(no subject)

[dethorats]

Another LJ community One Piece Yaoi fic I'd never posted to my own journal before...

Title: What Comes Next
Pairing: Ben/Shanks
Rating: Hard R/NC17
Word Count: 14,010
Notes: This thing grew far beyond my control. I apologize in advance to anybody choosing to slog through it. Contains wangst, cheese, and moments of stupidity. Parts are separated by horizontal rule bars. Italics indicate either a flashback or external texts. POV changes indicated by ellipses (...)



“Fuck!”

The slick tiles shuddered under Ben’s fist as he raised his other hand to his face. Strands of dripping hair were pushed back and away from a stinging, bleary eye. Somehow just twisting around to look for the comb had dislodged the soapy tendrils, allowing them to slip onto his face. Of course some had managed to smack him right in the eye. Again. The sixth, or was it the seventh, time. It figured. The last several days, hell the last week, had been one long disaster. And there was not one goddamned thing he could do about any of it. He needed a drink. Or rather, many drinks. Many, many drinks, some more cigarettes, and a way to travel back in time and put everything to rights.

The water issuing from the showerhead had already been tepid. Now that it was rapidly approaching frigid, there was soap in his eye, and his hair was still tangled and full of shampoo. Amazing how difficult it was to have to take care of it by himself. How long had it been since he’d actually washed it alone? Too long, obviously, since he couldn’t seem to do the job properly. It was enough to make him want to hack it all off, like he threatened so often. Brought low by something so simple. He was getting sick and tired of feeling helpless. Somehow it was all Shanks’ fault. Goddamned idiot. His eye still burned, even after rinsing it several times in the chilly spray. The other one must have caught some of the run-off or something, since it was starting to sting as well. Wonderful.

He gave in to the frustration and punched the tiles again. The underlying timbers shuddered, a hollow echo resounding through the bath. One of the tiles cracked, the lower left corner breaking off to land in the eddy of water around the drain. He almost kicked it, but with the way his eyes were blurring, he probably would have missed and ended up falling on his ass. So he settled for another shouted “Fuck!” instead.

Thank the gods it was three in the morning and the ship was practically deserted. No one was around to be disturbed by his shouting, but by the same token no one was present to keep the boilers going all night. There was warm water to be had at one of the inns of course, and a shower room that wasn’t mottled with the chipped and broken reminders of past anger and horseplay. And there would be company - pretty much the whole damn crew was ashore – and more cigarettes and booze of course. But there was no way he could leave. No way he would leave.

Damn Roux. What the hell was he thinking, trying to get him to take a break? If he hadn’t started to become just a tad ripe he wouldn’t have left long enough for even this poor excuse for a shower. Still, Roux had his own right to sit there and watch. More of a right than he did at the moment. It couldn’t hurt to just slump against the tiles for a minute and let the water try to wash him clean. There was no point in scrubbing at his eyes any longer or trying to fool with his hair, either. He’d only manage to make things worse. After all, he’d failed his most important job.

“Fuck.”

Somehow the wet tiles managed to be colder than the nearly icy water still coming from the tap. He let his forehead rest against them anyway, slowly sagging up against the wall until the only part of the spray hitting him was the rebound around his feet and ankles. It was numbing, the cold, and Ben wished he could just siphon that feeling into himself. He wasn’t accustomed to the slow burn that still pricked behind his eyes, furrowed his brow. Anger, guilt, even – he could admit it here, alone with no one needing his strength or support – fear; these he normally experienced in quick outbursts, ridding himself of the emotions as quickly as possible in order to keep the patience and level-headedness that was so very necessary as first mate on this ship. But now he was stuck in limbo with no control over the ending to this situation.

Damn Shanks. Damn him. And damn himself, too, for even once regretting the captain’s actions. For not figuring out what was happening fast enough, for not being there in time to help or somehow prevent Shanks’ injury. And above all damn that hill robber scum for causing the situation in the first place and then for going and getting eaten. He really wanted to beat the man himself, but he was stuck with the defenseless wall of the bathroom instead. If only the fever would break. The doctor had managed to cauterize the wound in time, but the combined trauma was simply too much for a body to take. The captain had been unconscious, burning up as his body tried to fight off infection and pain, for almost a week now. There was no reason to doubt a full recovery the doctor had said, as long as Shanks managed to survive this most crucial period.

“Idiot.”

He sighed and pushed away from the wall back into the frigid water. Fingers made a half-hearted attempt at detangling hair, mainly just trying to get rid of any remaining soap. The sooner he was finished here, the sooner he could go back to brooding at the captain’s bedside and flinging curses to the man’s face. His eyes still burned, but he ignored them and the tiny spots of warmth that blossomed on his cheeks only to drown in the cold spray. Shanks would be fine, would likely be up and driving him crazy again before he knew it. The man was a holy terror when he had a minor cold. The thought of trying to keep him in bed for the time necessary for recovery should have had him tearing out his stupid, uncooperative hair in frustration. But at the moment he’d have welcomed any of the usual antics that drove him to distraction. Hell, he’d settle for five seconds of consciousness, just enough time for the captain to demand something to drink before dropping off again. He’d get him some booze all right, and hold it hostage just to keep the fool in bed. If the fever would just break…

‘Shanks. Goddammit! You have to wake up because I’m running out of excuses for the boy. He wants to see you, and I know you wouldn’t want him to see you like this. And the crew, too. They need you. You’re the captain. You lead them. I’m just the one who assigns the chores and makes sure they don’t cause too much trouble on shore leave. And I, well…’

Cold water pounded over him. Ben didn’t want to complete that last thought. At the moment what loomed largest was the fact that he had become far too accustomed to having someone else shower with him. Without Shanks to help he was pretty damn pathetic. Stupid hair. He really was going to cut it all off. At least he’d managed to get the soap out. There wasn’t much he could do about the tangles though. He’d just stand in the spray for a few more minutes more. The cold was finally starting to sink in. His toes and fingernails were turning rather blue when the door to the bathroom suddenly flew open, Lucky Roux’s bulk and madly grinning face taking up the gap.

“He’s awake! And he’s askin’ for beer and for you, so if you don’t stink no more get your ass upstairs!”

Then Roux was gone, tramping down the hallway in search of the necessary alcohol and letting warm air drift in through the open doorway. His jaw was still slack with relief and he caught himself, closing his mouth before he could swallow any more water. The burning sensation behind his eyes flared for a moment then ebbed away, decreasing as he blinked away his relief. It took a moment for him to regain his composure but he found it, settling a disgruntled expression on his face as he gave voice to what he intended to tell that idiot captain of his after he found some clothes and made his way to the cabin.

“Well finally. Took you long enough you damn fool.”

*****************************************************************************************

Morning arrived with several sensations, ones that were both old and new at the same time. The painful throbbing in his temples, the one that only got worse when he moved his head or risked opening an eye to the light, was a familiar, frequent companion. It was a sign he’d had a lot of fun the night before, perhaps a bit too much fun. Shanks groaned, frowning as he tried to remember where the half empty bottle of scotch had ended up before he’d been put to bed last night. It should be – he groped blindly, fingers barely reaching the desk next to the bed, knocking over several empties but not finding the one he wanted. The movement caused his shoulders to twist; pulling the left one across the pillow it had been resting on. The motion, the sensation of healing flesh scraping across cotton fabric, didn’t immediately register in his sleepy, hung-over brain. But when it did he let out a whoop of joy, flinging his arm up into the air, his back rising from the bed to follow this new action.

The landing, cushioned as it was by numerous pillows and a soft mattress, was still harsh enough to set him gasping, biting down hard on his bottom lip to hold in the small sounds of pain that wanted to escape. Shanks lay there for several long minutes staring blankly up at the ceiling as waves of agony washed through what little remained of his left arm. His hangover at least, he noted in bitter amusement, was gone, swamped by the other, much greater affliction. Finally his breathing slowed and his pulse stopped roaring in his ears. The stump continued to thrum in angry beats, but this sensation was by now familiar and one he could handle much more readily than the first angry stabs. It appeared his jubilation was perhaps a bit premature.

