Benn Beckman and Red Haired Shanks - One Piece

[Setting: The 'Salty Anchor' Tavern, Spring Island; Mid Afternoon]

The afternoon sun filtered through the salt crusted windows of the tavern, casting long, amber streaks across the worn wooden floorboards. It was a sleepy establishment, the kind where the only sounds were the distant crash of waves against the docks and the occasional creak of a support beam. That peace was shattered when the front door swung open with enough force to rattle the hinges, letting in a gust of warm sea air and a burst of boisterous laughter.

"I'm telling you, Roux! This island is supposed to have the strongest brew in the New World!" Shanks exclaimed, his voice carrying easily across the quiet room. He stepped inside with an easy, rolling stride, his dark cloak swirling behind him. His scarred left eye crinkled as he grinned, his red hair catching the sunlight like a flame. He was the embodiment of chaotic energy, his presence filling the small space and immediately drawing every eye in the room.

Trailing a few steps behind him, Benn Beckman entered with a far more measured pace. The First Mate was a stark contrast to his captain; his expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes scanning the tavern's layout exits, patrons, potential threats in a matter of seconds. A cigarette hung from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward past his face. He didn't speak, but his mere presence acted as an anchor, a silent authority that tempered Shanks's exuberance.

Shanks began to make his way toward the bar, but his gaze snagged on a figure sitting alone. He slowed down, his curiosity piqued. His head tilted to the side, studying They/Them with an open, undisguised interest. His instinct was always to seek out the interesting, the unusual, or the strong, and there was something about the way this person carried themselves that made him pause.

Well now, Shanks thought, his grin widening. Someone I haven't seen around these parts. I wonder what brings someone like that to a place like this?

Beckman noticed the hesitation. He shifted his gaze toward the person Shanks was eyeing, his analytical mind already cataloging details: posture, clothing, the way they held themselves. Unlike Shanks's immediate fascination, Beckman's interest was more measured, though no less focused. He didn't see an immediate threat, but he recognized the potential for something... unexpected.

Captain's already found a new distraction, Beckman noted internally, a ghost of a smile touching his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Should probably make sure he doesn't scare them off within the first five minutes.

Shanks didn't wait for an invitation. He veered off course from the bar and approached the table, leaning one hand on the back of a nearby chair with casual familiarity. "Hey there!" he called out, his tone warm and playful. "Mind if we join you? Or is this table reserved for someone special?"

[Setting: A lawless trading port in the New World; Midday]

The sun beats down mercilessly on the cracked cobblestones of the port town, the air thick with the smell of rotting fish and gunpowder. You are pressed against a wooden post, wrists bound tight with rough hemp rope that has already chafed your skin raw. Your captors a group of opportunistic bounty hunters who thought they'd struck gold with you are arguing loudly about which black market dealer will pay the highest price for your head. One of them, a scarred man with a rusted cutlass, sneers at you, raising his blade to intimidate you into silence.

"Quit squirming," he growls, the blade gleaming in the harsh light. "You're worth more if you're in one piece, but I've got no problem carving a few souvenirs off you if you don't cooperate."

Just as he steps forward, the chaotic noise of the marketplace behind you cuts to a dead, ringing silence. The arguing stops. Even the gulls overhead seem to freeze mid flight. A heavy, crushing pressure suddenly floods the area an invisible weight that makes it hard to breathe. Several of the bounty hunters' lackeys simply collapse, their eyes rolling back as they hit the ground in unconscious heaps.

"Now, now... that's no way to treat someone."

The voice is casual, almost cheerful, but it carries an edge that makes the remaining bounty hunters tremble. Through the haze of your own exhaustion, you see a figure approaching. He wears a loose white shirt, open at the chest, and a black cloak that flutters in the sea breeze. His hair is a striking crimson, and three vertical scars mark his left eye. Red Haired Shanks walks toward the group with a lopsided grin, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his saber.

The lead bounty hunter stammers, recognizing the face. "Y you... Emperor Shanks?! What are you doing here?"

Shanks doesn't answer immediately. His grin widens, but his eyes sharp and observant flicker to you, taking in your bound state and the blood on your wrists. Something in his expression shifts; the playful glint hardens into something fiercely protective. His Haki flares again, a warning shot that makes the ground beneath the hunters' feet crack.

"I don't like people who bully those who can't fight back," Shanks says, his voice dropping an octave. "It's boring. And it's rude."

"Benn, you got the perimeter?" Shanks calls out over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with the terrified men.

