Archive of Our Own ^beta

Time: 9 AM.

Location: Amber Beach, Helius Island, New World.

Weather: Relatively balmy. A few clouds in the sky. A consistent breeze. The Sun was merciful.

Surroundings: Striped hammocks tied to tall palm trees. A smouldering bonfire prevailed, its embers sporadically sparkling. Empty, littered provisions on the ground. Scattered people.

Personal stats (you): Awake and sober. But terribly tired.

General stats (group): Still hungover. Still asleep. Still sprawled.

Woof.

Wow, what a night!

That’s what the Red-Haired Pirates will probably declare once their soma and their psyche properly reconnect.

Cheerful.

Ugh, what a night…

That’s what you were already cringing about as you stirred on the gritty sand, your brain throbbing, your spine aching, and your hair sticking into awkward directions.

Groggy.

It's not like you had drunk anything…

Wait, no-

Or, better said, at least it's not as much as those BRUTES you called friends had drunk!

A cup of sweet sake here. Sip.
A tankard of honey beer there. Gulp.
A glass of caramel whiskey to end. Swig.

Aaaand…nothing else.

See? Nothing too drastic.

You had been maybe a bit tipsy.

But compared to the men —who had imbibed inexpensive rum, acidic grog, vinous wine, apple cider, fruity brandy, and citric gin to excessive amounts— you had behaved like a dignified saint.

Nevertheless, you were feeling rancid.

You had neither vomited nor played the fool the evening before; you were too responsible to collapse on a desolate territory and too paranoiac to barf in a room that wasn’t the ship’s bathroom.

Although something —perhaps the mix of strong flavours mingling on your dry tongue, your (naturally) awful breath, or your dishevelled aesthetic at the moment— was making you detest your overall physical conditions.

You yawned as you rubbed your bleary eyes, intending to shake some of the exhaustion away to start your day in a decent fashion.

And then, just as you were about to sit up, a familiar pressure immobilized you, causing you to recline back on the steamy gravel with a winded huff.

“Oof-oh, right…” You murmured, glancing to your right, recognising the culprit of your forced paralysis.

Shanks.

Lovely, lovely Shanks.

Lovely…pillar of a man Shanks.

Lovely…stone sculpture Shanks.

Lovely…too-heavy-to-push-off-when-asleep Shanks.

A brick. A log. An ingot.

Uh-oh.

You stared at the sky, as if silently asking the Gods to donate you a sensible solution in morse code for your trivial, anthropoid problem.

You loved the Captain with every wild beat of your heart, every candid smile spared towards him, and every utterance of his name.

But fuck, could he be a pain to deal with sometimes.

Principally now, when all you wanted to do was fix yourself.

Truth be told though, you didn’t want to disturb his slumber.

He looked so…peaceful.

So beautifully peaceful.

You scanned him.

A mortal admiring a celestial deity.

A simple plebeian admiring an acclaimed Legend.

His mahogany-coloured mane gently swayed thanks to Zephyrus’s help, the red bangs were screening his vision, and the slicked strands were plastered to his temples, gifting him a tousled yet harmonious appearance.

His lids fluttered with each flash of sunlight that passed through, his lashes were brushing the area beneath his closed eyes, the triple set of angry scars were slightly creased, and his brows were faintly knitted.

His straight nose sported a tiny new sunburn, the corner of his mouth was tugged to the left into a semi-pout, his jaw was lax yet taut, and his pencil-thin stubble was framing his lips in the form of a bedraggled circle.

His broad chest rose and fell with every puff of air he took, his white shirt having been split open during the previous night’s activities, golden buttons were undone, and the tanned flesh was exposed for you and the whole world to drool over if desired to.

His hairy legs twitched subtly, their position akin to a lion cub curled against its chosen companion, his pants were rumpled and rolled up to his knees, the imprints were wrinkled into strange, swirly patterns, and his (awful) sandals were nowhere to be found.

And, yes, his arm.

His sole yet powerful arm was coiled around your waist.

Ironclad. Unyielding. Protective.

As if you were to vanish into specks of dust if he weren't too careful during his somnolent state.

While you were certainly allured by the Pirate’s magnetic calmness, your mind was reminding you that you had important human necessities to attend to.

Right.

You needed to be straightforward.

Or else you were NOT going to be able to break free from him.

“Shanks, hey…” You whispered, rolling onto your side to acknowledge him. “Can you let go of me, please?” You asked him, tapping on his scarred half to get a minuscule fragment of his attention. “I wanna get up…”

Shanks, far from conscious, grumbled at your deft touch and scrunched his face, upset.

“Ngh, wha…what?” The Emperor replied above a mumble, confusion evident in his rough, drowsy voice. “What is…what is it, baby?” He inquired, not even bothering to move, only smacking his lips.

You simpered at him, humoured.

“I wanna get up…” You repeated your innocent wish, tracing the three scars that decorated his profile, almost to soothe his interrupted, well-deserved rest. “Can you let go of me, please? I want to freshen myself before the others wake up…” You explained your reasons for abandoning him, your fingers drifting to caress his square chin.

Shanks, even if appeased, did not relinquish you.

In fact, his senses got sharper, his grip tightened, and his frown deepened.

“Whaaaa, huh? You wanna get up?” The man echoed your ridiculous request, sluggishly pulling you towards him, practically squashing you against his firm thorax. “Why do you wanna get up? You're not comfortable here?” He whined, blindly ducking his head to nuzzle the crook of your tender neck. “Can’t you stay for a bit longer? Don’t want you to go yet, sweetheart…” He added on, placing lazy, miscalculated kisses across the length of your throat.

You stifled a giggle at his persuasive pecks.

Despite such pleasing tokens of endearment, you were set on exercising your individual demands.

“Red- hm, I want to look presentable, is all…!” You answered, tipping your head back to welcome his wispy smooches, squirming when he nudged a sensitive spot below your ear. “Come on, you'll be without me for only a few minutes, I just need to get rid of the sand- and, ah- you're also kind of crushing me a tad too tightly…!” You phrased, referring to the manner in which his frame was ruthlessly squeezing you, consequently leaving you breathless, your lungs deflating at the pressure.

Shanks halted his ministrations on your warm dermis when you mentioned your discomfort.

He planted one final, feathery kiss on your neck and withdrew.

Slowly, languidly so, as if annoyed by your obstinate attitude so early in the morning.

He blinked, his dark vermillion irises hazy and his pupils unfocused while he attempted to concentrate on the blurry image of you.

The Captain peered at you but did not pronounce a word, simply judged.

The pacific waves lapped at the grainy shore, a moderate dance.
Noisy seagulls squawked in the cerulean sky, a hungry flock.
Your crewmates continued to sleep soundly, a snoring group.

A peculiar symphony.

His silence, howbeit, was lethal.

…

…

…

You sent him a wonky smile as he studied you.

“Please? I smell of booze, sweat, and fish, because…” You gestured to the cloth underneath your two intertwined silhouettes. “Well, we’re basically lying on the sand rather than on our towel…”

Indeed, due to the constant tossing and turning, the towel now seemed to be filled with nothing but the pieces and parts of the beach itself.

