red hair pirates x fem reader but platonic?
Abord the Red Force
Red Haired pirates x Reader
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Words: 4,461
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Warnings: Fem reader, pure fluff!
⋆⭒˚.⋆ A/N: I wasn't quite sure what to write at first, but after days of pondering, I finally figured it out. I think this is actually one of my favorite pieces that I've written so far. I even found myself laughing while I was creating it!
‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

You’d only hitched a ride because the next island had better sweet buns. That was it. A simple transaction: a quick hop across the waves, a lungful of salty air, and maybe a warm, doughy treat. You certainly hadn’t signed up for the Skeletal Sirens—a pirate crew so utterly bizarre they seemed to have materialized directly from a bad clam chowder-induced fever dream.
Their captain, Vance, was a lanky, preening peacock who strutted around like he owned every ripple on the Grand Line. He fancied himself the next Pirate King, a second coming of Roger. Mostly, though, he just looked like a guy who’d stared at too many wanted posters and thought, Yeah, I could totally pull that off. His crew was a collection of rejects from a circus that went bankrupt: a parrot-obsessed brute whose feathered companion squawked incessant insults, a blind navigator who insisted he could “feel the waves” (which usually led to hitting them), and a cook so ancient she held earnest conversations with her butcher knives.
You, however, were entirely unfazed by their particular brand of madness. All you needed was a lift, so you’d signed on for the truly thrilling tasks: swabbing decks, peeling potatoes, and generally fading into the background. You were practically a human shadow, keeping your head down and your mouth shut.
Until they spotted it.
The Red Force. Shanks’ ship. The Yonko’s infamous Jolly Roger unfurled against the horizon like a scarlet middle finger, screaming, “Stay the hell away!” But did these brain-addled nobodies on the Skeletal Sirens heed the warning? Of course not. They saw it and collectively thought, Hey, why not poke the sleeping dragon with a very tiny stick?
Vance’s grin stretched wider than a kraken’s maw, as if he’d just won a lottery no one else was even aware of. “This is our moment!” he shrieked, slapping his sword against the deck with a clang that sounded suspiciously hollow. “The Pirate King’s legacy starts now!”
You, meanwhile, let out a long-suffering sigh, peeled a banana with surgical precision, and settled onto the railing, eyes half-lidded. Because, no, you were definitely not here for this.
The ensuing “battle” was pure, unadulterated chaos. Swords clanged like kitchen pots in a hailstorm, shouts echoed, and almost every one of those glorious freaks went down faster than a lead balloon in a hurricane. Blood, sweat, and gunpowder fumes mingled in the air. You watched, serenely munching your banana, utterly unbothered. Let them play their silly little pirate game. You just wanted to reach the next island.
Because this? This was not your fight. Not today, not tomorrow, probably not ever.
The symphony of clashing steel and cries of agony swelled around you, but you barely deigned to look up from your banana. One by one, the Skeletal Sirens toppled like poorly stacked dominoes. The parrot guy emitted a final, squawking curse as he plummeted overboard. The blind navigator, bless his heart, tripped over his own two left feet and vanished beneath the waves with a surprisingly polite gurgle. And the ancient cook, mid-lecture to her bread knife, barely managed a choked gasp before a blade found its mark. All in a matter of seconds.
A particularly grimy pirate, a fresh cut bleeding stylishly across his cheek, staggered toward you, his grin crooked and manic. “Hey! Are you gonna help, or just sit there like a damn fruit-eating statue?!” He brandished his rusty cutlass, clearly expecting you to spring into heroic action.
You slowly turned your head, eyes locking onto his with an expression of profound disinterest. Then, with a deliberate peel-snap, you took another bite of your banana. Silence descended, heavy and far more deafening than the cacophony of battle.
From the deck of the Red Force, a shadow detached itself—a tall figure, moving with an almost lazy grace, eyes surveying the wreckage with cold, practiced precision. His scarred face twitched into a faint smile as his gaze finally, inevitably, settled on you.
“Interesting,” the man murmured, his voice a low rumble. “She doesn’t belong here.”