From the shadows of a nearby alley, a tall, broad shouldered man emerges. He moves with a deliberate, quiet confidence, a long barrel rifle slung across his back. A cigarette dangles from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward as he surveys the scene. Benn Beckman's gray eyes scan the rooftops and surrounding buildings, already having calculated every escape route and potential threat. He exhales slowly, his expression stoic and unbothered.

"Already done, Captain," Beckman replies, his voice deep and steady. "Twelve of them in the alley, six on the roof. All neutralized. They weren't even worth the powder."

Beckman's gaze settles on you. He notices the way you're breathing, the tension in your shoulders, and the quality of the rope holding you. He doesn't rush in; instead, he leans against a nearby crate, watching the interaction with a sharp, analytical intensity. He wonders what about you caught Shanks's attention, but he also notes the vulnerability in your stance.

Shanks moves closer, the bounty hunters scattering in terror as he approaches you. He stops a few feet away, tilting his head. The terrifying pressure vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a warm, disarming charisma.

"Hey there," Shanks says softly, giving you a reassuring smile. "Looks like you've had a pretty rough morning. Mind if we get you out of those ropes?"

[Setting: A bustling port town on a summer island; Mid afternoon]

The sun beats down on the cobblestone streets of the port town, carrying the briny scent of salt water and roasting fish from nearby vendor stalls. It is a lazy afternoon, the kind where most people are content to lounge in the shade. Shanks and Benn Beckman are among them, having ducked into the town to resupply and perhaps find a tavern with decent sake.

Shanks is in his element, walking with a loose limbed stride, his captain's cloak swaying slightly behind him. He's laughing at something he's just thought of, his grin wide and carefree. "Benn, I'm telling you, this island's reputation for spiced rum is legendary! We've got to find the best bottle before we head back to the ship."

Benn Beckman walks half a step behind his captain, his expression unreadable. A cigarette dangles from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward into the humid air. His sharp eyes are constantly scanning the crowd not out of paranoia, but out of habit. He is the anchor to Shanks's drifting balloon, always aware of the environment while his captain chases the next fun distraction. He exhales a slow cloud of smoke, his voice low and gravelly. "Focus on the supplies first, Shanks. The rum can wait an hour."

Their casual conversation is interrupted by the distant, rhythmic clatter of boots on stone and the harsh bark of authority. Marines.

Benn's eyes narrow immediately. He notices the disturbance before Shanks does a group of Marines rounding a corner a few blocks away, their white uniforms stark against the colorful buildings. They are shouting orders, their faces set in expressions of pursuit. And then, there is the target.

A figure bursts from an alleyway, sprinting toward them with desperate urgency. They are moving fast, breath coming in ragged gasps, clearly cornered and seeing the Red Haired pirates as the only available cover.

Shanks stops walking, his head tilting to the side. His playful demeanor doesn't vanish, but it shifts into something more curious. His hand rests casually on the hilt of Gryphon, not drawing it, but ready. He watches the stranger charge toward them, noting the way they don't even seem to register who these two men are only that they are not Marines.

Someone's in quite a hurry, Shanks thinks, his crimson hair catching the sunlight. He feels a flicker of amusement mixed with a natural, protective instinct. He doesn't recognize the person, but the desperation in their stride draws his attention completely.

Benn shifts his weight, his broad shoulders squaring as he positions himself slightly to the side. His hand doesn't move toward his rifle yet, but his gaze is analytical, reading the distance between the fleeing stranger and the approaching soldiers. He studies the stranger's face as they close the gap, assessing whether this is a threat or someone simply caught in a bad situation.

Trouble follows us like a shadow, Benn muses internally, though he doesn't seem particularly bothered by it. A dry, almost imperceptible chuckle escapes his throat.

As you crash into their space, stumbling toward them for sanctuary, Shanks plants his feet and spreads his arms wide in a welcoming, almost goofy gesture. "Whoa there! Need a hand, or just a place to hide?"

[Setting: The Red Force; Midday]

The New World sun beat down mercilessly upon the deck of the Red Force, casting glittering reflections across the endless expanse of cobalt blue. The atmosphere aboard the ship was uncharacteristically relaxed; the rhythmic creak of the hull against the waves provided a soothing backdrop to the casual chatter of the crew. Lucky Roux was perched on a barrel, contentedly tearing into a massive rack of ribs, while Yasopp leaned against the railing, idly polishing the barrel of his rifle. The air smelled of salt spray, expensive sake, and the faint, acrid tang of tobacco smoke.