“So, I'll grab my stuff, rinse, and return to you in a jiffy.” You coaxed him, craning your head to assess his expression, which had softened a fraction but remained rejective at the sound of your proposal.

Not a syllable was articulated.

You sighed, fondly irked at the unusual mute treatment. “You keep on sleeping, alright? Keep on dreaming whatever you were dreaming, Shanks…” You suggested, leaning forward to kiss his lips…even if they tasted horribly.

They tasted…as you had expected them to taste, anyway.

Sour. Tangy. Bitter.

Alcoholic.

But, hey, they were his lips.

Lips attached to an attractive face, which were simultaneously attached to an attractive body, which were simultaneously attached to an attractive person.

A small sacrifice for the price of your freedom.

The redhead hummed as your pretty mouth pressed against his, inevitably caught off guard.

And soon, his limbs relaxed.

His arm surrendered its taut clutch.

However, it did not forsake you, for it began roaming.

A sailor enchanted by a siren, a siren that was within his reach.

Not a siren to capture.

But a siren to cherish.

“I was dreaming about you, actually…” Shanks purred, slithering his large hand along the curve of your waist, his fingers tracing the fabric of your wrinkled shirt. “Dreaming about you laughing- quite hypnotic, really…” He confessed, parting to observe your visage as the sun’s golden glow accentuated your most prominent features.

You offered him another smile, one that conveyed your amusement…and your barely disguised adoration.

“Well, seek my laughter again while I…” You drawled, using your palm to pat his own on your covered flank —an obvious spur— and meticulously placed it on the towel. “Go and ditch my impurity, hm?”

Your lover pouted.

Profusely.

And grunted.

The sight could not be more absurd.

He was an Emperor of the Sea for Gods’ sake!

An Emperor —out of four selected worldwide— who was feared and respected beyond the coastline.

You burn his flag? He burns your ship.
You invade his realm? He kills the felons.
You rake his title through the mud? He confronts you in combat.

And yet?

Here he was, scowling like a petulant child whose precious candy was denied.

As if he were a cabin boy on the Oro Jackson during Roger's ‘Pirate King’ era again.

The young lad who argued with Buggy over trifles and stole chocolate to satiate his sweet tooth at night.

That boy, you didn’t have the privilege of witnessing.

But somehow, you believed that brat was with you in the present.

In all his insolent glory.

“And ditch me, too?” He grouched, spinning to lie on his back, glowering even further when you decided to sit up and clap the intrusive sand off your garments. “You're gonna be that cruel, woman?”

Excuse him?

Woman???

What a horrid pet name!

The man was utterly unbelievable.

You couldn’t help but snort at his dramatic antics.

“Are you deaf? I said I would return to you in a jiffy, dummy!” You exclaimed quietly, flickering his temple. “See? You are soooo sleepy, it's too cute!” You coed, pinching his cheek, which caused him to grimace. “Seriously though, catch on some more sleep and count to…fifteen? Fifteen minutes, that’s how long I'll be away from you.” You advised at last, rising to your feet, opting to stall your teasing.

Shanks put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the overbearing sun and scrutinised you, his gaze narrowed, displeased.

“You’d better- you're my pillow, you know?” He threatened, nudging your ankle with his wiggling toes. “I don’t want my pillow to go too far away and get in trouble…”

You were acutely aware he adored to rest his skull on… whatever portion of your body you were willing to provide him with.

Your stomach? Instant bliss.
Your lap? A favourite of his.
Your bosom? Restrain him-

You chuckled and nodded, definitely not taking his warning too seriously. “I know, I know, I'm a lifesaver, bla bla bla, thank you, baby, I love you too,” you taunted smugly, stationing your paws akimbo, your stance boastful. “The compliment is duly treasured, I'm truly honoured to be your pillow.”

In your rightful defence, you had learnt that from him.

You had learnt to be foxy after so many years together.

To his dismay.

Shanks exhaled at your cockyness and rotated to his side once again, shifting to adjust on the empty towel, the lack of your familiar weight beside him already succeeding in pestering him.

“Agh, whatever, I guess you're free to go…” He maffled, his tone gruff and lethargic. “But I'll be counting those fifteen minutes, so, be afraid…” He concluded, peevish in disposition, and words slurred.

Victory.

You grinned down at him, triumphant.

You had tamed the beast!

What an accomplishment.

“Yes, I swear, fifteen minutes,” you promised, discerning your bag of supplies adjacent to the dead bonfire. You briefly crouched to grasp it, the texture leathery, the pockets fairly clean, and the straps (miraculously) unsoiled. “Don’t miss me too much.” You bade him farewell, blowing him a kiss, and departed.

The Captain groaned and dismissed you with a wave of his single palm.

And now?

Now the real fun commenced.

You valued your alone time just as much as your time with him and the crew.

You liked to balance the tranquility with the chaos.

50/50.

Excitement and serenity guaranteed.

You put on your flip flops, which were farther away than you had anticipated them to be, and sauntered towards the Red Force, your gait unhurried, your steps easy, your pace steady.

Your gaze roved across the tropical landscape.

You took in the various hues which characterised Amber Beach.

Some greens: the imposing palm trees and fruits surrounding the area.
Some yellows: the sand and the blazing sun.
Some reds: crabs and other crustaceans waltzing.
Some cyans: the sky and the crystalline ocean.
Some greys: the rocks and extra geodes…

An organic masterpiece.

Almost virginal in essence.

As far as you knew, not a lot of sailors have touched Helius Island.

The equatorial arena was neither sketched on many maps nor was it often written about in parchments.

Which made sense considering the unspoiled environment in front of you.

So rich and abundant in its flora and fauna.

Thus, once the ship emerged in your field of vision —the wooden vessel firmly anchored—, you halted.

You realised you had two options, both of them equally appealing to your imagination.

Number one: either you could board the Red Force, amble to your chambers, take a cold shower, and go back to Shanks and your men —who would most likely be awake by then.

Or…

Number two: you could walk towards camp again, avoid the members as silently as possible, go straight to that beauteous cave you had discovered during your short visit (do not worry, your group had deemed its perimeter safe), and take a temperate shower under its splendorous waterfall.

Number one or number two?

The first choice was routinary, and it certainly assured you contentment.

The second choice was a thrilling alternative, and it undoubtedly assured you gratification.

Hm…

‘Oh, what the hell.’

The cave it is.

With a new mission in mind, you slung your bag over your shoulder, turned on your heels and paved your path to your next destination.

The ‘fifteen minutes’ vow you had sworn to fulfil faded, and was rapidly replaced by your determination to bathe beneath one of nature’s veils.

Off the beaten track.

Whenever would you get a chance like that?

In a matter of three days, after having scavenged for chemical-free stock, you would embark and sail the Seas again, where towns and villages awaited, where allies and foes awaited.

It wasn’t a sin to be selfish, was it?

You were not being selfish.

Plus, you were alone, you recalled.

Temporarily solo. Unchaperoned. Solitary.

As presumed, your party was still asleep by the time you approached them again.

You examined the populated terrain.

Nothing had changed.

Inertia.

Especially Shanks, for his eyelids stayed shut and his features slack.

