#figarland garling

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Happy nation, livin' in a happy nation

love is a battlefield

shamrock x reader, shanks x reader (no twincest, no use of y/n)

rating: M

word count: 1.4k

warnings: violence, only one round of proof-reading

chapter: 1/?

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“What do you want with me?” Your words were sharp but unsteady. Your throat was scratchy after constant screaming at and cursing out your captors for days on end.

Blood flowed languidly down the gleaming steps leading up to the throne of a king; or at least a man who thought himself one. You refused to close your eyes as you met the stone-cold stare of Figarland Garling, Commander of the Holy Knights, and the man who still caused your mother to subconsciously glance over her shoulder to this day.

He looked smug, like he finally won the game he’d been playing for two decades. The board had been wiped after God Valley, reset with a new generation of players. Garling had captured the shiny new queen.

Your knees ached as you’d been forced to kneel by the men who dragged you here, pushing you down onto the polished marble floors. Your wrists were rubbed raw behind your back from the Sea Prism cuffs they’d shackled you with upon capture. Untreated wounds that had been festering since the kidnapping cried out for attention. Your upper brow twitched, the only sign of discomfort to slip past your carefully constructed defenses. Marie Geoise, you’d heard, was all about appearances. Though, looking unbreakable just might make you more appealing a victim.

“You possess all of your mother’s beauty, and too much of your father’s crassness. Maybe I’ll have my men cut out your tongue so as to never hear the common drivel you have surely been exposed to.” Garling mused as his piercing gaze assessed your body, clad in traditional Amazon Lily garb.

You tried to suppress your shudder, unable to fend off lingering stares in your current state.

You had been sailing towards the ancestral home of fierce women- the kind of women who could take down hordes of Marines with a single high-heeled kick. The kind of women who became captains and warlords. Powerful, free women. Something you always longed to be. You figured if you could look the part, they would accept you into their fold. At least that’s what you told yourself as you rummaged through your mother’s old keepsake chest, the one pushed to the very back of her closet and buried beneath old traveling cloaks of your father’s.

You finally managed to give your parents the slip as your mother left to track down your wayward father, who’d been gone for one too many months. She always said he was never the same after the death of his captain, whispered like a secret on the nights when the candles burned too low and the windows creaked too loud. You wished you could remember the man before the booze. If you squinted, you could still see the version of your father who joked around with those two cabin boys, who’d pick you up and twirl you around the deck of the Oro Jackson, feet somehow steady on the wood as ocean waves rocked the ship.

Still, despite their differences, your mother and father could always agree upon one thing. You were to never go out at sea.

As a child who spent her formative years tasting salty air and feeling the warmth of the sun beating down on her skin, this was a punishment worse than death. Everything fell apart after Gol D. Roger’s execution. Your father, your parent’s marriage, your life.

Still, you’d never taken no for an answer. Day after day, you’d storm your way down to where the turquoise waves kissed the rooted floors of Sabaody. Anyone who was anyone passed through the island. Merchants, travelers, pirates, nobles. It didn’t matter your lot in life, there was a place for you on Sabaody.

You’d always cross your fingers behind your back, hoping and scheming that today would be the day someone would free you from your prison and take you back home where you belonged. The ocean called to you, whispering a thousand stolen promises into your ear.

Finally, a perfect storm had brewed. An abandoned merchant vessel, an absentee mother, a golden opportunity.

You’d made it a day and a half before it all came crashing down around you like the waves of a tsunami.

Your knowledge came from maps and diaries and travel logs. Tales told around bonfires and fleeting childhood memories. Your naivety and inexperience would cost you more than you could have ever imagined.

A new kind of Silver cuffs were suddenly clasped around your wrist, and a new jailor loomed before you. Suddenly, your safe haven on Sabaody didn’t seem so bad after all.

-

You spat on Saint Garling’s polished shoes, a combination of glossy spit and blood from your split lip disrupting the pristine black leather. It didn’t matter who he was. He didn’t get to bring your father into this. The man seemed almost taken aback, a faint raise of his eyebrow betraying an emotion locked away behind cold indifference. The knight stood slowly, knees creaking as he rose to his full height.

He approached before capturing your jaw between battle-calloused fingers, forcing you to stare up at him once again. You met his gaze head on with defiance, and a bravado you didn’t actually possess.

Suddenly, he reared his hand back and smacked you right across the face, his jeweled signet ring cutting a gash into your cheek. You recoiled as dread filled your gut.

This is it, you thought to yourself. This is the last in a long line of mistakes that you will ever make.

“Shakuyaku believes that she can hide under my nose forever. She does not realize she enjoys her peace because I command it.” Garling snapped his fingers and suddenly, a clearly frightened young attendant rushed over with a handkerchief clutched between shaking fingers. He immediately dropped to his knees and began wiping furiously at the Celestial Dragon’s shoe. You forced your lip to not curl at the sight.

“You, however, my mercy does not fully extend to.” There was an inherent smugness that coated Garling’s words, reminiscent of the business your father occasionally ran- when he was sober enough to do so.

“There is not much in this world that I am not privy to.” Garling continued on, kicking away the attendant after deeming his work acceptable. “Your rebellion was inevitable, wasting away on that droll little island. All I had to do was lie in wait.” A sick smile creeped across his face, warping his, admittedly, handsome features into something more grotesque.

“Now-“ There was a perfunctory knock on the door behind you before someone entered the room without waiting for acknowledgment. The conditioned air dropped a degree colder.

Measured footsteps approached the dais which Garling stood in front of before stopping to stand at attention. You risked looking up, and couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped your lips. It was like all of the air was knocked out of you as your eyes met that familiar pair for the first time in years.

Except…

He possessed same lithe frame and ruby red hair, but those eyes… There was no life in them, no sparkle that would always betray him before he reached over and stole that last bite of something good from your plate. His face was carved from the same cold, unfeeling marble you’ve been forced to kneel on while Garling decided what to do with you. So familiar, yet so foreign.

“Father.” The specter of a long lost friend said. It was his voice, but the tone, the word ‘father’, was all wrong. “You called for me?” The newcomer didn’t even glance down at you as you openly stared at him, slack-jawed. You weren’t sure if you wanted him to, anyways.

“Shamrock, my son. Let me introduce you to the consequences of my only failure, and a new insurance policy for our family.”

As the walls of the Figarland Estate, a castle high above the clouds nestled in the heart of the Holy Land, closed in around you, the severity of your error finally sunk in.

You were trapped.

-

The comeback that was said by the way.

Stalk said woman until Garling showed up, and then try to kill him after he's left to go back.

She wouldn't want to get said woman (or anyone else that Garling might be interested in, for that matter) involved.