren't getting rid of them.

Tonight though something in you snapped.

Maybe it was the way Beckman was standing behind you, a little too close, cigarette smoke curling around your throat like a noose. Maybe it was the way Shanks’ hand was still on your wrist, thumb tracing circles that made heat crawl beneath your skin.

Maybe it was the fact they were looking at you like they were daring you, waiting to see if you'd finally stop pretending this wasn’t what you wanted.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Beckman murmured by your ear, voice low. “Running out of excuses?”

Shanks laughed under his breath. “Let her have her pride, Beck. Won’t be much left of it after she finally gives in,” he said with a teasing wink.

You just glared at him but then Shanks looked a little more serious at you.

“Say the word,” he murmured, inching closer, no teasing in his voice for once. “We’ll back off. For good.”

“But we don’t want to,” Beckman added, calm and grounded. “And you don’t either.”

You looked between them.

At Shanks so bright, alive, his charm suddenly stripped of performance, like this meant something now.

At Beckman, still, unreadable, but watching you like he already knew the outcome.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out.

So instead… you grabbed the front of Shanks’ shirt and kissed him.

Hard, rough, messy and definitely uncontrolled. Weeks, no months, of tension crashing through you like a wave. He barely had time to smirk before you stole his breath from his lungs.

He groaned against your mouth, fingers digging into your waist as he kissed you back like a man starved.

When you broke the kiss, Shanks looked dazed. “Oh… she’s done pretending now.”

And then a hand curled around your arm.

Warm, strong and steady.

You turned into Beckman without thinking, your breath catching as his hand came up to cradle the side of your neck. His lips didn’t crash into yours. No, he took his time. It was slower, deeper, more sensual. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And you let him because you wanted him to, wanted them.

The fire and the quiet.

The heat and the weight.

The way they wrapped around you from both sides, and for the first time in your life, you felt wanted without being claimed. Desired without being owned.

Seen nit just as a pretty face.

Beckman’s laugh was low almost approving. “Finally,” he muttered.

“If you’re going to keep taunting me, you might as well follow through,” you said trying to sound confident and firm but your voice betraying you.

The look Shanks and Beckman shared wasn’t surprise, it was triumph. You were never really in control of this. Not when they had been patient enough to let you break yourself, when they unraveled you so slowly for months now, when ghey knew exactly what they were doing to you.

“Don’t worry. We’re just getting started,” Beckman whispered as his hand caught your chin, tilting your face to his with infuriating slowness before his hands slipped beneath your thighs and hoisted you up like you weighed nothing.

One moment you were standing your ground. The next? His grip locked under you, your legs wrapping around his hips on instinct because where else could they go? Your dignity was long gone anyways.

Shanks just laughed. Loud, delighted, like this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

“She’s not running, Beck. Never really wanted to. She’s been asking for this since the first time she told us to leave her alone.” His grin was cheeky, teeth flashing.

You were flushed, burning alive beneath your skin, but there was no escaping them now.

"But I have to admit you lasted longer than we thought," Beckman said teasingly carrying you like he owned you, while he headed towards the docks where The Red Force waited.

Shanks followed, leisurely, like he had all the time in the world to enjoy this victory.

“You’re both insane,” you hissed but your voice lacked any malice and your arms locked tighter around Beckman’s neck, your clothes tugged out of place by rough hands and bolder intentions.

Beckman’s smirk said it all. “And you’re not fooling anyone anymore, sweetheart.”

“Besides,” Shanks added from behind, voice low and teasing as he watched how Beckman handled you, “we’ve been more than patient. You wanted this. You wanted us. You just didn’t know how to admit it and don't worry you will not regret this we'llmake sure of it.”

The ship wasn't far. Beckman didn’t slow down. Shanks leaned in close as you were carried aboard like some spoils of war.

“You could’ve made this easy on yourself.” Shanks breath ghosted over your ear, his grin burning against your neck. “But where’s the fun in that?”

"Nah duty wouldn't let her give in. But seems duty is no longer something you care about" Beckman teased and you groaned but truth was he was right because you left duty somewhere at the bar.

Once the door closed behind them you were lowered to the ground but Shanks was immediately there and kissed you like you were a secret he was finally allowed to speak out loud, hand warm and eager, mouth hungry, but careful.

Reverent even.

Like you were something he wanted to worship properly.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You feel so good already. Gonna let me taste all of you, yeah? Been dreaming about it since the first time you tried to kick my ass.”

His hand slid up your shirt, calloused, teasing, brushing the swell of your breast with a gentleness that made you ache.

He bit at your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth and grinned against your skin.

“Knew you’d break eventually. Didn’t think you’d beg for it with your eyes like that though.”

You opened your mouth to tell him to shut up but then Beckman’s hand fisted in your hair.

He didn’t say much, he didn’t need to.

He kissed you like he owned your next breath, slow, open-mouthed, possessive. One hand tangled in your hair tilting your head carefully. The other skimmed down your hip, fingers curling around your thigh as he pressed in from behind.

“Already shaking,” he muttered, lips dragging down your throat. “You’ve been fighting this so long you don’t even know how to let go.”

You wanted to say something sharp. Wanted to bite back but then his hand slid between your legs pushing the fabric of your skirt out of his way with slow, deliberate pressure and you gasped, your whole body arching.

“Thought so,” Beckman murmured. “Already soaked.”

Shanks chuckled low, sliding your shirt over your head, eyes devouring you.

“Fuck, you’re stunning. Look at you, sweetheart. All that righteous fury and nowhere to put it. Should’ve just let us take care of you sooner. You’re in it now, sweetheart.” His voice was warm, playful, but there was no mistaking the hunger underneath. “You’re ours.”

You should’ve pushed them away.

But instead you reached for Shanks, clinging to his shoulder, moaning as Beckman’s fingers pressed harder.

“You finally broke.” Beckman’s tongue dragged across your pulse. “That means you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

They took their time stripping you after that, svoring the moment not ruahing anything.

Shanks unhooked your bra with a grin that could melt steel. Beckman slid your skirt alongside your panties down slowly, knuckles brushing the heat between your thighs as he went. And when they finally saw you bare, trembling, theirs, neither of them spoke for a long moment.

“Fuck me,” Shanks whispered. “You’re perfect.”

Beckman just pulled you into his chest.

“Get on the bed,” he said firmly against your neck.

Your knees nearly buckled at the tone.

They didn’t fight over you.

They shared.

Your head spun as you carefully crawled onto the bed and they followed right after you. Their hands were everywhere. Their mouths were heat and teeth and smoke and wine. You stopped fighting the moment you had kissed Shanks first and they were going to remind you of it. Over and over and god did it feel so much better as in your dreams because finally this became real, no longer did you have to dream about them touching, kissing and claiming you.

