Chapter Text
Shamrock hated malls. They were loud, crowded, and full of people who didn’t understand the concept of personal space. He grumbled as he made his way past the stores, trying to get this stupid errand over with.
Then, of course, trouble found him.
"Hey there, cutie," a stranger purred, stepping into his path.
Shamrock froze. He immediately knew where this was going. The way the guy smirked, the overconfidence in his stance—it was the kind of interaction he didn’t know how to deal with.
"Not interested," he said flatly, stepping aside.
But the guy followed. "Aw, don’t be like that. Just give me your name—"
Before Shamrock could shove him away, an arm draped over his shoulder. A warm, all-too-familiar weight pressed against his side.
"Sorry, sweetheart, but he’s taken."
Shamrock’s blood ran cold.
Buggy.
Before he could react, Buggy tilted his chin and kissed him. Right there. In public. On the lips.
Not just a peck—no, Buggy had to go all in. There was tongue in there.
The guy immediately recoiled, muttering something about not messing with weirdos before scampering off.
Shamrock, however, was furious.
He shoved Buggy away the second they were alone. "What the hell was that?!"
Buggy shrugged, completely unbothered. "You looked like you needed help."
Shamrock’s eye twitched. "And the kiss?! With tongue?!"
Buggy smirked. "Felt like it."
That simple response made Shamrock’s blood boil.
This was it. This was exactly why he couldn’t stand Buggy. He was reckless, chaotic, and did whatever the hell he wanted without thinking. Shamrock could never be with someone like that.
"You’re impossible," he growled.
Buggy tilted his head. "Oh? So you wouldn’t wanna date me? Is that it?"
"Obviously," Shamrock snapped.
Buggy’s grin widened. "Are you saying I’m not hot? Not desirable?"
Before Shamrock could react, Buggy tackled him.
"What the—GET OFF ME!"
"Make me, pretty boy!"
Buggy was strong. Too strong. No matter how much Shamrock struggled, Buggy had him pinned, grinning like a madman.
"Does this turn you on, Red? Huh?" Buggy taunted, tightening his hold.
Shamrock’s eyed widen. This was just like his stupid dream. Except now, it was just... pure chaos. No weird feelings. No confusion. Just a headache waiting to happen.
Yeah. I definitely don’t want this.
"Get off me, you stupid fool!" he groaned.
Buggy leaned in closer. "Make me."
That was it. That was the last straw.
Pinned beneath Buggy, Shamrock struggled, but there was no escaping. Buggy’s grip was iron-clad, his weight pressing him down with an overwhelming force. His heart was racing, his breath uneven, but this time—it wasn’t because of confusion.
It was exhaustion.
It was clarity.
For the first time in what felt like forever, everything clicked into place. He didn’t want this. Not the push-and-pull, not the chaotic whirlwind that was Buggy’s presence in his life. Not the teasing, the reckless behavior, the way Buggy toyed with emotions like they were just another trick up his sleeve.
Shamrock had spent weeks tangled in frustration, questioning himself, feeling like his own mind was a battlefield. But now? Under Buggy’s hold, with his taunts in his ear and his smug grin flashing down at him—he felt nothing but relief.
This was never what he wanted. Not really.
The tension in his chest unraveled like a tightly wound knot finally coming undone. His hands stopped struggling against Buggy’s grip. He exhaled, long and slow, and for the first time in forever, his thoughts were quiet.
"You’re unbearable, annoying, and the last person I’d ever want to be with," he spat, his tone dripping with cold, unwavering disdain.
Buggy’s smile vanished.
Then, with terrifying ease, he flipped Shamrock over, pinning him down in the most uncomfortable wrestler hold imaginable—face shoved to the floor, ass in the air, completely trapped.
"Say that again, pretty boy."
Shamrock stood silent.
Nothing came out of his mouth.
Buggy froze, both of them stood perfectly still and just like that, the clowns’ grin faltered. Letting him go, and sat up on him again, just to see the look on the red’haireds face.
And that reaction alone told Shamrock everything he needed to know.
This game, this chase—it was only fun because Shamrock had been unsure. Because he had let Buggy mess with his head, let his own doubts create an opening. But now that the answer was clear, there was no game left to play.
Buggy could wrestle him, pin him down, tease him all he wanted—but he didn’t have power over him anymore.
And god, that realization was freeing.
A long sigh left his lips, a weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying slipping off his shoulders.
"Get off me, you stupid fool."
Buggy narrowed his eyes, as if sensing the shift in Shamrock’s demeanor. "Make me."
Shamrock didn’t fight. Didn’t struggle.
He just stared back, calm, unwavering.
And that—that lack of reaction—was what made Buggy pause.
And then—
"Still in love with Buggy?"
Shanks.
Standing there. Holding two coffees.
Shamrock didn’t even hesitate.
"Nope. Get him off."
Shanks calmly sipped his coffee. "Yeah, thought so."
As Buggy finally rolled off him with a dramatic huff, Shamrock sat up, dusting himself off like he was wiping away more than just the scuffle—he was wiping away everything that had clouded his mind. The uncertainty, the restless nights, the endless cycle of frustration and attraction that had kept him tangled in this mess. It was over.
Buggy had been a storm, an unpredictable whirlwind that had shaken him, challenged him, and for a while, even tempted him. But that’s all he ever was—a storm. And Shamrock? He wasn’t the type to chase storms. He was done trying to find meaning in the chaos, done letting Buggy crawl under his skin just because he could.
He looked at Buggy then, really looked at him, and for the first time, he didn’t feel conflicted. No lingering what-ifs, no unanswered questions. Just the solid, absolute certainty that whatever this had been—it wasn’t for him.
"You’re only ever going to be Shanks' problem," he muttered with a smirk, shaking his head.
Buggy scoffed, tossing his hair back with dramatic flair. "Please. You wish you could handle me."
Shamrock didn’t even entertain it with a response. He simply stood, stretched, and took the second coffee from his brother’s hand.
"You good?" Shanks asked, glancing at him.
Shamrock took a sip. The warmth spread through him, grounding him.
"Yeah," he said, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. "I’m good."
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The End