Perfect.

So perfect.

Perhaps too perfect.

But anyways.

He would not notice your absence.

And that was your prime objective.

Giddy, you padded along the sand, renewed with energy, in search of your paradisiacal goal, which was located merely a few meters away from your sunny venue.

Your footwear left visible imprints on the granular ground.
Your nostrils distinguished a rare thermal aroma.
Your eardrums detected the unique aquatic drop.

Eventually, there, right there…

You arrived.

Lo and behold.

The picturesque lair.

Thanks to the hour, approximately ten o’clock AM, thus a little preliminary to noon, the cave was adequately illuminated, granting you a spectacular view of its interior.

It looked…

Gods, it looked like a magical sanctuary.

Bewitching to the senses.

With its iridescent mushrooms in every corner, its effervescent pond, its translucent ale, its icicle-cut stalactites.

It seduced you.

Who were you to disobey its seraphic allure?

You were a creature composed solely of a skeleton, muscles, and organs.

And in desperate need of a bath.

So?

You did the next best thing.

Setting your sack of stored goods (basically an arrangement of berri coins, an unfilled flask, and bandaids) down on the soil, where grass grew and tiny flowers bloomed, you tentatively moved towards the pool.

Not cautiously.

Rather in awe.

Appreciating the mystical ambiance.

Your mirror image mimicked you as you knelt shy of the shore, your portrait deformed due to the pacific stream passing by, a conspicuous product of the cascade’s effects.

You dipped your hand into the limpid water, your fingers gliding the multiple liquid layers, testing its temperature, testing its texture.

Flawless.

An exquisite mixture between chilly and cosy.

A wonderful blend between low viscosity and slight thickness.

You sighed, preparing.

You glanced behind you at the entrance for good measure, your perception vigilant albeit mellow.

You didn’t have your weapon with you.

But you could always fist fight any intruders who had the audacity to disrupt your privacy.

You've done that in the past.

No biggie.

You began to shed your gear.

A graceful procedure.

You disposed of your sandals, their quality light as they landed close to the lake’s edge.

You peeled off your shirt, its fabric gauzy as it was lifted above your head, soon to be tossed in the direction of a vertical-shaped rock.

You then removed your belt, its textile coarse as it was unlatched from your hips, soon to join the initial garment.

You discarded your pants, pulling them down your thighs, knees, legs, and taluses, its material linen as it bared your skin to the cavern’s delight.

Your digits fumbled with the clasp of your bra, its tissue cottony as it released your breasts from their snug confinement.

Your palms finally dragged your knickers down, their fiber silky as it exposed your intimacy to the cataract’s oglings.

In your birthday suit.

Au naturel.

Just in case, you gave the portal one last gander.

Nobody was there.

Excellent.

You submerged your shanks into the reservoir, the fashion of your steps exploratory, and shivered.

Not out of unease, but out of bliss, for the experience was too good to be true.

“Gods…” You whispered once the water escalated to your stomach, your mound hidden, but not your bosom or your clavicle. “This is really nice…” You complimented, your voice hushed while it praised the element you were currently being sheltered by.

You decided to enjoy each second of your bath, floating to shower straight beneath the liquid curtain, where algae tickled you under the surface.

You got rid of the stubborn sand until your tresses were domesticated.
You scrubbed your arms until they hurt.
You washed your face until it glimmered.

Rejuvenated, that’s what the buckets upon buckets of transparent wetness made you feel.

You smiled, thoroughly pleased at the results of your sneaky escapade.

“Ah, I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner…” You commented, closing your eyes to savour the delicate embrace of the cascade, your spine arching in an act of rudimentary gusto-

A low, low whistle reverberated.

A glissando of musical notes.

“Neither can I, to be honest…”

…!

You gasped.
You stiffened.
You didn’t dare whirl around.

On alert.

Was that…? Did you hear-

“I thought you’d be on the ship, but I should have guessed you’d take advantage of this place on your own…”

Ooh.

Son of a bitch.

You recognised that wolfish jab, that lazy drawl, that charming snicker.

Did he use his Haki so you would not notice his presence?

Hah, clever.

Cautiously, you spun, abandoning the curtain.

And there he was.

Ever mischievous and ever naughty.

Shanks, with no observable signs of his earlier drowsiness, was standing by the pond’s bank, his ankle crossed over the other, his sole hand holding a towel draped on his shoulder, his hunky figure leaning against the rock on which you had previously deposited your clothes.

Devilish.

A handsome devil in disguise.

“Hey, darlin’,” the redhead saluted you from afar, his grin wide and unabashed. “Enjoying yourself, hm?” He wondered, crinkling his orbs at the sight of you completely disrobed.

Deep, deep, deep in his cranium, he regarded you as a stunning dish to devour.

Yet, he did not approach you.

He simply waited.

You folded your arms across your chest —even if he had seen you nude countless of times before—, and played along, hip jutted, brow quirked.

“Yes, I am- though you did ruin my fun…” You deadpanned, your demeanour apparently inhospitable. “I was joyous to be accompanied by myself alone.”

Shanks winced and hissed, as if scorched by your uncommon callousness.

He rubbed his pectoral, where his fierce heart beat.

“Owch, love, I didn’t reckon you’d be this evil to your poor husband…!”

Oh, yeah!

I forgot to mention.

You two were married.

The shiny opal ring permanently posed on your finger and the rose gold band supporting the rainbow-shaded gem —plus his own golden accessory— were proof of your fidelity.

You shrugged at his theatrics, unfazed.

“Well, you were asleep, weren’t you? I did tell you I was going to rinse…” You defended your argument, gesturing to the water around you. “And I am, as you can very well see, rinsing.”

The Captain immediately tutted, wagging his index to correct your erroneous account of events.

“Noooo, no, no, no, I'm sorry, but you're not rinsing,” he rectified. “You're bathing, you're taking a shower- and that’s a totally different thing, mind you.”

You emitted a quizzical ‘huh?’, your lips pushed into an incredulous smirk.

“How does THAT make it a totally different thing? Bathing or not, I'm still getting cleaned, right?” You countered, your speech formal and your posture nonchalant.

You thought you had won your little battle of wits.

However…

You forgot about one, petty detail.

Shanks always had an Ace to play.

He loved the chase, the competition, the challenge, the banter.

With the elegance of a commander of his high status, he nodded, conceding.

“Maybe so, you ARE getting cleaned, you're right…” He trailed off, placing the towel on the rock beside him. “And yeah, you WERE covered in sand and needed to get cleaned, but…” He added on, drumming his fingers upon his waist.

His garnet irises perused your bare silhouette, drinking in the ethereal manner in which the cataract was soaking you from the crown of your head to the dermis of your pubic bone.

You felt a shudder run down your spine, goosebumps rising on your flesh as his beam became crooked, salacious, and thrawn.

“You're naked…” He remarked matter of factly, his tone a sultry announcement, and advanced, his foot sinking into the pool. “And without me, without your spouse…” He lamented in faux sorrow, his other foot also dipping.

He swaggered, purposeful, not asking for permission.

He did not need permission to get closer to you.

His dark pupils never strayed from yours.

They had no intention of straying from yours.

