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thus-spoke-lo · 5 days ago

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Something Old, Something New // Shanks x afab!reader NSFW/18+ [minors DNI] // WC: 4.2k

A/N: Modern AU. Written for @/scarletletteropzine [download the free digital zine here], and best enjoyed with @/anaquariusfox's gorgeous art!

CW: afab!reader [no pronouns used]; reader wears a dress; alcohol use; oral sex, fingering [reader receiving]

The room around you buzzes with joyful noise, excited talking and laughter mixed with Top 40 radio hits that you only sort of recognize from car commercials. Your table is empty now, the other guests having abandoned their dinner plates and near-empty wine glasses as they hit the open bar for a fresh beverage and filter onto the dance floor. The happy couple embraces at the center of the crowd, exchanging tearful smiles as the lighting softens and they share their first dance.

They look good together, you think as you stand from your chair and stretch—the same thing you’d thought about Benn and the last two wives you’d watched him wed. They’ll look good together until they don’t anymore, until she gets fed up with long stretches of absences while he’s at sea, until he gets tired of cold meals and even colder stares over the breakfast table. It was hard not to be something of a skeptic when it came to marriage, given that you were well-acquainted with Benn and the others who ran the Red-Hair Pirates Commercial Fishers, the most chronically divorced group of men you’d ever met—save for their owner and “captain,” Shanks.

He was a man you’d never officially shaken hands with but whose name was stamped at the bottom of your paychecks during the years you’d spent balancing their books, and whose wide grin and sparkling eyes had flustered you plenty of times from afar when you’d march down to the docks to gripe at Benn about another customer refusing to settle their invoices. Shanks was a confirmed bachelor by all accounts, a roguish sort who you understood enjoyed drinking and flirting and carousing with his friends a little too much, and who, you could only assume, must recognize that a life at sea was perhaps not the most conducive to forming long-lasting romantic relationships.

But if there was one thing you could be certain that Shanks was committed to, it was having a good time.

You saw him in passing year after year, wedding after wedding, long after your tenure as the Red-Hair Pirates’ accountant had ended. You often found your gaze drifting towards him in the dim light of rented halls and hotel ballrooms, trying to catch his eye but artfully dodging his glances when he finally did set eyes on you. Surely, he wouldn’t remember you anyway, even if you did manage to strike up a conversation—you’d spent most of your employment squirreled away in the small office above their friend Makino’s bar, and even when issues arose, you primarily dealt with Benn.

You’d somehow never managed more than a friendly smile as you orbited each other at one wedding after another, even if all you wanted was to be pulled in by his gravity. Something always drew you to him—perhaps it was the air of calm that seemed to surround him, or the way his deep voice and booming laugh echoed in your chest during every one of his inevitably delightful (and borderline inappropriate) wedding toasts. Or perhaps it was that he was perfect for you to observe and appreciate from afar, protecting yourself from the potential disappointment of chasing after someone who would only end up slipping through your fingers.

Tonight, however—tonight would be the night you would say something, anything, to the man who’d been roaming through your thoughts off and on for years.

You stand in line at the bar, shifting from foot to foot as the stranger in front of you hems and haws over her choice of wine, and stare off towards the back corner of the room where Shanks sits with a bottle of beer in his hand, smiling at everyone and no one, a few locks of his crimson hair falling perfectly against his cheekbone. As you mumble your order to the bartender—something strong over ice, you don’t quite care what—you suddenly realize that Shanks is waving at you through a parting in the crowd.

Or at least, you think he’s waving at you (you’re already dreading the absolute humiliation over the possibility he’s actually waving at someone standing just a hair behind you and you’re that person that waves back), so you awkwardly point at your chest and mouth, Me? Shanks nods, slowly and exaggeratedly, mouthing back You in such a firm and clear way that it sends a spark down your spine. You quickly grab your drink from the bartender, downing a sip for good luck, and meander your way through the room.

