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dethoratsTitle: Plunder
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Ben/Shanks
Word Count: 1180
A/N: XD, well this started one way and went another...brain's a bit distracted maybe?!
Too close now for another series of broadsides; that would be pure folly and liable to sink the both of them. The boarding lines and grapples were out and ready, held with easy confidence and barely restrained eagerness, the surge of the battle rush climbing higher and higher as the other ship closed, tried to maneuver to a more favorable position and was thwarted by the headwind. It was a perfect throw, executed with the fluidity of long practice, and the grapple bit firmly into the enemy yardarm, remained in place even after a forceful tug. More lines had followed the lead of the first, a sudden tempest of rope and iron and unleashed ferocity. A wild yell went up from the rail, a toss of crimson. Steel flashed in the sunlight as it was drawn, a challenge issued. Shanks turned long enough to find him, grin. “Keep the sake warm for us, yeah?” And then his attention, the sheer weight of it, was gone again as the captain turned. “Let’s go, lads!”
The yell was gone, replaced by the blade in his teeth, but there was no mistaking Shanks’ battle aura as he pushed off, cape fluttering from his shoulders like enormous demon wings. Most of the crew followed after, their shouts and challenges carrying over the continuing retort of guns and creaking timber as the enemy’s damaged mizzenmast shuddered against the wind and fought to remain vertical. Ben pointedly did not follow the flag of the captain’s hair, systematically choosing his mark and squeezing the trigger, withstanding the roar and the kickback before he directed his sights to another target. Twice he stopped to reload and once to grab the hot metal of his gun’s barrel, blocking the sword blow from the boarder before a sharp thrust to the man’s solar plexus with the butt sent the enemy backwards over the rail and into the water.
He listened as Yasopp and Zabra kept up a running tally of their hits from their perches on the yardarms, caught sight of Roux’s considerable mass on the other ship as he casually dodged a knife swipe and then fired his pistol at point blank range. Ben raised his gun again and actually growled when Shanks appeared in the sights. The captain was laughing as he parried two blades, his sword like quicksilver as it darted in past inadequate guards and tasted flesh. He was toying with them, enjoying the fight, and Ben had to make himself breathe, had to bite back the shout that welled in his throat even as he forced his gaze away. But there was no one left to aim for, nothing but the two increasingly desperate men and the graceful skill of his captain.
It was too late to be a broken promise. What choice did he have now when that was all that remained of the enemy crew? Ben lowered his gun and just watched, features schooled into studied indifference that belied the conflict raging within. The first fight since Fuschia and unless one knew what to look for the way he did, it was almost impossible to see the difference aside from the use of the right hand rather than the absent left. He had told himself that he wouldn’t worry, couldn’t do anything to jeopardize the confidence of the crew, to alienate the man before him who had worked himself and his first mate to the brink of exhaustion day after day in training. He knew for himself that the captain was beyond ready, had the cracked ribs and bruises to prove it. And he had faith, he did, just…sometimes he had trouble reconciling his heart with his mind and thinking up worst-case scenarios was part of his job description.
But apart from the still-too-obvious way Shanks planted his left foot for certain strikes, he seemed to be back to perfect form, back to the deadly lissomness that never failed to capture Ben’s attention. Relief, the sudden unbidden wash of it, made him sag until guilt stiffened his spine again. He shook his head, mainly at himself but also at Shanks for his continued delaying of the end of the fight, and decided that it would be alright to be indulgent this one time. For a change he could afford to appreciate the distraction with the rest of the battle over. They deserved it, he and the captain both after everything the last few months had held, and Ben settled on the rail, gun resting across his lap as he drank it all in.
Observant eyes noted that besides the earlier issue with the foot-plant, Shanks still had a tendency to dodge too far to the right, leaving inches when economy of movement and the absence beneath the cover of his cloak dictated he needed only centimeters. But those were minor concerns and could be worked out with drill. Otherwise his technique seemed flawless, as swift and unpredictable as ever. His captain’s balance was back and his will bore down with more focus than ever and Ben fished out a cigarette, abruptly desperate for the minor diversion when hazel eyes darted his way, met and held for three fierce leaps of his pulse. The sinuous twist of spine, the lightning-quick flick of the wrist, the sudden determined set of jaw, all of that was for him and Ben swallowed thickly as two swords went flying from numbed grips.
Davit moved forward, binding rope at the ready, and he bought Ben just enough time to get his feet beneath him and clear his throat before Shanks was able to take his attention from the two unfortunates. The grin on the captain’s face was cocky, smug, and it was just irritating enough to give Ben the strength he needed. “Took you long enough,” he called, hip and gun propped against the rail of their ship and his arms crossed over his chest. “Your sake’s gone cold, Captain.”
“Oh?” A furrowed eyebrow arched. “Suppose I’ll have to reheat it.”
“I suppose so, if you want it hot.”
“I do. ‘s better hot, at least right now.”
From somewhere above him Yasopp snorted but Ben didn’t bother to dignify the noise with so much as a tilt of his head. “Then come and get it,” he said and then calmly walked away from the rail. His hand was on the latch when black cloth brushed against his arm and crimson fluttered across his vision. Shanks darted between him and the door, twisted round so he could fist his hand in Ben’s shirt and pull him close.
“Roux’s got the requisitioning well in hand, Beckman.”
Ben nodded, pressed into the lean, hard form. Shanks was hale, healthy, ready against him and the very last of his concerns melted beneath the heat of the captain’s regard. “Good,” Ben murmured, fighting back a shudder as Shanks arched against him, the hand not pressing down the latch sliding under the cloak and beneath the worn cotton trousers to curve around burning flesh. “Because I need to do some plundering of my own.”
