Griffincorn

You disembarked with dignity. Marched down that gangplank with your coat flaring behind you, bag over one shoulder, and spine like steel. You had absolutely no regrets except for the part where you looked back. Just once. A flicker. A lapse. You hated yourself for it immediately.

Then you hit the nearest tavern like a meteor fueled by spite and unresolved father wounds.

The tavern welcomed you like a deity of chaos and poor impulse control. By the third drink, they knew your name. By the fifth, they were chanting it. You would’ve been flattered if you hadn’t been busy developing an emotional allergy to your own dignity.

The first drink? Bitter. Cold. Glorious. It burned like vengeance and citrus.

The second? Sweet. Treacherously so. Like a kiss with too much tongue and not nearly enough warning.

The third came with a toast. You don’t recall what you said, only that it involved barnacles and emotional constipation. It brought the house down. Someone slapped the table. You felt powerful.

The fourth drink? Oh, that was the gateway. That’s when you started asking questions.

Loudly.

“If the moon controls the tides, who controls my emotions?!”

A hush. A gasp. Someone in the back whispered, “Is it… fate?”

You slammed your glass down like a gavel. “It’s that red-haired menace with the smirk!”

The bartender poured you another. You toasted the barmaid. Or the mop. Unclear.

By the fifth?

You were a myth in motion.

You’d tied your sleeve around your head like a war banner. You were standing on the table, which was already, regrettably, on fire. Not your fault. You distinctly remember telling people it wasn’t your fault.

“I’M GOING TO DIE ALONE AND SANITIZED, JUST AS GOD INTENDED!”

Someone cheered. You curtsied. The table groaned beneath you, but you refused to be humbled.

You had named the barstool Gerald. You told Gerald he was the only man who ever truly listened. The bartender poured you another out of what might’ve been respect or mortal fear. You were, at that point, a woman with momentum.

And then, of course, he arrived.

Shanks. Grinning like sin itself had taken up day drinking. Leaning in the doorway like he meant it. He looked like trouble wrapped in charm and seawater, and you were far too intoxicated to pretend he didn’t make your pulse trip.

“Did you set the table on fire again?” he asked, infuriatingly fond.

You threw a peanut at his smug face.

He caught it. In his mouth.

You hated him. You did. Truly. Except you didn’t. Not when he stepped forward, took your hand mid-insult, and spun you like you weighed less than all your emotional baggage combined.

The room tilted. Or maybe he did. His grip was steady. His smile was devastating.

“Only way I’m lettin’ you leave,” he murmured, voice like warm sin, “is if it’s with me.”

Your sloshed, sparkly brain short-circuited.

The goat (yes, there was a goat) cheered.

The barmaid burst into tears. “They’re in love!” she sobbed, completely committed to the bit.

“JUST KISS ALREADY!” someone screamed.

“I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU TRAUMA BONDED!” shouted someone else.

The barmaid might’ve officiated. The goat might’ve been the witness. Flower petals were thrown. No, wait. Salted peanuts. And one lemon wedge.

You screamed “AYE!” like you were commandeering your own downfall.

And then you kissed him.

Mouth first, logic later.

You kissed him like it was a challenge. Like you hated him. Like you wanted him anyway. His hands were warm on your waist, steadying you like you were the only storm he’d ever asked to weather. He tasted like rum and recklessness. His smile softened against your mouth.

Tomorrow would come. With headaches. Regret. Possibly a new tattoo and definitely questions from the crew.

But tonight?

Tonight you were drunk. Doomed. And deliriously his.

And as he spun you again—laughing, grinning, murmuring something about fate’s ass—you thought, just for a moment:

Maybe mop-based courtship wasn’t entirely off the table.

-X-

You wake up with a hangover the size of East Blue.

The sun is too loud. Your tongue tastes like citrus regret and what might be emotional betrayal. Your brain is organizing a small, somber funeral procession for your dignity, complete with organ music and a priest named Regret.

You sit up slowly. Blearily. As if moving too quickly might summon last night’s bad decisions for an encore performance.

And that’s when you see it.

A ring. On your finger. Gold. Pirate-minted. Somehow both elegant and mocking at the same time. It's on your left hand.

You blink at it. It doesn’t blink back, but spiritually? It’s winking.

“…No,” you whisper.

Then louder. “No no no—”

A groan answers you. A very male, very familiar groan.

Your stomach drops.

You are not alone.

You turn. Slowly. Dreading. Praying.

Shanks.

Naked.

Starfish position.

Grinning in his sleep like a man who just won the Grand Line and the libel case about it. His hair is a nest of glitter and sin, there’s a sock on the lamp, and the room smells like victory, salt, and bad ideas.

Your eyes track the scene like a detective at a crime scene. Bottle caps. Peanuts. A mop—WHY IS THERE A MOP—and flower petals that are clearly just fish flakes. The blanket barely covers you. You throw it over his head in a blind panic.