Shanks’ laugh was lower now, breathless against your skin.

“Hope you’re ready, sweetheart. Because this time? We’re not letting you walk away.”

“You were begging for this,” Beckman muttered against your skin, his hand already dragging up your thigh. “Every time you gave us that little glare. Every time you stood there trying not to stare back,” he continued before kissing you.

“You’re beautiful,” Shanks murmured, dragging his mouth between your breast. “Been thinking about this for too damn long,” he admitted before he continued down your stomach until he ended up sucking bruises to the inside of your thighs while Beckman rolled your nipples between his fingers, voice rough in your ear, praising every sound you made.

A very undignified one left your lips the moment Shanks leaned closer to your core, breath hot on your soaked, twitching cunt and his tongue licked a long stripe over it. Your back arched and Beckman pressed you back down onto the bed his fingers never stopping their relentless but sweet torment on your nipples.

The first few licks were slow, up your slit, over your clit, swirling in a deliberate, commanding loop and you choked on a moan making Shanks smirk against you before he began to devour you.

No hesitation. No rhythm but total worship, he cherished the way you twitched under him, the noises you made and the way you tasted. He fucked you with his mouth like it was a sentence. His tongue drove inside, deep, every flick carrying a pulse of heat that felt like it was burning you from the inside out, all while Beckman kept his focus on your nipples and his lips on your neck and collarbone. It was overwhelming to say the least.

You cried out, clutching uselessly at the sheets as your hips tried to escape.

One of Beckman’s hands moved down on your pelvis to keep you from squirming so much.

“Don’t run from it,” he growled. “Take it, enjoy it sweetheart let us worship you like you deserve.”

Shanks groaned into you the vibration of it sending shivers through you. He made you scream with hot licks, teasing flicks and hard sucks until his nose buried into your clit and his tongue dove even deeper into you. Your thighs instinctively tried to close around his head trapping him there as you moaned and felt like you were going to explode.

“Louder,” he said between laps. “Let them hear how good a pirate can make you feel,” Shanks teased.

You couldn’t breathe, you didn’t want to, your hips grinded towards his mouth, chasing friction, and the second he let you chase it you exploded.

Your orgasm hit like fire.

You screamed. Legs locking. Back arching. You gushed over his face, shaking violently and Shanks kept you there, kept licking letting you ride it out while Beckman bit down on your nipples intensifying the sensation.

You were panting, thighs soaked, clit throbbing, brain fogged with pleasure so deep you were barely aware of your surroundings.

Shanks now lay beside you, brushing sweat-soaked strands from your cheek with the gentlest fingers, while Beckman pushed off the bed, shirt undone, dark eyes fixed on your thighs, still parted from the orgasm they had coaxed out of you.

“You still breathing, sweetheart?” Shanks grinned, biting at your lower lip.

You gave a choked, needy sound that only made Beckman smirk.

“She can take more.”

“I know she can,” Shanks said, voice rough now. “Question is, where do we want her first?”

You didn’t even care anymore.

“Please,” you breathed, reaching out, thighs clenching. “I don’t care—just keep going—”

Beckman knelt between your legs so fast you gasped, broad hands curling beneath your knees, spreading you open. His gaze was calm but dark, intense and full of quiet control.

“You’ll take both of us,” he said simply. “You want both so we’re gonna give you us both.”

You nodded helplessly, back arching as he trailed two fingers down over your soaked cunt and Shanks leaned down to mouth at your breasts, tongue hot and greedy, teeth catching the soft flesh of your nipple until you whimpered and he hummed around it like it was a reward.

“Then let us show you what that means.”

Beckman’s teeth grazed your neck. His palm settled between your legs in an almost possessive way.

“Tell me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmured, though his fingers were already finding you wet again. “Otherwise, I’m going to take what you’ve been teasing us with since the first day you opened that pretty mouth and made us fall for you.”

You didn’t tell him to stop, you didn’t want him to.

Shanks chuckled low, his hand cupped your jaw, turning your face toward him and kissing you as Beckman’s fingers kept working you open, slow but relentless.

Beckman’s hand didn’t stop moving between your legs, fingers slicking through heat that made you bite down on Shanks’ lip harder than you meant to. Both of them groaned like it was the sound they wanted all along.

“You’re making a mess of yourself on my hand, Officer,” Beckman breathed at your ear, his fingers finally sinking inside with a stretch that made your knees buckle. “Still pretending you’re above this?”

Shanks broke the kiss with a laugh. “Not anymore. Look at her, Beck. Desperate and we’ve barely touched her.”

“Tell me how many times did you dream of this, our hands burning against your skin, our lips marking you and us taking you, claiming you,” he asked deliciously low, hand never stopping it’s movement.

You couldn’t answer, you were so overwhelmed but the look in your eyes and the small sounds you were making was answer enough for them and they both smirked at you, a laugh escaping Shanks lips.

Beckman’s fingers kept curling just right inside you making you gasp and arch while Shanks' fingers rolled your nipple. God you were close so damn close when Beckman pressed his thumb against your clit you thought you were reaching another climax but before that sweet feeling could rush over you and tip you over the edge they stopped and smirked and then turned you over, gently, face-down, ass up, one of Beckman’s hands cradling your hip while the other cuffed your wrists behind your back with his belt. Not tight, just enough, just a reminder.

“She looks so good like this,” Shanks groaned behind you. “Gonna wreck her, Beck.”

“Not if I wreck her first.”

Before you could process what was going on you felt the tip of Beckman’s cock nudge your entrance and a moan escaped your lips.

And then Beckman finally pushed inside you, he slid inside you with one slow and long stroke that made your vision white out from the stretch. He hissed low, muttering curses and praise against your shoulder as he rocked in deep and didn’t move.

“Tight little Marine,” he growled, breath warm at your ear. “You feel this? This is what youwere running from. Us worshippi g you, making you feel good the wqy you deserve.”

You wanted to say something because honestly this was one of the nicest things someone had said to you but all that left your lips was a borken moan before Shanks’ hand was in your hair, lifting your head.

“Don’t think I’m letting you get away without tasting me,” he muttered, stroking himself as he knelt in front of you. “Open that pretty mouth.”

You obeyed.

Of course you did.

Beckman pulled back and thrust in again just as Shanks slid past your lips, thick and warm and already leaking for you. You gagged, just a little, but the moan that followed went straight down Shanks’ spine.

“She’s loving this,” Shanks gasped, hips rolling lazily. “Fucking look at her, Beck—drooling on my cock while you ruin her from behind.”

“Not ruined,” Beckman said, gripping your hips harder as he drove into you with more force now, each thrust knocking you deeper onto Shanks’ length. “Claimed.”

You weren’t just sandwiched, you were worshipped. Used but loved, in a twisted, raw but real way.

