Living in a class closest with my skeletons and unmistakable, fear... she/them - aspiring dreamer of somethings if you think I know what I am doing, that's a lie. I have no idea what I am doing
A little (thesis distraction) comic inspired by ekurei fic Spirits and Vessels by Chrome_Affogato! I wanted to illustrate my delusions for the end of ch 9, like what if…! I opted for the "maybe it was all a dream" ending as to not meddle with the original too much, but apparently chrome liked this a lot so we will see how the fic ends hehe! <3 please give the fic lots of love & kudos!
I left out the part where Ekubo is staying with Yoshioka (the security guard/"sg") at the ward and they have a talk which ends in the scene in this comic. I like the idea that Yoshioka would be into Reigen :>
FINALLYYYY got around to color and finish this one!! Thank you so much Chrome! This is inspired by Chrome_Affogato's fic Spirits and Vessels and I was so happy that this comic, in turn, inspired them to finish the fic!! moral of the story: always make, post and share that unhinged fic illustration :))
Check out my other two comics for this fic, this is the third one in three consecutive years hooooo boy! thanks ekurei nation <33
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Warnings: mature themes, violence, trauma, alcohol use, fem reader.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ A/N: this mayyy not have been what you wanted but i really liked it:)
For as long as you can remember, your life has been a relentless series of goodbyes. Staying was a luxury you were never afforded, a concept as foreign as a permanent address. Your existence was measured not in years or milestones, but in the frantic cadence of departures—the slamming of a car door, the hiss of a bus, the lonely whistle of a train pulling away from a station. Home wasn’t a place with four walls and a soft bed; it was the space between here and there, the blur of a landscape rushing past a window.
Your earliest memories are a collage of panicked whispers and the constant, low hum of fear. Your mother’s hands, always trembling, fumbled with your coat, a silent, frantic preparation for another escape. Your father’s voice was a shifting thing—sometimes a low, dangerous rumble, sometimes a desperate plea—but it was always the signal to go. You learned to read the signs long before you understood the words. A sudden silence in the next room, a new car parked across the street, a knock at the door that sounded too loud. These were the catalysts, the grim harbingers of another flight into the unknown.
You learned to leave pieces of yourself behind. Roots were for other people, for those who had the luxury of permanence. While other children were learning to ride bikes and carve their initials into trees, you were learning to pack a bag in under five minutes, to memorize a map of a city you'd be gone from by morning, and to read the unspoken language of your parents’ fear. You stopped asking why you couldn't stay. You stopped hoping for a place to truly belong.
Sometimes, in the brief lulls between departures, you’d taste the fleeting sweetness of a normal life. A kind librarian who remembered your name, a teacher who praised your quick mind, the brief, uncomplicated friendship with a kid who lived just down the street. For a moment, you'd let yourself believe, let a fragile hope unfurl in your chest. But that feeling was always shattered—by a hushed argument in the dead of night, by a strange face glimpsed in a passing car, by the ever-present feeling of being watched. Every departure felt like a part of you was being ripped away, but you told yourself it was a necessary cruelty. Better to tear yourself away than wait for the world to do it for you.
Even now, a part of you remains in perpetual motion. Your bags are always half-packed, your senses are always heightened, ready to pivot and run at a moment's notice. You've built your walls high, keeping people at a comfortable distance, a safe remove from the inevitable goodbye. You tell yourself this is strength, a testament to your survival. But in the quiet moments, a different truth surfaces. The endless running has left you without a foundation, without a true anchor. You've never learned to stay, and in the deepest, most guarded part of your heart, you're terrified you never will.
It was the sound that came first, an abrupt rupture of the quiet that had always been your most crucial defense. The high, keening wail of your baby sister, a sound of pure terror that sliced through the thin walls of your home and echoed in the small space where you huddled. Then came your mother’s voice, a broken litany of pleas and bargains, a desperate, final prayer that was cut short, choked into a terrible silence. The heavy sound of her breathing slowing, then stopping. Your father's rage followed, a guttural roar that twisted into a wet, choking gurgle before it, too, fell silent. The people your parents had been running from had finally caught up.
