Most of the stuff here is tagged, but I’m always working on making sure everything is tagged correctly. If I reblog something you don't like, block the tag.
I tag my thoughts under ‘ya cállate chavela’ and my nonsensical ramblings about fictional men under ‘husband posting.’ Block the tags if you don’t want to hear me ramble and rave about my thoughts.
I’m a huge @/xxgoblin-dumplingxx fan, and a lot of her work is reblogged here. Please go support her and follow her blog, she’s an amazing writer and a huge inspiration.
In regards to my inbox:
My inbox is open, feel free to leave requests. Currently, I’ve put my Magneto x reader and Viktor x reader on the back burner, but I’ll come back to them one day. I’ve been obsessed with Shanks from One Piece for no fucking reason lately. I don’t understand why either.
In regards to a Masterlist:
Here it is. If a fic you read is different from what you remember, it’s because I am an insufferable perfectionist and am constantly making edits to things.
X-Men ‘97:
Magneto x reader:
Dalia de Acero: Chapter 1 Chapter 2
Extras: WIP 1 WIP 2 (this one is R18)
Arcane:
Viktor x reader
Blurb #1 (suggestive), Blurb #2
Jayce Talis x reader
Blurb #1, Blurb #2
One Piece:
Shanks x reader
Baseball au: Blurb #1, Blurb #2, Blurb #3
In which Shanks is a retired baseball player turned coach and a shameless flirt.
The Andromeda: (WIP)
In which Uta tries to get her parents back together. (This one is going to be angsty)
Updated: 05/10/2026
This is not a safe place for minors, you will be blocked. Leave.
Please make art. You don't have to bare your soul or make a masterpiece, you can be silly and you can be derivative if you want. You don't even have to show it to anyone. Just please make something, it's so good for you
there's an old anne rice interview circulating on twitter rn that i remember reading ages ago where she makes a pretty salient point about how submissive men who have bdsm fantasies etc will go to a sex worker and basically order the ala carte version of their fantasy to be performed in real life but women don't really have that same option and certainly not at the same point of availability so they read her horny books instead. and honestly that argument has been in the back of my mind every time people get on their high horses about the popularity of booktok romantasy novels or heated rivalry or whatever the "women are horny and we're upset about that" cultural property du jour is ever since. women, especially straight women, have so few outlets for their sexual desires, especially if they have a partner who doesn't share them, and i will never understand why "someone ELSE'S private sexual fantasy makes me uncomfortable and therefore they should not be allowed to engage with it, even if i am in no way being affected by it or even aware of it at all" is such a popular party line among allegedly progressive young people.
Plot: A quiet Straw Hat catches the attention of the Red-Haired Emperor.
A/N: This is YANDERE/DARK Shanks. Do not read if you dislike this version of him. SMUT AHEAD.
Part 5
You did not sleep.
You tried.
You lay in the dark with the ship moving beneath you and Evie’s voice turning over in your head.
He won’t get bored.
He’ll get comfortable.
Boredom would have been easier.
Comfort settled into corners. Learned your habits. Made room beside your bed.
By midnight, you gave up pretending.
The hallway outside your cabin was quiet when you stepped into it. The guard two turns down looked over once, then away again.
The ship let you move as long as every path still belonged to him.
You found Shanks in the library. He sat at the desk with a map spread beneath one hand.
He did not look surprised to see you.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“So are you.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Captain’s habit.”
You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The latch clicked softly.
Shanks heard it. Something in his expression changed, small and immediate.
You crossed the room slowly, stopping on the other side of the desk.
“Evie spoke to me,” you said.
“I assumed she would.”
“She said you won’t get bored.”
Shanks leaned back in his chair.
“She’s right.”
The answer moved through you in a way you hated.
“I think she’s happy,” he added.
“She isn’t free.”
“No,” Shanks said. “She isn’t.”
He pushed the chair back and rose to his feet.
“But she is loved,” he said. “Protected. Known. She has a place on this ship no one would dare question.” His voice lowered. “That can be enough.”
“For her.”
“For you too.”
Your throat tightened.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you’re lonely even when people love you.”
The words struck too close.
You looked away.
“I know the Sunny is your home,” he said. “I know you miss them. I know you hate me for that.”
Your eyes burned.
“I also know you came here tonight.”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze.
“You think that means you won?”
“No.”
He paused.
“I think it means you’re tired of pretending you only came here to argue.”
Heat moved under your skin.
You hated all of it.
You hated that your body had gone still for a reason that was not fear.
Shanks saw that too.
His voice dropped.
“Stop overthinking and come get what you want.”
For one long second, neither of you moved.
You rounded the desk so quickly your hip struck the corner. The dull pain barely registered. Shanks turned toward you, and you grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, dragging him down as your mouth met his.
The kiss broke something.
Shanks made a low sound against your mouth and kissed you back hard. He tilted your head back and took the kiss deeper.
His tongue slid against yours, and your hands moved to his shoulders. You felt him smile against your mouth, felt the satisfaction in it, and bit his lower lip hard enough to make him breathe out a laugh.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Knew you’d come to me.”
You kissed him again before he could say anything else.
Shanks backed you into the desk hard enough to rattle the map beneath your hands.
His mouth left yours and moved to your throat, then the sensitive place beneath your ear.
He remembered.
“You’re so angry,” he murmured against your skin. “And still you came.”
“Shut up.”
His teeth grazed your neck.
You made a sound that was between a gasp and a moan.
Shanks smiled there, then bit down.
Your nails dragged over his shoulder as his tongue dragged over the bite, making sure you felt exactly where he had left it.
“Careful,” he said, and his voice had gone dark with amusement. “Keep clawing at me like that and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said, mouth moving lower, open and hot against your throat. “You hate that I know exactly where to touch you.”
His hand slid beneath your shirt and up, palm closing over your breast as his thumb circled your nipple.
You pulled him closer.
Shanks made another low sound, and that one was not amused.
He lifted you onto the desk with one strong motion. Papers scattered. The map tore somewhere under your knee.
His hand pushed into your pants and between your legs.
You gasped.
Shanks watched your face as his fingers worked slowly at first, too slowly, drawing heat out of you in patient strokes that made you whine.
“Look at me,” he said.
You shook your head once.
His fingers circled your clit with just enough pressure to make your body jolt.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snapped open.
Shanks was watching you with that terrible focus again. Like every sound, every breath, every little betrayal of your body was something he meant to keep.
“That’s better,” he said.
You wanted to curse at him.
What came out was softer. Worse.
His expression changed.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
Your face burned.
You dragged him back to your mouth. He kissed you messily now, all tongue and teeth, his control thinning with every sound he pulled from you.
“Let me fuck you,” he said, lower. “I’ll make you forget every reason you thought you could leave me.”
Your answer broke against his mouth.
After that, neither of you had patience. Clothes were shoved aside and dropped wherever they fell.
His mouth stayed on yours when he pulled you closer. When he settled between your thighs. When the first rough push made your head fall back.
He caught your sound with his mouth.
Then gave you another.
And another.
The desk moved beneath you.
Your nails dug into his shoulder, dragging down as he moved, harsh and steady, his hand hooked beneath your thigh to hold you open for him, holding you in place for every deep thrust that scattered your thoughts until there was only the weight of him and the heat of him and the awful, aching truth that your body had wanted this.
Wanted him.
Shanks pressed his mouth to your neck again, breathing hard against the mark he had left.
“I can’t stand it,” he said, voice low at your ear. “Thinking about you away from me. Sleeping somewhere I can’t reach. Laughing with people who don’t know what you sound like when you fall apart.”
Your fingers twisted in his hair.
“Shanks.”
His hips drove harder at the sound of his name.
“That,” he said roughly. “Again.”
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, arching into him as his hand moved between your legs again. His mouth found yours, swallowing the next broken sound before it could leave you.
He kissed you like he wanted to take the shape of your refusal apart piece by piece.
And you let him.
That was the part you would hate later.
Maybe.
Maybe you would hate that you stopped thinking of later at all.
Shanks dragged his mouth down your throat, leaving another mark lower than the first. One you could hide if you tried.
“You’re mine,” he said against your skin.
The words went through you, low and hot, and Shanks felt the answer in your body.
“Oh,” he breathed, satisfaction rough in his voice. “Sweetheart.”
“Don’t.”
“You liked that.”
He lifted his head.
His eyes were dark. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess from your hands.
For once, he looked less controlled.
“You can fight me tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight, take what I’m giving you.”
Your breath shook.
Then his hand found your clit again, and whatever answer you had broke apart.
You clung to him. Scratched at his back. Bit down on his shoulder when the pleasure finally dragged you under.
“That’s it,” he said into your hair. “That’s mine too.”
His arm locked around you, holding you hard against him as his hips drove deep one last time and you felt him come inside you.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The world had not ended. That felt unfair.
Shanks’s hand moved slowly up your back. Not grabbing now. Not pushing.
Keeping.
You were still sitting on the desk, legs trembling, your body aching and messy with what had just happened.
His face was against your hair.
And when it was over, he did not let you go.
“I thought about tying you to my bed,” he whispered, almost fondly. “But you came to me on your own.”
His mouth brushed your hair.
“I like that better.”
——————————
Since the night in the library, you had mostly avoided him.
You took meals when you knew he was busy. You stayed near the quieter corners of the ship.
But Shanks was patient.
He did not crowd you. He did not throw your surrender back in your face. He only watched you with that warm, terrible knowing whenever you crossed his path.
As if he was waiting for you to forgive yourself.
So when the Red Force docked that morning and Shanks disappeared with Beckman to speak with the harbor master, you packed quickly and left through the side passage.
You told yourself it was not betrayal.
You told yourself you were only going back to where you belonged.
You made it halfway down the side steps before you saw Evie.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then she looked at the bag over your shoulder. Her expression did not change.
“He’ll know,” she said.
You looked toward the dock. People moved below, carrying crates, shouting prices. Freedom looked insultingly ordinary from here.
“You aren’t going to stop me?” you asked.
She looked at you then.
There was no pity in her face.
“No.”
Your throat tightened.
Evie looked past you, toward the dock. “Go on,” she said softly. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
You walked past her before you could lose your nerve.
You made it as far as the lower dock before someone caught you.
That was the humiliating part.
Not even the street beyond the harbor. Not the little booth with the public transponder snail where, if you had been fast enough, you might have called the Sunny.
The lower dock.
You had one hand wrapped around the strap of your bag when a shadow moved beside a stack of cargo crates.
“Going somewhere?”
Your heart stopped.
Yasopp stepped into view, his expression too mild. For one foolish second, you thought about running.
Then Lucky appeared behind you, leaning against a post with a skewer in one hand and absolutely no surprise on his face.
Your throat went dry.
“I was just walking.”
Yasopp glanced at the bag.
“With clothes?”
You paused.
Neither of them moved toward you.
Somehow that made it worse.
Lucky sighed, almost sadly. “Captain’s not going to like this.”
Your stomach sank.
Yasopp held out his hand.
You hesitated.
His face softened slightly.
“Don’t make us take it from you.”
That hurt more than it should have.
You let the bag slide from your shoulder.
Lucky took it carefully, like handling it gently would make any of this less terrible.
No one grabbed you.
No one tied your hands.
They only walked with you back to the Red Force, one on either side, close enough that every person on the dock knew you were not alone.
Evie was gone by the time you reached the ship again.
Shanks was waiting on deck. Beckman stood a few paces behind him, cigarette between his fingers.
Shanks looked at the bag first.
Then at you.
For a moment, he did not move.
His face stayed calm.
That was how you knew it was bad.
Lucky brought the bag up the gangplank and set it on deck.
“Found her near the lower dock,” Yasopp said.
Shanks’s eyes stayed on you.
“Thank you.”
The words were polite.
Flat.
Yasopp and Lucky left without needing to be told.
Beckman’s gaze moved over your face once. Then he looked at Shanks.
“Captain.”
“I know,” Shanks said.
Beckman paused.
Then he walked away too.
You were left standing in front of Shanks with your bag between you.
The ship moved gently beneath your feet.
Neither of you spoke.
Finally, Shanks stepped closer.
You made yourself hold still.
His jaw shifted once, like he had bitten down on the first thing he wanted to say.
“Were you going to leave me a note?” he asked.
His voice was soft.
Too soft.
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
Still, he smiled.
It was a terrible attempt.
“No note,” he repeated.
“Shanks—”
“How far did you think you’d get?”
You looked away.
His hand came up.
You flinched before you could stop yourself.
Shanks went still.
For the first time, something cracked across his face.
Not anger. Hurt, maybe.
Then it was gone, buried so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.
His hand lowered.
“You thought I would hurt you.”
The silence answered for you.
Shanks looked toward the dock, then back at you. “I told myself I wouldn’t be angry,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
The honesty startled you.
His voice stayed low.
“I’m angry you ran. I’m angry you scared me. I’m angry you thought you could walk off this ship with a bag over your shoulder and disappear into a town I hadn’t cleared, toward people who may or may not be waiting, with no idea who watched you leave.”
Your chest tightened.
“There’s always someone watching.”
“Yes,” Shanks said. “Because you are mine to keep safe.”
The words struck too deep.
“Stop saying that like it’s the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
Your eyes burned.
“That’s the problem.”
