In which you are like Ranmao from Black Butler, and you happen to meet the oh so famous Red Haired Shanks
The island was quiet, its stillness almost unnatural. Even the waves seemed hesitant to crash too loudly against the shore. Shanks had been to many places, but this place—this moment—felt different.
He stepped onto the worn wooden docks, the air thick with something unspoken. The locals watched him from the corners of their eyes, some whispering, some slipping away into alleyways. It wasn’t fear of him. No, this was something else.
Perched on the edge of a rooftop, you sat with an effortless stillness, legs crossed, arms resting lightly on your lap. Your expression was unreadable, and your gaze was heavy despite its lack of clear intent. You did not fidget, did not blink unnecessarily—you simply existed, like a force of nature that required no announcement.
Shanks had seen many warriors, many rulers, but few people carried power in their silence. You did.
“You’re an interesting sight,” he mused, his grin lazy but his instincts sharp. “Didn’t expect to find someone like you out here.”
You tilted your head slightly, observing him with an intensity that sent a ripple through the air. A predator sizing up an unknown presence. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, yet it carried weight.
"And I didn’t expect an emperor to wander into my path."
Your tone was neither hostile nor welcoming. It was simply fact.
Shanks chuckled, placing a hand on his hip. "Guess today’s full of surprises."
Shanks took another step forward, watching for a reaction. Nothing. No flinch, no shift in stance—just the same stillness, like a blade waiting to be unsheathed. He whistled low.
“Most people get antsy when I stand this close,” he mused, hands resting on his belt. “But you? You don’t even blink.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him with that unreadable gaze. “Should I?”
That answer made him grin. It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t defiance. It was pure, unwavering confidence. You knew exactly what you were capable of, and that alone made his pulse quicken with intrigue.
Shanks let out a chuckle, scratching the back of his head. “You’ve got an interesting way about you. Can’t say I’ve met many like you before.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you simply stood, the movement slow, deliberate. Even that was calculated—like a tiger stretching before the pounce.
“You talk too much,” you finally said.
Shanks barked out a laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” His grin didn’t fade, but his stance shifted, just slightly. “You, on the other hand, seem to be the type who lets actions do the talking.”
Another beat of silence stretched between you both, heavier this time. You stepped forward, closing the space between you with a grace that contradicted the sheer weight of your presence. When you finally stopped, you were close—close enough that he could feel the pressure rolling off you like an untamed storm.
Then, in a voice quiet but firm, you said:
“Show me you’re worth my time.”
Shanks exhaled, the excitement thrumming beneath his skin. Oh, he liked you already.
“Now that,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “sounds like an invitation.”
Shanks chuckled, his hand drifting lazily toward his sword. He wasn’t one to draw first—not unless the moment truly called for it—but the way you looked at him, as if weighing his worth, sent a thrill through him.
The breeze rolled in from the sea, rustling through the trees, but neither of yoy moved. It wasn’t a stalemate; it was a question hanging in the air.
No warning, no wasted motion. One second, you were standing still, and the next, you were in front of him, your foot slicing toward his ribs with devastating force.
Shanks barely had time to react. He twisted, narrowly avoiding the impact, the wind of your strike brushing against his coat like a whisper of destruction.
His grin widened. “Fast.”
You didn’t reply—didn’t need to. You were already moving again. Another strike, low this time, aimed to sweep his legs from beneath him. He leaped back, his boots skidding against the ground as he put distance between you both.
Shanks whistled, shaking out his arm. “Alright, alright. You’re not here to chat.” He flexed his fingers, the thrill of battle sparking in his blood. “Let’s see how much fun you really are.”
This time, he moved first. He didn’t bother with his sword—not yet. Instead, he lunged, aiming a precise strike toward your shoulder. A test.
You caught his wrist mid-swing.
The sheer strength in your grip made his brows lift in surprise, but he had no time to react before you twisted, throwing him back with an effortless motion.
Shanks landed on his feet, sliding to a stop. He shook out his arm, laughing. “Damn. You’re stronger than you look.”
You didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. Just watched him with that same unreadable gaze, waiting.
Shanks wiped a thumb across his nose, still grinning.
“Well now,” he said, drawing his sword at last, “this just got interesting.”
A flicker of something sharp flashed in your gaze as Shanks drew his sword. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It was anticipation.
Then, with a swift motion, you reached behind your back, drawing two heavy chuí—steel spheres attached to short, thick handles. The weapons gleamed in the dim light, their weight undeniable, but you held them as if they were weightless.
Shanks arched a brow. “Interesting choice.”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you moved.
Your first strike came down like a meteor. Shanks sidestepped, barely dodging as the chuí slammed into the earth, shattering stone beneath it. The impact sent a tremor through the ground, dust billowing into the air.
Shanks whistled. “Alright, that would’ve hurt.”
You didn’t let up. The second chuí came in a sweeping arc, aiming for his ribs. This time, he met it head-on, catching the blow with his blade. The force rattled through him, strong enough that a lesser man might have lost his grip.
But he wasn’t a lesser man.
He twisted, guiding the momentum away, and stepped into your guard. A grin pulled at his lips as he moved faster than she could counter—his fist slamming into your stomach.
You staggered, just barely, but it was the opening he needed.
In a blur, Shanks kicked one of your chuí aside, throwing off your balance. Before you could recover, he caught your wrist, twisting your arm just enough to make you release the second. It hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Then, with a swift pivot, he hooked his leg behind yours and drove you down.
You hit the ground hard, but Shanks was already there, his sword pressed lightly against your throat—not cutting, just resting. A silent declaration.
He chuckled, leaning down slightly. “Looks like I win this round.”
Your breathing was steady, but your body remained still beneath him. Not out of surrender, but calculation. Even now, you were measuring your next move.
Shanks smirked. “Go on. Try something.”
A long silence stretched between them. Then, after what felt like an eternity, you exhaled and let your muscles relax.
Shanks lifted his sword, stepping back and offering a hand. “Not bad. You almost had me a couple of times.”
You ignored the hand, pushing yourself up on your own. Dust clung to your skin, but your expression was the same—calm, unreadable.
Finally, you spoke. “You’re not what I expected.”
Shanks laughed. “I get that a lot.”
For the first time, something like amusement flickered across your face. It was brief, but he caught it. And just like that, he knew this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths.
It had only been a few days since their fight, but Shanks could already tell—he wasn’t alone.
The island was quiet at night, save for the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. His crew had made camp near the shore, laughter and drunken banter filling the air. But beyond the firelight, in the spaces where the shadows stretched deep—you were there.
You were good. Silent, controlled, moving only when necessary. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Shanks wasn’t most people.
Sitting by the fire, he poured himself another drink, lifting the cup to his lips. “Y’know,” he muttered, voice just loud enough to carry into the trees, “if you’re gonna keep hovering like that, you might as well join me.”
No response. Not that he expected one.
He smirked to himself, shaking his head.
It wasn’t the first time someone had tailed him, but this wasn’t the usual sort of attention. No thirst for revenge, no lurking bloodlust. Just quiet, unwavering presence.
He stretched, leaning back on one arm, letting the flames warm his skin. “Suit yourself,” he said lightly, lifting his drink again. “I don’t mind an audience.”
Still, there was no movement. There was no sign that you were even there. But he knew.
The night was calm, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and embers from the dwindling campfire. Shanks sat with a lazy grin, sipping his drink as his crew laughed and told stories.
A shift in the air. The kind of silence that wasn’t natural.
Shanks’ fingers twitched around his cup. Before he could react, a figure lunged from the darkness—silent, precise, blade glinting under the moonlight, aiming straight for his throat.
His crew moved in an instant. Lucky Roux reached for his gun, Yasopp’s hand was already on his rifle, and Benn Beckman barely tilted his head, his sharp eyes following the assassin’s trajectory.
But before any of them could act—
The attacker stopped mid-motion.
Something else had moved first.
A faint shimmer in the air, a whisper of wind, and then—blood.