“NO,” you hiss, batting away invisible consequences. “No no no no—”

He sighs, dreamy and content, “Good morning, Mrs. Captain…”

You scream.

He mumbles again, “Mmm… my wife hates mornings…”

You scream louder. Viscerally. Biblically. A sound from the depths of your soul, echoed only in war zones and reality radio finales.

Somewhere in the port, a dog howls. A glass shatters. An old man clutches his chest and mutters, “They’ve done it. They’ve summoned the sea witch.”

And Shanks?

He rolls over.

Steals the blanket like a thief with no shame and no pants.

Smiles.

That slow, sleep-drunk smile of a man thoroughly pleased with himself. A man who dreams of rum and bad decisions and you in that smug little narrative he’s been spinning since the day you boarded his ship and told him to go to hell.

He mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow. Possibly “Mrs. Lucky Bastard.” Possibly “Mmm, peanuts.” Hard to say.

You stare at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back. It is unhelpful.

The room smells like citrus, rum, and shame. Glitter clings to your hair like a vendetta. Your knees are bruised. There’s a peanut in your bra. You attempt to sit up, groan like an exorcism victim, and then curse out the gods of alcohol, pirates, and mop-based courtship strategies.

You peel yourself out of bed like a tragic sticker. Your clothes are scattered. Torn? No. Artfully ruined. There’s a mop wearing your shirt. Someone, somewhere, is laughing.

The ring catches the morning light. Still gold. Still mocking. Still on your finger. You yank. Twist. Soap. Nothing.

It's cursed. You’re cursed.

You wrap yourself in the first thing you can find a coat that is not yours (possibly the goat’s), shove on your boots without socks, and slap on the largest pair of sunglasses you own. You walk like a woman who may or may not be married, hungover, armed, and unhinged.

And then you storm.

You storm back onto the Red Force like a hurricane in borrowed clothes.

Oversized sunglasses hiding your soul. Someone else’s coat billowing like dramatic foreshadowing. The ring, still on your goddamn hand, glistening like betrayal.

The ring that won’t come off.

You tried.

Soap. Oil. Bribery. Biting it.

It refused.

Your hair is a disaster. Your mood is apocalyptic. And your aura of betrayal is so powerful it wilts a potted fern as you pass. You’re holding your shoes in one hand, clutching a drink in the other, and threatening everyone in a ten-meter radius with just your eyes.

The deck goes silent. Entirely. Even the seagulls seem to pause.

Your aura radiates emotional war crimes. A deckhand fumbles a rope and flees. One unlucky fern by the galley door visibly wilts.

You ascend the ramp like vengeance on heels. Your hair is wild. Your stride is feral. You smell like lemon cleaner and regret. No one makes eye contact.

Benn Beckman, of course, is the exception. Benn, who has survived war, mutiny, and Shanks’ karaoke nights, lifts his eyes from his book, takes in the entire situation, and smirks.

“So…” he drawls, flipping a page in his book, “should I update the crew manifest?”

You throw your shoe at him.

It misses. Of course it misses. Benn doesn’t even flinch.

“How’s married life?” he asks.

“I hate all of you,” you growl, voice low and wrathful like a cursed oracle.

And that’s when he appears.

Shanks.

Shirtless. Glowing. Smug. His coat slung over one shoulder like a magazine centerfold who knows he’s just been upgraded from menace to husband.

He grins.

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth and sunlit, “I was thinking we should combine our toothbrush cups. Very romantic. Very married.”

You look at him. At the ring. At the universe that betrayed you.

You bare your teeth. “I’m going to dissolve you in lemon cleaner.”

He winks. Winks. “A clean death. Fitting for my wife.”

You see red. 

The crew collectively decides to mind their own damn business.

You, on the other hand, are already planning six methods of pirateicide and a seventh that involves vinegar, rope, and a very patient mop.

You plot six different murders before breakfast. One of them involves that mop.

Shanks chuckles.

That low, infuriatingly pleased sound. The kind of laugh that says he knows exactly what he did, and he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

He stretches like a cat who ate the canary, the crew, and possibly your last shred of self-respect. “She’s so feisty in the mornings,” he muses, eyes glittering like the bastard sun.

Benn sighs.

It’s long. Deep. The sound of a man who has lived through seven mutinies, five hangovers not his own, and every stage of Shanks’ doomed love life. He closes his book with a soft thwap and mutters, “So this is my life now.”

You don’t look at either of them.

You are too powerful. Too betrayed. Too hungover to commit homicide with proper etiquette.

And as the crew quietly bets how long it’ll take before you either stab him or kiss him again, you declare this: fiercely, decisively, that you are never drinking again.

Behind you, Shanks calls out cheerfully, “You want me to save you some toast, darling?”

