#Shanks? nah what a jerk what a— [trips] [hundreds of thousands of photos of Shanks spill out of jacket]

[missmungoe]

Are you implying that Shanks took a nice picture of himself and sent it to the marines so that it could be his bounty picture?!

(credit to the lovely @winterwitchery for supplementing this idea by suggesting they had a navy photographer, er, “assist” them)

“I just don’t feel like this angle does me justice.”

The sighing remark was accompanied by raking his fingers through his hair, before he stopped, an idea having struck, and, “Does my hair look better this way?” Shanks asked. “I’m going for ‘roguishly unkempt’, like I’ve just woken up and I’m a bit bashful for looking so good, but I also can’t help it? Do you see where I’m going with this?”

The navy photographer holding the camera shot him an imploring glance, before nervously side-eyeing the pirates around him. Even the Den Den Mushi in his hands looked like it would rather be elsewhere. “Look, I just want to go ho―”

“I think you should go for a profile shot,” Yasopp said, clapping a hand on the lad’s shoulder, making him jump, and nearly fumble his camera in the process.

“But that would only feature half of my face!” Shanks pointed out with a pout, and a furious gesture at the face in question.

“Then do a full headshot, from the neck and up. Eye-level, no fuss.”

“No fuss?” Shanks asked, visibly offended, before whispering, “Do you know me at all?”

“A low angle?” Ben suggested, smiling around his cigarette at the look his captain shot him.

“Wash your mouth, you mutinous heathen. No one looks good from a low angle.”

“Here I’d think you’d just take that as a challenge, Boss,” Yasopp chirped. Shanks just pointed a finger at him.

Then, “What do you think?” Shanks asked the photographer, who seized up when all the faces in his crew turned to look at him. For a brief moment, he regretted not having taken over the family farm like his mother had wanted.

“I think I’m not being paid enough for this,” he muttered.

“No one is keeping you,” Shanks said breezily. He wore his most innocent expression; the one that usually got his wife to cave whenever he pushed the limits of her endless patience. “You’re free to leave whenever, if you feel like you’re proud of the work you’ve done today. Can you look at these photos and say ‘this is a reflection of my true skill’?”

The photographer stared at him, then at the crew around them, observing with grins that usually sent most rookies running in the opposite direction. Shanks had to hand it to the lad: he’d lasted much longer than the last guy who’d shown up asking to take his photograph, whose patience had run out after his third request for a re-shoot.

Then, and with a fearlessness that ought to at least warrant a pay raise, “Fine,” he said fiercely, lifting the camera, before announcing to his crew, “We’re doing some more headshots. Someone crank up the wind machine!”

Shanks beamed. “That’s the spirit! Oh, and try not to make it look like a mugshot? I’m a pirate, not some common delinquent.”

“This is for your wanted poster, Boss,” Yasopp pointed out.

“Exactly, and I want it to look like I’m wanted for being so criminally good-looking. Did you see Kaidou’s latest? He just looks tired and angry. Then again, that’s like the full range of emotion that guy has, so maybe it’s spot on.”

“Focus!” snapped the photographer, and Shanks snapped to attention.

“Jeez,” he muttered, even as he straightened. “You’ve got moxie, I’ll give you that. Hey, wanna join my crew? Also, is this sufficiently rakish or should I amp up the heat a bit? I was once described as ‘sex on two legs’, and I’d really like that to transfer. If they’re going to be slapping this one a noticeboard in New Marineford, I’d like to make everyone attending that meeting uncomfortably turned on. Which reminds me―how are my lips? I want them to be pouty but not too pouty.”

“A bit more pout. And keep your chin level, but look down. Like that, but a little more to the side. Like you’re thinking about something.”

“Anything in particular?”

“I don’t know, what’s on your mind most often these days?”

It was a feat keeping his mouth from stretching in a smile, but the shift in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

“Might want to tone down the bedroom eyes, Boss,” Yasopp remarked with a grin, followed by a wolf whistle from someone in the crowd. The photographer glanced up, visibly confused. “Unless you really want to make those meetings uncomfortable. Garp attends those, I hope you remember.”

Flipping him off, Shanks kept his gaze lowered, angled slightly to the left. “I want them to wonder ‘how does his hair look so dastardly good?’ Speaking of―Yasopp?”

“I don’t think I’m being paid enough for this,” Yasopp sighed, but still complied, flipping the switch on the wind machine. Two of the others moved in to keep his cloak from flapping in his face. A third sprinkled water on his chest.

Ben considered the spectacle, then said to the photographer, “You can still make a run for it. Saying you narrowly escaped with your life wouldn’t be far from the truth.”

Shanks ignored him. “Should I lose the shirt? My pecs are responsible for adding a whole zero to my bounty. Would be a shame to leave them out.”

The photographer looked up from behind his camera. “I thought that was just a rumour.”

Brows raised, Shanks just gestured to his chest, as though to say rumour? please.

Ben shook his head, although didn’t deny the claim.

“I know someone who’d love a photograph of you with your shirt off, Boss,” Yasopp said then, grinning. “And isn’t your anniversary coming up?”

His whole face alighted at the mention, shattering the pensive expression he’d been maintaining, and his grin so wide it almost made the photographer take a step back.

“Hey, before we finish up, I just have one last request.”

.

.

The envelope arrived on her doorstep first thing in the morning, unmarked and with no return address.

Perplexed but admittedly curious, she pulled the straps off the heavy manila folder, withdrawing the contents, a series of glossy photographs, which had her brows lifting, before she turned them over, her eyes drawn first to the rumpled sheets of a familiar bunk, then an even more familiar trail of dark hair, before she promptly choked on her tongue, causing every patron in her bar to look towards her.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Makino?” asked one curiously, as she scrambled to keep the raunchy photographs from scattering across the floor.

“N-nothing!”