It was Benn Beckman, Shanks’ first mate, a man known for his unflappable demeanor and unnervingly accurate aim. His sharp eyes cut through the chaos, sensing something far deeper and infinitely more dangerous lurking beneath your quiet, banana-munching exterior.
Beckman’s gaze lingered, as if weighing your very existence, before he melted back into the shadows cast by the towering mast. The fight, what little was left of it, raged on. But you? You simply finished your banana, cracked your knuckles with a tiny, almost inaudible pop, and waited. Because this whole unfortunate mess? It wasn’t your problem. Not yet.
You flicked the banana peel overboard with a casual flourish, watching it twirl once in the air before plopping into the ocean with a tiny, utterly unconcerned sploosh.
“Should’ve just stayed in the South Blue,” you muttered, dusting your hands off on your pants as if you’d just finished a delightful picnic, not witnessed the utter, spectacular decimation of an entire pirate crew.
The deck was eerily quiet now, save for the creak of wood and the pathetic groans of the Skeletal Sirens scattered across it—some twitching, most unconscious, all entirely irrelevant. Vance, the so-called next Roger, was face-down with his rear end pointed optimistically skyward, his sword bent in half beside him like a discarded toy.
You sighed and leaned back against the railing, lifting your face to the sky, letting the gentle breeze caress your skin.
That’s when one of the Red-Haired Pirates—a younger guy, full of unearned swagger, clearly trying to prove his worth—shattered the silence with a triumphant yell. “You missed one!” he bellowed, charging at you like he’d just stumbled upon the final boss of a particularly irritating video game.
You blinked.
And when the blade came whistling down, you merely sidestepped. Lazy. Effortless. Like avoiding a particularly slow-moving tumbleweed.
Then, with a barely perceptible exhale, you flicked your finger against his forehead.
CRACK.
He went flying. Truly airborne. Spinning like a kicked can, flipping through the air with a long, shocked scream that dopplered into the distant blue.
BOOM. He hit a mast. Slid down it. Didn’t get up.
You stared after him, one eyebrow twitching up ever so slightly. “…Oops.”
Up on the deck of the Red Force, a few heads swiveled in unison.
“Was that—?”
“Yup.”
“Wasn’t he—?”
“He was new.”
One of the senior members slapped a hand over his eyes with a groan. “Aw, hell, I told him not to run off.”
Even the crew members who’d been mid-chuckle started to quiet down as a familiar, powerful presence stepped forward.
Shanks.
He’d been leaning casually near the helm, sipping from a bottle, watching the entire spectacle unfold like a particularly amusing play he’d already seen a dozen times. But now, his single visible eye sharpened, settling on you. Not with alarm. Just… a profound, amused intrigue.
“She’s not one of theirs,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
“She flicked Enji into the air,” Yasopp mumbled, a note of bewildered respect in his voice.
“Flicked.”
Shanks let out a low whistle. “That’s gotta hurt.”
Then he grinned. Broad and boyish, like a kid who’d just discovered a particularly fascinating bug.
“I think we just found the most dangerous person on that whole ship,” he said, tipping his bottle in your direction.
And you?
You had already settled yourself cross-legged in a patch of sun, watching the waves roll by, completely uninterested in the utter pandemonium you’d just unleashed. You yawned.
“Can I please just get dropped off at the next island now?”
You tilted your head back, cracking your neck with a lazy stretch. The sun felt gloriously warm. The screams had mercifully stopped. You could finally hear the seagulls again.
“Hey,” you called out, not bothering to raise your voice too much. “Red guy with the fancy coat.”
Shanks, mid-swig, paused and blinked. “…Me?”
You nodded once, propping your cheek on your knuckles. “Yeah. You heading to Eddora Isle next?” You said it like you were asking if he had a spare lighter. No care in the world. Just casual, as if you hadn’t just launched one of his crewmates into low orbit seconds ago.
A dead silence descended upon the Red-Haired Pirates. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Yasopp’s rifle slipped a little in his grasp. “Did… Did she just call him red guy?”
Lucky Roux blinked at you, then at Shanks. “Did she just ask for a ride?”
Shanks blinked a few more times, processing. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, Eddora’s our next stop.”