You slam the door so hard the ship lists to port.

Benn rubs his temple. “She’s gonna poison your drink.”

Shanks just grins.

And then immediately detour toward the galley, raise a hand, and snarl, “Whiskey. No ice. And throw in some bleach for flavor.”

No one questions you.

The guards chased you down cobbled alleys, and your beautifully polished boots are caked with harbor mud. You duck into a quieter corner, heart hammering, and come face to face with a man leaning against a stack of crates, chewing a toothpick, and watching you like you’re a particularly interesting card game.

"You're in a bit of a hurry," he says. “Ex-boyfriend?”

You eye him warily. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet. But I hear you know a lot of things. And I'm in the market for information."

You don’t have time for this. "And you’re offering what, exactly?"

He jerks his head toward the ship just past the dock. “A ride. Quiet. No questions, except the ones I ask.”

You study him. Weathered. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words or tolerate lies. You make a split-second decision and nod.

“Fine.”

You make it to the ship without being seen. You narrow your eyes at the size. It is beautiful. Stunning, even. A grand silhouette against the horizon, red sails snapping proudly in the wind. You expected something stately, maybe even majestic.

It’s too dark to tell.

“So,” you say, brushing dirt off your sleeves, “you the captain?”

He barks out a laugh. “Me? Hell no.”

You freeze. “Wait. What?”

“Captain’s below,” he says, grinning. “He’ll want to meet you once I tell him I brought aboard a high-value gossip with nice hair and good boots.”

You blink.

“You’re not the captain?”

“Nope. Name’s Benn Beckman.” He offers a hand. “First Mate to the Red-Haired Pirates.”

And that’s when you hear it. The laugh. Low. Friendly. Infuriating.

Shanks.

Your blood runs cold. You know that bounty. You’ve stared at the poster enough times to curse the smile.

You whirl on Benn. “You brought me aboard a Yonko’s ship?!”

“Careful,” Benn says, clearly amused. “He’s fallen for worse attitudes.”

“Worse than me?”

He shrugs, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”

Frankly, you don’t care. You’ve had a very long day of being chased, betrayed, and slandered over what should have been a hilarious and harmless anecdote involving a pear and a powerful man’s poor choices. You accepted Benn Beckman’s offer because he looked capable, unbothered, and most importantly, clean.

And to his credit, he was.

He helps you up the gangplank without ceremony. You think maybe, just maybe, you’re safe.

The ship, however, is something else entirely.

You step aboard the Red Force and are immediately met with what can only be described as a deeply committed level of nautical chaos. Not the kind bred from incompetence; no, this is curated, almost artistic. Like someone had taken the concept of a functioning pirate crew and given it a bottle of rum, three chickens, and a head injury.

There’s laundry—actual dirty laundry—hanging from the rigging, flapping proudly like the sails of domestic surrender. A pair of polka-dot boxers snaps you in the face as the wind changes. You look up. They wave at you.

Near the helm, two shirtless crewmates are locked in what appears to be a very serious swordfight.

With baguettes. 

They parry with the grace of seasoned warriors and the idiocy of men who have not tasted fear since puberty. One of them shouts “en garde!” in a terrible accent before taking a bite out of his weapon mid-duel.

You catch sight of a chicken. It’s wearing an eyepatch. You blink. It’s still there. It stares back, solemn and ancient, as if it has survived battles you’ll never understand.

The scent of rum hits you next. Not just a scent. A presence. The rum is in the air. The planks beneath your feet creak with the ghost of spilled drinks and bad decisions. You swear the wood itself is tipsy.

You stop mid-step, overcome by the visceral assault of sight, sound, and questionable life choices.

“It’s a pigsty,” you whisper, horrified. Then you blink again, gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched deck, the howling laughter, the chaos woven with joy and freedom. You swallow, shoulders slumping.

“A beautiful pigsty.”

Benn strolls past you like none of this is strange. “Home sweet home.”

You gape at a mug crusted with something you pray is not jam. “You said quiet ride. You said no questions. You did not say I’d share air with feral pirate frat boys.”

“Mm.” Benn eyes the deck. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.”

You side-eye him. “Why does it smell like aging citrus and despair?”

“It’s lemon oil,” he says. “Someone tried to mop. Once. In 2003.”

You inhale slowly, then blink at the sheer volume of abandoned teacups, rum bottles, and suspicious socks.

And that’s when he appears. Barefoot, laughing, and wearing a half-buttoned shirt like it’s a lifestyle.

Red hair. Ridiculous grin. No concept of personal space.

“Oh?” he says, clearly amused. “New passenger?”

You freeze.

This man is everything you go out of your way to avoid. Loud. Disheveled. Ridiculously charming. Probably sticky.

You look at Benn in betrayed silence.

He shrugs. “That’s the captain.”

You point at him in slow horror. “That thing is the captain?”