Still, who could really blame him? A little more than two weeks ago he’d awoken to pain, a body that was significantly and permanently altered, and the sight of Lucky Roux asleep with a turkey leg dangling from the corner of his mouth. That pain had been his constant companion, with him when he opened his eyes in the morning and when he closed them at night, jarring him out of fitful slumber more times than he could count. What made it so bad was that half the pain was non-existent, his own mind and nerves screaming out as the signals sent down severed paths were not returned. There wasn’t any way to prevent that, and it galled him to have so little control over his own body. But this morning the first thing he noticed hadn’t been that pain. It had been the familiar (almost friendly by comparison) pain of a hangover that had greeted him. He’d forgotten during those first few moments everything that had happened. All he had been able to think about was his scotch, a typical antidote to morning head pain. Then he’d moved, just enough that his injured limb had grazed across its pillow, sparking nerve endings to life. It had dawned on him then that for the first time since the encounter he had emerged from slumber without pain in his arm. Hence his sudden, clearly over-exuberant, display.

“Now I really need that scotch.”

Shanks considered moving again, weighing current pain against the lengthened restrictions his first mate turned nursemaid was likely to impose after this latest set back. Frustration over the possibility of being confined to bed for another few days nearly won, but the sharp lance of pain that shot through him when he tried to rise decided the issue. He’d have to ask for help.

“Ben.”

He waited expectantly for a reply, and waited some more when one was not immediately forthcoming.

“Oi, Ben. Are ya in here?”

No response. That was strange. Ben had been like some kind of barnacle these past few weeks, a difficult pest to dislodge from his side. Typically when he woke up the man was already watching him over the edge of a book or a newspaper or the latest bit of paperwork. Even in the middle of the night he’d been there, ready to deal with whatever Shanks required. It took a lot of effort from him and from Yasopp or Lucky Roux and some guilt tripping over inventory or seeing to the crew to get the man to even leave the room. But now, of course, he didn’t seem to be responding when he was most needed. Ben wasn’t asleep on the bed next to him, for he hadn’t been able to convince the annoying bastard that he wouldn’t accidentally roll over and aggravate the injury while they slept. And from where he lay, Shanks could clearly see that Ben hadn’t nodded off in the chair where he’d been recently spending so much of his time. There was always the slight possibility that he was passed out on the floor beyond his line of sight. It was doubtful, but then again he himself had not awakened to a hangover until today. Perhaps the first mate had indulged himself.

“Hey! Mother hen! Wake up! I need ta be smothered by your care and concern!”

That should do the trick if the man was still in the room. Ben hated being called a mother hen but Shanks saw no reason not to call him that when it was simply the truth. No dark head popped up over the side of the bed to grumble at him, and he had to face the probability that he was finally all alone. All alone right when he needed a bit of help. He sighed. It figured. Fingers dug deeply into the side of the mattress and he grit his teeth as he struggled to sit up. If he could manage that, then perhaps he could find the scotch and decide if it was worth the trouble to go and get it. Once he was upright, as long as he kept his left side basically motionless and moved slowly to avoid jarring, he could manage. It was just hard to reach that point sometimes.

Arm and stomach muscles were trembling with effort by the time he finally managed to lever himself into a sitting position. Being incapacitated like this was certainly a pain in the ass Shanks noted, wiping away the sweat now running down his face. At least the insane amount of pillows stuffed around and behind him was good for something. He let them support his weight while he scanned the small room for any sign of his scotch. Bottles were scattered liberally about the floor, more than the usual amount, and all were pitifully empty. No trace of scotch anywhere.

“Well fuck.”

And the morning had started out so well, too. Now what was he going to do? His shoulder and arm hurt like hell and he was pretty sure his hangover was returning if the ache building between his eyes was any indication. The doctor here in Fushchia had tried to give him painkillers but he’d refused. Being drunk was one thing. The groggy dead feelings drugs caused wasn’t something he endured if he could help it. Besides, he could numb the pain just as well given enough alcohol. It appeared that his favorite remedy was unavailable at the moment.

“Stop actin’ like a helpless invalid you idiot. You’re the one who wanted ta get Ben off your back and now that he ain’t here all ya do is whine.”

Shanks snorted, shaking his head. He was talking to himself now. But it was true. He’d been feeling distinctly sorry for himself ever since he’d woken up. Since when did he let a bit of pain get him down? That wasn’t right. He was a pirate; he laughed at pain. Right on cue another wave crashed over him and he bit back a curse. Okay so this wasn’t exactly the same as a gunshot wound or a sword injury. This particular pain refused to be ignored. Maybe if he could just get his body’s attention to focus on something else for a while he’d be able to drag himself out of bed to search for more liquor. But how? And on what?

He considered the matter thoughtfully. Pain negated pain pretty well, as illustrated by the way his arm had wiped out his hangover temporarily. Did he really want to add to his problems though? Besides, what could he really do to himself that would override his arm? This could be difficult. Trying to kick himself somehow would only jar his body and thus negated that method. And he didn’t think trying to bite his tongue would be that effective either. That didn’t leave much beyond his remaining hand. His fingernails had gotten pretty long since he hadn’t been doing any work. His leg wouldn’t thank him tomorrow, but at the moment he really needed that scotch. He dug them hard into his hip, twisting them deeper until blood welled to the surface. He left them there, pushing in even further, and began lifting himself up and off the pillows. It seemed to be working. The flesh under his fingers hurt, sharp spikes of sensation. Not nearly approaching the intensity of his arm when he had first crashed back on the bed, it was enough now to cover the dull throbbing ache.

Finally even his lower back rose off the pillows and he was sitting fully upright. Next he had to get his legs over and off the side of the bed. Shanks moved the right one first, the one with his hand embedded in the hip. He was careful to try and hold his torso as still as possible, positive that he hadn’t disturbed his arm at all. But fresh pain blossomed in it anyway, and he desperately tried to keep moving, digging his fingers harder to try and beat pain with pain. He managed to drag his body over to the edge of the bed only by tearing his fingers from his leg and biting roughly down on his arm instead. Swaying for a moment, he was almost able to get his foot over the side. Black spots danced around the edges of his vision and he had to give up. There was no sense in gaining his feet only to collapse on the floor unconscious a moment later.

His head hit the pillows before he quite knew what was happening. The ceiling was fuzzy above him, the walls and the chair blurring in and out of focus when he turned his gaze to them. As for the remainder of his shoulder, the damn thing was on fire and he swore he could feel missing fingers curling and clenching from the pain. Slowly the sensation died away, fading back into the omnipresent ache that kept time with his heartbeat. At least the experiment hadn’t been a total loss. After all, now all he had to do was sit back up again and get his feet to the floor. His fingers, when his vision cleared at last, were bloody, and there was a welt on his arm dotted with more blood from where his canines had broken the skin. These would have to be dealt with once he finally got up. He didn’t need anyone to freak out over the new injuries, minor as they were, and he especially didn’t want them being used as an excuse to keep him in bed.

So. Pain had worked but he wasn’t too sure if it would be effective a second time. His arm was hurting more for one thing. And while he could hide the new marks and any others he might make under his clothing, there would be a lot of explaining to do if they were seen. Better to keep those to a minimum. What else could he do to distract his body from its pain? Well there was always the most obvious alternative, pleasure. He hadn’t had much of that lately, didn’t even know if he could what with the distracting twinges from his arm. Still, he could give it a shot.

First thing was to take care of his hand since it was still stained from earlier. It would be best to wipe it off somewhere out of sight and deal with the mess later. If he could just twist his arm around without moving too much…and there. He managed to get his hand under the pillows and scrubbed it against the mattress. It wasn’t perfect – there was still some blood stuck under his fingernails – but it would work for now. That need taken care of, he settled back and tried to get comfortable. Thank goodness he was ambidextrous when it came to this particular exercise and most other things. He tended to fight with his right hand but his left had been dominant for writing. His handwriting was already terrible and now it would only be worse. But enough about that, he was supposed to be thinking about other things at the moment.