For a moment, he only looked at you.
Then he bent, picked up your bag, and held it in his hand.
“Come with me.”
Your stomach twisted. “Where?”
“My cabin.”
“No.”
The whole deck seemed to quiet around you.
Shanks’s voice lowered.
“That was not a request.”
He turned and walked toward the stairs.
You stood there for half a second too long. Then you followed.
Because Yasopp was by the lower rigging.
Because Lucky was near the galley door.
Because Beckman was somewhere behind you, silent and knowing.
The cabin door shut behind you with a soft click.
Shanks set your bag on the floor beside his desk.
For a moment, he stood with his back to you.
You waited for the anger.
For the punishment.
For the thing you had been afraid of since the lower dock.
Instead, Shanks exhaled slowly.
“You’re tired,” he said.
The words broke something small and stupid inside you.
You stared at his back.
“What?”
He turned.
His expression had changed again. Still serious. Still dangerous.
“You’re tired,” he repeated. “And stubborn. And scared. And you keep thinking if you make it one more door, one more street, one more ship away, you’ll become someone I can’t reach.”
He stepped closer.
You did not move.
“That isn’t going to happen,” he said.
Your eyes burned.
“I know.”
The admission came out so quietly you barely recognized it as yours.
Shanks stopped.
“I know,” you said again, because the first time had not been enough. “I can’t leave.”
Shanks’s mouth parted slightly.
You looked down at your hands. They were trembling.
“I thought I needed to try,” you said.
“And now?”
You closed your eyes.
You saw Yasopp stepping from the shadows. Lucky waiting behind you.
Evie on the rail, saying you’d understand soon enough.
Every open path turning quietly back toward the same man.
“I’m done trying tonight.”
Not forever. Not yet.
But tonight was enough to make his face soften.
Shanks came closer. This time, when his hand lifted, you did not flinch.
His fingers touched your cheek.
You hated the tear that slipped free before you could stop it. Shanks brushed it away with his thumb.
“I told you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to run from me.”
Your chest ached.
“I was running from what happens if I stop.”
The smile faded.
Then he drew you in.
Slowly.
Your forehead touched his chest first. His arm came around you, firm and warm, holding you against him.
The fight went out of you all at once.
Not because you forgave him.
Because you were tired.
Shanks lowered his mouth to your hair.
“I have you,” he whispered.
You shut your eyes.
His hand moved slowly up your back. For a moment, he only held you.
Then his fingers slid into your hair and closed into his palm.
You gasped as he pulled your head back hard enough to hurt.
His mouth was beside your ear now, his voice low and stripped of every gentle thing he had been pretending to offer.
“But if you run from me again, sweetheart, I’ll stop letting you pretend this is anything else.”
You went still against him.
He did not loosen his grip.
“You think you’re a prisoner?” he bit out. “Try me again, and I’ll make sure you understand the difference.”
Your pulse tripped hard.
For one second, all you could feel was his hand in your hair and the steady force of his body holding yours in place.
Then his grip eased.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His mouth touched the side of your neck, soft now. Almost apologetic.
“I don’t want that for you,” he said against your skin.
Another kiss brushed into your hair.
“I want you here.”
That was the worst part.
You believed him.
In the morning, no one mentioned the bag.
Lucky saved you a seat at breakfast. Yasopp slid the honey toward you without looking. Evie glanced at you once and said nothing at all.
Beckman smoked near the rail, his gaze on the horizon, Evie tucked in beside him.
Shanks sat at your side, warm and easy, his knee touching yours beneath the table.
No one called you prisoner.
No one called you guest.
And this time, when Shanks reached for your hand, you let him take it.
The Red Force moved beneath you, steady as a heartbeat. You understood then that the ship had never been waiting for you to stop fighting.
Plot: A quiet Straw Hat catches the attention of the Red-Haired Emperor.
A/N: This is YANDERE/DARK Shanks. Do not read if you dislike this version of him.
Part 3
Your aunt had invited the Red Hair Pirates to stay for dinner after they finished the siding.
Shanks helped set the table.
That was the part you could not look away from.
He moved through your family’s kitchen with careful ease, carrying plates and letting your aunt direct him.
Then your grandmother tried to stand.
Shanks moved before anyone else did.
“Careful,” he said, offering his hand.
Your grandmother looked at him over the top of her glasses. “I am not made of glass, young man.”
“No,” Shanks said, smiling. “But I’m still not letting you carry that chair.”
She stared at him for half a second.
Then she laughed.
Actually laughed.
Your stomach twisted.
Lucky praised your aunt’s cooking with his mouth full. Yasopp had your uncle laughing over some story.
Beckman was quieter than the rest.
He sat near your uncle, answering questions in a low, even voice. Your uncle seemed to respect him within minutes.
“Man says five words all night,” your uncle muttered once, leaning toward you, “and somehow I trust him with the roof.”
You did not laugh.
Across the table, Shanks was listening to your grandmother describe the way the east wall had started bowing after the last storm. He nodded like nothing in the world mattered more.
“You should have sent for help sooner,” he said.
Your grandmother sniffed. “I did not know emperors were taking household repairs now.”
“For you?” Shanks said. “I’ll make an exception.”
Your aunt melted.
Your uncle grinned.
Your grandmother pretended not to be pleased and failed.
You looked down at your plate.
After dinner, everyone moved slowly. Chairs scraped back. Plates were gathered. Your aunt tried to insist no guests should help, which lasted until Shanks took a serving bowl from her hands and carried it into the kitchen anyway.
“You’ve done enough,” your aunt said.
“I haven’t,” Shanks answered easily.
Your aunt looked at him like he had already proven himself.
You needed air.
You slipped out through the side door and onto the porch before anyone could stop you.
You stopped beside the steps and forced one breath in.
Then another.
A match struck beside you.
You turned.
Beckman stood at the far end of the porch, half in shadow, cigarette between his fingers.
You had not seen him there.
“Sorry,” he said.
He did not sound sorry.
You looked back toward the yard. “It’s fine.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Inside, your aunt laughed at something Shanks said. The sound carried through the open window.
Beckman exhaled smoke slowly.
“He’s laying it on thick,” he said.
You glanced at him.
His gaze stayed on the garden.
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
Your throat tightened. “Everyone loves him.”
“Most people do.”
He took another drag from his cigarette.
“He gets like this when something stays out of reach.”
You looked back at him.
“He likes the chase?”
Beckman was quiet for a second too long.
“He likes winning.”
Your pulse beat hard beneath your skin.
“And after he wins?”
His gaze settled on you then.
Not unkind.
Not kind either.
“Usually,” he said, “he settles.”
You hated him a little for how calmly he said it.
Beckman looked toward the kitchen window.
Shanks was still there. Still smiling. Still playing the part so well that anyone else would have called it kindness.
“Right now, you’re the thing he can’t have. That’s dangerous.”
You wanted your family safe.
You wanted Luffy far from this.
Beckman’s voice stayed low.
“He’s being charming now. Use it.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
The side door opened.
Both of you turned.
Shanks stepped onto the porch.
His gaze went to you first. Then to Beckman. Then back to you.
His mouth stayed easy, but something in his eyes sharpened. The warmth returned before anyone inside could have noticed it leave.
“There you are,” he said.
Your spine stiffened.
Beckman did not move.
Shanks glanced at the space between you and his first mate.
“Your aunt’s asking for you,” he said.
You looked toward the open door.
As you passed Shanks, his attention followed you closely enough to feel like a touch. He did not reach for you. Not with Beckman there.
But his voice softened.
“Don’t be long, sweetheart.”
You did not answer.
You went inside.
For a moment, the porch was quiet. Shanks looked at Beckman.
Beckman took one last drag from his cigarette and crushed it against the porch rail.
“She understands,” he said.
Shanks’s smile faded into something smaller.
More private.
“She’ll come?”
“She’ll tell you later.”
Shanks looked toward the door you had disappeared through. Your family moved inside it, laughing, talking, trusting him with every breath.
Beckman exhaled smoke into the dark.
“She thinks it’s temporary.”
Shanks’s mouth curved.
Beckman reached for another cigarette.
“You just need to get her alone long enough to let her say it.”
Shanks’s eyes stayed on the door.
“I can do that.”
—————————
You helped your aunt with the dishes because it gave your hands something to do.
She hummed beside you, pleased in a way that made your chest hurt.
“He’s very taken with you,” she said quietly.
The plate nearly slipped from your fingers.
“Auntie.”
“What?” She smiled, rinsing soap from a cup. “I have eyes.”
You stared down into the sink.
“He’s not what you think.”
Your aunt’s smile softened into something gentler.
“Most men aren’t,” she said. “But I watched him tonight. The way he looks for you when you leave a room. The way his men listen when he gives even the smallest instruction.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She laughed softly, mistaking fear for nerves.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
You shut your eyes for one second.
There was no explaining it. Not without sounding cruel. Not without sounding ridiculous. Shanks had not threatened anyone at dinner. He had fixed the siding. He had carried plates. He had made your grandmother laugh.
If you said you were afraid of him now, your aunt would hear something else.
A young woman overwhelmed by a powerful man’s attention.
You dried your hands.
“I need to speak with him.”
Your aunt brightened immediately.
“Of course.”
That hurt most of all.
You left the kitchen before she could say anything else.
Shanks was near the side door, one shoulder against the wall, as if he had not been waiting at all.
When you stepped into the hall, his eyes found you at once.
Your uncle glanced between you.
“I’ll go see if Lucky’s finished ruining the last of the bread,” he said, amused.
Then he left you alone.
Shanks watched you in the quiet hallway.
“You wanted to talk?”
Your fingers tightened at your sides. “Yes.”
“Lead the way.”
You hated that he sounded pleased.
You went upstairs.
Shanks followed without asking why. His steps were unhurried behind yours. The hallway felt narrower with him in it.
At the end of it was your old room.
You opened the door.
The room was smaller than you remembered. The bed was pushed against the same wall. The quilt your aunt had made years ago was folded at the foot of it.
Shanks stepped inside after you.
“This was yours,” he said.
“It still is.”
His eyes moved to you.
“For tonight.”
Your stomach tightened.
You shut the door behind him.
The sound was too soft.
“You sent Beckman to talk to me,” you said.
“He does what he thinks is useful,” he said.
“For you.”
“For us.”
“There is no us.”
His expression eased, almost patient.
“There could be.”
“No.” Your voice shook. You hated that. “You don’t get to come here, charm my family, fix the house, and act like this is something sweet.”
Shanks was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I didn’t act.”
He stepped closer.
“I like your aunt. Your uncle’s a good man. Your grandmother is sharper than half the captains I’ve met.” His eyes stayed on yours. “It matters to me that they’re cared for.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it sound kind.”
He looked almost sorry for you.
“I can be kind,” he said. “That’s what you keep forgetting.”
“No,” you whispered. “That’s what scares me.”
Something moved through his eyes.
Interest.
Pleasure.
You had given him something honest again.
“You’re thinking of running,” he said.
Your stomach went cold.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” His gaze moved over your face. “You look toward exits when you’re afraid. You’ve done it since the first day.”
His attention shifted briefly toward the door.
“Your family is right downstairs,” he said.
You did not look.
“You can call for them if you want,” Shanks said quietly. “Your uncle will come running. Lucky will be behind him. Your aunt will ask what happened, and I’ll tell her the truth.”
Your breath stopped.
“That I asked you to sail with me. That you’re overwhelmed. That I should have given you more time.”
“They’ll believe me,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“Sweetheart.”
That one word was worse than an answer.
Your throat tightened.
“You can tell them I followed you,” he continued. “And I’ll say I came to check on an old friend of Luffy’s. I’ll say your grandmother mentioned the siding, and I had the men help. None of that is a lie.”
“You’re sick.”
“No.” His fingers settled at your jaw. “I’m careful.”
Your eyes burned hotter.
“Beck has the harbor watched. Yasopp knows the roads out of town. My ship is closer than the Sunny tonight.”
Shanks touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Lightly.
Almost tenderly.
“Luffy will come if you call him,” he said. “I know he will.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
“And you know what happens then.”
“You won’t hurt Luffy.”
His gaze softened in a way that made your chest hurt.
“I don’t want to.”
That was not an answer.
Shanks’s thumb moved once along your jaw.
“He’ll see you scared. He’ll get angry. He’ll come straight at me, and he won’t care who is watching.”
“Don’t use him against me.”
“I’m not.” His voice stayed calm. “I’m telling you what you already know.”
Downstairs, your aunt laughed again.
You shut your eyes.
Every path led through Shanks.
“What do you want?” you whispered.
“You know what I want.”
“No.” You opened your eyes. “Say it.”
Something in his face warmed.
“I want you on my ship.”
“For how long?”
His silence answered too quickly.
Your breath shook.
“No.”
“For now,” he said.
You hated that he knew exactly how much truth to give you and how much to hide.
“If I come,” you said, and the words felt like cutting something out of yourself, “you leave them alone.”
Shanks went still.
“My family. This house. The Sunny. Luffy.” Your voice shook, but you forced the words out. “No fighting. No threats. No making this worse.”
“And you come willingly?”
Your stomach twisted.
“For now.”
“That matters to you.”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly.
“Then say it properly.”
Your throat tightened.
“No.”
Shanks stepped closer.