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Ben/Shanks
Word Count: 1180
A/N: XD, well this started one way and went another...brain's a bit distracted maybe?!
Too close now for another series of broadsides; that would be pure folly and liable to sink the both of them. The boarding lines and grapples were out and ready, held with easy confidence and barely restrained eagerness, the surge of the battle rush climbing higher and higher as the other ship closed, tried to maneuver to a more favorable position and was thwarted by the headwind. It was a perfect throw, executed with the fluidity of long practice, and the grapple bit firmly into the enemy yardarm, remained in place even after a forceful tug. More lines had followed the lead of the first, a sudden tempest of rope and iron and unleashed ferocity. A wild yell went up from the rail, a toss of crimson. Steel flashed in the sunlight as it was drawn, a challenge issued. Shanks turned long enough to find him, grin. “Keep the sake warm for us, yeah?” And then his attention, the sheer weight of it, was gone again as the captain turned. “Let’s go, lads!”
The yell was gone, replaced by the blade in his teeth, but there was no mistaking Shanks’ battle aura as he pushed off, cape fluttering from his shoulders like enormous demon wings. Most of the crew followed after, their shouts and challenges carrying over the continuing retort of guns and creaking timber as the enemy’s damaged mizzenmast shuddered against the wind and fought to remain vertical. Ben pointedly did not follow the flag of the captain’s hair, systematically choosing his mark and squeezing the trigger, withstanding the roar and the kickback before he directed his sights to another target. Twice he stopped to reload and once to grab the hot metal of his gun’s barrel, blocking the sword blow from the boarder before a sharp thrust to the man’s solar plexus with the butt sent the enemy backwards over the rail and into the water.
He listened as Yasopp and Zabra kept up a running tally of their hits from their perches on the yardarms, caught sight of Roux’s considerable mass on the other ship as he casually dodged a knife swipe and then fired his pistol at point blank range. Ben raised his gun again and actually growled when Shanks appeared in the sights. The captain was laughing as he parried two blades, his sword like quicksilver as it darted in past inadequate guards and tasted flesh. He was toying with them, enjoying the fight, and Ben had to make himself breathe, had to bite back the shout that welled in his throat even as he forced his gaze away. But there was no one left to aim for, nothing but the two increasingly desperate men and the graceful skill of his captain.
It was too late to be a broken promise. What choice did he have now when that was all that remained of the enemy crew? Ben lowered his gun and just watched, features schooled into studied indifference that belied the conflict raging within. The first fight since Fuschia and unless one knew what to look for the way he did, it was almost impossible to see the difference aside from the use of the right hand rather than the absent left. He had told himself that he wouldn’t worry, couldn’t do anything to jeopardize the confidence of the crew, to alienate the man before him who had worked himself and his first mate to the brink of exhaustion day after day in training. He knew for himself that the captain was beyond ready, had the cracked ribs and bruises to prove it. And he had faith, he did, just…sometimes he had trouble reconciling his heart with his mind and thinking up worst-case scenarios was part of his job description.
But apart from the still-too-obvious way Shanks planted his left foot for certain strikes, he seemed to be back to perfect form, back to the deadly lissomness that never failed to capture Ben’s attention. Relief, the sudden unbidden wash of it, made him sag until guilt stiffened his spine again. He shook his head, mainly at himself but also at Shanks for his continued delaying of the end of the fight, and decided that it would be alright to be indulgent this one time. For a change he could afford to appreciate the distraction with the rest of the battle over. They deserved it, he and the captain both after everything the last few months had held, and Ben settled on the rail, gun resting across his lap as he drank it all in.
Observant eyes noted that besides the earlier issue with the foot-plant, Shanks still had a tendency to dodge too far to the right, leaving inches when economy of movement and the absence beneath the cover of his cloak dictated he needed only centimeters. But those were minor concerns and could be worked out with drill. Otherwise his technique seemed flawless, as swift and unpredictable as ever. His captain’s balance was back and his will bore down with more focus than ever and Ben fished out a cigarette, abruptly desperate for the minor diversion when hazel eyes darted his way, met and held for three fierce leaps of his pulse. The sinuous twist of spine, the lightning-quick flick of the wrist, the sudden determined set of jaw, all of that was for him and Ben swallowed thickly as two swords went flying from numbed grips.
Davit moved forward, binding rope at the ready, and he bought Ben just enough time to get his feet beneath him and clear his throat before Shanks was able to take his attention from the two unfortunates. The grin on the captain’s face was cocky, smug, and it was just irritating enough to give Ben the strength he needed. “Took you long enough,” he called, hip and gun propped against the rail of their ship and his arms crossed over his chest. “Your sake’s gone cold, Captain.”
“Oh?” A furrowed eyebrow arched. “Suppose I’ll have to reheat it.”
“I suppose so, if you want it hot.”
“I do. ‘s better hot, at least right now.”
From somewhere above him Yasopp snorted but Ben didn’t bother to dignify the noise with so much as a tilt of his head. “Then come and get it,” he said and then calmly walked away from the rail. His hand was on the latch when black cloth brushed against his arm and crimson fluttered across his vision. Shanks darted between him and the door, twisted round so he could fist his hand in Ben’s shirt and pull him close.
“Roux’s got the requisitioning well in hand, Beckman.”
Ben nodded, pressed into the lean, hard form. Shanks was hale, healthy, ready against him and the very last of his concerns melted beneath the heat of the captain’s regard. “Good,” Ben murmured, fighting back a shudder as Shanks arched against him, the hand not pressing down the latch sliding under the cloak and beneath the worn cotton trousers to curve around burning flesh. “Because I need to do some plundering of my own.”