You stood up with a long, put-upon sigh, dusting your pants off like this was a regular Tuesday morning commute. “Perfect,” you said, walking toward the Red Force with absolutely zero hesitation. “Thanks. I’ll ride with you guys, then.”
You stepped over the unconscious body of one of the Skeletal Sirens, used their prone captain’s back as a convenient stepstool, and casually boarded the Red Force without a second glance back at the carnage.
A low whistle slid from Yasopp’s lips.
“She just—walked on.”
“She’s not even asking permission,” Roux added, watching in awe as you started eyeing a sturdy-looking barrel as a potential seating option.
“Should we… stop her?” one of the newer members mumbled, sounding less brave than he intended.
“Did you want to stop her?” Benn Beckman asked dryly, still meticulously cleaning his rifle, not bothering to look up.
“No.”
“Then sit down.”
Shanks watched you find a suitable spot, plop down, and kick your feet up like you owned the place. He scratched his head, his grin widening into a full-blown, delighted smirk.
“…Well, damn,” he said, leaning against the railing. “You always make your entrances like that?”
You looked up, your expression as dull as a cloudy day. “I was just supposed to mop floors.”
And just like that, the Red Force became a whole lot more interesting.
The Red Force creaked a low, satisfied groan beneath your feet as it pulled away from the wreckage of the Skeletal Sirens—now nothing more than a pathetic, floating monument to regret and spectacularly bad decisions.
You leaned against a crate, methodically picking dirt from beneath your fingernails. No one stopped you. No one could stop you. The air around the Red-Haired Pirates had subtly shifted; they were still pirates, sure—but now they were pirates carefully observing the human enigma lumped lazily on their deck like a stray cat that had just, inexplicably, mauled a lion.
“So, uh…” Lucky Roux ambled over, juggling an apple in one meaty hand. “What’s your name, anyway?”
You didn’t even bother to look up. “Y/N.”
“Oh. Cool. So, where are you from—?”
“South Blue.”
He blinked. “O-Okay. What’d you do before—?”
“Nothing.”
“…You got any—?”
“Nope.”
There was a pregnant pause. Roux blinked again, slowly backing away, whispering, “She’s like talking to a rock that can kill people.”
Across the deck, Yasopp leaned on the rail with a lazy grin, nudging one of the younger pirates. “Bet you can’t knock her back a step.”
The rookie puffed out his chest, cracking his knuckles with all the misplaced confidence of a man who hadn’t witnessed Enji’s spectacular aerial ballet. “Bet I can.”
Benn Beckman didn’t even look up from where he was cleaning his gun. “Please don’t.”
“C’mon,” Yasopp egged him on, eyes twinkling. “It’ll be fun.”
The rookie swaggered up to you with a half-cocked grin. “Hey. Y/N, right? Wanna—”
CRUNCH.
He didn’t finish the sentence. You hadn’t even looked at him. You’d just tilted your foot sideways—a mere toe tap, really—and the guy went flying into a barrel so hard it exploded into splinters.
A muffled groan emanated from inside the wreckage.
“…Okay,” Yasopp muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s two down.”
“She didn’t even look at him,” one pirate whispered in disbelief.
“She doesn’t even know his name,” another added, clearly traumatized.
You stretched your arms over your head with a tired grunt and turned your face toward the sun again, as if the whole incident was a minor inconvenience.
Shanks approached next—grinning like he was walking into a bar fight he’d specifically arranged for his own entertainment. “You always this talkative?” he asked, his tone laced with amusement.
You squinted one eye open. “Only when someone’s bothering me.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Fair enough. So… what are you doing out on the sea? Got any grand dreams?”
“I want to get off at Eddora Isle.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. “You’re not running from the Marines?”
“No.”
“Not chasing treasure?”
“Nope.”
“Not avenging anyone, looking for your long-lost brother, hunting a devil fruit, or trying to become Pirate Queen?”
You opened both eyes, a look of profound revulsion on your face. “…What? No. Ew.”
There was a beat of stunned silence on the deck.
“…I like her,” Shanks announced suddenly, beaming at the crew, who exchanged uneasy glances.
“She scares me,” someone muttered under their breath.
“Same.”
Yasopp leaned in conspiratorially from behind Shanks. “Does she even know who we are?”
