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Shanks had survived many horrors in his life.
Dying islands swallowed by the sea. Turf wars fought over scraps of pride and scorched water. Garp’s approach to parenting, which could generously be described as feral, hands-on, and involving surprise punches meant to “build character.”
None of it prepared him for this.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the slow psychological warfare of you, the love of his life, being aggressively horny for Benn Beckman.
It started the way all catastrophes do. Rum, confidence, and zero foresight.
The dockside tavern was warm and loud, all salt air and spilled alcohol, the wood floors sticky beneath bare feet. Lantern light swayed with the tide, and outside the open doors, the Red Force bobbed gently at anchor, her rigging creaking in a lazy, familiar rhythm. Shanks had just come back from handling something mildly life-threatening, the kind of thing that usually earned him peace, a drink, and your attention.
You perched on a barrel nearby, legs swinging idly, barefoot and sun-warm. Mango juice glistened on your fingers as you licked them clean, unbothered by the world. Shanks set two mugs down between you and tried very hard to look relaxed, like a man whose life was exactly how he wanted it.
For one beautiful moment, it was.
Then you said, far too casually, “So. When do I get to meet the tall one?”
Shanks froze mid-drink.
Not a polite pause. Not a thoughtful silence. A full system crash. If a Windows shutdown noise had played, it would have felt appropriate. He choked violently, rum spraying across the table and narrowly missing your knee.
“…The tall one?” he croaked, coughing.
You blinked at the mess, then back at him, completely unfazed. “You know,” you said cheerfully. “Gun. Smokes like he files taxes early. Looks like he knows how to fix both a spine and a bad life choice.”
Shanks stared at you, eyes wide, soul briefly leaving his body.
“…You mean Benn?”
“Benn,” you repeated softly, reverent, like you were naming a holy site. “Yes.”
You smiled at him.
Shanks stared back as if you had just asked to borrow his liver, his ship, and his dignity all at once.
“No,” he said immediately.
You tilted your head. “No?”
“He’s busy.”
You leaned to the side and glanced past him, out toward the docks. “He’s literally standing on deck. Looking weathered.”
“He’s meditating.”
“You are pirates. You don’t meditate.”
Shanks panicked. “…He’s whoring.”
You narrowed your eyes.
You did not believe that one, despite it being the most plausible answer he had offered so far. Shanks laughed too quickly, rubbed the back of his neck, and launched into a rambling explanation about Benn being antisocial, chronically busy, or emotionally recovering from a tragic paper cut sustained while cleaning a gun.
You snorted, wiped your hands on your pants, and decided, very generously, to let it go.
Once.
After that, it became a game.
A deeply stupid, ship-wide, emotionally irresponsible game.
Shanks had faced emperors who could split the sea, sea kings with teeth the size of ships, divine punishment from forces best left unnamed, and the results of Garp’s parenting, which were a category of natural disaster all his own. None of it compared to you leaning against a railing, smiling sweetly, and saying, “Come on. Just one introduction. Let me climb the Beckman.”
Every time the Red Force docked, you transformed into a tragic figure of longing. You would squint dramatically into the distance, hand shading your eyes, posture perfect, like a sailor’s wife awaiting news that would definitely ruin her afternoon.
“Is that him?” you would murmur. A pause. “No. Just the wind teasing me with the outline of Mr. Tall, Gun-Wielding, and Emotionally Stable.”
You spoke these thoughts aloud, casually, like curses cast directly at Shanks’ soul.
“He looks like he knows pressure points.”
“Why does he smoke like that? Who authorized that?”
“I’m not in love, Shanks. I just wrote his name on my thigh in sea salt once.”
Shanks would fake-laugh. Loudly. Unconvincingly. He walked into doors. Missed steps. Cancelled shore leave under the guise of “bad tides” and “ominous vibes.” Crew members began volunteering to escort him places for his own safety.
You escalated.
When they visited, you threw yourself in full force by taking up sunbathing on deck, sprawled comfortably with sunglasses on, one knee bent, absolutely radiating menace. You claimed you were enjoying the weather. Everyone knew you were waiting for Benn Beckman to emerge like a cryptid, cigarette first, expression unreadable, aura devastating.
He never did.