“Say it, sweetheart.”
Your hands curled into fists.
Downstairs, your uncle called for your aunt. A chair scraped. Someone laughed.
You thought of your grandmother smiling at him.
You thought of Luffy running into this house without hesitation.
You thought of Shanks’s crew already scattered through every safe place you had left.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I’ll come with you.”
Shanks’s expression changed.
It was small.
A quiet satisfaction. A hunger finally fed.
Then he lifted his hand and cupped your cheek.
Gently.
Like you had given him something precious instead of surrendered something vital.
“Good girl.”
The words hit low in your stomach, and you hated your body for reacting.
His thumb brushed once beneath your eye, catching a tear before it fell.
“For now,” you said again, weaker this time.
Shanks leaned closer.
His mouth touched your forehead.
“Of course.”
You knew he was lying.
He drew back and looked at you, calm and pleased and terrifyingly tender.
“Pack a bag,” he said. “Something small. We’ll tell them you’re coming to see the Red Force before we sail.”
Your chest hurt.
“They’ll think I chose it.”
“You did.”
“No,” you whispered. “You made sure I couldn’t choose anything else.”
For a moment, the warmth left his eyes. Then his thumb brushed your cheek.
“I made sure you chose the answer where no one gets hurt.”
Your aunt called your name.
Shanks looked toward the door, then back at you.
When he spoke, his voice was gentle enough to pass through walls as kindness.
Plot: Some things have a way of becoming real long before anyone says them aloud.
A/N: Hitting you all with the feels before I head off into the sunset (vacation). Sorrykbai.
I have a couple of requests I am currently working on!
You lay on your side beneath the sheet, one leg tangled with Shanks’s.
His hand rested low on your hip, lazy and warm.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
That was how it usually went.
You would find each other in some port by chance or rumor or the strange pull that had started to feel less like coincidence over the past year. He would grin when he saw you. You would pretend not to be pleased. There would be drinks, music if you were performing that night, his eyes on you from across the room while you sang.
Then a room.
Then his mouth.
Then this.
Quiet.
Too easy.
Too dangerous.
Shanks moved behind you, his fingers moving over your hip.
“We’re leaving in the morning.”
You hummed, eyes half closed. “You usually do.”
“Midmorning, probably. Depends how fast Lucky can bully the dockhands into loading the rest of the stores.”
“That poor man has suffered so much.”
“Lucky?”
“The dockhands.”
Shanks huffed a laugh against your hair. “Cruel woman.”
You smiled.
His hand tightened slightly.
“Come with me.”
The words landed too softly. For a second, you thought you had misheard him.
You rolled onto your back and looked at him.
Shanks was looking at you. There was still color in his mouth from yours. Still warmth in his eyes.
He looked relaxed.
That made it easier to laugh.
“Come with you where?”
He gave you that grin. The one that had ruined your common sense the first night you met him. “With me.”
“To sea?”
“That’s where the ship is usually headed.”
You scoffed and turned your face toward the ceiling. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you aren’t.”
His grin faded a little. Not gone. Just quieter.
“I am.”
You looked at him again.
The mistake was doing it too quickly. Your face gave too much away before you could stop it.
Shanks saw. He always saw more than he admitted.
You reached for the sheet and pulled it higher over your chest, like that could put distance between you.
“You’ve never asked me that before.”
“I know.”
“So why now?”
“Because I should have asked before.”
That made your stomach twist.
You forced a laugh. It sounded thin, even to you.
“Right. And what would I do on the Red Force? Sing at breakfast? Take requests from pirates who think rhyming ‘rum’ with ‘fun’ is the height of art?”
“Yasopp would pay good money for that.”
“Yasopp should be barred from music.”
“He has been. Several times.”
“There you go. Ship already has standards. I wouldn’t fit in.”
“You’d fit.”
The answer came too fast.
Too certain.
Your smile faltered.
Shanks watched you, and something in his expression changed again. The playfulness was still there, but it had stopped doing its job. It no longer hid what sat underneath.
You pushed yourself up against the pillows.
“Shanks.”
“Mm?”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” You gestured between you with one hand. “The after-sex sweetness. The grand offer. The whole handsome pirate sweeping into port and asking the singer to run away with him.”
His brows rose. “Handsome, am I?”
“Don’t pick the one part of that sentence that flatters you.”
“I’m wounded you think there was only one.”
You tried to smile.
He did not.
That was the problem.
Shanks was good at light. He could make anything sound easy. A bar fight. A wound. A goodbye. He laughed with his whole chest and left every room brighter than he found it.
You had let yourself believe that meant nothing could reach too deep in him.
You had needed to believe that.
He sat up slowly, the sheet falling away from his chest.
“I asked because I want you there.”
Your throat tightened.
“Until the next port?”
His gaze sharpened. “No.”
“Until the next pretty singer?”
The words came out before you could stop them.
The room changed.
Shanks did not raise his voice. But the warmth in his face stilled, and the look he gave you made your skin prickle.
“Don’t do that.”
You swallowed.
That one word was quiet enough to be gentle and firm enough to warn.
You looked down at the sheet gathered in your lap.
“I know how you are.”
“Do you?”
“You flirt with everyone.”
“I talk to people.”
“You charm everyone.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
You gave him a look.
“No,” he said, voice lower now. “It isn’t.”
You hated how serious he sounded.
You hated it because you wanted it.
“You like being free,” you said. “You like drinking and laughing and making people fall a little bit in love with you everywhere you go.”
His face went still.
You kept talking because stopping would mean feeling the damage.
“You can’t tell me you’d be content with one person. Not really.”
Shanks stared at you.
For one terrible moment, he looked almost hurt. Then he looked away with a humorless breath through his nose.
“Well,” he said. “That’s a fine opinion of me.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Shanks—”
“No, go on.” His tone stayed easy, but there was an edge under it now. “Sounds like you’ve had that one ready for a while.”
“I’m not trying to insult you.”
“You did a decent job by accident, then.”
You flinched.
He saw that too.
His expression softened a fraction, but the offense did not leave him.
“I flirt,” he said. “I drink. I make noise. I’m not denying any of that.” His eyes came back to yours. “But don’t sit there and tell me what I can or can’t be content with like you’ve got me all figured out.”
You pressed your lips together.
“And don’t go making me out to be that kind of man just because it’s easier for you to leave.”
That one struck hard enough to steal your breath.
You looked away.
The window was cracked open. The curtain moved in the sea breeze.
“I’m not.”
“Aren’t you?”
You said nothing.
Shanks leaned forward, forearm resting over his bent knee.
“This isn’t casual anymore.”
You laughed once, short and defensive. “It was sex, Shanks.”
“It was never just sex.”
Your eyes snapped back to him.
His voice had lost every trace of teasing.
“It might’ve started that way,” he said. “I’m not pretending it didn’t. But it hasn’t been that for a while.”
You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I know I look for you in every port where there’s music.”
Your chest tightened.
“I know I remember what songs you like to end with when the room’s gone soft enough to listen.”
“Stop.”
“I know the look you get when you see me again.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know you get quiet the night before I leave.”
Shanks held your gaze.
“And I know you kiss me like you’re angry I came back and scared I won’t again.”
Your eyes burned, sudden and humiliating.
You looked down.
“That’s why I can’t go with you.”
His expression changed.
The anger, if it could even be called that, drained out of him.
“What?”
You hated the softness in his voice.
You hated how it made you want to crawl into his lap and stay there.
“That’s why I can’t go,” you said again, quieter. “Because this isn’t casual anymore.”
He did not interrupt.
You wished he would.
You wished he would make a joke. Push. Smile. Give you something to fight.
Instead he listened.
“If I go with you, I’ll get attached.”
His eyes stayed on you.
You gave a small, miserable laugh.
“I mean really attached. Not just waiting for you in whatever port I happen to be singing in. Not just wondering if you’ll show up. I’ll start thinking I belong there. With you. On your ship. In your bed.”
Shanks said your name.
You shook your head.
“And then what? You change your mind? You get bored? You realize it was better when it was easy?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if that was what I wanted.”
“You don’t know what you’ll want six months from now.”
“No one does.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“No,” he admitted. “But it’s honest.”
You looked at him then.
He was sitting in your bed, hair mussed from your fingers, mouth serious, eyes too clear. There was no performance in him now. No captain’s charm. No easy grin tossed over the shoulder to make the world lean closer.
Just Shanks.
And that was much worse.
Because you loved him.
You had not said it to yourself until that moment. The realization hit quietly and ruined everything. You looked away before he could see that too.
But of course he already had.
Shanks exhaled slowly and reached for his shirt from the floor.
Your pulse kicked.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled it on, movements unhurried.
“Getting dressed.”
The hurt came fast, sharp enough to make you angry.
“So that’s it?” you asked.
Shanks looked back from the doorway.
“You tell me.”
Your chest tightened. “I thought we could still…”
He waited.
The words died before you could finish them.
His expression softened, and somehow that was worse.
“Still what?”
You looked away.
Shanks sighed through his nose, quiet and tired.
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to him.
He did not look angry. You almost wished he had.
“No?”
“Not like that.”
“Because I won’t come with you?”
“Because you just told me your heart’s in this.”
Shanks stepped closer, slow, careful.
“And you told me you’re afraid I’ll break it.”
Your fingers curled into your palm. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop.”
“I know.”
His voice was gentle.
That hurt more.
“That’s why I have to.”
Anger rose in you because it was easier than fear.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding your feelings for you.”
“You’re deciding what I can handle.”
“No.” His voice firmed. “I’m deciding what I’ll do with what I know.”
You stared at him.
He stood at the foot of the bed now. He looked tired. From all the things neither of you had said because saying them would mean something had to change.
“You think I want to walk out?” he asked.
You said nothing.
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t.”
The words came out too raw.
For a second, neither of you moved. Shanks looked at you like you had reached across the room and put your hand around his heart.
Then he came closer.
He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd you.
“I want you with me,” he said. “Not tucked away in a room every few months. Not pretending we’re fine with scraps because neither of us wants to ask for more.”
Your eyes stung.
“Scraps?”
His smile was sad. “Aren’t they?”
You hated him for asking.
You hated yourself more for knowing the answer.
He lifted his hand like he meant to touch your face, then stopped before he did.
That restraint broke something in you. A tear slipped down before you could stop it.
Shanks saw it.
His expression shifted with pain so naked you almost reached for him.
He stood before you could.
“The offer still stands.”
Your laugh came out wet and bitter. “How generous.”
He accepted that without flinching.
“The Red Force leaves midmorning.”
You looked up at him.
He was at the door now.
Every part of you wanted to tell him to stay.
Every part of you wanted to tell him to go before you begged.
His hand settled on the handle.
“If you’re there,” he said, “you come aboard.”
The door opened.
He paused once more, like he might say your name. Like he might come back.
Then he was gone.
The door shut behind him with a sound far too small for the damage it did.
You sat there until the first gray light crept through the window.
You did not sleep at first.
You told yourself you would get up.
You would walk to the harbor. Say something clever. You would tell him you were only coming because his ship clearly needed better music and someone had to protect the crew from Yasopp’s taste.
You pictured his face when he saw you.
The smile.
The relief he would try to hide and fail.
You pictured him offering his hand from the gangplank.
Then you pictured every port after that.
Every time he left your side to be captain, emperor, red-haired trouble in a world that loved him before you ever did.
You pictured yourself becoming someone who counted how much of him she had.
Fear held you down.
Just for a minute, you told yourself.
Just until your heart stopped pounding.
The next time you opened your eyes, the sun had fully risen.
You jerked upright.
The room was bright.
Too bright.
For one dazed second, you did not understand why your chest already hurt.
Then you remembered.
Midmorning.
Shanks.
You wanted to go to him.
You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over your feet. Your hands shook so badly the buttons of your shirt fought you. You cursed under your breath and shoved your feet into your boots without lacing them.
Downstairs, the innkeeper looked up from wiping the bar.
You did not stop.
The street outside was already hot with sun and noise. Merchants shouted. Sailors moved in clusters toward the docks.
You ran.
Your breath came sharp by the time the harbor opened before you.
White sails. Brown sails. Flags you did not know.
Your eyes searched wildly through them.
Not that one.
Not that one.
Not—
You reached the edge of the dock and stopped.
The berth where the Red Force had been was empty.
Only wet marks remained on the wood where lines had been pulled free.
For a moment, your mind refused to understand.
Then you saw her.
Far out past the harbor mouth, already catching the open water, sails bright beneath the sun.
Leaving.
Gone.
Your hand flew to your mouth.
No sound came out at first.
The ship was too far for anyone aboard to see you. Too far for Shanks to turn and find you standing there with your unlaced boots and your stupid, breaking heart.
You had chosen safe.
And safe had never felt so much like loss.
A sob tore out of you then, ugly and helpless.
You turned away from the water, but that did nothing. The Red Force was still there behind your eyes. Shanks was still in the doorway. His voice was still gentle.
That’s why I have to.
You pressed a hand hard against your chest, as if you could hold yourself together by force.
The harbor moved around you like nothing had happened.
Somewhere behind you, a street musician began tuning a guitar, one string at a time.
The sound made you cry harder.
Because you knew that the next time you sang in a port, you would look for red hair in the crowd.
