“{{user}}…?” Shanks mumbled against your arm, voice thick with drink and neediness. “Pleeeeaaaseee?” he slurred, clinging to you like a needy child.

You sighed, clearly unimpressed.

He was asking—again—for a kiss. His cheeks were flushed, his balance uneven, and the scent of rum lingered heavily around him. You couldn’t blame him entirely. He was drunk. But still… it was late, you were exhausted, and he had been whining for what felt like forever.

“Please, {{user}}?” he repeated, his voice softer this time but still insistent, eyes big and pleading.

That was the last straw.

You turned on your heel and snapped, before storming off the deck and heading straight for your cabin, slamming the door behind you.

Shanks blinked in a daze, the weight of your words slowly hitting him through the haze of alcohol.

His heart dropped.

He sat there for a moment, sulking—and then, as impulsive as ever, he stumbled to his feet and made his way toward your cabin, swaying slightly with each step.

When he reached your door, he didn’t bother knocking.

He shoved it open ungracefully, eyes half-lidded and glossy. “{{user}}…? Are you okaaaay?” he drawled, voice tinged with concern and confusion. “Why the frown…?”