You had been told to stay hidden, to be as still and silent as the grave. But your body, a traitor to the command, trembled violently, making the floorboards beneath you groan with a sound that felt as loud as thunder. And then the closet door was wrenched open, revealing a man who smelled of smoke and cold iron.
He gripped your arm like a vice, his fingers digging into your skin as he dragged you out into the terrible light. The room was a scene you wished you could unsee: your parents, still and silent, their lifeblood a darkening stain on the floor, your sister’s small, lifeless body cradled in your mother’s arms. You fought with the ferocity of a trapped animal, clawing and kicking and biting at his hand until his other hand went for the gun at his belt.
The crack of the shot was deafening, a brutal punctuation mark on the silence. For a second, you felt nothing but the shock of the sound, and then came the fire. A white-hot, searing pain in your neck, as if a branding iron had been pressed against your skin. The bullet had missed your throat, but only just, tearing a ragged, gaping wound in the side of your neck.
Blood, hot and thick, gushed from the wound, pouring in a steady stream down your collarbone and soaking the front of your shirt. With each beat of your heart, more of it pulsed out, a tide of warmth that chilled almost instantly. You pressed your palm against the wound, fingers slick with the coppery-smelling liquid, trying to staunch the flow. You couldn’t stop it, but you slowed it, the blood still pulsing stubbornly through the gaps between your fingers.
And when he let go, a cruel certainty in his eyes that you would simply drop, you ran. You ran without looking back, without knowing where you were going. You ran until the pain in your neck was a distant throb, a faint echo of the terror, and the frantic pounding of your heart was the only sound left in the night.
You sprinted through the unfamiliar streets, a ghost in the night. The town you had just begun to map in your mind became a distorted blur—the shops, the crooked lampposts, the faces glimpsed through windows—all rushing past as your body pushed itself to its absolute limit. The blood on your neck was a searing, constant reminder of your recent past. Each frantic step sent a fresh jolt of pain through the wound, the sticky warmth of your own life force seeping into your collar. But you couldn't stop. You were a phantom, weaving through the shadows, desperate to become invisible.
When you finally reached the edge of town, your lungs burned and your vision swam with exhaustion. The silence you craved was an illusion, replaced by the distant barking of dogs and the muffled sounds of a town settling for the night. You pushed forward, ignoring the dizzying spin in your head and the trembling in your legs. You had to keep going.
Then, you saw her.
An old woman stood in her doorway, her gaze sharp and unwavering beneath a crown of silver hair. She didn't flinch or look away when her eyes fell on you. Instead, she stepped forward with a cautious urgency, her eyes locking onto the crimson trail staining your neck. The shock that crossed her face was quickly veiled by a deep concern.
"Child," she said, her voice a soft, steady tremble, "come inside. You're hurt."
Your instinct screamed at you to run, to keep moving, to not trust this fragile offer of safety. But your body betrayed you once more. Your legs faltered, and a cold weakness seeped deep into your bones. The weight of her gaze, somehow, was the only thing holding you up. You could only nod, your voice caught in your throat, and let her guide you across the threshold, into the dim, warm light of her home. It was a fragile, uncertain safety, but for the first time in your life, you stopped running.
Inside the small, cluttered cottage, the old woman guided you to a worn wooden chair by the hearth. The flickering flames of a low-burning fire cast dancing, warm shadows across the room, illuminating shelves crowded with dried herbs, dusty books, and faded photographs. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something sweet, like old flowers.
Without a word, she retrieved a basin of cool water and a clean, faded cloth. She gently pressed the cool compress to your neck. A sharp, but soothing, sting cut through the burning heat of the wound, and you flinched. The old woman only hummed softly, a low, melodic sound that seemed to chase the pain away.
Her hands, though lined with age, were steady and sure. She worked slowly, cleaning the wound, blotting away the dark, sticky blood. When she finally pulled down the collar of your shirt, revealing the raw, torn skin, her eyes softened with a mix of sorrow and fierce resolve.
"You're lucky, child," she murmured, her voice low but firm. "This could've been so much worse."
You remained silent, unable to trust your voice. The raw ache in your neck made every breath shallow. The old woman then went to a wooden shelf, returning with a small, amber jar. She carefully applied a thick, sweet-smelling salve to the wound, her fingers cool and gentle against your skin.