Plot: You are not feeling well. Shanks takes care of you. Fluff and comfort.
Shanks came into the cabin and stopped at the door.
His smile faded at once.
You were sitting upright in bed with a blanket pulled around you, trying very hard to look less miserable than you felt.
He stood there and watched you for a moment. Your flushed face. Your tired eyes. The untouched cup of tea beside the bed.
“Sweetheart,” he said gently.
You looked away. “I’m fine.”
Shanks closed the door behind him and crossed the room.
“No, you’re not.”
“It’s nothing.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. Before you could protest, he pressed the back of his fingers to your forehead.
His expression softened.
“You’re warm.”
“I’m all right.”
“You don’t have to be all right with me.”
That quieted you.
Shanks watched your face for a moment, then leaned in and kissed your temple.
“Lie down,” he said.
“I don’t want to make a fuss.”
“You’re not making a fuss.”
“I know you have things to do.”
“Yes and right now that’s taking care of my wife.”
Your chest tightened.
He helped you settle back against the pillows. He did not rush you. He simply waited, steady and patient, then pulled the blanket up over you properly.
“There,” he said.
You sighed, then turned away to cough.
Shanks gently pulled your hair to the side so it wasn’t sticking to the side of your neck.
“I’ll get you fresh tea.”
“I can get it.”
“No.”
You opened one eye at him.
He smiled, but the look in his eyes stayed soft. “Let me take care of you.”
You were used to Shanks being warm and charming.
But this was different.
This was his hand gentle against your face. His voice lowered so he would not worsen your headache. His attention fixed entirely on you, as if nothing beyond this cabin mattered.
You caught his arm before he could stand.
He looked down at your hand.
“Stay for a minute?” you asked.
The answer came immediately.
“Of course, love.”
Shanks shifted onto the bed beside you and gathered you against him. He was warm, but not too much. Solid beneath your cheek. Familiar in a way that made your body loosen before your mind could argue.
You closed your eyes.
His hand moved slowly over your back.
“You always do this,” he said after a while.
“Do what?”
“Try to be less trouble than you are.”
You opened your eyes again. “That sounds insulting.”
“It’s not.” His voice was quiet. “You’re allowed to need things.”
“I don’t like needing things.”
“I know.”
His hand paused at the back of your neck, thumb smoothing lightly against your skin.
“But I like being the one you need.”
You did not have a good answer to that.
So you turned your face into his shirt instead.
Shanks kissed your hair.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Boss?” Hongo called. “Tea and medicine.”
Shanks did not move right away. “Leave it outside.”
There was a brief pause.
“Soup will be ready soon.”
“Thank you.”
The footsteps faded.
You looked up at him. “You told Hongo?”
“I asked him to make something gentle.”
“And Beck?”
“He saw my face when I came out of the cabin.”
You exhaled, half-amused despite how tired you were. “So everyone knows.”
“Only enough to be quiet.”
“That never works.”
“No,” he admitted, faintly fond. “But they try for you.”
That softened you more than you expected.
Shanks stepped away only long enough to bring in the tray. He returned with fresh tea, medicine, and a cool cloth.
You eyed the medicine.
“It smells terrible.”
“I know.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
You gave him a weak look.
He sat beside you again and held the small cup for you. “I’ll be very impressed.”
“You’re always impressed by me.”
“I am.”
There was no joke in it.
That made you take the medicine without another argument.
It tasted awful, but Shanks was ready with the tea. He helped you drink slowly, his hand steady under the cup. Honey and ginger warmed your throat, easing some of the soreness.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little.”
His expression eased.
He set the cup aside and laid the cool cloth across your forehead. Then he stayed there, brushing his fingers lightly along your hairline, your temple, your cheek.
You watched him through heavy eyes.
“You’re fussing.”
“Yes.”
He said it so simply that your chest ached again.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Your fingers found his hand. He turned his palm and held on.
“I hate being sick,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I feel useless.”
“You’re not.”
“I feel like I am.”
His expression softened with something deeper than sympathy.
Shanks leaned down until his forehead nearly touched yours.
“You don’t have to earn rest,” he said. “Not with me.”
Your eyes stung.
“Thank you,” you murmured.
That small smile came back. “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
You closed your eyes, but you were smiling too.
He kissed your forehead again.
“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
“You promise?”
His hand tightened gently around yours.
“Always.”
You believed him.
It was easy to, when he was beside you like this. When the captain, the Emperor, the man the world whispered about with fear and awe, sat in the quiet of your cabin and worried over your tea going cold.
You shifted closer.
Shanks adjusted the blanket around you and tucked you against his side.
Plot: Shanks comes back wounded. A fight over secrets reveals a harsh truth.
They had been gone since morning.
A meeting, Shanks had said.
Just a meeting.
He had kissed your temple before he left, easy and warm. Beckman had been waiting at the gangplank. Yasopp had been checking his rifle.
You should have known then.
But Shanks had smiled at you and said, “Don’t look like that. Boring business. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
Now, hours later, the crew was not looking at you.
Your fingers tightened around the folded sailcloth in your lap. You had been helping with repairs to keep your hands busy.
A shadow moved at the gangplank.
Beckman came up first.
His cigarette was unlit between his teeth. There was a shallow cut along his cheek, not serious, but fresh enough that the blood had not fully dried.
Behind him came Yasopp, expression grim in a way that sat wrong on his face.
Lucky followed, one hand pressed to his upper arm, though he was still walking well enough.
Then Shanks stepped onto the deck. His right hand moved toward his side and stopped before it got there.
You stood.
Shanks saw you immediately.
His expression changed before anyone else could notice. The strain tucked itself away. His mouth curved. His shoulders relaxed like he had only just remembered he was supposed to look casual.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Miss me?”
No.
No, not like that.
You stepped toward him.
Beckman looked away first, and something inside your chest went cold.
“What happened?”
Shanks’s smile stayed where it was. “Nothing worth making that face over.”
Your gaze dropped.
There was blood on his shirt.
Not a lot. A dark tear along his left side, below the ribs, where someone had wrapped cloth around him in a hurry.
Your stomach turned.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It looks worse than it is.”
A few men shifted nearby. Shanks glanced at them, then back at you. Still calm.
“Hongo’s waiting,” he said. “I’m going.”
“You need stitches.”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
His smile flickered.
There. For half a heartbeat, you saw the pain under it. The exhaustion. The edge of anger too, not at you, but at the situation.
Then it vanished.
“Definitely, then,” he said lightly. “Better?”
You stared at him.
He had the nerve to tilt his head.
It was such a Shanks thing to do. Charming. Warm. Infuriating. A man bleeding through his shirt and still acting like the worst part of the night was your concern.
“What happened?” you asked again.
“Meeting got unfriendly.”
“You said it was boring business.”
“It was. Right up until it wasn’t.”
There was the joke.
Small. Easy. Meant to soften the moment. Meant to turn the fear aside before it could become anything sharper.
It snapped something in you.
“Do not do that.”
Shanks blinked.
“Do what?”
“Smile at me like I’m supposed to be charmed out of noticing you lied.”
His smile fell.
“I didn’t lie.”
“You told me it was a meeting.”
“It was a meeting.”
“With knives?”
Yasopp made a small sound under his breath.
Lucky looked down.
Beckman’s cigarette remained unlit between his fingers.
Shanks’s gaze sharpened.
“Started as one.”
“And you knew it could turn.”
He did not answer quickly enough.
You looked past him. At Beckman. At Yasopp. At Lucky.
Your voice dropped.
“Who knew?”
Beckman moved half a step. “Boss.”
Shanks did not look at him.
You did.
“Did you know?”
Beckman’s silence answered before his mouth could.
You almost smiled. It would have been ugly. “So everyone knew.”
Shanks’s face had gone still in a way you hated. Not calm. Controlled.
Captain’s face.
That made it worse.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
“Don’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“You tell me just enough to keep me quiet. You touch my face, call me sweetheart, make some charming little joke, and I’m supposed to believe that means I’m included.”
Shanks’s face changed.
“Careful.”
The word cracked across the deck. Low. Quiet. Dangerous.
Your heart kicked once.
Not from fear.
From fury.
“Why?” you asked. “Did I finally find something true?”
Beckman’s eyes closed briefly.
Shanks took one step toward you. The movement pulled at his side. But he kept coming until there was only a little space left between you.
“You don’t get to make me part of your life only when it is easy,” you said.
Something in his face broke. Only for a moment. Then pride closed over it.
“You knew what my life was when you came aboard.”
The words were quiet.
They still cut.
You stared at him.
“I knew it was dangerous,” you said. “I didn’t know that meant I had to be grateful for whatever scraps of truth you gave me.”
The words hit. You knew they did.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“I think I do.”
“No,” he said, voice dropping. “You know what I let you see. Don’t pretend that means you know the rest.”
That one hurt. He had aimed it to.
You felt it land exactly where he wanted. Your throat tightened, but you refused to look away.
“Thank you,” you said.
His brows drew together.
“For finally being honest.”
His face flickered.
“That wasn’t—”
“No, it was.” Your voice shook now. “That was the first honest thing you’ve said all night.”
“You want honesty?” he snapped.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” His right hand clenched at his side, then loosened. “People die when they stand too close to me. So forgive me if I don’t hand you every ugly thing just because you want to feel included.”
Your breath caught.
The words seemed to hang there, ugly and raw.
He saw your face change.
“You are so afraid of being left,” you said, “that you make people feel stupid for staying.”
His face twisted.
“Don’t.”
“You keep the door open and call it freedom.”
“I said don’t.”
“No. You keep it open so you never have to admit you wanted someone to choose you.”
For one second, he looked wrecked. Then he did the worst possible thing.
His mouth hardened. “Don’t mistake my bed for a captain’s chair.”
Everything stopped.
You felt the words enter you slowly. You saw the moment he heard himself.
His eyes changed.
Your name left his mouth, low and immediate.
You stepped back.
He reached for you.
You looked at his hand.
The deck was full of men who would have followed him into hell and none of them seemed able to breathe.
You looked back at Shanks. Your voice, when it came, was very calm. “Don’t worry,” you said. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
His face went pale beneath the flush of anger. You turned away.
“Wait.”
You kept walking. Behind you, his boots hit the deck.
“Sweetheart—”
Then Beckman moved. He did not grab him. He did not make a show of it. He simply stepped into Shanks’s path.
Shanks stopped inches from him.
“Move.”
Beckman did not.
You stopped too, one hand on the doorframe leading below deck.
Shanks’s voice dropped into something dangerous. “Stay out of it.”
Beckman did not blink. “I did,” he said. “That was my mistake.”
The words hit the deck almost as hard as Shanks’s had.
Shanks stared at him. For a second, you thought he might shove past him. But Beckman did not move.
And Shanks, bleeding and furious and finally afraid in a way he could not hide, stayed where he was.
You looked at him one last time.
“I’m leaving the ship.”
The words were quiet.
They still cut through the deck like a blade.
Shanks went still.
Your name left his mouth, barely more than breath. You turned away before he could make it sound like a plea.
The stairs blurred as you descended. No one followed. No one called after you.
You stood in the doorway and stared at the room like you expected it to tell you what to do.
It did not.
So you moved.
Your bag was under the bed. You dragged it out with too much force, and it struck your ankle hard enough to hurt. You barely felt it.
Clothes first.
Your comb went in. The little purse you kept hidden behind the loose board beneath your trunk. The knife Beckman had given you after you complained about not having a decent blade small enough for your hand.
That almost stopped you.
You held it for a moment, thumb against the worn leather sheath.
Beckman had not smiled when he gave it to you. He had only said, “Don’t tell the boss. He’ll get sentimental.”
You swallowed hard and put it in the bag.
You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, angry at yourself for crying now, when the worst of it was already done.
You closed the bag.
It was not full.
That felt worse.
You had come onto the Red Force with so little. Somehow, leaving with little felt like proof that you had never really belonged here at all.
Your hand moved to the latch.
Then stopped.
On the small shelf above your bed was the shell Shanks had picked up for you on a nothing island with white sand and water so clear it had looked unreal. He had presented it to you with ridiculous seriousness, as if he had recovered treasure.
“For your collection,” he had said.
“I don’t have a collection.”
“You do now.”
You stared at it.
Then you took it and put it in your bag.
You slung the bag over your shoulder and opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
The crew knew better than to stand in your way. They knew better than to comfort you. They knew better than to look at you with pity where you might see it.
That was Shanks too, somehow.
His ship. His people. His silence spreading through all of them.
You walked back up the stairs.
The night air hit your face cold. The deck had emptied.
The gangplank waited ahead.
And so did Shanks.
He stood several feet from it, no coat, fresh bandage wrapped tight beneath the torn fabric at his side. Hongo had done his work. Shanks looked steadier now.
Worse, somehow.
It was easier to be angry when he was bleeding.
Harder when he stood there pale and quiet and stripped of every easy smile he usually hid behind.
He did not move toward you.
You stopped at the top of the gangplank.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Shanks said your name.
Not sweetheart.
Not love.
Your name.
It nearly broke you.
You tightened your hand on the strap of your bag. “Don’t.”
His jaw flexed.
“I’m not going to stop you.”
You let out a small, humorless breath. “How generous.”
He took that because he deserved it. You saw him take it. Saw the flinch he tried to hide and failed.