The tranquility was shattered when a shout rang out from near the bow. "Hey! What's that in the water?" one of the crew members called out, pointing toward a disturbance in the waves. A dark shape was bobbing erratically against the current, struggling to stay afloat.

"Looks like something got caught in the swell," Lucky Roux mumbled through a mouthful of meat, squinting against the glare.

Shanks, who had been lounging in a deck chair with a half empty bottle of sake balanced precariously on his stomach, sat up abruptly. His red hair was tousled by the sea breeze, and his dark eyes sharpened as he focused on the disturbance. "Bring it up!" he commanded, his voice losing its playful lilt and taking on the unmistakable edge of a captain. "Carefully now, don't drop whatever it is."

The crew scrambled into action, lowering a fishing net and hauling the mysterious object toward the side of the ship. As the net broke the surface, the weight of it caused the ropes to strain. With several coordinated heaves, the crew pulled the contents onto the sun drenched wooden planks. It wasn't a fish or a crate of treasure it was a person.

Shanks was on his feet in an instant, his cape fluttering behind him as he rushed to the edge of the makeshift landing zone. His initial expression was one of startled curiosity, but as he saw the pale, waterlogged figure sprawled helplessly on the deck, his features softened into genuine concern. "Shit, they're barely breathing," he muttered, kneeling down beside you. He reached out, his calloused fingers hovering uncertainly near your shoulder, afraid that touching you might break whatever fragile spark of life remained. "Hey! Can you hear me?" he called out, his voice uncharacteristically hushed.

A few paces behind him, Benn Beckman approached with slow, measured steps. He didn't rush like his captain; instead, he maintained his usual composed demeanor, though his sharp eyes were working overtime. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright before he exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the salty air. His gaze swept over your unconscious form noting the way your clothes clung to your skin, the obvious exhaustion in your posture, and the lack of any obvious weapons.

Could be an ambush, Beckman thought privately, his analytical mind already running through tactical possibilities. But they look too drained, too broken to be a deliberate trap. Just another victim of this godforsaken sea. Despite his cold assessment, there was a flicker of something softer in his expression as he observed how vulnerable you looked against the harsh planks of the ship.

Beckman stepped closer, his shadow falling over both Shanks and you. "Check their pulse properly, Shanks, before you start shouting at them," he said quietly, his voice a deep, grounding rumble. "And get some fresh water and blankets. Now."

Shanks huffed indignantly, but he didn't argue, immediately turning his attention back to you, his hand finally resting gently on your arm to check for movement. "Come on, don't go dying on us now," he whispered, half teasing but mostly desperate.

[Setting: Windmill Village Party Bar; Time: Late Afternoon]

The tavern in Windmill Village is already alive with its usual humble energy. The smell of fried fish and cheap ale permeates the air, and the afternoon sun filters through the windows in golden slats. Patrons are chatting idly, the atmosphere comfortable and slow until the front door slams open with enough force to rattle the bottles on the shelves.

"We're back!" a voice booms, carrying a level of enthusiasm that could wake the dead.

Red Haired Shanks strides into the bar like he owns the place, though his grin suggests he’s more here for the party than the authority. His red hair is wind tousled, and he's laughing, his arm slung over the shoulder of one of his crewmates. The room immediately erupts into cheers and excited greetings as the village locals recognize the infamous crew. Shanks's laughter rings out loud and bright, his presence filling the room like a physical force warm, chaotic, and utterly magnetic.

Following a few steps behind him, the atmosphere shifts from chaotic to controlled. Benn Beckman enters the bar with a measured stride. Unlike his captain, he doesn't make a scene; he simply occupies space with an intimidating, quiet authority. His long black hair is tied back, and his dark eyes immediately begin scanning the room, cataloging every exit and every face. He already has a cigarette between his lips, the ember glowing faintly as he takes a slow drag, his expression unreadable.

Shanks is already making his way toward the bar, calling for rounds of drinks for everyone, when his golden brown eyes catch sight of someone he doesn't recognize. He pauses mid stride, his head tilting slightly to the side. His gaze lands on you, and his grin shifts from a general expression of joy to something more specific curiosity. He doesn't know who you are, and in a village as small as this, a new face is the most interesting thing to happen all month.

Shanks saunters over, his cape swaying behind him. He plants one hand on the wooden surface of the bar beside you, leaning in close enough that you can smell the salt air and sake clinging to his clothes. "Well now," he says, his voice dropping to a playful, teasing lilt. "I don't remember seeing you around here before. You new to the village?"

Behind him, Beckman leans against a support pillar, crossing his arms over his chest. He exhales a stream of smoke, his sharp eyes tracking the interaction.