As she wrapped a faded scarf around your neck, her eyes met yours. They were steady and unyielding. "You're safe here. For now."
The words settled deep into your bones, a weight you had long forgotten the feel of. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the constant, frantic urge to run quieted. It was enough to allow a flicker of something you thought was long gone to stir within you: a fragile, uncertain hope.
You stayed in the small cottage for a week, each day a fragile, quiet sanctuary. The old woman's care was a gentle but firm presence, a steady flame in the darkness that had haunted you for so long. She spoke little, but her words, when they came, were like a soft blanket, wrapping around you and grounding you in a way that felt almost dangerous. You began to trust the quiet between her words and the confident rhythm of her hands as she tended to your wound. The constant knot of fear in your chest began to loosen, replaced by a fragile thread of peace.
But peace, you learned, was a lie.
It was in the dead of night, long after the fire had burned down to embers, that they came. The same men who had shattered your family and chased you into exile had finally tracked you down. You pressed yourself against the cold floor in the back room, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, terrified it would betray your hiding place. Through the thin walls, you heard their low, cruel voices, a guttural sound laced with the satisfaction of hunters who had finally cornered their prey.
Then came the screams.
The old woman’s voice, sharp and desperate, cut through the suffocating darkness like a blade. You pressed your hands to your ears, but you couldn't block out the sound of her final breaths seeping through the walls. They had found her. They had taken her life to get to you.
But they didn't find you.
When the silence returned, thick and heavy, you waited, frozen in place until their footsteps faded, retreating into the night. You didn’t move for hours, afraid that any sound might summon them back.
As the first sliver of dawn bled through the cracks in the walls, you slipped from your hiding place. Your eyes were hollow, and your heart was heavier than it had ever been. The cottage, once a fragile refuge, was now a tomb of memories and loss. With a cold and terrible certainty, you knew then that this was the world you belonged to—a world where staying meant dying, and running was the only choice you had left.
For years after that night, you ran. You moved from town to town, a relentless chase toward the horizon, always just a few steps ahead of the shadows that pursued you. Every time you dared to imagine a place to rest, to build something fragile and real, it shattered—broken by loss, by fear, by the relentless weight of a world that didn't want you to stay.
Sometimes you found people, brief flashes of warmth in a cold existence. A kind stranger who offered shelter, a face that smiled with a genuine welcome. For a moment, you’d let yourself believe you might belong. But inevitably, they were ripped from your life, stolen by the same fate that had claimed your family and the old woman who had tried to save you.
Each loss carved a deeper hollow inside you. You learned not to hold on too tightly, not to trust too easily. You stopped searching for "home." Opportunities for a stable life came and went, but you declined them all. A small village offered you work; you smiled politely and walked away. A quiet family tried to pull you into their fold; you vanished before they could learn your name. You refused every invitation to stay, to build, to rest.
Because every time you got close, the weight of what you had lost pressed down heavier, a suffocating reminder of the pain you couldn't bear to feel again.
So you kept moving, your eyes fixed only on the road ahead. No glances back. No lingering. No roots. You became a ghost once more—an echo of a girl who longed for belonging but learned that sometimes, survival meant letting go of everything you ever wanted.
Here you were, years later, but the past still burned fresh in your memory like an unhealed wound. The dim glow of the bar's lanterns flickered over the worn wood of the counter, and the murmur of voices swirled around you like a distant storm. You sat alone, a half-empty glass pressed to your lips, the burn of the alcohol sharp as it slid down your throat, numbing the edges of memories that never quite faded.
You caught the gaze of a few patrons—some curious, some hopeful for conversation—but you declined every invitation with a shake of your head or a tight smile that didn't reach your eyes. Small talk felt like a trap, a thin thread that could unravel the fragile control you'd managed to hold onto.
No names. No questions. No attachments. You weren't here to make friends. You were just passing through, as always, waiting for the moment to slip away unnoticed into the night where the ghosts of your past couldn’t follow.
The door slammed open with a sharp clang, a sound that cut through the low hum of the bar like a blade. You glanced up from your glass, your eyes narrowing just enough to take a quick, careful measure of the new arrivals.