Shanks beams. 

“Don’t worry, I’m mostly socialized for indoor behavior.”

You almost jumped overboard.

Benn claps you on the shoulder like this is fine and mostly to keep you dry. “Welcome to the Red Force.”

You murmur, “I would like to go home now.”

Too late. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks if you’re the new quartermaster. The chicken clucks approvingly.

The ship sways.

So does your patience.

You sigh. “At least I’m not the one who smells like cheese.”

“Yet,” Shanks adds brightly.

You stare at him. Then at Benn.

“This is your fault.”

Benn lights a cigarette like he has all the time in the world and no reason to rush. The smoke curls slowly between his fingers as he leans against the rail, watching the chaos unfold across the deck with the kind of patience that only comes from long exposure to nonsense.

“Yeah,” he says, casting a glance in your direction. “But you’re not boring. So I’d say we’re even.”

You blink at him. Then at the ship. Then at the man dueling with a mop while wearing a long coat and absolutely no pants. You look again at the chicken. It’s still wearing the eyepatch. You could swear it gives you a nod of recognition.

You should leave. That would be smart. Logical. Strategic. But the guards are still combing the port for you with the zeal of men promised a bonus, and your name is now traveling on the wind with the kind of scandal usually reserved for pirates, murderers, and bad poets.

The Red Force may be a mess, but it floats. Which is already more than you can say for your reputation.

Benn doesn’t try to convince you. When you hesitate near the gangplank, he exhales and raises one eyebrow.

“If you’ve got something worth trading,” he says, voice even, “I’ll make sure the captain lets you stay aboard until the next island.”

You weigh your choices. Running into town would be suicide. Turning yourself in would be stupidity. That leaves you with pirates.

“I have information,” you say at last, slowly.

He doesn’t react much, but the air around him seems to still. “We like information.”

“But I want terms,” you add, folding your arms.

His mouth curves, the faintest twitch of a grin. “Let’s hear them.”

You gesture toward the ship, nose wrinkling as someone swings past on a rope, yelling triumphantly while wearing only one boot and a sunhat.

“If I give you something valuable, I want a ride. A clean bunk. And someone has to mop something. Or bathe. Or both.”

He tilts his head, amused. “That’s a bold list.”

“I’m flexible on the mop,” you say, voice even. “But I will not negotiate on the bathing.”

Benn’s hand extends again, steady and solid.

There’s a pause.

Then he laughs. Not mockingly. His laugh is warm and low, edged with honest amusement, like you’ve said something no one else had the guts or sense to say. Like you’re the first fresh breeze to hit this deck in years.

“You want to trade intelligence for soap and a mop?”

“Yes,” you reply flatly. “I don’t care if I’m surrounded by pirates, but I refuse to live like a damp sock in a locker room.”

Behind you, a voice cuts in, cheerful and far too comfortable.

“What’s this about socks?”

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

The barefoot, red-haired disaster. Wearing yesterday’s shirt and today’s grin, looking like he just woke up from a nap he didn't plan and liked it anyway.

You lift a hand and gesture vaguely in his direction without turning. “That one. He’s not allowed near my quarters until he can pass a smell check.”

Shanks sounds delighted. “You want to trade for hygiene? That’s a first.”

You finally turn to face him.

His smile could outshine the sun, and unfortunately, he knows it. The hair is tousled, the shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and there’s a suspicious smudge of ink or possibly rum on his neck.

You meet his eyes and don’t blink.

“You’ll thank me when your crewmates stop losing dice to mold.”

Shanks looks like you just proposed marriage.

Benn exhales smoke and mutters under his breath, “Oh no. He likes you.”

You frown. “Is that a problem?”

Shanks leans forward slightly, eyes bright. “It’s only a problem if you plan to survive.”

You stare at him.

He smiles wider.

You already regret everything.

Benn, in true first mate fashion, steps in before your brain can start planning escape routes. He leans in, clearly entertained.

“And what are you offering?”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “How about Lord Velcot’s shipping ledger? The one that proves he’s funneling sea stone under a fake spice route.”

The grin on Benn’s face drops half an inch. His posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens like a blade being quietly unsheathed.

Shanks lets out a low whistle. “You’re just full of little treasures, aren’t you?”

“I am. And if you don’t clean that table,” you say, pointing at the sticky wooden monstrosity near the helm, “I’ll find another pirate crew. Preferably one with working soap.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Shanks laughs. Loud. Bright. Borderline offensive.

“Done,” he says. “Ride, bunk, and someone will mop. Hell, I’ll mop myself just for the story.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m absolutely not.” His grin spreads like a man daring the universe to top this moment. “Benn, get this woman a mop. And someone to fight over it.”

Benn sighs like a man who has already seen his future, and it includes too many suds and not enough peace.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You tuck your notes back into your coat and follow them onto the deck.