Pinned, stretched and filled in the best way.

Beckman’s low groans behind you, Shanks’ filthy praise above and you coming undone between them.

You couldn’t think, you were too overwhelmed with the hot blur of mouths and hands and being taken.

“That’s it sweetheart keep going” Shanks hissed head tilting backwards as you continued to moan around him.

His fingers curled into your hair as he fucked your mouth with smooth, shallow thrusts, groaning low when your throat took more than it should.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he said, eyes half-lidded. “You were made for this.”

You moaned around him, and that vibration nearly broke him.

“Just a little bit more….you doin so good” Shanks grunted getting closer and closer his cock pressed against the back of your throat until you felt something hot against it and him growl deeply spilling inside you.

“Fuck– swallow it all sweetheart” he panted and you obeyed as a cry tore from you when Beckman picked up the pace behind you.

Shanks pulled free from your mouth with a gasp and a grin, chest heaving but clearly pleased as he watched you and Beckman for a moment.

He watched how you were drooling from him and from the relentless pleasure Beckman inflicted.

A few more heavy thrusts and you were screaming the orgasm rushing over you as Beckman kept going, fucked you through it till he reached his own high, spilling inside you before he slowly pulled out and you collapsed onto the bed.

“Gonna need a breather?” Shanks asked and you were too exhausted to speak and instead just nodded.

“It’s okay, you’re doing so good for us” Beckman said running a warm hand down your spine, igniting every nerve ending on your skin before he untied your hands.

The two of them kept pampering and worshipping you with gentle, soft touches and kisses and you didn’t remember the last time someone treated you like this but god did it feel good.

"Don't worry sweetheart we're gonna take good care of you" Beckman breathed into your ear before kissing the spot just beneath it.

“Ready for another round” Shanks asked smugly his breath hot against your face making you tremble.

“'M ready” you rasped and Shanks looked like a kid in a candy store.

.....to be continued

Taglist: @jintaka-hane @fleetadmiralsoffice @hakiofdreams @welcome-to-the-grandline @sailing-to-laugh-tale

#one piece #shanks #benn beckman #shanks one piece #red haired shanks #akagami no shanks #shanks x reader #shanks x you #benn x reader #benn beckman x you #benn beckman x reader #one piece benn beckman #red hair pirates #one piece reader insert #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece smut #shanks op #ben beckman

201 notes · View notes

alwayssassydreamer · 3 days ago

Text

okay sorry but I think I won't get the second part ready today, just got home from an exhausting day and my brain's not functioning the way I want it to anymore.

Under Your Skin Part 1

A/N: thanks Ann(on) for requesting "a fic where Shanks and Beckman fall in love with the same marine officer? I don't really mind if you make it a poly relationship or if you choose one of them as love interests for the reader. Nsfw and FReader" I'm gonna be honest this has gotten a little put of hand and longer than intended so I decided to split it into two parts, this one is the "sweet" part no smut in there the other well that's where the nsfw stuff is happening.

I hope to get the second part posted tonight or tomorrow (it still needs some editing and I hate editing).

Word count >4200

Warnings: flirting, shanks and beck being relentless, no smut yet, implications of masturbation (nothing describe) MDNI ⚠️🔞

Characters: Shanks x FMarineReader x Beckman

Why did it have to be you?

Why did you have to end up in that damn battle months ago, stationed beside a Vice Admiral, guns drawn, your pulse loud in your ears as you faced off against the infamous Red Hair Pirates?

You were trained for this. You had faced pirates before, stared down executions and smoke and blood. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the way Shanks had looked at you, amused, intrigued, eyes shining like the sea under moonlight, even with your weapon pointed right at his heart.

What you didn’t see was Beckman behind you. His rifle was leveled to the base of your skull before you could breathe.

You remembered his voice. Low, gravelly. Calm like a death sentence.

“Don’t move, sweetheart.”

You should’ve died. But Shanks held up his hand and grinned like this was all foreplay, like you were a welcome surprise in the chaos.

“Easy, Beck. I think she likes me.”

You surrendered because apparently you didn’t plan on dying but also, because something about the look they gave you wasn’t entirely murderous. It was amused. Curious even.

And shameless.

You tried to forget about them.

You filed your report. You moved on to other assignments. But then the Red Hair Pirates docked in another Marine-controlled port a month later, supposedly a diplomatic visit. You had been sent to observe. And there they were.

Shanks winked at you across a smoky tavern table. Beckman didn’t smile as outwardly as Shanks but you caught the small twitch at the corner of his mouth and his eyes oh they lingered. They remembered you. And they didn’t just remember you, they were interested, dangerously so.

“Look who it is,” Shanks said, leaning close over your drink. “Marine sweetheart. Back to cuff me again, or just looking for an excuse to see me?”

You hated how warm your face got. You hated the way Beckman was watching you, like a man measuring his next move, like a fuse slowly burning toward something inevitable.

And it didn’t stop there.

Every few months, they’d show up again, like a storm you couldn’t predict but always felt in your bones.

Once, Shanks approached you during a festival on an Island, he held out his hand and smirked in that annoyingly charming way at you.

“Come on. You're too stiff, you should loosen up and I'm a smooth dancer”

You didn’t get to tell him to get lost before his hand grabbed yours and pulled you closer.

Beckman was watching from a few steps away, half-smirking as Shanks spinned you far too close. His hand stayed at your waist longer than necessary. His mouth brushed near your ear and you couldn't believe how tight a man with just one arm could hold you

“You sure you’re on the right side, pretty thing? You look like someone who could use a little trouble.”

You just glared at him as Shanks chuckled and kept moving you both.

“You know, Marines usually aren’t this good at dancing. Or are you making exceptions… just for me?”

“Oh shut up” you grunted and squirmed out of his grip leaving angrily.

Another time, you ended up in a standoff again, different harbor, different skirmish but instead of bullets, Beckman handed you a cigarette mid-firefight.

“You aiming to kill us again, or just looking for a reason to talk?”

And the worst part?

You didn’t know anymore.

You were a Marine. You had rules. A sense of duty. But they kept showing up in your dreams, Shanks’ lazy hand on your waist, that teasing voice in your ear and Beckman, lingering eyes, hot skin, the kind of man who’d drag his thumb along your lips just to shut you up and make you listen.

They weren’t just dangerous. They were patient. They were interested. And they were starting to wear you down.

They didn’t try to seduce you the same way.

Shanks was firelight and laughter, reckless grins and the kind of teasing that made you want to smack him and kiss him. He had no shame about the way he looked at you like he had already pictured you in his bed, tangled up in his sheets, and was just waiting for the right opportunity to make it happen.

Beckman was a different problem.

He didn’t flirt the way other men did. He didn’t need to.