A loud group had entered, their presence shifting the very air of the room. Red hair like fire, laughter like thunder—the Red-Haired Pirates. The Yonko’s crew. Their voices bounced off the walls, a chaotic mix of boisterous jokes and easy camaraderie.
“Oi, Shanks, you really think that plan’s going to work?” one of them asked, smirking as he tossed a mug onto a nearby table.
Shanks, leaning casually against the bar with his signature laid-back grin, simply shrugged with an effortless charm that made it clear he didn't care much for worries. “If it doesn’t, we improvise. We always do.”
Another crewmate laughed, slapping the back of a companion. “That’s our captain—always winging it and somehow coming out on top.”
They argued good-naturedly over something trivial, a bet on a game or a disagreement over who owed a drink, their easy friendship undeniable. You stayed where you were, watching quietly from the corner. The noise didn't reach you. You weren’t part of their world—not yet, and maybe never. The glass in your hand caught the low light, the burn of the alcohol a dull echo beneath the growing storm of memories you carried.
You took a slow breath and turned your gaze back to the shadows, letting them keep your secrets—for now.
As the boisterous laughter and chatter filled the room, Shanks’s eyes suddenly flicked toward you—a quiet, solitary presence tucked away in the shadows, untouched by the noise.
For a moment, everything else in the bar blurred around him. It was as if time slowed, the air thickening with something unspoken, an inexplicable pull that drew his attention entirely to you. He didn't speak, but his gaze held yours with an intensity that made the world shrink to just the two of you.
Then, with a small smile that held both challenge and curiosity, he tapped the edge of the table, a silent signal to his crew that he was slipping away.
Benn Beckmann, standing nearby with his usual calm and skeptical air, caught Shanks’s movement. He scoffed quietly, his eyes drifting back to his drink. "You really think she's going to talk to you?" Benn murmured. "Doesn’t look like the type to let anyone close. Not even you."
Shanks chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That's the point. I'm going to find out anyway."
With that, he rose from the bar, moving toward you with a confidence that left no room for hesitation.
Shanks slid onto the stool beside you, the worn leather creaking softly under his weight. Without waiting for permission, he signaled the bartender and ordered a drink—something simple, strong. Then, he turned to you with that easy, disarming smile.
“Name’s Shanks,” he said quietly, his voice low enough not to draw attention. “And you?”
You didn't answer. You just lifted your glass, finishing the bitter liquid in one slow swallow. The warmth spread through you, but your lips stayed sealed. The moment the glass hit the counter, you pushed yourself up, ready to disappear into the shadows once more.
But before you could move, his right hand—steady and sure—reached out and caught your wrist.
You froze.
It wasn’t a casual touch or a careless brush. It was deliberate, grounding, and utterly foreign. No one had touched you like this in a very long time—not since the old woman's gentle hands, not since the chaos that tore your family apart.
The sudden contact sent a shock through you, tightening every muscle in your body. You stared at his hand holding yours, caught between the instinct to pull away and something deep inside that ached for a connection you had long forgotten. For a long moment, silence hung between you, heavier than any words could be.
His grip was firm yet gentle, careful not to startle you further, though he could feel the tension coiling beneath your skin. You wanted to pull away—oh, how badly you wanted to—but something in his steady presence kept your hand from slipping free. The noise of the bar faded into a distant hum, as if the world had narrowed to just this moment.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your voice broke the silence—soft, hesitant, almost swallowed by the shadows.
“Y/N,” you whispered, the name foreign yet familiar on your tongue.
Shanks’ eyes softened, as if hearing your name was like discovering a secret he’d been searching for. There was no rush in his expression, no expectation—just a genuine warmth that seeped into the cold spaces you’d built around yourself.
“Y/N,” he repeated, savoring the sound, the way it fit you. “It’s a good name.”
You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that someone could see beyond the scars and the silence. His hand still held yours, fingers curling lightly around your wrist, not to trap, but to anchor.
He took a breath, and with that easy charm that disarmed even the most guarded souls, he said, “You don’t have to say anything else. I’m not here to ask for your story, or your pain. Just… to sit with you, if you’ll let me.”
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding louder than it had in years. The weight of your past pressed against your ribs, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like it would crush you. It felt like a bridge—tentative, fragile, but real.