“Think good thoughts. Somethin’ fun. Somethin’ hot enough to be distractin’.”

He shuffled through memories, trying to find one potent enough to grab his attention. Slowly he worked his hand down to rest on his thigh and lightly ran his fingers over his cock. It had been a while, over three weeks, and he could feel his body begin to stir in spite of the continuing pangs in his arm. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Keeping his touch light, he curled his fingers around rapidly firming flesh and grinned as he hit on a likely memory.

They’d had fun that night, gotten just drunk enough to be giddy but not stupid. He still didn’t know what had inspired the sudden streak of mischief in Ben that night, but there was no forgetting the gleam in his eyes when he had very casually slipped beneath the table. Across from him Yasopp had just laughed and grabbed the other crewmate who’d been sitting with them, hauling him off to the bar to flirt with the attractive woman working behind it. Big hands had grabbed his hips and pulled him further under the protective skirt of the tablecloth. He’d gone with it, even being kind enough to undo his pants and ease them down. His mouth had been so hot, tongue lapping at his quickly growing arousal before swallowing him whole.

His grip tightened and he couldn’t hold back the need to stroke, bucking up into his hand. It was so good, almost enough to cancel the fierce twinge caused by his sudden movement. Gently then. He moved carefully, resettling his arm so that most of the work could be done with just the motion of his wrist. It would probably be tired before too long, but at least this way he minimized the risk of setting off his injury. That matter resolved, he closed his eyes and tentatively pulled at still-hard flesh. When only pleasant feelings resulted from the movement, he let himself sink back into his memories, reassured for the moment that he wouldn’t jolt back to reality as long as he kept things light and careful.

…Ben’s mouth had been so hot, wet and tight and perfect. He’d been expecting, given the suddenness with which he’d been engulfed, that the pace would have been quick. After all he had hardened almost instantly once that heat had surrounded him. But clearly Ben was in a playful mood. He should have known. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence that his first mate decided to give him a blowjob in the middle of a busy tavern, drunk or not. Drawing away slowly now that he had Shanks’ full attention, he had turned to teasing, tasting touches. Ben was a quiet man, but no one would deny that he had a clever tongue. He’d worked him thoroughly, hands pressing down against hips that wanted to move, spreading his knees as far as the pants still trapped around his calves would allow.

Back in his bed, he found himself mirroring the memory. His legs, unhampered by any clothing, parted and he found himself planting one foot on the mattress. It was hard not to thrust up into his hand. He had to fight, tensing as he struggled to remain still. His wrist, as he’d predicted was starting to tire, but he was far too interested in seeing things to completion to let it get to him. The shoulder seemed to be doing fine. In fact, since he’d gotten into it, losing himself to his memory and his own hand, he’d been mostly unaware of the dull ache. Restraint seemed to be the key. Restraint and a very good memory for certain details.

Broad shoulders had worked their way into the space created between his legs as Ben finally decided to stop torturing him. The hands on his hips migrated back to clutch at the parts of his ass not resting on the bench, weight settling on his thighs as the first mate made himself comfortable. There was one final flicker of tongue, dipping in to gather the fluid that had started to collect, and then he was swallowed a second time. He had worked one hand under the table, tangling it in Ben’s hair. The pressure was light, or so he thought, but the laughter and the frisson of pleasure it sent through him told him otherwise. His wishes were obeyed, though, and when Ben began to move, he kept his lips wrapped firmly around needy flesh.

The pace was quick, almost violent. More than once the hand he was using to urge Ben on acted as a shield, hitting the underside of the table. Thankfully the wood was thick, the impact barely shaking the bottles and mugs littering the tabletop. He clutched at one half-full bottle, trying to be casual as he sipped at it. Slouched, more of his body hidden by the tablecloth than exposed to the room, he found his restraint slipping away. Even with the weight holding him down, he still managed to thrust, seeking more of the wet heat that was rapidly pushing him to the edge. Finally his control shattered, and he found himself doubling over the table, beer sloshing out over his fingers from the sudden movement.

He was content to stay sprawled on the tabletop, mustering enough energy to suck the alcohol off his skin and give Yasopp a one-fingered salute when the man wolf-whistled from the bar. Ben found his way out from under the tablecloth a short time later, grinning when he observed the happy puddle of captain on the table. “Don’t forget about your pants,” he’d said, and then walked away, already working at getting his hair back into place from the mess Shanks had made of it. And that had only been the beginning of their evening…

Teeth bit down hard on his lower lip as he fought to hold back the cry in his throat. He couldn’t stop his hips from surging up to meet the last few strokes of his hand, body stiffening as he came. Through the thick haze of satisfaction and adrenalin he could barely feel the sullen pulse of his shoulder. Its protest wasn’t nearly as strong as before, and he found it amusing that, in this case at least, pleasure was definitely the winner over pain. The usual lethargy was settling in his limbs now that he had finished; he just wanted to sink back down and take a nap.

He had to force himself to shift, sliding one leg off the bed so that his foot dangled above the floor. Then, rather than trying sit up with just the use of stomach muscles, he reached out to the desk that was bolted in the wall near his bed. He hadn’t been close enough to touch it earlier, but now he could rest his elbow and forearm on it comfortably. Mindful of his shoulder, he levered himself up. Even this careful movement set it throbbing more, but it was still dull in comparison to the satiation that filled the rest of his body. All that was left was turning enough to get his other foot onto the floor and then standing up. That was accomplished by gently easing around, slipping his foot from under the sheets, and then, holding tightly to the desk for support, rocketing upward.

Swaying, his knees fighting not to buckle, he stood on his own for the first time in over three weeks. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the pain that threatened to bring him down. It was the weakness in the rest of his body. He could vaguely remember the doctor saying something about the fever and the toll it had taken on his strength, but he’d mostly ignored the man. After all, he was a pirate. All he needed was a little rest and a lot of booze and he’d be fine. Ben had been the one to insist on keeping him in bed. That third day, fed up with all the smothering from Ben and from the various crew members hanging around ready to get whatever he needed at the slightest sign from him, he’d tried to get up. He’d blacked out from the sudden wave of agony that swept over him, and the first mate had used that minor setback as an excuse to keep him in bed. Now, finally alone, he had been able to try again.

He was not going to be ordered to bed rest a second time. Gritting his teeth, he took one unsteady step forward, then another. From his new position he could see into the recessive corners of the desk. And there was his beloved scotch! He grabbed it, the first swig burning down his throat as he swallowed a bit too much in his eagerness. His hat had been tucked away in the desk as well and he set the bottle down long enough to put the prized possession on his head where it belonged. Then, taking another deep drink of liquid courage, he set about the newly complicated task of getting cleaned up and dressed.

As he swiped at the now-cool mess on his stomach, he wondered if Ben would be willing to put on a repeat performance of his actions from that bar. As long as that idiot didn’t dwell too much on making sure his arm was fine. Hopefully he could convince him of the therapeutic benefits. After all, the memory alone had proven sufficient to get him not just up, but also out of bed. And then he laughed, long and loud and deeply enough that he had to take another nip of scotch to numb his arm. He was definitely on his way back to normal.

*****************************************************************************************

Following the coup in ’47, the government of Samoi became an oligarchy. Composed of the General Tiafon, the three heads of the leading industrial families, and the high priest of Vargle, this group managed to discredit General Menris, the popular military leader and architect of the takeover. Given access to the records of the royal court, Menris’ role in the June 17th incident was swiftly uncovered and exposed by Vargle priests. Evidence that showed Menris participated only under formal written protest was not produced for the people. Thus did the oligarchs manage to eliminate one of the biggest initial obstacles to their rule-the potential military dictatorship of Oliver Menris.