He’d lean against a railing, arms folded, cigarette between his lips, and watch you like you were already his like he was just waiting for you to catch up and realize it.

It started small.

The way Shanks always gravitated toward your side during ceasefire talks or tense negotiations, despite the disapproving looks from your fellow Marines. You told yourself it was coincidence. He told you it wasn’t.

“You smell better than the rest of them,” he said once, nose crinkling playfully as he leaned closer. “Like a flower field and self-restraint.”

“You’re delusional,” you muttered.

“Maybe. But you still haven’t walked away, have you?”

He winked.

And damn it, you hadn’t.

Beckman didn’t talk much. But when he did?

It was trouble.

You found yourself alone with him once, waiting on a neutral dock for a delayed meeting. The sky was pale, the sea still. He was leaning on a crate beside you, smoking, arms loose at his sides like the world didn’t concern him.

“Shanks thinks you’re gonna fall for him,” he said without looking at you.

“He’s got a long wait,” you replied jaw tensing.

Beckman glanced over, slow and sharp. That look? That look made your spine straighten.

“He’s not wrong,” he said, low. “But he’s not the only one you should be worried about.”

He flicked ash off the side of the dock. Didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t have to but when he leaned closer his breath hot against your ear his scent driving you insane you felt the heat low in your stomach again and he didn't even do or say anything else.

It was eating at you how they tormented you, slowly and ruthlessly with justvtheir natural charm, a few well placed words and the breath of a touch.

Shanks was all about momentum.

He used your tension like a game, a string he could pull at whenever he liked.

Once, during a Marine-monitored festival, he brushed behind you in the crowd (you still had no idea how he got there without anyone noticing)

“You always look like you’re about to arrest me. It’s kind of hot,” he murmured leaning in.

“Maybe I should.”

“If it gets your hands on me? I won’t complain.”

He pulled away before you could reply, red hair vanishing into the lights, leaving your skin prickled and your heart kicking hard in your chest.

Beckman on the other hand was patient.

He didn’t make moves. He created space and waited for you to step into it.

When Shanks riled you up, Beckman was the one who grounded it with a lazy glance, a confident smirk, a brush of fingers along your wrist like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.

You once ran into him outside an outpost bar alone.

“What are you doing here?” you asked cautiously.

“Looking for you.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Didn’t ask if you were.”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you just enough to remind you how big he was. How warm. How solid.

“I don’t chase,” he said quietly. “But I don’t walk away from what I want either.”

He didn’t touch you.

But he let the silence stretch.

Let you feel the heat under his calm.

And when he finally walked away, it took your knees a few seconds to stop trembling.

You were trained for interrogation, infiltration, diplomacy under pressure.

But nothing in your manual prepared you for this.

Not the Yonko with a smile like sunrise, a smile that could melt steal and hands that hovered just shy of your skin.

Not the first mate who didn’t even have to touch you to make you feel like you already belonged to him, who could unravel you with nothing more than a look not even needing words.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure which one you wanted more.

Or if maybe the real problem was that you wanted them both.

It was supposed to be a routine patrol.

The sun was hot on the cobblestones, the air heavy with salt and chatter as townspeople moved about their day. You were half-focused, half-bored until you rounded a corner and heard his voice.

Beckman.

Low and composed, that signature calm bleeding into every syllable.

You slowed and glanced over.

There he was, standing with a handful of young men, rookies probably, giving what looked like an impromptu lesson in hand-to-hand combat. And standing beside him, grinning like a bastard and chewing on a piece of fruit, was Shanks.

Great.

Your pulse kicked up, but you kept your expression flat as you approached, arms crossed.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

Shanks turned toward you like he’d been waiting.

“Teaching, sweetheart. You’re welcome.”

“This isn’t your jurisdiction.”

“Neither is my heart, but you’ve got that too,” he said with a wink.

You ignored him, mostly, and glared at Beckman. He barely looked up.

“These kids asked how to disarm someone,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Figured I’d show them how it’s done in case they ever need to defend themselves.”

His tone was casual. Dismissive, even.

But you caught it the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the glint in his eyes. He was baiting you.

You should’ve walked away.

You meant to walk away.

But instead you scoffed, stepped closer, and muttered, “Fine. Show me.”

Shanks let out a low whistle behind you.

“Brave,” he said. “Or stupid. Could go either way.”

Beckman looked at you fully now, gaze sweeping down your frame like he was assessing a weapon. His body didn’t move but the shift in his energy hit like a ripple of heat.

“You sure?”

“I’m not some rookie,” you snapped. “Try me.”

There it was again that ghost of a smirk. You didn’t realize what you had just agreed to until he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and turned his body to the side.

“Come at me.”

You hesitated and he didn't even blink.

And now the rookies were watching.

So you went for it.

You struck, controlled, not reckless, aiming for a classic hold-and-twist. But before your fingers even reached their mark, his arm caught yours mid-air. The next second, your back hit his chest, wrists trapped in his grip and a strong, solid arm around your waist pressing you close against him and your breath hitched.

The hold wasn't painful but damn did you feel helpless and something else.

“Shit—”

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear.

His breath was warm. His body was solid. His arm flexed just enough to remind you of his strength without showing it off.

The rookies murmured in awe and Shanks chuckled.

“Damn,” the redhead drawled. “Didn’t even put up a fight. You really are soft on us.”

You twisted, trying to wriggle out of Beckman’s grip but he just adjusted his hold smoothly, bringing your wrists up higher, arching your back just slightly, your heart betrayed you by slamming against your ribs all while Shanks watched with his chin in his palm, laughing under his breath.

“You two look good together like that,” he teased and you cursed him.

You squirmed in Beckman’s grip trying desperately to break free heat pooling between your legs but he wasn't letting you go.

“This,” he said to the rookies, as if your body was nothing more than a tool for teaching, “is where most people mess up. They try to overpower instead of redirect.”

His fingers brushed over your hips as he spoke, caressing, tormenting and utterly supposed to drive you mad and it definitely worked.

Your mouth had gone dry.

You were not aroused. Nope definitely not. No you were not—

“Careful,” Shanks added lightly, tilting his head. “She’s about to start liking it.”

“She already does,” Beckman said quietly.

And you felt it, the heat behind those words. Low, certain and dangerous.

Then, just as casually as it began, he let you go.

Your body snapped forward as he released the tension, and you stepped away instinctively, chest heaving, face hot.

“Class dismissed,” Beckman said, already turning away.

Shanks followed with a wolfish grin.

“You ever wanna practice that again,” he murmured as he passed, “I volunteer as tribute.”

You stood there, breath caught in your throat, fists clenched at your sides as you watched them disappear around the corner with the rookies trailing behind in starry-eyed awe.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered if you were completely, utterly screwed.

