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Usopp is drifting in and out of sleep. His soul is tired and his body’s injured. He dragged himself back onto the ship a couple hours after his fight with Luffy, but he didn't make it all the way to the men's quarters— he's just flat on his back on the deck of the Going Merry.
She's his now, but he has no idea what that means. Unpredictable spikes of pain and shame keep interrupting his rest right when he's about to fade. Every area of pain on his body reminds him of another thing he's useless against or powerless to save.
Time passes in a way he can't hold on to or measure, just shivering its miserable cold way through the night.
Gradually, after a couple more aborted sleep-wale cycles, he loses track of where he is and who he’s (not) with.
It’s easy for his tired mind to make the deck sway beneath him like they're on the open sea travelling between islands. It's easy to assume the sleeping ever-presence of his crewmates close by. He could open his eyes and it would all be right there like it's supposed to be. (Briefly he wonders why that makes him so deeply sad— he can't place himself in time or space enough to remember the answer any more.)
Drifting here, he feels like he’s not falling asleep but falling something else. His body’s almost floating; he can’t feel the cold night air or the hard deck underneath him. Instead his senses tune into the sweet sounds and feelings of the ship all around him. He breathes them in and he feels them get louder and closer, drawing in around him like a nest.
The creak of the mast is high pitched like a dolphin chittering, he's always thought it was cute. The thump he hears from the other side of the ship there could be a footstep or could be the rigging, but either way, it's a normal night-sound, something he’s used to hearing when things are going right. He hears the soft squeaking of the ship’s metal parts where they hold tension; the shush of waves meeting the sides of the Merry as she carries them all through the night. On their way to — uh — the next island. From — where?
An unsettling lurch of disorientation drops in his stomach — where is he? Who is really here with him? Who is the other one breathing?
There is someone there. How could he not have noticed it before now? It's different from any of his crewmates, this whispering exhale. How could any of them get that close to him? They're supposed to be in their quarters and why would they sound like they’re coming from all directions at once?
Don’t you see the light?
Huh? Yeah, there's this soft glow that's coming into focus, even though his eyes are still closed. It's condensed somewhere to his right and emanating warmth. It’s — close. Getting closer. Coming pretty surely into what he’d call his personal space.
It’s so close it’s sharing his air. Should he be scared right now?
It’s watching him drift, and he can’t really watch back with his eyes closed like this. There’s a buzz in the air of shared attention. It lingers there like a type of eye contact. His breath speeds up.
He just about has a heart attack when some part of it touches his face. One moment the glow is building and warming, the next a real… hand? is on his cheek and he jumps. Its texture is not quite skin, not completely there even, but it smells just like damp wood and it feels familiar. Familiar like family. It’s something he's run his hands over thousands of times, only now it’s rubbing its own surface over him, stroking his cheek with deliberate care and attention.
Goosebumps stand up on his skin. He wants to open his eyes but he can't make himself do it. The sounds of the ship around him resolve into something like his name, gently, from every direction.
Usopp.
Or maybe he doesn’t open his eyes because he just doesn’t need them to see her.
“... Merry?” he whispers back.
She hums a ship sound from up close and traces a soothing motion from his forehead down his bandaged nose, his chin, his neck. She’s petting him like a mom might pet her worried kid who can’t get to sleep, showing each tiny forgotten muscle in his face how to relax, pouring comfort and fondness through her hands. Even in the many places he’s hurt, her touch is wanted and tender. It’s like he’s being coaxed to put down some big weight he’s been carrying around.
"I'm sorry if I…"
He's not sure what he plans to end that sentence with. Her hands pet down his arms, stroke his hands. They’ve been holding something with a death grip. She’s telling him to let go; it’s easy with her help. He feels dumb now for holding on to it for so long. Relief floods his body.
Ssh, I don't want that. You could never fail me, Usopp. I've loved carrying you so much.
Her body moves up next to his, and the deck sways like a big wave just hit shore. He’s not really breathing right now, relaxed but suspended, waiting to see what happens next.
Otherworldly lips ghost against his cheek. His sharp breath in hurts his ribs but she's warm and so there with him.
Slowly, trying not to mess any of this up, he turns himself to seek out her face close to his.
Flecks of salty cold light up his skin, that first faceful of sea spray that wakes him up when he first goes above deck in the morning.
She’s kissing him.
His heart’s beating fast still, but now he’s just scared he’ll stop being able to feel her against him, like she could retreat as mysteriously as she appeared if he breathes the wrong way. Or, who knows, maybe the sleepy half boner he’s got going on will offend her and she’ll poltergeist-launch him into the ocean and never speak to him again. He feels her intention, it’s a soul thing. He doesn’t want to be the one to make it weird with human sex stuff. She wants to wrap him up and comfort him and share his burdens. She wants to let him know her.