You were suddenly glued to your spot, glued to the tempting motion of his strong hips, the enticing swaying of his burly arm, the captivating ticking of his chiseled jaw.

You were rendered speechless, for no astute quip came out of your throat as his frame grew more and more drenched in the rippling water.

Not when he was dripping in arrogance.
Not when his muscles were flexing under his flimsy, open shirt.
Not when his sash and floral pants were adhering to his midriff.

Not when he was just so…infuriatingly collected.

“This…” The redhead said once he shrank the proximity, his height towering, his attitude casual. “Is more than just rinsing…” He declared, gauging at your reaction for any sign of negativity.

Your reaction?

How were you supposed to react?

You gulped.

Audibly.

This was not a performance.

This was reality.

Because the tension in your abdomen, tingly and itchy, increased.

How could it not increase?

How could it not increase when, unbeknownst to you, he had faked his slumber to pursue you like a spy? When he had trailed after the sandy indentations you had created behind like a hound? When he had cornered you so effortlessly like a living mountain?

“And those fifteen minutes you proposed I count?”

His weathered digits crept up your side, a deliberate graze, skimmed the slope of your deltoid, and caressed the limbs which were concealing your breasts.

He did not rush.

He only granted you a taste of his satiny touch.

Shanks crowded you, inclined his skull forward, and let the water drizzle down his hair, the crimson strands damp, his clothes clinging to his robust physique.

He did not care.

He only focused on you.

“I counted them…”

He murmured, gently prying your arms apart, exploiting your bewilderment to revel in the graphic view of your upper nakedness.

Your gorgeous, gorgeous nakedness.

“And…”

The Captain whispered, craning his neck onward to be at level with you, his breath, still quite intoxicating, fanning your lips, mingling with the oxygen you inspired, and planted his paw on your shoulder.

You froze, your bones frigid as you sensed the delirious crescendo of your arousal.

“Those fifteen minutes are up, honey...”

A beat.

Shanks didn’t move.

Neither did you.

A hair's breadth away.

And then, just as you were about to interject, just as you were about to try and salvage at least a particle of your ruined dignity (because damn was it getting too hot for you to handle his wicked sensuality)...

He snorted…

And cackled.

A bark of roaring laughter.

Hooted and hollered like a lunatic, head thrown back, his chest rumbled, his teeth exhibited.

You blinked, dumbstruck.

And speedily grew pink as you realised he had set up a trap for you.

You had bitten the bait.

You had been a fish ready for the kill.

“You, agh, you-” You mustered the necessary courage and might to push him, causing him to fall on his ass with a surprised ‘Whoa!’, the splash big enough to douse you whole. “Motherfucker!” You yelled, equal parts embarrassed and appalled.

Shanks’s booming hilarity did not dwindle.

Actually, it got louder, brighter, clearer.

Mirthful.

He emerged from the loch, absolutely soaking wet, unbothered by your cursing, and slicked his hair back as if it were an ordinary chore, a few mullish cowlicks dropping across his forehead.

“Da hah ha! But I wanted to surprise you! You think I'm a good actor? Did I have your knees buckling for me, eh?” The redhead inquired, shaking his entire body to get rid of the dewtears (a dog, he was a dog, no doubt), and analysed your obvious moping, “Aww, come on, baby, don’t be all pouty- you know you love me too much to be pouty…!” He mused while crossing the line, closing the gap between you two, his build shadowing you again.

You folded your arms over your chest once more, tempted to ignore his silly charms, tempted to cast him away with an icy glare…

Very tempted to ignore how his vestures were practically pellucid.

Lords, you would strangle him…if it weren’t for the unfortunate detail that you were legally bound to him.

And that- okay, you did love him.

But you could not give him the perverse satisfaction of avowing how his little tricks had made you…feel…female ehm- things.

Instead, you grumbled and scowled at him.

“If you wanted to bathe with me, you could have just told me so at camp, I wouldn’t have said no to that…” You mumbled, striving to mask your mortification.

And failing miserably.

Perhaps you were being a bit…intolerant.

But he had provoked you!

Excited you with his words, his aura, his stature!

Only to pull away?

Foul. Play.

Shanks clicked his tongue as he dissected the cause of your disquietude.

He knew he had been the offender.

A true pirate, the one who had stolen your heart.

Nonetheless, a true pirate could also reflect upon his actions…

“Well, I am here, no?” The redhead prompted, waving to his persona. “And we’re together; you, me, this cave…” He pointed at the scenery you were currently at, reminding you of your shared isolation. "I just need to get out of these clothes to fully enjoy it, but I'm afraid that a certain someone…”

A pause.

His large palm gingerly cupped your chin, index and thumb tilting your jaw upwards.

“May not be too into the idea of helping me undress…”

The man stroked your lower lip, a smooth impetus to attract your attention.

You ruminated on his implicit suggestion.

You? Help him undress?

Not a bad plan.

“Why should that certain someone accept?” You questioned, leaning into the contact, your mouth touching the pad of his pollex each time you spoke. “Surely she has her motives not to aid you…”

Shanks sneered at your commentary.

“Fair enough,” he stated. “But I only have one arm, only one hand, only five fingers and only five knuckles, surely she can understand how difficult it is for me to strip on my own…” He concluded, releasing a feigned sigh of anguish.

Idiot.

Unadulterated bullshit.

It had been years since he last needed your assistance with his daily tasks.

Alas, his crocodile tears worked on you.

You surrendered with a huff.

“Alright, alright, but no funny business- we’re just taking care of our hygiene, mister…” You clarified sternly, raising your hands to grasp the soggy flaps of his shirt, and tugged on them, wishing to shrug them off him. “Got it?”

Relieved, your husband let go of your chin to angle his arm, outstretching it to favour your yankings and pluckings.

“Aye, got it,” he replied enthusiastically. “Although, I can’t exactly promise I won’t admire the holy vision before me…” He remarked, winking down at you.

You rolled your eyes, blushed, and proceeded.

Expertly, you removed his vestments.

One by one.

He was an intricate present to unwrap.

Firstly, his chalky shirt (the left sleeve tied into an inflexible knot due to the absence of the extremity), which slipped over his muscular thorax as though it were merely chiffon.

Perks of having one arm? Things are discarded more quickly.

Secondly, his velvety sash —the confinement where his sword usually laid sheathed—, which slid off his midsection once you unwound it.

Thirdly, his pants, which were reduced to heavy water-logged slacks as you and he dragged them below his pelvis.

Fourth, his briefs, which were carefully drawn southbound (weird, you had thought he had slept commando, but apparently not-).

His items were hauled towards the shore, landing with a dull ‘thunk’ noise —virtually contiguous with the rock bearing your garments.

Presto.

Shanks, to put it plainly, was an obelisk decorated in bewitching muscles, multiple scars, straggly hairs, and striking attributes.

A proportional combination betwixt his mother’s wavy tresses and his father’s defined bone structure, or so you have assumed.

And as his wife?

You had the blessed prerogative to contemplate him.

Whenever you wanted.
Wherever you wanted.
However you wanted.

Besides, being bare was never one of his primordial concerns.

The man could prance around naked and he would not feel an ounce of shame.