You stormed off and onto your ship, the marines there looking at your flushed form but neither commented on it they had become used to this side of you though no one truly knew why you looked like this.

A few days later the ship had docked on neutral ground, technically, a port town that didn’t fly Marine colors or pirate flags. You knew that there was a nice quiet bar and you sure as hell needed that and a few drinks. You’d come here alone, no patrol and no orders. Just a few hours to breathe, to drown the buzzing in your head in something strong and bitter.

Each encounter with Shanks and Beckman sharpened the edges. You had tried to pretend otherwise. You told yourself it was a game, pirates playing at charm, trying to get under your skin. You weren’t falling for it.

But you hadn’t stopped thinking about them either.

Shanks, always crowding your space with that infuriating smile, voice dripping flirtation like honey over a blade. And Beckman, that deep, patient drawl that turned harmless words into something intimate, something that lived under your skin long after he walked away.

You were on your second drink when the stool beside you scraped back.

“Sweetheart.”

You didn’t need to look.

Shanks dropped into the seat next to you with the lazy arrogance of a man who had never been told no or didn’t care when he had. He leaned on the bar like he owned it, red hair framing his face, eyes bright with mischief. His hand brushed your wrist, slow and deliberate.

“Back to arrest me again?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Or just thirsty?”

“Neither,” you said flatly, not turning. “I’m here to be left alone.”

He let out a soft, disbelieving hum. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Another shape moved on your other side, slower, heavier. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Beckman.

He lit a cigarette with the same lack of urgency he used for everything, took a slow dragand exhaled smoke in a lazy plume.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, “but here you are. In this very bar. Again.”

You finally glanced at him.

His smirk wasn’t wide like Shanks’. It was small. Dangerous. The kind of smile that made your thighs clench without warning.

“Makes a man wonder.”

Your jaw tightened.

“It’s a free port,” you snapped. “I didn’t come here for either of you.”

“Mm,” Shanks said, clearly not buying it. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “That why you wore that little number? All done up in your off-duty coat and skirt like you want someone to peel it off?”

You rolled your eyes. “You think everything’s about you.”

“Not everything,” he said. “Just the things that matter.”

Beckman chuckled quietly beside you. “She’s flustered.”

“Am not,” you bit out.

“Sweetheart,” Beckman said around his cigarette, eyes glinting under the low lights, “you haven’t touched your drink since we sat down. Either you’re scared it’ll go to your head, or you’re already there.”

That got under your skin.

You downed the rest of the drink in one go, slammed the glass back on the bar, and turned toward them.

“What do you want?”

Shanks tilted his head, looking almost innocent. “What makes you think it’s about what we want?”

Beckman leaned in just slightly, the smoke curling between you.

“We’re just enjoying the company,” he said, voice soft enough to make your skin crawl in the best way. “Watching you lie to yourself. It’s entertaining.”

You swallowed hard.

It was getting hot, too hot. Not from the tavern, not from the drink. From them. Their heat was deliberate. A coordinated ambush. One teasing, one slow and lethal.

Shanks grinned, sensing your pulse.

“You know what I think?” he asked, his fingers drumming lazily on the bar. “I think you came here hoping we’d be here. Because if we weren’t…” He leaned in closer, voice all silk and heat. “You’d feel worse.”

You stood up sharply, your stool scraping back with a harsh noise.

But they didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just watched.

Beckman blew out another line of smoke, eyes half-lidded, unreadable.

“See you next time,” he said.

Shanks smiled wide. “Don’t wait too long, sweetheart. You’ll miss us.”

You walked out into the night, heart pounding, heat crawling up your neck like a curse.

And god help you, you already did.

You tried to avoid them after that night.

Tried being the key word.

You buried yourself in work, in drills, in paperwork you didn’t need to do, tried hiding in your office because everything else, every encounter with them, felt like your composure unraveling one heartbeat at a time.

And they let you pretend.

For a few days.

Until the trap closed again, one charming grin, one calculated step at a time.

Beckman found you first.

Alone, late, half-off-duty, still in uniform but with your coat undone, tired, frustrated, and achingly tense. You were standing on the docks, watching the ships roll in under a gray sky when you felt him behind you.

Didn’t hear him, just felt him. That quiet, charged presence.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t turn around.

“Trying to do my job.”

“Is that what you call running?”

You did turn at that, sharp and angry. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t look fazed. Of course he didn’t he never did.

“You came to that tavern alone, knowing we’d be there. You didn’t leave because you weren’t interested.” He stepped closer. “You left because you were.”

Your throat tightened.

“What exactly do you want from me, Beckman?”

He looked at you, eyes unreadable but far from empty.

“Nothing,” he said. “Not until you start being honest with yourself.”

Then he brushed past you just a light graze of his hand across your hip as he walked away, leaving your skin burning.

Shanks on the other hand wasn’t so subtle.

You ran into him the next day, outside a market stall, bold as ever. He had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and two glasses in hand.

“You owe me a drink,” he said.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Didn’t say it was a debt, sweetheart. Just figured if I’m living in your head rent-free, you could at least offer a toast.”

You hated how easily he made you laugh. How fast he turned irritation into breathless tension.

He stepped close, too close, offering you one of the glasses.

“One drink. You don’t even have to talk. Just let me look at you.”

“You already do that.”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun when you let me.”

You didn’t take the glass.

But you didn’t move away either.

His eyes flicked to your lips. “Next time,” he said, voice rougher now, “you won’t say no.”

And you knew he was right as you walked away heart betraying how much he got to you.

But it got worse because then they both showed up.

You weren’t expecting it, at least not so fast. Not when you were already cracking under the pressure of one of them.

But they came to you at the tavern again.

Shanks slid into the empty chair beside you with a smirk.

Beckman leaned against the wall behind your seat, silent, unreadable.

And suddenly you were boxed in.

Surrounded.

Pinned.

“You’ve been distant,” Shanks murmured. “You sick, sweetheart? Or just thinking too hard?”

“Maybe she’s realizing something,” Beckman said calmly behind you. “Hard to stay objective when the enemy knows you better so good.”

You stood too fast, your chair scraping the floor. You muttered something about needing air.

Neither of them followed.

But they didn’t have to.

The heat clung to you as you walked.

The worst part? The truth of it.

You didn’t want one of them, you didn’t want to choose, hell you fucking wanted both of them.

You wanted Shanks’ fire and Beckman’s shadow, wanted the way they looked at you like they could peel you open with a glance, like they were waiting for the day you'd finally stop pretending.

And you didn’t know how much longer you could pretend because now they occupied your dreams every night you dreamt of their hands and lips on you of how good it would feel having them both.

But again you were a marine and they were purates and you, goahyou shouldn't think about them like this, dream about them, fucking touch yourself thinking of them.

