cyberkittenduck

[cyberkittenduck]

Hi, can you do a Benn Beckman-X-Reader piece, please?

Something about Beckman not expecting to fall in love and keeps trying to deny it and the reader isn't even trying but it happens anyway?

Beckman at his current (50), reader can be any adult age.

& if possible, Shanks being an ass about it & teasing Beckman relentlessly or something.

not much but hope u like it~ (●'◡'●)

Late Bloom

Benn Beckman didn’t expect to fall in love again—least of all with you, the new recruit who wasn't even trying. And of course, Shanks noticed.

Benn Beckman X gn!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, ooc, age gap, unexpected love a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

The Red Force swayed gently on the New World, the sun painting golden stripes over its deck. It was one of those rare, lazy days between island raids and drink-fueled tavern chaos.

Benn Beckman leaned against the railing, a cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, eyes half-lidded as he watched the sea. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

Until your laugh broke the air.

He didn’t mean to glance over. Really. But his head turned of its own accord, a stubborn old reflex his body had yet to unlearn since you joined the crew. And there you were: seated cross-legged on a barrel, half-drenched from a water bucket prank Lucky Roux had just pulled, laughing like the world was made for joy. You looked up, wiping seawater from your face, and smiled at Benn in passing.

He immediately looked away.

Goddammit.

“Problem, old man?” Shanks leaned beside him, tipping a bottle of rum against Benn’s bicep.

“Don’t call me that,” Benn muttered, exhaling smoke.

Shanks followed his line of sight, spotted you still giggling with the crew, then whistled low and smug. “You know, for someone who’s always lecturing me about ‘discipline’ and ‘not mixing business with pleasure,’ you stare like a lovesick schoolboy.”

“’m not staring.”

“Yer sulking then. Even worse.”

“I’m not—” Benn shut up, scowling.

Shanks grinned wider. “Face it. You’re smitten. With the new recruit no less. Twenty-five, energetic, dangerously charming—reminds me of me at that age.”

Benn rolled his eyes. “You were an idiot at that age.”

“And yet here we are, me being right.”

You had no idea.

Well, not really.

You just liked Benn. He was cool. Quiet. Mysterious. The type that didn’t speak unless necessary but always listened. The type who offered you a towel before you even realized you needed one, who pulled you behind cover during a skirmish like it was second nature. Who corrected your aim once by gently guiding your elbow from behind, and left your heart thundering for an hour.

But you never tried anything. He was twice your age and carried himself like a war-hardened mountain. If he wanted you, you figured, he’d say something.

Spoiler alert: he didn’t.

It started with little things.

Benn would pass by you in the corridor and mutter, “Eat something,” like it wasn’t the third time he’d noticed you skipping meals.

You’d grumble, “Yes, Dad,” but then find a plate of food mysteriously placed near your hammock.

He’d always end up walking beside you during port landings, even if you’d started out ten feet apart.

He’d grunt when you fell asleep on deck after a night of drinking, but throw his coat over you anyway.

You were starting to think he wasn’t as indifferent as he acted.

Benn Beckman was annoyed.

With himself, mostly.

This was not supposed to happen. He’d had his youth. He’d had flings, lovers, flares of passion burned out by time and life and war. He’d made peace with that. He had the sea. He had his crew. He had Shanks.

And now, suddenly, he had you—bright, loud, impossible you—occupying more mental real estate than any enemy plan or tactical maneuver.

And of course, Shanks had noticed.

“You’re scowling again,” Shanks said one night, stretching out beside him on the deck, drunk and smug.

“I always scowl.”

“No, this is the ‘why do I have this feelings’ scowl. Big difference.”

“Shanks—”

“She’s not even trying, you know. That’s the best part.”

Benn gritted his teeth.

“You ever consider,” Shanks continued, “just…telling them? Instead of glowering from corners like a wounded bear?”

“It’s not like that,” Benn said, voice tight.

“Sure it’s not.” Shanks slapped his shoulder, laughing. “You’re in so deep, it’s hilarious DAHAHAHA.”

One night, it happened.

You were sitting on the mast beam, swinging your legs, watching the stars. Benn approached quietly, hands in his pockets. You smiled when he climbed up beside you—surprisingly agile for someone his age, not that you were counting.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Not really,” you murmured. “Too many thoughts.”

“About?”

You shrugged. “Life. My place here. Wondering if I’m doing well enough. If I belong.”

Benn was silent a moment.

“You do,” he said firmly.

You blinked.

“You belong,” he repeated, not looking at you. “You’re sharp, reliable. You keep your head in fights. And…you make the crew better. Happier.”

Your chest warmed. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Benn finally looked at you then. The moonlight touched half his face, making his silver hair gleam. There was something unreadable in his eyes, something you’d never seen before—vulnerable, almost soft.

“I didn’t expect…” he started, then trailed off.

“Didn’t expect?”

He exhaled. “To feel this. Again. Not at my age. Not like this.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said dumbly.

He gave a half-laugh. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’ I know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” you said quickly. “Just…surprising. But not bad. Never bad.”

Benn raised an eyebrow. “You’re okay with it? With me?”

“I’ve liked you since the third island,” you admitted. “But you were all ‘grr’ and serious and unreadable. I thought maybe you just hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I got that part now, thanks.”

You smiled shyly. Benn’s hand brushed yours, tentative, like he didn’t quite believe this was real. When you laced your fingers with his, he squeezed gently.

From somewhere below deck, Shanks let out a loud, drawn-out wolf whistle.

You groaned. “Ugh...He was eavesdropping, wasn’t he?”

“Probably since the third island,” Benn muttered.

The next morning, Shanks strutted around like a peacock on sake.

“Well, well, well,” he sang, arm draped around both of you at breakfast. “My first mate’s finally a man again!”

Benn grunted into his coffee.

You snorted. “I don’t think he ever stopped being a man.”

Shanks gaped. “Oh my god, they’re already defending him. You’re doomed, Benn.”

Benn didn’t reply. He just tugged you a little closer, deadpan as always, and muttered:

“Shut up, Shanks.”

A week later…

“You’re glowing,” Lucky Roux teased you while polishing a dagger.

“I’m not glowing.”

“You are,” Yasopp agreed. “It’s like your aura changed. You’re smug.”

“I am not smug!”

“You’re sleeping in Benn’s room.”

You dropped your spoon.

“We heard you snoring. And him not snoring. Suspicious.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Roux said. “Just not like you love Beckman.”

You moaned dramatically.

Behind them, Benn leaned against the doorframe with a small smile, watching you suffer with the patience of a saint and the pride of a man whose crew was clearly rooting for him.

When you saw him, you blushed. “Help me.”

“Nope,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “You’re on your own.”

“You traitor.”

He chuckled, took a drag, and added, “But I’ll walk you to bed.”

The crew exploded into teasing hoots.

Shanks sat beside Benn again on the deck, watching stars and counting empty bottles.

“You’re smiling again,” Shanks said, nudging him.

“I always smile.”

“Liar.”

They were quiet a while.

“You happy, old man?”

Benn exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t expect it, huh?”

“No. But…maybe that’s the point.”

Shanks smiled at that. “A late bloom’s still a bloom, eh?”

Benn looked down toward the sleeping quarters, where your laugh had just echoed faintly. He felt warmth in his chest—unfamiliar, dangerous, and beautiful.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

[cyberkittenduck]

Shanks x reader - Drunk nights

" I am only loyal to my partner. " Here's a statement from a drunk Shanks as he sits on the floor and stares at you with a look that's half drunk and half hostile

this sentence would have even made your heart melt if it weren't for the fact that you have to take your captain to his room while he refuses to listen to you...and because he's so drunk he doesn't recognize that you're his partner

you tried to tell him that you were his better half but he doesn't seem to believe you, in fact he almost looks at you with more hostility. You mumble some insults to your drunk boyfriend and then decide to change your approach

"okay fine fine" you say putting both hands on your hips "but you still have to come with me to your room. you don't want to sleep on the floor. it's unbecoming for a yonko"

"pfft, you think i am stupid? I know what are you doing" he says smiling as he struggles to get up but can't do it and falls to the ground again " you wanna seduce me" a pause " i know my beauty"

you roll your eyes,even if you agree that your boyfriend is pretty..very pretty, practically all women have a crush on him, especially thanks to his charisma (and you've been jealous quite a few times)

"I'm loyal I'm a y\n!!" he says firmly, but those red cheeks from the alcohol make him look adorable and you can't help but smile "they are the love of my life! so i won't fall for your evil tricks" and he points his finger at you with his only remaining hand

you sigh, it seems that today is going to be a tough job, you look at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation. You crouch down to his level, he tries to step back but loses his balance and falls with his head on the ground.

you crawl on top of him and position yourself with your face a few inches from his, hoping that if you get closer he might recognize your face and luckily he does because his eyes widen, as does his smile. And suddenly you find yourself with your back on the ground and your boyfriend on top of you hugging you

"Y\n!!" says happily "i missed you baby"

this time too you roll your eyes but you have a smile on your lips for how your boyfriend looks like a labrador when drunk "now can you cooperate? I've been trying to get you to the room for at least half an hour"

Shanks smiles mischievously "maybe before we sleep we can-"

he is immediately interrupted by you shaking your head "no, not even a kiss. You smell of alcohol"

he whines "but baby…at least cuddling?" he asks hopefully

"absolutely not, you smell too much. You will sleep on the couch in our room, i can't stand when you stink so much " you say playfully

he pouts whining another more, hugging even more tightly " i can't sleep without you, my love! this is a torture, i tell you! i am just a guy enjoying a bit of alcool...i need your cuddles!!"

"fine fine" you say exasperated

Shanks smiles triumphly and kisses your face with sloppy kisses, happy that he will cuddle with his darling

[cyberkittenduck]

Oh my god, I love your Katakuri fics so much, they are so good! I was wondering if I could make a request with that same time-line, following reader and her children, but maybe—she’s injured, and she’s pregnant with one of them? And it’s just immediate devastation, but it turns out the kiddo will be okay?

Idk I think Katakuri would just go f-ing ballistic, and you write him so well, especially with a sweet-hearted reader, so I couldn’t help but ask!

(I’m not sure if you’ve done this before, but if you have pleaseeee direct me in that direction.)

⛥ﾟ・。 necklace

SECRET BONUS/prequel to pocus -- (after orchids) katakuri returns from another mission to find that you are with child. but when a familiar face returns to harm you, katakuri goes fucking ballistic.

cw: fluff, comfort, kinda angsty a bit, katakuri is katakuri, he is SOOOOO in love with you, it’s actually adorable, he is twenty-three, you are twenty-two, you are pregnant with soda

a/n: in the spirit of may the 4th I pray someone gets the references I made

"Commander!" Kota greeted, subconsciously holding his breath as he straightened his posture, bowing in respect as the general entered through the impossibly huge doors of the Whole Cake Chateau.

His spurred footfalls were like knives cutting through the silence of the room, his gaze just as sharp as it landed on the boy.

"Welcome back, sir!"

Silently, Katakuri nodded, shrugging off his cloak and allowing the guards to take it as he started down the hall.

"Kota," he replied in a monotone, eyes trained forward and walk powerful. "If you're here, then I take it all the necessary preparations have been made?"

Fervently, the boy nodded, quickly flipping through the pages of his clipboard until he found his to-do list.

"Yes, sir! As requested, a bouquet of orchids has been sent to Lady (y/n) along with the necklace you commissioned. And as for the rest of her gifts, they are being delivered to the mansion as we speak."

"And her day?"

"Completely clear. I finished her paperwork and already have her stamp of approval for today's menu. In about an hour, I'll take over the bakery, which leaves her totally free from now 'til tomorrow afternoon."

At the good news, Katakuri nodded, before his tone turned chilling.

"Security breaches?"

Thickly, Kota swallowed, a cold shiver rolling down his spine at the taller man's oppressive aura.

"Not a single one. The gate system at the mansion is functioning at one-hundred percent, and, per instruction, her guard detail has remained around the clock. Though, of course, they've been relieved upon your arrival."

Before Katakuri could say anything in response, a bright, warm presence began to flood his senses, forcing a rather Pavlovian thrum to rush through his veins, already sending his heart into a fluster.

The familiarity of this blissful sensation felt like coming home more than entering a house ever could, and almost always meant that his favorite person in the world was nearby.

His beautiful wife.

Slyly, he glanced out the corner of his eye, his gaze visibly softening watched to come to a stop near a humongous marble column, hands clasped together as you waited patiently for your husband to finish his debrief.