The assassin’s body jerked, stiffened—before collapsing to the ground, a clean slash across his throat. Dead before he even hit the dirt.
Only those with trained eyes—those with Observation Haki—had seen it. A flicker of motion. A shadow tearing through the night, striking faster than most could register.
Shanks lowered his drink, setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. His grin had faded, replaced by something thoughtful.
The crew stayed on guard, eyes scanning the dark.
Yasopp exhaled through his nose, resting a hand on his hip. “Hmph. Fast.”
Beckman’s gaze flickered to the trees. “She’s still here.”
Shanks hummed. His grin returned, slow and intrigued. “Well, now… that’s interesting.”
The air was thick with tension, the scent of blood still fresh. The assassin’s body lay motionless, but the true presence—his unseen guardian—remained just beyond the firelight.
Shanks exhaled, shaking his head with an amused chuckle. “Now that’s something,” he mused, stretching his legs out lazily. “Quick, clean… almost unfair.”
His crew didn’t relax just yet. Beckman kept his eyes on the darkness, Yasopp’s fingers tapped against his rifle, and Lucky Roux grinned, clearly impressed.
Shanks, though? He just reached for the sake bottle.
He poured himself another drink, then grabbed a second cup, filling it to the brim. With a casual flick of his wrist, he raised it toward the shadows.
“C’mon now,” he called out, his voice light, teasing. “If you’re gonna go through all that trouble for me, the least you can do is have a drink.”
Then, a faint shift in the air. A rustle of movement, too quick for the untrained eye.
And just like that, the cup was gone.
Shanks smirked, bringing his own drink to his lips. “Hah. Thought so.”
The crew exchanged glances, but no one questioned it.
Somewhere out in the dark, you were there. Still watching. Still waiting.
Shanks had just taken another sip when the air shifted again—faster this time, closer. Before anyone could react, a weight settled onto his lap, smooth and effortless, as if it had always belonged there.
Shanks, however, merely arched a brow, amusement flickering across his face.
You were finally out of the shadows.
Silent as ever, you perched on his lap, poised yet utterly relaxed, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just sat there, your presence as steady and unshaken as before.
Shanks let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s one way to make an entrance.”
The crew stared, some in shock, others in restrained amusement. Yasopp muttered something under his breath, while Lucky Roux just grinned and took another bite of meat. Beckman exhaled, shaking his head but saying nothing.
Shanks, meanwhile, tilted his head at you. “Y’know, most people start with a handshake.”
You said nothing. Just reached for the cup he had offered earlier and drank.
Shanks chuckled. “Hah. Alright, can’t say I mind.” He leaned back slightly, his grin widening. “Guess that means you’re sticking around, huh?”
Still, no answer. But you didn’t move away.
Shanks just smirked and took another drink.
The night had settled into an easy rhythm—laughter, drinking, and the occasional glance toward you, still perched on Shanks’ lap as if you had always belonged there. You hadn’t spoken, hadn’t explained yourself. But you hadn’t moved either.
Shanks rested his arm over the back of the log he sat on, lazily swirling the sake in his cup. His crew had relaxed, though the occasional side-eye from Yasopp and Beckman showed they were still processing the situation.
Then, with the same casual ease he approached everything, Shanks broke the silence.
“Well,” he mused, “since you’re not in a hurry to leave… how ‘bout you stay?”
Your fingers, still lightly gripping the now-empty cup, twitched.
Shanks smirked. “Join my crew.”
The fire crackled. The waves rolled in the distance. The crew fell into expectant silence, all waiting for your answer.
Slowly, you turned your head to face him, your expression unreadable. But you weren’t surprised. As if you had already decided long before he asked.
That was all you said. No hesitation. No deliberation. Just simple, unwavering agreement.
Shanks’ grin widened. “Heh. Just like that?”
His crew exchanged glances, but no one protested. After all, they had just witnessed firsthand what you were capable of.
Shanks chuckled, taking another sip. “Well then, welcome aboard.”
You said nothing. But you stayed exactly where you were.
And that was answer enough.
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