And you should have known it wouldn’t end quietly.

You turned the corner near your temporary lodgings late that night after you went for a walk to clear your mind, boots soft on worn stone, heart beginning to settle when a familiar voice stopped you cold.

“There she is.”

Shanks.

You groaned under your breath, already turning to leave.

“Nope. Not tonight.”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and smooth as molasses. He followed with that swaggering gait that made your pulse stutter, that easy grin that looked too damn pleased to see you. “You’re always running. Starting to think you like it when we chase.”

You turned fast, jaw tight. “I’m not in the mood.”

He held up his hands in mock innocence. “Sure you are. You just don’t want to admit it.”

You tried to get away but another shape moved in, slower.

Beckman.

He took position on your other flank like he belonged there. Lit cigarette. Unreadable eyes. A wall of calm heat.

Nowhere to go.

“Evenin,” he said smoothly.

“Oh, come on—”

“We could follow you up there, you know,” Shanks offered, jerking his chin toward your door with a devilish grin. “Keep you company.”

You stared at him, jaw clenched. “That supposed to be a threat or an offer?”

“You’d know the difference by now,” Beckman murmured behind you.

Your skin bristled.

They were too close and god it was too much.

Shanks stepped forward, not touching but close enough to tilt his head and look at you like you were already saying yes.

“You’ve been pretending this whole time,” he said softly. “That you don’t want us. That you can keep this professional.” His smile faded, just a little. “But you can’t even look at me without biting your lip.”

That was not true you were not— ah fuck it you were biting your lip.

Damn him.

“You don’t want one of us. That’s why you haven’t picked,” he said, voice quieter than Shanks’, rougher.

You felt like the breath just left your lungs and the heat creep up your neck

They knew, of course they knew.

You’d been so careful, so composed but they were pirates. Predators. Experts in pressure and patience. They had waited, watched, learned you.

“So stop pretending, we don't mind sharing” Shanks said. “Let us in. Let it happen.”

“Or we’ll keep chasing,” Beckman added. “And you’ll keep letting us.”

Your hands were trembling at your sides. Did he just seriously say that they didn't mind sharing. Oh god that was bad. That was so…..fucking hot.

You looked at Shanks, at that fire in his eyes all teasing heat and reckless promise.

You looked at Beckman, the calm certainty in his stare, a promise of possession, slow and steady and inevitable.

And god help you did you want the two of them right there, especially after it became clear they didn’t mind having you between them.

Fuck the heat became unbearable the images of your dreams, you between them, their hands all over your body, their lips claiming you flashing before you and making everything worse right now. The chaos and the control. The way they saw you, knew you, unpeeled you without ever truly laying a hand on you.

You backed up toward your door because you needed to get away before you were doing something reckless.

They didn’t follow, at least not yet.

“Get some sleep,” Beckman called after you, voice quieter now. “You’re gonna need it.”

Shanks just smiled as you fumbled with your keys, pulse loud in your ears.

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

You shut the door behind you with shaking hands and leaned against it, biting your lip and running one hand through your hair.

You didn’t sleep that night though, not much.

You burned and the two of them kept occupying your mind. The fire under your skin and the way thinking of them caused your thighs to clench together because god how you wanted them.

......to be continued

#shanks #benn beckman #x reader #reader insert

284 notes · View notes

alwayssassydreamer · 3 days ago

Text

FIC REC!!!! DEFINITELY THIS WHOLE STORY IS SOOO GOOD.

Thatch is the sweetest man ever 🥹 god I love how thought through this story is and how so many Whitebeard commanders are in it. I'm mad at myself for not reading it sooner though 😩

I love every chapter of it but this one is really....special and it has nothing to do with Thatch having chest hair, a happy trail, his hair around his neck and tattoos, nope definitely not. Not me squealing as i picture him like this. Nope, those unholy sounds are not coming from me. 🥵😍

Hey Doll

CisFem Reader x Thatch

CW: toxic parents, manipulation, The Plan™, smut, mdni, I'll add as we go I'm kind of fly by the seat of my pants on this one.

tag list: @mfreedomstuff @harahettania @clumsyraccoon

Chapter 18: Close

With your wrist, Thatch didn’t want to push you to go clothes shopping before the Opera. One of your dresses was close enough to an evening gown to pass for it, and with a pair of long gloves from Izou it completed the look well. He had worked with you the last couple days to help you sort out an easy hair do and some simple makeup that you could do without hurting your wrist.

You wanted to look as good as you could, but you didn’t want Thatch to pay someone to dress you up. Thatch was, by his own words, good at decorating cakes, but he didn’t have any practice applying so much as lipstick, so there wasn’t much he could do to help. He was pretty good with doing hair, between himself and Izou, he’d gotten enough practice, which gave you more options for your hair for the date.

It was comforting, that Izou had been willing to help you right up until it was time for you and Thatch to leave. There were nerves all around, not just because of the date, but because of everything else, and facing that weight just between you and Thatch felt like too much.

No one had brought it up directly since dinner at Pops’ house, but it loomed regardless. You hoped that someday soon you could go on a date with Thatch purely because the two of you wanted to go on the date.

“Well.” Izou declares a little more loudly than needed, clearing his throat as he motions for you both to leave. “You both ought to get going. It’s a long drive to the hotel, and you’ll want to stop and get something to eat before you settle in.”

“Ah, yeah.” Thatch clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” you reply, putting your hand in his. “Let’s shall.”

“You said that at the hospital,” he muses, the two of you heading out of the apartment and to the parking deck. “It’s cute.”

“I picked it up from an old cartoon show.” You admit, falling silent for a few moments before elaborating. Thatch was good at staying quiet until you were ready to say more, and you weren’t sure how he seemed to know when there was more you wanted to say.

“My… my parents aren’t fond of it.” Clearing your throat softly, you look away from Thatch, whose eyes had gone a little wide.

“Then it can be for us, yeah?” He prompts, opening the passenger door for you.

You smile as you get settled into the car. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Izou sighs when the two of you finally leave. You were both horrifically adorable and so deep in love it was disgusting. He’d seen Thatch flush a time or two over the years, but the big lug was so smitten with you he’d probably walk himself into a volcano if you asked him.

Of course, you were just as stricken. You might not be as expressive as most people, but Izou could tell. The shift in your feet, the small movements from someone forced to stay as still as possible. If Izou’s match matched him half as well as the two of you got along, he’d be a lucky man.

He was glad for the distraction, he and Thatch were worried about you asking why he was staying in the apartment. Though, he figured even if you hadn’t been distracted, you were probably still too timid to have pressed the issue.

But now is when his part in things was going into action. Izou placed a few cameras in the most discreet places he could find, using some of the stuff he’d added to his makeup bag to camouflage them even more. The tech was top end, Haruta and Marco had pulled together every micro camera and microphone they could find.