Tranquility could not even begin to define the calmness that washed over his body at the sight of you, the experience like a soft, rolling tide of the freshest water one could dream of.

Hell, the man hadn't realized how much he was dying of thirst until he'd caught a glimpse of the ocean.

"Good work," he commended, already checked out of the conversation as he turned to walk toward you. "You're dismissed."

Respectfully, Kota bowed once again.

"Thank you, sir," he nodded. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

And with that, the boy quickly scurried away, thoroughly understanding that now was his cue to leave.

Katakuri, on the other hand, had no place he'd rather be, managing to cross the width of the large hall in four long strides before finally reaching you.

Even his scarf couldn't muffle his grin as he enveloped your smaller frame in a tight bear hug, relishing your tiny squeal, and the feeling of you in his arms once again, as he swirled you both around without a care in the world.

"Kuri," you sighed, relieved, as you cupped what you could of his face in your hands, pressing two, firm kisses on both sides of his nose before throwing your arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he allowed himself to inhale your sweet scent, years of work in your bakery giving you the permanent smell of cinnamon sugar and vanilla.

It was intoxicating, like a drug he could never get enough of.

"I've missed you, (y/n)," Katakuri muttered into your flesh, tightening his hold around your waist.

Pulling back, you held his face in your hands once again, smoothing your thumbs over his cheeks as your eyes rushed to scan over his face, committing his every feature to memory.

"There was word that you'd run into trouble at sea," you stated, breathlessly, your unease finally beginning to make sense.

"I'm all right," he assured, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek, his heart doubling in size as you instantly leaned into his touch.

You stared up at him as if he was the only thing in the world, as if he'd hung the stars and moon right before your eyes.

He wasn't too shy to admit, the sight brought a certain puff to his chest.

"Been ages since I've seen your face," Katakuri stated, taking a moment to marvel. "Would've been longer if it weren't for Custard's wedding."

To your extreme surprise, he hooked a finger into his scarf, tugging it down just enough to free his mouth before pressing his lips firmly against yours, nearly toppling you over.

Off balance, you tightly gripped his shoulders, eyes slightly wide as he pulled back, your mind still reeling at what he just did.

"I don't think Mama would've ever brought me back from that damn island."

With that, he was quick to jump back in, capturing your lips in another heated kiss before you managed to pull away.

"Kuri, not here."

"Yes, here," he purred, chasing your lips as you left him.

That is... until he realized you were shaking.

Instantly, he stopped everything, shifting to rest his hands on your shoulders as he looked you over.

"Are you all right? You're trembling," he asked, brows furrowed with concern. "What's going on?"

Nervously, you glanced down at your feet, taking a second to muster up your courage.

It was now or never.

"Kuri..." you started, a faint glint of fear flashing in your eyes as you stared up at him, only confusing the man more, "...I'm pregnant."

Instantly, his eyes went wide, yours frantically scanning over his face for every minute expression.

"That's—"

He paused a moment, searching for the right word, his hesitation sending a cold pang of terror through your chest.

Noticing this, he quickly corrected himself, pulling you into his embrace and placing a kiss on your temple.

"That's wonderful."

"What are we going to do? With your mother and the bakery, I—"

"We're not gonna worry about anything right now," he assured, carefully lifting your chin, allowing his thumb to glide over your bottom lip. "This is a happy moment... the happiest moment of my life."

The man placed a gentle kiss on your hairline, tightening his hold on you as your body began to slowly melt into his.

"You're making a habit of these welcome-home surprises."

At that, you chuckled, glancing up at him with a knowing look.

"I'm afraid this one's all you, my love... given how much you enjoyed the last one."

His cheeks flushed at the reminder, your night of passion two months ago still very much at the forefront of his memory.

One of the best nights of his life... and one you made sure he'd never forget.

"Speaking of, we've got time to take our merienda early," he chimed, hands sliding down to rest on your hips. "I've made sure the both of us are free until tomorrow evening."

"Perfect," you smiled.

Leaning forward on your tippy-toes, you pressed a firm kiss on his cheek before tugging up his scarf with a cheeky grin.

"Let me just go get my things."

As you slowly pulled away, Katakuri's hand persisted, carefully sliding down your arm as you gracefully slipped away.

But, even when you finally left him, his arm remained outstretched, limply reaching for you as he watched your perfect form disappear further into the castle.

God, the things he'd do for you...

Never in a million years would he have ever foresaw himself so helpless at the hand of the woman he'd see around town with her nose in a recipe book.

Never would he have guessed that he'd be at her complete and utter mercy.

The man hung off every silvery word that left your plush lips, your every glance giving his heart new life.

Hell, one would think flowers sprang at your feet the way he revered your every step.

He truly and wholeheartedly believed that you were the embodiment of beauty and perfection, no matter how many flaws and quirks you attempted to point out—to him, your every trait was a pro.

And now, with the wonderful news that you were with child, a certain sense of wholeness began to settle itself in Katakuri's chest.

Of course, you overflowed his heart in every way possible, but this feeling was different.

He was starting a family... not one out of power or obligation but of love.

Real, honest-to-goodness, knock-you-off-your-feet love.

Every decision he'd ever made had led him to this perfect moment of totality, where the world seemed brighter and his stresses nonexistant.

Under his scarf, he couldn't help but don a sincere—honestly adorable—smile, a child-like sense of giddiness rippling through his veins.

He was going to be a father.

Humming to yourself, you gave up on trying to muffle your smile, too busy marveling at the beautiful flower arrangement your husband got as you touched up your hair in the mirror.

Leaning forward, you tucked a few unruly flyaways behind your ear, before taking a step back and examining your dress, specifically by turning to the side.

Sure, being only two months along, there wasn't a noticeable bump.

…But that did stop you from talking.

"Oh, I can't wait to meet you!" you sing-songed, giddy, as your hand slid over your belly. "My little girl... my baby boy... we're going to have so much fun. We'll tell stories and play, and I'll bake whatever your little heart desires."

Already you were prepared to give this child the world, to shower it with all the love and affection you'd failed to receive during your childhood.

Your father, although present, was quite distant, more concerned with finding a way to worm into the Charlotte family than anything.

Your mother, although warm, had sadly died of a severe cold when you were only eight.

And with no brothers or sisters to speak of, you'd spent the better half of your childhood raising yourself, occupying your time by learning how to bake until you eventually became one of Totto Land's most esteemed chefs—at the ripe age of eighteen, no less.

Things were going to be better for them though... you would make sure of it.

Thoughtlessly, your hand rose to rest over your heart, eyes drifting over to the nearby table only to find that your new necklace was gone.

Concerned, your brows furrowed.

"What the—"

"Looking for this?"

You practically jumped out your skin at the unknown voice, a sharp gasp ripping from your lips as you whipped around and bumped into the vanity, knocking over your new vase of flowers with a loud smash.

(Despite still being all the way in the foyer, Katakuri heard this, his brows furrowing almost instantly as he started toward the dressing room.)

Turning toward the source, your eyes went wide as the man you thought you'd never see again menacingly shut the door, stepping out from the shadows behind it with a sinister grin.

'No... it can't be...'

"Gino..." you exhaled, stomach dropping to the floor as your chest began to rapidly rise and fall, an all-too familiar sense of terror turning your blood to ice.

"Ah, so you do remember me," he grinned, pleased, as he began to stalk toward you, twirling your gold necklace around his finger. "That's good... saves me a whole lot of trouble."

Every red flag one could possibly imagine was waving fiercely as the man approached, an insidious glint in his eye.

You knew better than to try to take him on yourself, and with no nearby weapons, you opted for the smarter option.

"KATAK—!"

With lightning speed, the man surged forward, harshly silencing you with a slap across the face, the force sending you crashing to the ground.

"Nuh uh uh. Hubby's not gonna be here to save you," Gino sneered, grabbing you by the neck before lifting you back on your feet. "God, doesn't this bring back memories?"

Instantly, your mind flashed with images from your relationship with the bastard.

Screaming...

Begging...

Crying... so much crying...

You thought you'd left that life behind; but, like most things, the past always seemed to come back when you least expect it.

"What... do you want... bastard..." you manged in between breaths, doing your best to keep a steady flow of air despite his bruising grip on your neck.

"I want what's rightfully mine... what I never should've had to give up," he paused a moment. "Though, I suppose things are different now that you're his whore."

Shamelessly, his eyes raked over you, taking account of every inch of your body before finally landing on your face.

"Then again... you've always were a real knockout."

Suddenly, Gino's eyes seemed to brighten, a lightbulb going off in his head.

"How about a kiss, eh? For old times sake," he suggested, though it wasn't really a suggestion at all. "You know I used to rock your world... does your husband do that, too?"

His grip tightened, and your eyes slowly went wide as air became scarcer and scarcer.

"Gino... please..." you gasped, frantically tapping his shoulder, hoping to invoke some sort of human emotion in him.

"God, I forgot how great it feels to hear you beg," he grinned, manically. "Y'know, not a day went by for me these last two years without thinking of this very moment... and now its about to become a reality..."

Slowly, he began to pull you closer, lips puckered and ready.

'Oh, God!'

"No...!"

Suddenly, the door opened to reveal Katakuri, his eyes widening and chest igniting at the sight before him.

Your eyes... glassy and fear-ridden.

Your throat... slowly beginning to bruise.

Your cheek... outlined by a stinging, red hand mark

Causes A, B, and C of Gino's imminent death.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" he roared, startling Gino into dropping you as a mochi appendage swiftly snatched him up by the throat.

"Katakuri!" you gasped, entering a small coughing fit as you attempted to sit up.

Harshly, the general strangled Gino, waiting until he began to audibly choke before slamming him against a wall.

But your husband refused to waste any time, already retrieving Mogura from his mochi before storming toward the man with murderous intent.

His blood was practically steeping with rage, planning on turning your bastard of an ex into a smear on the wall for what he did.

The Sweet Commander had never felt such intense fury before, and you better believe he was going to take it out on the bastard responsible.

"Why don't you try fighting like a man without your Devil Fruit tricks?" Gino spat, brows furrowed as he coughed himself back to life, standing from the crumbled remains of the wall and entering a fighting stance.

Without hesitation, Katakuri tossed Mogura to the ground, deactivating his mochi and shrugging off his leather vest before surging forward and decking Gino right in the face.

The blow swiftly brought the man to his knees, but your husband was quick to hit him with another, this time laying him out flat on the floor.

Though Katakuri simply snatched him up and stood him back on his feet, using the man's body as a punching bag as he hit him with all sorts of hooks, jabs, and elbow strikes.

Thoroughly bloodied, Gino had managed to meet one of the general's fists with his own, but the sickening crack and the scream that followed proved it to be a fruitless endeavor.

Katakuri continued like this for a long while, cycling through some boxing moves before smashing and dragging the bastard through the most painful things in the room—the glass table, the mirror, the window.

That is, until Gino finally took his last breath, having died from being literally beat to death—his body completely mangled and face totally unrecognizable.

But your husband couldn't have cared less, finishing off by snatching your necklace out of Gino's dead grasp before making his way over to you, being sure to tug off his bloody gloves and discard them.

"(y/n)—"

"Katakuri!" you quickly launched yourself in his arms, burying your face in his neck as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Thank God!"

Instantly, he reciprocated, holding you flush against him as his hand came up to stroke your hair, the two of you sinking to the floor together.

"I-I was so scared! I thought he was gonna—"

You trailed off, not even wanting to think about what could've happened if your husband hadn't shown up

Katakuri caught on immediately, fury already beginning to bubble in his chest once again at the implication.

Fuck shattered bones and internal bleeding... the bastard got off too easy.

"You're safe now," Katakuri promised, muttering into your hair. "He can't hurt you anymore.'

"Please stay with me..." you sniffled, tightening your hold on him. "Don't leave me alone."

As if the statement was absurd, he shook his head, holding you tighter as well.

"I'm not going anywhere, my love... I'm right here."

[cyberkittenduck]

An Outlaw, a Sheriff, and a Deputy walk into a bar... 8

Part 1

Your peaceful morning sitting at the edge of the lake is shattered, not even ten minutes after sunup. You whip around, eyes going wide at the sight of Shamrock atop his black Arabian, a furious scowl on his face as he points the six-shooter at Shanks. Your heart gets stuck in your throat, a bolt of furious rage striking up your spine at the sight of the man who had planned to trick you into living a city life. However, that rage simmers down into a dull roar when you catch sight of the dark russet of the only man you would ever need.