Ben glanced up from the not particularly fascinating account of political turmoil in South Blue yet again. At the rate he was going, managing a paragraph per spot check, he’d be reading this book for another week. That would not be a good thing. But he couldn’t help it. His main pastime, contrary to all surface appearances, was not staring at printed pages. It was actually Shanks-watching. It had started out of self-preservation. Long before he’d been the first mate, long before Shanks had managed to round up more than ten men, back when he was the captain of a small but sleek caravel rather than the evil looking carrack he now had, he’d just been a reluctant passenger. Slowly he’d become one of the crew. And as he’d gained responsibilities, he’d realized the dangers inherent in sailing under Shanks.

Turn your back on Shanks for five seconds and before you knew it, you’d be involved in a bar fight or some bizarre kind of drinking contest or engaged to the daughter of the tavern owner to pay off a bar tab. More times than he cared to recall, he’d been caught unaware, beaten over the head with a chair or a thrown mug or a flying body. Beyond getting dragged into random fights, when very drunk Shanks tended to get into real trouble. Challenge a sober, well-armed rival with twenty crewmen at his back to a duel? Shanks had done it at least eleven times. Insult the local populace or incite a riot? He’d done that too. On one particularly wild bender – stretching well into its fourth day – he’d made a pass at a young marine officer. Said marine was heading up his very first command and hadn’t taken the jokes from his men very well. Being clapped in irons was not a pleasant experience.

Besides the need to make sure the captain didn’t get himself or the rest of the crew into too much hot water, he’d started watching Shanks because the man was entertaining. Give the guy five minutes and he’d either charm the pants off of everybody in earshot or have them howling for his blood. As amusing as it was to watch the way he told stories, waving his arms and thumping his drink on the bar for emphasis, it was even better to watch him wiggle his way out of trouble. Ben still didn’t know what his secret was; it was a rare occasion indeed for Shanks to get involved in a fight that he hadn’t wanted.

As the years had passed, he began to realize he was watching Shanks just for the sake of watching him. For all the man drove him crazy, he’d become something of a habit. And if the captain had developed his own tendency to glance over his shoulder at whatever corner he’d claimed with his books and his beer and his smokes, well, that was fine with him. Twelve years of sailing with the man and nine or so sharing a bed did that to a person. Lately, though, he’d had to watch Shanks for an entirely different set of reasons.

Shanks was a horrible patient. They didn’t have a physician on the ship, just several guys who knew enough first aid to keep a man alive until they could reach an island. That hadn’t always been the case. For several years they had counted a nice young doctor among their ranks. He’d had a devil of a time with all the men, but Shanks was probably one of the worst. The captain didn’t like to stay in bed when he was seriously ill or injured. And when he had a touch of the flu or a minor cold he whined incessantly and acted like he was dying. A real pain in the ass. But the doctor had left them at one island, choosing to stay behind to help develop a cure for the plague that was decimating the place. There wasn’t anyone with true medical authority left on the ship to keep order when someone got sick. So, with his arm gone and with a fever-ravaged body, it had fallen on the crew to make sure the captain stayed in bed. Ben had made it his primary task, a combination of guilt, concern, and duty behind the decision.

He had stuck with the job, difficult though it was, and made sure that Shanks was really on the road to recovery. The night Shanks had managed to beat him at checkers, laughing so that the lines of pain on his face had disappeared, was the night he’d let the captain get drunk as hell the way he’d been demanding for so long. He had left Shanks drooling into his pillow, sprawled out with only a small furrow in his brow to indicate the hurt that marred even his drunken slumber. It had been the first time in three weeks that he’d been able to seek out a hammock and get a bit of real rest. But he had slept in too long. Shanks had been standing on the deck, clothes a bit more rumpled than normal, watching the clouds pass over the village and his ship. The grin on his face wasn’t forced, but Ben could see the shadows under his eyes and the way he was holding himself up through will alone. He’d managed somehow to convince Shanks to go back to bed and then, flush with his surprisingly easy victory; he’d fucked things up.

The reason for Shanks’ sudden willingness to go back to bed had been made very clear. The captain wanted some action. It wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted to. He had, very much. He’d barely been able to touch Shanks beyond squeezing his hand or brushing the hair off his forehead. But it had seemed like a bad idea, what with the way Shanks was so wan, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, as he settled onto the bed. It would have been for the best to give him another couple of days to recover. Then they could go back to doing at least some of the less strenuous activities Shanks was so interested in. So he’d tucked the captain in and kissed him on the top of his head and told him no. He had been ready for the protests but there hadn’t been any. Shanks had just nodded briefly and closed his eyes. He thought it had been a sign that Shanks realized how tired he really was. He’d been wrong.

Three days had gone by, then four, then five, then a week. Shanks hadn’t broached the subject again. In fact, it was almost like the captain was avoiding him. He had shrugged it off as Shanks just being tired of being told to stay in bed or to take it easy. But when another week passed and they were ready to depart from Fushchia and Shanks still hadn’t made any lewd remarks or taken a pass at him, he started to realize that something was definitely wrong. Like an idiot he had taken a ‘wait and see’ approach to the situation. After all, the man had just lost an arm. Anybody, even Shanks, would be affected by that.

The damn cape should have been the next clue. Usually it only emerged from the depths of Shanks’ footlocker for extremely cold weather or when he took it into his head to pretend he was a vampire. Now, though, he wore the thing every day, pulled just enough off-center to hide his left side. Once again it had taken Ben far too long to figure out what was going on. Shanks was still getting over his fever. It made sense that he’d have chills and was just wearing the cape to ward them off. Except that common sense wasn’t exactly the captain’s strong suit. It had finally dawned on him the day before they set sail. Shanks was likely self conscious about his arm. He wasn’t keeping warm. He was hiding it. But Shanks didn’t hide. One of his many jobs was to call Shanks on his bullshit. Asking him about the cape would have been a perfect opportunity to figure out what was going on. Except that he had a very good feeling the captain’s recent wardrobe change was mostly his fault. Like a coward he’d opted to keep his mouth shut and found work for loading supplies. He was avoiding the captain as much as Shanks was avoiding him.

And so it had progressed for another month. Gradually things were beginning to return to normal. He was still bunking in a hammock with the rest of the crew and Shanks had definitely not returned to his previous groping ways, but other than their sleeping arrangements everything seemed to be okay. Their partnership as captain and first mate was fine and their usual banter and mutual harassment was almost back to its former level. But Ben was still blaming himself for not being smart enough to figure out that wretched bandit’s scheme in time and for failing to understand just what had been behind Shanks’ request that afternoon. If he could just get some kind of sign that Shanks was ready to forgive him…

That was partially why he was watching so intently. They’d been involved in a battle that morning. Some young yahoo had actually believed he could board their ship and take their supplies and treasure. Shanks had taken that pirate down himself, making him jump overboard at sword point. After it was all over the captain had flexed his shoulders, grinned, and decided that they would stop at the nearest port to take on some more inventory and, more importantly, get wasted at a bar. It seemed as if Shanks was hale at last. Still, it didn’t hurt to keep an eye on him in the bar to make sure. More importantly, though, he was watching to see what Shanks did with the buxom woman behind the bar.

She’d been flirting with the captain all night, keeping his mug filled and moving in such a way that her ample assets were displayed directly in his line of sight. Shanks had responded with his usual combination of charm and random pinching. Hopefully she’d ask him to spend the night and he’d go along with it. The last two places they’d stopped, he’d refused the offers. If Shanks was willing here, maybe he wouldn’t be averse to going back to their usual arrangement on the ship. Ben had thought he’d be jealous, watching Shanks flirt with his bar women before settling matters between them, but at this point he would take any sign that Shanks was back to his lusty self. So he kept checking, looking for any indicator Shanks would be sleeping above the tavern that night rather than back on the ship.