For a moment, the world shifted. The years of running, hiding, and loss seemed to blur at the edges. In Shanks’ calm gaze, you glimpsed something you hadn’t dared hope for—acceptance.
And in that quiet bar, beneath flickering lanterns and the hum of distant voices, something new began to take root. A beginning. And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself stay.
Shanks tightened his grip just a fraction, a subtle sign that he wasn't going anywhere. He glanced at you sideways, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So, Y/N," he said, his voice easy and casual, like he was chatting with an old friend. But his eyes held a spark that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn't felt in years. "What brings you to a place like this?"
You hesitated, the words thick in your throat. You weren't used to talking, not really. But something about Shanks made the silence feel less suffocating.
"Just... passing through," you finally murmured, barely meeting his gaze.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. "That's what everyone says," he teased gently, "but something tells me there's more to it."
Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected teasing. You shifted on the stool, trying to play it cool, but your heart betrayed you—racing, hammering against your ribs like it wanted out. He caught the flush and smiled wider, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something softer, something like hope.
"I'm not usually this forward," Shanks said after a moment, his gaze flicking down to your hand, still resting in his. "But there's something about you, Y/N. You've got a strength that doesn't need to shout to be heard."
You bit your lip, the words catching you off guard. You looked away for a second, the heat creeping higher on your cheeks. "Maybe," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "or maybe I'm just good at pretending."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Pretending is hard work. You don't seem like the type to waste energy."
The conversation flowed easier after that—small stories traded, shy smiles exchanged, the occasional glance lingering a little too long. You found yourself laughing quietly at something Shanks said, the sound foreign but not unwelcome. When his fingers brushed yours, it wasn’t by accident. Your breath caught, and you looked up, meeting his eyes—bright, steady, full of unspoken promises.
For the first time in a long time, your walls started to crack. And Shanks? He was already falling, caught in the gravity of you—this mysterious, guarded soul who had finally let someone in.
Shanks leaned just a little closer, the warmth of his body a quiet comfort against the chill you had carried for so long. His grin deepened, that playful spark lighting up his eyes as if they held a secret you hadn’t yet discovered.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “I don’t usually make a habit of chasing ghosts… but you might be the exception.”
Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing hotter than before. You tried to mask the way your heart sped up, but Shanks caught it all—every flicker of hesitation and hope.
“Oh? And what makes you think I’m a ghost worth chasing?” you shot back, trying to sound more confident than you felt.
He laughed softly, the sound rich and inviting. “Because you’re the only one here who doesn’t seem afraid of disappearing.”
You bit your lip, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I’m just good at hiding.”
“Or maybe,” he teased, his fingers brushing lightly against the back of your hand, “you just haven’t met the right person to make you want to stay.”
Your eyes locked with his, a challenge wrapped in warmth. For a moment, everything else—the pain, the past, the endless running—felt like it could wait.
“So, Shanks,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper, “what makes you want to stay here with me?”
His grin was slow and certain, his gaze never wavering. “Because something tells me this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
The air between you crackled with unspoken promises as the night deepened around the two of you—two souls on the edge of something new, something dangerous and beautiful.
And for once, neither of you wanted to run.
You woke up tangled in Shanks's sheets, the pre-dawn light barely a whisper through the curtains. The warmth of his body was a living thing beside you, a quiet anchor that had kept the frantic rhythm of your heart at bay all night. You thought about staying—you really did. The thought was a soft, dangerous whisper in your mind, a temptation you hadn't known you were capable of feeling.
But his touch was too warm, his presence too grounding. It was a kind of peace you knew you couldn't afford. It was a debt you would have to repay with your life, just like all the others.
So, before the sun could even begin its ascent, you slipped from the bed, the soreness in your muscles a dull echo of the night's intimacy. You moved with a practiced, silent grace, grabbing your bag and pulling on your clothes. As you reached the door and turned the handle, a cold draft hit you, a stark reminder of the world outside.
You stepped into the hallway, a shadow in the silent ship, and were about to turn toward the exit when you came face-to-face with Benn Beckmann.
