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I'll never take anyone who thinks misandry is as bad as misogyny, seriously.
Misandrists don't make telegram groups to share revenge porn and non-consentual nudes of men. but Misogynists do that to women.
Misandrists don't make deepfake porn to defame, humiliate and torture men. but Misogynists do that to women.
Misandrists don't pass laws to take away men's reproductive rights. but misogynists do that with women's reproductive rights.
Misandrist don't go out of their way to stalk, target, harass and assault men. but misogynists do that to women.
Misandrists don't make religion or interpret religious texts to control, shame and chain men. but misogynists do that to women.
Misandrists don't see men as sex objects or act entitled to their bodies. but misogynists do that with women.
Misandry has never caused sex-selective abortions. but misogyny is the reason why sex determination of fetuses is banned in many countries because of Female foeticide and preference for sons.
Misandry has never caused the importances of a field of work go down if male participation increases. but misogyny is why nursing, teaching and modeling is looked down on and ridiculed because it's a female dominated field. misogyny is one of the reason why going to college is now looked down on because more college grads are women.
Misandry hasn't caused medical field to not research on men and their health problems or made health care providers deminish/invalidate their pain. but misogyny has such a major impact on medical field that to still date we don't know the exact cause of fibroids. A "benign tumor" that varies in size, from tiny to as large as a MELON, and can cause heavy bleeding, pelvic pain, etc. Something that between 20 to 80 percent of women have. but oh that just lil bit of pain and discomfort right? nothing that serious?
and again it's totally not because of misogyny we still don't know the exact cause of endometriosis and the fact that the largest research on it is how it affects the MALE partner of the women that have endometriosis. NOT about how the WOMEN feels, NOT about how it affects her but how it affects her MALE PARTNER.
And lastly, a few women being "bitchy misandrists" on the internet and doesn't suddenly make the patriarchy (Literally systematic perpetuation of misogyny) disappear.
Changes in the economy and in the culture seem to have hit them hard. Scott Galloway believes they need an âaspirational vision of masculini
The ambassadors of the centrist manosphere praise womenâs advancement and the feminist cause while insisting that menâs economic and vocational anxieties are more naturally potent. This ambivalence reveals the weakness of their side. The right-wing manosphere knows that masculinity is a series of dominance signals beamed from behind iridescent Oakleys and the wheel of the most enormous pickup truck youâve ever seen; it is a smirking multimillionaire who âDESTROYSâ a young woman at a college-hosted debate; it isâmust it be said?âan AR-15, openly carried. Manliness in the Trump era, Susan Faludi has written, âis defined by display value,â which exhibits itself in a âpantomime of aggrieved aggression.â Upon this stage, menâs biggest problem is feminism, and the solutions are straightforward: restrict reproductive rights, propagandize about traditional gender roles, etc.
The squishier centrist side has no such certainties. Galloway, in both his podcasts and âNotes on Being a Man,â presents masculinity not as one side of a fixed binary but as a state of mind and a life style, one equally available to men and women, and therefore impossible to define. (Itâs a feeling, and we know how Trump supporters feel about those.) Within this amorphous framework, menâs biggest problem is, likewise, a feelingâan unreachable itch, or a marrow-deep beliefâthat men should still rank above women in the social hierarchy, just not as much as before. This belief may be misguided or unconscious, but it is nonetheless insuperable, and it must be accommodated, for the good of us all.
What these pundits are nudging us to do, ever so politely, is accept that women, in the main, are accustomed to being a little degraded, a little underpaid and ignored and dampened in their ambitions, in ways that men are not and never will be. The âfemale-codedâ person, to borrow Krugmanâs terminology, may feel overwhelmed by child-care costs, ashamed that she canât acquire a mortgage, or hollowed out by long hours as an I.C.U. nurse, but such feelings do not disturb the order of the universe. This personâs duties to protect, provide, and procreate are real, but they do not take the capital âP.â This personâs opinions matter, but not decisively. The Times pundit Ezra Klein has lately suggested that Democrats consider running anti-abortion candidates in red states, even though more than three-quarters of Gen Z women support abortion rights. Rights, like jobs, can be gender-coded, and these rights are valued accordingly.
Warnings: large age difference, older man/younger woman, Dubious Consent due to Manipulation, body manipulation, questionable consent, overstimulation, unprotected sex, impregnation, reproduction, smut, erotic, misogyny, possessive feelings, subtle yandere, humiliation, Somnophilia, long text, slow burn, more warnings to be added, unrevised translation (please let me know of any errors),
I imagined Shanks at Rayleigh's age and I couldn't help myself.
An older Shanks who decided it was time to leave the sea and dissolve the crew, tired of carrying the weight of the world on his back and bearing the title of Yonkou. With his hair now partially white and the scars of the past drawn on his mature skin, the seventy-year-old man chose a peaceful and deeply isolated island to live out his retirement, mirroring the final steps of his former captain. The chosen location was a territory forgotten by maps, an island that has almost no interactions with outsiders and which, just like Wano, remained closed and protected from the turmoil of the oceans; due to this geographical isolation, the island never had major contacts with the Navy or with large pirate fleets, causing the local residents to have absolutely no idea about his legendary past as one of the four emperors of the sea.
An older Shanks who faces an initial barrier of distrust from the island's citizens, who prove to be quite hesitant to accept a complete stranger living among them. Being a closed community where everyone has known each other since birth, the arrival of a man of that stature causes a latent feeling of strangeness and caution, making the locals avoid approaching him at first. However, the former pirate plays the cards he has, showing right off the bat that he possesses a massive amount of gold to pay for everything he needs and demonstrating, with casual gestures, that he holds an impressive physical strength.
An older Shanks who uses this demonstration of vigor not to intimidate the peasants, but just enough to discourage any bad intentions or potential thieves â though he knows that, in such a peaceful and small village, the existence of criminals is practically impossible. Even with his gold stimulating the local commerce and with the security that his robustness projects, the residents still prefer to maintain a safe distance, watching the new neighbor from afar with whispers and curious glances whenever he walks through the narrow streets of the village to set up his new home.
An older Shanks who begins to use his magnetic charisma and relaxed posture to gradually chip away at this resistance, melting the ice of the residents with loud laughter and a gentle temperament. He knows that the conquest of that island will not be achieved by the sword, but through patience and daily coexistence at the counter of the local market. For all intents and purposes, he presents himself merely as a robust, friendly, and lonely gentleman who only wishes to spend his fortune and live out his final days in the calm, building a perfect social camouflage that he cultivates with mastery.
An older Shanks who settles in one of the most isolated and remote houses in the village, seeking the simplicity of a civilian life close to nature, but sees his entire search for calm be completely disrupted the moment his eyes landed on you. You, a beautiful young woman in your twenties, were the first person to walk to his property to welcome him with sincere kindness, delivering a sweet smile and a basket of baked goods that instantly disarmed the former pirate. That single glimpse of your generosity was enough for the old Yonkou to be overcome by an overwhelming feeling that would change his destiny forever.
An older Shanks who feels the immediate impact not only of your tender sweetness, but especially of your physical appearance, which personifies the exact definition of a civilian and immaculate woman. His experienced eyes sweep over your soft silhouette full of natural curves, fixing on the subtle movement of your breasts, which sway gently with every breath and every step you take toward his door. The contrast between your delicacy and the brutality he carried for decades makes his blood run hotter, awakening a dormant appetite that his seventy-year-old frame could not ignore in your proximity.
An older Shanks who analyzes with a predatory fascination the absurd disparity in height and stature that exists between his body and yours. You are tiny compared to his build, displaying a docile, soft structure devoid of any of those rigid muscles and scars that warrior women and the amazons of the seas flaunt. To his eyes, you resemble a small, helpless, and vulnerable rabbit that just voluntarily hopped inside a predator's den, awakening in his chest a dark instinct to corner such fragility.
An older Shanks who stands before you as an overwhelming presence, being a huge, absurdly strong man and owner of a dense musculature that seventy years of age could not deteriorate. His shoulders are wide enough to block your view of the inside of the house, and his massive chest, marked by decades of battles, severely contrasts with your petite and delicate silhouette. This brutal difference in size makes him delight in his own imposing nature, knowing that the grip of a single hand of his would be enough to completely dominate your reactions and trap you against his chest forever.
An older Shanks who flashes a welcoming smile and invites you inside, using the excuse of thanking you for the gift while observing your every gesture within his space. As soon as you accept the invitation and sit on the wooden chair, your long and modest skirt rises and molds around your body, allowing him to notice the full contour and the extremely soft appearance of your thighs. The sight of that young and untouched flesh ignites a silent covetousness in his mind, causing him to imagine the weight of his own hips crushing your softness against his sheets, delighting in the fact that you have absolutely no idea of the danger you are in by accepting his hospitality.
An older Shanks who realizes, while contemplating your vibrant youth and your fragility as you talked with him, that his true peace would not come from the loneliness or the isolation of retirement. The mature man secretly decides, in that exact first encounter, that his ultimate safe harbor would be to take you for himself and make you his wife. Instead of wasting his days in a lonely and empty old age, he chooses to follow the example and directly mirror his former captain, Roger, and the legendary Gaban, men who knew exactly how to enjoy the end of their journeys in the arms of beautiful and dedicated women.
An older Shanks who traces in his mind the destiny he reserves for you, determined to transform your youth and your tender kindness and devotion into the private sanctuary of his retirement. Under the facade of the grateful and harmless older neighbor, the former emperor begins a precise plan to surround and domesticate you, eliminating any room for refusal until you are fully integrated into his routine. Knowing that the most beautiful and docile girl in the village is now the main and absolute objective of his civilian life, he smiles in silence with the certainty that, very soon, you will bear his last name and tether him permanently to dry land.
An older Shanks who uses the facade of a friendly, harmless, and retired gentleman to take the first steps into your routine, approaching with a surgical calm that raises no alarms. The former pirate is fully aware that, despite already being in his seventies, his genetics and life at sea were generous; he does not look his age, boasting the vigor and presence of a man in his forties or fifties at the peak of virility. The only real marks of time are the white strands that now discreetly blend into his famous red hair and the fact that his massive body aches and creaks a bit more in the morning than in his youth â small details that he masterfully hides beneath a relaxed posture, keeping intact the overwhelming Yonkou-level strength that he merely stored away, but never lost.
An older Shanks who knows that, as attractive and charismatic as he may be, he is still a complete stranger on an isolated island that does not usually receive outsiders. There is an invisible barrier of distrust, a latent feeling of strangeness from the residents who watch him with caution as he walks through the narrow streets of the village. Instead of forcing an immediate intimacy with you â which could scare you and cause you to pull away â, the experienced man plays the long game, using casual conversations at the docks and the market to build a friendship with you in a purely platonic way, disarming your defense instincts bit by bit through a light and respectful coexistence.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of the initial friendliness he cultivates with the older residents of the island to extract valuable information about your past and your routine without raising any suspicion. Between one mug of drink and another, pretending to be just a curious and well-intentioned neighbor, he listens intently to the local stories and discovers that you are an orphan, raised with the support and affection of that small community. He notices the gleam of pride in the elders' eyes when they speak of you, realizing that your sweetness is not just a facade, but the reason why you are the most cherished young woman in the entire village.
An older Shanks who notes with a mix of interest and possessive pride the fact that you work as a waitress in the only bar in the village, a detail that perfectly facilitates his plans to frequent your workplace. However, the locals' conversations also bring a warning that makes the former emperor's blood run a bit more violently: due to your radiant beauty and genuine kindness, you are extremely popular among the young men of the island, who constantly try to catch your attention. Armed with this knowledge, Shanks stores every name and every face of these young competitors in his memory, amused by the audacity of these boys and preparing his smooth talk to start undermining their ground before you even realize what is happening.
An older Shanks who quickly transforms into the most loyal and frequent customer of the establishment, showing up every single day at the village bar to guarantee his strategic spot at the counter. He always sits on the same wooden stool, ordering his drink with a relaxed smile and using the noisy atmosphere of the place to finally break that initial strangeness that existed between you. The seventy-year-old man utilizes his rustic magnetism to hold your attention whenever you pass by to wipe the wood or serve a new mug, initiating conversations that seem completely unassuming, but serve to anchor his presence in your work routine.
An older Shanks who wins your friendliness and coaxes your first sincere laughs through a flood of silly jokes, light teasing, and fascinating stories about the oceans. Pretending to be just an old retired sailor who has seen a lot around the world, he narrates adventures about exotic islands, bizarre marine creatures, and severe storms, modulating his voice theatrically to leave you completely mesmerized and curious. He loves to watch how your face lights up when he tells a funny passage, delighting in the fact that his rustic presence and mature charisma are, bit by bit, becoming the most anticipated moment of your exhausting shift as a waitress.
An older Shanks who gains more and more ground in your life, strengthening the bonds until the barrier of formal distance between customer and employee is completely pulverized. As the days turn into weeks of daily coexistence, the small talk gives way to light confidences and inside jokes that only the two of you understand, creating a unique complicity in the tavern. Shanks plays the patience game masterfully, shaping public perception so that the entire community comes to see your closeness as something purely natural and comforting, establishing in the eyes of the island a bond of protection and affection with the young orphan.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of the extreme innocence of the local residents to weave his web around you, delighting in the cynicism of the situation. Since you are a lonely young woman with no family, the village elders â moved by a genuine concern â begin to actively encourage this closeness, coming up to the counter to ask the mature man to "keep an eye" on you and walk you to your house on the darkest nights. For that isolated community, he projects the flawless image of an upright man, an old and trustworthy shepherd dog tasked with watching over the well-being of a helpless sheep; an irony that deeply amuses the former pirate, who hides beneath his gentle smile the nature of a hungry wolf, whose sole and true interest is to drag the sheep into the depths of his den, subjugate your soft body under his massive weight, and use you repeatedly to breed and fill his lair with pups.
An older Shanks who begins to use this intimacy validated by the village to introduce the first physical contacts into your dynamic, acting with a paternalistic naturalness that leaves no room for you to suspect his real intentions. What starts as a casual touch on your shoulder to thank you for the service or a light pat on your back after a laugh, soon evolves into gentle tugs by your wrist and tight bear hugs under the pretext of protecting you from the cold wind along the path. The former Yonkou savors the weight of your young and delicate body against his wide and robust torso with every demonstration of affection, smiling shrewdly as he notices that you not only accept the touches of his single arm, but already nestle into them in search of warmth and safety, completely blind to the voracious appetite that consumes him.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of this perfect cue given by the village elders to tighten the perimeter even further, using the darkness of the night as the ideal setting to cross your physical and geographical barriers. Under the justification that he needs to ensure you get inside in total safety, he does not say goodbye at the door; instead, the mature man uses the pretext of checking if your windows are securely locked against the strong coastal wind or offers to carry that heavy wooden log to your stove, guaranteeing a natural and legitimate entry into your home.
