A good Christian blogger

So you do what you do best. You infiltrate. Slip onto the Red Force during a fake marine heist. Blend in. Everything goes smoothly. You are seconds away from springing the girl and pulling off the most impressive jailbreak of the year.

You were so close to greatness.

The mission had been flawless. You studied the Red Force’s schedule like scripture. Spent six weeks pretending to be a washed-up keg vendor with gout in three toes. You won three arm wrestling tournaments, snuck into the crew’s poker games, and started sleeping in a hammock you had no business using.

The hostage—Shanks’ allegedly “honored guest,” who smiled far too much for someone allegedly abducted—was slung over your shoulder, half-limp, half-laughing. She had agreed to the escape. Helped you fake a dramatic fainting spell. Lit the emergency fireworks herself. You were twelve feet from the getaway boat. The wind was perfect. Your “WE’RE BEING BOARDED” alarm was already echoing through the lower decks.

You were about to become a legend, the first person in history to successfully pull off a heist from the Red Force.

You were twelve feet from victory.

Twelve. Feet.

And then he turned the corner.

Benn. Freaking. Beckman.

At first, you froze. Because wow. That was a lot of man. Tall, broad-shouldered, greying in that “I know things and will ruin your life respectfully” sort of way. You’d clocked him from across the deck before, but figured he was just hot in that “dad at the bake sale who used to be in a gang” kind of way.

You were wrong.

He was tall. Weathered. Scarred. Holding a mug that probably contained either black coffee or the blood of lesser pirates. His hair was silver like it had been applied by divine strategy. He looked like he won his fights without needing to raise his voice.

You’d heard of him before. Everyone had. He was the man who made warlords nervous just by walking into a room. The one who smirked like he knew exactly where your birthmark was and had already drafted the apology note for what he’d do next.

But no wanted poster could prepare you for the real thing.

He was stupidly hot. Criminally hot. The kind of hot that made the air feel spicy.

That scar. Those shoulders. The quiet strength tucked under a shirt that needed to be investigated for safety violations. His hands were broad and worn, his rings scuffed, his fingers long enough to complicate your entire personality. His mouth looked like it had whispered state secrets, ruined reputations, and possibly a few marriages.

He was halfway through barking orders when your eyes met when you locked eyes for a single second— 

—and your soul did something treasonous.

Full cosmic ignition.

Like your ribs had been replaced by sparklers. Like the universe hit the soulmate alarm and laughed while doing it.

You choked. The hostage gasped. Benn staggered like he’d been uppercut by fate.

“…Damn,” he said quietly. “That’s new.”

He dropped the barrel he was carrying and caught himself against a post like he’d been sniped through the chest. One of the crew asked, ‘Boss, you good?’ and Beckman just stared at you like you were the punchline to the universe’s worst joke.

And from the way his pupils dilate? From the way he flinches like he’s been gut-punched by destiny?

Yeah.

You’re his soulmate, too.

“Naw,” he said flatly. “I’ve been compromised.”

Your legs went weak. Your heart launched itself into your spine. Your vision narrowed to just him. Your knees buckled. You stumbled like the deck had suddenly sloped uphill.

The hostage gasped and whispered, “Oh my god, it’s him, isn’t it?!”

Beckman flinched like he’d been stabbed in the lung.

He looked directly at you. Straight through you. Past your fake identity, your backstory, your explosives.

Gives you a real one over that has you crumbling in fear.

“Well, shit.” He smirks and says, “I take it back, sweetheart. I’m wide awake now.”

You tried to fight it. Really, you did. You had six more backup plans. One involved a smoke bomb and an exploding ham. You were going to be immortalized.

Instead, you flatlined and yelled,

“I DON’T BELIEVE IN SOULMATES.”

Then you did the logical thing: panicked and slapped the hostage across the shoulder.

“RUN!”

She did not.

“Damn, woman, give me a second.” He groaned. “It’s too early for this sort of breakdown.”

She squealed like a traitor and ran toward him.

Then you threw a smoke bomb at his feet, grabbed a rope, and screamed “FOR THE EMPRESS!” while launching yourself off the rail.

You lunged the opposite direction—but Beckman was already moving. He moved like he had all the time in the world, but you never had a chance. A blur. A flash of motion. 

You got five feet of swing before a hand snagged you mid-air like a misbehaving kitten.

Next thing you knew, you were hauled bodily against a chest that felt like it had its own gravity. You tried to stab him. He plucked the knife from your fingers like you’d handed him a spoon.

He had caught you mid-vault like you weighed nothing, spun you around, and held you bridal-style while the crew screamed, “WE GOT ANOTHER ONE!”

Your hostage? Laughing her entire traitorous ass off.