It was only around 11 o’clock when he watched Shanks get up from the bar. He stood, red hair no longer hidden by a straw hat, and turned to look at the corner where Ben had tucked himself away. Suddenly the book on South Blue politics was very interesting. He stared intensely at the pages and pretended not to notice the gaze resting upon him. After a few moments he heard the familiar slapping of sandals on the floor as Shanks headed for the door. Still not looking, Ben sighed and groped for his mug. Tonight was definitely going to be a ten glass minimum type of night. Shortly after the door closed, he watched Lucky Roux rise to his feet and follow the captain out into the evening. Good. One less thing to worry about. Sagging back against the wooden booth, he closed his book and took a long pull of his drink.

He had downed three more beers and was staring blankly into a fourth when the remainder of the crew in the bar made their move. Yasopp slid onto the bench on the other side of the table, the rest of the men coming to stand around them.

“You’re one sad, sorry mother-fucker.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said,” Yasopp reached across the table to smack him on the head. “You’re a pathetic bastard.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. We’ve all been sittin’ around for the past couple weeks watchin’ whatever stupid little dance you’ve been doin’ ‘round the captain and we’re gettin’ damn tired of it. I don’t know what the hell happened and I don’t really care. But if you don’t get off your ass and fix it, we’re ready to take matters into our own hands.”

Mixed noises of agreement came from the surrounding crew.

“Oh really?”

“Yes. We’ll lock you both in the storage hold again, the one without the booze. We did it before an’ we’ll do it again if that’s what it takes. I don’t care how long you’re down there, either. And we’ll withhold liquor, too, just ta move things along. You’re both stubborn sons of bitches but the captain’ll break without his alcohol and that will drive you nuts. So you should fix this now before we have to take steps.”

Ben sighed. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to fix things, he just didn’t know how. Besides, the situation was his fault. Shanks didn’t seem to want to change things, and it wasn’t his place, as the guilty party, to make him.

“Look, it isn’t that simple.”

“Yes it is” Yasopp whacked him again. Stop actin’ like a woman. It’s not like ya care his arm’s gone, right?”

“No! No, that doesn’t bother me at all.”

“There ya go. You saw him take out those other guys today. He’s fine. There isn’t anything stoppin’ ya.”

“But…” Ben trailed off. There was plenty stopping him. First and foremost was that he’d failed in his duty. He hadn’t protected his captain and then he’d failed to offer the right kind of support. He didn’t deserve to have him anymore. Not until he could atone for his failure. “It’s my fault.” The last was whispered. He almost hadn’t said it, but it was the truth. And the crew deserved that much.

“Fuck!” Yasopp stared at him for a moment then waved the other men off. This would take longer than he’d thought. “Bartender! Whiskey, straight, and keep it comin’!”

Only a few stars still hung in the sky, dawn seeping over the horizon, when Yasopp helped Ben stagger back to the ship. They were both drunk, but the first mate much more so. Yasopp was still haranguing him, trying to make sure the message got through Ben’s alcohol-fogged brain.

“Only you would be so stupid and think what happened was your doin’. Gods! A right pair of fools I’m sailin’ under. Shanks goes his own way, doesn’t matter who’s around to try and set him on a different course. You know that better’n anyone. Just be thankful he saved the boy and came out of it as well as he did. As for the other thing, well, that one’s his problem an’ not yours. But it seems as if you’re the only one who can do anythin’ about it. And ya better, too. I’m tired of watchin’ the two of you go sighing around like lovesick idiots. We’re s’posed to be pirates, man! I’m givin’ you five days. Fix it by then or me and the rest of the crew will take care of it for ya. And you won’t like how we do that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. I’ll think of a way ta fix this.”

“You better.” They reached the ship and Yasopp managed to steer Ben below deck to the hammock he’d commandeered in one of the bunkrooms. “We’re all gettin’ damn tired of listenin’ to ya snore every night. It’s past time ta get ya back where you belong.”

*****************************************************************************************

It was the rolling gait, Shanks decided, that often gave his away his chosen occupation. On land, it was fairly obvious that he’d spent most of his life aboard a ship. Tonight the sea was fairly calm; small waves ruffled the surface of the ocean but did little more than rock his anchored vessel gently. It was soothing, an easy movement to walk with. How long had he been pacing, each step across the small cabin polishing a path across the wooden boards?

By rights he should have been abed, or else enjoying a nightcap in the galley with the late watch. Instead a single lantern burned in the wall above the built-in desk. For once it was neat, organized. A stack of the past few months’ inventories and purchases and a pile of the latest newspapers were marked with his angular cursive scrawl, a sign he’d actually gone over the work with especial care. The rest of the room was unusually clean as well; bed made, clothes put neatly away, all the empty bottles properly stowed away to be trashed or refilled at the next port. It wasn’t like him, this nervousness that ate at his bones and led him to even do paperwork to keep his mind busy. But then again, who could fault him for a few personality changes. After all, it was only two months, one week, and six days since he’d lost most of his left arm, not that he was counting. Which made it two months and two weeks since they’d last…

With an effort Shanks forced himself to sit on the bed. He was being stupid. Roux had been right. He was acting like some damn teenager, moping around the ship. There was no reason to think that anything had changed between them. He was still captain after all, his men still respected him, and just this very week he’d proved he could more than defend himself in a fight. Sure it was a little harder to get dressed now, but it wasn’t like he’d ever worn shoes with laces to tie in the first place. He was still a man, still had needs that he could certainly take care of with just one hand. But he was growing weary of just that hand. And even more, he was tired of the dreams and the half-formed fears of rejection. So what if Ben hadn’t wanted to do anything all those weeks ago. He’d blown the whole thing way out of proportion. Ben was a damn mother hen. He should’ve figured there was no way he’d go for something like that quite so soon. As for why Ben had been more or less avoiding physical contact since then, well, who could blame him? He was the one who’d started hiding from first, thinking that Ben was repulsed by his lack of an arm.

Damn was that a stupid idea. They were pirates for fuck’s sake. Every man on the crew had scars. One missing limb among all the various injuries that were possible from a life at sea wasn’t that bad. Besides, he was still more than capable of holding his own in the bedroom. And as Roux had so correctly pointed out, even though Ben did have his moments, it was often up to him to initiate things. The man was probably just waiting for some sign from him that he was all right with resuming the last, most intimate portion of their many-sided relationship. Now that he had an ultimatum hanging over his head and some sense talked into him, perhaps they could take the last step back towards normalcy. With an irritated sigh, Shanks stood. He’d just have to call Ben in and see where things went from there. The paperwork was always around to go over if his courage failed him again.

He was at the door in three easy strides, knowing exactly how many from the innumerable times he had counted as he paced. The hinges squeaked a little, sneaky bastards still hadn’t oiled them. At the sound, the half a dozen or so men gaming on the deck turned to face him. Something else he didn’t like, but time would hopefully have his men ignoring him again and he could wait for that.

“Hey, could one a you please get Ben? I wanna go over this borin’ paperwork of his before he nags me to death.”

“Sure Cap’n. I’ll go ‘n find ‘im.”

Tice jumped up, giving Shanks a crooked grin before he trotted off towards the stairs. The rest of the men had already gone back to their dice as he closed the door. Now there was nothing to do but wait and gather his nerve. Suddenly he was tired, an aching exhaustion that found him slumping on the bed. He had to deal with this tonight. Between Roux’s threat and his own pent up horniness he was feeling pretty wrung out. And, damn it all, he was Shanks, captain of the Red Hair Pirates, leader of one of the best and most dangerous crews in all the Blues! It was time for him to act like it.

............

‘…Twenty-nine, thirty.’

Ben chewed on the end of his pen absently as he recounted the barrels. This ship took its alcohol supply very seriously and it wouldn’t do to run out before the next port. Yes. They definitely had thirty barrels. That should be plenty to see them through. The pile of paperwork resting atop the barrel closest to him was marked with neat rows of tallies, clear indicators of just how much time he’d been spending down in the holds. All the numbers looked good. They had more than enough supplies to last them to Logue Town. Hell, they had enough stock to see them through to the Grand Line. As well they should, considering that he’d overseen their provisioning himself. Shanks wanted to go back to the dangerous ocean with all possible speed. There had been trouble brewing even before they’d arrived in East Blue. Who knew how far it had spread since they’d been gone?