An older Shanks who penetrates your intimate environment and thoroughly analyzes your dwelling, which, because it belongs to an orphan and lonely woman, stands out as the smallest and most fragile in that small feudal-style province. With an analytical and predatory gaze disguised by gentle comments, he begins to silently undermine your sense of security as he walks through the room, using a false casualness to point out the structural defects of the place. The mature man makes sure to emphasize the leaks that stain the ceiling, the rustic misalignment of the wooden walls that did not receive proper finishing, and the small holes in the floorboards where the cold night wind invades the living room, leaving you subtly embarrassed by the extreme poverty and precariousness of your home in front of such an imposing figure.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of this vulnerability of yours and your embarrassment to plant the seed of helplessness in your young mind, lamenting with a cynical sigh how cruel winter must be for someone inhabiting such an unprotected space. Without ever mentioning his property in a direct or arrogant manner, he casually comments on how larger buildings made of solid stone retain heat better and how a reinforced iron lock brings peace of mind to a man, letting the silence and the discomfort of the night itself make you yearn, even without realizing it, for the security of a warm and safe home.
An older Shanks who begins to refine the art of becoming essential in your routine, using the time by your side at the bar to weave a web of affection so subtle that you cannot even notice the transition. With his magnetic charisma, he learns exactly which strings to pull to make your chest fill with a genuine joy whenever you see him walk through the door of the establishment, coaxing loud and sincere laughs from you with the silly jokes he drops at the most unexpected moments. His robust presence transforms into the high point of your exhausting day, a breath of fresh air that dissipates all your fatigue and makes your heart beat lighter, lighting up your face with an involuntary smile every time his eyes seek yours across the counter.
An older Shanks who loves to test your emotional limits with light teasing and compliments disguised as mature advice, delighting in your immediate reaction. Just a few words spoken in that gentle, deep voice are enough to make the blood rush to your cheeks, causing you to blush intensely while trying to look away, shy in the face of such warm attention that this imposing man dedicates to you. The former Yonkou savors every single one of these little moments of hesitation and confusion, watching from a front-row seat as you mistake all this agitation in your chest for deep gratitude and an innocent friendship with an older neighbor, without you having the slightest idea that these strange feelings are already the roots of the passion he meticulously planted in your soul.
An older Shanks who utilizes decades of pure smooth talk and psychological manipulation to plant small doubts in your mind about any young man your age who dares to look at you. In casual conversations while walking you home at the end of your shift, pretending to be just an experienced and kind mentor, he makes surgical and mockery-filled comments about how these young peasants are still immature, clumsy, and incapable of understanding or treating a real woman. With a paternalistic and cynical tone, he subtly undermines all your other relationship options, making the village boys look ridiculous and insignificant in the face of his own imposing stature.
An older Shanks who does not limit himself to words alone and begins to use physical and strategic tricks to sabotage any interaction of yours with the island boys, ensuring that none of them can take root in your daily life. If he notices a young fisherman trying to strike up a conversation with you near the market, the former pirate immediately appears, using his massive body to station himself right in the middle of the conversation and cutting off the flow of the dialogue by asking for that young man's help to carry a heavy bundle of non-existent goods on the other side of the province. He orchestrates small setbacks, such as paying the young men of the village with gold coins to do distant chores during your free time, clearing the ground around you with surgical efficiency without you ever suspecting that the sudden loneliness of your suitors is his doing.
An older Shanks who makes a point of interfering in your work routine, showing up during your shift at the busiest moments just to destabilize you and mark his territory in front of any male customer. The former Yonkou completely ignores the other waitresses and the calls of the older women at the bar, insisting, with a gentle and unwavering authority, on being served solely and exclusively by you. Whenever a local boy or man tries to approach the counter to place an order or strike up a conversation, he casts a heavy sidelong glance, intimidating the young men in a way so subtle and cutting that they all back away immediately, cowed by his overwhelming presence.
An older Shanks who rests his heavy arm on the counter, leaning his robust body forward to corner your field of vision and fill your entire physical space, ensuring that your attention remains entirely trapped by him. The deep magnetism and the proximity of his body cause you to make silly mistakes on the job, dropping silverware or stammering while taking orders, while he savors your nervousness with a predatory smile, satisfied to know that no other male voice can break the trance he puts you in.
An older Shanks who interrupts your work shift the moment you approach his table to take the order for the round, dictating a scenario of inevitable proximity by pulling you onto his lap with an agile and precise movement. He claims with total brazenness that the tavern is too full and that you need to rest a bit, using his single strong arm to trap your body and settle you directly over his legs. Before you can protest, the former Yonkou looks up and waves to another waitress, asking your coworker to take over the service and bring the drinks, forcibly including you at his table and maintaining, in front of everyone, the posture of a friendly retiree, while his hand clamped on your waist dictates an absolute possession that prevents you from getting up.
An older Shanks who dominates the tavern table with his overwhelming charisma, laughing loudly and gesturing with his mug of drink while holding the attention of an entire group of village residents who gathered around him. He shows himself to be an extremely social figure, being the absolute center of attention, which makes his game even more perverse; with you trapped on his lap and unable to escape from public view, he uses his own anatomy under the table to crush your sanity. His thick and muscular thigh is pressed firmly against your center, and with every loud laugh he shares with the peasants, with every calculated shift of posture on the wooden chair, his rigid leg rubs right against your pussy, initiating a subtle and indirect stimulation that destroys your defenses while he keeps the focus of the conversation on the others, savoring your silent desperation.
An older Shanks who watches from a front-row seat the success of his physical trap, delighting as he notices the contrast between the noisy environment and your silent collapse. The former Yonkou perfectly perceives how confused and scared you are by these new pleasurable sensations that are beginning to burn through your body, knowing that, as a lonely orphan, your entire life has been reduced to working exhaustively to get the necessary money to survive. He knows that you never had the luxury or the free time to explore your own body or discover your own sexuality like the other young people in the province usually do; in your delayed innocence, your knowledge is reduced to the absolute basic fact that marriages produce babies.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of this complete lack of experience of yours to totally cloud your mind, watching your face burn with shame as you lose track of the group of residents' conversation. Unable to react or to ask to get down without drawing the attention of the entire tavern, you just tremble on his lap, not fully understanding the urgency of this heat spreading through your legs. With an implacable cynicism, the mature man maintains the continuous and rhythmic pressure of his thick thigh, pushing your petite body close to the limit and savoring the way your center gets completely wet against the fabric of his pants, destroying your defenses while the rest of the bar just laughs at his stories.
An older Shanks who perfectly reads every subtle and desperate contraction of your hips, controlling the game with surgical precision. The moment he feels your body tense and realizes you are dangerously close to reaching the climax right there, in the middle of the tavern, he ceases the movement abruptly. He uses the sound of the group's laughter to lean in your direction, letting his beard brush against your ear while his hand digs into your waist, keeping you trapped and frustrated. He whispers in a heavy and slow manner that you seem "a bit restless today," savoring your total confusion and helplessness as he leaves you completely stranded and at the edge of the abyss, denying the relief your body begs for.
An older Shanks who knows exactly how to mask his own perversion beneath a layer of pure casual innocence, acting as though your body's reactions were a complete mystery to him. When the conversation at the table heats up and he rejoins the conversation with the residents, he starts bouncing his leg in a relaxed way, as if it were just a nervous tic of someone keeping time with the bar music. He feigns total distraction while, with every continuous and rhythmic beat, his thick thigh crushes your clitoris and your genitalia directly, causing you to gasp against his chest while he continues smiling and drinking, pretending not to notice that he turned his own lap into an instrument of erotic torture.
An older Shanks who manipulates the atmosphere around him using Haki in a way so surgical and imperceptible that your mind could never detect the trick. Being an absolute master of this energy, a man who spent decades at the top of the food chain as the ultimate predator of the seas, he refined the control of his own strength to a level impossible to be replicated; and, with the naughty and calculating nature he possesses, of course he learned to direct this ability toward seduction and sex as well, instead of limiting it only to the battlefields.
An older Shanks who perfectly understands that Haki is nothing more than the imposition of a strong person's will over a weaker one, using this premise to shape you from the inside out without you being able to offer the slightest resistance. In the beginning, you cannot even understand what is happening to your own body, lost in an innocent confusion without knowing why your chest accelerates and your legs get so tremulous and shaky whenever this man approaches. You attribute this sudden and overwhelming heat burning beneath your skirt to the nervousness of serving such an imposing customer, totally blind to the external interference that dictates your physical reactions.
An older Shanks who savors your complete lack of understanding while emitting a surgical and lascivious pressure, projecting his carnal will directly against your uterus and your ovaries. His invisible energy acts as a silent command that invades your depths, causing your cervix to pulse involuntarily and dictate a purely animal excitement; he forces your reproductive organ to soften, contract, and secrete fluids in a purely instinctive response of biological submission. His mind dictates that you must be taken, filled, and fertilized, and your internal organs blindly obey this obscene Haki, preparing your anatomy to receive his seed long before you are even aware of what desire is.
An older Shanks who watches your physical collapse as you rest your hands on the counter, swallowing hard with your face completely flushed and a dizziness brought on by the lust imposed by him. The former Yonkou instantly emerges as your safe harbor, wrapping his immense, heavy arm around your waist to dictate a false sense of support; a perfect trap, for the continuous and insistent imposition of his will made your organism create a sort of permanent physical memory, ensuring that your uterus tenses and your center gets drenched in a purely automatic way at the simple presence of Shanks, even in the moments when he keeps his Haki completely dormant.
An older Shanks who watches the definitive triumph of the biological trap he set in your body, delighting as he notices that your anatomy now responds in a purely instinctive way to his simple presence, even when his Haki is completely dormant. It is enough for the former pirate to enter the tavern for your organism to go into a state of carnal alertness incomprehensible to your innocence. Your nipples react immediately, becoming rigid and pointy beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, while your uterus, your vagina, and your clitoris begin to pulse in a slow, heavy rhythm. Your natural lubricant starts to spring forth in an alarming amount, soaking your underwear quickly until the excess moisture begins to overflow, trickling down your thighs in thick, warm drops.
An older Shanks who follows each of your desperate movements to camouflage the collapse of your own body, finding your anguish genuinely amusing. He sees when you hurriedly cross your arms over your chest, trying to hide the evident outline of your nipples, and notices the way you press one thigh against the other in an attempt to stem the flow running down your legs. Knowing that the long skirt of your uniform is the only barrier keeping the village from seeing your shame, you begin to take extremely short, stiff steps across the floor, trying at all costs to prevent the thick liquid from escaping and exposing your condition.
An older Shanks who uses the power he has over the bar's routine to trap you exactly where he wants you, turning your panic into a private spectacle. With total brazenness, the mature man intercepts you in the middle of the floor and strikes up small talk without the slightest rush, asking banal questions about the day's business just to force you to remain static, standing before him, for several minutes straight. While pretending to listen to your stammered answers, his predatory gaze discreetly descends to the hem of your skirt, delighting in seeing the thick drops finally overcome the fabric, falling and staining the dark wood of the floor right between your feet, knowing that you are totally subjugated to the physical dominance he planted in you.
An older Shanks who reads your anatomy like an open book, identifying with surgical precision every biological sign that your body has already surrendered completely to him and is ready to be bred, even if your innocent mind does not yet have the capacity to understand what is happening. The former Yonkou savors the triumph of noticing that, at the most primitive and cellular level, your organism has already recognized him as the absolute dominant male of your life. He watches, fascinated, the way your pupils instantly dilate the millisecond your eyes meet his upon entering the door, an involuntary reflex of pure carnal fixation. Your skin heats up immediately, radiating a feverish warmth that betrays the rush of your blood, and your breath catches systematically whenever his massive shadow projects over you, leaving only short, trembling sighs that reveal a total biological submission before his imposing stature.
An older Shanks who begins to use his own robust body as a chemical and sensory weapon, exploiting the artifices of his own biology to mess with your hormones and accelerate your sexual maturation. Knowing the devastating impact that his masculinity has on your senses, the mature man makes a point of sitting near the counter right after exerting physical effort at the docks, letting the immense body heat that emanates from his wide torso create a stifling wave that completely surrounds you. He wears shirts of lightweight fabric that are strategically open at the chest, exposing the mature skin and the rigid, scarred muscles of his single arm and shoulders, forcing your vision to feast on his strength.
An older Shanks who manipulates the surrounding air by exhaling his strong, characteristic scent â an inebriating mixture of tobacco, strong drink, sea spray, and the natural odor of testosterone and clean sweat that clings to his skin. As you approach to serve him, he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand in a relaxed manner, ensuring that the molecules of his aroma invade your nostrils with every deep breath you take out of nervousness. This cocktail of physical stimuli acts directly on your nervous system, triggering a discharge of hormones that causes your uterus to contract in silent spasms and your femininity to weep more lubricant, trapping you in a sensory trap where every inch of your body begs to be subjugated and filled by that alpha male.
An older Shanks who plays with his very presence in a calculated way, coldly alternating between absolute indifference and a suffocating attention to destabilize your psychology. One day, he passes by you in the province acting like a distant stranger, offering only a formal nod of the head that leaves you in a state of agonizing anxiety and emptiness; the next day, he invades your space, corners your body against the wall, and uses all of his overwhelming magnetism to surround you, creating a cycle of scarcity and reward that addicts your biology and makes you desperately need his attention to feel alive.
An older Shanks who refines this psychological torture by introducing jealousy as a tool of silent possession, delighting in the absolute control he has over your emotions. To test the reach of his dominance, the former pirate begins to frequent the bar and ignore your presence on purpose, directing his overwhelming charm toward other local women. He sits surrounded by the female residents of the island, focusing his attention mainly on adult, mature women, laughing at their jokes and leaning his robust body toward those experienced figures with a proximity that makes your stomach turn.
An older Shanks who watches from the corner of his eye the success of his plan as he notices your instant foul mood and your growing irritation while you wipe the tables hard and slam the mugs on the counter. Without you yourself being able to understand the reason for this bitterness in your chest, foolishly thinking it is just exhaustion from work, you feel a genuine urge to cry out of pure frustration upon seeing the mature man dedicate to these women the same warm look that was previously exclusive to you, letting unconscious envy consume your thoughts until you are internally begging for him to go back to looking only at you.