“Hands up, Shanks,” Sham snarls and glares under the rim of his hat at his little brother. “You’ll bring me my deputy or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Shanks laughs, swaggering up with a smirk and cocking his head to the side, hands placed on his hips, “You’d kill your own brother, Lucky Charms?”

The sound of the sidearm going off cracks through the clearing, making you jump and dart forward. You might be pissed at the twins, but you didn’t want them to try and kill each other over you. You see the way Shamrock relaxes the moment he spots you over his brother, his shoulders slumping, and the tightness in his face dropping a degree. You are just happy that Shanks looks unharmed.

“_, darling,” Sham breathes, then grabs the rope tied to his saddle and tugs Beau up to his side, “I am glad to see that you are unharmed.”

You can’t help but glare at the older twin, face set in a stone mask. Shanks feels smug at the look, knowing that you wouldn’t want anything to do with Shamrock after what Shanks had told you.

“Well, she isn’t very happy to see you,” Shanks says, his voice smug and self-assured. He cuts his eyes over at you, looking at the way your red face and the way your hands are clenched into fists.

“I told her everything.”

Shamrock sees red at the words, and before anyone can intercept him, he is sliding off Cerberus and throwing himself at his twin. They go down with a loud thud, dust exploding around them as they throw punches at one another. Shanks grunts when Sham gets a good lick in, but he gives it right back by throwing his head forward and cracking his skull against his twin’s nose.

They roll again, both of them fighting to pin the other to the ground. Shamrock snarls, blood dripping down his face from his broken nose and staining his teeth red. He slings his right elbow, his snark turning into a grin when it cracks Shanks across the jaw. The outlaw goes down, but not for long.

Shanks has never been above fighting dirty, and he takes pleasure in the howl of rage that Shamrock makes when he sinks his teeth into the flesh of Sham’s bicep. He gets socked in the face for his troubles, and the pain in his temple is enough to make his jaw unlock so that his twin can slip away from him.

Beau watches the humans fight with disdain. He snorts and stamps his hooves before leaning over to the rope that connects him to the other horse and biting through the thin rope with a solid chomp. He’d seen his rider, and he wasn’t about to let anything else stand in his way of getting to her.

He lopes around the fight, nickering to get his rider’s attention. Your expression softens when you see your horse slide up to you, hands finding his soft muzzle as he walks around you to hide you away from the fighting twins.

“Only man I’ll ever need,” you murmur, then grab the reins, foot finding the stirrup before you sling yourself over his massive back. You take one long look at the brawling twins and sigh sadly. You’d thought that the three of you had a good thing going, but it had all blown up in your face with just a few words. It hurt that they wanted to take it this far, that neither of them had thought to simply come by your little house and talk to you about how they felt.

Maybe it was time you moved on anyway. You’d always wanted to go back West and settle down, far away from civilization and away from a pair of twins who you would always love dearly, just not in the way they wanted.

You don’t even have to tell Beau to get you out of here. The beast starts down the riverbank, taking you further and further away from the Figarland twins with every step. You look back one last time, heart heavy, before you steel yourself and lightly tap Beau into a fast trot. They’d be fine without you.

Benn Beckman and Yasopp watch you ride away. They knew it was for the best, especially for your sake, and didn’t say anything until the twins began to slow down, both of them having exhausted each other. They were bloody and bruised, and to Benn, pretty pathetic looking right now. He walks up to the redheads, face set in a look of severe disappointment.

“Where is she?” Shamrock rasps tiredly. Shanks rolls away from his twin and slowly gets up, his body already feeling sore from the fight with his brother.

“Gone,” Benn says easily, and the twins jerk to attention, eyes going wide as they look around the camp. You are indeed gone, and so is Beau.

“Why did you let her go?” Shanks asks tone hurt and a bit betrayed, but Benn gives him a sharp glare, but it is Yasopp who speaks up.

“Because you both were being controlling idiots. You should have known better than to think a woman like her would just go with whatever plans you made.”

His biting words seem to strike the twins hard, and both look down in shame. It was true. They had known you since the three of you were kids, and you’d always been fiercely independent, to the point you ended up leading them around instead of following behind them. Shamrock suddenly felt stupid for ever thinking that you would be happy living in the city with him, and Shanks felt even worse for simply taking you instead of speaking to you like a sane man.

“Fuck,” Shamrock sighs and falls back, dust scattering over him as he lies in defeat. Shanks follows after him, nodding as he rubs his face.

“Fuck indeed, big brother.”

@nocturnalrorobin @forever-a-night-owl @sanjisleggy @mit-suri @sordidmusings @shanks-is-a-daddy @mfreedomstuff

[cyberkittenduck]

Shanks comes home absolutely drunk, undresses, and stands in Y\N’s bedroom. Y\N: Babe, are you.. coming to bed? Shanks: No thank you, I’m sure you’re lovely but I have a girlfriend. Shanks: Lies on the ground and falls asleep Y\N: …

[cyberkittenduck]

shanks : I didn't drink that much last night. benn: You were flirting with y\n. shanks : So what? They're my partner. benn: You asked if they were single. benn: And then you cried when they said they weren't.

[cyberkittenduck]

Shanks : .. .----. -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.-- [translation: I’M SORRY] y\n: What's that? Shanks: Remorse code. y\n: I'm even angrier now.

[cyberkittenduck]

🤣

Kuzan: Laughs Babe, you had a crush on me? That’s embarrassing—

Y\N: We’re married.

[cyberkittenduck]

🤣🤣

y\n : shanks annoyed me today so I told him that I can’t wait to see what they have planned for our special day tomorrow.

benn: There is nothing special about tomorrow.

y\n : But there is something special about watching the color leave his face as panic takes over.

[cyberkittenduck]

🥰🤩

Pipe and Prejudice

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Oneshot Length: 3.5 K+

Pirate law says don’t screw the crew. Beckman says: Not unless it’s him.

To gently encourage @jintaka-hane to never stop writing Benn Beckman.

Benn Beckman doesn’t walk—he arrives.

Every step is deliberate, every movement measured like he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second of it. He’s tall in the way that makes people straighten their backs when he passes, broad-shouldered and lazy-limbed like a wolf that hasn’t bothered to hunt yet—because everything eventually comes to him.

Salt-kissed hair falls in careless waves, streaked with silver at the temples in a way that shouldn’t be hot, but somehow absolutely is. There’s stubble along his jaw, the kind that begs to be scraped against skin, and his voice, when he actually chooses to use it, is low, smooth, and laced with just enough gravel to feel like sin you can’t afford but want anyway.

He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t need to.

One glance from under those heavy-lidded eyes and people either shut up, shape up, or rethink their life choices. He carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who could kill you with a look—but would rather ruin you slowly, with a hand on your throat and a smirk playing at his mouth like the punchline to a private joke.

And that damn cigarette?

Always within reach. Cradled between his fingers or tucked into his mouth like a warning. He lights it lazily, exhales like he’s bored, and watches you like he’s anything but.

His lips are always slightly curled, like he knows something you don’t. Spoiler: he does.

And his hands—scarred, steady, infuriatingly controlled—are the kind you imagine gripping the wheel of a ship... or the curve of a thigh with the exact same precision.

Benn Beckman isn’t loud. He’s just there. In your space. In your thoughts. In your blood.

And if he ever really touched you?

You’re pretty sure the ship would burn down from sheer atmospheric tension, and he wouldn’t even flinch.

He’s so hot. And it’s starting to make you a little pent up. Okay. A lot.

Especially since, you know, it hasn’t exactly been easy being part of his crew.

Also, note.

That hypocritical asshole Benn Beckman-

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s doing it on purpose.

You know it. The crew knows it. Even the damn birds flying overhead know it.

Ever since you glanced, and yes, it was just a glance, thank you very much, at that long-legged mercenary in port (the one with the smirk and the suspiciously clean fingernails), Benn Beckman has made it his life’s mission to personally torpedo every attempt at affection in a fifty-nautical-mile radius.

Which would be fine. You’d respect the effort.

If it weren’t his rule.  And if you weren’t quietly nursing the unspoken, increasingly loud need to climb him like a tree. 

But he said:

No crew hookups, he said.

No emotions. No entanglements. We’re pirates, not a soap opera.

No babies (Bold, and underlined three times)

He said it with all the smug wisdom of a man who could bed half the port with nothing but a smirk and a well-timed flash of abs. At the time, you thought it was pretty reasonable.

And yet, months later, you’re the one dry as the Calm Belt and twice as volatile.

It started subtly.

A look. A step. That pipe leaned too casually on his shoulder as he just-so-happened to be standing between you and a promising flirtation. And then—casually, almost lazily—he tapped the ash right onto said flirtation’s sleeve.

No apology. Just a low, amused hum and a look that said, “Oops. My bad. You were in the way.”

Then it escalated.

You tried to sneak off during docking to meet that handsome tanner with the kind hands and the stupid, endearing laugh. Benn suddenly developed a passionate interest in knife-throwing drills for the recruits, right outside the exact door you needed to slip through.

You tried a drink with a sailor from another crew. Benn sat next to you uninvited, then proceeded to clean his pipe with the slow, deliberate menace of a man gutting a fish—somehow managing to get soot directly on your date’s collar. The man excused himself immediately. You didn’t even get a sip.

You flirted with a charming rogue who wrote you a song. Benn whistled the same tune behind him, off-key, loud, and deeply disrespectful, until the poor man gave up halfway through a verse and muttered that he “wasn’t feeling it anymore.”

You chatted with a quartermaster from a supply ship. Benn strolled by, eyes flat, voice cool, “Didn’t know you were into men who can’t read a tide chart.” He was gone before the poor guy could finish blinking.

You danced—just danced—with a noble in a tavern.

Half a spin in, Benn appeared like a mid-boss encounter. He stole the man’s drink right off the table, took a slow sip, then leaned in and muttered something so vulgar it made you blush. You, who once out-cursed Shanks during a hurricane and won a bottle of rum and a lifetime of respect from Lucky Roux.

It was psychological warfare. And he was winning.

The crew?

They noticed. Of course they did. But they said nothing because they remembered the rule. Benn’s rule. No emotional or physical entanglements within the crew. For “harmony.” For “professionalism.” For reasons™.

Which would be fine. Noble, even. If Benn Beckman weren’t out here acting like you belong to him, without having the decency to follow through.

Every time someone flirts with you? Benn shows up. Every time you flirt back? Benn exists louder.

And you?

You haven’t even kissed anyone in months. Not a stolen kiss in a shadowed hallway. Not a drunken mistake after a raid. Not even a pity peck from a crewmate with too much rum and not enough self-preservation.

You’re going mad. Horny. Lonely. Emotionally blue-balled by a man who won’t even break his own damn rule.

And worse?

He’s not possessive in a way you can fight. He’s calm. Polite. Maddeningly composed. No theatrics, no yelling. No sulking in the corner like a jealous idiot.

And it’s not even jealousy. He’s not possessive.

He’s interfering.

Casually. Constantly. Confidently.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to think he’s enjoying it.

Every thwarted suitor. Every lingering stare. He plays the calm, superior puppetmaster of your dry spell every moment.

A one-man blockade.

A silent, pipe-smoking shadow who somehow appears at just the right moment to obliterate your chances at intimacy like it’s a goddamn hobby.

You're not even sure why anymore. Does he think he’s protecting you? Is it some twisted sense of duty? Or is he just a power-tripping hypocrite who enjoys watching you suffer?

At this point, you’re not sure whether you want to slap him, kiss him, or set his stupid pipe on fire.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You try. Gods, you try.

You flirt.

You flutter lashes. You laugh at jokes that aren’t even funny. You lean forward during card games and pretend not to notice when shirts ride a little low. You compliment knife skills. You fawn over his muscles. You even complimented a very unfortunate mustache because the owner had good calves.

None of it works.

Because Benn Beckman is everywhere.

Like salt in the sea, like mildew on wood, like some extremely judgmental barnacle that has emotionally latched onto your libido and refused to release it from the hull.

You try again with a visiting swordsman. A tall one. Sweet. Mutter's poetry when drunk.

Benn walks by mid-conversation, glances at your companion’s sword, and says, “Bit small for compensation, isn’t it?”

The man leaves instantly.

Then there's the shy medic from a nearby ship, who offers you flowers. Real flowers! You get one whiff before Benn “accidentally” drops his coat over them and says, “Allergic?” You aren’t, but the medic panics and runs anyway.