“Hey, how are you?” you ask nervously as you come to a stop at Shanks’ table, adding a stilted little wave of your hand. Instantly, you regret not spending the walk over thinking of a better opener.

“Couldn’t be better,” he beams, speaking just low enough to make you lean in to hear him clearly—intentional, you’re certain of it, but you don’t mind a damned bit. “Care to join me?”

You nod, sliding into the seat beside him, resting your chin in your hand and trying not to let your gaze linger on his sharp features or the way his suit seems to perfectly cling to every muscle and every angle of his torso too long. “Oh, sorry, I should introduce myself, huh?”

“No need,” he says, your name dripping from his tongue like honey. “I remember you from back in the day. Please tell me you remember me, too.”

“Of course, Shanks—you signed all my paychecks.” You swirl the whiskey around in your glass, the melting ice making delicate clink-clink sounds, before blurting, “So tell me—does your, ah…does your wife not like coming to these things?”

He raises an eyebrow as he brings the bottle of beer to his lips. “Don’t have a wife.”

“Oh, sorry. Girlfriend, then.” You already damn well know he’s unattached—or at least, you have your suspicions from hearing enough tittering gossip between some of the other attendees—but you need to hear it from his lips before you’ll let yourself get more invested. No sense in spending your energy toying with a man who might only be reciprocating out of polite pity.

Shanks laughs—it’s low and it’s warm and it makes a knot form in your core. “You know, you can just ask me if I’m single, right?”

A deep heat rises in your cheeks—subtlety had never been one of your strengths, not sober and certainly not with the fiery burn of liquid courage coursing through your veins. “Well, I suppose if I must be blunt about it—are you seeing anyone?”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Nope.”

A prickly feeling makes waves across your skin, your heart thudding just a little faster—you heard precisely what you wanted to hear. “Wow that’s—that’s kind of surprising. Good-looking guy like you around a bunch of desperate singles and an open bar?”

Shanks leans in close, close enough you could almost press your nose to his. “You think I’m good-looking, huh?”

Your mouth opens and closes, a small, deflated noise leaving your lungs as you scramble for an answer. Thankfully, he doesn’t let you struggle for long—just long enough to make your hands tremble a little in your lap and your mouth start to feel dry—and lets out a soft chuckle, satisfied by the degree to which he’s already been able to fluster you.

“I don’t always want to be someone’s bad decision just because they’re lonely, you know?” He sips his beer and leans his head back against the wall for moment. “There’s a kind of desperation that seems to happen at weddings among the unattached. I mean I’m not exactly opposed to it, but…it gets a little old after a while.”

“I get that. Weddings make the lonely even lonelier,” you shrug, certainly not referring to yourself. “I’ve gone to enough of my friends’ weddings and ended up sitting on the floor of the bathroom, telling some poor, drunk girl that she’s pretty and that she won’t be alone forever.”

“Not you though, huh?” Shanks says with a wink. “Surprised I haven’t been invited to your wedding yet.”

“I mean…I don’t know if marriage is really for me.” You poke at a piece of ice in your glass, trying to avoid the enthusiastic gesturing of Yassop, who seems to be trying to get you on the dance floor. “I’m, ah—I’m afraid I’ve been around all these fine fellows so long, I might have caught the ‘ending up divorced three times’ disease.”

Shanks stifles a snicker. “I mean, if I managed to escape, I’m sure you must be immune by now.”

The conversation between you and Shanks flows freely; it feels like you’re already on your fourth date, like you’ve known him forever. He was always just a handsome face and a winning smile that you admired from afar, and yet here you are, chatting like old friends that simply fell out of touch. The subjects don’t even matter (you ramble about a farmer’s market you went to over the weekend, he shares the secrets of his favorite dive bar), only that the room seems to close in and it feels like it’s just the two of you.

Eventually, Shanks stretches his arm above his head and moves to button his suit jacket. “I think I could use a little fresh air—wanna come with me?”