The lackadaisical current orbited him in rhythmic circles while the pool’s contents reached his carved pubis, revealing his happy trail and V-line.

You could not discern what he had in store beneath the liquid blanket.

But you had seen the appendage on plenty of occasions to efficiently fantasise about its girth, length, shape, volume, and size.

Ahem.

Stop.

You had been the one to decline any ‘funny business’.

You should follow the instructions you established.

Shanks exaggeratedly moaned as he arched his spine, popping several bones in the process, his stomach flexing, and his abdominals straining.

“Ugh, you're right- I don’t know why we didn’t come here sooner!” He muttered gruffly, moseying to shower under the waterfall, where the water drops directly hit his sun-kissed skin, coating it in glossy shimmers and salty fizz.

If Amber Beach was an organic masterpiece, then the redhead was an animated showpiece.

You approached him to stand opposite him beneath the curtain, your body now accustomed to its outpouring as it covered you in gallons.

“I kinda wish we had soap with us- but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to try this out.” You responded, frank, scrubbing yourself yet again, aiming to eliminate whatever dirtiness was left.

Your lover hummed, attentive to your statement as he rubbed his face and collarbone, placidly slathering his upper anatomy in the warm liquor.

“Hm, soap is irrelevant when you're bathing under this, sweetheart,” he shimmied his shoulders, as if to say ‘I don’t mind’, and continued. “It's pure and nice and relaxing…”

You lolled your head to the side at his…interesting logic- and internally screamed when he opened his maw, permitted the water to fill the cavity, and gargled.

Cascades were…not the most sanitary of fountains, and…they were also not too safe to drink from.

Patently not mouthwash.

You decided to gloss over the vile episode and concentrate on the thermal torrent.

“Well, but, soap is soap- soap does clean you, you know? It helps you wash the grime away, and your skin feel smoother, and I don-”

SPLASH!

Out of the blue.

Did he really splash you mid-explanation?

You gagged as the musty flavour met your taste buds and wiped at your mouth.

“Puah! Shanks, what the hell was that for???”

The man snickered at your sputtering.

“You were being a smartass, defying me.”

You retched, spatting the minerals sticking to your poor, innocent gums.

“Defying you?? What- defying your stupidity, you mean?” You asked him, cynical, splashing him for revenge, the wave grand for it was fueled by your disbelief. “You thought that was me being a smartass?”

Your lover didn’t even try to shield his bare torso from your attack.

He merely bet on a second avalanche.

And guffawed, entertained.

Was he your husband or a jinx to carry for the rest of your life?

Geesh.

“Just wanted to piss you off- I seem to have a knack for that,” Shanks teased, sending you a ripple of identical magnitude with his single yet sturdy hand, making you yelp out loud with a high-pitched ‘Eeh!’. “Plus, I've always loved a good battle, you know that, wifey.” He jested, winking at you to further kindle your anger.

And kindle your anger he did.

A battle did begin.

A harmless but brutal battle.

A battle where the pool was your warzone, the water was your offence, the cascade was your protective screen, and your palms were your most useful equipment.

An insult here.
A chortle there.
A shriek here.
A giggle there.

The current, once pacific, was now perturbed by the two people swirling around it, avoiding and concomitantly inching closer and closer to one another.

Two moths gravitating towards the same light.
Two butterflies seeking the same flower.
Two swans swimming, foraging for the same plant.

But the light, the flower, or the plant, in this case, was something deeper than brightness, sweetness, or nutrition…

In this case, it was both spirited rivalry…

And love.

Couldn’t you see?

Were you blind to observe how your invisible conflict led you to…this?

To this unspoken tie.

Breathless, drenched, and frolicsome.

You considered your little clash a definite draw…

Well, maybe not-

“I win…” You huffed and puffed, poking his pectoral to assert your triumph. “You lose and I…” You took a quick gulp of air, feeling dizzier by the second, a consequence of your exhausting playing. “I win…”

Shanks grasped your hand just before you could swat his away, suspicion evident in his piercing gaze. “What? No, no, I win- I am less out of breath than you are.” He retorted, squeezing your wrist, his thumb strategically placed on your pulse, where the proof of your erratic heartbeat reposed.

“But I…” You interjected, taking a step forward, tenacious, to force him to yield under your authority. “Am your wife.” You declared, your eyes roaming across his ruddy features with glee.

The wife card.

You rarely used it.

Genius.

The redhead’s beam, instead of teasing like you would have predicted, morphed into a friendlier smile.

It was then, while witnessing the advent of that specific smile, that you recalled why he was your husband.

Why you had chosen him as such.

Because, although his grin was a habitual visitor…

That particular smile, so caring and so benevolent, reminded you of your first encounter.

Which then reminded you of his efforts to recruit you.

Which then reminded you of your early dates.

Which then, finally, reminded you of your wedding.

You were not newlyweds.

Far from ‘bride and groom’.

It had been four or five years since your honeymoon.

And still, that memory remained just as vivid as during those nights where the only object of your attraction, for you was him, and for him was you.

Your ire decreased and was transformed into compliance as he guided your hand to lie on his solid chest.

You could detect his heartbeat under your splayed fingers, the cardiac rhythm, a steady drum.

Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump.

A serene ensemble of contractions, relaxations, and galvanism.

“Have I ever told you I'm crazy about you?” He queried, squeezing your knuckles. “Or how much I love you? Have I ever told you that?” He phrased solemnly, tracing the opal ring with utmost delicacy.

Yes, his immaturity stirred annoyance in your gut.

But his unsullied earnestness dazzled you.

You hummed in acknowledgement of his admission.

An admission which was punctually repeated to you every day: every morning, every evening, and every night.

In the form of a heated whisper, an embarrassing shout, or a passing affirmation.

“Yeah, you've told me that plenty of times before, Red…” You confirmed, nodding. “I don’t think I could ever forget about that…” You mused, maintaining your wet palm pressed against his breast plate.

Shanks sniggered, the deep rumble resonating through both his thorax and your mitt.

“I surely hope not!” He exclaimed flippantly while relinquishing his hold on your hand, in pursuit of a stray lock of your hair he had spotted, and tucking it behind your ear, his digits lingering on the shell. “It would wound me greatly if you did forget about it!”

You wrinkled your eyes, amused, and patted his muscles —an oath.

“Nooo, never, never, I could never forget about your little crush on me, husband.” You punctuated the noun with a melodic drawl, almost singing it. “Even if you do have a certain knack for pissing me off.”

The Captain scrunched his rugged profile, thoroughly gratified to hear you so committed to the romantic link between you, and bopped your nose.

“Well, at least I ignite that emotion in you…”

There.

Right there, in that rocky grotto, a meter away from the Elysian waterfall, fifty centimeters away from Shanks…

You fell in love with him again.

You stared at him, all of him, and admired.

He stared at you, all of you, and admired.

Not lasciviously.

Simply tenderly.

…

Unexpectedly, the cascade’s howl echoed around you.

It did not frighten you, because it wasn’t an eerie cry.

It incited curiosity.

You turned to confront the rain, extended your palms, cupped the tepid water, and hummed.