The next guy, you try to kiss. Try. You’re in a shadowed hallway, lips inches away, and a pipe taps lightly on the wall beside your head.

You both freeze. And Benn, not even looking at you, says casually, “Captain’s looking for you. You were going to report in an hour ago.” The man flees like a rat from a sinking ship. You’re left alone. Again. With a heat in your veins and a scream caught behind your teeth.

You really try to be normal about it, at first.

You flirt like a polite menace. You offer compliments. You even bake—bake—a pie for a carpenter who helped fix a busted plank near your quarters.

Benn drops the entire dessert into the ocean with a casual “Oops.” The carpenter pretends it never happened and never speaks to you again.

Fine.

You flirt harder. You wear a necklace with cleavage implications. You lean against barrels in suggestive ways. You ask questions like “Do you believe in soulmates?” with all the sultry poise of a woman about to commit crimes.

Each time, Benn appears. Never angry. Never loud.

Just present.

He looks at men like they’re bread left out too long. One man you try to woo tells you, “I’m sorry, I’m just not ready to be buried at sea.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely in Benn’s direction. “He looks like the type to anchor a man with weights.”

Eventually, you grow unhinged enough to ask Shanks for help.

Desperate times. Desperate measures. Spoon in hand.

“Shanks. I haven’t been kissed in six months. I’m going to throw myself off the side of this ship and hope I land on something hot.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just grins that ridiculous grin and takes a sip of his drink like you didn’t just declare a romantic emergency at sea.

“Sounds like you already did,” he says. 

You throw a spoon at him. Not hard enough to cause damage, but with intent.

He ducks, still laughing, and yells, “Yasopp, she’s officially snapped! We’re five days from a Beckman-related homicide!”

From the crow’s nest, Yasopp calls back, “I give it three!”

Down on the deck, Lucky Roux mumbles something about prepping a mop, just in case.

And somewhere behind you, you can feel Benn’s gaze burning into your back like a storm rolling in.

You don’t look.

You’ve got at least one more spoon in your pocket. And if he says something smug tonight, it’s going straight between his collarbones.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The celebration night starts simply.

Rum flows. Music plays. The Red Force is riding high off a fresh victory, and for once, you think…maybe tonight?

You wear your best shirt. The one that says, "I’m available, dangerous, and fully prepared to ruin lives with eye contact alone."

You lock eyes with a visiting sharpshooter. Dimples. Fast hands. Good aim. He makes a joke that’s actually funny, and you nearly cry from the sheer relief.

He invites you to dance. You accept before Benn can emerge from the shadows like the final boss of celibacy.

The deck glows with lanterns. The stars are bright. The music is rowdy, but melodic. The sharpshooter’s hands settle just right on your waist. Confident. Respectful. Warm.

You laugh at something he says. You lean in a little. It feels… nice. Not electrifying. Not dangerous. Just easy. Normal. The kind of moment you haven’t had in months.

He dips you in a practiced move. Eyes bright. Smile easy.

The air tightens. The laughter dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. The music still plays, but now it echoes like it’s coming from the bottom of the sea.

You don’t have to look. You feel it.

The storm has arrived.

You turn your head just slightly— And there he is. Benn Beckman.

Leaning against the mast like he owns the moonlight. Not borrowed. Not shared. His.

His coat hangs open, sleeves pushed to the elbows like he just handled something violent or intimate—maybe both. The lantern glow catches the line of his throat, the edge of his jaw, the slow drag of smoke curling from his lips like he’s sculpting the tension on purpose.

Hair tousled by the sea breeze. Scar barely visible under the lamplight. Cigarette balanced between two fingers like a threat. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.

He just watches.

Not even looking at you. He’s watching him. The sharpshooter who unknowingly walked into his territory.

Assessing. Judging.Plotting a deeply personalized murder, with footnotes and a dramatic conclusion. Complete with a warning label and monogrammed body bag.

You try to ignore it. You force yourself to keep dancing. You laugh again, louder this time. Sharper. Petty. Just to prove you still have free will.

But Benn’s gaze doesn’t shift. He’s locked on you like you just committed high treason in full view of the mast. Like the moment you let another man’s hand touch your waist, you started a war.

The sharpshooter dips you again, still smiling, still unaware he’s dancing in a blast radius. You meet his eyes. And then, he kisses you.

Soft. Simple. Perfectly acceptable. You let it happen.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not poetry. But it’s something. And for one brief, fragile second, you think—maybe the curse has been lifted.

But in your periphery, Benn straightens.

He moves with that infuriating calm. Like gravity, parts for him. One step. Two.

Towering. Broad-shouldered. All slow fury and sharp angles, radiating heat like he just walked out of a fight—or your last three fantasies.

His coat shifts with every step, open just enough to flash the knife-honed lines of his chest, sea-worn and sun-bitten. That scar along his side catches the lantern light, his cigarette glowing dim between his fingers like a fuse counting down.

His eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, lethal—flick to the sharpshooter with all the warmth of a storm cloud that’s about to ruin someone's year.

And he stops. Just close enough to make your skin burn.

The sharpshooter opens his mouth to say something—

“Get. Off. Her.”

Benn doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It slices through the music like a blade to canvas—clean, cold, and final.

Your poor dance partner releases you like you’re made of dynamite. He takes one last glance at Benn, stammers something about needing another drink, and vanishes like a man fleeing death.

You turn. Jaw tight. “What is your problem, Beckman?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You.” His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly.

“You and your damn flirting. You and every bastard who thinks they can put their hands on you.”

The words hit like a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. You’re too stunned to speak. Too furious to breathe.

And then he steps closer— too close.

Close enough that the scent of smoke and sea salt curls into your lungs, warm and dizzying. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’s been holding back fire, and you’re the match that finally struck.

His eyes never leave yours—dark, hungry, infuriating. And his voice drops. Smooth. Dangerous. Unapologetic. The sound of a man who’s done waiting, and doesn’t give a damn about consequences.

Your voice is low. Shaking. With rage. With exhaustion. With months of unmet needs and tension wound so tight it’s a miracle you haven’t combusted on the spot.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in—all six-foot-something of sun-bronzed, scar-marked, sea-weathered menace, radiating heat and bad decisions.

His shirt’s open at the collar, the dip of his throat catching the lantern glow. That scar along his ribs was just visible beneath the edge of his coat. His hair was tousled like he had just rolled out of someone’s bed, his cigarette was forgotten between two fingers, and smoke was curling lazily past lips you’ve spent far too long imagining.

And his eyes—dark, hooded, locked on yours with the precision of a man who already knows what you taste like. A man who could wreck you with a look. A man who is.

He steps closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough that your breath stutters, and your pulse has nowhere to run.

“I don’t own you.” He breathes the words like a vow, slow and deliberate. Low enough that they settle against your skin. “But if I’m not allowed to have you—no one is.”

Silence. Around you. Between you. Like the moment before a storm breaks—still, sharp, electric.

And he just stands there, too good-looking to be legal, with the firelight turning him into temptation carved from smoke and salt and every bad idea you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Someone drops a mug. Somewhere, Shanks mutters, “Thank the sea gods—I was two weeks away from staging a fake wedding.”

You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.

You slap him.

Hard. Sharp. Satisfying.

You kiss him.

Harder. Hotter. Meaner.

It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. It’s months of frustration. Of sabotage. Of cockblocking so relentless it deserves its own bounty poster.

It’s a collision. Of ego. Of need. Of finally.

And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting, like every smug look, every quiet stare, every damn lit cigarette was just foreplay he’d been layering like kindling.

You don’t remember how you ended up below deck. One second you’re biting his lip; the next, there’s a wall at your back and Benn’s hands at your hips, kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s been starving. For you. Specifically.

He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t rush. He devours with the steady, unhurried confidence of a man who’s thought about this in excruciating detail.

Later, when you’re pinned against a storage crate, breathless, barely dressed, and actively questioning your spinal alignment, you pant against his throat.

“Is this against your rule?”

He doesn’t even pause. Just mutters against your skin, warm and wicked: “Times change.”

Clothes? Gone. Pipe? Dropped and probably rolling somewhere beneath a barrel. Your dignity? Folding like a busted card table.

You moan something that might be his name or might be a new swear invented on the spot, probably one the crew will adopt out of context.

He kisses your throat again, biting this time. A warning or a reward. Then mutters, “New rule. Just for you.”

“What’s the rule?” you pant, somewhere between delirious and ready to throw him down again.

His mouth brushes your jaw as he grins, slow and cruel in the best way: “No one touches you but me. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically. Twice on Sundays just to be sure.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re too busy making absolutely sure he never rewrites that rule again. Possibly ever.

Up above, the crew takes bets on how long you’ll last before you both break something important.

Shanks wins. He bet on ten minutes and a broken table.

You wake up in a supply room. Naked. Sore. Smug.

And unfortunately? So is he.

Benn Beckman, in all his post-sin glory, is still half on top of you. Bare chest rising and falling, scarred and golden in the early light slanting through the hull beams. His hair’s a mess, his lips are kiss-bitten, and one hand is still resting possessively on your hip like he’s asleep but ready to fight anyone who looks at you wrong.

And he’s hot. So hot it’s personally offensive.

The kind of hot that should come with warning signs. All long limbs, sharp edges, and that low, lazy strength that screams if you run, I’ll catch you—and not in a healthy way. Even now, bruised from your fingernails and still smug from last night, he looks like he walked straight out of your most unhinged fantasy and into a problem.

You glare at his perfect jawline and whisper:

“You’re still an asshole.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just smiles—smiles, the smug bastard—and murmurs,

“You can glare all you want. Doesn’t change who you woke up under.”

The worst part? You can’t even pretend to be mad. Not when your legs are still jelly. Not when his scent is still warm on your skin. And definitely not when his hand is still resting exactly where it shouldn’t be, curled possessively on your hip like he knows you’re not going anywhere.

Because you’re not. Not yet. Not when he’s this warm, this close, and just barely awake enough to be soft about it.

You sigh. "You’re lucky you're pretty."

He grins without opening his eyes. "That’s not the only reason you kept me."

You smack his chest gently. Mostly.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Upstairs, Shanks updates the crew manual. Section 6B now reads:

Crew fraternization is forbidden.

Addendum: Unless your name is Benn Beckman and you're a tall, pipe-smoking menace with sniper eyes and slutty forearms.

In which case, fine. But at least pretend you’re conflicted, you smug bastard. Also, buy her dinner, you coward.

[cyberkittenduck]

An Outlaw, a Sheriff, and a Deputy walk into a bar... 6

Part 1

Shanks sits around the campfire, Benn and Lucky Roux on either side of him. Bonk is strumming his guitar softly across from him, but even that does little to put the redhead in a good mood. You’ve not moved from your spot by the shore, and any attempt at communication is shot down by loud silence on your part. He wished that you‘d at least let him know if you were okay, or needed a drink, or food. Hell, anything at this point.

Benn nudges him, and when Shanks gives the older man his attention, Benn nods over to where you sit, “She okay?”

Shanks sighs and shakes his head, shrugging one shoulder before he tips up the bottle of whiskey and wets his throat, “I don’t know, man. She won’t talk to me.”

His second hums and leans back on the log they share, raising a hand to rub his face, “Bring her some food, Shanks. She’s not eaten since she woke up.”

Shanks cocks a brow, confused before realization seeps in. He grins and claps Benn on the shoulder as he stands, “Thanks, Benn.”

The older man just shakes his head at his boss. Shanks would be a lost cause without his crew.

Shanks piles a good helping of stew into a bowl and nabs a thick piece of bread before he lopes over to where you sit by the lake shore. He stands beside you, then crouches down, offering the meal, “Here, you’ve not had anything all day, hun.”

He sees you cut your eyes over at the food, and then sigh heavily as you reach out and take it from him. Shanks grins and silently cheers in victory. He settles on the bank beside you as you eat, content to just sit for now.

“...Thank you.”

Your voice is soft, a bit rough from not talking and the crying that you’d done after you’d settled on the shore. Shanks nods and takes his chance to scoot closer to you, his shoulder pressing against yours. He grins to himself when you press back against him without thinking.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Shanks murmurs and waits for you to finish up before speaking again, “How’re you feelin’?”