An older Shanks who conditions your body to such an extreme level of dependency that your sanity is crushed before any simple interaction. He ensured that your physical response to him was so violent that just the sound of his deep voice or the smell of tobacco and sea emanating from his skin acts as an instant trigger; with every encounter in the province, your natural lubricant flows involuntarily, soiling the fabric of your underwear as an inevitable biological reaction. Just by having the former Yonkou standing in front of you, looking at you with that sly smile, your womb contracts so hard that your center pulses and dampens, simulating the intensity of a mini orgasm before any physical touch even happens.
An older Shanks who springs into action to cap off this perverse cycle of punishment and reward, approaching you as soon as the tavern empties. Feigning total brazenness, the mature man adopts a welcoming posture and "consoles" you, acting as though he has no idea that he himself was the cause of all your foul mood and silent anguish. With a false, paternalistic concern, he touches your shoulder and asks softly what happened to dull the brightness of your face, making you feel guilty for being so irritated and vulnerable before a man who seems to care so much about your well-being.
An older Shanks who manipulates your mind and your organism through this cruel oscillation, making you feel completely insignificant and disposable when he ignores you, only to resurface right after offering twice as much attention and warmth. This sudden psychological relief breaks down all your defenses at once, sending a command so violent to your nervous system that your uterus tenses and your femininity weeps in spasms of pure relief. Trapped in this sensory trap of scarcity and abundance, you collapse into an involuntary and overwhelming pleasure, having spontaneous mini orgasms and wetting your own legs just by receiving back the gaze and approval of your dominant predator.
An older Shanks who knows perfectly well that he put you in such a profound state of hypersensitivity where your sanity balances on the edge of the abyss. While he commands the attention in the full tavern, laughing and drinking with the locals, his eyes do not miss a single movement of your body working as a waitress. He delights in noticing your unsteady walk between the tables and the way your nipples stand rigidly erect beneath the fabric of your uniform, reacting to his presence with the same inevitability with which your natural lubricant flows, leaving your pussy completely wet and warmed by desire.
An older Shanks who watches your desperate effort to disguise the physical collapse as you try to balance the trays through the crowded bar. In the midst of the noise and the movement of the customers, you are forced to press your thighs against each other with every step, trying to contain the dense moisture that insists on running down your legs. Whenever you approach his table to serve the drinks, your mind fails; your gaze becomes clouded, distant, totally focused on the pre-pleasure consuming your senses, while your uterus contracts involuntarily in direct response to the deep timbre of the older man's voice.
An older Shanks who uses the crowded environment and the noisy crowd of the tavern as his perfect weapon, leaving you balanced on the tightrope of an unsustainable excitement. The former Yonkou delights in the silent panic that takes over your eyes; the paralyzing fear of exploding into an orgasm in front of the whole village, with dozens of people watching, turns into the fuel that increases your lust even further. He manipulates the situation to appear as the most charismatic and generous customer, making a point to thank you out loud with every tray you bring and giving fat tips, using civil courtesy as a facade to stretch the limits of your body to the breaking point.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of the moment you approach to take the table's orders and slips his immense hand around your waist, pulling your body into a possessive embrace disguised as pure affection. Pretending to be starting to get drunk from the flow of the conversations and the empty mugs, the former Yonkou uses this supposed lack of sobriety as the perfect excuse to soften his robust body against yours, acting with a brazenness that raises no suspicions among the surrounding customers. Since he is sitting on the wooden chair while you remain standing beside him, the mature man leans his wide torso forward and presses his face firmly and deliberately against your stomach, resting his rough cheek directly over your uterine region.
An older Shanks who digs his calloused palm into the curve of your hip with an overwhelming firmness, while the immense heat of his breath pierces through the fabric of your feudal skirt and instantly burns your womb. This direct and lascivious contact against your reproductive organ works as a devastating biological command; the touch is so intense that you are forced to lock your knees and squeeze your thighs together with twice the strength, fighting against the internal spasms to contain the natural lubricant that begins to flow in warm gushes down your legs. While you make a strenuous effort to keep your pen steady on the notepad and your voice controlled in front of the island residents, the pressure of his fingers on your skin and the weight of his head against your womb make your center pulse in a lascivious way, leaving you completely vulnerable to his dominance.
An older Shanks who pulls his face away from your womb with a heavy sigh, letting out a muffled laugh and drumming his fingers on your waist one last time before releasing your body, satisfied with the damage he caused. The instant the pressure of his arm ceases, you pull the notepad against your chest and spin on your heels, trying to get out of there as quickly as possible to escape the attentive eyes of the tavern. However, the urgency to pull away clashes with the chaotic reality of your own anatomy; the command to walk quickly is completely sabotaged by the desperate need to contain the warm flow running abundantly down your legs.
An older Shanks who follows with a narrowed and predatory gaze your tortuous and slow walk toward the counter. To anyone looking from the outside, it just seems like you are tired or moving carefully through the full room, but the former pirate knows exactly the reason for every rigidly calculated step. You advance almost millimetrically, keeping your knees glued and squeezing your thighs against each other with so much strength that your muscles actually tremble beneath the skirt, fighting so that the thick moisture soaking your underwear and running down in heavy drops does not overcome the barrier of the fabric and stain the wood of the floor in plain sight of everyone.
An older Shanks who takes advantage of the pretext of fake drunkenness to act the moment you finally reach the counter and have your back turned to his table, believing yourself to be temporarily safe. Focused on delivering the orders and with your back to the room, you cannot see when the mature man quietly gets up from the wooden chair and approaches with steady and stealthy steps behind your back. Before you can notice his approach through the reflection of the glasses, his massive body collides against your backside in a firm and sudden thud â not to hurt, but with enough force to completely destabilize your posture and trap your torso against the wood of the counter.
An older Shanks who hugs you from behind in an overwhelming way, using his own wide frame and his immense cloak as an unpassable shield that completely isolates you from the rest of the room, hiding the interaction from any curious glance. While he lets out a loud laugh to the customers, justifying the contact as the clumsy affection of an old drunk, his hip thrusts hard against your backside, pressing his rigid masculinity right against your sensitive vagina. Your body is already so molded by his energy and presence that this blunt, accurate impact acts as the definitive trigger: your uterus contracts violently and you explode into an immediate, overwhelming orgasm right there, in the middle of the crowded bar.
An older Shanks who savors the involuntary trembling that consumes your legs as you dig your hand against your mouth to muffle the sharp moan rising up your throat. You shudder all over, completely defenseless, feeling the shock of real pleasure paralyze your senses, while his crushing embrace keeps you standing firmly on your feet, ensuring that no one in the tavern notices that you have just been completely subjugated and came under his dominance. In the millisecond he pulls his hip away and you finally manage to take your hand off your mouth, a labored and involuntary gasp escapes your lips, breathing Shanks's name in a subtle, needy whisper that only his attentive ears are capable of catching.
An older Shanks who slowly pulls away after the peak of your collapse, blinking his eyes with a cynical slowness and offering a playful smile to the rest of the bar, as if he had merely lost his balance due to the rum. He gives a friendly pat on your shoulder and thanks you out loud for the service, returning to his civil friends' table with steps perfectly calculated to appear stumbling. The former Yonkou walks with a flawless innocence, pretending to totally ignore that he just destroyed your composure, leaving you helpless and surrendered to your own physical reactions in the middle of the room.
An older Shanks who watches from afar, with his chin resting on his fist and a predatory gleam disguised by his heavy eyelids, your pathetic attempt to recover from the damage. Completely drained of strength, you are forced to lean heavily against the wood of the counter so you do not collapse, pressing your bust against the surface to try to stabilize your body. The friction throws all the attention to the outline of your chest; your nipples are extremely prominent, rigid, and obscene, marking the fabric of your blouse so clearly that you have to hunch your shoulders forward in an attempt to hide your own lust. From afar, the mature man pretends to listen to his drinking companions, but keeps his focus fixed on your panting breath and the persistent trembling of your lips, delighting in seeing you carry the traces of that physical obscenity in front of the entire village.
An older Shanks who makes a point of requesting your presence again minutes later, raising his empty mug to order another round just to test your capacity for resistance and the level of your ruin. When you approach with your mind totally clouded, your gaze distant, and your body still in shock from the post-pleasure, you feel extremely shy and ashamed to be in his presence. Your face is completely flushed, a feverish burning rises up your neck, and your hands tremble so much that the metal of the tray rattles against the glasses, making it evident that you can barely stand up straight after what he did.
An older Shanks who silently follows the moment when one of the civilians at the table notices your deplorable state and, worried by your sudden paleness, asks out loud if you are alright. Swallowing hard and unable to lift your eyes from the floor, you force a response in a weak, failing voice, lying that everything is fine and that it is just a slight dizziness from the stifling heat and the heavy business of the tavern. You use the weather as an excuse to justify the cold sweat breaking out on your forehead, desperately fighting so that no one notices the pretense behind your malaise.
An older Shanks who, upon hearing your innocent justification, looks you in the eyes with a gentle, cynical, and almost paternal expression, delighting in your desperation. In a soft, slow voice, he comments to his drinking companions that the tavern's service truly is excellent today and that you are an incredibly dedicated employee, paying a casual compliment that serves as surgical psychological punishment. The sound of his deep voice and the double meaning of the phrase make your face burn even more with shame, forcing your uterus to contract again in involuntary spasms while you gather your last strength to hold the tray steady and hide the wet mess you currently are.
An older Shanks who follows your footsteps in the darkness after the tavern closes for the night, moving through the shadows of the village with the silent efficiency of an experienced predator. He tracks the unstable sway of your walk, noticing how your body moves with difficulty after you spent the rest of your shift entirely uncomfortable, from being so painfully aroused after his advances. To be a teasing bastard, the former Yonkou made a point of extending his stay until he became the establishment's very last customer, maintaining that "innocent" posture and making small talk just to keep you trapped there, testing the limit of your endurance while your womb burned. You quicken your pace as much as you can along the dirt road, anxious to isolate yourself in your humble, poor house, fighting against the dense heat that almost prevents you from making the journey.
An older Shanks who watches through the cracks of the worn wooden window when you finally lock the door and enter your bedroom â a small, rustic room devoid of any luxury, containing only the basics for your survival as an orphan. Using the dim light of the night to spy, the pirate follows your feverish haste to rid yourself of the waitress clothes that seem to suffocate your feverish skin, revealing your completely naked body under the faint moonlight slicing through the cracks. The level of arousal accumulated and held back for hours under his command became an unsustainable burden for your body; with no strength left to maintain any posture, you collapse onto the simple bed with your legs wide open, surrendering to frantic attempts to find the relief he denied you all day.
An older Shanks who fixes his bloodshot eyes on the pornographic and vulnerable sight you offer in the center of that small space. He savors the spectacle of your fingers working with blind desperation, marveling to notice that, because you never had the chance to explore your own body before, this is the first time you move so frantically. With a delayed innocence that leaves him fascinated, the mature man watches from a front-row seat as you circle the lips and the pearl of your clitoris with clumsy movements, fumbling over your own skin without really knowing what to do, guided solely by the urgency of the dense heat consuming your womb.
An older Shanks who watches the exact moment when, driven by the peak of carnal confusion, you introduce your fingers into your own intimacy for the first time in your life. To an experienced predator like him, your lack of practice is completely noticeable: the hesitation in the touch, the surprise at your own moisture, and the way your body shudders with the novelty make it clear that you are discovering your own anatomy under his invisible command. Your nipples are so painfully sensitive that the first experimental squeeze you give yourself makes you let out a sharp cry that echoes through the poor bedroom, drawing a dark smile from the pirate's lips in the darkness of the window.
An older Shanks who notices how your mind and your uterus were so shaped by his magnetism that your pleasure doubles in intensity whenever you think of his figure, being forced to sigh and utter Shanks's name in the loneliness of the room to be able to continue. However, even though your fingers touch your center with speed, your biology refuses to yield completely; your anatomy was locked under his will, and no amount of beginner self-stimulation is capable of breaking the barrier that his Haki and presence built to deny you the climax.
An older Shanks who appreciates your total frustration when you give up trying to finger yourself with trembling hands, crying softly from fatigue and the lack of relief. In an act of pure desperation to appease the burning, you pull the humble pillow and clamp it firmly between your legs, beginning to rub yourself against the fabric with back-and-forth movements, thrusting your hips forward and backward in the hope of reaching the peak. Unable to come at all due to not having the blunt filling of his virility, you end up collapsing from exhaustion, falling into a heavy, feverish sleep, still with the pillow squeezed against your wet center, while the older man continues to watch over your defeated body in the dark of the night.
An older Shanks who feels a deeply perverse and silent amusement the next morning, upon seeing you arrive to work at the tavern with your eyelids heavy from sleep and your body aching from the night of feverish insomnia that he himself caused. While savoring the first mug of rum of the day, the mature man is fully aware of how your young mind works to try to process his presence after everything that happened. He knows perfectly well that, to you, he still tries to pass himself off as a kind seventy-year-old, an older man who already displays white strands in his beard and hair in a charming way, and who supposedly only wants to enjoy the calm of a peaceful retirement.
An older Shanks who tracks your stiff walk across the floor, delighting in the vivid memory of the dawn when he watched you desperately rub yourself against that pillow through the cracks of the window. The former Yonkou savors the memory of the day he settled on the island, recalling with a sly smile how he lied shamelessly to the mayor and the locals, pretending to be just a retired sailor in search of rest, an innocent and protective facade that you bought without hesitation, never imagining that your "benefactor" spends his nights feeding his eyes on your carnal ruin.
An older Shanks who delights in seeing the psychological weight and the crushing guilt that this lie throws upon you. He reads in your eyes the daily internal conflict and the paralyzing shame consuming you; you view yourself as a true pervert, feeling filthy for harboring an overwhelming lust and a genuine love for a mature man who is old enough to be your father or even your grandfather. Shanks watches from a front-row seat your futile attempt to suffocate these feelings, delighting in the fact that the more you blame yourself for desiring his calloused and experienced body, the more your biology betrays you, leaving your pussy wet at the slightest sign of attention.
An older Shanks who uses his very appearance as a mature man and his white hair as the ultimate trap to intensify your shameful arousal. He loves to run his fingers through his graying beard while talking to you, knowing the impact that this image of experienced virility causes in your innocent mind. To him, it is a fascinating joke to see you blush and become completely unsettled upon looking at the expression lines around his eyes and at his wide chest marked by time, watching you fight against your own uterus which completely ignores the age difference and silently clamors to be domesticated by a man with so much history.
An older Shanks who maintains the role of a friendly and harmless elderly man in front of the entire village, only to increase the contrast of the erotic crime he commits with you in secret. When greeting the residents with his charismatic and relaxed laugh, he reinforces the narrative that he is just a gentleman enjoying the calm of the island, making you feel even more isolated in your supposed "perversity." He is amused to know that while you consume yourself with remorse for desiring the touch and the blunt filling of that retired gentleman, he is actually manipulating your every reaction, using his own maturity to ensure that you remain entirely dependent on him.