Later, you sip tea in the sun and watch as Shanks dramatically splashes soapy water across the boards in what could only be described as a barefoot, interpretive dance about the concept of cleaning. He’s shirtless. There are bubbles on his nose. It’s unclear whether any actual cleaning is happening, but morale is up.

You smile to yourself.

You may be trapped on a ship full of chaos gremlins, but for once, you are in charge of the mop.

The crew likes you immediately.

Unfortunately.

You hadn’t planned on charming them. That wasn’t the goal. You were just trying to barter your way out of political fallout and away from the kingdom of cursed pears. But apparently, sarcasm, a visible disdain for clutter, and the ability to identify seven kinds of mold growing under the deck planks is downright hilarious to pirates.

They howled when you called the crow’s nest a sweaty crypt. They applauded when you slapped a dirty plate out of someone’s hand with your notebook. One of them tried to give you a chicken as a sign of respect.

You had no idea what to do with that.

They start calling you Doc, even though you’re not a doctor. Or Boss, depending on the day. Someone tries “Mom” once. You draw a knife without breaking eye contact. It never happens again.

You wish you liked them.

Truly.

But they’re filthy. Every last one of them reeks of salt, stale liquor, and the ghosts of forgotten laundry. You’ve seen things. Unspeakable things. A cup being rinsed and reused without soap. A man blow-drying his armpits near the lantern. Someone—probably Yasopp—eating something he dropped on the anchor chain and declared “still good.”

You considered setting the ship on fire once. Just to start over.

The only one who seems halfway civilized is Benn Beckman.

And he can’t be trusted. Because he listens to Shanks.

You learned that the hard way after you sat Benn down and politely explained your list of basic human decencies. Clean linens. Sealed storage. A fireproof filing system. You even wrote it out on proper stationery. Benn nodded with grave understanding, the picture of cooperation. Very calm. Very reasonable.

Five hours later, you opened the door to your freshly “cleaned” quarters.

Shanks was inside. Shirtless. Reclining across your cot like he had personally conquered it. He was drinking from your emergency rum stash with the smug air of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and had every intention of staying anyway. In one hand, he held up a mop like it was a weapon, a trophy, or both.

“I mopped!” he declared, proud as sin.

“With what?” you demanded.

He pointed to a bucket. The contents were murky. Brown. Possibly sentient.

Beckman leaned into view from the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was deciding whether to laugh or flee. “He tried.”

You had nearly thrown yourself overboard.

Now you keep a spray bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant on your belt like a sidearm. The crew refers to it in hushed tones as blessed firewater. Some say it burned the sins off their souls. Others claim it just smells like lemon death.

You don’t care. You use it liberally.

You sleep with your back to the wall. You wear gloves when touching anything communal, including dice, maps, and whatever horrifying substance Lucky Roux calls “stew.” You keep an eye on Benn at all times.

But sometimes, when you catch him watching you with that slow-burn smirk, with the sharp glint of humor behind those steady eyes, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos Shanks dragged aboard, you wonder how long you can keep up the wall.

Because even if he is dangerous… He did refill your soap. And label it.

Now you’re drying your gloves over a barrel as the Red Force drifts lazily into port. The sun warms your back. The spray glistens on the ropes. For a brief moment, it almost feels like peace.

Shanks sidles up beside you, barefoot again. Pretending not to stare. Failing.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says.

You don’t look at him. You glance toward the docked ships in the distance, then down at his shirt. It has three stains. One is definitely jam. One might be ink. The third remains unidentifiable and probably deserves its own bounty.

“You’re wearing yesterday’s crimes,” you reply.

“But I smell like today’s breeze.”

“You smell like bad decisions and damp rope.” You flick a speck of something off your skirt and turn away. “I’m staying at an inn.”

“You could stay in my cabin.”

“I’d rather be arrested.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he enjoys the chase. You don’t look back.

You do not stay onboard for long.

Not because of the danger. Not because of the pirates. Not even because someone tied three spoons together and declared it a revolutionary navigation system while two others cheered like they had just solved gravity.

No.

You leave because you genuinely fear contracting a yeast infection from prolonged exposure to whatever biological terror is festering below deck.

You make it eight days. Eight heroic, disinfectant-soaked days.

By then, you have seen things. Terrible things. A sponge used for both boots and dishes. A sock employed as a makeshift coffee filter. Shanks, offering you a drink from a cup that had visible algae blooming like it had dreams.

You had stared at him in silent horror.

He leaned in, entirely too casual, and murmured with that maddening grin, “Don’t worry. I’m naturally fermented.”

That was it.

Something in you snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was surgical.

Within the hour, you were off the ship, pacing the harbor like a woman possessed, armed with a checklist, a full coin purse, and enough rage to fund a small revolution. You did not say goodbye. You simply shoved a note into Beckman’s hand and disappeared like some shadow-born avatar of responsibility and bleach.