You screamed, “LET ME GO, YOU WALKING CIGAR AD.”

“Tempting,” Beckman muttered, “but unfortunately the universe says I have to kidnap you now. For your safety.”

“I WAS KIDNAPPING YOUR BOSSES GIRLFRIEND FIRST—”  you screamed, kicking furiously.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Relax,” he said calmly. “This isn’t how I thought today would go either.”

“You are NOT surprised enough for this!” You hissed.

“I’m a first mate. Calm is my job.”

“RELEASE ME!”

You threw a smoke bomb out of pure spite. It went off inside Beckman’s coat. He didn’t flinch.

“Can’t,” he says. “Soulmate clause.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You kick him in the ribs. He doesn’t flinch. Just sighed and said, “That’s my girl.”

You nearly bit him. You try to break free. Beckman readjusts you like your luggage with attitude. And he looked down at you—face still unreadable—and said in the exact same tone someone might reserve for “We’re out of rum” or “The anchor’s stuck”:

“Well. I guess we’re kidnapping you, too.”

Shanks poked his head up from below deck with a slice of toast in his mouth. “What’d I miss?”

The hostage pointed at you like a proud matchmaker. “She lit up like a New Year’s flare! While trying to run off with me!”

Shanks tilted his head thoughtfully. “Was she any good?”

“She had explosives, six escape routes, and three fake IDs,” she said brightly. “I would’ve gone willingly.”

“Sounds like a keeper,” Shanks grinned. “Benn, you want me to officiate, or should I prep a second room?”

You shrieked. “This isn’t a double wedding, you glorified sea hobo!”

Beckman, still unbothered, sighed like he was already tired of his soulmate’s vocabulary. “She’s very expressive.”

You tried to headbutt him.

He tilted his head slightly to dodge it, adjusted your position, and said, “Okay. Time for Plan B.”

“What the hell is Plan B?!”

He dropped you. Onto a chair. Which he had pulled up behind him at some point because of course he had.

Then he pulled out a pair of fuzzy handcuffs—fuzzy, because he’s polite, apparently—and calmly cuffed you to the armrest.

You sputtered, “Are you kidding me—?!”

He leaned close, mouth by your ear, and said in a voice like melted sin,

“I just found my soulmate in the middle of an active hostage situation. Let me have one win today.”

And the worst part?

Your traitorous stomach flipped.

Now you’re in the captain’s quarters. Still handcuffed. The tea is annoyingly delicious. The hostage is cuddled into Shanks’ side, whispering “I told you you were his type,” like this is a matchmaking cruise.

And Beckman?

Beckman leans against the wall across from you with his shirt sleeves half-rolled up, forearms crossed, and a face like he’s already imagining what kind of curtains would look good in your shared cabin.

You try not to stare at his hands.

You fail.

He raises one brow. “You good?”

“Fine,” you croak, while actively experiencing a psychological wardrobe malfunction.

“Sure,” he says, clearly not believing you.

You try not to look at his jaw.

Or his collarbone.

Or the way he smells like warm gunpowder and forbidden decisions.

Your soulmate is not just a silver-fox warlord with tactician-level calm and a smirk that’s likely outlawed in several countries. He’s a walking crime of attraction.

You refuse to make eye contact.

Because if you do, you’ll end up flinging yourself into his chest out of pure self-preservation.

Beckman hasn’t moved. He’s still leaned against the door like the ship isn’t on high alert because you just tried to rob it. Like he doesn’t care that you infiltrated his crew, almost kidnapped one of his people, and still have three concealed weapons hidden in places you know he’s aware of.

He’s too calm.

Too quiet.

Too—oh no—competent.

The man oozes “I’m not mad, just disappointed” energy, except you’re not a child, and that expression on his face makes your whole frontal cortex short-circuit.

You clear your throat.

“So… is this the part where you interrogate me?”

He lifts a brow. “Would it work?”

“Depends. On your methods. And how many buttons are undone when you use them.”

A beat of silence.

Then he actually laughs, a low, deep thing that sounds like it should come with a warning label and a locked door.

“Careful,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re starting to flirt.”

“I’m starting to panic.”

“You flirt when you panic?”

You glare. “It’s that or scream.”

He’s right in front of you now, crouching a little so he’s level with your chair. One hand rests on the armrest beside your cuffed wrist, just enough to make your heart kick up into your throat.

You hate how good he smells. You hate that your body’s reacting like you’re in some trashy romance novel and not a hostage situation.

You hate even more that you’re not hating it enough.

“You really thought you could break into the Red Force,” he murmurs, voice low and amused, “snatch a crew member off the main deck, and not end up in cuffs?”

“I was six feet from success.”