You run your tongue along your bottom lip and consider—you should probably be going by now. You should probably find the bride and groom and wish them well, and let Benn wrap you in a heartfelt hug and spin you around a couple of times like he always does. You should probably surrender to just one more dance, one more drink, one more hearty slap on the back that almost knocks the wind out of you. And then you should head home as you always do, order in something greasy and heavy, and sober up on your couch in your finest threadbare pajamas.

But what you should do isn’t nearly as fun as what you want to do, and with a flutter in your stomach and a warmth in your cheeks, you give a tentative smile and a nod and follow Shanks as he leads you to the other side of the room, to a set of doors that open onto a sizeable balcony overlooking the water. The sight of Shanks standing against the railing, his back to the setting sun, silhouetting him in technicolor pinks and golds, is enough to give you pause, your heart thudding in your ribcage with the rhythm of sudden longing.

“Nice night,” you mutter as you sidle up close to Shanks, standing in front of him and inching closer as you rock back and forth on your heels. He’s silent for the first time all evening, his inclination for innuendo and banter seeming to dissipate into the evening air.

“Something on your mind, captain?” you tease, running a finger down the front of his suit jacket.

Shanks lets out a soft chuckle. “Nah, it’s nothing.”

“You sure?” you cock your head and bite at your lower lip. “This is the quietest you’ve been all night, but if you say so...”

He sighs, still grinning as he always is, and leans to the side to set his beer bottle on the ground. “You’re persistent, anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m just a curious person by nature, what can I say?”

“Well, I guess if you must know,” he murmurs, raising his hand to the side of your face and stroking your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb, “I was just thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”

The air feels like it’s been gently punched out of you—you wanted this, you wanted him…you just didn’t expect to hear it quite so bluntly. You swallow and stammer for a moment, searching for the perfect witty retort as you try to quiet the insistent pounding of your heartbeat. “Well, ah…I can’t say I’d mind that at all. If you wanted to, I mean.”

“God, you’re cute.” Shanks huffs a quiet laugh before sliding his hand to the back of your neck and gently pressing his lips to yours. His kiss is confident, clear in intention, not an ounce of hesitation—he knows what he wants, and what he wants is to ruin you. He’s intoxicating, even more than the ale you can taste on his tongue as he slides it between your parted lips and entwines it with yours. Your trembling hands settle on his lean hips and you press yourself against him, little gasps and sighs leaving your lungs and dissipating into the cool autumn air like vapors.

After what could have been minutes or could have been hours as far as you can tell, you’re both suddenly yanked back from the dizzying precipice of desire when you hear laughter and the sounds of stumbling footsteps: a cluster of strangers has assembled at the other end of the balcony, swaying and struggling to hold their liquor glasses and light their cigarettes at the same time. You step back from Shanks and take the opportunity to catch your breath, finding your way out of the haze of desire that had consumed you.

“Maybe that’s a sign we should get back to the party?” you offer reluctantly, handing him back his beer.

“We could.” He tips his drink towards the door back inside and winks at you lazily. “Or…we could find somewhere a little more private.”

A tension begins to coil inside you, a need you can’t ignore—you’re drunk off his lips and his touch, and you’d be a fool to tell him no. You quickly agree and follow behind him, barely keeping pace with his long strides. You aren’t sure if it’s the champagne and liquor still coursing through your bloodstream or the aftereffects of his intoxicating kisses, but you feel lightheaded as you try to keep up with him. You eye the crowd as the two of you cross the dancefloor and quietly slip out of the ballroom, down a winding hallway or two, until you land at a door; Shanks gestures at it wordlessly, as if offering you a final choice before he utterly ruins you.

“Are you sure no one will find us here?” you whisper as you open it and fumble for a light switch.

“I scoped it out, it’s a private bathroom. Might be for staff or something.” He grins rakishly. “The door locks.”

“Wait, when did you—“

“Earlier tonight, before you came over.”

You stand, hands on hips, somewhere between flattered and offended. “So, you mean to tell me you were planning on this happening the whole time?”