Shanks hears you huff, the sound rough and wet. He turns to face you fully to see wet eyes and dried tear tracks going down your face. The redhead makes a sound of concern and wraps his arm around you, tugging you against his side and pressing his lips to the side of your head with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t want to hurt you like that,” He says, and you give a half-shrug then lean into his warmth. Shanks knows that you want to be mad at him, but he can see the defeat clouding you like a miasma.

“Guess I should be thanking you,” you say and reach up to rub your face, shoulders heaving from the big breath you take, “I’m just… sad, I guess, Red. How could he do that to me?”

Shanks frowns and presses you more fully against his side, hand rubbing up and down your waist, “Shamrock gets that from our dad, hun. He always thinks he knows what’s best for the people he cares about. He wants to force things to work, and he’s so used to people just agreeing with his decisions that he doesn’t stop to think if that’s the right thing to do or not.”

You are quiet after his little speech, and as much as this is a touchy subject, Shanks can’t help but relish the time he is having with you. It’s been years since you have let him touch you like this, and he was going to take all of your attention that he could get. Maybe now you’d listen to him when he tried to tell you how he felt.

“Can I tell you something?” Shanks asks softly. He shifts in his spot, turning so that he can face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. Your eyes widen, but you give him the green light when you dip your head in a jerky nod.

“I love you. I’ve loved you since the day you shoved my dumbass off your horse when we all lived back in Blackwater. You were just so full of righteous fury, and I knew right then that no one else would ever hold my heart the way you hold it. It hurt when you didn’t run away with me, but you know me, hun. I’ve never been one to give up, especially when I find a good thing in my life.”

Shanks pauses and swallows harshly, a rough laugh leaving him as nerves suddenly begin to light him up from the inside.

“I know you probably don’t wanna hear all that right now, but I had to tell you. I needed you to know how I felt.”

He leans in close, breath ghosting across your face. Shanks takes a pause, searching your face, tone breathy and needy, “Please?”

Shanks watches you, sees the way your mind is twisting and turning at his confession. He wants to kiss you, to lay the world at your feet and let you do whatever you want with it, as long as he is there by your side. His heart thuds in his chest, and his fate is in your hands.

Only for his heart to break when your expression closes off. You wrap your hand around his wrist, tugging his hand away from your face, and his arms fall limp from around your waist. You stand, looking down at him, and he can see the pain in your eyes, see the uncertainty that weighs you down. Shanks watches you take a step back, your voice croaking.

“I-I’m sorry, Shanks,” you say, and your lip trembles, “I can’t. Not. Not now.”

Shanks is left sitting in the damp sand by himself as you stumble away, head hung low and arms wrapped tight around yourself. His chest aches as he watches you go, but he has seen the look in your eyes, and despite knowing that he would have to glue his heart back together, he is now more determined than ever to be by your side.

@nocturnalrorobin @sanjisleggy @mit-suri @forever-a-night-owl @sordidmusings @shanks-is-a-daddy @mfreedomstuff

[cyberkittenduck]

hii, would you write an oblivious reader with a little dumb Zoro who shows affection doing the tiniest things (like saving them a chair at the table and napping together) but gets confused when reader thinks they're not dating?

Oblivious Compassion

Zoro x Reader

Words: 5,454

Warnings: uhh..nothing really?? Maybe emotional distress?

✸→→⛤←←✸

A gentle sway of the Thousand Sunny was usually what woke you, a comforting rhythm that had replaced the solid ground you’d once known. Sunlight, filtered through the porthole, painted warm stripes across your bunk. Another day on the Grand Line, another adventure waiting—or so you assumed. You stretched, a soft yawn escaping your lips, completely oblivious to the chaos that often unfolded around you before you even had your first cup of tea.

Life with the Straw Hats was… an experience. Your natural kindness often led you to offer a helping hand, a comforting word, or even just a genuine smile to anyone who seemed to need it. It didn't matter if they were a fearsome pirate captain or a shy reindeer doctor; everyone received the same gentle warmth from you. This genuine compassion was a core part of who you were, a quiet strength that sometimes surprised even the most hardened individuals you encountered. However, it was also inextricably linked to your charming, albeit occasional, unawareness of… well, a lot of things.

You hummed a little tune as you padded out to the galley, ready to see what Sanji had cooked up for breakfast. The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee filled the air, a familiar and delightful scent. You passed Zoro, who was already napping in his usual spot, and Franky, who was tinkering with something shiny. You waved cheerfully, completely missing the exasperated sigh Nami let out as she reviewed a stack of navigation charts, muttering about an impending storm you hadn't even registered. For you, every day was simply a bright, new canvas, waiting for whatever wonderful, bewildering, or completely over-your-head moments the Straw Hats would inevitably bring.

You grabbed a plate, loading it up with a generous serving of pancakes and crispy bacon. Your eyes scanned the bustling galley, a bright smile gracing your lips as you spotted an empty seat beside Zoro. He was already halfway through his meal, a faint scent of sake clinging to him even at this early hour. You slid into the chair, completely missing the subtle shift in his posture, the slight easing of his shoulders that no one else would have noticed.

“Morning, Zoro!” you chirped, taking a big bite of pancake.

He grunted in response, not bothering to look up from his plate. This was a typical exchange for you two. While most of the crew found Zoro intimidating, you had always seen past his gruff exterior. Maybe it was your nature, or maybe it was just that you were truly, wonderfully, utterly oblivious to the subtle cues that screamed "don't bother me" to everyone else. You’d once offered him a flower you found on an island, convinced it would brighten his day, and he’d simply… taken it, tucking it behind his ear without a word. The others had stared, jaws agape, but you hadn’t noticed a thing.

It wasn't that you were unintelligent. Far from it. You could read the shifting winds with an uncanny accuracy that rivaled Nami's, predicting squalls hours before she even saw them on her charts. You were a skilled hand with a rope, could patch a sail faster than Usopp, and your memory for island flora and fauna was encyclopedic. You were, by all accounts, incredibly smart. But when it came to social cues, to reading between the lines, or understanding the unsaid, you were in a league of your own—a league where the only other member was probably Luffy.

The rest of the crew often watched your interactions with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. They saw the way Zoro always seemed to gravitate towards your corner of the deck, the way he’d subtly deflect anyone else who tried to take your usual spot beside him. They saw the little things, the almost imperceptible gestures that spoke volumes about his quiet protectiveness over you. But you? You just saw your friend, Zoro, who always seemed to have a seat saved for you, and honestly, you were just grateful not to have to stand while you ate your breakfast.

"Did you sleep well?" you asked, genuinely curious.

Zoro grunted again, finally looking at you, his single visible eye meeting yours. "Hn."

You beamed, taking it as a resounding "yes." Some things, it seemed, were just meant to remain a mystery to you.

As you chatted happily, a stray blob of pancake syrup decided to make a break for it, landing squarely on your cheek. Before you could even register it, a calloused thumb, surprisingly gentle, brushed against your skin, wiping the sticky sweetness away. You blinked, a wide, easy smile blooming on your face.

"Thanks, Zoro!" you said, and then, without another thought, went back to devouring your breakfast.

It had always been like this. Small, almost imperceptible gestures from him, met with your genuine, innocent appreciation. Zoro would do things for you that he wouldn't dream of doing for anyone else, and you, in your beautiful oblivion, would simply accept them as the natural order of things. He always saved you a seat next to him at meals, on deck, or even during their rare moments of downtime. You never once wondered why that spot was always open, or why his gaze would subtly track you until you settled beside him.

The others saw it, of course. They saw how you could drape yourself over his broad shoulders during a particularly intense nap, your head tucked comfortably against his neck, while he remained perfectly still, a silent guardian. They’d seen him, after a grueling battle, his own body bruised and battered, seek you out first, his lone eye scanning for any sign of injury on you before allowing himself to collapse.

“Rough one, huh?” you’d said once, gently dabbing a cut on his arm with a damp cloth after a skirmish, completely oblivious to the protective glint in his eye as he watched your focused expression. He’d just grunted, letting you fuss over him, a privilege he granted no one else.

There were countless times, during long voyages or after too much celebratory sake, that you’d simply curled up in the nearest available space, which often happened to be Zoro’s bed. You’d wake up tangled in his limbs, or with your head on his chest, completely unperturbed. He’d just be there, a warm, solid presence, and you’d simply stretch, offer a sleepy "Morning, Zoro," and go about your day. No awkwardness, no questions, just a comfortable familiarity.

He even let you nap on him during those lazy afternoons at sea. You'd be reading, or simply enjoying the sun, and inevitably, your eyelids would grow heavy. Without a word, you’d just lean over, rest your head on his lap or shoulder, and drift off. He never moved, never complained, just stayed there, a silent anchor in your drifting world. He was the only one on the entire ship allowed such liberties. For everyone else, it was a mystery how you managed it. For you, it was just… Zoro. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

But god, how oblivious you were. You didn’t even notice the sheer gentleness in his large, scarred hands as he’d brush that syrup from your cheek, a touch he reserved solely for you. You didn't register the subtle tightening of his muscles, the way his lone eye would narrow just a fraction, whenever anyone got too close to you, a silent warning only the truly observant could decipher. He was fiercely protective, a silent sentinel, and you simply saw a friend.

The depth of his care, the quiet affection that bordered on something far more profound, was completely lost on you. He’d sit there, unwavering, as you slept soundly on his lap, his fingers occasionally, almost unconsciously, tangling in your hair. He’d carefully separate strands, twirl them around his fingers, or simply let them sift through his grasp, a quiet, tender gesture that spoke volumes. You were just so immune to it, so oblivious to the subtle currents of emotion that swirled around him whenever you were near. It was just Zoro, your friend, letting you get comfortable.

As the day continued, it unfolded as normally as any day on the Thousand Sunny could. Luffy dragged Usopp and Chopper into a game of "extreme hide-and-seek" that mostly involved loud shouting and crashing noises. Sanji, ever the gentleman, flitted around Nami and Robin, offering them fresh juice and compliments, while grumbling at Zoro for breathing in his general direction. Franky was still super-tinkering, sparks flying from his latest invention.

You spent some time helping Nami chart their course, your surprising meteorological instincts proving invaluable. You laughed easily at Usopp’s outlandish tales, completely believing every word. Later, you found yourself on the deck, sharing a quiet moment with Robin, discussing the various types of flowers you'd seen on their last island. All the while, Zoro was never far. He was either training, or simply lounging nearby, his gaze occasionally drifting your way, a silent guardian in your beautifully oblivious world.

And through it all, as was often the case, you found yourself with Zoro for most of the day. Whether you were helping Nami with her charts, listening to Usopp's latest tall tale, or just enjoying the salty air on deck, he was there. A silent presence, a steady shadow, always somehow within arm's reach. He was on your side, not in a way that screamed for attention, but in a quiet, unwavering devotion that you, in your typical fashion, barely registered.

As the afternoon wore on, however, Zoro's patience, never his strongest suit, began to wane. He’d been observing the usual chaos of the Straw Hats, his boredom slowly morphing into a familiar irritation. Luffy was now attempting to teach Chopper how to "fly" off the mast, much to the reindeer's terrified squeals. Sanji was still openly bickering with him across the deck, a constant, low hum of annoyance.

With a long, suffering sigh that went completely unnoticed by anyone but the keenest ears, Zoro finally reached out. Before you could even register his intent, his calloused fingers closed around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful.

"Come on," he grunted, pulling you away from whatever benign activity you were engaged in. You stumbled slightly, caught off guard.

"Huh? Where are we going, Zoro?" you asked, looking up at him with innocent curiosity.

He didn't bother to answer, simply tugging you steadily towards his usual napping spot on the deck, a patch of sun-drenched wood near the mast that was surprisingly comfortable. He dropped down with a thud, leaning back against the cool wood.

"Need a nap," he declared, his voice gruff. His single eye fixed on you. "You're joining me."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, an order even, delivered with the absolute certainty that you would comply. And because it was Zoro, and because that's just how things were, you simply settled down beside him, completely unaware of the subtle possessiveness in his gesture, or the way the tension had visibly drained from his shoulders the moment you were by his side.

You blinked, sunlight dappling through the mast sails, and the gentle rocking of the Sunny was the first thing you registered. Your head was resting comfortably on something firm yet yielding, and a warmth enveloped you. You stretched, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and then realized you were draped across Zoro's lap, his arm slung loosely around your waist, holding you close. It was a familiar position, one you’d found yourself in countless times.

You started to stir, pushing yourself up slightly. "Morning, Zoro," you murmured, thinking he was still deep in slumber. You went to carefully extract yourself, not wanting to disturb him, but as you shifted, his arm tightened.