He hums. “Seven, actually. I was watching from the crow’s nest for an hour.”

You narrow your eyes. “Pervert.”

“Professional.” He shrugs. “Until this happened.”

His fingers brush your wrist where the cuff sits, thumb casually stroking the edge of your skin like he’s not thinking about it. But you are.

Your body flinches, traitorous and too warm, and you hate the part of your brain that whispers, Well, he could interrogate me. Thoroughly. Over several hours. Shirtless, probably.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you snap.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a puzzle you’re enjoying too much.”

He smiles, a real smirky little smile, and you feel something in your chest give way like it’s under siege.

Then he says, “You know we can’t let you go, right?”

You scoff. “So what’s the plan? Throw me in the brig? Sell me to Hancock with a gift basket?”

He leans in, just a little closer.

“No,” he says, eyes sharp and mouth curved. “I think I’ll keep you.”

You blink.

“…Excuse me?”

“Figure it’s easier that way. Shanks already lost one crewmate to a soulmate bond. I’m not about to let mine jump off the ship just because she’s too proud to admit she likes the view.”

You open your mouth to object, but he taps your lips with one finger.

“Don’t bother. Your heartbeat gave you away.”

You slap his hand. “That’s harassment.”

“That’s courtship,” he corrects, standing again. “At least by pirate standards.”

Back on Amazon Lily

The Den Den Mushi rings. Loud. Shrill. Unannounced.

Boa Hancock, Empress of Amazon Lily and walking goddess of destruction, lounges on her throne while surrounded by her loyal warriors, radiant and serene as always—until she hears the voice on the other end.

“Hi, this is Benn Beckman. Just calling to say thank you for sending over the bounty hunter. Very helpful. We’ll be keeping her.”

Silence.

Utter, cosmic silence.

Then: click.

The transponder snail closes its little eyes with a shrug. Job done.

The entire hall stares at Hancock, waiting for her reaction.

Her eye twitches.

A vein in her temple throbs.

She inhales deeply—gracefully. Regally. With poise befitting the world’s most beautiful woman.

And then she absolutely loses her goddamn mind.

You sit in the captains cabin, still handcuffed, still fuming, been fed  Beckman’s tea like it’s poison you refuse to admit tastes good.

Your original target, Shanks’ alleged “hostage,” the one you were so close to rescuing, walks up beside you with two sandwiches and a grin that could melt glaciers.

“I brought you lunch,” she chirps.

You scowl. “You’re supposed to be escaping.”

“I already did,” she says. “From the Amazon Lily.”

You blink. “What?”

She plops down beside you like this is a picnic and not an emotional hostage standoff. “You thought I was kidnapped?”

“You… weren’t?!”

“I mean, I kind of was, but to be fair I was also emotionally committed. But—-“ She bursts into laughter, slapping her knee like this is the greatest comedy she’s heard all month. “In the end I agreed to taking in my man-creature. I’m committed to training him. Signed a contract and everything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this first?” You wailed. “I snuck onto a Yonko’s ship to rescue you!” 

“From what? Unmatched backrubs and an emotionally stable Red-Head?!” She laughed darkly. 

You sputter. “He literally stole you!”

She leans back on her elbows, gazing out at the sea. “Yes, but we are also soulmates. I just… didn’t fight it.”

Hancock failed to mention the part where she was Shanks’ soulmate. Because of course she did.

“Fucking hell—“ You gape at her. “You’re not being brainwashed?”

“Nope.”

“Threatened?”

“Not unless you count sexual tension and one-arm puns.”

You blink. She hands you a sandwich. You try and take it automatically. Because apparently, your whole worldview is on fire and your in fuzzy handcuffs.

She puts the sandwich up. You take a bite.

She sighs dreamily. “Honestly, I didn’t even like him at first. Too loud. Too confident. Too much of that smile.”

You nod aggressively. “Right? Too charming. Too pirate.”

“And then he looked at me one day and said, ‘I never needed a reason to want you. You just walked in and everything after that stopped being negotiable.’

Holy shit.

The dumb red-head pulled that out?

You stop chewing.

“Oh,” you say weakly.

“Yeah,” she says. “So I stayed. Best decision I’ve ever made.”

You stare at her.

She winks. “So. You ready to surrender yet?”

“I am not surrendering.”

“Mmhm. That’s what I said. Right before he kissed me so good I forgot my name.” 

You could almost feel how good that kiss was, and it wasn’t helping.

You’re still sputtering when a shadow falls across you both.

Benn Beckman.

His arms are crossed. His eyebrow is raised. His mouth is doing that smirk again.

“You harassing my soulmate?” he asks her mildly.