“This place is beautiful, isn’t it?” You quizzed, genuinely fascinated by the never-ending faucet in front of you.

Shanks heard your question.

He agreed with you on that, of course.

The cavern was undeniably beautiful.

However…

As his gaze raked over your spine, espying the mini droplets trickling down your figure and disappearing in the pond…

He esteemed you a fairytale nymph, one of whom poets recited about and painters dreamed of in their placid sleep.

Unique of her kind.

Something within him switched.

Snapped.

“I'm seeing something much more enticing…” He murmured behind you, looping his single arm around your ribs and pulling you against him in one fluid motion, your back comfortably resting against his wet chest. “Someone who’s much more enticing…” He corrected his previous insinuation, deliberately dropping his head to pepper soft kisses along the slope of your shoulder, a brush of puckered lips on humid flesh. “Someone who’s much more enchanting, in my humble opinion…”

You halted your toying with the shower, stunned at the abrupt symptoms of desired intimacy…

Until his mouth latched onto the side of your neck and his calloused hand explored your naked stomach, navel, and abdomen, drawing vertical streaks and horizontal stripes.

You melted, your knees buckling slightly at the arduous contact of his fingers, and sagged with a quivering, hushed gasp.

A gasp which signified his mastery in making you weak.

Now? He didn’t aim to tease you.

He aimed to conquer.

Jubilant thanks to your swooning, Shanks delivered more smooches on your jawline, clutched your hipbone and silently cajoled you into staggering onwards.

Submerged in the cataract, you found yourselves surprised to discover a hollow area among the shower, where fissurated stone touched air and not liquid, where your fists could brace your weight.

A veil to hide your nude silhouettes.

How perfectly convenient.

With practised ease, he cloaked you, his hips, though sunk, flush against yours.

You could feel his cock graze your ass, the appendage erected and swollen.

“As beautiful as this place seems, it's quite private, too, hm?” Your lover noted above a hot mutter in your ear, allowing his paw to grope one of your pliant breasts, petting it and using the friction generated to stimulate your peaked nipple. “If you're on board, we could…” He suggested, the sexual innuendo was unarticulated but inferred.

You were trying really hard to focus on his grave, sensual voice, his syllables, his words, his letters, his vowels, his consonants.

Except, you couldn’t.

You struggled to be coherent, his musky scent invaded your nostrils.
You struggled to be lucid, his sharp teeth nibbled on your pulse.
You struggled to be analytic, his strong pectorals pushed against your shoulder blades.

Were you on board to ensure his lewd plan?

Or were you going to respect your ‘no funny business’ rule?

The answer was, perhaps, quite obvious.

His hand continued to play with your breasts, caressing your areolas, tracing your cleavage, delineating the round contours of your nipples, before delving down, trailing an exciting path towards your pelvis again. There, he immersed his wrist in the pool and searched for the organ between your thighs.

You whimpered at the delicious proximity, your head falling on his collarbone as the pads of his middle and ring fingers ghosted your hidden clit. He parted your folds, only to roll the tumefied pearl in tight little circles a second later.

“Fuck…” He hissed behind you, his irises darkening at the sensation of your viscous arousal, his joints stuttering briefly, stupefied. “Even under the water, I can feel how wet you are- all this for me, baby…?” He asked you hoarsely, navigating through the sensitive petals of your cunt.

You squirmed at his obscene comment, your legs jolting as electricity shocked you, the water sloshing due to the motion.

“Shanks, don’t be so vulgar…” You scolded breathlessly, snaking your arm around his neck, and weaving your fingers in the soaked crimson strings on his nape. “I don’t like it when you're too vulgar out here…” You explained, shutting your eyes with a groan once he replaced his knuckles with his thumb, pleasuring your bundle of nerves to a satisfying buzz.

You were a walking contradiction at the moment.

The redhead huffed a rough chuckle and applied more pressure on your clit, provoking a whiny moan to be propelled out of your larynx. “Oh, really?” He sneered, kissing your temple with feigned sympathy. “Because I remember how particularly loud you were for me and my filthy mouth yesterday…” He purred, caging you further, letting you feel his tumescent member scrape upon the globes of your ass. “Don’t you?”

Oh, you remembered how loud you had been.

How utterly horny you had been for him the prior morning, a few hours before docking at Helium Island.

Him sprawled on the cotton blankets, you either receiving fervid licks or repeatedly bouncing on his thick dick, nothing but rapture filling your shared wooden cabin as well as dirty talking, suffocating perspiration, booming smacks, and needy noises.

In summary, you were a big fan of his filthy mouth.

Gods forbid you be a hypothetical whore for your husband-

You stifled a piping mewl, the lewd imagery fomenting the molten fire in your aching pussy.

“I do remember that…” You admitted, frowning in delectation when his index started circling around your entrance, teasing your pulsing hole with an inch of his nail. “Fuck, I do remember that…”

Shanks grinned against your cheek, gassed by your confession.

“Ah, how nice to know…” He mused, compassing your cunt in measured gyrations. “Then you definitely won’t mind if I fuck you like this.” He declared crudely, plunging two large fingers into your runny slit.

Holy shit.

You moaned, for a blazing Inferno settled in your womb, and the view of his unseen wrist flickering underneath the surface, pleasuring you to your heart’s content, encouraged it tenfold.

The deep drag of his slender fingers combined with his breath fanning your ear?

Empyrean.

“Sha-anks…” You crooned, your own hand twitching as it sought his cock, the joints in your forearm twisting to blindly grasp him behind you. “Come-come closer…”

Shanks heeded your request immediately, inching his dick forward with a buck of his hips, enough for the stiff, weeping length to bump against your wandering palm, enough for his chest to erase any remaining distance between you.

As he carried on fingering you, his pollex constantly rubbing your nub, he muffled a grunt of pure delight on your shoulder once your soft paw engulfed him.

“A-agh, yes, touch me, baby,” he whispered, shuddering at your other hand’s tuggings on his messy hair. “Gods, touch-move my cock however you’d like…” He beseeched hungrily, initiating the incantation by canting his pelvis into your palm, permitting his long shaft to slip and slide in your wonderful grip.

You masturbated him, pumping his fleshy sword up and down, your thumb occasionally gliding over his oozing tip.

Fap. Fap. Fap.

He masturbated you, delving his fingers in and out of your glutinous core, curling them to prod your velvety inner walls.

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

Insatiable for each other.

Gluttonous. Greedy. Voracious.

The way your marriage intended.

An orchestra of raucous sounds followed in suit: pants, wheezes, gasps, moans, whines.

Each and every one thankfully drowned by the waterfall’s drop.

“Gods, squeeze- just, fuck- I need to be- I need you so bad- so bad, sweetheart…” Shanks communicated in ragged puffs, placing his bearded chin on your shoulder, his voice tinged with crystal clear lust for you. “I want to feel you- I need to be inside you, can I do that?” He asked, withdrawing his fingers from your lubricated hole to spread whatever nectar you had secreted along your folds, and rapidly massaged your clit.

You kept on fisting his girth, warping the hung dermis to elevate his arousal, kneading the florid mushroom top, and triggering the manifestation of thin ropes of his pre-cum, which would instantly dissolve in the pond’s foam.

