Long Forgotten Fairytale (Soft Yan Shamrock x Reader)
I wanted to write this since I saw stupid sexy Shamrock. This will be softer than you'd expect - Shamrock's not going to be too mean in this one.
This one is dedicated to following your dreams (starting new series) and never letting the haters (other WIPs) get you down (feeling immense guilt about taking a long time to update other fics due to getting sidetracked by various DILFS)
TW: canon typical violence, slavery. First chapter Sham and reader are literal children. There will be NSFW elements later on when they are older.
Shamrock eyed the new slave Father bought for his usage with an upturned lip. Father had brought him a useless girl when he’d asked for another boy. It was a pitiful looking thing too, nothing like the robust slaves he’d been given in the past. Its face was turned towards the floor, as was fitting someone of its position, the chain attached to its collar ending in a handle Father held.
“Father, take this thing away,” Shamrock whined, giving it a harsh kick to the shins with his steel toed boot. For its part, the slave made no movement even when he repeated the action into its other leg, the only sound emanating from it was the clinking of the chains attached to its collar.
“No, Shamrock. You’ve killed all your previous slaves, the number is now in the twenties. It is bothersome to continuously buy new ones and have them trained only for you to kill them in a day. Perhaps since this isn’t a boy you won’t kill it on the first day,” Father reprimanded with a bored tone. Shamrock scowled, he hated being told no. He was a Celestial Dragon - a god - he should be able to have anything he wanted! And he wanted a boy slave so they could fight to the death. Shamrock was twelve and he felt that he’d been ready to kill men for years but Father only allowed him to fight other boys, saying his skills needed honing before Shamrock could fight men.
“But Father -” Shamrock started to complain, his complaint loose on his tongue. Father backhanded him across the face, sending Shamrock flying into the opposing wall. Shamrock stood back up, rubbing his cheek as the rubble fell off his indoor jacket.
“I won’t repeat myself, Shamrock. I expect it to be alive at the end of the week,” Father said, tossing Shamrock the handle. Father left the room as Shamrock dropped the handle in disgust, not wanting to be close to the wretched thing. Huffing, Shamrock straightened his jacket and spoke for the first and last time to the new slave.
“Look up,” Shamrock demanded as the slave raised her face but kept her eyes averted to the floor. Shamrock spat on her face, the glob of spit running down her cheek. He made no orders for her to clean it or move.
“I’ve no need for anything you might provide to me. I neither want to see nor hear you, otherwise I’ll ignore my father’s warning.” With that, Shamrock spun on his heel and left the room.
~
The slave persisted.
Shamrock ignored it for the first several weeks, going about his routines as was his wont. He knew better than to kill it or pretend it had met an untimely accident, Father had made that clear. Besides, he did need someone to put on his armor, button his shirts, bring his food, and generally attend to all matters beneath a Celestial Dragon like himself. The slave seemed to know its place well, it didn’t speak and emerged even before Shamrock himself identified that he wanted something. Even if he couldn’t fight it, it did have its uses and Father had been right that keeping the same slave around was better than having to retrain new ones to know his preferences. It was restricted to being in the castle so after a while, Shamrock mostly forgot about it except when it entered his field of vision. It was a fine system, if he did say so himself, the invisible slave always available but never a bother to his senses.
When not in combat training, Shamrock was forced to study under his tutors within his wing of the castle. He knew it was important to be intelligent as well as strong, lest he turn out like his failure of a twin, Shanks. Shamrock listened to the tutors drone on about history, science, languages, mathematics but he always found himself straying in thought, especially during his mathematics lessons. In theory, Shamrock found mathematics interesting but this new tutor was not particularly proficient at explanations. Shamrock usually tried to understand the theories but when Shamrock asked questions the tutor would drone the same phrases over and over, not giving any further information to Shamrock’s queries. It made Shamrock want to go to the arena and fight hardened field slaves when the weather was pleasant.
Today was a prime example. The weather outside was delightful and all Shamrock wanted to do was practice his form and moves on live slaves until he perfected his stance. Since Shamrock had shown restraint and not killed his slave, Father had allowed him to finally start fighting hardened slaves in the arena. It was Shamrock's favorite part of the day, being able to push himself to the limit as he fought former gladiators, field slaves, and anyone else his Father bought for him.
As the tutor was speaking about some new math equations or other, Shamrock idly wondered if Shanks had any lessons aboard the Oro Jackson or only received fighting lessons from Gol D. Roger. His dream was to fight Shanks and emerge victorious over his errant brother, though he’d already heard stories of Shanks’s prowess. Shamrock was wondering what training aboard a pirate ship would entail when a ruler brought sharply down on the tops of his hands brought him back to the present. He made no noise of pain though the rap on his knuckles had bothered him.
“Shamrock, focus. I am leaving you with this work to complete. You have been shirking responsibility lately, not paying attention during our lessons. If I return tomorrow to find it hasn’t been finished, the consequences will be severe. You’ll be whipped, I can assure you,” the tutor scolded as he packed up to leave. Shamrock didn’t care for his mathematics tutor most of all, his clear lack of fighting ability only second to the fact that he often gave Shamrock homework. The threat wasn’t idle either, Father had whipped Shamrock a few times for being irresponsible and not completing his lessons. One day he’d kill Father for such offenses but for now he’d have to do as he was told.
Shamrock looked down at the paper in front of him, the multi-part questions making him want to throw it in the fire. Shamrock began working on the first question with a sigh, thinking through the answers and writing the figures he calculated. His quill stabbed through the paper a few times in an effort to be done with the work quickly but the equations were tedious and took mental effort. As he began the third question of ten, his attention began to waver when a warm breeze wafted through the window and he heard the birds chirping happily. Looking at the sun shining outside the castle walls, Shamrock set the paper down, mentally preparing to complete his homework later that night after sparring practice.
The only time the homework graced Shamrock’s mind again was when he entered his study room the following morning and saw the familiar paper on his desk. The tutor was already present, looking over the sheet with a red-inked quill. Seeing no need to avoid the topic, Shamrock sat in his familiar seat silently and waited for the tutor to speak first. Looking at Shamrock over his small spectacles, the tutor set the paper before Shamrock and crossed his arms. Blinking a few times Shamrock steeled himself for what he knew would be coming.
“Quite the surprise,” his tutor stated in a neutral tone, handing him the paper.
Though his face kept the disinterest facade he always wore as he looked at the paper in front of him, Shamrock was shocked. The first three problems had a few marks indicating he’d gotten something wrong but the rest of the completed homework just had check marks indicating he’d gotten the right answer with only a few corrections to the way the numbers were written.
“Excellent job, Shamrock. I wasn’t expecting you to master this lesson so quickly but your work shows wonderful progress. Your handwriting still leaves something to be desired but that is not my domain,” the tutor praised as Shamrock poured over the paper, his eyebrow slightly raised. He tuned out the rest of the lesson from the tutor, his mind working out the puzzle set before him. By the time the tutor was packing up his belongings, Shamrock had a fairly certain idea what had happened. After congratulating him once more, the tutor left the room and the snick of the door handle let Shamrock know he was alone once more.
Well, not quite alone.
In the next breath, Shamrock had his hand pulling the hair of the slave back to expose its throat, where he had pressed his drawn sword. It had been standing with its hands in front of it, head bowed, by the window behind him as was its way during his lessons but now he was pressing his blade hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. The slave’s breath hitched though it remained silent.
“Why,” Shamrock growled out. It blinked a few times as tears fell down its cheeks but said nothing. He supposed he should tell it to speak, otherwise he could kill it and it would remain silent.
“Tell me,” Shamrock bit out, annoyed he had to repeat speaking to it.
“Y-young Master, I -” the slave began, swallowing thickly against the blade at its throat.
“I could kill you now,” Shamrock stated.
“Yes, Young Master,” it replied obediently.
“I could make you beg me to kill you,” he continued.
“Yes, Young Master.”
“If I killed you right now, no one would know and no one would care. You wouldn’t even be buried, just fed to the animals in the moat. Your life is meaningless,” Shamrock seethed at you.
“Yes, Young Master,” you cowered but weren’t able to move between the sword at your throat and the fist pulling your hair. Blood began to trickle down into the neckline of your dress, soaking it in a familiar shade of red.
“So why did you do it?” Shamrock asked, his eyes boring into your face.
“I didn’t want you to be whipped, Young Master,” you said in a whisper. Shamrock said nothing and pressed his blade harder against your throat as he studied you further. He hadn’t ever actually looked at you before, he realized. You weren’t bad looking for a slave, he supposed, he’d seen worse. You tensed as if preparing yourself for your death but Shamrock removed his blade, wiping your disgusting blood on the pants you’d be laundering later. He kept his fist in your hair, glad he was wearing gloves so he didn’t have to touch it directly.
“Why?” he continued to press harshly, now curious as to your answer.
“I -I …it would hurt you,” you replied shakily. Shamrock felt an unfamiliar sensation as he watched you wring your hands. Another thought occurred to Shamrock that had him narrowing his eyes at your innocent act.
“Do you know how to read and write?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. Slaves were taught numbers in order to fulfill their duties but were expressly forbidden from reading and writing. He dropped your hair from his fist but put his hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to kill you at the faintest whiff of insubordination among the slaves. It might be fun to sniff out traitors to the family, he thought to himself. Perhaps he could persuade Father to let him interrogate the slaves as practice.
“No, Young Master,” you replied, back to bowing your head down towards the ground.
“Then how did you answer the questions correctly?”
“I am in the presence of your lessons, Young Master. I listen to the tutor as I am awaiting your needs. I await justice for my transgression,” you said, dropping to your knees and bowing your head to the floor like the adults did when they spoke out of turn or tripped on the carpets. Shamrock was getting awfully tired of seeing the top of your head when he wanted to speak to your face.
“You’re forgiven, stand back up,” Shamrock said dismissively. You jerked but did as he said, returning to your puny height. What did he care if you listened to his mathematics lessons daily? You were clearly bright, perhaps you could tutor him better than the stuffy old man he’d been given. As you stood up, Shamrock gave you another once over, noting the blood still seeping from your neck.
“Change your clothes to something clean. I don’t want to look at rags covered in blood,” he said before leaving the room, slamming the door behind him.
After the mathematics incident, Shamrock was unable to go back to ignoring you as before. You were like a splinter in his finger, invisible to the eye but felt all the same. You still attended lessons with him and had begun offering a succinct explanation of the math tutor’s lessons after the tutor left. Shamrock found your explanations to be much clearer and more precise and thus his understanding of mathematics had grown. Outside of his direct questioning, you remained silent and did whatever he needed as you had before. But Shamrock began to notice you more as you went about your day with him.
You were not interesting, exactly. Not really. You were his shadow, someone to mold to any need he saw fit. And yet some of your reactions and statements left him intrigued. For example, one day Shamrock finished eating his afternoon snack in the library and you came to take his tray away. He’d been given a particularly ripe, sweet peach and eaten half, leaving the other hemisphere to be discarded. As you took the tray away so he could resume reading, you stared curiously at the fruit as you walked towards the slave’s stations.
“What’s wrong with the peach?” Shamrock asked, not looking up from his book about ship designs.
“Forgive me, Young Master,” you replied. Your response irritated Shamrock because he always had to ask more questions to get past the apologies and requests for justice.
“I’m not chastising you. What is wrong with the peach?” he said, grinding the tip of his knife idly into the table top.
“Nothing, Young Master,” you replied meekly.
“Then why do you stare at it as if it is the One Piece itself?” he asked, now digging his knife into the priceless table.
“Forgi -”
“Enough. Spit it out, then,” Shamrock said, wanting to hear the real answer.
“I was wondering what it tasted like,” you said, turning in his direction while your gaze remained trained on the floor. An errant thought had Shamrock wondering what color eyes you had.
“Slaves don't eat the leftover food?” Shamrock asked as you looked at the plate. He'd never really thought about it before, but that would make sense so they wouldn't have to spend as much money feeding the slaves.
“No, Young Master. The justice for stealing food from the gods is death,” you said in your small voice.
“Bring it to me,” he ordered, taking his knife out of the table. You complied, bringing him back his tray without question. Shamrock took the peach off the plate and sliced into it with his knife, the juice running down the blade. Taking a segment that hadn't touched his own mouth, he held it up in the air.
“Come here,” he commanded. You set the tray down and approached him, your only tell the faint tremor in your hands.
“Open your mouth,” he continued. Shamrock wasn't sure why he didn't have you eat it off the table or from his knife, but something new within him was directing his actions. You dutifully opened your mouth, awaiting his next instruction. Shamrock knew he could have left you in such a position all day should he want to but he didn't feel like teasing. Instead, he brought the fresh fruit to your mouth, his heavenly fingers close to your lips.
“Bite,” he said in a hushed tone. You did as he commanded, biting into the soft fruit held aloft by his fingers as you let out a soft sound of surprise. Juices now ran down his hand as you chewed the novel food. You closed your eyes, as if savoring every moment the fruit touched your tongue.
“Now you know,” Shamrock stated, unsure why he was watching your tongue lick your lips for any trace remnants of the peach.
“Thank you, Young Master,” you said, bowing to him. Nothing had changed and yet something imperceptible had. Shamrock couldn’t put his finger on it and stared at you, trying to understand what kind of spell you’d put him under.
He'd have to investigate further.
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