“I’m not,” he said again. “If you want to go, I won’t put a hand on you.”
“You already did enough.”
His eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, the rawness in his face was almost worse than the anger had been.
“I know.”
You looked away.
The gangplank looked longer than it had a moment ago.
“I said something unforgivable,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Yes.”
“I don’t expect you to make it easier on me.”
“Good.”
“But I need you to hear me before you leave.” His voice roughened. You looked back at him despite yourself.
Shanks swallowed.
“I was afraid.”
The words came out low.
You stared at him.
He breathed in carefully, like it hurt.
“I didn’t tell you because I wanted to come back and have you smile at me. I wanted the warm part without giving you the ugly part first. I wanted you to trust me without giving you enough reason to.”
Your eyes burned.
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”
The deck was quiet around you.
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Shanks saw it. His face broke. “I’m sorry,” he said.
It was not charming. Not smooth. Not enough.
It was only honest.
“You made me feel like I was foolish for loving you.”
His eyes shone in the lamplight.
“I know.”
The answer was so quiet that for a second you could not speak.
Shanks looked at your bag.
Then back at you.
“I love you.”
Everything in you stopped.
He did not dress it up. Did not soften it with a grin. Did not reach for you while he said it.
“I love you,” he said again, and this time his voice nearly gave out. “And I’ve been hiding behind every noble excuse I could find. I kept telling myself I was giving you freedom. That if you ever wanted to leave, I’d let you.” His mouth pulled bitterly. “Truth is, I kept the door open because I was terrified of asking you to stay.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
Shanks held your gaze.
“So I’m asking now.”
The wind moved over the deck. Somewhere, a line creaked softly.
He looked terrified.
Not dramatic. Not broken open for show. Just a man standing in front of the one person who could ruin him by walking away.
“Stay,” he said.
Your chest hurt.
“Shanks.”
“I know I don’t deserve it tonight.”
“No,” you whispered. “You don’t.”
He nodded once. The words hit him, but he did not argue.
“I know,” he said. “Stay anyway. Not because I asked well. Not because I’m bleeding.” His voice dropped. “Stay because I will do better. Because I don’t want to keep hurting you every time I get scared.”
You stared at him through the blur in your eyes.
He took another careful breath.
“And if you leave, I won’t follow you down that gangplank. I won’t make it harder.” His voice cracked on the last word. “But I need you to know that I want you here. Not sometimes. Not when it’s easy. Here. With me.”
Silence.
Your bag felt too heavy.
So did your heart.
You looked past him at the ship. At the rail. At the lanterns. At the men who had become family before you had realized what was happening.
Then you looked at Shanks.
He stood exactly where he was.
Waiting.
Letting you choose, even though every inch of him looked like it was killing him.
Your voice came out small. “You hurt me.”
His face crumpled.
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can just forgive you.”
“I’m not asking you to do it tonight.”
Your fingers loosened on the strap.
His gaze dropped to the movement, then snapped back to your face like he was afraid to hope too soon.
You hated him for that.
You loved him for it.
You took one step back from the gangplank.
Shanks went utterly still.
“This doesn’t fix it,” you said.
“No.”
“And I’m not sleeping in your bed tonight.”
Pain crossed his face, but he nodded. “All right.”
“And tomorrow,” you said, voice unsteady now, “you are going to tell me what actually happened at that meeting. Not the charming version. Not the safe version. The truth.”
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him.
He looked like he wanted to reach for you more than he wanted to breathe.
He did not.
Slowly, you slipped the bag from your shoulder. It hit the deck between you with a soft, final sound.
Shanks exhaled like something inside him had given way.
You lifted your chin. “I’m still angry.”
His mouth moved like he almost had an answer for that. Then he thought better of it.
“Right,” he said quietly. “No charm.”
It was so quick, so unlike him, that a laugh almost broke out of you.
Almost.
Instead your face crumpled.
Shanks moved on instinct, then stopped himself so abruptly it clearly hurt his side.
That did it.
You closed the space between you and pressed your forehead to his chest, furious with yourself for needing him.
His breath left him.
Then his arm came around you, slow and shaking, giving you every chance to pull away.
You did not.
His hand settled against your back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair.
You closed your eyes.
“I know.”
His hold tightened, barely.
“I love you.”
“You are still sleeping alone.”
A rough sound left him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
Plot: A quiet Straw Hat catches the attention of the Red-Haired Emperor.
A/N: This is YANDERE/DARK Shanks. Do not read if you dislike this version of him.
Part 2
For six months, nothing happened.
No messages.
No gifts.
No signs that Shanks remembered you at all.
At first, you had not trusted it.
For weeks after the Red Force sailed away, you stayed close to Luffy without anyone needing to tell you. You slept lighter. You checked every crowded street twice.
But time had a way of making fear feel foolish.
Six months was long enough for you to start thinking maybe he had only been passing through your life after all.
So when the Sunny came within half a day of your home island, you asked to visit.
“My family lives near here,” you said. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”
Luffy looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the deck.
“You should visit,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Just like that?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “They’ll be happy to see you.”
Nami gave you enough money to make you roll your eyes. Chopper packed medicine you did not need. Usopp told you to bring back local sweets.
For the first few days, the visit went well.
Your aunt cried when she saw you and then scolded you for looking thinner. Your uncle hugged you hard enough to lift you off your feet.
Your grandmother sat in her chair by the front window, blanket over her lap, and held your face between both hands.
“Still too pretty for sense,” she said.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
The house had not changed much. The kitchen still smelled like bread. The hallway floor still creaked in the same place.
It felt good.
Too good, maybe.
You helped wash dishes. You swept the porch. You ran errands when your aunt tried to pretend she did not need anything.
On the fourth morning, you went alone.
The market was crowded but familiar. People called your name. You bought more than you meant to.
Fresh bread. Apples. A small packet of sweets for Usopp. Tea for your aunt.
By the time you started back, the basket was heavy against your arm.
You were halfway up the road when you heard hammering.
At first, you thought nothing of it.
Then you turned the corner and stopped. There were men outside your grandmother’s house.
Red Hair pirates.
Yasopp was halfway up a ladder, prying away a warped strip of siding. Limejuice stood below him, holding fresh boards under one arm. Two more crewmates were clearing old wood from the yard.
Your basket slipped in your grip.
Someone laughed.
A big, warm laugh from the porch.
Lucky Roux.
He was sitting on the front step with a hammer in one hand and what looked like half of your aunt’s fresh bread in the other.
Your uncle saw you first.
“There you are!” he called. “You didn’t tell us you had friends with carpentry skills.”
Your mouth went dry.
Lucky looked over.
His face brightened.
“Morning.”
You could not answer.
The front door opened behind him, and your aunt stepped out.
“Oh, good, you’re back!”
You stood in the yard, staring.
Your aunt followed your gaze to the ladder, then smiled like this was the most pleasant surprise in the world.
“Isn’t it kind of them?” she said. “Your grandmother mentioned the siding once, and Captain Shanks had his men out here before I could even offer lunch.”
Captain Shanks.
The name moved through you like cold water.
No.
Your body moved before your thoughts did.
You stepped past her, across the porch, through the open front door.
Your grandmother’s voice reached you first.
“Well, aren’t you charming?”
Then his laugh.
Low. Warm. Familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
You stopped in the doorway to the sitting room.
Shanks was there.
He sat in your uncle’s chair like he belonged there, a cup of coffee resting in his hand.
Your grandmother sat across from him, smiling.
Shanks looked up.
For half a second, nothing about his expression changed. He only looked at you over the rim of his cup, calm and pleased, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.
Then he smiled.
“There you are,” your grandmother said, turning toward you. “You never told me you knew such a polite young man.”
You could not move.
Shanks stood.
Slowly. Respectfully.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said.
Your aunt came in behind you, basket still in hand.
“Well isn’t that sweet,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened.
Your grandmother looked between you and him with open interest.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” she said. “A captain like this turns up at my door asking after you, and I’m supposed to believe you never thought to mention him?”
“He knows Luffy,” you said.
Shanks’s eyes stayed on you.
“I do.”
The answer was harmless. The way he said it was not.
Your aunt smiled from beside the doorway. “Well, he speaks very highly of you.”
Your stomach tightened.
Shanks lifted his cup.
“Hard not to.”
Your uncle appeared in the hallway behind you, dust on his sleeves and suspicion nowhere on his face.
“They’re doing a fine job out there,” he said.
Your aunt set the basket on the small table by the door and touched your arm.
“Come help me put these away.”
You followed her into the kitchen.
The moment you were out of the sitting room, your aunt turned to you with a look you knew too well.
“He’s lovely,” she whispered.
Your stomach dropped.
“Auntie.”
“What?” she whispered. “He’s handsome, polite, and your grandmother already adores him.”
“He shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She brushed your hair back like she had when you were younger. “A man comes all this way, fixes your grandmother’s siding, and looks at you like that?”
Your fingers curled against your palms.
“You deserve to be treated well,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
In the sitting room, Shanks laughed at something your grandmother said.
Your aunt glanced toward the sound with a smile and squeezed your arm.
“You should go catch up! He came all this way.”
You looked toward the sitting room.
Shanks was standing, his coffee set aside. Your grandmother was still talking, but his eyes were on the kitchen doorway.
On you.
Waiting.
Your mouth went dry.
—————————
Your aunt sent you to show Shanks the back garden.
That was the excuse, at least.
Shanks followed you without comment.
The garden was half-wild, herbs growing thick near the fence, flowers leaning into one another where your grandmother could no longer keep them trimmed.
You stopped near the old stone path, far enough from the windows that your family could not hear every word.
Shanks stopped behind you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said.
“That’s not a very nice way to greet an old friend.”
You turned to face him.
“We’re not friends.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re not.”
Your back went stiff.
His voice dropped.
“Six months,” he said. “You made me wait a long time, sweetheart.”
Your fingers curled at your sides. “How did you find me?”
Shanks tilted his head, like the question amused him.
“I never lost you,” he said.
The garden seemed to quiet around you.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was waiting for the right time to visit.”
Your stomach turned cold. He said it gently. That made it worse.
“You look good,” he said.
The shift made your pulse trip.
You hated him for that too. For knowing exactly when to pull back. For dressing the threat in sweetness.
“You always did,” he continued, eyes lowering briefly before returning to your face. “But here? In the place that raised you?” His voice softened. “I understand you better now.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know what you watched.”
“That’s more than most people see.”
The words hit closer than you wanted.
You looked away.
Shanks stepped closer, and this time you did not have room to move back.
“You should have stayed closer to Luffy,” he said.
Your stomach tightened.
“That was a threat.”
“No,” Shanks said softly. “That was your warning.”
“Shanks.”
He smiled at the sound of his name.
“I missed that.”
You took a breath and hated that it shook. “I have a crew.”
“I know.”
“I’m going back to them.”
Shanks looked at you. His smile stayed easy, but something behind it cooled.
“I’ve been patient with you,” he said. “Let me stay charming a little longer.”
Then his hand lifted, slow enough that you saw it coming. His fingers brushed a loose piece of hair away from your cheek.
You sucked in a breath before you could stop it.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
“You don’t need to be scared of me,” he said.
“That would be easier to believe if you hadn’t followed me home.”
That made him laugh. The sound moved through you before you could guard against it.
His hand slipped to the side of your neck. Not gripping. Just resting there, his fingers warm against your skin.
“I missed you,” he said.
“You don’t know me well enough to miss me.”
“I know how long six months felt.” His fingers settled more securely at your neck. “And I know I like you better within reach.”
Your eyes dropped to his mouth before you could stop them.
“You have to stop,” you said.
“Do you want me to?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
His smile did not widen. That would have been easier. Instead, his face softened, like he was fond of your silence.
Like your hesitation pleased him more than any answer.
He leaned closer, voice lowering until it was only for you.
“You keep acting like coming with me would be the worst thing that could happen to you.”
Someone laughed. Your uncle called for another board. The house was close enough that you could hear every word.
Your family was right there.
That should have protected you.
Instead, it only reminded you that he knew exactly where they lived.
Shanks’s gaze flicked briefly toward the house.
“You have a good family,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
“Don’t.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk about them.”
“I’m complimenting them.”
“You’re warning me.”
Shanks looked at you for a long moment. Then his smile came back again.
“I’m telling you I understand why you came back.”
He stepped closer, and this time your back touched the garden fence.
“I’m also telling you,” he said, “that wherever you go, I’ll know how to find you.”
He lifted his hand from your neck and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, almost tender.
“So you can make this hard,” he said, “or you can let me be good to you.”
“You’re trying to confuse me,” you whispered.
“No,” Shanks said. “I’m trying to give you time to choose the easier answer.”
Your eyes burned.
“My crew will come back for me.”
“I know.”
“Luffy will come back for me.”
At that, something changed.
Small.
A flicker through his eyes. A brief tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Then it was gone.
“I know,” he said again.
He leaned in.
You turned your face slightly, but not enough.
His mouth brushed the side of your neck, just beneath your ear.
You went still.
The kiss he gave you was sweet.
Too sweet.
Soft enough that anyone watching from the window might have thought it gentle. Harmless. Affectionate.
But his lips lingered there for one extra second, warm against your pulse, and his voice touched your skin when he spoke.