Sometimes, though, you swore you heard him. A low chuckle carried on the wind. The unmistakable metallic click of a lighter snapping shut.
Shanks laughed it off the first time. Then the fifth. Then the fiftieth.
Eventually, he stopped laughing.
He stopped docking, too.
Instead, you received letters. Vague letters. Lying letters.
“Haha. Beckman fell overboard again. Tragic. Very busy.”
You stared at the paper, unconvinced, while the crew pretended very hard not to make eye contact.
Once, during an after-party, with lanterns low and music loud and Shanks already three drinks past his good sense, you nearly cornered him.
“Why won’t you introduce us?”
Shanks spluttered, choked on his drink, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “He’s busy.”
You gestured upward. “He’s on the roof.”
“He lives there now.”
“He just waved at me.”
“That was a ghost hand,” Shanks said desperately. “You’re haunted. I’m so sorry.”
It was infuriating. You had hunted criminals for less. You had survived worse heartbreaks. This was personal.
And you did not even know why.
Because Shanks, sweet idiot disaster Shanks, was in love with you. Not casually. Not fleetingly. He was in love like it was a lifelong curse. Every time you sighed, “I just know Benn gives elite back rubs,” something inside him quietly withered.
Every offhand, “Why is he built like that?” shaved years off his life expectancy.
He was not jealous in the normal way. He was jealous in the sense that he had fought emperors with less emotional damage than watching you thirst after his best friend.
So it became a war of attrition.
You wore outfits that Benn would surely appreciate, with lots of boob. You asked perfectly reasonable questions like, “What’s his sign?” and “On a scale of one to ten, how stressed is he?” and “What’s his favorite breakfast condiment?”
Shanks changed the subject. Invented sea emergencies. Got drunk and accidentally confessed his feelings, staring too long and speaking too softly, then woke up the next morning pretending it had absolutely never happened.
Meanwhile, you escalated again.
You admired Benn’s marksmanship. “I bet he could shoot my trauma away.”
You admired his personality. “He’s got the emotional range of a noir film. Love that.”
You admired his… assets. “I don’t want a house or kids or a retirement plan. I just want to climb that man like a cursed jungle gym and maybe ruin my life.”
Shanks developed a visible twitch in his eye. The crew noticed. Someone started a betting pool. Once, Shanks muttered “Beckman” in his sleep and nearly punched a seagull clean off the railing.
Benn Beckman, somewhere else on the ship, heard all of this.
And found it extremely funny.
“Oh,” he said mildly, after overhearing you declare that you would absolutely survive climbing him like a ‘cursed jungle gym’. “She’s into me?”
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes half-lidded, expression serene.
“Wow. How could anyone have guessed,” he added. “Besides everyone on this ship.”
He did not intervene. He did not clarify. He did not rescue Shanks from his own slow emotional demise. He observed with the kind of detached amusement usually reserved for watching someone try to outrun a tidal wave using only optimism.
Because Shanks was not just blocking your shot at a rugged pirate romance. He was stalling, delaying the inevitable. Hiding behind a growing wall of excuses, rerouted schedules, and increasingly implausible logistics because…because—Because he was in love with you.
Tragically. Hopelessly. Comedically.
Beckman first realized just how bad it was when Shanks pulled him aside mid-meeting, eyes darting like a man planning a prison escape, and said with complete seriousness, “Hey. If she asks about you again, say you’re married.”
Benn blinked once. “To whom?”
“I don’t know,” Shanks snapped. “Lie. Say it’s a sea witch. Or a really possessive gun.”
Benn looked him up and down. Slowly. “You’re sweating, Captain.”
“It’s hot on this deck.”
“We’re below deck.”
“Shut up.”
That was when Benn stopped pretending not to notice.
Instead, he began showing up. Not close enough to actually meet you, never enough for Shanks to panic openly... Just enough to be seen.
He polished his gun in full view, movements unhurried, hands steady, sleeves rolled just high enough to be irritating. He leaned against railings where you could absolutely see him from across the deck, smoke curling lazily around his face. He wore tighter shirts. Not dramatically tighter. Just enough to raise questions.
He glanced at you once. Low. Lazy. The kind of look that lingered a fraction longer than necessary, like he was assessing a situation he already understood perfectly.
You noticed.