An older Shanks who silently and thoroughly tracks every detail of your hormonal cycle, mentally noting the subtle changes in your behavior, the odor of your skin, and the texture of your mood throughout the months. The former Yonkou possesses a highly refined animal instinct and an immense background acquired from decades of crossing the seas; he knows female anatomy perfectly well, accumulating the necessary experience to know how to identify, with a single look, the exact days when a woman's body becomes most vulnerable and aroused due to the biological cycle. He maps out the periods when your energy shifts, identifying the exact moment when your organism hits the peak of the most fertile and receptive phase of the month, transforming your intimate calendar into a hunting spreadsheet entirely dominated by him.
An older Shanks who delights in observing your uncontrolled excitement during this specific phase, knowing exactly the cause behind so much physical desperation. As you walk back and forth in the tavern, confused by the intensity of the heat emanating from your womb and by the constant moisture sabotaging your movements, the seventy-year-old man watches it all with a sly smile. Owner of a surgical knowledge on how hormones dictate the most intimate reactions, he decodes your clouded gaze, the flush of your cheeks, and the way your hips unconsciously seek proximity to him, knowing that your civilian biology is operating under a purely instinctive command that you are incapable of braking or understanding.
An older Shanks who lets his mind wander into dominant and possessive thoughts, imagining the deepest and most cellular reaction of your young anatomy. In the privacy of his thoughts, the former pirate visualizes your fertile and mature eggs, ready in the womb, reacting in a primitive and inevitable way to the overwhelming presence of a real, mature, and unquestionably virile man. He savors the certainty that your biology recognizes the physical and genetic superiority of his lineage, desperately desiring to be impregnated and filled by the vigor of that calloused body, justifying the erotic collapse that consumes you.
An older Shanks who uses this strategic knowledge to surround you during the days of maximum fertility, compounding the game of seduction and control. He knows that, during this hormonal peak, your defenses are completely destroyed and that your body clamors for submission; therefore, he makes a point of intensifying the accidental touches, the heavy hugs, and the deep whispers in your ear. Shanks manipulates his own mature virility to present himself as the ideal provider and breeder that your nature demands, ensuring that you feel entirely surrendered and vulnerable to the power of creation he carries in his hands â or, in his case, his single hand.
An older Shanks who makes a point of putting his own mature virility on constant display, using the heavy labor of the province as the perfect stage to disarm your senses. A man with the fortune and gold accumulated over decades at the top of the seas would not need to lift a single finger and could easily pay an entire fleet to work for him, but he prefers sweat and brute physical effort to shape public perception and, above all, capture your attention. Knowing that the winters on the island are rigorous and merciless, the former pirate disguises himself as a community benefactor and takes on the most brutal tasks in the region, ensuring that you watch every demonstration of power.
An older Shanks who goes into the freezing forests on the outskirts of the village and, using only the brute strength of his time-consolidated musculature, cuts down immense trees with thick trunks as if they were twigs. You watch from the window, your chest racing, as he walks back along the dirt road carrying the colossal wood over his single shoulder to supply his own home's firewood stock, displaying an absurd stamina for his seventy years. He personally hunts the most dangerous predators that threaten the livestock in the mountains and fishes for Sea Kings and monstrous fish on the island's cliffs, selling the meat at negligible prices to the residents to ensure no one goes hungry in the winter, establishing himself in everyone's mind as the ultimate protector of the community.
Older Shanks who works under the weak autumn sun with his shirt open, exposing his wide chest, his massive and calloused arms, and the sweat running down his rigid and scarred muscles. The vitality and imposing presence that this alpha male emanates act like a chemical discharge in your nervous system during your fertile period; upon seeing him provide for and protect the province with such ease, your primitive instinct ignores his age and sees only a powerful and healthy specimen. Your chest fills with an overwhelming admiration upon witnessing such generosity, causing your feelings for him to grow out of proportion with each passing day. Seeing the supposed charity of that mature man toward everyone in the village, taking care of the elderly and ensuring the livelihood of the weakest for the harsh winter ahead, completely melts your psychological defenses, sabotaging your mind and transforming the affection you feel for him into deep devotion.
Older Shanks who uses unpretentious conversations at the tavern counter to plant the seeds of domesticity in your mind, masking his ulterior motives under a tone of pure casual admiration. While savoring the rum you served, he observes your dexterity and your care in organizing the place and comments, in that deep and gentle voice, on how zealous and dedicated you are. With a sly smile and a gaze that seems to read your soul, he drops an casual compliment, saying that "the man who wins your heart will be very lucky" and that you "have the spirit and sweetness that would make any home perfect," subtly insinuating how flawless a wife you would be.
Older Shanks who takes advantage of the presence of children in the village to activate the deepest triggers of your biological clock, creating scenes of pure parental magnetism before you. Knowing that the province is a peaceful and isolated place, where the only big news and remarkable events are local births, the former Yonkou uses the fact that babies are the most celebrated, protected, and loved beings by the entire community to plant a true baby fever in you. He calls the little ones close, places them on his massive shoulders with his single arm, hands out sweets, and tells stories with a patience and charisma that enchant everyone around. While drawing laughs from other people's children, his eyes seek yours across the room; Shanks makes sure that you see the contrast between his brute strength and his capacity to protect and cherish a new life, subtly positioning himself as the ideal provider and breeder for the future he has already planned for you both.
Older Shanks who dictates hypothetical scenarios about the island's future during the moments he manages to corner you in a conversation alone, testing the limits of your self-control. He cruelly takes advantage of the fact that you are an orphan who never had a family, using your lonely past to leave you vulnerable and deeply starved for affection. In a gentle and relaxed voice, the mature man comments on how that village is the ideal setting to establish a firm home, whispering calculated words that make your mind imagine, with tearful eyes, that having a protective husband and children running through the house would satisfy and heal all the pains of loneliness you felt your whole life. As he speaks about the subject, he slowly leans in, letting the brute warmth of his chest surround your entire space, isolating you against the counter while implanting thoughts of pure domestic submission in your head.
Older Shanks who weaves compliments that seem to carry a casual purity, but hide an obscene double meaning tailored to destabilize your biology. With his eyes fixed on your hips and the curvature of your womb, he comments, in that deep and slow voice, that you have a strong and generous frame, perfect for welcoming the weight of life. He lets slip that you would be a wonderful mother and that you "would look beautiful if you were full, carrying a very round and heavy miracle in your womb," using terms that sound like mere admiration from an elderly gentleman, but make your chest fill with a burning desire to belong to him.
Older Shanks who watches your confused and embarrassed reaction with silent satisfaction, knowing perfectly well that he put you in a torturous psychological labyrinth. Since you are totally convinced that he is just a kind-hearted, innocent older man who already displays white hair in his beard, the guilt falls entirely on your shoulders; you see yourself as a hopeless pervert, feeling your face burn with remorse for distorting the kind words of that friendly "elder" and turning them into purely carnal and forbidden fantasies in your head, without noticing that your feelings for him grow out of proportion with each passing day in the face of his supposed charity.
Older Shanks who knows very well that his mental trap was an absolute success and that, while you punish yourself inside, your imagination has already been completely colonized by his audacity. The former Yonkou savors the moist gleam in your eyes and the trembling of your hands, aware that his game made your most primitive instinct fire. He reads your desperation perfectly and delights in knowing that, under the effect of those disguised compliments and the longing of a life without affection, your young body is already secretly visualizing the unthinkable: imagining your womb growing, inhabited by his children, and conceiving babies with the same red hair he carries, yearning for him to heal your loneliness and make you a mother.
Older Shanks who uses his own physical limitation in a cynical and calculated way, turning the lack of his left arm into the perfect excuse to bring you into his territory. With the approach of winter, already in the middle to the end of autumn, the temperatures in the province begin to drop aggressively, covering the mornings with a thin frost and a biting wind that chills the bones. Taking advantage of the hostile weather, the former Yonkou clasps his hands and begins to lament at the tavern counter, commenting with a tired countenance and a gentle sigh that the intense cold is leaving his body plagued by constant pain in his joints and old battle scars. Although this part of the physical suffering is real and the weight of his seventy years truly makes itself known in the freezing weather, he deliberately exaggerates the discomfort to make you pity his situation.
Older Shanks who feigns a touching vulnerability as he explains how much this bitterness in his joints has hindered the simplest tasks on his property, acting as if he were too weak to take care of himself. He looks at you with a false and captivating modesty, asking in a low voice if you couldn't visit him a few times a week at his house to help him prepare some warm homemade meals and organize the heavy wool clothes, since handling pots and thick fabrics with only one hand has become a painful challenge. The mature man makes the request knowing perfectly well that your compassion and affection for that "poor elder" would make you accept the invitation without hesitation, falling headfirst into the domestic trap he set to have you locked away alone with him.
Older Shanks who opens the doors of his property to you in the late afternoon, welcoming you with a grateful and tender smile that makes all your effort worthwhile under the cold autumn wind. Once inside that robust wooden house, a domestic and cozy atmosphere settles between you, isolating the outside world while you take over the care of his home. Moved by a pure devotion, you clean every corner of the space, sweeping the floor and dusting the rustic furniture with meticulous dedication, wanting to ensure that the older man has the maximum comfort possible during the merciless season.
Older Shanks who demonstrates a protective and almost paternal concern when supervising your chores, firmly refusing to let you use the cold water from the wells for the housework. He makes a point of leaving large cauldrons of water previously heated by the fireplace, ensuring that you wash his wool clothes and heavy blankets only with warm water, taking care so that your young hands do not get plagued by the frost of the emerging season. The former pirate watches in silence as you wring the fabrics, hang them near the heat of the fire, and, once dry, fold and store each piece in his closets, letting the scent of cleanliness permeate the environment.
Older Shanks who settles into the chair near the wood stove, closing his heavy eyelids to savor the aroma of the hearty Sea King and vegetable stews that you cook with so much care to feed him. The high point of that domestic and intimate routine happens when night falls and you sit beside him to apply medicinal ointments to the old scars covering his wide chest and missing arm. With trembling fingers and your face flushed by the proximity, you spread the ointment with extreme gentleness over the old battle marks, while he lets out low sighs of relief from the heat of the medicine soothing his aching joints, delighting to see you act like the mistress of that house and surrender completely to this role of a dedicated wife.
Older Shanks who begins to use pure cunning to extend your stay at his property as the day comes to an end, subtly creating situations perfectly calculated to delay your return. When the rustic wall clock warns that it is time for you to leave, the mature man lets out a heavy sigh and invents a last-minute need, pretending he forgot to store the heaviest logs of firewood near the fireplace or asking in a gentle voice for you to help him patch a thick quilt before total darkness covers the island. With flawless smooth talk and that tender look of someone who supposedly needs support, he plays with your compassion and manages to convince you in more than half of the attempts, offering the guest room and making you spend the night under his roof.
Older Shanks who savors the silent victory whenever he sees you accept the invitation and settle into the immense structure of his residence, which proves to be a true fortress of comfort compared to your reality. While your own house is a small space, devoid of luxuries, always cold and with the bare minimum necessary for an orphan's survival, the former Yonkou's property is spacious, perfectly insulated against the wind and warmed by a fireplace that never goes out, besides counting on pantries crammed with abundant food and prime meats. Letting you sleep there, wrapped in soft blankets and with a full stomach, is the perfect way the pirate found to accustom your body and your mind to the standard of living and protection that only he can offer.
Older Shanks who, however, bumps into your legitimate stubbornness on the times you firmly deny his pleas, aware that time is running against you. As tempting as the warmth of that house is, you force yourself to refuse because you urgently need to prepare your own dwelling for the imminent winter, a season that is so harsh on the island that when the true cold settles in, none of the residents dare to step outside until the period ends. The red hair man feigns disappointment and gentle understanding as he listens to you explain, with flushed cheeks, the vital importance of spending your days off stocking dried food, drinks, and firewood in your small room so as not to freeze or starve during the months of total isolation, secretly amused to see your desperation to ensure the survival of a home that he intends to make obsolete very soon.
Older Shanks who decides it is the ideal moment to corner you and raise the level of manipulation to definitive heights, aware that there are only a few days left before the start of the relentless winter. Knowing that the total isolation of the province is knocking on the door and that you will soon be locked away, the former Yonkou designs a surgical sensory trap inside his own territory. He calculates your steps with military precision as you move through the house performing domestic duties, waiting for the instant you gather the pile of clean clothes and walk toward the master bedroom â the largest, most spacious and imposing room on the property.
Older Shanks who uses his highly refined Observation Haki to monitor your every move through the walls, knowing with millimetric accuracy the exact second you cross the doorframe with your arms occupied, focused on folding and organizing his shirts in the dark wood closet. At the exact moment you are distracted by the work, the sound of water suddenly ceases. The mature man opens the door of the attached bathroom on purpose, allowing a puff of warm steam and the dense odor of soap and masculinity to invade the room, announcing his presence before you can even react.
Older Shanks who emerges completely naked under the faint light coming through the window, offering to your twenty years the overwhelming sight of the first cock you see in your entire life. Without any barrier or fabric to hide his anatomy, you stop dead in your tracks with wide eyes, letting one of the shirts slip through your fingers while your brain simply shuts down from the shock. The virility of that seventy-year-old warrior imposes itself in an intimidating and brutal way: the member is frighteningly large, thick, and marked by prominent, high-caliber veins that denote a vigorous circulation, hanging heavy and imposing above massive balls, which look visibly full and loaded with fertile semen.
Older Shanks who feigns an impeccable startle upon noticing your state of trance, acting with a theatrical and calculated modesty as he clumsily hurries to reach the towel with his single arm. He lets out a muffled, awkward laugh, apologizing in that gentle and deep voice that makes your chest tremble, lamenting the "embarrassing incident" and blaming his own distraction with the time. While he slowly covers himself, the pirate savors the psychological damage in your fixed eyes and the cold sweat breaking out on your skin, delighting to know that the detailed and pornographic image of that rustic nakedness was branded into your innocent mind, ensuring that your young body does not spend a moment without begging to be filled by that abundance.
Older Shanks who watches the exact moment when, after the "embarrassing incident," you leave the room in a hurry, apologizing with your voice completely choked up. In a desperate reflex of modesty, you close and cover your eyes with your trembling hands, shouting that you need to run downstairs to check the pot on the stove before the lunch burns, using cooking as an excuse to escape that overwhelming sight. With a silent, sly smile, the mature man just listens to the sound of your clumsy and fast steps echoing down the wooden staircase, delighting in the level of disturbance he planted in your system.