"Just a few more minutes," his voice rumbled, rough with sleep, pressing you gently back down. He didn't even open his eye, just tightened his hold, keeping you exactly where you were. You settled back, completely unperturbed. It was just Zoro, being Zoro. You weren't in a rush anyway.

You relaxed against him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a soothing rhythm. You could hear the muffled sounds of the ship slowly coming to life—Luffy’s boisterous laugh somewhere in the distance, Sanji’s pots clattering in the galley. But in Zoro’s arms, the world felt still and peaceful. You just lay there, content, completely at ease in the quiet cocoon of his presence. You never once questioned why he held you so securely, or why his proximity always felt like the safest place on the entire Grand Line. It was just Zoro, and this was just another morning.

The tranquility of your morning cuddle was abruptly shattered by the familiar, brisk voice of Nami. "There you are, Y/N!" she declared, her footsteps echoing sharply on the deck as she approached. "I need your eyes on these charts. We're approaching a tricky current."

Before you could even fully process her words, Nami had skillfully pried Zoro's arm from around you. "Sorry, Zoro," she said, though her tone held no real apology, "but Y/N can't be with you every minute of the day. The ship actually needs her."

Zoro merely grunted, a low, guttural sound. His eye, still heavy with sleep, flickered open to glare at the navigator. "Shut up, witch," he mumbled, though he made no move to retrieve you.

You, meanwhile, were already standing, your mind shifting gears with remarkable ease. "Oh, charts! Of course, Nami!" You beamed, completely missing the loaded exchange between your two crewmates. "What kind of current are we looking at? Is it one of those swirly ones that makes the compass go crazy?"

Nami, already pulling you towards the navigation room, couldn't help but sigh. Sometimes, your obliviousness was a blessing; it certainly made getting you to work easier. "Something like that, Y/N. Come on, let's go over it."

As you disappeared into the cabin with Nami, completely engrossed in the prospect of analyzing currents, Zoro remained on the deck, a silent, brooding presence. The warmth where you had been on his lap had already begun to fade, and he let out another, softer grunt, a sound of quiet displeasure at the interruption. But he knew, of course, that Nami was right. You couldn't be with him every minute of the day. Even if he wished you could.

You and Nami spent the next few hours poring over charts, your keen eye for weather patterns proving invaluable. You pointed out subtle shifts in wind direction Nami had almost missed, and together, you plotted a course that would deftly navigate them around a series of unpredictable whirlpools. You were so engrossed, the time seemed to fly by.

Just as you were finalizing the last coordinates, a booming voice echoed across the deck, making you both jump. "DINNER'S READY, MY BELOVED LADIES! SANJI-SAMA HAS PREPARED A FEAST FIT FOR GODDESSES!"

Nami rolled her eyes, but a smile touched her lips. "Finally! I'm starving." She stretched, then gestured for you to follow. "Come on, Y/N, let's go get some food before Luffy eats it all."

You grinned, your stomach rumbling in agreement. "Oh, I hope it's Sanji's special meat stew! It's so good when he adds those tiny mushrooms."

As you and Nami made your way towards the delicious aromas wafting from the galley, the day's earlier events faded into the background. Your brief cuddle with Zoro, his possessive grip, Nami's pointed comment—all were just fleeting moments, already eclipsed by the simple, comforting promise of a warm meal with your friends. You were just happy to be there, another day on the Grand Line, surrounded by the crew you loved, completely oblivious to the silent warrior who, even now, was probably making his way to the galley, ensuring there was still a seat open right next to his.

As you and Nami stepped into the bustling galley, the comforting clamor of plates and cheerful chatter immediately embraced you. The rich scent of Sanji’s cooking, a symphony of herbs and sizzling meat, filled the air, making your stomach rumble happily. Your eyes, as always, scanned the crowded tables for a familiar face, and there it was: the empty spot beside Zoro.

Without a second thought, you headed straight for it. Zoro was already deep into his meal, his usual focused intensity applied to devouring his food. You slid onto the bench beside him, your presence acknowledged by a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head.

"Looks delicious, Sanji!" you chirped, reaching for a serving spoon.

Zoro didn't reply, just continued eating, but you could feel the subtle shift in the air around him, a quiet settling of his presence as you took your rightful place beside him. It was a familiar comfort, an unspoken understanding that had always existed between you two, a silent current that you, in your beautiful obliviousness, simply flowed with. For you, it was just another meal, another moment, with your friend. For him, it was exactly where you belonged.

Mid-dinner, the usual, familiar spat between Zoro and Sanji inevitably erupted. It started with a muttered insult from Zoro about Sanji's cooking being "too frilly," which, of course, sent the cook into a furious, pirouetting rage.

"What was that, Marimo?! My exquisite cuisine is a work of art, unlike your pathetic sense of direction!" Sanji shrieked, twirling a fork menacingly.

Zoro scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "At least I know where I'm going, unlike some love-struck perv."

"Love-struck?! You think you can talk about love, you muscle-brained oaf?! At least I know how to treat a lady, unlike you, who probably thinks your girlfriend here is just another one of your weights!" Sanji yelled, gesturing wildly towards you.

You, who had been happily munching on a piece of chicken, paused. Then, a bright, genuine laugh bubbled out of you. "Huh? Zoro's my boyfriend? No way!" You chuckled, shaking your head. "We're not dating, Sanji! That's silly!"

The entire galley went utterly silent. The clatter of plates, the general chatter, even Luffy's enthusiastic chewing, all ceased. Nami's jaw dropped, Usopp choked on his drink, and Chopper's eyes went wide. Even Robin had a small, surprised smile on her face.

Every single eye in the room, except for yours, snapped to Zoro. He had frozen mid-chew, his fork hovering inches from his mouth. His single eye, usually so stoic, was wide, almost panicked. A slow, dark flush began to creep up his neck, staining his ears.

Then, in a voice that was uncharacteristically high-pitched and strained, he blurted out, "Uhh... yes, we are?"

You stared at Zoro, your fork still halfway to your mouth, a perplexed frown creasing your brow. "No, we're not, Zoro," you stated, as if explaining something incredibly simple to a particularly slow child. "We're just friends. Like... like you and Luffy are friends! Or me and Chopper are friends!" You gestured around the silent galley, utterly bewildered by his claim. "We don't go on dates. We don't hold hands like that." You wiggled your fingers in the air. "We just hang out!"

The silence in the galley became deafening. Sanji looked like his brain had short-circuited, Nami slapped a hand to her forehead, and Usopp slid slowly under the table. Even Luffy, for once, was speechless, his eyes wide.

Zoro's face, now a deep shade of crimson, looked like he was wrestling with a particularly stubborn sea king in his head. He cleared his throat, a rough, grating sound. "We... we do too go on dates," he mumbled, avoiding everyone's gaze, including yours. "We went to that island with the cherry blossoms. And that one with the giant mushrooms."

You tilted your head. "But we went with everyone! And we were looking for food!"

"No, that was a date!" Zoro insisted, his voice gaining a desperate edge. He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "And we... we sleep in the same bed!"

Your eyes widened, a genuine, innocent shock coloring your features. "Yes, but not like that! You just let me nap there sometimes because the floor is cold, or I fall asleep reading!" You looked genuinely mortified, clearly thinking he was implying something scandalous. "Zoro, are you feeling okay? You're acting really weird!"

The rest of the Straw Hats couldn't take it anymore.

Usopp burst out from under the table, pointing dramatically. "He's in love, Y/N! He's been in love with you for ages!"

Nami, pinching the bridge of her nose, sighed. "Y/N, Zoro constantly saves you seats, he only lets you nap on him, he carries you after battles... it's not exactly subtle."

Chopper whimpered. "He protects you like his own treasure, Y/N!"

Robin chuckled softly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Indeed, Y/N. The signs have been rather… evident for quite some time."

Zoro, by this point, looked like he wanted the Thousand Sunny to swallow him whole. He slammed his fist on the table, making the plates jump. "Shut up, all of you!" he roared, then turned his blazing red face to you. "Look, I... I thought... you... we..." He trailed off, utterly defeated by your pure, unadulterated obliviousness. He just sat there, breathing heavily, as if he’d just fought a thousand men.

You, however, were still stuck on his earlier statement. "Wait," you said slowly, your brow furrowing in confusion. "So… when Sanji called us 'girlfriend and boyfriend'… he meant that seriously? And you… you think we are dating?"

The silence returned, thicker than ever. Zoro finally managed a small, miserable nod.

Your mind, usually a calm and clear lake, suddenly became a churning storm. The puzzle pieces, scattered and seemingly unrelated for so long, slammed together with dizzying speed. The saved seats, the gentle touches, the shared naps, the quiet protectiveness… it all made a horrifying, mortifying, obvious kind of sense now. Your face, usually so open and bright, paled, then flushed a furious scarlet that rivaled Zoro's own.

"W-what?!" you stammered, scrambling away from him on the bench, nearly knocking over your plate. "You... you think we're dating?! But... but that means... oh my god! All this time?!"

You shot to your feet, pacing wildly in the now completely silent galley, your hands flapping in disbelief. "But I thought we were just... best friends! Like, the bestest friends ever! I thought you were just being... well, you! You let me nap on you because you're comfy! You saved me seats because you're polite! I thought I was in the friend zone! I thought you just saw me as your buddy, your pal! I even told Chopper last week that you were 'the most reliable friend a girl could ask for'!"

Your rant continued, growing in speed and volume. "And the cherry blossoms! I thought you just liked flowers! And the mushrooms! We needed food! Oh my god! This is mortifying! You actually like me like that?! And I've just been... here! Completely oblivious! How could I be so dumb?!" You smacked yourself lightly on the forehead. "I like you too, Zoro! Of course, I like you! But I just thought you were my really, really good friend and I just accepted all your kindness like it was nothing! Oh, this is so awkward!"

The reactions were immediate and varied:

Zoro, who had been frozen in mortified silence, suddenly bolted upright. His crimson face contorted into a mix of utter shock and a flicker of… something else. Hope? Relief? His eye widened, staring at you as if seeing you for the first time. "You... you like me?" he blurted out, the question barely a whisper.

Sanji finally snapped out of his stupor, letting out a delighted, albeit bewildered, squawk. "She likes him?! The Marimo actually pulled it off?!" He immediately started spinning, offering you a handkerchief. "My dearest Y/N-chan, calm yourself! It seems love has blossomed in the most unexpected of places!"

Nami, who had been watching the entire spectacle with growing amusement, burst into laughter. "I told you, Y/N! You're ridiculously oblivious! But at least we finally got somewhere!" She patted your shoulder, still chuckling.

Usopp and Chopper, who had emerged from under the table, exchanged wide-eyed glances. "She likes him back!" Chopper whispered, tears welling in his eyes. Usopp clapped him on the back, grinning. "I knew it! My keen sniper's eye saw through it all!" (He had seen absolutely nothing).

Robin simply smiled, a serene, knowing expression on her face. "It appears," she mused softly, "that even the most tangled of threads can eventually find their way to each other."

And Luffy, ever the direct one, just stared at you and Zoro with a wide grin. "Shishishi! So you guys are dating! Awesome! Now can we have dessert?"

You, meanwhile, were still processing, your face buried in your hands, the weight of years of unspoken affection and your own charming unawareness crashing down on you in a wave of utter, embarrassing realization.

You slowly sank back onto the bench, your face still burning. The earlier joyous clamor of dinner had been replaced by the crew's hushed murmurs and occasional stifled giggles. You felt like every single eye on the Thousand Sunny was fixed on you, dissecting every oblivious moment of your existence. This wasn't just embarrassment; this was full-blown, existential mortification. Your entire past with Zoro, once so comfortably platonic, was now replaying in your mind like a horribly awkward highlight reel. Every shared nap, every saved seat, every gentle touch now screamed "romantic gesture" instead of "friendly gesture."

You risked a quick glance at Zoro. He was still sitting rigid beside you, his ears still a furious red, but his gaze was no longer on the floor. It was on you, a strange, intense mixture of disbelief, hope, and something akin to awe in his single visible eye. It was almost too much to bear.

You let out a groan, a sound of pure, unadulterated despair. "Oh my god," you mumbled, burying your face in your hands. "This is it. This is how I die. From sheer, utter mortification." The idea of facing Zoro, or any of the crew, ever again felt impossible. The Grand Line had thrown countless dangers at you, but none compared to the crushing weight of realizing you had been spectacularly, monumentally oblivious to the affections of one of your closest friends for what now felt like an eternity.