Izou was sure your parents weren’t going to waste any time, but he was also hoping they were smart enough to at least wait a few minutes after Thatch’s car left the apartment complex before coming in. He didn’t need much time, but he still needed a few minutes himself. If they were smart they’d come in at two or three in the morning when you were both miles away and fully asleep.

But Izou was certain if there were any brains behind this “Plan” it wasn’t your parents.

The small little safe in Thatch’s closet had been emptied of anything useful, not that there was much in there to begin with. But the spare set of master keys to the bakery, and Pops’ house had been relocated to Vista’s care for now, and important paperwork for the apartment itself was just added to the lock box at the bank Thatch used for his really important paperwork.

All that was in there now was a decent bit of cash, a watch that looked like it might be worth something, and a few other bits and bobs no one was going to miss. The question was if they were going to realize that the knock off Rolex had a GPS tracker in it.

Thatch had been willing to use his Nardin, but Izou was pretty sure that your parents wouldn’t know a real decent watch, so much as they would drool over the name etched into the band. Besides, Pops had actually bought that for Thatch, and Izou didn’t want your parents to so much as know it existed. Thatch probably didn’t either, but was willing to risk it if it would make a difference.

He was done and out of your apartment before Thatch had hit the expressway.

-:-

“Alright, I texted them.” You say, holding onto the phone.

“Wouldn’t they, I don’t know, worry about me seeing the phone?” He asks.

“I sent it from my new one.” Your voice is flat when you answer, but Thatch can hear the sadness in it. “They wanted…” Trailing off, you look down at your hands, and the phone you’re holding. Your wrist is wrapped still, a reminder of how the earlier part of the week had gone.

“I’m sorry.” The words are small, but the guilt wrapping around your heart feels large.

Thatch has never had a harder time keeping his eyes on the road. “What for? I’m not mad. Your folks wanted your new number, that makes sense.” He tries to say it lightly, as though your folks were concerned for you, and not trying to control you. Reaching over carefully he pats your hand.

“It’ll be alright, doll.” He says reassuringly. “Pops and Izou are really good at dealing with these kinds of people, and Marco’s not half bad at it either. Between ‘em and the rest of my family, we’ll get it sorted out. No matter what happens, I won’t let your parents take you away.”

“… I’m more worried that they’ll hurt you.”

“I’ll be careful.” He says, patting your hand again, leaving his fingers draped over yours. “I’m pretty strong, but I won’t let my guard down either.”

“Thank you.” Putting your injured hand over his, your fingers tap against the back of his hand. He’s tall and broad, and you keep marveling at just how big he is. You can fit almost your entire hand inside the palm of his.

Your mind shifted to the idea of him holding a small kitten. Somehow you could see him nearly in tears over the tiny creature in his hand. Which, logically, shifted to the idea of him being buried under a pile of kittens.

You could probably sleep on him that way.

Flinching at your own thought you turn and look out the window, very clearly aware of Thatch’s hand on yours. Your fingers against his. The warmth. The size.

The idea that in a few hours you would be in a hotel with him, sleeping in the same room. Your poor mind ran away before you could grab a hold of it and the idea of him sleeping in nothing but sweatpants nestled itself neatly in your thoughts.

“Everything alright, doll?” Thatch questions, a small note of concern in his voice.

“Y-yes!” You nearly squeak the word, looking over at him before you can stop yourself. He’s glanced from the road for a split second and caught your gaze, before you look away again. Your hands are still around his and despite your thoughts you don’t want to relinquish your hold.

“It’s fine, it’s - my mind just wandered.” You try your best to explain.

“Nervous about sharing a room?” He prompts and you can’t stop yourself from flinching. It wasn’t exactly on the mark, but it was pretty close.

You aren’t really sure what to say. Yes isn’t exactly the right answer, but it’s not the wrong one either. While you’re still trying to sort out how to reply, Thatch beats you to it.

“I can probably reserve a second room when we get there.”

“You don’t have to,” you assert, holding onto his hand. You still can’t look at him, but you don’t want him to get the wrong idea. “I trust you, I’m not nervous about that.”

“I-.” Thatch starts.

“I was thinking about you being buried under a bunch of cats.” You blurt out.

“- huh?”

“I… don’t know where it came from, but it felt like you and the cats would be comfortable,” you continue, pulling your hands away from Thatch’s hand to cover your face. “And th-then I… I… thought that I could sleep that way.”

Thatch is nearly biting through his lip, trying not to make any sound. He cannot wreck the car, and he doesn’t want to interrupt your random confession. He had certainly day dreamed about you napping on his chest before.

Not always in a chaste way, but more often than not. Part of it was looking forward to you being that comfortable around him. Part of it was the idea of falling asleep while your fingers combed through his chest hair while he held you.

“Do you… I mean,” you swallow thickly, lightly placing your hands on top of his. “You wear pajamas, yes?”

Thatch can’t stop a sound from escaping him this time. Somewhere between a clipped laugh and an odd sound of relief. The sound in your voice was hard to place, but the idea that you were worried about that of all things, was adorable.

“Even if I didn’t usually, I’d definitely wear some while sharing a room.” He assures you. “I can wear a whole suit to bed, if you want me to.”

“Oh no, you can wear what- whatever.” You stammer, tucking both of your hands under his and keeping your eyes on the top of his hand. It was much safer to look there than anywhere else right now.

“Well now I wish I’d packed that lacy thong,” Thatch says with a smile, laughing when he catches you looking up at him in disbelief out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry for teasing you, doll.” He hums, patting the top of your hand.

You were going to have a heart attack before you reached the motel.

But… it was also very comforting. In the face of everything else, being able to talk and be silly and honest. You wanted to be as honest as you could with Thatch, after he accepted you hiding the phone with such kindness it seemed silly to keep anything from him.

While honesty was the goal, admitting to him that you would like to see him in a thong, was not something you could say right now.

-:-

“Tch.” Izou clicked his tongue, watching the camera feeds on the monitor. He barely made it back to the manor before he’d gotten a beep for motion in the apartment. “Amateurs.”

Three people. He was pretty sure that the lady was your mom. They had sense enough to wear maintenance uniforms, and honestly he had half-expected them to be dressed in black like stage ninjas. They weren’t saying anything, just moving though the apartment systematically.

Or what they must have considered to be systematic.

The door opens and Izou looks over to see Marco come into the room.

“They’re in there already?” His tone is disbelieving.

“Yes. In general maintenance uniforms, and, I think gardening gloves.” Izou hums.

“General maintenance? It’s a secure apartment complex.” Marco snorts, handing Izou an uncapped bottle of beer. “Are they… are they really going to go through every cupboard?”

“Seems so.”