“Absolutely,” she chirps, then stands. “I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck, Benn. She’s scrappy.”

She vanishes into the corridor.

You look up at him. “You’re all insane.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

You cross your arms. “I’m not going to fall for you just because my ribs tingle and you smell like heartbreak and expensive bourbon.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

You squint. “Then why am I still cuffed?”

He sits beside you, just close enough to radiate heat, and speaks low and slow. Too calm for how feral you feel.

“I didn’t cuff you to keep you prisoner.”

“Really? Because my wrist disagrees.”

“I cuffed you,” he says, eyes on yours, voice low and maddeningly calm, “so you wouldn’t bolt before I got the chance to show you why staying might be the better option.”

Silence.

You forget how to blink.

Then—as if he’s not already toeing the line of emotional terrorism—he lifts a hand and casually drags the hem of his shirt up to scratch his side.

Just a quick motion.

But it’s enough.

Just enough for you to catch a sliver of toned muscle, the edge of a scar curving over his hip, the faintest trail that vanishes somewhere unholy.

You make a sound.

It might be a gasp. Might be a death rattle. Could be your dignity folding itself into a paper swan and sailing off into the sea.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

(He definitely notices.)

He smooths the shirt back down and leans in, close enough that you smell salt, smoke, and danger wrapped in warmth.

“Stay,” he says, soft and devastating. “Or go. I won’t stop you. Just know—if you walk away, I’ll miss you every day you’re gone.”

You can feel your heartbeat trip over itself.

You don’t even answer. Your soul does it for you.

Beckman straightens, watches you without a trace of smugness. Just that quiet, unshakable confidence.

And then, casually, as he steps back, and rolls up his sleeves. Both of them.

Forearms. Veins. Scars. Strength. The works.

Drool pools in your mouth.

He doesn’t say another word.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you’re staying.

You just hope no one asks why, because “forearm exposure and emotional damage” isn’t a legally defensible answer.

Shit shit shit shit.

Your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

He pulls the key from his pocket and unlocks the cuff with a quiet click.

Your wrist is free.

He stands.

Doesn’t touch you.

Just looks down, eyes warm and maddeningly sure.

“I’ll be topside,” he says. “Take your time.”

And then he walks away.

No tricks. No threats. No smugness. You stare at your freed wrist. He unlocked the cuff. Gave you the choice. Walk or stay.

And you sit there like a decorative barrel, tea still warm in your hand, absolutely not moving.

Not because you’re scared. Not because you’re stunned.

But because you know damn well you’re not leaving.

Your body hasn’t even considered standing. Your knees are like, “lol okay. Sure. Run. Into what? His arms again?”

Your brain is desperately trying to mount a defense, whispering things like, “You’re a bounty hunter. You have standards. You have pride.”

But unfortunately, your pride is very busy thinking about his forearms.

You glare at the empty space where he’d been. “Rude. Emotional manipulation via smolder.”

Shanks’ girl peeks back out of the corridor, holding a sandwich in each hand like a gossiping lemur. “Sooooo…?”

You groan. “He gave me the tragic lover goodbye line.”

“Oooo,” She nods. “He's good at those. Did he use the forearms?”

“Of course he did,” You hiss, “Why is he built like a man who ruins your credit score and gives you stability?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m supposed to be rescuing you.”

She takes a bite. “I’m thriving.”

You fall back against the deck with a dramatic sigh, arms flung out like a corpse at sea. “I hate him.”

She grins. “No you don’t.”

“I hate how hot he is.”

“Fair.”

“I hate that he cuffed me as a hostage and now I’m the one emotionally attached.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m gonna commit to this ship out of spite.”

“Do it,” she says with reverence. “Pirate out of pettiness. It’s the strongest kind of loyalty.”

You pause. Stare at the sky.

Then sit up. “You know what? Yeah. Yeah, fine. I’m not leaving.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really. You think I’m gonna let him win by being noble and mysterious? No. I’m winning this. I’m staying out of revenge.”

“…Revenge for what?”

You stand and storm toward the stairs. “FOR BEING IRRESISTIBLE.”

You find Beckman on the upper deck, adjusting some rigging like the picture of calm pirate authority.

He glances over his shoulder.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Thought you were thinking it over.”

You stride past him, shoulder-checking him as you go. “Shut up. I live here now.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he laughs.

Low. Warm. Smug as hell.

He follows you down the deck with maddening ease.

“You moving into my quarters or the guest room?” he calls casually.

“Yours,” you snap. “Out of principle.”

“Understood.”

He falls into step beside you, hand brushing lightly against yours. Not grabbing. Just there.

And just like that, it’s done.

You’re not a prisoner. You’re not an intruder. You’re not leaving. You’re a problem now.