The note reads:

Thank you for the ride. Please tell your captain that if he ever tries to flirt with me again while smelling like smoked socks and mystery fruit, I will file a formal complaint with the sea itself.

P.S. I hired a battalion of cleaners. You’re welcome.

P.P.S. Burn everything in the galley. Start fresh.

Two days later, the Red Force is crawling with uniformed, appalled, and absurdly expensive professionals. They come armed with scrub brushes, industrial gloves, and what may or may not be a priest. Holy water is applied liberally. Possibly exorcistically.

Shanks finds the whole thing hilarious.

“She paid for this? Really? That’s so generous.”

Benn doesn’t say much. He lights a cigarette and stares out at the sea. The note remains folded and tucked in his coat pocket, a faint crease at the corners where he keeps unfolding and refolding it. He looks like a man who saw the hurricane coming and let it dock anyway.

Because he knows.

You will be back.

Eventually.

After all, you still owe him information. Unfortunately, he still smells like cedar and is quiet competent.

You and Benn Beckman keep in touch.

Much to your ongoing dismay and your intense, justified distaste for his crew.

It begins with letters. They arrive without ceremony, sealed with a wax stamp that looks like someone crushed it beneath a boot. The pages inside are warm with the scent of tobacco and smugness. His handwriting is steady, economical, infuriatingly attractive. He writes in neat lines, clipped observations, sharp wit folded inside every sentence.

The contents vary. Rumors. Coordinates. Unverified sightings. Sketches of strange devices or ships caught using old, outdated codes. Sometimes, entire pages are devoted to mocking the hygiene rating of whatever new vessel he’s endured.

You write back.

Reluctantly.

Not because you enjoy it. Absolutely not. He is useful. That is all.

Your letters are precise. Waterproof ink, ruled margins, folded into thirds like any rational human would. You include bullet points. You underline statements like “I am not your contact. I am your cleaner.” One time, you enclosed a pressed flower. Labeled it carefully in red ink.

“This is what a normal person should smell like.”

Shanks found it charming. Unfortunately.

He refers you to interesting clients, which is usually code for irritating criminals with good coin and boundary issues. You vet them yourself. Half get rejected outright. The other half are tolerable, for pirates, and pay in full. You survive most encounters with your dignity and your laundry intact.

In return, you occasionally pass along corrected Marine patrol routes. Never enough to be considered a betrayal. Just little timing gaps. Slight detours. Adjusted weather patterns that help a ship slip into a port unnoticed, or avoid an inspection by thirty precious minutes.

It is not treason.

It is practical.

It is efficient.

It is also, depending on your mood, the only reason you haven’t tried to set Benn Beckman on fire.

And the Red Force does have ethics—not cleanliness, not order, not even basic definitions of personal space—but ethics nonetheless. That counts for something.

Besides, you are careful. Those ships you clear? They carry cargo, not people. Medicine, not weapons. And if someone tries to lie, you find out. They do not lie again.

Your network grows. Quietly. Efficiently. Smartly. The sort of network that doesn’t raise alarms, only eyebrows.

One day, Benn sends you a note.

Four words. No signature.

Need a favor. Urgent.

You groan, throw a pillow, pace your clean floor with clean feet and pure, distilled irritation, and then check your map.

You write back.

Is the red-haired one involved?

Unfortunately.

Fine. Send soap first.

He does. Lavender-scented. Wrapped in wax paper and respect. You hold it in your hand for five whole seconds before sighing like someone who has seen the cost of every decision.

You never should have gotten on that ship.

But you definitely should have charged more.

The next favor is messy.

Not morally. That part is simple. Some Celestial-backed trade ships have gone suspiciously quiet, and the rumors whisper about human cargo. You start digging. The maps are faked. The portmasters are bribed. Someone has the audacity to route through a canal that floods with raw sewage every third tide.

You send Benn a letter:

Your next client owes me two things: payment, and new boots. I am never returning to Shitwater Shoals.

He replies with:

Client says thank you. I say sorry. Shanks says ‘what’s a shoal?’

You burn the letter. Then send another.

If I die on one of these jobs, my ghost will mop your deck until it sparkles.

He sends back a bar of vanilla soap and a note that reads:

Then maybe the ship will finally be clean.

You are still not sure if it was flirtation or a cry for help.

Despite your contempt for the Red Force’s ambiance—its filth, its mystery stains, its tendency to celebrate bad ideas with fireworks—Benn never sends you jobs that waste your time. The favors are always worthwhile. Always interesting.

Rare documents. Stolen codes. Forgotten alliances wrapped in noble crests and blood-stained ledgers.

You work in silence. Bill in silence. Live alone. Clean. Far from the roar of drunken singing and the scent of salt-stained leather and over-oiled swords.