“Might’ve been,” he shrugs, grinning slyly. “Didn’t hurt to check just in case. Good thing I did, huh?”

The door is barely closed and locked before Shanks overtakes you, his body overwhelming yours; he pins you against the door with the weight of his body, his hand trailing up and down your side, fondling your breasts through the soft fabric of your dress, gripping the meat of your hips and squeezing so hard you’d have black-and-blue reminders of his fingertips embedded in your flesh in the days to come. You drape your arms over his broad shoulders, running your fingers through his crimson hair, giving it a gentle tug at the roots when his teeth drag against your lips a little too harshly—you’d let him devour you piece by piece without question, but the last thing you need is to stumble back out into the reception with raw, kiss-bitten lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, before running his tongue along your lower lip to soothe it. “I just can’t help myself, I guess.”

“S’okay,” you utter back, kissing along the sharp contours of his jaw. “I’ll forgive you this time.”

He pushes you back against the countertop and you hoist yourself up on it, without a second thought—it’s as if this were meant to happen, like your body knows just how you should move to accommodate him. A flurry of fabric, a warm strong hand sliding up your thigh, lips pressed to yours with a delicious urgency—it’s a dizzying feeling, better than any high you’ve ever felt before, better than the way this evening’s libations still made your cheeks warm and your limbs buzz.

Shanks drops to his knees before you, never breaking your gaze, and carefully lifts your dress, pushing it up to your hips. He kisses up your thigh, his facial hair scratching and tickling sensitive skin; he’s intentional with every lick, every kiss, every bite, knows just where to linger and just how to tease. It’s hard not to wonder if he’s run this moment over and over again in his head the same way you have—if he’s pictured the way you’d look from between your thighs, how your skin would prickle at his touch, how the fabric of your dress would move with the rise and fall of your chest.

He runs his fingertips down the gusset of your panties, sucks in air through his teeth as he feels the warm, wet heat radiating from under thin fabric. He pulls them aside and the cool air of the room meets your skin; Shanks groans at seeing the slick coating your swollen pussy lips, the way it clings to your pubic hair and glistens in the flickering fluorescent light of the room.

He runs his finger along your slit, feeling your juices coat his fingertips, and a shiver seems to run through him at the sensation. “All because of me, huh?”

“Oh hush,” you whisper, lightly tapping his shoulder with the heel of your shoe. “Such an ego.”

“I see—so that’s a yes then.” He glances up just in time to see you rolling your eyes, and hums a laugh against your skin. “Fine, fine, I’ll shut up—I have better things to be doing with my mouth right now.”

Shanks tugs your panties aside and his warm lips meet your waiting slit; he kisses you with the same hungry urgency as he had kissed you on the balcony, his tongue lavishing every inch of you, tracing the length of your cunt again and again. You jut your pelvis forward and greedily rock against his mouth, and he quickly brings you closer to the edge of ecstasy with every insatiable movement. You reach down and grip his hair, soft red strands twirling between shaking fingers, struggling to keep your cries of pleasure as quiet as you can. Involuntary utterances of his name and “please” and “don’t stop” pass your lips, lingering in the space between your ragged gasps, your breath now coming in fits and starts.

Shanks’ tongue traces circles over your clit, long slow movements as he slides one finger inside you, then another, pistoning in and out of your quaking cunt. He lets out a long, low groan when he feels how you start to tense, how your body seems to light ablaze with every lick, every kiss, every thrust of his fingers. Your thighs close in around his head, hands shaking as they grip the edge of the countertop, and everything suddenly feels like too much all at once, the years of wanting finally realized here in this small room, with Shanks devouring you like a man starved.