Plot: Newly named Emperor Shanks visits the Moby Dick to honor a childhood promise
The Moby Dick went quiet the moment Red-Haired Shanks stepped onto the deck.
Shanks had come alone.
He crossed the gangplank with one hand resting at his side, his mouth curved in that lazy, infuriating smile.
Marco was the first to move.
He stepped into Shanks’s path, arms folded over his chest. “You lost?”
Shanks looked around the deck, taking in the familiar white sails, the division commanders, the younger men staring too openly, the older ones who remembered too much.
“No,” he said. “Still looks about the same.”
“That wasn’t an invitation to reminisce.”
Shanks laughed under his breath. “Good to see you too, Marco.”
From the upper deck, Whitebeard’s laugh rolled down like thunder.
“Gurararara. Let him through.”
Shanks walked forward like he had every right to be there. Men moved out of his path. A few hands stayed near weapons. He did not spare them a glance. His gaze lifted to Whitebeard, seated in his great chair.
“Newgate.”
Whitebeard’s eyes narrowed slightly beneath the crescent of his mustache.
“Red-Hair.”
A few of the younger pirates shifted at the title. It was still new enough to taste strange in the air.
Yonko. Emperor.
Shanks only smiled wider.
Whitebeard reached for his sake. “You’ve got nerve walking onto my ship without your crew.”
“I figured if I brought them, you’d think I came for a fight.”
“And if you come alone, I’m supposed to think you came for tea?”
“I was hoping for sake.”
Someone snorted.
Marco did not.
Whitebeard drank, then lowered the bottle. “Say what you came to say.”
Shanks’s smile softened into something almost polite.
“I came to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
The deck went dead.
Then all at once, it erupted.
“What?”
“Did he say marriage?”
“Is he drunk?”
“He looks sober.”
Marco’s head turned slowly toward him. “You want to repeat that?”
Shanks glanced at him. “Sure. I came to ask—”
“No,” Marco said. “Don’t.”
Whitebeard did not move.
For one long moment, he simply stared at Shanks.
Then his grin widened.
“Gurararara.”
The laugh shook the deck.
A few men relaxed.
A few did not.
Shanks stood there patiently, one hand resting on the hilt at his hip, looking pleased with himself.
You had been halfway down from the aft stairs when the words reached you.
Your hand tightened around the railing.
That smug bastard.
You descended the rest of the steps with enough force that three nearby pirates wisely moved aside before you reached the main deck.
Shanks saw you coming.
His face lit up.
That was the worst part. Not the title. Not the arrogance.
It was the way he smiled at you.
Like he had been waiting for this.
“There’s my girl,” Shanks said warmly.
You stopped several feet from him. “No.”
Shanks looked pleased to see you angry. “I wondered how fast you would come down.”
“Fast enough to stop you.”
“You’re a little late for that.”
“You asked my father before asking me.”
“I did.”
“In front of everyone.”
His smile softened at the edges. “I wanted witnesses.”
Your face heated. “You wanted an audience.”
His eyes moved over your face, and your stomach tightened before you could stop it. You hated that too. Hated that he could still look at you like the boy who used to lean too close just to see if you would shove him.
He looked different now. Broader through the shoulders. Stronger. The boyish charm had not disappeared; it had gotten worse. Sharper at the edges. Harder to ignore.
But his eyes were the same.
Bright. Wicked. Patient.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Whitebeard leaned back in his chair, watching you both with open amusement.
“My daughter says no.”
Shanks did not look away from you. “I haven’t asked her yet.”
“You asked me,” Whitebeard said.
“Tradition.”
“You care about tradition now?” you snapped.
Shanks placed a hand over his heart. “I have always respected sacred promises.”
Marco made a sound of disgust.
Shanks’s attention returned to you at once. “You remember what you promised me.”
You went still.
“You were twelve.”
“And deeply committed.”
Someone near the mast choked on a laugh.
Your face heated. “Do not encourage him.”
Shanks turned slightly, addressing the watching crew with the casual confidence of a man about to make everything worse. “For the record, she said yes.”
“I was eleven! And I wanted the bracelet.”
Shanks’s smile softened. “I know.”
You remembered the bracelet. Cheap silver, bent slightly at the clasp, much too big for your wrist. Shanks had pressed it into your hand and told you that when he became a great pirate captain, you had to marry him.
You had laughed in his face.
Then you had let him put the bracelet on you anyway.
You had worn it for three days before your father noticed and asked where it came from. You had lied badly. Shanks had lied worse. Roger had laughed so hard he had nearly fallen off a barrel.
Whitebeard’s voice cut through the noise. “Red-Hair.”
Shanks finally looked back at him.
The amusement on Whitebeard’s face remained, but his eyes had sharpened.
“You became an emperor and decided your first act would be to walk onto my ship and ask to marry my daughter?”
Shanks shrugged lightly. “Not my first act.”
“Careful.”
The word cracked across the deck.
The laughter died.
Shanks did not flinch. His smile stayed, but the ease left his face.
“I came because I said I would,” Shanks said.
Your breath caught despite yourself.
Whitebeard watched him.
Shanks continued, voice still easy, but quieter now. “Took longer than I thought.”
You stared at him.
The deck felt too exposed. Too crowded. Every brother, every commander, every curious fool aboard seemed to be listening with their whole body.
You hated him for that too.
For making a spectacle.
For making your heart react before your pride could stop it.
One sentence from him, and there you were again: a red-haired boy grinning at you after you had kissed him behind a stack of crates and shoved him so hard he fell into them.
The woman you were now knew better.
The woman you were now knew Shanks was dangerous in ways the boy had only pretended to be.
So you lifted your chin.
“And what if I refuse?”
Shanks’s eyes warmed.
“Then I’ll ask again later.”
A wave of groans rose from the crew.
You closed your eyes for one second. “Unbelievable.”
Marco stepped between you and Shanks just enough to make a point. “Or you could leave her alone.”
Shanks looked past him at you. “I could.”
“You should,” Marco said.
Shanks’s smile tilted. “That depends on what she says.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
You stepped forward before he could say anything else. His smile softened when you came near.
Your pulse jumped.
You hated that most of all.
“Private,” you said.
Shanks blinked once. “What?”
“If you came all this way to make a fool of yourself, you can do it without an audience.”
His grin returned. “So there is a conversation.”
“There is a warning.”
“I like warnings.”
“Then listen carefully.”
Marco made another disgusted sound.
You reached out, grabbed the front of Shanks’s cloak, and pulled him down just enough that his smile stopped being quite so easy.
The deck erupted again.
You ignored them.
“You will stop smiling,” you said under your breath, “or I will let Marco throw you overboard.”
Shanks straightened, still watching you. “Lead the way.”
You turned sharply and started toward the aft corridor.
Behind you, Marco muttered, “I don’t like this.”
Whitebeard laughed into his sake.
“She’ll handle him.”
You did not look back.
You already knew Shanks was following.
You could feel his smile at your back the whole way.
——————————
Your room was close enough to the upper deck that you could still hear the muffled noise of the crew outside.
You opened the door, stepped inside, and waited.
Shanks followed you inside.
You shut the door hard enough that the frame rattled.
His gaze moved to the bed.
Then to you.
His smile widened. “I have to admit, this is not where I thought the proposal would take me.”
You picked up the letter opener from your desk.
Shanks glanced at the blade and gave a quiet laugh.
“Fair.”
Shanks leaned back against the closed door.
You tightened your arms around yourself. “Why now?”
Shanks did not answer immediately.
Outside, someone laughed. The sound carried through the door, then faded.
“Because I meant what I said.”
Your throat tightened.
“You don’t know me anymore.”
His answer came quietly.
“No.”
Shanks had not moved from near the door. That alone made you pause.
“I don’t know you the way I used to,” he said. “I know that.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Asking for the chance to know you again.”
He said it plainly. No grin. No joke tucked behind the words.
That was harder to fight.
“You really expect me to believe you came all this way because of something we said as children?”
“No.”
That answer stopped you.
Shanks looked at you. “I came because I never stopped thinking about you.”
You looked away first, furious with yourself for needing the second it took to recover.
“You’re assuming there’s something left to find.”
“I’m hoping.”
The quiet honesty of it took some of the fight out of you, and you hated him for that too.
Shanks’s eyes stayed on yours. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Shanks reached into the inside of his cloak.
You stiffened.
He paused, brow lifting. “If I were going to draw a weapon in your bedroom, I’d be doing this much worse.”
“You are very close to being hit.”
“I did assume that was still on the table.”
He pulled out a small box.
You stared at it.
Shanks glanced down at the box, then back at you. “Before you accuse me of stealing it, I paid for this one.”
Then he opened the box.
The bracelet inside was not cheap silver. It was gold, delicate but solid, worked in a pattern of small linked waves. A single red stone sat at the clasp.
It was beautiful.
That irritated you immediately.
Shanks looked down at it with a small, almost self-conscious smile.
“An upgrade,” he said.
You looked up at him.
The humor had not left his face completely, but it had softened into something quieter.
“I don’t remember the old one being this nice,” he said.
“It wasn’t.”
The answer slipped out too quickly.
Shanks’s eyes lifted to yours.
You realized your mistake a second too late.
His smile changed.
“You kept it.”
You looked away.
He did not say it like a victory. He said it like he remembered the day he had given it to you.
You folded your arms tighter, but it did nothing to help. “It was ugly.”
“It nearly fell off twice before lunch.”
“You noticed?”
Shanks’s smile warmed. “I was twelve. You wearing it was the most important thing that had ever happened to me.”
You had no sharp answer ready.
Shanks looked back down at the new bracelet. His thumb brushed the edge of the box.
“Last time, I gave you something cheap and acted like it was enough because I was a kid and I didn’t know better.” He looked at you again. “I know better now.”
The room went quiet.
“You think expensive gold fixes your entrance?”
“No.” The edge of his smile returned. “But it does make me look more prepared.”
A laugh almost escaped you.
He laughed softly, and the sound loosened something in your chest.
Then he closed the box.
“I’ll keep it for now,” he said.
You looked at the box.
Shanks noticed.
His voice lowered. “Unless you want it.”
Your eyes moved to your desk. To the drawer you had not opened in front of him. The drawer where the old bracelet sat, bent clasp and all.
Shanks followed your glance. When he looked back at you, he did not tease.
That was worse.
“You really kept it,” he said.
Your fingers curled at your side. “It was a long time ago.”
“I know.”
You looked at the box again.
Gold. Red stone. Small linked waves.
Beautiful enough to annoy you.
“It does not mean I forgive that entrance.”
You held out your hand.
Shanks did not say something clever. He only placed the box in your palm.
The weight of it was small. The feeling was not. You closed your fingers around it before you could change your mind.
“And if you look pleased with yourself,” you said, “I will throw it overboard.”
Shanks’s mouth twitched.
You narrowed your eyes.
He fought the smile down. Badly. “Understood.”
You looked away first, the box still held tight in your hand.
“You are not getting an answer today,” you said.
“I didn’t expect one.”
“You asked my father.”
“I asked your father because he is your father.” Humor flickered across his face. “And because if I didn’t, he might sink my ship on principle.”
“He still might.”
“I know. That’s why I came alone.”
A reluctant laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
He went quiet at the sound, watching you like that small laugh had been worth crossing the sea for.
Shanks took one more step toward you, then stopped. He was close now. Close enough that if you reached out, you could touch the front of his cloak again.
His voice softened.
“Have dinner with me.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Dinner.” His smile returned, but gently this time. “Not a wedding. Not an answer. Just dinner.”
“On your ship?”
“Unless you’d rather feed me here and let Marco glare at me the whole time.”
“That does sound enjoyable.”
“I thought you might like that part.”
He waited.
“One dinner,” you said.
His shoulders eased. “One dinner.”
“And if you make one more joke about my bed, I will stab you with the letter opener on my desk.”
Shanks glanced toward the desk, then back at you. “That one looks dull.”
“Would you like to find out?”
He laughed softly, and this time you did not look away fast enough to hide that you liked the sound.
His gaze caught on your face. For a second, the room felt smaller.
Shanks leaned in.
His mouth brushed yours. Soft at first.
You moved closer instead of pulling away.
Shanks paused against your mouth, and you felt him breathe in.
Then he kissed you again.
This time, it was not soft.
His mouth pressed firmly to yours, warm and sure, and kissing him now made your knees less reliable than they had any right to be. His hand rested on your waist.
Your lips parted on a breath.
Shanks made a low sound against your mouth and pulled you closer.
Then you broke the kiss first.
Barely.
Your lips still brushed his when you spoke.
“Dinner,” you said.
His eyes opened.
“Dinner,” he agreed.
Then he stepped back.
Shanks opened the door, but paused before stepping out.
He smiled.
Not smug this time.
Fond.
“I’m glad you kept it.”
The door closed softly behind him.
Outside, Marco said something sharp.
Shanks laughed.
You stood in the middle of your room, staring at the door, unable to stop the small, foolish smile that came after him.
A/N: This is YANDERE/DARK Shanks. Do not read if you dislike this version of him.
Based on anon request
Plot: A quiet Straw Hat catches the attention of the Red-Haired Emperor.
The Red Force had a better library than the Thousand Sunny.
You had not expected that.
Real shelves.