Older Shanks who dresses without haste and comes down to the kitchen minutes later, finding you in a state of near physical collapse before the wood stove. While stirring the dried meat stew with your eyes fixed on the pot, you rub one thigh against the other in a subtle way, trying to contain the persistent tingling and the severe trembling that took over your legs. Without making the slightest noise, the massive frame of the former Yonkou looms behind you; he corners you from behind, pressing his wide and robust chest directly against your backside, eliminating any space between your bodies. He leans his mature face close to your neck, pretending to be deeply interested in checking how the cooking is coming along, acting with a disconcerting naturalness while ignoring the fact that your breath hitched the instant you felt his masculinity pressing against your body.
Older Shanks who pulls away with a calculated calmness and settles into the chair, letting you breathe again, although your body remains in shock. With shaky hands, you force yourself to serve the steaming stew onto his plate, fighting so that the metal of the ladle does not clatter against the ceramic and expose your trembling state. Once his plate is full, you sit at the table right after, trying to act normally, but your physical state gives away that you are obviously affected by the overwhelming sight you had minutes ago. You keep your eyes fixed on the food, your cheeks burning in a bright red hue and your fingers squeezing your napkin under the table to hide the persistent trembling that still shocks your senses.
Older Shanks who, from the other side of the table, displays a gentle and impassive expression, pretending to notice absolutely nothing of your torment. The seventy-year-old pirate accepts the meal with a low thanks, proceeding to eat with a disconcerting tranquility while casually commenting, between one bite and another, about the local newspaper or the cold wind hitting the windows. The whole scene becomes the perfect definition of domesticity and comfort, the portrait of a long-time couple sharing a peaceful routine, hiding the fact that the silence you maintain conceals a young mind that was, for the first time in her life, introduced to the male anatomy and now simply could not stop thinking about it.
Older Shanks who tracks with surgical precision the drastic change in your behavior as the last days of autumn say goodbye and the beginning of winter covers the province with the first snowstorms. Knowing that this is the final act before you isolate yourself in your own humble house to spend the cold season, the former Yonkou intensifies the atmosphere of intimacy at his property, delighting to see that the image of his nakedness acted as a definitive trigger. Under the effect of that sight and the hormonal peak, you begin to operate unconsciously through a purely animal instinct of a female in heat, emanating a carnal longing so dense that you do not even realize that each of your gestures is a silent and desperate plea to be taken and bred by him.
Older Shanks who manipulates this primitive vulnerability, creating situations perfectly integrated into the domestic routine to test your level of submission. When you finish putting away the last pile of heavy sheets and he pulls you into a gentle embrace of "thanks" for the help, your body responds before your reason; dominated by the heat of his chest, you rub against the redhead's massive frame, pressing your sensitive breasts hard against the rigid muscles of his thorax, seeking the friction involuntarily while whispering his name softly, giving the seventy-year-old man total control over your rhythm.
Older Shanks who raises the control game by settling into the armchair near the fireplace and, in a supposedly platonic way, pulls you by the waist to sit on his lap under the excuse of "showing" you an engraving or a prominent news story in the newspaper. The instant your hips come into contact with the mature man's thick thighs, your animal instinct takes complete command; without realizing what you are doing, you begin to grind slowly and continuously over his pants, rubbing your damp and throbbing center directly against the rigid bulge, desperately seeking the blunt filling that your civilian biology so loudly clamors for.
Older Shanks who savors every involuntary contraction of your uterus and the sweet scent your skin begins to exhale in the middle of that spacious and warm room. He keeps one hand flat on your waist, pretending to read the lines on the paper with total calmness while his body serves as a support for your beginner desperation. The former Yonkou delights in the perfect trap: seeing you act like a female in heat inside his territory, begging for a copulation that your conscious mind still tries to hide, branding into your flesh that the only salvation for your loneliness and for the approaching harsh winter is to yield completely to the older man's unquestionable virility.
Older Shanks who tracks with a silent and predatory amusement the way you, without having the slightest awareness of what you are doing, begin to transform the most mundane tasks of his house routine into sensual invitations and into a veiled plea for marriage and reproduction. The former Yonkou, owner of a surgical experience over the female mind and body, decodes each of your gestures as you move through the spacious rooms of the property. To your young and innocent mind, you are just being a dedicated helper in the last days of autumn; to the animal instinct that now governs your biology, you are behaving like a female building the nest and offering herself to the alpha male of that territory.
Older Shanks who watches this unconscious surrender manifest at the moment you decide to make the immense bed in his master bedroom. As you stretch the sheets and fluff the heavy pillows, the warmth of the enclosed room and the rustic aroma of the seventy-year-old man embedded in the fabrics make your womb pulse; without realizing the audacity of the act, you lie on his mattress for a few seconds, burying your face in the pillow to inhale his scent, while sliding your body along the fabric in slow back-and-forth movements, molding your hips to the place where he sleeps. When he enters the room and catches you in the situation, you just stand up startled, with your cheeks burning, wiping cold sweat from your forehead while saying you were just "testing the softness to ensure he wouldn't have joint pain," without noticing that your hunched posture and the moist gleam in your eyes are the purest sign of a female in heat submitting to the wolf who owns the house.
Older Shanks who savors the peak of this domestic submission when you take over preparing dinner in the warm kitchen. While stirring the heavy cauldron of stew, you begin to verbalize your deepest thoughts out loud, commenting with a sweet smile and a dreamy look about how "that kitchen is perfect for feeding a large family" and how you "would love to cook like that every day for the rest of your life, ensuring he was always well-fed and strong in the winter." You utter the words caring for him as a wife would, without realizing that you are, in fact, begging to be wed and kept there. The seventy-year-old pirate approaches from behind to grab a glass of water, and your body reacts instantly to his magnetism: you arch your hips involuntarily, pressing your backside against his pants while offering a spoonful of the broth for him to taste, your lips half-open and your panting breath betraying that, beneath the facade of cooking, your organism is desperate to exchange the taste of the stew for the blunt and vigorous filling of his virility.
Older Shanks who watches with a dark and predatory fixation the exact moment when winter finally hits the province, bringing the first heavy snowstorm that begins to cover the windows with a thick layer of ice. On the last day of autumn, the atmosphere inside his spacious property hits the peak of domestic confinement, and he observes your animal instinct surface in such a violent way that you begin to literally and unconsciously "build a nest" around his house. Driven by the biological desperation of a female seeking shelter and protection before total isolation, you begin to gather the thickest wool quilts, animal pelts, and soft pillows from the guest rooms, dragging everything to the plush rug in front of the main room's fireplace, organizing the fabrics into a perfect, cozy, and warm circle, tailor-made to welcome lying bodies.
Older Shanks who encourages your nesting habit with a calculated compliance, feeding your trance by personally reaching for the heaviest and most fragrant blankets from the high closets with his single arm, handing them to you so that your nest becomes even more robust and inviting. However, behind the calm countenance and gentle smiles, the former Yonkou is getting deeply impatient â and, frankly, irritated â with the blind stubbornness of your mind. He sees the biological signs screaming on your skin: the sweet odor your body exhales, the moisture sabotaging your thighs, and the way you lie in the middle of that pile of fabrics looking at him with dilated pupils. But despite all the urgency of your flesh begging for submission, your civil and naive mind keeps ignoring the obvious, trapped in the denial that all of this is just a reflection of your "gratitude" toward him.
Older Shanks who feels his Haki waver on a fine line of pure discontent when, even with the snow falling thick outside and the wind howling against the walls, you stand up from the nest and insist, with your voice trembling from cold and determination, that you need to grab your things to go back to your own small house before the paths become completely blocked. Hearing you repeat that you must spend the harsh winter in your miserable and freezing room, just because your conscience refuses to yield and accept the role of his female, tests the absolute limits of that old warrior's self-control. The mature man stands up from the armchair, blocking the exit door with his massive and robust frame, his bloodshot eyes fixed on your small figure as his patience runs out completely in the face of your absurd refusal to accept the protection and blunt filling that his body is ready to impose on you.
Older Shanks who feels a dark and possessive fury burn his insides when, despite seeing all the snow accumulated outside, you still deny his gentle pleas to remain in the safety of the property. Hearing you stammer justifications about the danger of winter and the need to take care of your own space is the last straw for his patience; the former Yonkou watches, with narrowed eyes and his jaw locked in pure irritation, as you grab your visibly thin and worn-out coat, preparing to face the relentless snowstorm that just started. The audacity of your mind to ignore the clamor of your own body and his protection infuriates him, but the old pirate takes a deep breath, controlling his overwhelming Haki so as not to scare you ahead of time.
Older Shanks who pretends to accept your departure with a false resignation, saying goodbye with a calm nod and a paternal warning for you to be careful on the way. However, he is a legendary pirate, not an altar saint, and his strategic mind had already prepared for the possibility of your stubbornness winning that night. Hours before you arrived, the mature man had quietly sabotaged your small house and your few supplies; he used brute strength to tear off part of the roof tiles and destroy the stock of firewood and food you spent the autumn gathering, ensuring that the scene looked like the result of an attack by some large forest predator or from the initial weight of the snowstorm.
Older Shanks who tracks your steps relentlessly through Observation Haki, following your small figure in the middle of the white whirlpool that the road has become. It does not take long for you to realize the disaster: upon reaching your destination, you find your only refuge completely destroyed, freezing, and uninhabitable, leaving you isolated, panicked, and lost in the middle of the snowstorm that threatens to bury your body. The severe cold begins to cut through your skin through the thin coat, paralyzing your limbs and causing your vision to blur as the despair of freezing to death takes over your lonely chest.
Older Shanks who emerges like a true miracle in the midst of the freezing mist, "finding" you at the exact moment your body threatens to collapse onto the ice-covered ground. Feigning a genuine and desperate concern, the seventy-year-old man wraps your trembling frame with his single massive arm, pulling you against the brute warmth of his chest while cursing the weather. He laments the state of your destroyed house and, without giving you room to reason or deny, lifts your weakened body from the ground, covering you with his heavy cloak and carrying you back to the heated fortress of his property, delighting to know that, from that winter night on, you will never leave his nest again.
Older Shanks who locks the front door with a heavy and definitive slam, whose echo resounds through the hallway like the sound of a trap snapping shut. Outside the thick windows, the blizzard rages with overwhelming violence, making it clear that there is no longer any possibility of you leaving that property; winter has finally reached its full strength, blocking the roads with meters of snow and isolating the island completely for the next three months. Now, you and the former Yonkou must remain permanently confined in the spacious house, locked together in a forced intimacy while the outside world disappears beneath the white and freezing mantle.
Older Shanks who finds you sitting near the fireplace after your bath, still shaken and with your eyes fixed on the flames, silently mourning the loss of your little house that cost so much to build. With slow and silent steps, the red hair man approaches carrying a mug of hot drink and sits beside you, assuming a deeply consoling and gentle posture to disarm your sadness. He wraps your shoulders with his single massive arm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest while using that deep and slow voice to chase away your fears, saying that you must not cry over what the wind took and that material things can be rebuilt when spring arrives.
Older Shanks who looks deep into your eyes with a calculated tenderness, reassuring you with total casualness that he does not mind at all having you live with him during the entire winter. With a tender smile in his gray-speckled beard, he reinforces that his house is too big for just one man and that he has more than enough provisions to supply an army for months, pointing to the pantries filled with meats, grains, and barrels of good drink. The pirate pretends to be just a generous benefactor saving a helpless young woman, masterfully hiding the fact that he manipulated every detail of that psychological storm to trap you permanently by his side, aware that after three months of acting as his wife in that warm nest, you will never want to belong anywhere else.
Older Shanks who watches your emotional collapse from up close, knowing that you find yourself in the most vulnerable state of your entire life. Wrapped in the warmth of his living room, your chest overflows with an overwhelming and desperate gratitude for everything that mature man has done; you feel eternally in debt to him for rescuing you from a painful death in the ice, for opening the doors of his fortress to allow you to live with him during the three months of winter, and, above all, for risking his own life by going out in the middle of a relentless storm just to look for you in the darkness. This mixture of relief and total dependence shatters your last psychological barriers, leaving you completely surrendered at the mercy of his will.
Older Shanks who cruelly takes advantage of this extreme vulnerability to definitively mold you into the role of a wife, watching with satisfaction as you assume even more tasks that a housewife would have. Driven by an unconscious need to compensate for his generosity and to prove your value under that roof, you begin to manage the property with a blind devotion: you wake up before him to stoke the fire in the fireplaces, prepare breakfast with the prime ingredients from the pantry, clean the rooms meticulously, and sew his coats. You organize the house routine dictating the pace of the days by his side, without realizing that your mind and your hands already operate as if you were united to that man by a sacred matrimonial bond.
Older Shanks who raises the level of the predatory game by using his own body to biologically provoke you every second of this forced confinement. Knowing that the monstrous winter demands extreme care, the property always has its windows sealed, several thick rugs scattered across the floor, and fire lamps lit in every corner, serving both to illuminate and to radiate extra heat. Even with the fireplaces roaring non-stop, the island's merciless climate forces both of you to wear cold-weather clothes, but the former Yonkou takes advantage of this to move through the rooms wearing comfortable pants and purposely half-open coats, exposing the width of his calloused chest and the brute warmth emanating from his mature skin. Whenever you pass by him carrying your chores, he makes a point of subtly brushing his hip against yours, holding your waist with his single arm to "help" reach a high utensil, or pinning you against the counter under the excuse of praising the smell of the food.
Older Shanks who makes a point of emphasizing, in a subtle and calculated way, that the master bedroom â his â is by far the warmest, most comfortable, and secure room in the entire residence, a thermal fortress where the external cold simply cannot penetrate. During the long nights, while you have dinner or rest near the fire, he begins to guide the conversations to stir your deepest fantasies about marital life. As you are a girl who grew up in a countryside village on an isolated island, where the absolute consensus and cultural standard dictate that a woman's happiness is fulfilled in marriage and that children are the greatest blessing and joy possible, his words enter your mind like sacred truths. In that deep and slow voice, the seventy-year-old man describes perfect domestic scenarios, commenting on how rewarding it must be for a man to return to the arms of a dedicated wife and see strong children running across the rug of that very same living room.
Older Shanks who delights to see your young organism and your mind react instantly to these physical and psychological stimuli, knowing that the continuous proximity and the forced confinement are disarming the defense system you built your entire life. Under the effect of his paternal and protective magnetism, a whirlwind of unprecedented feelings begins to dictate the rhythm of your chest: it is an overwhelming mixture of genuine affection and a deep desire for surrender, colliding directly with your most primitive instinct for survival. Faced with the devastation of your old reality, the seventy-year-old man begins to show himself, in your eyes, as the only and definitive opportunity you have to truly survive and find peace in a world that has always been hostile.