“Yeah, yes- Red,” you affirmed hastily while freeing his hard cock, nodding as you parted your legs farther, granting him an easy route to personal paradise, and stabilized your feet, anticipation brewing in your system. “You can…”

With a gulp, Shanks squared his chest, slithered his hand upon the wet skin of your thigh and patted it —urging you to move.

“Open your legs a bit more for me, love,” he instructed, digging his short nails into your hipbone as he carefully guided his member to glide against your pussy folds through pure intuition (and great experience). “Just a bit more, c’mon.”

You quivered at the familiar texture of his throbbing sex, bowed your vertebrae, your rear steering his heavy appendage, helping it roll onto you in back and forth lines, and separated your legs.

“Oh…Like this?” You inquired, placing your elbows on the stone panel in front of you to support your stance. “Like this?” You repeated, craning your neck to look at him, your gaze hooded, your mouth unlatched, your cheeks painted pink, and your brows furrowed.

So, so maddeningly erotic.

Shanks groaned as you controlled the rhythm of his grinds, unable to resist the impulse to marvel at your bobbing Adam’s Apple…how succulent it looked, how absolutely delicious it looked.

It would be so facile to…

“Yes…” The redhead confirmed, encasing your throat with his fist, tightly enough for you to feel his strength, but loosely enough for you to breathe properly, his thumb identifying the hitch of air in your vocal cords, arousing him even more. “Yes, like that, perfect…” He complimented, tipping your chin and proceeding to gobble the erogenous sensitivity he always adored to exploit.

“Are you eager?” A hot kiss on your jawline and an unceremonious sway of his hips.

“Are you eager for me?” An open-mouthed smooch on your earlobe and a flex of his fingers around your collar.

“Are you eager for my cock?” A harsh nip on your shoulder blade and a tap of the blunt tip of his dick tunneling its trajectory into your cunt.

Lords, you were already seeing a myriad of vibrant colours within your fluttering vision.

“Yes, ye-es…” You rasped, delirious from the adrenaline sizzling in your veins, your heart hammering in your ribcage, your lungs heaving at the subtle lack of oxygen. “Eager for you- for your cock, Shanks…” You replied, figuratively drooling, imagining him pummeling into you as fast as possible.

You lowered your pelvic floor, in a futile effort to get him inside you, and whimpered when the prominent ridges dodged you. “Fuck, Shanks, put it in- need to feel you too…” You pleaded, your hips frantically spiralling to achieve the sufficient amount of friction to egg him on.

Your lover released a husky grunt, very, very tempted to obey your sinful supplication.

“You're so stunning when you beg this prettily for me…” He whispered, angling his haunches to begin penetrating you (a miracle considering he had to acutely calculate without much help due to his liquid surroundings), his hand holding your mandible firmly in place. “Always so stunning…” He babbled again, tilting his face to capture your lips into a searing kiss as his cock plunged into your tight core.

You muffled a gasp against his lips, invigorating lips which would quench your thirst and pacify your appetite.

Shanks’s clasp around your neck tightened imperceptibly before abating as he bottomed out inside of you in one swift thrust, inch by inch, snugly smothered by the silky embrace of your uterus.

The claps of soaked skin against skin did not reverberate in the cave, but they did manage to make the water undulate in violent, artificial waves.

Your posture remained as straight as it could as your bosom was continuously plastered upon the wall thanks to the numerous, intense shoves his cock gifted you.

Your palms twitched as his hand deviated from your windpipe to seize your hip, his nails creating half-moons on the sinuous terrain.

Your ass continued to pursue his groin, pushing back with every pound, generating a deeper, wilder, harder physical bond.

“Hm, you're so- deep, Red…” You mewled dreamily, slurring, your brows ticking as he bracketed you further, your nape tingly once his uneven breath haunted you. “Fucking me- ah, hah, this deep…”

And you said he had a filthy mouth, go figure.

“Yeah, seems like I am, huh?” He sneered sardonically, his lips returning to your unbolted jaw, his scruffy goatee caressing you, while his digits pinched your flank. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am, baby?” He wondered vehemently, punctuating his point with a powerful thrust, his engorged dick piercing through your womb and hitting that marvelous secret spot capable of making you see stars. “You feel just how well I'm fucking you?”

You cried out, sweat, slick, and moisture clouding your thoughts.

Your cunt, stuffed and filled to the brim, clenched around him, tautened, pulsed.

“Yes, y-yes!” You wailed, your broken pitch a shrill of unfeigned excitement. “Ah- Shanks, more- mo-ore!” You implored, your legs shaking at the brutal tempo of his delectable spearing.

More? You needed more?

Oh, he could give you more.

Gladly.

The sun, the stars, the moon, the whole sky and sea if you so wished, too.

You deserved it all.

His dilated pupils, which had been shamelessly roving across your entire anatomy in such a raunchy position as he slammed into you, strayed to glance at your wedding ring.

The opal gemstone, ever shiny and ever polished, glimmered every time the cataract splashed behind him, casting a spell on him.

He knew how to give you more now.

He knew how to be even more thorough, more rigorous.

The man twirled you and slid his paw over your thigh. Hiking your quad upwards, he hooked it around his waist, your ankle on his lower spine, your orbs as wide as saucers, your expression befuddled.

Shanks pulled out of you, but not too much.

He would rather die than not be intertwined with you right now (no kidding).

You surveyed him.

As best as you could, anyway.

His unruly red hair.
His scarred visage.
His damp thorax.
His right bicep and the stump of his left.
His tanned complexion.
His sculptured abdomen.

If you had paper and quill right now, you would write an extended list regarding his attributes.

Because here?

He looked spectacular.

A humid fantasy.

He grinned archly, a feral glint in his maroon crinkled eyes.

“I reckon I can do that.” He assured you, advancing to delete the scanty distance, his chest pressing against your breasts, blanketing you, inserting his veiny member back into your hole with undeniable confidence.

Your organs spasmed as he resumed ravishing you.

In an amatory limbo of heat, ardour, and agitation, that’s where you were.

You had to hurriedly embrace him in order not to allow your knee to collapse under you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your nails clawing at his nape, and your fingers weaving through his mane.

“Oh, Gods-” You choked out, nuzzling his clavicle, inspiring his spicy, leathery scent in laboured inhales while the corporeal friction augmented, while his physique collected piece after piece of your libidinous fever. "Shanks, Gods- Yes, you feel- oh, so good…!” You praised, your foot trembling on his buttocks, your voice wavering.

Audacious, the Captain chuckled and adjusted your thigh before creeping to grope your ass cheek next, delivering a solid smack, making the globe jiggle under his palm.

“You know what would feel even better, sweetheart?” He susurrated, maintaining his ruthless pace, his front crushing yours, his cock ceaselessly brushing your uterus in rapid strokes. “What would make you cum on my cock better, hm?” He asked you, licking a stripe of sweat and moisture below your chin.

You swallowed, paying attention to the word ‘cum’.

During sex? That word was your elixir.

A fast road to your climax.

Your cunt palpitated, very interested in what he would suggest.

A Pavlovian response.