Still, even though he was telling himself that making certain of their inventory was essential given their plans, he was really just stalling. He’d counted the contents of each hold four times already, once for each day that had passed. It was time-consuming and kept him safely away from Shanks and from Yasopp and his gang of co-conspirators. The one time the sharpshooter had popped in on him, reminding him of the shrinking deadline, he’d been able to chase him off with the excuse that inventory gave him time to think. But all the plans he’d come up with so far had been stupid. He wasn’t even sure if he should have a plan. Maybe it would be better to just act like everything was already back to normal.

‘Or maybe,’ he told himself wryly, ‘ I could just stop hiding and ask Shanks outright what he wants. Act like a grown man for a change. Nothing can be worse than it is now.’

Tonight was all that stood between him, Shanks, and a locked storage hold devoid of alcohol. In reality, the threat wasn’t that bad. But it would certainly be best if they could resolve their problems on their own. He just needed to dredge up a little more confidence.

“Oi! Beckman! You down here?”

The door behind him opened, lantern light obscuring the face of the crewman for a moment.

“There ya are. I’ve been lookin’ for ya all over the place!”

“What do you need?”

“Cap’n’s lookin’ for ya. Said somethin’ about wanting to go over th’ inventory.”

It seemed as if his moment of truth had arrived. Ben tucked the pen behind his ear and picked up his paperwork. If his nerve failed, at least they could always discuss provisions.

“All right. I’m coming.”

It was Tice who’d been sent to get him. The man was acting kind of strange, stealing quick glances at him as they headed for the deck.

“What is it?”

“Hmm? Well, just wonderin’.”

“About?”

“Whether or not I’m gonna win my bet. I got 1000 belli says you and the Cap’n…ah…patch things up tonight.”

“Damn! Is everybody on this ship in on Yasopp’s scheme?”

“Pretty much. I don’t really wanna have ta lock you in the hold. I’ve seen how the Cap’n gets when he’s told he can’t drink. Besides, I could use the money.”

The moon was rather bright that night Ben noticed as he walked across the deck. Its pale light illuminated the group of men gaming in front of Shanks’ cabin. As he passed them, they paused to watch, a few of them daring to whistle or clap. No pressure.

“If I catch any one of you eavesdropping, I’m putting you all on hull scraping duty for a month.”

“Got it boss.”

The dice game suddenly moved towards the bow, leaving Ben all alone in front of Shanks’ door.

............

Shanks propped himself up on his bed, stretching out his legs and kicking off his sandals. The bottle of rum he’d been slowly killing rested within easy reach on the desk. He’d hit it a couple times in the last few minutes; fortification for whatever came next. He didn’t really have a plan. Going with the flow of things was more his style. Ultimately though he wanted to move beyond discussing inventory and on to much more entertaining activities. He was certain of that much.

Ever since he’d left that bar and had his chat with Luck Roux he’d been hornier than normal. He almost wished he’d slept with the very friendly bar tender who’d kept him so plied with alcohol. At least it would have taken the edge off. Ben had made himself scarce the past few days, appearing at mealtime to grab some food before vanishing back below deck. The most he’d seen of him had been when he’d settled at one of the long galley tables to make note of whatever it was he’d been counting. For some reason he’d fixated on Ben’s fingers, watching him write. He had long fingers, scholar’s hands worn rough by years at sea but still nimble, still clever. He was very fond of those fingers. In fact, if he had his way, those fingers would soon be very busy.

The sudden knocking startled him and he swore under his breath. Rum helped steady his nerves enough for him to call out.

“It’s open.”

Salt-riddled hinges squealed as Ben pushed in the door. The noise was awful, nearly enough to make the first mate forget to duck as he entered the room. He frowned; tucking the paperwork he carried under one arm as he turned to examine the door. From his expression, Shanks knew someone was going to have some explaining to do.

“I’ll have someone oil that tomorrow.”

Ben gestured back at the door, wincing at the noise as he closed it. Then he turned to face Shanks, and the captain had to bite back a gasp. The lantern by the desk cast long shadows across the room, but they didn’t hide the broadness of his shoulders or the way he moved as he tucked a loose strand of hair back behind his ear. Damn but it had been too long.

“So,” Ben asked as he walked over to take the seat at the desk. “You wanted to go over the inventories for last month?”

“Mmmm….what? Oh, yeah. I had a couple a questions about the provisions to discuss ‘fore we arrive in Logue Town next week.”

Ben nodded, setting aside his own papers. Leaning back in the chair, he looked over at Shanks.

“Do you mind if I take off my boots? It’s late, and I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“Nah, go ahead.”

With a grunt, Ben swung one long leg over his other knee, fingers working quickly at the buckles. One boot thunked to the floor, a sock following right behind. The procedure was repeated for the other foot, and then two feet joined Shanks on the bed, Ben tilting the chair back to rest on just two supports as he stretched his legs. He wiggled his toes, resulting in several loud cracks and pops. Shanks started at the unexpected noise, still a bit edgy.

“Roger’s bones, man. What in the hell’s with your feet?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Ben plopped his left foot into Shanks’ lap. “You broke three of my toes two years ago when you dropped that keg on them. And before that, I’d broken two of the same in that hurricane. And this foot, well…” He pointed at the white curve of skin that stretched between the second and third toes of his right foot and continued down his foot for another three inches.

“Ah yes, that time we fought Habaland and his dogs.”

“That’s right. And I spend most of my time standing on a ship in the middle of the ocean. So sometimes the joints swell, and my feet hurt.” He looked pointedly at Shanks, poking him in the stomach with a crooked big toe. “If you aren’t going to remember the damage you caused, you could at least help soothe it.”

............

“Sure, sure. Geeze you’re demanding tonight.”

When Shanks reached out and grabbed the offending body part, his thumb immediately beginning to rub in deep circles into the ball of his foot, Ben felt much of the tension leave his body. It seemed his spur of the moment tactics were effective. A half-formed plan slowly blossomed in his brain. He could work with this. Shanks’ fingers danced lightly over the more delicate bones on top, easing away some of the day’s aches. It cut him off in mid-retort, a loud sigh replacing whatever comeback he’d forgotten almost as soon as he started it. He leaned back in the chair even more, eyes closing as he reveled in the feeling. His poor feet rarely got enough attention.

Shanks grinned as he watched Ben’s reaction. The tension in his whole body just seemed to ooze away. And he couldn’t resist. He ran his thumb lightly and quickly up the center of the underside of Ben’s foot. One eye cracked open, and a heel was suddenly grinding down on a rather sensitive area.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“My foot doesn’t need any more abuse. It’s not ticklish. If you don’t want to rub it, just say so.” He made to pull his foot away, wondering if Shanks would keep going. Thankfully Shanks grabbed it, patting it gently in apology as he settled it back in his lap.

“No, no. I wanna. I just had to check.”

“Hmmph. Well now you know.” Hopefully that would be enough to satisfy the captain. Considering how ticklish his feet really were, he didn’t want to get sidetracked from his plan. Plus, it was a weakness he definitely didn’t want exposed to the one person who would hopefully soon be back in a position to exploit it. Keeping one eye still on Shanks, he twisted around to the unusually well organized desk. Time to move on to step two of his scheme. “What part of the provision inventory did you want to discuss?”

“Erm…” Shanks tried to recall the paperwork he’d actually finished for a change. There was nothing, really. Ben was far too efficient. But he had needed an excuse to get him in here so… “The munitions. I’m serious about headin’ for the Grand Line next. You remember how it was last time. We got by, but I don’t want ta have the same problems again.”