Older Shanks who personifies, one by one, all the qualities you always dreamed of finding in a safe haven to finally escape the misery and loneliness of your orphan life. You clearly see the immense affection he shows for you â although your innocence still does not allow you to decode that this affection, in truth, is a romantic and obsessive feeling â, and you contrast it with the splendid house where you now live, a strong and welcoming property that in no way resembled your old small and broken home, which was more like a shack vulnerable to the wind. The veteran "sailor" possesses resources and money to spare to provide for your livelihood, ensuring that you never again need to work until physical exhaustion to get the bare minimum for the next day, as you did since childhood; furthermore, his health is so formidable and his vitality so brutal that he could easily live beyond a hundred years, eliminating your greatest secret dread of being left a widow, helpless and defenseless again. He would be, without a shadow of a doubt, the perfect father for the children you wish to bear.
Older Shanks who becomes the first man to break the barrier of your reason, since this is not the first time you consider marriage as a salvation strategy. Before being taken in by him, you used to make secret mental lists, coldly weighing which of the few suitors on the island would be the best option to pull you out of the poverty line, but with the older man everything changes: for the first time, the search for security is accompanied by a real passion and a deep respect. You remember, with bitterness in your chest, how the town citizens were kind, but only up to a certain point. No one ever stepped up to truly adopt you, no one cared to see a child working hard and living in a structure falling to pieces, and no one ever offered real provisions for the winter. The residents gave you only small amounts of money that barely bought the basics and limited portions of food, after all, no one wanted to share valuable resources in such an unstable period with a girl who might not even be alive after the cold season. They spoiled you with superficial words and kindness, but no one truly took care of you.
Older Shanks who tracks through Observation Haki the subtle yet profound change in your posture as he fills each of these historical gaps in your soul with surgical precision. He savors your total emotional submission the instant you nestle under the protection of his single arm, but the experienced pirate realizes that, by offering not only the heated roof and the abundant food, but the illusion of a mature love and an unshakable family structure, he captured your loyalty and your heart completely.
Older Shanks who manages to read the exact moment when a gear turns in your young mind and you make a secret decision: that you are going to "seduce" the former pirate to guarantee a marriage proposal and seal your fate there. The old man tracks the transition in your gaze, which stops being just cornered and grateful to adopt a timid and rehearsed determination, watching how you adjust your posture on his lap and try to use your few skills as a countryside girl to catch his attention. This sudden audacity immensely amuses the veteran pirate, who has to bite the inside of his cheek not to let out a loud laugh at the adorable irony of the situation; he finds it a true delight to see you piously believe that you are in control of the game and that you are going to hunt the wolf, totally oblivious to the fact that you fell into his trap a long time ago.
Older Shanks who maintains a perfectly innocent and compliant countenance, pretending to notice absolutely nothing of your attempts at seduction. With the experience of a man who has already sailed all the world's seas, the old pirate is secretly amused to see you rehearse apparently casual questions while cleaning the table or adjusting the fire lamps, questioning in a gentle voice if he ever had a wife in the past or how he dealt with loneliness on his voyages. He answers with vague comments and gentle smiles, watching with a predatory satisfaction when you gain the courage to throw more direct insinuations, arguing with flushed cheeks about how having a young wife, capable of bearing healthy and strong children, would be the best way for him to enjoy the rest of his life in the safety of that island.
Older Shanks who willingly accepts the way you get increasingly physically close, allowing your female instinct to dictate the rules of daily life inside the heated property. He imposes no barrier when you begin to surround him with sudden hugs from behind the armchair or when you insist, with a false tone of domestic authority, that he lay his graying head on your lap to rest near the fireplace. The former Yonkou closes his eyes and pretends to relax under the touch of your trembling fingers in his hair, delighting in the warmth of your young body and the sweet scent your skin exhales, knowing that each caress is a test you make to measure your impact on his senses.
Older Shanks who savors the peak of your veiled audacity at the moment you offer to help him put on his heavy winter shirt every morning. You approach with the fabric in hand and position yourself right before him, pressing almost your entire chest against the robust thorax of the older man, justifying with total seriousness that you are doing that only so as not to strain his single missing arm. While your shaky hands button the cloth very slowly near his neck, the veteran pirate keeps his gaze fixed on the top of your head, controlling his breath not to give away how much your mind is focused on the game. He loves the innocence behind your plan of conquest, allowing you to believe that you are entangling him in a web, while he just observes your total surrender to the role of legitimate companion of that home.
Older Shanks who tracks with a dark fixation the advance of the relentless winter outside, where the storms become massive, violent, and of an overwhelming cold that punishes the wooden walls of the property. The gusts of wind howl like beasts trying to break through the sealed windows, and the view of the white and freezing desert through the thick glass serves as a constant reminder that the outside world has died for you. This scenario of extreme isolation feeds your intimate desperation, pushing you into a state of constant excitement and physical urgency; the daily proximity to the massive frame of the seventy-year-old man sabotages your self-control, making the need to be taken by him a matter of biological survival and genuine passion.
Older Shanks who watches your change of tactics when you begin to engineer more direct advances, using every domestic chore as a blatant pretext to press your body against his. While dusting the furniture in the spacious living room, you make a point of stretching and bending right in his line of sight, letting the fabric of your cold-weather clothes trace the outline of your hips; when you go to replenish the firewood near the fireplace where he rests, you kneel right between the veteran pirate's thick legs, taking your time to organize the logs while subtly rubbing your back against his rigid knees, pretending to be focused only on the fire to mask the trembling of your panting breath.
Older Shanks who stands firm as a rock under the consented torture of these small touches, controlling his own Haki so as not to break his facade ahead of time. He observes how you use dinner preparation in the warm kitchen to intensify the game: when washing the dishes or cutting food, you ask for his help to hold the heaviest utensils with his single arm, taking advantage of the counter's reduced space to pin your backside directly against the imposing virility he hides under his pants. The sweet aroma your skin exhales from the heat of the stove invades the nostrils of the former Yonkou, who merely rests his chin near your neck to praise your domestic commitment, delighting in the silent desperation that makes your chest rise and fall in pure carnal trance.
Older Shanks who savors your growing audacity when, at the end of the night, you insist on massaging his wide shoulders to "relieve the tension of the cold," climbing onto the armchair behind him and pressing your breasts firmly against the warrior's nape and calloused back. The experienced pirate hears the subtle sound of your intimate fabric becoming uncomfortably damp as you lean over him, whispering bold questions about the warmth of his master bedroom and insinuating that the winter would be much more bearable if you shared the same sheets. He closes his eyes and lets out a gentle laugh, pretending to believe that you are just a helpful young woman taking care of your benefactor, extremely amused to see you beg for his possession under the excuse of merely fulfilling your role as a good tenant of the house.
Older Shanks who watches, with narrowed eyes and his jaw subtly locked, when you decide to prepare the evening bath in the property's wooden bathtub. Under the effect of the desperation and physical urgency caused by the monstrous winter, you attempt an even bolder move, throwing implicit invitations filled with ulterior motives for the seventy-year-old man to accompany you to the heated room. You comment, with a false shyness and a purposely gentle voice, about how the bathtub is too spacious for one person, or about how "it would be a shame to waste so much hot water" in such a harsh winter where resources must be saved
Older Shanks who denies your invitation with a calculated and irritating calmness, displaying a tender smile in his gray-speckled beard while refusing the offer just to torture you a bit more. He says, in that deep and slow voice, that he prefers to finish reading the newspaper near the fireplace and that you should enjoy the heat of the water to relax your body after the day's chores. However, the instant you close the bathroom door frustrated and needy, the former Yonkou sets the paper aside; he leans back in the armchair and begins to monitor your every move through Observation Haki, perfectly mapping the sound of the water stirring against the wood and the heat of your skin changing temperature as you rub your thighs under the steaming water.
Older Shanks who tracks with absolute precision the moment when the bath ends and you make the definitive decision to burn your last bridges of modesty. Through his spiritual perception and mastery of Observation Haki, the former pirate monitors every beat of your racing heart, the panting rhythm of your breath, and the temperature of your blood boiling from pure carnal need. The seventy-year-old man smiles shrewdly in the darkness of the room, feeling a deeply predatory satisfaction when he realizes that, upon crossing the bathroom door, your female animal instinct completely ignored the path to the guest room, guiding your trembling and silent steps straight into his territory.
Older Shanks who tracks the soft sound of your bare feet against the warm wood, moving with blind urgency toward the property's master bedroom â the warmest, most secure, and imposing room in the residence. He delights in noticing that your civil mind has finally collapsed under the weight of the winter and biological temptation, letting your flesh take complete command to seek the shelter and unquestionable virility of the master of the house. Knowing that you are already waiting for him among the heavy sheets of his bed, wearing only that damp towel and with your skin exhaling the sweet odor of heat, the veteran pirate slowly stands up from the armchair, preparing to enter the room and claim the total submission you tried so hard to disguise.
Older Shanks who enters his own quarters with a cynical slowness, coming across the sight he himself surgically engineered over months. You are standing beside his bed, clutching the fabric of the towel with fingers so trembling with excitement that you can barely stand firm on your own legs. The instant the experienced eyes of that man focus on your unarmed figure, your last barrier of dignity falls apart; you release the knot of the fabric and open the towel all at once in front of him, exposing your complete nakedness, your panting chest with rigid nipples, and your glistening center, soaked by the natural lubricant running down your thighs.
Older Shanks who watches your psychological collapse as you fall to your knees on the wooden floor, completely surrendered to the primitive instinct he awakened in your twenty-year-old biology. Taken by an overwhelming desperation, you raise your blurred gaze toward his massive frame and begin to beg tearfully, calling him "sir" with a choked voice while pouring out the most obscene words you kept in your chest. You beg for him to fuck you without mercy, clamoring for that mature man to use his calloused body to dominate you and breed you once and for all, surrendering your womb to his lineage.
Older Shanks who delights to see that, while you beg for his semen, your hands act on their own, starting a frenzied and shameless masturbation right before his eyes. One of your hands goes down feverishly toward your pulsing genitalia; your nimble fingers circle and massage the inflamed pearl of your clitoris with a pornographic urgency, desperately seeking the relief that your own touch cannot consolidate due to the blockage his presence imposed on your anatomy.
Older Shanks who observes the obscene contrast of your fingers digging into your own skin while your other hand goes up to your panting chest, pinching one of your nipples hard. You squeeze and pull the rigidly erect tip, groaning loudly with the double stimulus, totally oblivious to the outside world. The heat emanating from your womb is so dense and your excitement has reached such an unhealthy level that the natural lubricant runs in continuous streams down your fingers, dripping audibly and leaving damp, shiny marks across the wooden floor of his quarters.
Older Shanks who listens with a dark delight as you confess between sobs and groans filled with a desperate lust. With a trembling voice and a body exhausted from so much self-stimulation, you admit that, since the day you saw him naked in the hallway, the size and thickness of that cock became your only obsession, the forbidden image that haunts every second of your waking life. You reveal that this physical hunger is not new: it has been months since your mind has been haunted by vivid dreams and forbidden desires to be bred by him, to feel your womb filled by something so massive and unquestionably virile.
Older Shanks who keeps his bloodshot eyes fixed on every move of your soaked fingers, savoring the trail of your fertility dirtying his room. He watches you writhe on your knees, arching your back and offering the spectacle of your total physical degradation while you clamor for filling. Shanks feigns an impeccable moral shock before this display, but his mind registers with predatory pride that the juice of your youth is staining his floor, proving that you have been transformed into a perfect receptacle, entirely domesticated and ready to receive his virility.
Older Shanks who watches you writhe on your knees, exposing your total degradation while letting out confessions that burn the room's air. You cry, begging for permission to put your mouth on the rigidity of that experienced virility, to suck every inch of the flesh marked by high-caliber veins and to be bathed by the fertile semen that you know â with the instinctive certainty of a prey â he carries. Between broken pants, you admit that every public interaction, every "innocent" touch, and every time he called you a pretty girl at the tavern left your center completely soaked, your body vibrating with a longing that you could no longer name as anything other than a starving hunger for him.
Older Shanks who feels the absolute power he exercises over your biology upon hearing you admit that your resistance was just a useless torture. You beg, almost out of breath, confessing that you tried to fight against what you felt, trying to convince yourself that you were just a pervert who lost control near an older man, but that his virility is a force of nature against which you possess no defense. You accept yourself as a female in heat, entirely unarmed by the presence of that retired pirate, confessing that near him, your whole facade of an innocent civilian dissolves and only the primitive impulse remains to kneel and accept the total dominance of the man who molded you to be his.
Older Shanks who maintains his expression of scandal and moral confusion while savoring every word of your submission. He listens to your trembling voice echo through the dark room, exposing how your young mind was entirely colonized and enslaved by the biological need to be taken. While you remain at his feet, dripping fertility across the floor and pleading for his cock, Shanks delights in the fact that you did not just surrender, but that you begged for years of servitude. He savors your confession as the peak of his strategy: transforming an innocent girl into a creature that can no longer breathe, exist, or desire anything other than to be filled, dominated, and used as his personal receptacle of pleasure and creation.
Older Shanks who keeps his facade of moral superiority untouched, slightly raising his face with an expression of false disapproval that serves only to push you even deeper into your carnal desperation. In a slow voice and the tone of a mature and responsible man, he tries to deny your plea, dictating words of caution and saying that you are confused, that the storm and the night have affected your judgment, and that he, as an elderly and retired gentleman, should not be the target of such young and out-of-proportion lust. He pretends to subtly pull away, but his body positioning is purely calculated to keep you cornered exactly where he wants you.
Older Shanks who watches you completely ignore his false protests, using his staged denial as fuel to humiliate yourself even further at his feet. Still on your knees on the wooden floor, dragging your naked body, soaked in natural lubricant, across the dark boards, you advance toward the former Yonkou's robust legs. Between sobs and desperate pants, you begin to list your promises of domestic and biological servitude, swearing with all your soul how dedicated you will be to him, guaranteeing that your womb will always be ready, your pussy always wet, and your disposition always entirely focused on satisfying his virility like a flawless wife.
Older Shanks who feels the thermal shock and the moisture of your mouth when you finally reach your goal and press your face against his light pants. Without any formal authorization, driven by the instinct of a female in heat that he himself cultivated, you lean forward and place a eager and reverent kiss directly over his clothed erection. The touch of your trembling lips against the massive and rigid bulge of his cock makes the frame pulse beneath the fabric, exposing the density and size of the flesh you so highly covet, while you rub your cheeks and mouth against his virility, begging for the filling.