Trained to acknowledge.

“Yes? What?” You dared wonder, lolling your head to welcome his tongue, his mouth, his teeth, the suspense slowly killing you from the inside out. “What- ah, what would make me cum on your cock better, Shanks?”

He shivered, his thrusts faltering momentarily.

How could he not shiver when you were acting so nicely?

After having dedicated himself to tasting you, the redhead retreated, so he could observe you.

Biting his lip, he beamed, predatory, and rammed into you in one torturously terrific grind.

“If you, darlin’,” he drawled, the pet name a sensual roll off his tongue. “Touched yourself.” He recommended, reaching his nape to grab one of your wrists and manually guide it over your own frame.

Shanks was aware of his visible limitations, of how his lack of limb…might interrupt or delay your orgasm.

He never saw it as an impediment to bring you to ecstasy, though

It's true that he was no gynecologist, no sex therapist.

However, he was your man, your husband.

Your faithful companion.

Someone who knew you from the roots of your hair to the ends of your toes.

Penetration was satisfying, correct.

But clitoral stimulation?

Oh-ho-ho, now THAT was the perfect zap.

“Go on…” He urged you blatantly, placing your hand beneath the water, on the apex of your pubis, the tips of your digits ghosting the podgy pearl near your stuffed cunt. “Touch yourself, love, touch yourself and feel me too.” He encouraged, nodding down at you as his palm resurfaced and fixed the underside of your thigh, propping it higher with a quiet growl.

Allured, you complied.

And when you circled your clit?

When he dived into your pussy WHILE you circled your clit?

You could not ask for a better mixture.

You opened your mouth, and out came one of the most angelic sounds ever produced in History: a lovely whine of his name.

An entrancing, wheezy, ‘Shanks…!’ that had his stomach doing acrobat-level somersaults and cartwheels.

A misty, melodic, ‘Red…!’ that had his shaft throbbing, twitching inside of your gummy walls.

A dulcet, mellow, ‘Yes…!’ that had his large hand stuttering on your hamstring, disarming him to shreds.

“Yeah, yes, exactly like that, precious, keep on pleasuring yourself, hmpf," he commended, in a carnal daze, his hooded gaze following the frenetic movement of your carpus, the jerk of your fingers as they sought to sate your growing need, rubbing your leaking nub and consequently skimming the chunk of his dick revealed each instance it abandoned your entrance. “Keep on- keep on touching your clit, quick- quickly, c’mon, c’mom.”

Your brain was short-circuiting at the extraordinary amount of euphoria blooming within your limbs.

Since…Well, is it actually necessary to describe it, that peculiar euphoria?

Maybe.

An illustration might be appropriate.

His praises were spurring you on, and on, and on.
Brisk, sweet nothings were being rambled in your ear.
His thrusts were drawing scandalous sobs from you.

A Tango.

Two bodies, two souls entwined.

If you were close? He was closer.

And he could not contain the primal impulse to chase after his peak.

“Love- ngh, love," Shanks called amidst his ragged panting. “I-Fuck, I'm close- I need you to tell, agh-” he grunted, pressing his forehead to yours, in a futile attempt to rein in his selfish desires. “Where? I need you to tell me where you want me-”

Oh, the ‘where’ question.

The telltale question.

You scrambled for answers.

You could ask him to paint your stomach or your tits with his sticky cum.

The thing was…

You wanted something more risqué.

You were already having sex in a literal cave.

So?

“In-Inside,” you prompted, inclining your face forward, your quivering lips brushing his, and jumped, your other leg clumsily coiling around his waist as well, your ankles crossing on his back. “Inside, Shanks- cum in me, cum inside, please…” You clarified, crashing your mouth to his, kissing him with all the pent-up passion within your guts, your tongue sweeping over the seam of his lips before brusquely entering the cavity.

Shanks, astounded by your dangerous (yet provocative) proposition, reciprocated your ferocity, and used his single arm to steady you, propelling you to practically impale you on his swollen cock.

If inside is what you fancied —inside is where he would stain.

Without complaints.

You continued to kiss him, continued to tease yourself, continued to drive yourself into him.

In a matter of seconds, he came first.

The redhead spilled inside of you with a torn moan, his hips rocking in tremors as his seed filled your cervix, dyeing it an opaque shade of white.

His orgasm, copious and consuming, activated your apogee, reduced you to a puddle of ecstasy, led you to chanting his name in the form of a mantra.

You gripped him as if he were a lifeline through the duration of your climax, your muscles contracting violently around him.

Milking him in your essence, gushing on his shaft with tears of your syrupy ambrosia.

A breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.

…

And then a snicker.

“Fuck- you're still clenching around me like a vice, wifey,” Shanks huffed against your parted mouth, the tip of his tongue tangled with yours while you both tried to recover from your highs. “Hah- would it be too greedy of me if I stayed in there for a minute longer?” He joked, referring to your…intimate hug, not ready to flee.

You cupped his sweaty cheeks and chuckled, elated, your dermis flushed from the exertion.

“I don’t think that would be too greedy of you, no…” You declared, shaking your head. “I'm not opposed, stay for as long as you’d like…” You invited with a curved smirk, framing his face and twisting the strands which had fallen across his rugged features.

His gaze fixed on you.

He aspired to commit how gorgeous you currently were in his memory forever.

Permanently etched.

Shanks, glowing as bright as the sun outside the lair, kissed the bridge of your nose and, without detaching himself from you, crouched to lower you into the pond until the water touched his collarbone and your chin. He kept a firm grip on you, although gravity, distorted, also made his job a bit easier.

Calmly, he conducted you through underneath the cascade and across the rest of the natural reservoir.

Swirling. Skiing. Flowing.

Were you turning into a prune?

Hm…probably.

Worth it, anywho.

“I bet you really want that soap right now, though, don’t you?”

He spun you, enjoying how you slumped, how much tighter your legs clung to him, how your hair floated, how your smile broadened.

“Oh, so much, but at least we’re…basically washing ourselves."

You set your palms on his shoulders, idly hovering as he carried on voyaging.

Shanks hummed, pensive, and pouted at you.

“We should gatekeep this place- keep it as our little haven for the time being until we sail again.”

Wow.

Resolute.

“I think the others deserve a chance to appreciate this.”

You countered, generous about your friends’ rights.

“Ooooh, no, absolutely not, they can stay on the beach-”

He retorted, egoistic about his friends’ rights.

“Shanks, you can’t gatekeep a cave.”

“Yes, I can! I'm their Captain.”

“No, you can’t- you’d be abusing your power!”

“Shhhh, yes, I can- It'd be a harmless order.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Red, for Gods’ sake, no!”

“What you gonna do if I say no, hm? Splash me? We’re already wet and-”

You did splash him after that.

Many times.

Enough times to coax the goofy Emperor to change his opinion on the matter.

…Also, a few kisses thrown in the mix helped your case.

…And another round of sneaky sex.

That helped your case A LOT.

It was rather funny to announce to your crew —at 2 PM— that they had free access to the cave while dishevelled, partly disrobed, somewhat damp, and with Shanks at your side.

Were you a loving couple or a pair of children?

Hm...both. You were both.