Until, every now and then, a new job arrives. Folded into a plain envelope. Delivered by hands that never ask questions. From a port you wouldn’t trust with your laundry.

Your name is scrawled on the front. Inside, there are coordinates and notes in Benn’s clipped handwriting.

No greeting.

Just the rough little BB initials scratched at the bottom like an afterthought. Or a signature.

Every time, you roll your eyes. Mutter something acidic. Stare at yourself in the mirror like you might still choose a different life.

You never do.

You pack your notes. Tuck a vial of disinfectant into your sleeve. And go.

Sometimes, you think about the Red Force.

Not fondly. Never fondly.

But with the kind of exhausted tolerance that allows you to mutter things like, “Idiots. But manageable idiots.”

And when Benn writes again:

He asked if you’re still mad.

You reply:

Define mad.

He laughs.

You never liked pirates. Not really.

But you’re starting to tolerate the bastards.

You inhaled slowly. “I’m not panicking. I’m internally disassociating.”

He laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard all day. “That’s just how life at sea is, sweetheart.”

“No,” you said flatly. “That’s how you are. The sea is salty, unpredictable, and full of monsters. You are barefoot, sticky with rum, and just called a rash ‘character growth.’”

He blinked, mock-offended. “I clean up.”

“When?”

A pause. “…Emotionally?”

Your eyes narrowed as you tugged on a pair of gloves before daring to sit. “There’s a ring of salt-sweat on your collar so defined it could be carbon dated. You have sand in your pockets. And I know for a fact you haven’t owned soap since the Battle of Edd War.”

“That’s impressive intel.”

“I know everything, Captain. Including the fact Yasopp has used the same towel since before his son was born.”

“…Okay, that’s just scary.”

”Please refrain for speaking of crew linens before breakfast.” Lucky Roux chimed as he passes, “I still have to cook today.”

“That’s disturbing,” you corrected. “Do you know what mildew does to linen? It does worse to food.”

There was a long pause.

“…Would you like a napkin to sit on?”

You deeply reconsidered accepting free passage across the sea.

You weren’t unreasonable. Just selective. And reasonably speaking, there was no good reason to join the Red Force.

In the beginning, you’d told yourself you were just a guest. Shanks’ attention was hard to miss, but you didn’t comment. You appreciated a handsome man as much as the next lady of lethal diplomacy—but the man lived like a charmingly drunk disaster.

And his crew had no concept of boundaries.

“You do realize you’ve been aboard for three days,” Shanks drawled one afternoon, leaning on the deck rail. “And you haven’t smiled at me once.”

“I’ve smiled plenty,” you replied smoothly, your skirts swaying in the breeze. “Just not at you.”

Benn Beckman smothered a laugh behind his cigar. Lucky Roux offered you another pastry. Yasopp was conspicuously absent—likely bathing in saltwater under your pointed suggestion.

“You’re mean,” Shanks said, still smiling, like your indifference didn’t bruise him. “Is it the arm thing? Because I swear I’m very capable with one.”

You offered him a polite, perfect smile—the kind that could make an executioner rethink his career. “It’s not the arm. It’s the smell.”

That one did sting. “I showered yesterday.”

“Captain,” you said sweetly, “rum is not soap. Nor is standing in the rain while shouting about being King of the Pirates.”

Benn wheezed beside him.

Shanks swept his cape back with exaggerated flair. “I’ve got charm! Adventure! A ship destined for legend!”

“And mildew,” you added kindly. “Lots of mildew.”

He stepped closer, tilting his head. “Join us. I’ll make it worth your while.”

You looked up at him with feigned innocence. “Captain Shanks. I have books. Blankets that aren’t damp. And sanitary standards. What could you possibly offer me?”

There was a beat. 

“Free drinks. Endless ocean. Occasional gods trying to kill us. Freedom.”

You sighed, adjusted your gloves, and eyed the small rowboat waiting just off the side.

“No,” you said simply. “Because you’re a rum-drunk degenerate, and your crew never showers.”

A chorus of half-hearted boos rose behind him—except Benn, who looked like he might propose to you for saying what he couldn’t.

Shanks grinned despite himself, even as you stepped down into the boat. “You’ll miss me, sweetheart.”

“Doubtful,” you chirped. “But I’ll send you soap.”

Later, alone in his cabin, Shanks found a delicate bar of rose-scented soap tucked inside his coat. Tied with a ribbon.

The note read:

“For the mildew problem. —Yours Never.”

He carried it for months. Didn’t even open it.

crack.

the guy doesn't finish the sentence.

because mikey’s chair scrapes back slow. deliberate.

and the next sound is the sharp, ugly thud of knuckles slamming bone.

you weren’t even in the room.

but he heard it.

you—his soft little girl who still thinks the world is kind.

who wears his hoodie like it’s armor.

who doesn’t know half the shit he’s done just to keep that smile on your face safe.

you would’ve smiled at the guy if he approached you.

probably would’ve been nice. too nice. that’s just who you are.

but mikey knows what guys like that mean.

and now?

so does he.

the guy’s on the floor. blood in his mouth. gasping.