Shanks witnessed you noticing and didn’t handle it well.
He suddenly developed urgent tasks that required standing directly between you and Benn at all times. He reassigned crew members. He invented drills. He tripped over coils of rope that had not moved in years.
Meanwhile, Benn did nothing overt. He did not flirt. He did not approach. He did not say a word to you.
He simply existed. Menacingly, casually, with intent.
And every time you sighed and said something like, “Wow. I respect a man who looks like he could survive on coffee and regret,” Benn had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Because the funniest part of all of this was not your thirsty ass. It was Shanks.
Shanks’ absolute inability to stay cool.
This was a man who had fought emperors and laughed about it afterward. A man who had stared down monsters, gods, and impossible odds with a grin sharp enough to scare fate itself. A man who was now losing a silent, humiliating war against his own first mate’s forearms.
Benn Beckman took another slow drag of his cigarette, watching Shanks reposition himself between you yet again, like a human shield made entirely of panic and denial. The sleeves were rolled up today. Deliberately, with forearms flexed.
You couldn’t help but gape at the arms.
“Shanks,” you said pleasantly, leaning around him. “Please. Just a five-minute introduction. I want to know what a real man smells like.”
The glass slipped right out of his hand.
Not thrown. Not knocked. Just dropped.
It shattered on the deck in a sharp, final crash that echoed like his self-esteem hitting rock bottom.
“NO,” Shanks barked, far louder than necessary. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
You blinked at him.
“…You forbid it?”
The deck went dead silent.
A gull stopped screaming mid-call. Someone coughed. From behind a barrel, Yasoop peeked out slowly, eyes shining like a raccoon who had just sensed top-tier drama.
“You don’t get to forbid it,” you said, frowning. “You’re not my captain.”
“I’m literally your captain,” Shanks snapped. “You joined the crew yesterday!”
“You don’t act like it,” you shot back. “You act like a gatekeeper of hot men. Let me flirt. Let me breathe in his secondhand smoke.”
Benn exhaled through his nose, barely containing himself.
Shanks went red. Then purple. Then that strange, alarming shade of internal emotional collapse that only happens when the woman you love is thirsting after your first mate while you are standing right there, slowly dying like a romantic side character in a Shakespearean tragedy.
“I can’t,” he said, voice breaking despite his best efforts.
You laughed, startled. “Why? He bite?”
“No,” Shanks said quickly. Then quieter, more honestly, “I just—”
He stopped. Swallowed.
“I don’t want you to like him.”
The words landed wrong. Heavy.
You stared at him.
“What?”
“I don’t want you to like him,” Shanks said again, slower this time, like he was dragging each word out from somewhere deep in his ribs where he had been hiding them for years. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on you like he was bracing for cannon fire. “I want you to like me.”
The air went tight. Sharp. Like the deck had tilted just enough to throw everything off balance.
“I’m in love with you,” he blurted, eyes wide, voice rough, the confession tumbling out before he could stop it.
You stared.
“I have been in love with you,” he added quickly, because apparently, once he started, he was not stopping. “For years. You keep saying things like ‘Back shots by Beckman’ and I—” He clutched his chest with feeling. “I suffer.”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
From the crow’s nest above came the sound of polite, slow clapping.
Then the unmistakable flick of a lighter.
“Well,” Benn Beckman drawled, voice bone-dry and richly amused, “took you long enough.”
Both of you snapped your heads up.
There he was, leaning casually against the railing of the nest, arms crossed, cigarette lit, smug as a man who had just watched two idiots trip over their own emotions and faceplant into the truth.
“I’m flattered, by the way,” Benn continued. “Really. Great taste. Excellent instincts.” He glanced down at Shanks. “But I think the Captain here just declared war on your love life.”
You squinted up at him. “So you’re saying—”
“I’m saying,” Benn interrupted smoothly, “I absolutely would have let you climb me like a palm tree, sweetheart. But someone cut the rope.”
You pouted, immediate and sincere. “He doesn’t even smoke. How am I supposed to develop daddy issues?”
Benn snorted, smoke curling as he exhaled. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach him.”
“Hey,” Shanks protested weakly, still red, still visibly vibrating with nerves. “That’s not helping.”
Then he straightened, swallowed, and looked back at you. Really looked at you. The joking, the panic, the deflection fell away, leaving something quieter and far more dangerous.