Older Shanks who lets slip a long, dense, and theatrical sigh, running his single hand over his face with an expression loaded with a false guilt, as if he were fighting an internal battle to resist your total degradation while intensely delighting in the spectacle. He looks down at you, still on your knees between his legs and with your mouth pressed against his pants, continuing to kiss and lick the contour of his rigidity through the cloth, feeling the brute warmth emanating from there. Under the dim light of the fire lamps, the former Yonkou dictates in a deep and falsely resigned voice that, faced with such insistence, he has no choice but to give in, questioning out loud, in a tone of pure sacrifice, what the island residents would say if they saw such a beautiful young woman devoted in this manner to an old man like him.
Older Shanks who pretends that accepting your biological surrender is a heavy burden, stating in a low tone that he is willing to take responsibility for your current state since, according to his narrative, it was he who "accidentally" corrupted such a pure girl with his mere rustic presence. The veteran pirate savors every inch of your voluntary humiliation, delighting in the fact that, under the excuse of "not being able to contain your perversion" in the face of the monstrous winter, he put you exactly in the position of absolute and animal submission that he designed for your future, transforming you into a needy creature completely dependent on his virility to survive.
Older Shanks who uses the brute strength of his single arm to interrupt your desperate worship, grabbing your arm and ripping you off the wooden floor without the slightest effort. He completely ignores your sharp whimpers and the instinctive protests of your body, which refuses to be pulled away â even for a brief second â from the rigid and massive bulge you were kissing with so much devotion. With a firm and precise movement, which demonstrates the frightening vigor hidden within that seventy-year-old frame, he lifts your naked body and throws you unceremoniously straight onto the mattress of his bed.
Older Shanks who watches you settle against the dark sheets, your gaze completely blurred and your limbs trembling from the impact of the fall and the anticipation of the filling. While you try to catch your breath, with your center glistening and your breasts panting uncontrollably, he positions himself at the edge of the bed, hovering over your figure like a massive and inevitable shadow. Shanks keeps his countenance serious and focused, sustaining the role of a mature man who is about to fulfill an inevitable "duty" to your biology, delighting to see that you curl up on the bed, entirely domesticated and ready for the erotic punishment he has planned.
Older Shanks who brings his hand to the drawstring of his pants with a torturing slowness, savoring the desperation in your eyes as you watch the beginning of your total surrender. The visual contrast could not be more hostile and asymmetrical: you are lying down, completely naked, exposed and defenseless on his sheets, while the former Yonkou remains almost fully clothed, sporting a rustic dominance that wide opens the implicit power dynamic and the absolute control he holds over the situation. He makes a point of locking a firm and heavy eye contact, making it clear that, from that instant on, your promise to be a good wife and a dedicated mother will begin to be collected through the rawest carnal submission.
Older Shanks who adopts a deeply paternalistic and cynical tone as he leans over your trembling body, using that gentle and slow voice you learned to respect in the village. He runs his calloused fingers through your hair and dictates, with a false benevolence, that you no longer need to cry or despair, because he, as the mature and responsible man in the relationship, will take care of everything; he guarantees that he will be gentle and that he will give exactly what your young and corrupted biology is begging to receive, sustaining the facade that he is only answering a call of charity with your longing.
Older Shanks who breaks all the staged calmness as he positions himself between your legs and, in a sadistic and calculated way, unloads his own anatomy into you all at once. Without any warning or slow preparation, he sinks his large, thick, and veiny cock to the root into your damp center, justifying the blunt act with a sarcastic comment, saying that you are already more than ready, since you spent the night fingering yourself and the floor of his room is living proof of how wet and receptive you are to his semen.
Older Shanks who begins a sequence of violent and deep thrusts, using his weight and massive build to dictate an overwhelming rhythm on the mattress. As a man who once held the title of Yonkou and possesses a colossal strength, he has to control himself in a surgical way, dosing his own vigor so as not to break your civilian frame or cause real physical damage, keeping the aggressiveness at the exact limit of erotic punishment. With each brute onslaught, the head of his cock smashes and fucks your cervix directly, making your body arch in pure shock and your eyes roll back before the pornographic impact of finally being filled and colonized by the breeder you so highly coveted.
Older Shanks who observes your total and absolute sensory annihilation under the impact of the brute thrusts, savoring the state of extreme hypersensitivity into which your young body has sunk. Your pussy is so exposed and punished by the friction of that thick flesh that you begin to squirt consecutively, spasm after spasm, flooding his member with your own juice with each deep onslaught. Your ability to process reality is completely destroyed by the pleasure; you are unable to formulate a single coherent thought or articulate any word, only managing to let out high-pitched, tearful, and disjointed groans while your mind dissolves in the heat of the room.
Older Shanks who takes advantage of your biological trance state and your total inability to reason to dictate gentle ironies and confess his true intentions in the twilight of the quarters. With his face pressed against your ear, while he continues to punish your cervix, he whispers in a cynical and paternalistic tone how much he amuses himself with your ingenuity, revealing in a mocking tone that he planned every detail of that scenario, from the fake pains in his arm to the catch in the hallway. He confesses, knowing that your stunned mind will not be able to register the gravity of the words, that you were molded exactly to be his toy and his receptacle for procreation, delighting in the fact that he is confessing his erotic crime to a mind that has already been completely shut down by the orgasm.
Older Shanks who fixes his bloodshot gaze on your face and comes across the ultimate representation of your total degradation and carnal dependence, seeing real hearts drawn in your dilated and clouded pupils. Under the exaggerated and feverish lens of that moment, your eyes roll back and express a purely pornographic and lascivious devotion, the reflection of a brain that was completely fried by the excess of pleasure and that now can only clamor for more submission. Shanks smiles darkly upon seeing your entirely surrendered expression, recognizing that your hormonal resistance was shattered and that you turned into a purely instinctive creature at his feet.
Older Shanks who reaches the peak of his fixation, conducting the act as a total and definitive occupation of your body. Driven by a brute and overwhelming instinct that ignores any barrier, the former Yonkou digs his massive hip against yours, forcing the entrance through your cervix to invade the deepest and most sacred zone of your anatomy with his imposing and veiny frame. Each final thrust is a rhythmic and heavy blow; his massive balls smash against your lower lips, already swollen and ultrasensitive from the continuous friction, creating a muffled and wet sound that echoes through the heated room as he imposes a predatory dominance over you.
Older Shanks who unloads his virility in a torrential and colossal eruption, operating under a logic of absolute fertility to once and for all seal your destiny as his legitimate wife. The red-haired man spurts an unreal and thick amount of hot semen straight inside your core, discharging the potent genetic load of a legendary warrior who survived entire eras. You feel your womb swell and physically expand as the absurd volume of that liquid floods every fold and fills every space of your intimacy, generating an internal pressure so dense and deep that your own biology collapses under the command of that strong lineage. At the peak of this blunt filling, the intensity of the overwhelming pleasure sabotages your reproductive system, causing your ovaries to release mature eggs at the exact millisecond of his ejaculation, ensuring your total conception in the physics of that perfect moment.
Older Shanks who knows that he turned the inside of your womb into a setting of pure microscopic dominance under a frenzied and obscene logic. The internal view is a pornographic and chaotic portrait of the very dynamic he established in the bedroom: Shanks's spermatozoa, endowed with an aggressive, thick, and overwhelming vitality, surround your helpless egg that was released in a surge of fertility. In a perfect parallel to the old pirate's trap, the thousands of red-haired gametes corner the innocent cell and begin to force their entrance, making rhythmic back-and-forth movements, rubbing and pushing against the membrane as if they were having sex in miniature, determined to violate and colonize that intimacy.
Older Shanks who keeps his member buried deep to the bottom of your uterus, serving as a massive plug that prevents any drop of the fertile semen from escaping while the biological battle takes place. You are lying down, with your mind completely shut down by the excess of orgasms and your eyes fixed on the ceiling, without having the slightest notion of the cellular obscenity occurring in your reproductive system. However, your body registers the violence of that creation; the friction of the spermatozoa hammering the wall of the egg sends thermal shocks directly to your nervous system, keeping your internal musculature contracted and sucking his veiny flesh in a continuous spasm.
Older Shanks who feels your young flesh lock around him in a violent convulsion at the exact millisecond the barrier is overcome. In the depth of your womb, the two most potent and bright spermatozoa manage to break the resistance and penetrate the egg all at once, impregnating your structure with the doubled genetic load of the red-haired man. At the exact instant of this fusion, a trigger of pure, purely instinctive pleasure fires down your spine, making you let out a sharp cry and collapse into yet another violent and involuntary orgasm right on his cock, bathing Shanks's rigidity with your lubricant while the conception is sealed.
Older Shanks who smiles naughtily upon feeling the stream of your delayed squirt crush his flesh, recognizing the physical sign that the egg has been duly colonized by his genetic load. He savors the way the walls of your uterus pulse and trap his virility in that desperate grip, perfectly aware that the first climax of your life was enough to leave you pregnant with his lineage. The retired pirate leans over your sweaty face, but instead of just watching your exhaustion, he takes advantage of the fact that you are totally brainless due to the excess of pleasure to dictate obscene and humiliating words right next to your ear.
Older Shanks who maintains the static and overwhelming power structure: he is leaning back against the pillows, while you are lying entirely over his torso, feeling the brute warmth of his flesh buried in your center. Your nakedness is pressed against the wide and calloused chest of the former Yonkou, who uses his only available hand â his right, strong, and calloused one â to grab your right breast with a cruel possession. He squeezes your breast with a rhythmic force, kneading it as if it were a stress ball while keeping your body trapped and tamed. The contrast is absolute: he, the red-haired predator, is in total control, while you are just the subjugated prey, exhausted and emptied of any remnant of rationality.
Older Shanks who leans in to place a surprisingly affectionate and paternalistic kiss upon your sweaty forehead, a gesture that distills a cynical sweetness, before beginning to whisper his mockeries. In a gentle voice, he comments on how vulgar and obscene you proved yourself to be by getting pregnant on the very first climax you ever had in your life, feeling your womb throb with the fertile load he sealed inside there. He laughs low against your skin, mocking your total inability to articulate a word or form a coherent thought, reminding you with brazenness that you are now, officially and permanently, the properly bred, marked, and filled female that you begged so hard to be your ruin.
Older Shanks who prepares his sadistic reward at the moment you seem about to float into the absolute void of post-pleasure. Without warning, he releases your right breast, but only to move his single hand in a precise and merciless strike: he delivers a sharp, audible slap straight to the inflamed pearl of your clitoris, at the very same second he thrusts his hips upward in one last brutal onslaught, burying his cock to the root in the depth of your deepest zone. The combination of the sharp pain from the slap with the overwhelming impact of the thrust against your cervix is too much for your nervous system: you let out a short groan, your eyes roll back, and your consciousness blacks out, plunging you into a deep faint caused by the shock of pleasure and extreme overstimulation.
Older Shanks who does not interrupt his predatory rhythm just because you passed out from exhaustion; on the contrary, the former Yonkou finds an even deeper pleasure in continuing his artwork with you unconscious. He adjusts your limp, inert body over the mattress and restarts a sequence of firm, deep, and measured thrusts, deciding to celebrate the biological victory that just took place in your womb. With each heavy onslaught that smashes your sleeping cervix, he silently celebrates the success of the red-haired spermatozoa that penetrated your innocent egg, consolidating the pregnancy on the very first time. The seventy-year-old man pushes his hips with a vigorous and rustic cadence, making his flesh work inside your relaxed intimacy and delighting in the wet sound of the friction while his fertile semen rests and spreads inside your uterus.
Older Shanks who, at the same time he keeps his massive body joined to yours, uses the fingers of his calloused hand to circle the pearl of your clitoris with surgical and constant precision. He continues to offer stimulus to the fainted female, observing your anatomy respond involuntarily with small, mechanical muscle tremors, even without any awareness on your part. The veteran pirate remembers with precision every word you cried and begged minutes ago when you were on your knees on the wooden floor; you surrendered your biology to him, begged to be taken, and gave absolute consent for him to do exactly whatever he wanted. Armed with this total surrender that you engraved in his mind, he feels entitled to continue using his receptacle, not caring whether you are awake or not to register the act.
Older Shanks who finally ceases his movements and observes your completely unconscious body over his chest, letting a sadistic and genuinely affectionate smile surface on his lips as he begins to caress your bare back with his robust fingers. In the warrior's experienced mind, he thinks of you with a deeply predatory and possessive affection, adopting the certainty that you are, from that winter night on, his private and definitive companion. The mature man runs his hand through your sweaty hair, fixing the strands with a cynical gentleness that contrasts with the rawness of the possession, savoring every second of that domestic and perverse scene. He feels an immense pride for having transformed such a beautiful young woman into a creature entirely domesticated and embraced by his virility, aware that, even while blacked out, your biology now belongs entirely to his territory and will work in the coming months only to nurture the life he planted there.
Older Shanks who ceases his movements after several thrusts, when he finally unloads the last and most massive wave of semen directly into your uterus, completing his artwork. The volume of liquid that the old pirate injected into you throughout the night reaches such an absurd and unreal proportion that it visibly deforms your external anatomy; looking down, he contemplates your lower belly completely swollen and rigid, displaying a rounded rise that instantly makes you look three months pregnant. Shanks withdraws his member with a wet pop, letting his true plug of semen overflow slightly down your thighs, as he savors the sight of your inflated belly, aware that your young body now carries the physical and undeniable weight of his offspring.
Older Shanks who leans back against the headboard of the bed with a cynical slowness, using his left arm to prop up his head while fixing his bloodshot eyes on the carnal destruction he caused to your body. The sight you offer on the messy sheets is the most absolute portrait of your total biological degradation. The seventy-year-old man savors every detail of the erotic havoc: your young, fair skin is entirely marked by a map of purple bruises, deep hickeys, and bites that he distributed to seal his possession over your flesh. Your breasts sport swollen, red nipples, punished by the brute and constant squeezing they suffered over hours of submission.
Older Shanks who lets his gaze drift down to the center of your sleeping silhouette, delighting in the deformation that his virility imposed on your anatomy. Your lower belly remains distinctly swollen and rounded, maintaining that tense and artificial rise that perfectly simulates a pregnancy of three months, maybe even four, the direct result of the absurd and unreal volume of semen he injected into the bottom of your uterus. Right below, your intimacy rests completely wide open and sore from pleasure, unable to close due to the thickness of the flesh that inhabited it; without his member to hold back the flood, the fertile, thick liquid overflows in a continuous, slow stream, dirtying your thighs and the mattress in a display of pure fertility.