It’s just very intimate is all.
When Merry kisses Usopp so sweetly, he’s swept up in a cascade of not-here sensations. It's like he sees all the colors the skies and seas have been when he's looked at them from the crow’s nest. He feels his bones warmed like he's standing near the stove in the kitchen. His nose picks up the smell of the tangerine trees and their flowers. He kisses her back as best he can, mirroring her motions, letting her lead him exactly where she wants him to go.
She keeps him pinned right there kissing in a trance of sweet memories. There are so many good times they've had together.
His body moves so slow when he's following her he doesn’t even notice how sloppy the kisses are getting — the wooden appendage that’s been stroking his cheek starts massaging the corner of his mouth open at some point, and now it’s pulling down on his cracked lower lip and petting him there, opening his mouth wide for him so he’s just licking her and maybe drooling a little. He probably looks dumb but he's at peace with that for now. She just feels so good and soft and salty against his tongue.
Her arms wrap around him tighter, a squeeze that tickles against his arms and his back. It feels like she’s stuck her cold hand up his shirt to touch his bare skin even though that should be impossible what with the overalls. (A lot about this should be impossible.) He wants more of her against his skin like that. Her dreamlike body presses him down, which makes his injuries smart, which feels sharp and real. The movement also presses her up against the front of his pants, which that’s. Very nice.
Oh, wait, no! He starts panicking because she’s going to feel his erection—
Well, I guess if she’s the Merry she’s seen me like this a bunch of times before. If my boners are an issue for her at least they’re not, like, a new one.
He laughs through the kiss.
“Ahh ... haha... you're here! Merry, you've been here the whole time!”
She nods against him. There’s no place to put his shame here with her.
She’s carried him so far, she's seen him be everything he is. And now she's invented herself hands and arms and lips to come here and touch him with. It’s so romantic.
The ghost of her body's pressure against his dick isn't enough to feel like sex but it is sacred, it's holy, it's glowing in his whole body. Suddenly he has a lump in his throat as well as a hard-on in his pants. (He hopes he can keep it together enough not to cry in front of a sexy ghost.) All he knows how to do right now is keep kissing, to breathe deeply through his nose and squirm slowly underneath her, seeking more without making any sudden movements.
He pushes his hips up into the feeling as much as he dares to and feels —oh?— it feels like the rough give of a piece of sailcloth under tension. Weird, and it’d chafe if anything were materially happening, but it’s really just a suggestion of a feeling. Just the texture and the — spirit? — of the sail.
Slow desperation makes his limbs restless. He wants the friction of something solid against him so, so badly. Merry’s semitangible touch makes him totally vulnerable to the smallest sensations, aware of every small shift in the air. He whines and grinds minutely against her, and for his trouble his mind’s eye is overwhelmed with the sense-memory of painting their jolly roger onto her sail. The smell of the paint, how the sun had felt on his shoulders, the warm feeling of his new friends watching him work— that had been his first day at sea with them. As the image fades, a wave of sadness replaces it in his chest, a longing to be back at the beginning and not the end of a journey.
Trying not to cry, Usopp recklessly moves a hand towards his dick, wanting to just stay in this precious moment and feel good, maybe escape the ship’s shared memories for a minute, maybe help himself along towards having an orgasm at some point. His thumb is almost about to stroke up his dick when—
Ah-ah. Be with me.
The pressure of heavy rope pulls his wrist away. Both hands are tugged back to his sides, held against his body. He couldn’t get away if he tried. The friction of rough hemp snakes itself burning and warming across his back in both directions, wraps around both thighs so his legs have to spread out to make room. When the rope tightens he’s surrounded, held down, horny and emotional as hell. His whole body is a pressed-on bruise.
As if that’s not enough, he’s accosted with memories of hoisting the sail, his hands splintered to hell from bits coming off the halyard, Nami’s voice shouting out orders in a raging storm. He thinks, if he’s lucky, maybe the rope will leave some of those small fibers embedded in his skin now. Something to remember her by.
Tears gather behind his closed eyelids, hot and uncomfortable. As they squeeze out, the round wooden surface of Merry's face presses against his. Cold drops of rain have gathered there too: more tears, not his own.
I know. I'll miss you too, sweet one.
"I don't want to miss you. Just don't leave me."
I'm yours as long as I've got wind in my sails, sniper.
She kisses him again, this time like she's trying to make a point. The image of pink cherry blossom snow presses itself into his eyes and heart from the inside like a slow explosion.
You'll outlast me by a long long time though, and that's a good thing.
He's extremely not ready to think about that, so he tries to lick her instead.
He cranes his neck up and his tongue finds a different texture of wood than it had before, partially charred or something. It's rough and tastes mildly burnt against his tongue. And then Merry moves herself so he can lick lower, a place where she's been repaired with sheet metal and nails, like she wants him to kiss the work of his own hands. He explores there until he's found every nailhead with his tongue, drinking in Merry's sighs and groans which shift in pitch like she's enjoying herself. She moves more, giving him access to a place where her body bends in a graceful curve down into a recess.
Hidden there behind the repaired wood he finds (wow) a tube of smooth thick metal slightly slick with gun oil, and it tastes like the good gunpowder was used in it recently, and why is that so hot. He licks it and sucks it recklessly, feeling that rightness in his body when he's taking aim and just knows he's going to hit his target.
He locks on, finds a hypnotic rhythm with some suction to it. He spaces out on it immediately, lets the sensation soothe his mind. He keeps going , stuck in a delicious loop. Maybe this is it for him, this is what he'll do with the rest of his life. The ship's creaking voice builds to a wail in the wind around him, pitching louder, coming closer as he goes. It's so hot to hear all around him that he's provoking a response in her, that her body is as sensitive to his touch as his is to hers. It's for him, too, though, because the wet metal feels so good in his mouth, and he could go on like this forever, barely touched on his own dick but flooded with pleasure, trapped but not wanting to go anywhere.
The deck begins tp shudder under his shoulders and the metal presses down on his tongue with vibrating intensity. Oh, good, please, yes. Absorbing the pressure as best he can with his tongue, breathing just through his nose and wishing this moment would never end. But then gradually the pressure softens and the Merry comes to quiet stillness.
The metal slowly retreats, making his mouth feel empty. He goes back to licking whatever part of her is nearest to his face, losing track of what it's even made of.
In that emptiness, he notices that there's something in him. Like downstairs in him. It doesn't even come in from the outside, no traceable path of entry, just deep pressure he sort of throbs around. He’s never been touched there, but maybe he should be looking into that because it feels nice. At first it’s kind of subtle but it adds some sort of depth to the whisper of a feeling on his dick, like an anchor dropped into the sea. (The surface texture of its iron, the sound of dropping anchor when they dock somewhere new.) It’s not a lot, but he can’t escape or ignore it either, just like the light pressure up against his dick, and when he tests the bonds of the ropes around his thighs to cant his hips they both shift against him and in him. Neither is intense on its own, it’s sort of maddening. He just keeps rocking as much as he can in the ropes’ embrace.
It all builds to something, until suddenly it is intense, the slowness and everywhereness of it. He realizes he’s shaking.
Hot tears flow steadily out of his closed eyes, getting his hair wet.
He’s absolutely ruining this pair of underwear and probably his overalls too, his dick leaking so much with each rhythmic rock of his hips he’s not even sure it’s pre any more. It feels like it’s being forced out by the pressure inside, and it makes his pants slicker and wetter and smoother to thrust into each time it happens, a slow building feedback loop that starts feeling so good he’s not sure it’s not an extended orgasm. Needy sounds are coming out of him and he tries to slap a hand over his mouth to quiet down, not be overheard, but the rope holds him down, which makes him whine louder.
He realizes it with a shock: he doesn’t have to cover his mouth because he doesn't have to worry about his crewmates hearing him. He’s alone here except for her, and he will be for the foreseeable future. More tears come, like a floodgate’s opened. The rhythm of his hips doesn’t stop, and his chest is heaving with pleasure and grief he can’t control. He’s whole-body sobbing now, it's a runaway train, and he's struggling against his bonds, part of him wanting to curl in on himself and cry unobserved, but also really wanting to come, but also wanting to reach out to hold the Merry against him where she can’t leave. He can’t.
Shh, shh, I’m right here. You are so good.
Soft kisses all over his face, an embrace all around him, the pressure inside and outside.
Usopp’s orgasm sneaks up on him and then it fucking expands his mind. He’s not even sure when it started but it’s definitely here now, and it just keeps going, his legs and abs shaking with exhaustion as he cries and comes in his pants.
His hands remember what it feels like to steer her, terrified to be catching air as they sail up into the sky and then feeling like anything at all is possible. That swoop in his stomach when gravity does something totally unexpected.
God, he just wants to hold her and not let go. The ropes loosen and retreat so that his body suddenly feels light and ready to float off the deck. He reaches out to find any piece of her. His hands find her face, trace their way up to her horns. He grabs onto them and holds her as close to him as he possibly can.
His ribs are all fucked up and his heart is full with gratitude, hollow with loss. He presses kisses to her head and sleepily rubs his cheek against her. The Going Merry stays with him, petting him, making him feel loved back until he falls asleep for the rest of the night.