“What do you think they’re look- oh.” He points to the screen, pulling Izou’s attention over. “Is he doing what I think he is, yoi?”

“I think so.” Izou agrees. If he’s not mistaken your mom’s putting a bug under the sink.

“Amateurs.”

Izou chuckles, taking a drink. “What in the seas are they looking for?”

“They aren’t just bugging the place, yoi?” Marco’s words are mumbled and Izou looks over to see him eating a sandwich.

“I don’t think so, did you make enough for the class, or are you completely devoid of-.” Izou’s words cut off when Marco hands him a sandwich. “Thank you.”

“Mm.” He hums. “Ah, there she goes.”

The two watch as your mother drags a chair into Thatch’s bedroom.

“I know we need to see why they wanted in there, but this feels disgusting.” Izou grumbles.

“Shame Thatch’s chairs are so sturdy.” Marco agrees, as she gets the safe slid to the edge and hands it off to one of the others who are with her. “I don’t see the bastard.”

“Yeah, those two are too small.” Izou agrees. “Look though, did you see that?”

“The tattoo? Yeah. That’s a problem.”

“You think these idiots are actually a part of that organization?” Izou prompts and Marco shrugs.

“Ballsy to have that tattoo and not be, but you’d think he’d be pickier.” He agrees. “If her family owes him money, he’s not going to leave her out of it.”

“He’s going to when he realizes who she’s marrying.” Izou retorts, looking up at Marco. “That isn’t a war he’s going to want.”

“You don’t think he already knows?” Marco raises a brow.

Izou shrugs. “I don’t think offering to sell their daughter was part of his plan, he would’ve just sold her himself. So either these guys are working with her parents off the books, and this is less of an issue, or-.”

Marco sighs. “I’ll text Thatch to be on his guard.”

“And-.”

“And call up Saber, yeah? He’s up in that area, yoi.”

“I’ll see if Brocca and Nosgari can’t sort out more about these two helping her… huh.”

Marco looks over at Izou, who’s watching the screens. They had been working on getting the small safe open and had finally succeeded. There was some squabbling over the money, Izou could hear them, but the words weren’t anything important. He could listen in later, but he wasn’t surprised to see them finally divvying up what was in there.

Mother dearest took the watch and half the cash, leaving the other two to divide the other half amongst themselves.

“The next time we see her dad, he’s gonna be wearing that thing.” Marco says flatly, and Izou hums in agreement.

“I’ll bury him with it, if that’s the case.” Izou murmurs. “What are they putting in there?”

“Looks like pictures. Go look later if you’re curious.” Marco says. “I’ll let Thatch know there’s something in there.”

“They put up their own surveillance.” Izou grumbles.

“You’re going to say that to me with a straight face, yoi,” Marco clicks his tongue. “They put one behind the plant. They’re not going to be able to see anything, and if they placed those other ones like they did in the sink, they’re not gonna hear shit either.”

“Damn him!” Izou growls and Marco looks away from the phone back to the monitors. One of the lackeys tagging along was tucking your underwear in his pocket, before slipping something under your pillow.

-:-

The hotel room that Thatch had booked was the nicest hotel room you’d think you’d ever seen. It wasn’t a big suite, but there was more space than you expected. It was a little more than just a room with two beds in it and a bath. There was a sizable TV, a table and a couple chairs, a small couch, and a kind of coffee bar.

It wasn’t big enough to be a kitchen space, but it was a little counter with just enough space for a coffee maker and some packets of coffee and tea set up around it.

Admittedly, it might have simply felt nice because you were in far better company than you had ever been in. Thatch had stopped at a place for dinner that looked like a greasy spoon, but the food had been really good, and the people had seemed nice. People looked at Thatch, but not for the same reasons they looked at your parents, and you hadn’t realized how much of an effect it had on how you had perceived groups of people.

It was almost nerve-wracking how peaceful everyone seemed. As though it was a farce and at any moment they were going to become violent, but you didn’t have a chance to over think anything. Thatch talked about the business, and some of the other dishes they had, talked about the cooking techniques used, and how he almost opened a fusion place instead of a bakery.

You were pretty sure he was trying to distract you, and you welcomed it. Just the sound of Thatch’s voice seems to pull your heart rate down.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you listen to the shower turn off. Thatch had said that a shower would help his muscles relax after the few hours of driving, and it would give you some time to yourself. A hot shower or bath actually sounded really good, and you decided you’d take one after he was done, setting your pajamas next to yourself.

Other sounds told you that he was blow drying his hair, and probably brushing his teeth. The idea of Thatch doing his cooking dance while he brushed his teeth made you smile. Maybe one day your routines would be routine enough you’d get to see if it was something he did.

Thatch steps out of the bathroom and your brain stutters.

His hair’s damp, loose around his neck and shoulders, and it still looks good on him. You’d seen that much before back at his father’s home, but now he was in nothing else but some sweat pants.

The muscles you knew were beneath his clothes were quite visible. He wasn’t aesthetically muscular, but instead more functionally. The build of a man who could carry 400lbs of flour in one trip even if his employees stopped him at 200lbs.

What surprises you the most are the tattoos.

Wrapping up his arms and around his shoulders. Hugging his waist, and curling under the thick hair on his chest. Pretty much everywhere that his shirts could cover up, except his stomach. There was a trail of coarse hair from his bellybutton down past the band of his pants and somehow the lack of tattoos there was hotter.

Thatch looks from your stunned expression and down to his bare chest. There’s a brief moment where he’s thinking he should’ve worn a shirt, and then it dawns on him.

“You didn’t see my matchbook.” He mutters the words. “Sorry, doll, I should’ve told you about the tattoos.”

“Tat— That…” Your mouth opens and closes a couple times and you finally manage to peel your eyes away from him. Looking over at your pajamas and picking them up hastily. “A shower sounds like a good idea, yes.”

Thatch steps aside as you walk by him and into the bathroom. You give him one more glance, notice him noticing you, and close the door before the heat in your face starts to show. Even if the easy smile on his face was enough for you to know he knew.

Thatch looks up at the ceiling when the door closes, putting the small towel in his hands against his face and trying not to make a noise. You looked so cute! He knew you thought he was handsome, or at least not ugly, but for a second he’d been worried the tattoos were going to make you uncomfortable. He’d kept them hidden the first few days because you had enough going on, and sometimes people had strong opinions on tattoos.

Walking over to the A/C unit along the underside of the window, he drapes the small hand towel over the back of one of the chairs, and cranks the unit up to full, standing over it as the sounds of the shower turn on.

#thatch one piece #Hey Doll #x reader #reader insert

17 notes · View notes

alwayssassydreamer · 4 days ago

Text

Under Your Skin Part 1

Part 2 | Part 3 (not yet posted)