Ben nodded as he searched through the stacks of paper. His foot twitched slightly in Shanks’ grasp as the captain stroked a line down the instep. When he made no move to pull away, Shanks repeated the motion. The same little quiver, a tiny shudder under his fingers. Ben turned back, the proper sheaf of paper found. He raised an eyebrow over the paperwork as he studied the numbers, and Shanks hastily went back to rubbing circles with his fingers.

He could feel the tiny bones shifting, even hear a faint grinding sound from time to time. Ben’s feet really were in bad shape, but the skin stretched over them was smooth still, soft. It was different from his own feet, constantly exposed to sun, wind, and wave by his sandals. The tan lines were constant, even the texture a bit more leathery than the areas covered by the straps. Shanks ran his thumb over the distance from ankle to big toe and felt the corners of his mouth twitch. If not for the prominence of bone, the silky glide reminded him of nothing so much as stroking a longer path down equally smooth thighs. He had it bad. Even Ben’s feet were turning him on. At the rate things were going, he wasn’t going to need much more encouragement before he gave in and just pounced the man.

Ben shifted in the chair, letting the paperwork rest in his lap as he stretched his arms over his head. So far things were going nicely. His feet were getting some much-needed ministration and, judging from the way he’d stopped massaging and turned to touching him in a way reminiscent of the one he often used on more intimate body parts, it seemed like Shanks would be very receptive to the rest of his plan. Still, it would be best to keep things light for the moment. Settling back, he pulled his foot from Shanks’ lap and plopped the other, still-neglected foot down in its place. He wiggled it a bit, burrowing his heel down between the captain’s legs. Then, with an imperious air, he nudged his toes into Shanks’ stomach.

“Don’t forget about this one. It needs the same care and attention.”

“Yes o great master. Mustn’t let your poor toes be jealous of their brothers.”

“That’s right. It wouldn’t do for my feet to develop a rivalry for your affection.”

Mentally counting down, Ben kept up a solemn demeanor and waited. Shanks stared at him for several seconds before he cracked.

“Ha! What, they’d try ta step on each other? You’d be flat on your face all th’ time. Well then mister foot I guess I better make sure you’re satisfied.”

“That one needs to be rubbed hard along the outside. I think I pinched a nerve in it.”

Shanks nodded, bracing the foot securely in his lap, and began pressing solidly into his foot, stroking hard. It felt pretty good, especially since he didn’t really have a pinched nerve. Ben decided to let out a small groan and let his foot move slightly up and down in Shanks’ hold. The angle wasn’t the best but he could definitely apply the necessary friction to the piece of Shanks’ anatomy that was already somewhat firm beneath him.

“So, regarding the ammunition, it seems to me like we have an adequate amount of large shot. It wouldn’t hurt to have extra. As far as small arms, we definitely need more bullets. There’s more than enough powder.”

“Mmmhmm.”

Ben was tapping his fingers on his leg, the other hand busy supporting paperwork. It was most distracting. Shanks wondered if his first mate had any idea just how much he really wanted to grab them and maybe nibble on them for a bit. He might. All of the twitching Ben’s foot was doing against his dick was having a very strong effect. Strong enough that he completely missed what Ben said next.

“What?”

“I said, what do you think about three more rounds of small shot and maybe another five hundred cannon balls?”

“Sounds good ta me.”

“Shanks!” Ben stopped drumming his fingers to stab one accusingly at the captain. “You missed everything I said!”

“No I didn’t. Three rounds of small an’ five hundred cannon.”

“Before that I mentioned that we had enough large shot and that we needed more small, making what I said about three rounds of bullets completely ludicrous.”

“Why’d you do somethin’ like that?”

“Because,” Ben mentally crossed his fingers and decided to go for it. Smiling, he pointedly rubbed his foot against the bulge he’d helped create in Shanks’ pants. “I thought perhaps you were distracted by something.”

“Maybe I was.” Finally! The opening he’d been hoping for! “Why don’t ya put down that damn paperwork and come over here to find out?”

“Okay.”

The munitions inventory was tossed onto the desk as Ben carefully removed his feet from Shanks’ lap and the bed. Now would be the worst possible time for the captain to suffer a groin injury. Then he stood, moving the chair back so that it was out of the reach of any possible flailing limbs. Finally he climbed onto the bed, deliberately straddling the captain. Leaning forward to rest on one elbow, he reached back with his other hand and caressed Shanks through his pants.

“So, was it this that occupied your attention?”

Shanks grinned, arching up a little into the touch. “Partially.”

“Partially?”

“Yup. There was somethin’ else that also had my attention. Ya see, two things goin’ on at once. That’s why I missed what you said ‘bout the ammunition.”

“And what was it that had you so captivated?”

It was almost painful to pull Ben’s hand away from his arousal, but he’d been fantasizing about those fingers for days now. He had to have them. He brought Ben’s hand up between them and lightly licked his lips.

“This.”

Just the one at first. Long, calloused, ink-stained, and delicious. He swirled his tongue over it, pulled it deeper into his mouth. Above him Ben groaned and tried to pull away. But Shanks wasn’t about to let go of his prize and kept the finger trapped gently between his back teeth. He shook his head as his first mate tugged futilely. He had very definite plans for that finger, none of which involved its release any time soon. In fact, it was high time he added another one.

Shanks’ mouth was warm and wet and he was doing very interesting things with his tongue. Ben suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss him, hard, with lots more of Shanks’ tongue involved. They hadn’t even shared that much in the time since the incident and he was feeling the loss quite keenly. But Shanks seemed determined to hold onto his fingers so he had to settle for the captain’s neck, licking along the curve of his jaw and savoring the rough, spiky texture of stubble against his lips. Somewhere in between moving onto the bed and Shanks sucking on another of his fingers, his pants had grown rather constricting. He had wanted to take things slow this first time, but his body was definitely having a different opinion. Ben shifted, slipping both his knees between Shanks’, spreading them apart before easing his weight onto the other man.

There was the friction he needed, grinding against Shanks so that the captain gasped around his fingers and wrapped one leg around his waist. Now that he was better positioned, Ben went for Shanks’ ear rather than his neck. He knew just how sensitive the other man was there, breathing lightly into it before nipping at the lobe. In response Shanks writhed up against him, letting go of the hold he had on Ben’s wrist in order to pull the other man closer. He worked the two fingers he still held captive almost franticly, squirming under his first mate as Ben turned to nibbling a path up the curve of his ear. At the rate they were going, he didn’t think either of them would last much longer. And that would be a shame considering they still had their clothes on.

Reluctantly Shanks pushed Ben away from his ear, letting the man’s fingers go free. As much as he still wanted to play with them, they could be put to better use elsewhere. Twisting, he pulled himself out from under the first mate, moving towards the center of his bed. He didn’t miss the low moan as he unhooked his leg from Ben’s waist, breaking the contact between them, and he smirked at his first mate as he got up onto his knees.

“If ya give me a hand here, we can get back ta business.”

He gestured at his trousers before moving to free the few closed buttons of his shirt. Those fingers he loved so much tugged eagerly at the drawstring. Then they dipped inside, slipping under the now-loose waistband to touch him. It was Ben’s turn to grin as the captain bucked into his grasp. He stroked him roughly, leaning down to bite at Shanks’ lower lip before sweeping his tongue into mouth. Shanks replied to his challenge by accepting it. He let Ben dominate his mouth, sucking lightly on his tongue while he worked on drawing the first mate’s shirt out of his sash and pants. The sash itself was more challenging. Knots weren’t exactly easy to open with just one hand. Ben already had his shirt half off and his trousers tangled ‘round his knees. Shanks didn’t think he had the willpower to draw away a second time. He whimpered into Ben’s mouth and tugged on the sash.

‘Oh.’