“Okay,” he said, trying again, softer this time. “But hear me out.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What if,” he said carefully, “instead of Benn Beckman, you dated me. A tragic, noble captain who has been shielding your heart from a dangerous, rugged man for years.”
You stared at him.
He winced. “That sounded better in my head.”
Then, more quietly, almost like he was afraid the deck itself might overhear, he added, “I’d treat you better than he would.”
The silence that followed was different. Not sharp. Not awkward.
Heavy.
Something shifted, subtle but undeniable, like a piece finally clicking into place.
And just like that, the game changed.
Because now you were the one thinking.
What if you had been aiming at the wrong target this whole time? What if the real prize was not the tall, stoic first mate with the forearms and the cigarettes and the noir film soul? What if it was the red-haired idiot in front of you, heart bare in his hands, who had been blocking your path not out of cruelty or control, but because he had been standing in your corner all along?
You were still turning that thought over when a voice cut in, completely unburdened by the emotional gravity of the moment.
“Touching,” said Benn Beckman, utterly unfazed. “Truly.”
You groaned softly.
“But,” he continued, flicking ash lazily over the railing, “if you ever get bored with his emotional repression, sweetheart, I’ve got free time Tuesdays and a massage license I’m not legally allowed to use anymore.”
“BECKMAN,” Shanks shrieked, pitching forward as if he might actually hurl himself into the crow’s nest.
“Relax,” Benn said easily, holding up a hand. “I wouldn’t actually poach your girl.”
He glanced at you, slow and deliberate, a corner of his mouth curling.
“Not unless she asked real nicely.”
That was it.
Shanks made a strangled noise somewhere between a battle cry and a death rattle, spun on his heel, and stormed off down the deck in a blaze of wounded pride and flailing limbs. He made it three steps before his boot caught a mop bucket.
The fall was not graceful. The bucket went one way. Shanks went the other. Dignity was not recovered. He did not emerge from his cabin for three days. The crew adapted. Meals were left outside his door. Someone slid a bottle of rum in at one point. Benn walked past once, paused, and loudly remarked that the captain was “handling rejection with admirable maturity.”
On the third day, you finally knocked.
“Shanks,” you called. “If you come out, I’ll kiss you.”
There was a long pause.
Then the door cracked open an inch.
“…With tongue?” came his cautious voice.
You smiled, resting your forehead against the door. “Don’t push it.”
The door swung open immediately.
You did eventually get your introduction to Benn Beckman, albeit as a friend.
It was awkward in the way all heavily supervised meetings are awkward. A little stiff. A little sweet. Mostly unbearable because Shanks stood directly behind you the entire time, arms crossed, posture rigid, radiating the exact energy of an overprotective father meeting a prom date who had questionable intentions and excellent bone structure.
You and Beckman shook hands.
There was heat. Potential. Danger. A very real awareness of what might have been in another life.
Shanks made a strangled noise.
“NO,” he said sharply. “BAD. DOWN.”
You blinked. Slowly. “…Are you talking to me?”
“I’m talking to both of you,” Shanks snapped, glaring at Beckman, like he might pounce at the first flirtation.
Beckman raised his hands in surrender, amused. “Relax, Captain. Just being polite.”
“You’re never just being polite.”
Later, you sat beside Shanks at the railing, legs dangling over the edge, the sea stretching wide and endless beneath the moon. The ship creaked softly around you, familiar and comforting, the crew’s voices distant and low.
“You could’ve just told me,” you said quietly.
Shanks stared out at the water, jaw tight. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
You nudged his shoulder. “You really think I’d choose Benn over you?”
He hesitated, just a fraction.
“…I mean,” he said carefully, “you did call him ‘gun daddy.’”
“In private!”
He snorted despite himself, and that was all the opening you needed.
You kissed him. Eventually. Properly. Slow and warm and certain, the kind of kiss that settled something that had been restless for far too long. And though you never did climb Benn Beckman like a tree, you did convince him to officiate your eventual pirate wedding.
He stood there with a cigarette tucked between his fingers, smirk firmly in place, and said, “I give it a year before she regrets not picking me.”
Shanks flipped him off without hesitation.
You winked.
Beckman laughed.