Shanks is the kind of man who lets you be as emotional as you want — immature, pouting, whining, scoffing, you name it. He takes it all with a soft smile, a knowing pat on the head, because he knows exactly how to handle your high-maintenance ass.
And on the rare days he’s not up for it — maybe nursing a hangover from one too many drinks with the crew? — he still knows how to shut you up. With his singular hand, he pulls you into his lap. The warmth of his body, the heavy scent of alcohol on his breath invading your nostrils, it all wraps around you until you forget whatever the fuck you were nagging about.
Dumbstruck, you just stare up at his pretty, pretty red hair, that infamous cloak hanging at his sides like a shield around you both.
Moments like these remind you: no man can handle you like Shanks does.
With him, you get to live in dreamland. No pressure to over communicate, no constant effort to “work on the relationship.” He’s mature as hell. No fragile masculinity in sight. He does all the thinking for you — because you’re his.
All big muscles and a broad chest, ready to conquer all kinds of seas just to keep you safe and spoiled.
mlist. -> here / art by yolevii on twt