Rows of them, built into the inner wall of a quiet room below deck, secured with brass latches against rough seas. Some books were old enough that their spines had cracked. Others were wrapped in cloth, carefully labeled.
You had spent the first five minutes just staring.
Usopp had been impressed for about thirty seconds. Luffy had pulled out one book, opened it upside down, declared it boring, and left to find Shanks.
Which meant you were alone.
That was exactly how you liked libraries.
You sat on the floor with your back against one of the shelves and a book open across your lap.
It felt safe down here.
Quiet.
Separate.
Until the door opened.
You looked up.
Shanks stood in the doorway.
“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.
His voice was warm. Easy.
It still made your stomach pull tight.
“You didn’t,” you said quickly.
A lie.
His smile deepened like he had heard the lie and enjoyed it.
“You found the library.”
“It’s impressive.”
“More impressive than the Sunny’s?”
You hesitated.
Shanks laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Luffy.”
You had been avoiding him since the two crews met again. Not obviously. You were not rude. You smiled when spoken to.
But Shanks noticed things.
You had felt it.
His eyes lingered too long. Not in the careless way Sanji’s did, or the openly curious way some men looked when they found someone pretty. Shanks watched as if he were learning you. As if every small habit mattered.
How you held your cup.
How often you looked toward exits.
How you went quiet when a room got too loud.
How you moved away every time he came close.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
You glanced down, grateful for something to look at. “A travel journal.”
“Good one?”
“So far.”
He crossed the room slowly before lowering himself into a crouch with ease.
He was too close.
Close enough that you could see the faint scarred texture near his eye.
His gaze moved over your face.
“You’re prettier when you’re not hiding behind your captain,” he said.
Your breath stopped for half a second.
“I don’t hide behind Luffy.”
“No?” Shanks asked.
There was no mockery in it.
That made it worse.
You looked away first.
His hand came up.
You went still.
He did not touch you. His fingers stopped near your cheek.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Sweetheart.
The word landed too softly.
Too naturally.
You should have laughed awkwardly and said not to call you that.
Instead, you froze.
His eyes sharpened.
There it was again. That feeling that he had just learned something.
“You’re nervous around me,” he said.
“You’re an emperor.”
“That all?”
You forced yourself to meet his eyes.
Bad idea.
He was smiling, but his eyes were not kind. They were bright. Focused. Hungry in a way he was not bothering tohide anymore.
“No,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
Shanks’s smile faded slowly.
His fingers brushed your cheek.
The touch was light enough to deny, but your body betrayed you anyway. Your lips parted. Your shoulders drew in. Your pulse jumped beneath your skin.
Shanks saw all of it.
“That’s honest,” he said quietly.
You tried to move back, but the shelf was behind you.
He leaned closer.
Your book slipped slightly against your knees. You caught it before it fell, and his gaze dropped to your hands, then to your mouth.
“You’ve been hard to catch today,” he said.
“I wasn’t trying to be caught.”
“No,” Shanks said softly. “You were trying very hard not to be.”
Your fingers tightened around the book.
He was too close, and too good-looking, and you hated that your body noticed.
Dangerous things should not be allowed to look like that.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Your face warmed.
His thumb touched the corner of your mouth.
You stopped breathing.
Shanks watched your reaction like it pleased him.
Then he smiled again, slower this time.
“That’s what I thought,” he said softly.
The door opened.
You jerked back so hard your head hit the shelf.
“Oops,” Lucky Roux said from the doorway.
He did not look even slightly apologetic.
Shanks did not move away immediately.
He stayed there, crouched in front of you, his thumb still close to your mouth, his attention still fixed on you as if Lucky were no more important than a change in the wind.
Then he stood.
The room felt colder without him that close.
“What is it?” Shanks asked.
“Beck needs you.”
Shanks sighed.
You used the distraction to scramble to your feet, clutching the book to your chest.
Shanks glanced at you.
“Take it with you,” he said.
“I shouldn’t—”
“I said take it.”
Your mouth closed.
There was that shift again. Warmth over command. Smile over steel.
You nodded once.
He stepped aside to let you pass.
You moved quickly, but not quickly enough.
As you slipped past him, he grabbed your wrist. His mouth lowered near your ear.
“Don’t hide too well tonight, sweetheart.”
Then he let go.
You left without looking back.
————————
That night, the beach was lit with fires.
The locals had insisted on a gathering before the Red Hair Pirates left the island.
You stayed near Nami and Robin at first.
That had been the plan.
Stay close. Eat slowly. Laugh when Luffy nearly set his own sandal on fire. Keep your eyes away from the Red Hair captain.
Mostly.
Sometimes you slipped.
Sometimes you looked and found Shanks already looking back.
Every time, he smiled.
Every time, you looked away first.
Then someone pressed a cup into your hand.
The drink was sweet enough to hide how strong it was, and Nami laughed when your face changed after the second swallow.
“Careful,” she said. “That one sneaks up on you.”
“It tastes like fruit.”
“That’s how it gets you.”
Robin’s mouth curved over the rim of her cup.
You should have listened.
Instead, you finished it.
Then you had another.
Usopp dragged you into a terrible dance, all flailing arms and unnecessary spins, until you were laughing too hard to keep your drink steady.
When the song ended, you looked down and found your cup empty.
You found the drink table near the edge of the gathering. The jug was heavier than you expected. You had to use both hands to tilt it, and a little spilled over the side of your cup.
You laughed under your breath.
“Trouble?”
You froze.
Shanks stood several paces back half-swallowed by the dark.
“I’m not trouble.”
“No,” he said, walking toward you. “Of course not.”
You hated that he sounded amused.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.
“You’ve been avoiding me again,” he said.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Dancing with Usopp?”
“He has a very demanding style.”
Shanks smiled.
You wished he would stop doing that.
His gaze dropped to the cup in your hand.
“How many of those have you had?”
“Enough to know you’re still intimidating.”
His smile widened.
Shanks reached out and took the cup from your hand.
“Hey.”
“You can have it back.”
He stepped around you instead, carrying it with him.
“Shanks.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
The look was quick. Warm. Pleased.
Like he had known you would.
He led you around the back of the drink table, just far enough that the barrels blocked you from the main fire. The party was still close, but the shadows made it feel private.
Your steps slowed.
He noticed.
“Relax,” he said, setting your cup on one of the barrels. “I’m only stealing a minute.”
Shanks leaned back against the crates, loose and unhurried, but his eyes stayed fixed on you.
“You have any idea what you’ve done to me these last few days?”
You blinked. “I haven’t done anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The wind lifted your hair against your cheek.
Shanks reached out and tucked it back. His fingers lingered near your jaw, then slid slowly to the side of your neck.
“You sit there quiet as anything,” he said, voice lower now. “You watch everyone. You slip out of rooms before they get too crowded. You avoid me like you know exactly what I want from you.”
Your breath caught.
His thumb moved once against your throat.
“And then you look at me anyway.”
Your arms loosened.
You did not mean for them to.
His gaze dropped, catching the movement.
“I keep wondering,” he said, “where else you’d go quiet if I touched you.”
Your lips parted before you could stop them.
His eyes dropped to your mouth again, and this time he did not bother hiding the satisfaction on his face.
The gathering felt farther away. Luffy’s laugh rose somewhere beyond the dune, bright and familiar, but Shanks’s hand was at the back of your neck, and you could not make yourself move.
“We leave in the morning,” he said.
You blinked. “I know.”
“Come with me.”
The words were so direct that for a moment you thought you had misunderstood them.
“What?”
“Come with me,” he repeated.
No hesitation. No softness. No attempt to make it sound casual.
Your chest tightened.
“I’m a Straw Hat,” you said.
“I know.”
The longer he stayed quiet, the harder it became to breathe.
You tried to soften your voice. “I’m flattered. Really. But no.”
The word hung between you.
No.
Shanks looked at your mouth as if you had handed him something interesting.
“You’re loyal,” he said.
“Yes.”
For the first time that night, something cold passed over his face.
It was gone almost immediately.
Shanks looked at your mouth.
“Can I kiss you, sweetheart?”
Your heart jumped hard.
You looked at his mouth.
Then back at his eyes.
“Yes.”
Shanks did not rush.
He lowered his head slowly. His nose brushed yours, then his mouth touched yours.
The kiss started softer than you expected.
Warm. Controlled. Almost careful.
That lasted until you kissed him back.
His hand slid from your face into your hair, fingers threading close to your scalp. He pulled once and your head tipped back for him.
You rose onto your toes without thinking.
Shanks stepped in until your back hit a crate, his body holding you there while his mouth moved harder over yours.
He made a low sound against your mouth.
His hand left your hair and wrapped around your throat. Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to hold you still as he parted your lips with his and slid his tongue against yours.
You tasted liquor on him.
Or maybe that was you.
You could not tell anymore.
His chest pressed into yours as the kiss turned hotter.
Your knees brushed his leg.
He broke the kiss just enough to speak.
“Come with me in the morning.”
Your eyes opened halfway.
His mouth touched the corner of yours.
“Shanks—”
“I’ll give you whatever you want.”
He kissed you again before you could answer. Your fingers moved from his shirt to his shoulder.
“Shanks.”
“There,” he murmured, mouth moving to your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”
You turned your face, but he followed, mouth moving to the side of your neck. He kissed you there once, then opened his mouth against your skin and bit down.
Your fingers dug into his shoulder.
Shanks held the pressure for one slow second before easing off, his tongue passing over the mark he had left.
“Come be with me,” he said against your skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
“No.”
It came out weak.
He heard it.
His mouth curved against your neck.
“That one didn’t sound convincing.”
You grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth back to yours.
The kiss turned messy.
Your fault this time.
You kissed him harder than you meant to, and Shanks answered immediately. His tongue slid against yours again and you made a small sound you wished you could take back.
He swallowed it.
Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His hair was messy from your fingers. His mouth was wet. His eyes had gone dark in a way that made your pulse trip.
“Tell me what it takes,” he said.
You shook your head.
“I’ll give you a room beside mine. Every book I own. Every island you want to see. Jewels, dresses, gold, quiet, noise, whatever keeps you smiling.” He leaned in, close enough that his mouth almost touched yours again. “Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”
“That’s not why I’m saying no.”
“I know.”
His voice dropped.
“That’s why I’m asking again.”
Your chest rose hard against his.
“I need to go back to my crew.”
Shanks went still.
“You need to?”
“Yes.”
He looked at you for a long time.
Then he stepped back.
You reached for your cup but Shanks caught it first.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
You almost laughed.
It came out uneven. “Now you’re worried about that?”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“I’m worried about a lot of things when it comes to you.”
The words sounded sweet.
You knew better.
You took one step back. Then another.
He let you.
You turned toward the fires, forcing yourself to walk instead of run. Your lips still felt warm.
You were almost close enough to hear Usopp’s voice clearly when Shanks spoke behind you.
“Sweetheart.”
You stopped before you could stop yourself.
Slowly, you looked back.
He stood in the dark with your abandoned cup still in his hand.
For a moment, he looked like the man Luffy adored.
Then he glanced past you toward the fires, and all warmth left his eyes.
“Stay close to Luffy,” he said. “He’s the only reason I’m asking nicely.”
You did not move.
Shanks smiled again.
It did not reach his eyes.
“Good night.”
The Red Force left at dawn.
The Straw Hats stood near the shore, waving and shouting. Luffy was at the front, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt.
You told yourself not to look for him. You looked anyway.
His gaze found you immediately. For one long second, he only watched you.
Then he smiled.
A friendly smile.
The kind everyone else could see.
Beside him, Beckman leaned against the rail, cigarette between his fingers, eyes narrowed toward the shore.
The ship began to pull away.
The distance widened.
Only then did Shanks look from you to Beckman.
His voice was casual when he spoke. Almost bored.
“I want her on the Red Force.”
Beckman exhaled smoke.
He did not ask who.
Shanks was still watching you.
You stood on the shore beside your captain, the wind lifting your hair, the book you had forgotten to return held tight against your chest.
Shanks’s mouth curved.
“Make it happen,” he said.
Beckman flicked ash into the sea.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”
The Red Force sailed into the morning light.
And Shanks did not look away until you were gone from sight.
“One room,” she said, sliding a keycard across the counter.
You stared at it.
Beside you, Benn Beckman stood with rain darkening the shoulders of his coat.
“One room,” you repeated.
The innkeeper tapped the card once. “Storm washed out the lower road. Everyone coming in from the east got stuck here. That’s the last one.”
You looked at Beckman.
He looked at the keycard.
“Does it have two beds?” you asked.
The innkeeper’s pause answered before she did.
“No.”
Beckman picked up the keycard. “We’ll take it.”
You turned toward him. “That’s it?”
He glanced down at you. “You want the lobby?”
The lobby had two wooden benches, a vending machine, and three men in soaked coats arguing.
You took the keycard out of his hand. “Fine.”
Beckman’s brows lifted slightly.
You walked ahead before he could say anything.
You found the room number and tapped the card against the lock.
The light blinked green.
You opened the door.
Then stopped.
Beckman stepped in behind you and looked.
One bed sat in the middle beneath a white duvet. There was a desk, chair, television, and two lamps.
Beckman shut the door behind you. The lock clicked into place.