Shanks turned back to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you?”
You looked him dead in the eye, your expression as flat as yesterday’s soda. “You’re Red Coat.”
Shanks paused. “…Close enough.”
You closed your eyes again, clearly signaling the end of the conversation.
From that point on, no one dared to ask questions. They just gave you a wide berth, treating you like a particularly sleepy, yet highly volatile, landmine. You had no idea you’d just become the most mysterious, most feared, and most aggressively chill passenger the Red Force had ever had the distinct pleasure of transporting.
The Red Force was slicing through the waves in that lazy, effortless way only a Yonko’s ship could manage—when suddenly the water ahead exploded.
A massive sea king erupted from the depths like a furious, liquid mountain, showering the deck with salt and sea foam. Its colossal head reared high, jaws snapping, eyes wide and furious, clearly having a very bad day.
“Sea king!” someone bellowed. “Prepare to fight!”
Chaos erupted on deck. Swords were drawn, guns cocked, and the crew scrambled into battle positions with shouts echoing over the beast’s guttural roar.
But you? You just sighed.
Without a word, you pushed off the railing and plunged into the churning ocean below.
The crew froze. Beckman slowly lowered his rifle, blinking in disbelief. Yasopp muttered, “She’s got a Devil Fruit, right?”
Shanks’ single eye widened, a mixture of shock and dawning amusement spreading across his face. “Maybe…”
Seconds later, you burst back from the water, slick hair plastered to your face, muscles gleaming under the sun. Clutched casually in your arms was the sea king’s massive, dripping eyeball—pure white and utterly, irrevocably destroyed.
You hauled yourself up the side ladder with a casual grunt, ignoring the stunned silence that had settled over the entire crew.
Shanks blinked twice, then again. “You… you killed it?”
You shrugged, adjusting your grip on the enormous, slimy orb. “It was looking at me funny.”
Lucky Roux’s jaw hung open so wide you could probably see his breakfast. “She ripped out its eyeball.”
Yasopp let out a low whistle. “That’s not normal strength. That’s insane strength.”
Beckman gave a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes narrowing, a dangerous curiosity in their depths. “No Devil Fruit needed.”
You wiped your hands on your pants as if you’d just finished a particularly messy snack, then looked around at the wide-eyed pirates.
“Well,” you said, tossing the eye overboard with a soft plop, “that’s one less headache.”
Shanks shook his head, grinning wider than ever, pure delight bubbling up. “You’re definitely not from around here.”
You smirked, plopped down on the deck, and started peeling another banana.
“Just tell me when we get to Eddora Isle,” you mumbled, clearly done with the day’s quota of excitement.
The crew exchanged looks that clearly said: We have absolutely no idea what we just signed up for.
The Red Force cut through the sapphire waves, the salty wind tangling your hair as the sun dipped low, painting the sky with streaks of fiery orange and soft pink. The ship creaked and groaned underfoot like an old beast settling into a steady pace, the rhythmic slap of water against hull keeping time with the crew’s low hum of activity.
You sat cross-legged on the deck, legs stretched out, arms resting on your knees as you watched the horizon blur and stretch. The sea was calm now—the earlier chaos reduced to nothing but bewildering stories and wide-eyed, slightly terrified stares.
Beside you, Shanks lounged casually, one boot resting on the railing, his crimson coat fluttering like a battle-won banner. “So,” he started, his voice easy and low, as if you were discussing the weather, “why exactly are you headed to Eddora Isle? You don’t seem like the typical ‘I wanna be Pirate Queen’ type.”
You blinked slowly, chewing thoughtfully on your now-half-eaten banana. “Honestly? I’m just hungry for the island’s bakery. Heard they have the best sweet buns in the Grand Line. Thought I’d try ‘em out.”
Shanks raised an eyebrow, a slow, amused grin creeping onto his face. “You’re serious?”
You shrugged, utterly unfazed. “Yeah. It’s the little things.”
The crew nearby froze for a moment, glancing at each other like someone just admitted their life’s ambition was to become a professional napper.
Lucky Roux let out a low whistle. “You’re here for buns?”
“Better than glory or revenge,” you muttered, taking another bite.
Yasopp chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s the most refreshingly normal thing I’ve heard in years.”
The sea breeze picked up, tugging at the sails and whipping your hair into your face. You brushed it away lazily, eyes half-lidded, and let a small, genuine smile slip free.
For the first time since boarding the Red Force, you felt a flicker of ease. The crew wasn’t so weird anymore—not entirely. Maybe you weren’t just a stowaway. Maybe you belonged here in your own strange, lazy, banana-loving way.
Shanks tilted his head, watching you with genuine curiosity, his expression unreadable. “You don’t wanna fight, you don’t want treasure, you don’t want power. What’s left for someone like you?”
You tapped your chin, thoughtful as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in ever-deepening hues. “Maybe just… peace. Sweet buns. And maybe a little less excitement.”
He laughed, the sound booming across the deck like thunder rolling over calm seas, entirely without malice.
“Fair enough,” he said, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To peace, sweet buns, and unexpected allies.”
You clinked your fist against his arm lightly, still smiling faintly. The Red Force sailed on, carrying you all toward whatever awaited on Eddora Isle—and whatever chaos, quiet, or ridiculousness the future might bring.
The Red Force finally dropped anchor off the coast of Eddora Isle, the ship gently bobbing in the surprisingly murky water. You hopped down onto the dock, expecting… well, you weren’t exactly sure what. Maybe something charming—a bustling port town, or at least a bakery that didn’t look like it was about to spontaneously combust.
What you got instead was a landfill masquerading as an island.
Trash was piled high like grotesque mountains: rotting crates, broken barrels, and enough slimy seaweed to choke a sea king twice over. Rats scurried through the garbage like it was a five-star buffet, and the smell hit you like a punch to the face from a very large, unwashed fist.
“Is this… Eddora Isle?” you asked, blinking at the towering piles of refuse, a hint of genuine dismay in your voice.
Shanks chuckled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah, well… it’s a bit rough around the edges. The bakery’s supposed to be here somewhere.”
You narrowed your eyes, stepping cautiously over a particularly suspicious puddle that seemed to be actively pulsating. “Supposed to be.”
After a not-so-pleasant trek through what could only be described as the world’s worst trash dump, you finally found the bakery. The sign was faded and peeling, the windows grimier than a pirate’s soul, and the “fresh buns” inside looked suspiciously like overcooked rocks.
You took a hesitant bite.
The taste? Somewhere between burnt seaweed and profound regret.
You almost choked. “This isn’t sweet buns. This is a crime against buns.”
Shanks laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair, tears streaming down his face. “Welcome to Eddora Isle!”
You sighed, wiping crumbs off your mouth with a look of utter defeat. “I think I’ve officially lowered my expectations to negative infinity.”
After a moment, you looked up at the Red Force crew lounging nearby, still grinning at you like you’d just survived a culinary apocalypse.
“Well, what now?” you asked, folding your arms, resigned to your fate.
Shanks stretched, a wide yawn escaping him. “We’re headed to Kaito Cove next. Heard the rum there’s strong, and the fish are plentiful.”
You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest in your eyes. “Mind if I hitch a ride?”
He smirked, a knowing glint in his eye. “Thought you’d never ask.”
And just like that, you found yourself settling back onto the Red Force—the strangest, most chaotic, yet strangely accommodating crew you’d ever met—and heading toward your next stop.
Maybe this lazy pirate life wasn’t so bad after all.
The Red Force was back on the move, slicing through the waves toward Kaito Cove, and you found yourself—somehow—no longer just a reluctant passenger but a semi-official member of this bizarre pirate family.
It started small. You didn’t exactly volunteer, but when the cook shouted, “Y/N! Grab that sack of salted fish!” you shrugged and did it without complaint. The crew blinked like they’d seen a ghost—or maybe just a ghost who didn’t mind doing chores.
Lucky Roux cracked a genuine smile. “Didn’t think you’d stick around after the bakery disaster.”
You tossed the sack over your shoulder with surprising ease, barely breaking a sweat. “Food’s food. Besides, it’s better than cleaning puke off the deck.”
That earned a genuine, booming laugh from Yasopp, who was fiddling with his rifle nearby. “She’s got a point.”
Slowly, the impenetrable walls you’d built around yourself started to crumble—not because you suddenly craved friendship, but because you didn’t have much choice. They kept cornering you with questions, relentless in their curiosity.
“Hey, Y/N, what’s your favorite drink?”
You shrugged. “Water.”
“Really?” Enji muttered, wiping blood off his sword, looking genuinely disappointed. “That’s boring.”
“Boring’s underrated.”
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in magnificent shades of pink and gold, Shanks found you sitting near the helm, legs dangling over the side, idly tossing small pebbles into the shimmering water.
“Never thought I’d see the day when Y/N actually joined in,” he said, sliding down beside you with an easy grace.
You glanced at him without much interest, a pebble arcing into the sea. “I didn’t exactly ‘join.’ I’m just… here.”
He laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Sometimes ‘just here’ is exactly where you need to be.”
Over the weeks, you learned their names—well, most of them. Yasopp was the sharpshooter with the dry, often sarcastic wit. Beckman was the quiet, calculating first mate who didn’t say much but whose intelligent eyes missed absolutely nothing. Lucky Roux was the lovable, perpetually eating goofball who always had a ridiculously exaggerated story. And Enji, the hotheaded swordsman, still tried way too hard to impress you and failed spectacularly every single time.
And Shanks? He was the unpredictable storm wrapped in a boyish grin, somehow both recklessly impulsive and profoundly wise.
You didn’t open up much. Your answers remained short, your expressions largely deadpan. But the crew noticed. They noticed when you stopped hiding in the shadows and started sitting with them during meals, when you’d let out a quiet snort of amusement at their truly awful jokes, when you challenged Enji to a drinking contest and, to everyone’s stunned surprise, actually won.
One night, Yasopp nudged Shanks, a thoughtful look on his face. “She’s different, huh?”
Shanks grinned, his eyes twinkling with a shared secret. “Yeah. She’s exactly what we didn’t know we needed.”
And you? Well, maybe, just maybe, you were starting to believe that, too.
The Red Force hummed along under the golden afternoon sun, but all anyone could really focus on was the one thing that had become abundantly, gloriously clear—Y/N’s appetite.
It started off innocently enough. A quick bite here, a snack there. But soon, it was less “snack” and more “full-on, apocalyptic feast,” and the crew was a fascinating mix of amazed and slightly terrified.
Lucky Roux watched in stunned silence as you polished off an entire loaf of crusty bread, a massive chunk of salted fish, and half a wheel of cheese—all before midday, and seemingly without blinking.
“Does she ever stop?” he whispered to Yasopp, who was busy cleaning his rifle but clearly keeping one eye, or perhaps both, on your impressive performance.
Yasopp smirked. “She eats like the sea itself is gonna starve if she doesn’t.”
During meal times, you became a whirlwind of efficiency and focus, your fork (or sometimes just your bare hands) moving faster than anyone could possibly follow. Plates disappeared at a rate that made even Shanks raise an impressed, albeit slightly bewildered, eyebrow.
One evening, as the crew gathered around for dinner, you were already halfway through a massive pot of stew, dipping a hunk of crusty bread into the bubbling broth like it was your lifeline to existence.
Shanks leaned back, bottle in hand, a wide grin stretching across his face. “You know, Y/N, I’ve seen a lot of pirates with big dreams. You? You just want the biggest plate on the table.”
You shrugged, cheeks full, a tiny crumb clinging to your chin. “Food’s the one thing that never disappoints.”
Enji, ever the eager, desperate-to-impress fool, attempted to share his secret stash of incredibly spicy dried fish. You took one bite, your expression unchanging, then proceeded to devour the entire bag like it was a bag of particularly mild potato chips.
“Careful,” Yasopp warned with a grin, rubbing the back of his neck, “or you’ll eat us out of house and home.”
You flashed a lazy, almost cat-like smile. “Good.”
The crew started to joke that if Y/N ever decided to leave, they’d have to rename the Red Force the Red Feast, or perhaps the Bottomless Pit.
And honestly? You didn’t care what they called it.
Because as long as there was food on your plate and the endless, blue sea under your feet, you were exactly where you wanted to be.