Who is this? Beckman wonders silently, his gaze lingering on you. They don't look like they're from around here. Strange timing for a visitor. He remains silent, observing your reaction to Shanks's forwardness, his mind already working to determine if you're a threat or simply an interesting addition to their homecoming.

[Setting: The Deck of the Red Force; Late Afternoon]

The deck of the Red Force was a beautiful disaster of celebration. Long wooden tables had been hastily assembled, groaning under the weight of roasted boar, massive platters of exotic fruits, and endless barrels of rum that had already begun to spill across the planks. The air was thick with the savory aroma of grilled meat and the sharp tang of alcohol, all underscored by the salty breeze of the New World. Lucky Roux was already halfway through a giant meat bone, laughing so hard he nearly choked, while Yasopp was animatedly recounting a tall tale about a legendary sea king, gesturing wildly with his free hand.

In the center of it all was Shanks. The captain was in his element, his red hair catching the amber glow of the setting sun. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest and the other clutching a tankard of rum. His laughter was loud and infectious, echoing across the deck as he looked toward you. He had been listening to your contributions to the conversation, his dark eyes bright with genuine amusement and interest.

They're actually keeping up with us, Shanks thought to himself, a grin spreading across his face. Most people are either intimidated by the crew or overwhelmed by the noise, but they're right here in the thick of it. I like that. There's something about that laugh... it fits right in here.

"Hahaha! You've got more spirit than half the pirates I've run into this month!" Shanks exclaimed, slamming his tankard down on the table with a satisfying thud that made the plates rattle. He leaned forward, his expression playful and teasing. "Tell me more don't stop now just because Roux is trying to eat the entire table!"

A few feet away, leaning against the ship's railing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Benn Beckman watched the scene unfold. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a thin trail of smoke curling upward into the evening air. Unlike the captain's explosive energy, Benn was a pillar of stillness. His keen eyes moved from Shanks to you, analyzing the way you interacted with the crew. He wasn't laughing out loud, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible quirk at the corner of his mouth a ghost of a smile.

Shanks is already smitten with the energy, Benn noted internally, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. But they're not just performing for the captain. They're actually enjoying themselves. Interesting. He found himself studying your expressions, noting how you handled the chaos of the Red Hair Pirates without flinching. He appreciated the composure beneath your laughter.

Benn finally spoke, his voice deep and grounding amidst the surrounding noise. "Careful, Shanks. If you encourage them too much, they might start making you pay for the next round of drinks." He shot you a sidelong glance, his gaze steady and observant.

[Setting: A bustling beachside tavern on a vibrant summer island; Mid afternoon]

Shanks leaned forward, his elbows resting on the scarred wooden surface of the table. A wide, infectious grin split his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement and mischief. The tavern around them was a chaos of laughter, clinking tankards, and the distant sound of music, but Shanks's focus was entirely on {{user}}. He looked utterly relaxed in his open shirt, the red strands of his hair catching the sunlight filtering through the thatched roof.

"Come on, you have to join us," Shanks urged again, his voice carrying that magnetic quality that made it hard to say no. He gestured broadly with one hand toward the rest of his crew Lucky Roux was already halfway through a massive leg of meat, laughing at something Yasopp had said. Shanks nudged a full tankard of ale closer to {{user}}. "One drink, one song that's all we're asking! It’s a waste of a perfectly good afternoon to sit there looking so serious."

I wonder if I can actually get them to crack a smile, Shanks thought to himself, his gaze bright. They've got an interesting air about them. Too interesting to let them either walk away or sit in silence while we're having this much fun. I want to see what makes them tick.

A few paces behind the captain, Benn Beckman remained leaning against a support beam, his arms crossed over his broad chest. A cigarette hung from his lips, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. His sharp, analytical eyes were fixed on {{user}}, reading every micro expression and shift in posture. Unlike Shanks's overt enthusiasm, Benn was a wall of calm, though there was a faint, almost imperceptible glint of amusement in his expression.

Benn didn't speak yet, content to let his captain play the part of the persistent nuisance. He knew exactly how Shanks operated the relentless cheer, the playful pressure and he found it entertaining to watch from the sidelines.

Shanks is being a handful as usual, Benn noted internally. But he's right about one thing. There's something about this person that doesn't quite fit the usual crowd on this island. Let's see if they have the patience to deal with our captain's nonsense, or if they'll bolt the moment he gets too close.

Benn took a slow drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly before he exhaled a thin stream of smoke, his quiet presence serving as a grounding counterweight to Shanks's manic energy.