It’s as if he knows your body without ever having to have touched you before, and it’s unnerving and incredible and enough to drive you to the edge and finally push you over. Your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts back as you convulse into a sudden chain of spasms, a delicious heat radiating outwards from your core, little bolts of electricity jolting through your limbs. You press your lips together to stifle the strangled moan that tries to claw its way up your throat, instead letting out a soft whine as your body shudders over and over, and you grind against Shanks’ willing tongue, riding out the last of your climax.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do that forever,” Shanks utters through a shivering groan as he stands, hastily wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before kissing you, hard and deep; you can still taste yourself on him with every swirl of his tongue. You palm the bulge that strains against the fabric of his nice dress trousers and feel him pulse in your hand, eager and insistent. You hastily unbuckle his belt as he moans softly; his hand runs up your arm, up the back of your neck, fingers digging into the nape of your neck as he holds you still, plunges his tongue deep in your mouth.

The feeling of his heavy cock in your hand, throbbing as you stroke him and pull his hips closer, and the devastation of his kisses as he captures your lips again and again, have you lost in a dense haze of lust and longing—so much so that you don’t notice the light knock at the door, nor the increasingly insistent rapping. It’s only when an impatient voice finally calls from the other side, “Uh, hello? Is somebody in there?” that the dizzying spell is finally broken.

You and Shanks stare at each other for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for the other to say something, not wanting voices to overlap and reveal your dirty little secret. He points at you as he tries to quietly fumble with his belt buckle, graciously letting you resolve the situation while he tries to tuck himself back into his pants.

“Uh, it’s—it’s occupied!” you yell, a little shaky but mostly convincing. You grit your teeth and try to quiet your panting breaths and hope for the best. After a few moments, you hear a grumble and footsteps fading away, and the breath you’d been holding in comes billowing out, a half-wheeze and half-sigh of relief. Shanks holds his hand over his mouth to trap a bellowing guffaw inside, knowing well enough you’d just escaped discovery and a laugh of his caliber echoing against the tiles would have you found out in a heartbeat.

“Maybe we should cut our losses before we get caught?” you sigh, holding in a disappointed grumble. The last thing you need is to be the talk of the wedding guests, wanting even less to hear what the rest of the crew would have to say about the little covert liaison between you and their captain.

“Aw come on, sweetheart—where’s the fun in quitting?” He leans in and kisses up your neck, nibbling at your earlobe, making a convincing argument for abandoning all sense and letting him ruin you all over again.

“Shanks...” You squirm, feeling arousal flood you again, warm and insistent. “Two interruptions in one night feels a little prophetic—I don’t know if we’ll get away with a third.”

“Fine, fine, you have a point.” He steps back and lets out an exaggerated groan as he smooths his shirt. “Besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to rush—I want to take my time with you.”

You try to think of something to say back, something equally devastating and flirtatious, but only manage a smile and a quiet laugh huffed through your nose. It takes everything in you not to immediately go back on your word, to stop helping him back into his suit jacket and instead hastily unzip his trousers and beg him to bend you over the counter, to finish what he started (or what you’d undoubtedly blame him for starting, anyway).

A melancholy feeling washes over you, starts to drown out the euphoria despite your best efforts as you straighten Shanks’ tie and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. You’d chased after this fantasy for so long, and here he is right in front of you, wanting you just as much as you’ve wanted him, and now you must walk away, wander back into the raucous room full of drunken revelers, and pretend as if nothing happened. You’d surely exchange a few more flirtatious glances over a few more drinks, try to maintain your composure as he squeezes your thigh under the table—and that would be it. The night would end, and you’d say your goodbyes, and you’d go home alone as you always do, letting Shanks consume your thoughts until you got the next wedding invitation.

The idea of letting this go, of simply walking away when what you’d wanted was finally in your grasp, gnaws at you, starts to eat you alive as you head for the door.

“You know, I think Lucky might finally pop the question to that nice gal he’s been seeing,” you blurt, not even trying to be subtle as you glance up to see how he reacts. “Think I’ll see you at the wedding? Perhaps we could, you know...pick up where we left off?”

“Oh, you most certainly will see me there, lovely,” he grins, placing his hand on the door-handle, playfully keeping you from running away just yet. “But why wait ‘til then?”

#lo writes #shanks x reader #one piece x reader #one piece smut

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