Ben could’ve smacked himself for forgetting about the sash. Of course Shanks couldn’t get it off the way he currently had it. He’d have to remember to start tying it in a slipknot from now on. It was so hard to pull away. Shanks was hot against him, hard in his hand, wet and slick where he’d forced his way into the captain’s mouth. But he managed somehow, fingers scrambling to undo the knot. He yanked his shirt off while he was at it, his pants too. There was no sense in having to be parted from Shanks a third time. The captain seemed to have the same idea for bare flesh met bare flesh when he hauled Shanks to him.

For a moment all he could do was clutch at Ben’s back and rock against him. Ben had him by the hip, pulling them together while he worked one hand through the bright tangle of hair, tilting his head back to bite at his throat. It occurred to Shanks as he struggled for control that maybe he and Ben should abstain more often. Under different circumstances of course. The first mate was rarely this wild, preferring to let Shanks have that role. Indeed, having gotten the first surge of lust out of his system, he was already calming, kissing the marks he’d made on the captain’s neck. His fingers worked their way from the back of Shanks’ head, tracing a path along his jaw line and trailing down over his shoulder and chest to scrape lightly over one nipple.

“So…”

The word trailed off as Ben looked at the man in his arms. He was pretty sure he knew what Shanks wanted and he knew damn well what his preference for the night was, but it would be best to be certain.

“Mmm. This way I think.”

Shanks slipped out of Ben’s hold and reached out to grasp the headboard, fingers scrabbling against the wall. It was tough to get a good grip, what with the bed bolted flush against the wall, but it should be enough. He positioned himself on his knees, keeping them wide. Then, hoping his ass hadn’t deteriorated from all the damn bed rest he’d had, he tossed a glance at Ben over his shoulder and wiggled. It mustn’t have looked too bad because the first mate was on him immediately, nipping at the back of his neck and pressing flush against him. Heat rushed through him as Ben began to thrust lightly, barely parting his cheeks, just enough to tease.

“Give me your fingers again.”

There was no mistaking the tone of command in the captain’s voice, but Ben hesitated for a moment.

“We’re not doing this without better lubrication.”

“I know. It’s still under the mattress. Just…I wanna do it this way first.”

Ben sighed into Shanks’ shoulder and then smiled. The man certainly was fixated on his fingers for some reason. Then again, this was Shanks. There might not be a real reason other than that he felt like it.

“All right. Let me get the oil and then you can go back to gnawing on my hand again.”

There definitely needed to be a way to work things so that they didn’t always have to pull apart to get to the next level. He was pretty sure that it wasn’t just the two months of relative celibacy behind that thought either. Maybe they should spend a day or two naked in bed to test this theory. His ass was getting cold without Ben pressed up against it, and he realized that one of the biggest downsides to not having two hands was the fact that he couldn’t jerk off and hold himself up against the wall at the same time. Still, that meant Ben would have to do most of the work for a change.

“Oi! Could ya hurry it up? I’m gettin’ lonely up here.”

“I’m trying! How many damn bottles do you have stashed under here anyway?”

“Oh, that’s right. I started keepin’ a bunch more under there since it was kinda hard to get outta bed to get ‘em myself and I didn’t want people to have ta be runnin’ around for me all the time. Try lookin’ up here by the wall.”

“Eureka!”

“I take it ya found it. Now get back here.”

Ben obeyed this command with alacrity. He was back behind Shanks immediately, working the stopper out of the small bottle.

“Hand.”

“In a moment. I’m not quite finished.”

As soon as he was able, he drizzled a decent amount of oil into the palm of his right hand. It was cool against his cock as he slicked it and he could feel Shanks shiver when he reached around to fondle him.

“Can I have ‘em yet?”

“Almost.” He leaned over far enough to slip the bottle on the desk next to Shanks’ rum. “Here.”

Shanks opened his mouth when he felt two fingers press against his lips. Ben was pressed up against him again, not really moving too much other than for the slow pulling strokes on his dick. He wouldn’t play with him too much longer. Really all he wanted was one more taste. He slipped his tongue between the two digits, sucking them in all the way to the knuckle and sampling the skin that joined them together. Ben shifted behind him when he did that, nudging against his cleft. It sent a small spark up his spine and he knew that he didn’t want to wait any longer. Giving them a final lick, he let Ben’s fingers slip from his mouth.

“Now.”

Shanks’ voice had acquired a husky edge, the combination of demand and need he loved so much. He didn’t bother to give a verbal reply, letting the touch of his damp fingers ghosting between the spread curves of Shanks’ ass do the talking. The captain was tight after two months, the ring of muscle barely yielding as he pushed in lightly with one fingertip. With gentle persistence he eased it in until Shanks sighed and pressed back onto it. Heat surrounded his finger, snug heat that opened surprisingly quickly when he slipped in the other finger. Ben worked them in and out, gradually stretching Shanks as the man began to rock with the movement. He gave him one final stroke, making sure to drag his fingertips so that the captain went rigid for a moment before dropping his head.

Ben’s fingers in his mouth had been delicious. Ben’s fingers moving over that spot was magnificent. And feeling him pressing in slowly, filling him until they were flush against each other was even better than a bottle of ’68 Fischer’s Red, the best and most expensive vintage available in all the Blues. For all his earlier haste, the pace Ben set was steady rather than fast. His free arm was wrapped securely about Shanks’ waist, the other one stroking the captain in time to the movement of his hips. He had his face buried against the back of Shanks’ neck, occasionally planting kisses along the captain’s hairline. It was so comfortable that Shanks almost didn’t want to speed them up. But his body was demanding that he move, so he pushed back into Ben, taking control of the rhythm until the other man got the hint and picked up the pace.

Gods was Shanks hot and tight! He could barely manage to contain himself, trying to remain in control by focusing his attention on the way Shanks smelled and felt and tasted now that he no longer had his hat to protect his head from the world. A bit more like the sea rather than the land, the faint scent of hayfields no longer present in his hair. And then the captain stirred in his arms, moving against him faster and faster until the previous tempo was gone, destroyed by one that would send them over the edge. Ben could feel it when he swelled further in his hold, and he stroked him faster, biting into one lightly freckled shoulder as Shanks came with a strangled cry. It didn’t take him much longer to finish either, especially when Shanks started moving again.

When it was over Ben found himself tipping back onto his ass. He made sure to bring Shanks along with him, keeping the man firmly in his lap. The red haired man had picked up his right hand again and was busy licking it clean when Ben murmured in his ear.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

The first mate squeezed the captain sitting between his legs, lowering his head so that is rested on Shanks’ left shoulder.

“I’m sorry I have to sail with someone who’s stupid enough to think that I’d stop wanting him because he’d sacrificed a part of himself to save a little boy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I gotta have an idiot of a first mate who could go around blamin’ himself for somethin’ that wasn’t his fault.”

Shanks pulled away, moving towards the desk where his bottle of rum lay. Ben smirked and smacked him on the ass, grabbing the alcohol before Shanks could swipe it.

“Hmph! I know I’m not sorry I got to this first. And now I’m going to drink it.”

“Fine.”

Shanks shoved Ben over to the far side of the bed before he got up to stand on the floor. He rummaged under the mattress until he found another bottle, whiskey this time, and set it on the desk next to the bottle of oil. He blew out the lantern before climbing into bed. In the darkness he poked Ben in the ribs for emphasis.

“Well I’m not sorry that when I wake up tomorrow I’m gonna drink some of that whiskey and then it’ll be your ass that suffers.”

“Is that so?”

Ben shifted over so that he could pull Shanks up to rest against his shoulder.

“I’m not the least bit sorry that I’m going to snore in your ear all night. We’ll see how frisky you are without any sleep.’

Shanks threw a leg over Ben’s hip, burrowing his face against the other man’s neck.

“I don’t give a damn that I’ll probably kick ya out of bed in my sleep and you’ll end up on the floor. Since yer naked, you’ll probably catch a cold and then I’ll make ya eat nothin’ but soup and stay in bed all day to sleep. No books for you. So there.”

“Sometimes I really, really hate you.”

“I know. I hate you too.”

.............

Outside of the captain’s cabin, a certain amount of belli changed hands.



The End