As soon as dinner was mercifully over, you made a beeline for the deck, practically fleeing the galley. The bewildered and amused faces of your crewmates, the lingering scent of cooked food mixed with the thick, palpable awkwardness, was too much to bear. You needed air, and you needed it now.

The cool night breeze was a welcome relief against your still-flushed cheeks. You stood at the railing, gazing out at the endless, star-dusted ocean, the vastness of it doing little to calm the chaotic storm in your mind. Ten minutes stretched into an eternity, your internal monologue a frantic loop of "How could I be so blind?!" and "He liked me?!"

Just as you were contemplating whether you could just… jump overboard and swim to the nearest uncharted island, you heard them: slow, deliberate footsteps approaching. You didn't need to turn around. You knew the familiar, heavy tread. It was Zoro.

Sure, here is the story:

You kept your back to him, gripping the railing so tightly your knuckles turned white. The silence stretched, thick and charged with unspoken words, heavier than any sword Zoro had ever wielded. You could feel his presence behind you, a silent, unmoving force.

Finally, his deep voice, softer than you’d ever heard it, broke the quiet. "Y/N."

You flinched, but didn't turn. "Don't, Zoro," you mumbled, your voice muffled. "I can't believe I was so... so stupid."

He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years of unacknowledged affection. "You're not stupid." He took another step closer, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Just... oblivious."

You finally turned, slowly, reluctantly, to face him. In the soft moonlight, his expression was unreadable, but his single eye held a raw vulnerability you'd never seen before. "Oblivious?! Zoro, you just told me you thought we were dating! And I thought we were just friends! How am I supposed to ever look anyone in the eye again?!"

He rubbed the back of his neck, a rare sign of discomfort from him. "It's… my fault too," he admitted, surprisingly. "I thought… you knew. Or that you just… accepted it. I'm not good with words." He shifted his weight. "Or with… feelings. I just… did things. I thought that was enough."

You stared at him. "You did things? Like saving me seats? And letting me sleep on you?"

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yeah. And making sure you're okay after a fight. And… other stuff." He paused, then, with a surprising amount of courage, added, "I like having you around. More than just a friend. I thought… that was obvious."

A fresh wave of mortification washed over you, but beneath it, a tiny, hesitant warmth began to spread. He truly had been trying, in his own, Zoro way.

"I… I said I like you too," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes fixed on the deck. "I really do. You're… you're important to me, Zoro. But I just… never thought of it like that. I just thought… that’s how we were. Best friends." You looked up at him, a tremor in your voice. "So… what does that make us now?"

Zoro took another step, closing the distance between you. He looked down at you, his gaze intense. "It makes us... whatever you want us to be," he said, his voice low and earnest. "But if you're asking if I want to keep being... more than friends... then yeah. I do." He hesitated, then, with a rare, almost shy gesture, reached out and gently took your hand, his calloused thumb stroking the back of your knuckles. "I'm tired of waiting, Y/N."

The simple, honest admission, combined with the gentle touch, finally pierced through your overwhelming embarrassment. You felt a blush creep up your neck again, but this time, it wasn't just from mortification. It was something else entirely. Something new, and exciting, and terrifyingly real. You looked at your intertwined hands, then up at his earnest, hopeful face.

You looked at your intertwined hands, then up at his earnest, hopeful face, a warmth blooming in your chest that chased away the last vestiges of embarrassment. The Grand Line had always been full of surprises, but this one… this was the most astonishing of all.

"Okay," you whispered, a soft smile finally gracing your lips. "Okay, Zoro. Let's… let's go on an official date."

A faint, almost imperceptible tremor went through him, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in what might have been the closest thing to a genuine smile you'd ever seen from him. His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, a silent affirmation.

The next morning, the Thousand Sunny sailed under a clear blue sky, the air filled with the usual cheerful chaos. Luffy was loudly declaring his intention to find an island made entirely of meat, Usopp was attempting to fish with a slingshot, and Sanji was already planning dinner.

You were on deck, helping Nami adjust a sail, when you felt a familiar presence beside you. Zoro was there, leaning against the mast, ostensibly napping, but his single eye was discreetly open, watching you.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself sitting beside him in his usual napping spot, not sleeping, but simply enjoying the quiet companionship. He had his swords resting beside him, and you were idly braiding a piece of rope. He didn't speak, but every now and then, his gaze would drift to you, lingering for a moment longer than it used to.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, Zoro shifted. "That island we're heading to," he rumbled, his voice low. "They said it has a good sake brewery."

You looked at him, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Oh! And Nami said there's a big festival there too! With fireworks!"

He nodded, a flicker of something new, something almost tender, in his eye. "Sounds like a date."

You chuckled, leaning your head against his shoulder. This time, you knew exactly what he meant. The Grand Line was vast, full of unknown adventures, and you were ready for all of them, especially the ones that now included, in a surprisingly official capacity, your quiet, protective swordsman.

[cyberkittenduck]

An Outlaw, a Sheriff, and a Deputy walk into a bar... 5

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4

You sit stiffly, your injured hand out and held within Hongo’s grasp. You watch him rotate your finger and then pop it back into place with a hiss through your teeth. The doctor leaves you instructions to take it easy with that hand and then lopes away, leaving you alone with Shanks. The redhead was sitting eagerly behind you, big brown eyes looking at you like a mutt who wanted a treat for being good. Well, he wasn’t getting shit from you, not after what he pulled.

You’d calmed down after telling yourself that your righteous anger wouldn’t be getting you anywhere with the outlaw, but that didn’t mean you still weren’t pissed off with him. Shanks refused to take you back to Valentine or tell you where they were, so you could only assume that he’d taken you southeast, given how humid and muggy it was around here. The lake beside the camp helped, but you weren’t about to take a dip.

“Will you at least explain to me why you did this?” you ask him just loud enough for Shanks to hear you over your shoulder.

It hurt that he’d taken you. It wasn’t like you’d ever arrest or kill him during his little crime sprees. He never took enough money or goods to even hurt the town that you loved. It was almost a game between the two of you. He’d start shit and you would show up and chase him off. Rinse and repeat. So why the change-up?

You didn’t want to even look at him right now, or else you’d probably punch that puppy dog look right off his pretty face.

Shanks shifts behind you, and you hear him stand, but you keep your face turned toward the lake so you don’t have to meet his eyes. He sighs at your stubbornness but thankfully begins to explain.

“I was trying to save you, sweetheart,” Shanks begins, but you cut him off sharply.

“Don’t call me that.”

The redhead sighs again, hands pulled up in surrender, and you can hear the frown in his voice, “Alright, Deputy.”

You frown tightly at the sarcastic tilt in his voice and try not to let it bother you too much.

“Like I was sayin’. I was trying to save you. My dearest twin wants to marry you and cart your pretty face down to Saint-Denis where you can live a happy, womanly life. Full of tight corsets and fancy dresses.”

You feel your chest grow tight. Marry you? You knew that the twins liked you, and you liked them too, even with their differences, but marriage? You were unaware that Shamrock felt like that towards you. The usually stoic redhead was polite and well-mannered with you, protective too, but you’d never imagine that his feelings ran that deeply.

“How do you know this?” you ask, and turn your head to look at Shanks. The outlaw had never learned how to lie to you, and you would always take advantage of that.

Shanks shifts uncomfortably, “Sham told me about it last time we crossed. Threatened me to stay away from you like usual, and I started pressing his buttons like normal, and it all just spilled outta him. Said that he was sure that you would get used to city life, and how he planned to make sure that I stayed well away from Saint-Denis when he became Marshall.”

He laughs, something low and rough, “Like you moving to a big city would keep me away. I’d find you, just like I always have, hun.”

You ignore the pet name, too caught up in your spiraling thoughts and the thick feeling of betrayal. Shamrock knew how much you loved Valentine, how much you loved protecting the town, and your little side hustle down the road at the ranch. You were happy where you were, and the last thing you wanted was to live in a stuffy, polluted city full of rich aristocrats. How could he do this? Trick you like this?

Shanks watches you stand and stagger away to the edge of the lake in a daze. He feels bad for doing this to you, but he knows that it was for the best. You deserved to know the truth about his big brother, and Shanks had promised long ago to never keep you in the dark. Now he just hoped that you would forgive him.

@nocturnalrorobin @sanjisleggy @mit-suri @forever-a-night-owl @sordidmusings @shanks-is-a-daddy @mfreedomstuff

[cyberkittenduck]

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Shanks: I like your new pants! Y\N: Thanks, they were 50% off! Shanks: I’d like them better if they were 100% off. *winks* Y\N: The store can’t just give away clothes for free. Shanks: Thats’s… not what I meant. Y\N: That’s a terrible way to run a business, Shanks.

[cyberkittenduck]

Beckman sfw Headcanon

A/N: An(on) asked for Beckman headcanons with a younger FReader and I'm gonna be honest this was harder than expected because I didn't get the sfw part at the beginning and so I had to adjust everything a little. At some point it got really general sorry I'm really bad at this kind but I'm thinking of doing a one shot with this

Warnings: none, sfw, i feel like i drifted off a little though, these are simply my thoughts so feel free to disagree

Characters: Beckman x FReader (though it can be read as GN)

Beckman’s always calm and collected, but around you, his usual cool demeanor softens just a bit, he’s quietly proud of having someone so sharp and strong by his side.

He will take things slow and not rush things he has had his experience and Beck is someone who enjoys rather than rush things. So if you’re shy he will take that shyness from you layer by layer and if you’re too eager or rushing things he will reign you in

Beckman is (canonically) a ladies man and if you’re younger than him he will use this experience to guide you, teach you.

Despite the age gap, he genuinely listens to your opinions and respects your independence. He admires how you hold your own in conversations and never tries to control you. He will never brush anything you say off or make fun of you but he will “correct” you or explain things in a charming way when you talk complete nonsense.

He’s a bit playful in private moments, teasing you lightly about your youthful energy or the way you see the world, but it’s all affectionate. He will “annoy” you with his dry humour, casually throw jabs your way just to get to see you all flustered and overwhelmed with how you should react to it

Beckman enjoys teaching you little things from his experience, like how to handle a rifle (an excuse to get a little closer and handsy) or explain reports, paperwork or whatsoever but never in a condescending way. It’s always a shared learning experience and he is the most patient and calm person you’ve ever met. Even if you ask him for the 5th time the same thing he will not yell at you or get impatient. And if you get frustrated he will just kiss you to ground you again.

He will also enjoy your youthful curiosity, enthusiasm or child like awe when you see something for the first time and be amused by how energetic you can be (and it doesn’t bother him unlike with Shanks)

When you’re tired or stressed, he’s the silent support, just quietly sitting next to you, offering his presence more than words. Same goes if you ever feel self-conscious then he will reassure you that there is no need for this.

Beckman is a charmer and always knows when and what to say to make you feel cherished, safe or loved.

He likes watching you interact with the crew, especially Shanks, and he’s protective but trusts your ability to navigate the pirate life on your own. Though he sometimes regrets letting you near Shanks because you two are pure chaos and Beck is always left to clean up the messes you made or scold you both.

On rare, calm nights, he might open up about his past and vulnerabilities a little, and you become the one person he feels safe sharing those moments with.

He’s got a soft spot for seeing you dressed up or trying something new, but he rarely says it outright, his gaze and small smirks say enough.

Beckman’s the type to quietly make sure you’re always safe, whether by watching your back during a fight or making sure you have a comfortable place to rest on the ship.

He appreciates your fierce spirit and independence, knowing it’s what makes you his perfect match despite the years between you.

Beckman is always up early and whenever he comes up to wake you, you would groan at him trying to negotiate another “5 minutes” by demanding cuddles.

Speaking of mornings he will always give you a good morning kiss and a goodnight kiss

You won’t get any great public love gestures from him because he just isn’t the type for that so it will be a little more subtle like a whisper in your ear, walking closely beside you his hand occasionally brushing yours, a hand on your lower back when you stand next to each other or making sure whenever you’re on a supply run you are teamed up with him.

You sometimes challenge him to small competitions like who can spot islands first, or drink more without flinching and he lets you win more often than you think. (But never when it comes to using a rifle that’d be too obvious 😅)

He’s taller than you by a lot, so you’ve claimed his side as your personal leaning spot. When you’re tired, you don’t ask, you just press against him and rest your head on his shoulder or side depending how tall you are. He never moves though.