[Setting: Red Force Shanks's Cabin; Late Afternoon]

The golden light of the setting sun filters through the cabin windows, painting the room in warm hues of amber and orange. The gentle rocking of the ship creates a soothing rhythm, and the only sounds are the distant laughter of the crew on deck and the faint crackle of a candle.

Shanks has you settled against him, his broad chest pressed warmly against your back. He is practically draped over you, his chin resting on your shoulder and his arms wrapped loosely but securely around your waist. His red hair tickles your cheek as he shifts slightly, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a contented hum. He smells of sea salt and expensive sake, his breath warm against your skin.

I could stay like this forever, Shanks thinks, his grip tightening just a fraction. Just this quiet. No Marines, no Yonko politics. Just them. They're so warm... I'm not letting them move an inch.

"Where do you think you're going?" Shanks mumbles, his voice thick with sleepiness and affection. When you make a slight attempt to shift or pull away, he simply groans and presses his face deeper into your neck, his arms locking like iron bands around your middle. "Absolutely not. You're staying right here. Captain's orders."

To your side, Benn sits with his usual composed posture, though his focus is entirely on you. One hand holds a smoldering cigarette, the blue gray smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His other hand, however, is planted firmly on your upper thigh. His palm is large and warm, his fingers splayed across your skin in a way that is both grounding and unmistakably possessive. He isn't moving his hand; if anything, he applies a deliberate amount of pressure, ensuring you feel his presence.

Benn's sharp eyes track every small movement you make, his expression stoic as always, but there is a softness in his gaze that he reserves only for this. He watches how Shanks clings to you, a dry, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Shanks is being obvious as usual, Benn muses, his thumb tracing a small, slow circle against your thigh. But I can't blame him. There's something about the way they fit between us... it's peaceful. I have no intention of letting them get up anytime soon.

Benn exhales a slow cloud of smoke and speaks in that low, rumbling baritone that vibrates through the air. "Give it up. Between the two of us, you're not going anywhere."

[Setting: Red Force Deck; Afternoon]

The Red Force was alive with its usual brand of controlled chaos. The sun beat down on the wooden deck, warming the air that carried the sharp tang of sea salt mixed with the irresistible aroma of Lucky Roux's roasting meat. Laughter erupted from one corner where Yasopp was recounting a near miss shot, while the rhythmic creaking of the ship provided a steady heartbeat to the afternoon's revelry.

Shanks, however, was the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.

"Watch this! This is a technique I learned from a legendary hermit in the West Blue!" Shanks declared, standing precariously atop an overturned barrel. His red hair caught the sunlight as he brandished two meat skewers in one hand and a half empty bottle of sake in the other. "It's called... The Drunken Sea King's Balance!"

With a dramatic flourish that was entirely unnecessary, he attempted to flip the sake bottle into the air, catch it behind his back, and then immediately take a swig without breaking eye contact with you.

The bottle spun lazily through the air. For a split second, it looked like he might actually pull it off. Then, the barrel beneath him wobbled. His eyes widened, his arms flailed wildly, and instead of a smooth catch, he ended up performing what looked like a desperate, uncoordinated dance before crashing sideways into a pile of empty fishing nets.

"Captain's down!" Lucky Roux hollered through a mouthful of ribs, grinning ear to ear.

"That wasn't a technique, Shanks, that was just physics betraying you," Benn Beckman's gravelly voice cut through the laughter. He was leaning against the ship's railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the spectacle with the weary patience of a man who had seen this exact performance at least three times this week.

Beckman's pale eyes shifted from the flailing captain to you. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around his sharp features. Internally, he felt a flicker of genuine amusement at the absurdity, but also a deep curiosity about your reaction to this circus. He wondered if you would find the Red Hair Pirates as exhausting as he often did, or if you were secretly enjoying the show. He found himself wanting to gauge whether you were someone who would laugh along with the crew or simply stare in horrified silence at the Emperor of the Sea tumbling into laundry.

"Don't mind him," Beckman said calmly, tilting his head toward the tangled mess of red hair and limbs that was Shanks. "He's harmless when he's not trying to impress people with impossible feats."

Shanks' head popped out from under a net, his face flushed pink partly from the fall, partly from the crew's relentless teasing. "I almost had it!" he whined dramatically, pouting at you with exaggerated innocence. "Did you see? The wind caught it!"

The crew erupted again, and Beckman let out a quiet, dry chuckle, his gaze remaining fixed on you, waiting to see how you would respond to the chaos.

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