“what the hell, man?! it was just a joke!”

mikey’s voice is low. flat. too calm.

but his eyes? his eyes are pitch black.

“say it again.”

his foot comes down, hard, right beside the guy’s head.

“go on,” he whispers. “you were brave enough a second ago. finish the joke.”

silence.

everyone in the room holds their breath.

mikey crouches down—slow, almost casual. and when he speaks, it’s still soft.

“you think you can look at her like that? think you can talk about her like she’s something you can take?”

he tilts his head. the corner of his lip twitches—not a smile.

“you think you can walk out of here with your tongue still in your mouth?”

he laughs then. quietly.

“nah.”

a pause. a hum.

“you don’t get to want her. you don’t get to see her. you don’t even get to say her name.”

and then he leans in real close, whispers—

“you ever breathe in her direction again, i’ll bury you before sunset.”

his fist tightens.

but before he can throw another punch, his phone buzzes.

it’s a text.

you: what time r u coming over? i miss u

he reads it.

his expression softens instantly. like someone flipped a switch.

he pockets the phone. stands. straightens his hoodie.

then he turns his back on the room—on the guy still bleeding on the floor—and walks off like none of it ever happened.

later that night, you greet him with sleepy eyes and open arms. you don’t ask why he smells like cigarette smoke and dust. you just press a kiss to his cheek and murmur, “missed you.”

and he pulls you into his chest. breathes you in.

like you’re his only tether to the earth.

because you are.

Shanks pressed his hand just under your belly button, his fingers lightly tracing the outline of where his hard length had entered the most intimate part of your body. He could feel himself squeezed inside. He moved forward slightly and saw the bulge underneath his palm follow the movement.

He glanced up at you and saw your head laying on the mattress, chin tilted up and lips between your teeth. He pushed in deeper and the bump grew slowly. You hummed at the sensation. Heels adjusting on the edge of the bed as you spread your legs as much as you could to let him in.

Taking the positive signs, Shanks kept going further - keeping an eye on the way your hand gripped the sheets. But his main focus was seeing how high the bulge under your skin could go before there was no more space. He wanted it to reach your belly button but even the human body had its restraints.

Bit by bit, he pushed until you let out a soft gasp when he had hit capacity. Shanks looked down at where you were connected, a small frown settled on his face - there was still a bit more of him left.

“Shanks.” You whispered. “What’s wrong?”

The Red-Haired pirate smiled. “I’ve filled you but I...” he leaned forward to kiss your neck. “I’m bigger than we both thought.”

There was a pause before you gave a breathy response. “Push it in.”

Shanks peppered another slow kiss beside the first letting his tongue linger just a little. “Are you sure?”

Looking down, you finally met his eyes since it all started. “Push it in and then repeat it.”

Shanks laughed softly and caught your mouth with his. Nipping the bottom lip when he pulled back. “You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow if I start.”

Lifting your head up slightly, you copied his kiss and tugged at his lip lightly. “I dare you to have me not walk for a whole week.”

The grin on Shanks’ face distracted you for a split second until there was a sudden harsh pressure in your core as he forced the rest of himself inside you. The fit was undeniably tight and Shanks knew it. He hit the one sensitive spot that made you react in a way that made his heart race. Head thrown back, eyes closed, your mouth opened but was unable to voice a desperate scream. Only managing a short and sharp, “A-Ah!”

“Are you okay?” Shanks asked just to be sure.

You took a few seconds to catch your breath and adjust to his size. “Fine - a little warning would have been nice.” You told him honestly. When his smile dropped a little, you grabbed his chin and smiled. “But where’s the fun in that, right? Do your worst.”

“Looks like you’re not going to be able to talk for a week either.” Shanks returned with a smirk.

He pulled out carefully and when his hips moved a second time, he slammed himself into you - this time getting one hell of a scream from your lips. Then he did it again - pulled out to the tip before ramming back inside - and then again, determined to make your legs tremble until they wouldn’t hold you upright for the next week…or more.

Each thrust sent your voice screaming spirals into the air sometimes as a cry of pleasure other times just his name - and it only spurred him on. When Shanks started to speed up, your hands found his body. Nails clawing into his skin with a dull pain but it was nothing compared to what he was pounding into you.

If it became too much, you would shout the designated safe word but until he heard any part of that phrase, you were at his mercy. His hard length diving in and out of your body -

…until you couldn’t speak.

…until your legs quaked.

…until you had no more of your juices to release.

…until your insides were drowned in his hot spend.

And until your body was newly shaped to fit all that he was squeezing.

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