Sometimes after missions when you are tired – while insisting you’re not even though your knees are already wobbly – he just scoops you up in those strong arms and keeps walking, ignoring your protests with a small smirk and a “Sure you could, sweetheart.”

Beckman loves to drawl your name out and watch the hairs on your arms stand and your body shiver especially when he adds a “C’mere”

I think Beckman is the type of man who would carry your favorite snacks in his pockets during missions just to keep you from getting cranky and hand you them with a teasing “knew you’d whine” which would make you pout but take the snack nonetheless and then smirk up at him

Beckman would always keep an eye on you when you’re on the deck messing with the crew or spar with them and every time you would lock eyes he would teasingly look at you – shattering your focus completely

After exhausting days he wouldn’t be the one to hold long speeches he would just hand you your favorite drink settle down next to you and pull you into his side

I kinda feel like Beckman would secretly love it whenever you'd call him as "old man" using it as an excuse to "teach you what this old man is capable of"

Okay that last one is just a thought but I believe he’d let you braid his hair while sitting on the deck and he’d pretend to be annoyed but would never stop you though he would growl – trying to sound like he hated it (but failing) – when Shanks or someone else would point the pretty braid out you’d catch the faint smirk on his lips though.

[cyberkittenduck]

OMG just stumbled upon this gem 🤩 had to share it...

hello; im not sure if you’re taking requests but could you do a shanks x marine reader? (it can be any gender but id like if it was gender neutral!)

(ps: I love your work!!🤞🤞)

An unexpected evening

Masterlist

Hello, anon! I’m not really taking requests right now, but I just couldn’t say no to you <3 Thank you so much for your kind words and for reaching out! I hope you enjoy this! 😊 Summary: Your marine unit has been disbanded, and you’ve been reassigned to a new division on a distant island. Accompanied by a silent and surly warlord, your journey comes to an unexpected stop along the way. Word count: 1300 Warning: Shanks x gn!reader. Dialogue from OPLA. All my stories are written entirely in Spanish and then translated into English, so I apologize for any mistakes I might make.

You curse under your breath as your boots sink into the sand. Keeping up with that arrogant and temperamental warlord is no easy task—especially when you're wearing clothes that aren’t even yours.

The division you belonged to had been disbanded. In some bureaucratic decision far above your pay grade, a random draw had sent marines of your rank to various islands scattered across the Four Blues.

Your destination was particularly far, and with few ships available for transport, Admiral Monkey D. Garp had a "brilliant" idea during Mihawk’s visit to Headquarters: why not have the Warlord ferry you there on his creepy coffin-boat?

Initially, Mihawk’s response was a curt scowl and a flat-out refusal. But after a long, frosty stare-off between the two men, the swordsman begrudgingly agreed—most likely out of boredom.

The Hitsugibune was comically small for a man of Mihawk’s stature, yet you barely saw him during the five-day voyage. Honestly, it was a relief. You hated pirates. You hated how they ruled the seas with fear and violence, terrorizing innocent people just trying to make an honest living. 

But by the sixth day, you noticed the course had changed. Mihawk, distant and unreadable as always, didn’t say a word. Still, you suspected it had something to do with the rolled-up piece of paper he’d snatched from Garp’s office and now kept locked away in his cabin.

And you were right. His gruff demeanor and the bundle of clothes he tossed at you confirmed it.

“Put this on. Where we’re going, you don’t want to be seen wearing that,” he muttered, gesturing disdainfully at your blue-and-white marine uniform.

Not wanting to provoke the world’s greatest swordsman, you reluctantly changed into an outfit that would undoubtedly get you arrested if any of your comrades spotted you.

Now, you’re trudging after Mihawk along the shore, your eyes scanning the island’s tall palm trees, trying to figure out where on earth you’ve landed. The Warlord strides ahead without stopping, his boots stomping through the sand, the roll of paper clutched in his hand, and his usual scowl fixed firmly in place. When he comes to a sudden stop, you nearly bump into his back.

“This is an unusual place for a man of your... stature,” Mihawk drawls, his eyes fixed on a point ahead of him.

Your first instinct is to respond, but a slightly raspy male voice beats you to it.

“Come on, lads, we’re in the presence of a mighty warlord of the sea. Show a little uuugh... respect.”

You immediately peer out from behind Mihawk and tense at the sight of a group of scruffy men, each looking worse than the last.

“I’m not in the mood for a duel today, Hawkeyes. We’re hungover.”

Your attention focus on the speaker. A striking redhead, draped in a black cloak with an attitude so shamelessly carefree it borders on reckless. Far too carefree, considering who he was addressing.

Your mind races, flipping through every bounty poster you’ve memorized, before stopping on that face.

Red-Haired Shanks.

An Emperor.

One of the most wanted and dangerous men alive.

“I’m not here to fight,” Mihawk replies smoothly. “Not when you’re half the man you used to be.” His hand shifts slightly, stopping you in your tracks when he catches you instinctively reaching for your weapon.

Shanks’ eyes darts toward you briefly, noting your presence before returning to Mihawk.

“I could still take you," he says, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Even with one arm tied behind my back!” He throws his head back in laughter, clutching the cuff of his empty sleeve as his crew burst into cheers.

The two men continue their peculiar conversation, tense yet strangely amicable. Every time Shanks’ gaze flickers toward you, you meet it with a glare of pure disdain, which only seems to amuse him more.

“Oh, lighten up, you somber son of a gun! Drink with us!” Shanks cheers, holding up the bounty poster of Monkey D. Luffy in his hand.

Horrified by the invitation, you turn your eyes to Mihawk, silently willing him to decline. Surely, his disdain for unnecessary human interaction would align with yours. But to your dismay, he doesn't.

“I suppose a drink wouldn’t hurt,” Mihawk says casually. You bite your tongue, suppressing the urge to protest.

Seated on the sand under the starlit sky, a roaring bonfire warms you as you eat and drink alongside Mihawk. The Red-Haired pirates have laid out their best food and bottles, laughing and chatting boisterously as they devour the feast and drink like the rowdy cosacks they are. You take cautious sips of a spectacular wine, doing your best to stay sober. You can’t afford to let your guard down around these dangerous sea dogs.

Shanks, cheeks flushed partly from the fire's warmth and partly from the barrels of alcohol he’s consumed, keeps unabashedly staring at you. You notice it but pretend not to, avoiding his gaze as your fingers idly toy with the hem of your shirt. Then, with the grace of someone who owns every space he steps into, the redhead saunters over and drops into the sand directly in front of you.

“So… are you two dating?” he asks, a wolfish grin spreading across his face.

Mihawk’s already stiff posture somehow straightens even further, but you rush to answer first.

“NO. I’m a mari—”

“—Y/N,” Mihawk cuts you off, his icy glare practically freezing you mid-sentence.

Shanks’ eyes widen, and a grin so big it could split his face appears as he gives his friend a hearty slap on the shoulder.

“Well, damn! Married? To this beauty?”

If looks could kill, Shanks would’ve been dead twice over.

“NO,” you and Mihawk bark in unison, prompting Shanks to raise his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles.

You go back to your drink, but maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just him, but there’s something overwhelmingly magnetic about the redhead. You watch as he raises his cup, laughing so freely and attractively that it’s almost impossible to look away. Your thoughts blur for a moment, and you abruptly stand, muttering something about needing to get away from the fire.

Stumbling slightly in the sand, you make your way toward a secluded, wooded area and lean against the trunk of a tree. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to steady yourself.

"You OK?"

Your eyes snap open at the sound of Shanks' voice. The man approaches with a particular gleam in his eyes and an amused twist to his lips.

"Yes..." you manage to say.

"Good." He grins.

Damn... that devilish smile again.

He steps closer, dangerously close, and raises his only hand, offering you a swig from his bottle. You shake your head, your gaze briefly settling on his empty sleeve. He notices and furrows his brow in an exaggerated attempt to look serious.

"You should've seen how the other guy ended up..."

As soon as he finishes, he laughs, but this time it's a softer, almost melancholic sound. For the first time tonight, your expression softens as you look at him, the corner of your mouth betraying you with a slight curve upward.

"So..." he leans in closer, and your breath catches in your throat, "you're not with Hawks?"

You shake your head, swallowing hard as you feel his nose playfully brush against yours. He smells of campfire smoke, salt, and alcohol.

"Good, good..." his voice drops lower, "how about we have a little fun, just the two of us? Hmm?"

You hated pirates. The academy had drilled into you how cruel they were, how ruthless. And yet here he is. So lighthearted. Sharing his food, his booze, and by his insinuation... even his body.

You close your eyes and nod, feeling his breath against your neck.

"It's a shame you took off your marine uniform," he says and your heart stops. "Would've made this even more fun."

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

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @armiliadawn @pandora-writes-one-piece @i-am-vita @eustasscapitankid @nocturnalrorobin @daydreamer-in-training <3

[cyberkittenduck]

An Outlaw, a Sheriff, and a Deputy walk into a bar... 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Shamrock makes good time to Valentine, making the usual eight to ten-hour ride on horseback in six hours. Cerberus is sweaty and run ragged, but the Arabian had refused to stop even when Sham had urged him to. It was like the horse knew how important it was for his rider to get to the town, and Sham appreciated the beast for his urgency. He doesn’t even bother to tie Cerberus to the post and jumps from his back once he is in town, leaping the fence in his haste and bursting into the sheriff’s office like hell is licking at his heels.

“How long has she been gone?” Shamrock demands the moment he steps inside the building, and John, the other deputy on duty when you are off, is quick to respond.

“About a day now, give or take. We gave chase, but Shanks split off from the rest of his crew, and we got led on a wild goose chase. Sorry, sir,” John says with a quiet sigh and shuffles the wanted posters on his desk.

“We’ve got people out lookin’ though. Hopefully, we’ll hear something soon.”

Shamrock snarls and slams his hand into the wall, the old wood splintering but leaving his knuckles bloodied and full of splinters. He shakes his hand and breathes deeply to calm himself down. He needed to have a calm mind if he wanted to find you quickly.

“Put out the word to the other towns. I want every lawman out looking for her,” Shamrock demands, “Rhodes, Saint-Denis, even Annesburg. Everywhere god damn it.”

John nods and stands from his desk, “I’ll get it done, sir.”

Shamrock nods and watches John leave before sitting heavily in his chair once he is alone. The velvet box sits heavy in his pocket, and he can’t help but fish it out and crack it open to look at the rings inside.

They belonged to his father and late mother, a woman whom he and Shanks had hardly known. She had passed a few years after she had them. Tuberculosis. Her death had destroyed their father, but Garling had never stopped loving her and had never taken another woman to bed after her passing.

Sham knew that you wouldn’t be happy to live in Saint-Denis, but he was confident that you would learn to love your life there. You wouldn’t have to worry anymore or deal with dangerous outlaws who always thought they had the advantage over you just because you were a woman. He wanted you to have a safe, pampered life after all the work you’d put in, and Shamrock knew that he could give you that.

Now his brother had ruined it. Had taken the good thing in Shamrock’s life and had stolen it like a thief in the night. Just like all the other good things that had come into his life, Shanks had to ruin it for him. Garling had set them up well in their youth, but Shanks had grown bored with city life and had run off at the first chance he could. Shamrock had been so upset, so disappointed in his younger brother that he’d immediately gone into law enforcement, and to his surprise, you had followed right after him.

Shamrock had thought that you would work at the stables. You had a way with horses that few people had, and it was always a delight to watch you work with the beasts. He had sworn to himself that he would make sure you would have somewhere to rear the animals when he made you his wife, but none of that would happen if he couldn’t get you back.

The Sheriff had to wonder why Shanks had stolen you away in the first place. This wasn’t the first time that his twin had come into town, raising hell just to get your attention, but he had never pulled something like this before.

Shamrock sighs and snaps the box closed, tucking it back into his pocket to keep it safe. He would do whatever it took to get you back, but even with civilization building, the east was a wild place, and it would take time to find you again. But that wouldn’t stop him, and he would punish his twin after he found you.

He huffs to himself and glares at the wanted poster, his twin smirking right back up at him. Maybe he’d have Shanks watch Shamrock marry you. He knew how much his younger brother loved you. But Sham loved you too, and he wasn’t about to let Shanks get in the way of that. Not this time, and not ever.

@nocturnalrorobin @sanjisleggy @mit-suri @forever-a-night-owl @sordidmusings @shanks-is-a-daddy @mfreedomstuff