Older Shanks who lets a muffled and dark laugh escape his lips as he contemplates the joke that destiny and his plan engineered for your life. The former Yonkou finds the absurd contrast of that transition genuinely fascinating: the irony that you entered his quarters a few hours ago as a timid young woman, clutching a towel with trembling fingers, but will leave that bed transformed into his future wife â a woman irrevocably pregnant and entirely domesticated by his possession forever. He contemplates your unconscious figure, savoring the absolute certainty that when the sun rises the next day, your previous reality as a helpless, orphan girl will be completely destroyed.
Older Shanks who decides it is time to withdraw his own body for rest after such a vigorous night, after all, he is already a seventy-year-old man and feels the weight of age claim its price. With a possessive slowness, the veteran pirate settles back into the messy sheets and pulls your limp, naked silhouette close to him, wrapping your waist with his single strong and calloused arm to lock you under the custody of his embrace. He nestles you against his wide and robust chest, completely ignoring the mess between your legs and the moisture spreading across the bed, where the abundant semen begins to cool and turn sticky on the fabric around your bodies.
Older Shanks who knows perfectly well that the correct thing to do would be to wake you up now to take a bath and change the dirty sheets, but the satisfaction of the conquest speaks much louder in the warrior's mind. He looks at your sleeping face and decides that the bath and the cleaning of the property can perfectly wait until later; at the moment, all that matters is savoring that scene of absolute victory and the scent of his fertility that dominates the environment. He closes his eyes, delighting in the feeling of having you finally colonized and protected under his dominance during the next three months of winter.
Older Shanks who lets his mind wander over the future of the lineage he just locked inside your womb as sleep approaches. While he listens to your short breath of a newly fertilized pregnant woman, he begins to mentally list the possible names he wishes to give to the red-haired heirs that are already beginning to develop in your biology; thoughts of Roger, Rayleigh, Benn, Buggy, Gaban, and many others echo in the mind of the old pirate, who savors the glory of naming the new generation after the legends that molded the era of the seas.
Older Shanks who lets out a slight smile in the darkness of the quarters as he realizes that that list of tributes is too extensive for the babies your womb is generating right now. With the paternalistic cynicism that is peculiar to him, he finds the perfect and definitive solution to the impasse: he concludes that the only viable way out is to get you pregnant repeatedly, year after year, using your youth and your enslaved fertility to give birth consecutively until he manages to exhaust all the names on his list, falling asleep deeply satisfied for having transformed your life into an eternal cycle of maternity and submission to his virility.
END
Sorry for disappearing, I was kind of sad.
I failed a group project in college because of a damn old lady who's more childish than a kindergartener, and I failed my driving test
(actually, it wasn't exactly failing; I didn't take the test because I forgot my documents and the instructor didn't want to wait 10 minutes to upload the digital version to my phone).
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Annabeth Chase and how badly the fandom mischaracterizes her
I need to rant about Annabeth Chase and how badly the fandom misunderstands her, turning her into an abusive girlfriend, a bad friend, or some kind of mean girl, when that reading completely ignores both canon and context.
First of all, people constantly brush past the fact that Annabeth comes from an abusive home just because her abuse wasnât physical. Emotional neglect, emotional manipulation, and abandonment are still abuse. Abuse doesnât only count when there are bruises, and itâs honestly alarming how often the fandom acts like Annabethâs childhood âdoesnât countâ because no one hit her.
Now letâs address the most overused accusation: that Annabeth is abusive because she judo-flipped Percy.
Percy laughed. He was fine. He wasnât hurt. If anything, he was exactly where he wanted to be. These are demigods, physically stronger, more durable, and more used to combat than mortals. A playful judo flip between two trained fighters is not abuse. Treating it as such ignores both the tone of the scene and Percyâs actual reaction.
What makes this argument even more ridiculous is that both Annabeth and Percy were abused as children. What exactly makes people think two people who understand trauma firsthand would turn around and deliberately abuse each other? Percy is not scared of Annabeth. He trusts her completely. And Annabeth has never once tried to control or harm him.
The second major claim people use to paint Annabeth as a bad person is that she mistreated both Rachel and Percy, especially during The Battle of the Labyrinth.
Was Annabeth being mean at times? Yes. But context matters.
From Annabethâs perspective, she had finally been given her own quest, something she had wanted since the day she arrived at camp. This quest wasnât just about glory, it was about proving herself. Annabeth genuinely believed that if she succeeded, Athena would finally love her and acknowledge her.
Then a mortal shows up and essentially starts leading the quest.
Of course Annabeth reacts badly. Her fatal flaw is hubris. She wants control. She wants to be the one who earns it. And suddenly she feels replaced by someone who represents everything she thinks she lacks: normalcy, ease, a life without gods watching her every move.
Thatâs why she lashes out at Rachel in TBL. Itâs not because sheâs cruel, itâs because sheâs insecure, scared, and prideful in the exact way canon tells us she is.
And yet the fandom treats this like an unforgivable moral failing.
Percy has been rude, dismissive, and outright mean throughout the series, but those moments are brushed off as âsassâ or âteenage behavior.â The moment Annabeth shows the same flaws, sheâs labeled abusive, toxic, or irredeemable.
That double standard isnât subtle.
Another thing the fandom loves to ignore is how Annabeth is punished for traits that are celebrated in male characters especially intelligence, control, and ambition.
Annabeth is strategic, assertive, and decisive. She plans. She takes charge. She doesnât wait around to be rescued. And the fandom constantly twists those traits into something negative. Sheâs âcontrolling.â Sheâs âbossy.â Sheâs âcold.â Somehow, being competent becomes a moral flaw when itâs Annabeth.
Percy does the same things, arguably worse at times. He ignores plans, makes reckless calls, snaps at people when heâs overwhelmed, and acts on emotion. And the fandom adores him for it. Heâs âiconic.â Heâs âchaotic good.â Heâs âjust a teenage boy.â
Annabeth does it, and suddenly sheâs toxic.
This especially shows in how the fandom frames her relationship with Percy. Any moment where Annabeth gets frustrated, jealous, or emotionally guarded is blown out of proportion and used as âproofâ that sheâs a bad girlfriend. Meanwhile, Percyâs jealousy, emotional withdrawal, or bluntness is treated as understandable or even romantic.
Annabeth is expected to be endlessly patient, endlessly understanding, endlessly soft, despite the fact that she grew up unwanted, emotionally neglected, and constantly trying to earn love that was withheld from her. The fact that she struggles with vulnerability makes sense. The fact that she doesnât communicate perfectly makes sense. Sheâs a traumatized teenager, not a relationship therapist.
And then thereâs the Rachel issue.
The fandom loves to pit Annabeth and Rachel against each other as if one of them has to be the villain. Annabeth is framed as jealous and cruel. But that framing ignores the reality of the situation entirely.
Rachel didnât do anything wrong but Annabethâs feelings were still valid.
Annabeth wasnât just dealing with jealousy over Percy. She was dealing with the fear of being replaceable. Replaceable on her quest. Replaceable in Percyâs life. Replaceable in the eyes of the gods. Rachel wasnât the cause of that fear, she was the trigger that exposed it.
And instead of letting Annabeth be a flawed teenage girl processing insecurity, the fandom turns her into a mean girl stereotype. Her growth gets ignored. Her self-awareness gets ignored. The fact that she does mature, apologize, and change gets brushed aside because the fandom prefers a static villain to a complicated character.
What really frustrates me is how often people say Annabeth is âemotionally abusiveâ when she argues with Percy.
Arguing is not abuse. Jealousy is not abuse. Being imperfect under stress is not abuse.
If anything, Annabeth consistently pushes Percy to survive. To think. To plan. To take responsibility. She challenges him because she believes in him, not because she wants to control him. Percy himself says, again and again, that Annabeth is the one he trusts most. The one who understands him. The one who grounds him.
And yet the fandom rewrites their dynamic to fit a narrative where Annabeth is the problem.
Because a girl who is angry, brilliant, proud, and traumatized is far easier to villainize than a boy who gets to be reckless and loved anyway.
And thatâs not about Annabethâs behavior.
Thatâs about what the fandom is uncomfortable seeing in girls.
Another layer to this is how the fandom infantilizes Percy while adultifying Annabeth, and then uses that imbalance to paint her as cruel.
Percy is constantly treated like he doesnât know whatâs happening. Heâs framed as innocent, confused, âjust trying his best,â even in moments where he actively makes choices that hurt people. The fandom bends over backward to protect him from accountability by insisting he âdidnât mean itâ or âdidnât understand.â
Annabeth doesnât get that grace.
Sheâs treated like she should always know better. Like she should be more mature, more patient, more emotionally intelligent, despite being the same age and carrying just as much trauma. In fact, sheâs expected to be more composed precisely because sheâs smart, which is a deeply unfair standard.
Smart girls arenât allowed to be messy.
So when Annabeth snaps, itâs labeled abusive. When Percy snaps, itâs labeled stress.
When Annabeth is jealous, itâs toxic. When Percy is jealous, itâs romantic.
When Annabeth wants control, itâs manipulative. When Percy wants control, itâs leadership.
That double standard doesnât come from the text, it comes from the fandom expectations.
And itâs especially visible in how people rewrite Annabethâs tone. Her sarcasm becomes cruelty. Her defensiveness becomes malice. Her confidence becomes arrogance. Small moments get magnified, stripped of context, and used as âevidenceâ that sheâs a bad person.
Meanwhile, Percyâs worst moments are treated like footnotes.
And the abuse accusations are honestly the most disturbing part.
Throwing the word âabusiveâ at a traumatized teenage girl because she: argues with her boyfriend, struggles with jealousy, doesnât communicate perfectly, reacts badly under pressure
isnât just wrong, itâs reckless.
It cheapens what abuse actually is, and it punishes female characters for being human. Annabeth never isolates Percy. She never controls his relationships. She never threatens him. She never makes him afraid. She never undermines his autonomy. Those are the markers of abuse and Annabeth exhibits none of them.
What she does do is grow.
She learns to let go of control. She learns to trust. She learns to share space with others.
But the fandom rarely lets her have that arc, because acknowledging her growth would mean admitting she was never the villain to begin with.
Annabeth Chase is not abusive. She is not cruel. She is not a bad girlfriend.
She is a traumatized, brilliant, prideful teenage girl navigating war, abandonment, and impossible expectations and the fandom punishes her for surviving loudly instead of quietly.
And the fact that this happens over and over again to female characters should bother people far more than it does.
Now letâs talk about Luke, because a lot of people love to hate Annabeth for believing she could save him and for defending him after his betrayal.
And honestly? That criticism completely ignores who Luke actually was to her.
Luke wasnât just her crush. Luke was her family.
He was the person who took her in when she was seven years old. He was the one who protected her on the run. He was the one who fed her, kept her alive, and made her feel wanted when she had just lost everything. Alongside Thalia, Luke was the first person to show Annabeth genuine love after she ran away from home.
And people love to reduce all of that to âshe had a crush on him.â
That framing drives me insane.
Annabeth did have a crush on Luke when she was younger, thatâs canon. But people act like thatâs the only reason she cared about him, which is not only wrong but wildly dismissive of her trauma. Annabeth stopped having a crush on Luke the moment he betrayed them. Itâs not spelled out in neon letters, but anyone actually paying attention can tell that whatever romantic feelings she once had were gone by book two.
What stayed wasnât a crush. What stayed was grief.
Luke helped raise her. He was her protector. One of the only people she trusted in a world that had repeatedly proven unsafe. When Annabeth ran away at seven, it wasnât just because spiders were attacking her at night and her father didnât believe her, though that alone is horrific. It was also because her dad had already moved on. He had a new wife. New kids. A new life that made Annabeth feel unwanted and replaceable.
Luke was the opposite of that. He stayed. He chose her. He made space for her.
So when the fandom says Annabeth defended Luke âbecause she liked him,â it completely erases the fact that she was defending someone who had been her family, her caregiver, her home.
And we need to remember something else: we experience the first five books almost entirely from Percyâs perspective.
Percyâs hatred of Luke is completely reasonable. Luke tried to kill him. Betrayed him. Manipulated him. Percy knew Luke for a few weeks maybe a month before that betrayal. The wound was deep, but the relationship was short.
Now imagine being Annabeth.
Imagine watching the person who raised you, who protected you when you were a literal child, slowly become someone you donât recognize. Imagine being torn between what heâs done and who he was. Imagine carrying years of shared history, love, and survival that everyone else around you simply doesnât have.
Of course she believes he can be saved. Of course she clings to the idea that he isnât fully gone. That doesnât make her naĂŻve. It makes her human.
And to put it into perspective: if someone like Tyson had betrayed them by book five, Percy would still feel furious and devastated but he would absolutely defend Tyson. He would try to save him. He would refuse to give up on him, no matter what anyone else said.
No one would call Percy weak for that. No one would accuse him of being blinded by emotion.
But Annabeth does the same thing, and suddenly sheâs stupid. Or selfish. Or âletting her crush cloud her judgment.â
That difference in reaction says everything.
Annabeth isnât excusing Lukeâs actions. She isnât unaware of the harm heâs caused. Sheâs holding onto the belief that the boy who raised her still exists somewhere underneath the monster he became and that belief comes from years of love, not romantic delusion.
The fandom doesnât want to acknowledge that, because it complicates the narrative. It forces people to sit with grief, loyalty, and impossible choices instead of labeling Annabeth as irrational and moving on.
And once again, a traumatized teenage girl is punished for refusing to emotionally detach from someone who was her family.
At the end of the day, Annabethâs belief that Luke could be saved wasnât weakness, stupidity, or romantic delusion. It was love, the kind that doesnât disappear just because someone does something unforgivable.
The fandom wants clean lines. Heroes who cut ties instantly. Villains who deserve abandonment. But real trauma doesnât work like that, and neither do real relationships. You donât stop caring about someone who raised you just because they become someone terrible. You grieve them while theyâre still alive. You hold onto hope because letting go feels like losing the last piece of your childhood.
Annabeth didnât defend Luke because she didnât understand what he did. She defended him because she understood exactly who he used to be.
And in the end, she wasnât wrong.
Luke was still in there. He did choose to do the right thing eventually. That doesnât erase the harm he caused but it does prove that Annabethâs faith wasnât naive. It was painfully earned.
What the fandom consistently fails to grasp is that Annabethâs arc is about learning when to let go without denying love ever existed. She doesnât excuse Luke. She doesnât absolve him. She mourns him. And that distinction matters.
Reducing her grief to âshe had a crushâ is not only inaccurate, itâs cruel.
It erases: Her abandonment trauma, her found family, her emotional loyalty, her growth
Annabeth Chase is not abusive. She is not cruel. She is not blinded by love.
She is a survivor who loved deeply, lost painfully, and still chose to hope when it wouldâve been easier to harden her heart.
And the fact that the fandom so often punishes her for that says far more about how we treat complex female characters than it ever does about Annabeth herself.