You set your bag near the desk and pretended the bed did not take up most of the room. Beckman took in the space once, quick and thorough. Door. Window. Bathroom. Bed. Chair. His rifle went against the wall within reach of the chair before his coat came off.
“I’ll take the chair,” he said.
“No.”
He hung his coat over the back of it. “Wasn’t asking.”
“I noticed.”
His eyes moved to you.
You crossed your arms. “You’re not sleeping upright all night.”
“I’ve done worse.”
Beckman looked away. He checked the window lock, opened the curtains halfway, then turned on the bedside lamp closest to the chair.
You watched him move around the room with that practical efficiency that made arguing with him feel pointless.
“I’m taking a shower,” you said.
He nodded once.
The bathroom was bright and modern. You stayed under the hot water until your skin warmed and your thoughts stopped moving in circles.
When you came out, Beckman was seated in the chair, cleaning his pistol on a towel spread over the desk.
He looked up.
His gaze touched your bare legs, the hem of your sleep shorts, the loose shirt hanging off one shoulder.
Then he went back to the pistol.
“You can take the side by the bathroom,” he said.
“You’re still doing the chair.”
He fitted one piece back into place with a soft click. “I said you could take the side by the bathroom.”
“Benn.”
Another click.
You threw your damp towel over the rack by the bathroom door with more force than necessary.
He did not look amused. Beckman rarely looked amused unless Shanks had done something particularly stupid and survived it.
You pulled back the covers and got into bed.
The mattress was softer than it looked.
Beckman finished cleaning the pistol, checked it, and set it on the bedside table closest to the chair. Then he stood.
He picked up his bag and went into the bathroom.
The door shut.
You stared at the ceiling.
The shower turned on.
You closed your eyes.
It was Beckman.
That should have made this easier.
It did not.
The water shut off a few minutes later. The bathroom door opened. You kept your eyes closed, but that only made the room sharper in other ways. The quiet shift of his bag. The soft scrape of his belt set on the desk. The click of the lamp going dark.
The mattress lowered on the other side.
You opened your eyes.
Beckman lay on his back, one arm above the blanket, face turned toward the ceiling. He had left a strip of space between you. Not much. Enough to make the point.
You both stayed like that.
The heating unit hummed beneath the window. Rain ran steadily against the glass.
You turned onto your side, facing away from him.
Behind you, Beckman did not move.
Minutes stretched.
Then his voice came low through the dark.
“Sleep.”
You almost laughed, but it would have come out wrong.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re bad at it.”
You looked over your shoulder. “Helpful.”
He did not answer.
You faced forward again.
Eventually, the room blurred. The rain became less distinct. Your hand slipped beneath your cheek.
The last thing you knew was Beckman’s breathing behind you, slow and even.
When you woke, the rain had stopped.
Light pressed through the gap in the curtains. For a few seconds, you did not know what had pulled you out of sleep.
Then you became aware of Beckman.
Not beside you.
Around you.
His chest was against your back. One arm wrapped across your waist, his hand against your stomach. Your legs were tangled beneath the blanket, one of his knees tucked behind yours, holding you in place without trying.
You did not breathe.
Beckman was still asleep. You could feel it in the slow drag of his breath near the back of your neck.
Your heart started beating too hard.
His fingers brushed against your stomach.
A small, unconscious stroke.
Your lips parted.
Beckman’s breathing changed.
His body went still.
Not asleep anymore.
Neither of you moved.
His hand remained where it was, warm through your shirt. Then his fingers flexed once, not pulling you closer, not letting you go.
“Morning,” he said. His voice was rough from sleep.
“Morning,” you managed.
His breath touched the side of your neck.
Another few seconds passed.
Then Beckman’s arm eased away.
It left your skin awake everywhere he had been touching you.
You turned onto your back.
He had shifted onto his side, propped on one elbow. The morning light caught the hard line of his cheek, the dark focus of his eyes.
He looked at you.
The blanket had slipped to your hips. Your shirt had ridden up just enough to bare a narrow strip of skin at your waist.
Beckman noticed.
His jaw tightened.
Your fingers curled in the sheet.
“You were supposed to keep to your side,” you said.
His gaze returned to your face. “You moved first.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
You swallowed.
He stayed above you, one hand beside your hip, the other near your shoulder. His knee was against your thigh under the blanket.
He leaned in a fraction. “Say it.”
You lifted your hand and grabbed the front of his shirt.
His eyes dropped to your fingers.
“Kiss me,” you said.
Beckman moved before the last word had fully left your mouth.
His mouth came down on yours, hard enough to push your head back into the pillow. He grasped your waist with one hand and dragged you lower beneath him before you had time to breathe.
You made a sound against his mouth.
His hand slid under your shirt.
Your knee knocked against his hip. He caught your thigh and drew your leg up along his side. His body settled into the space he had made.
You broke the kiss for air.
Beckman followed.
His mouth caught the corner of yours, then your jaw, then the side of your neck. His stubble dragged over your skin. Your fingers slid into his hair, and when you tugged, his hold on your thigh tightened.
“Again,” he said against your throat.
You tugged harder.
He made a low sound and kissed you again, his hand moved to shove the blanket down between your bodies. The cool air hit your legs.
Your back lifted off the mattress.
Beckman caught the movement with his palm, holding you there while his mouth worked over yours.
You dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck.
His breath left him through his nose.
Then he moved.
One arm slid under your back. The other on your thigh again. He rolled you both in one controlled motion, putting you half across him, your knee bent over his hip, your hands landing hard against his chest.
You stared down at him.
“Come here,” he said roughly.
You barely moved before he pulled you down.
The kiss was messier from that angle. Your hair fell around both of you. His hand slid up your back beneath your shirt. The fabric bunched between his wrist and your shoulder blades.
You shifted your hips without meaning to.
His other hand clamped at your waist.
“You know what you’re doing?”
Your breath hitched against his mouth.
“Yes.”
Then you kissed him again.
Beckman’s hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you there as he sat up beneath you. The motion forced you into his lap. You grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself. He kissed down your throat while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him.
His mouth found the place beneath your ear.
Your hips jerked.
Beckman’s hand stayed locked at your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
Plot: 37 year-old Shanks still hasn’t confessed his love to you. But never fear…27 year-old Shanks will do it for him.
A/N: a very loose sequel to The Betting Pool
The problem started in the hold.
“It was not my fault,” Shanks said.
Beckman stood over the open chest and looked at the glowing red coin inside it. “You touched the cursed treasure.”
“It was glowing.”
“That is usually a reason not to touch it.”
“It looked interesting.”
“The chest bit Rockstar yesterday.”
“Rockstar startled it.”
Beckman stared at him.
Shanks sighed. “Fine. Maybe I touched it.”
The coin flashed.
The ship lurched.
Somewhere above deck, Yasopp shouted, “If that was another sea king, I’m not helping!”
Then the air in the hold twisted.
Like the world folded wrong for half a second.
When it snapped back into place, someone was standing beside the chest.
Barefoot. Shirt half-laced. Red hair loose around his face. Straw hat tipped back. Younger by ten years.
The hold went silent.
Young Shanks looked around.
Then at Beckman.
Then at present-day Shanks.
His grin widened.
“Oh good,” he said. “I age well.”
Beckman shut his eyes.
Present Shanks stared at him.
Young Shanks looked down at himself, then back up. “What year is it?”
Shanks told him.
Young Shanks blinked. Then whistled. “Thirty-seven?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. I just thought we’d look worse.”
Beckman said, “You act worse.”
Young Shanks turned to him, delighted. “Beck. You got meaner.”
“I adapted.”
The noise had drawn half the crew by then. Faces crowded the stairs. Yasopp pushed in front of Lucky. Limejuice leaned over Building Snake’s shoulder. Hongo took one look and muttered, “Oh, this’ll be bad.”
You arrived last, still holding a mug from the galley.
“What happened?”
Young Shanks turned toward your voice.
And stopped.
Not for long.
Just long enough that everyone noticed.
Then his expression changed, bright and interested and entirely unashamed.
“Well,” he said, looking you over with open appreciation. “Nobody told me the future got this pretty.”
The hold went dead silent.
Then Yasopp made a sound like he had swallowed his own tongue.
Present Shanks went very still.
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Young Shanks stepped around the chest like nothing about this situation concerned him. “You heard me.”
“Oh, she heard you,” Lucky said, delighted.
Present Shanks turned his head slowly. “Lucky.”
Lucky held up both hands. “I’m just observing.”
Beckman reached for his cigarettes. “This is going to be educational.”
Young Shanks came closer, still smiling at you. He had the same face, mostly. Same eyes. Same red hair. That same warmth when he focused on someone.
But where the Shanks you knew had learned restraint, this one wore his interest plainly.
“So,” Young Shanks said. “Do I know you?”
You glanced at present Shanks, then back at him. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s a shame.”
Present Shanks stepped forward. “That’s enough.”
Young Shanks looked at him.
Then at you.
Then back at him.
His grin sharpened.
“Oh,” he said. “Interesting.”
“It isn’t,” present Shanks said.
Young Shanks leaned slightly to see around him. “Is he always this tense around beautiful women?”
The crew erupted.
You should have been more alarmed. Probably.
Instead, it was very difficult to panic while young Shanks was smiling at you like you were the best part of his accidental time travel.
“You’re taking this well,” you said.
Young Shanks shrugged. “I’ve had stranger mornings.” He leaned in closer. “What’s your name?”
You told him.
He repeated it once, testing it like he liked the sound.
Present Shanks’s jaw tightened.
The crew noticed, of course.
They had been waiting weeks for him to do something incriminating. The betting board in the galley had become less of a game and more of a record of his ongoing failure.
Young Shanks glanced toward the stairs. “Why is everyone looking at us like that?”
“No reason,” Hongo said.
“Just enjoying the view.” Lucky added
Present Shanks closed his eyes. “Do not start.”
“Start what?” you asked.
The entire crew found the ceiling, the floor, the walls, and one another’s shoes fascinating.
Young Shanks leaned closer to you. “They’re hiding something.”
“They usually are.”
“I like her,” Young Shanks said immediately.
Present Shanks opened his eyes. “Of course you do.”
Yasopp slapped a hand over his mouth.
You looked down into your mug, trying not to smile.
Present Shanks saw anyway.
His expression changed for half a second. The annoyance slipped. Something softer took its place, familiar and almost too warm.
Young Shanks saw that too.
His grin faded a little.
Then came back worse.
Young Shanks laughed once, bright with disbelief. “You’re in love with her.”
The hold exploded.
Yasopp actually shouted.
Lucky grabbed Building Snake by the shoulders.
Someone above deck yelled, “Pay up!”
Your face went hot.
Present Shanks looked like he had just been stabbed by himself, which was closer to true than anyone wanted to admit.
“You,” he said to Young Shanks, very evenly, “are going in the brig.”
“For helping?”
“For breathing.”
Young Shanks leaned around him again, eyes still on you. “Has he told you?”
You looked at present Shanks.
He looked away.
That was answer enough to make the crew lose their minds all over again.
Young Shanks stared at his older self in open horror. “You haven’t told her?”
“I was getting there.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“None of your business.”
Young Shanks turned to the crew. “How long?”
“Months,” Yasopp said instantly.
“Longer,” Beckman corrected.
Present Shanks pointed at him. “Traitor.”
Young Shanks looked personally offended. “Longer than months?”
You folded your arms, attention still on present Shanks. “Longer than months?”
Shanks gave the crew a murderous look.
Young Shanks stepped beside you, lowering his voice in a way that did absolutely nothing to hide it. “This is embarrassing for us.”
Present Shanks moved between you again. “There is no us.”
“I am literally you.”
“You are a cursed incident with poor timing.”
“I have excellent timing. She knows now.”
You did know now.
Or at least you knew enough that your heart had started beating differently.
You looked at Shanks.
Not the young one.
Your Shanks.
He met your eyes for half a second, then seemed to realize there was nowhere left to run.
You asked quietly, “Is it true?”
The hold went still.
Even Young Shanks shut up.
Present Shanks let out a slow breath.
The teasing left his face. The embarrassment too.
“Yes,” he said.
Then Yasopp whispered, “Finally.”
The moment broke.
Present Shanks turned his head. “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” Yasopp said.
Lucky wiped at his eyes. “I never thought I’d live to see it.”
“You’re all very dramatic,” Shanks said.
Beckman looked at the younger Shanks. “You have no idea.”
Young Shanks grinned again, but there was something softer underneath it now. Almost wistful.
Then he stepped forward and clapped present Shanks on the shoulder.
“Good news,” he said. “She’s pretty and patient.”
Shanks caught his wrist. “Brig.”
Young Shanks laughed. “For fixing your life?”
“For flirting with her.”
“With her or with destiny?”
“With my patience.”
You laughed.
Both Shanks looked at you.
That was deeply unfair.
Present Shanks’s hand fell from his younger self’s wrist. He turned toward you fully, and this time, he did not look away.
“I was going to tell you,” he said.
You smiled at Shanks. “Were you?”
Young Shanks leaned beside Beckman. “Does she always make him look like that?”
Beckman glanced at present Shanks, who was looking at you like the rest of the ship had blurred at the edges.
“Yes.”
Young Shanks was quiet for a beat.
Then he said, softer, “Good.”
Later, in the galley, under Beckman’s old line of Never, someone added:
