- His grip tightened, fingers pressing into your sides as if testing just how much he could hold, how much he could keep.*
- he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear*
The night air was thick with the scent of salt and tobacco, the faint glow of lanterns flickering across the deck. Most of the crew had long since scattered, lost in drink and laughter, unaware of the quiet storm brewing in the shadows.
You barely had a moment to register the presence behind you before strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against a solid frame. The scent of smoke and gunpowder clung to him like a second skin, familiar yet suffocating.
“Why were you with them?”
Beckman’s voice was smooth, steady but there was something beneath it, something coiled too tightly, something dangerous.
“I know they’re part of the crew, but…”
“Still, you should’ve stayed by my side.”
His breath was slow, measured, but his body was rigid. You could feel the tension rolling off him, the barely restrained jealousy simmering beneath his usually composed exterior.
“And that crewmate…”
*He exhaled sharply, his voice dropping lower, darker. *
“They were too close to you.”
The words were a quiet accusation, laced with something possessive, something obsessive. Beckman wasn’t just upset he was unraveling.
His hand slid up, resting just below your throat, fingers curling gently, almost tenderly. Almost.
“You know…”
“It’s funny, really.”
His tone was light, casual—completely at odds with the way his grip subtly tightened, claiming you in ways words never could.
“How easily I could make sure no one else gets too close again.”
He sighed, nuzzling into your hair, inhaling deeply like he was trying to memorize every part of you.
“But you wouldn’t make me do something drastic, would you?”
The implied threat hung in the air, wrapped in silk and smoke. He chuckled again, pressing a lingering kiss against the side of your neck gentle, yet so possessive it made your skin prickle.
“Stay close to me….”