He stood there, a cigarette hanging from his lips, the faint glow of its cherry a single, burning eye in the darkness. He didn't seem surprised to see you, only curious. He took a slow drag, his gaze sweeping over your dressed form and the bag clutched in your hand.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that didn't betray a hint of judgment, only a keen, watchful intelligence.
Benn Beckmann leaned against the bulkhead, his long frame relaxed but his eyes never leaving yours. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing brighter in the dim light.
You kept your gaze steady, gripping the strap of your bag tight. "I'm just passing through," you said, the words a well-worn shield.
A hint of a smirk touched Benn's lips. "That's what Shanks said you'd say." He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with unspoken meaning. "He’s not the type to get hung up on a ghost. But that’s what you are, isn’t it? A ghost trying to run from herself."
The words hit their mark, stinging more than you'd have expected. "You don't know anything about me," you shot back, your voice a low hiss.
"Maybe not," he conceded, the sound of his low voice resonating in the quiet corridor, "but I know Shanks. I've been with him longer than anyone. I've seen him laugh off a hell of a lot of things. But I haven't seen him look at someone the way he looked at you last night. Not ever."
He took another step, his presence a quiet but undeniable force. "He likes you, Y/N. Genuinely. He saw something in you, something worth stopping for. It's not normal for him. He's always on the move, always looking for the next adventure. But last night...he was looking for you."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the truth of his words. Benn's gaze was steady, unwavering, and entirely too perceptive. He wasn't trying to guilt you. He was simply stating a fact, one that you were desperately trying to outrun.
"The old woman...I heard about what happened," he said softly, and you flinched, the name a raw ache in your memory. "It wasn't your fault. You can't live your life running from a past you didn't create."
His words pierced through the walls you had so carefully constructed. For a moment, the impulse to run was overwhelming, a frantic, desperate need to flee. But then you looked at Benn, at the quiet certainty in his eyes, and the desperation faded, replaced by a fragile, terrifying thought: What if he was right? What if staying was a choice you could finally make?
Benn took a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the sea below. "The captain's a fool, and he's probably already up looking for you," he said, turning and walking away. "But he's a good fool. And maybe, for once, he's found something worth being foolish for."
You stood there, alone in the silent hallway, the weight of his words settling over you. You had a choice to make, a choice you had never been given before. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a dead end.
It was the first time you had ever tried to run and failed. Benn Beckmann's words had been a quiet hook in your heart, an anchor you desperately wanted to cut free. For a long, long minute, you stood frozen in the hallway, the cool sea air a stark contrast to the warmth you had just left. The impulse to flee was a physical ache, a habit of a lifetime. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to disappear.
But for the first time, another voice, small and unfamiliar, whispered back. It was the memory of Shanks’s smile, the gentle pressure of his hand on your wrist, the genuine warmth in his eyes. It was a new, terrifying, and exhilarating kind of fear—the fear of staying versus the old, familiar terror of being caught.
With a shaky breath, you finally turned away from the exit. You didn’t run back to Shanks’s room; you walked. Each step was a conscious choice, a silent battle against years of ingrained instinct. The floorboards didn't creak, but your heart hammered a loud, defiant rhythm in your ears.
You pushed open the door to his cabin and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed, his boots on the floor but his hands resting on his knees. He hadn’t been looking for you; he had been waiting. His face, usually so full of laughter and light, was quiet, contemplative. When he saw you, a slow, gentle smile spread across his face, a look of profound relief and understanding.
He didn't ask where you had been. He didn't ask if you had been trying to leave. He simply reached out a hand, his palm open in an unspoken invitation. It was a silent question: Are you going to stay?
And you, for the first time in your life, found yourself answering yes.
The next time you woke up, it was to the gentle rocking of the ship and the warm, golden light of the morning sun streaming through the porthole. Shanks was still there, but he was no longer sleeping soundly beside you. Instead, he was half-awake, his arms wrapped around you so tightly that you were pressed flush against his chest.
You tried to shift, but he only tightened his grip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. "Don't go yet," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
"It's morning," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "The sun's up."
"So?" he said, burying his face in your hair. "The sun's been up before. It can wait." He kissed the top of your head, a soft, warm press of lips that made your heart do a strange little flutter.
You finally managed to squirm out of his hold, sitting up and stretching your sore muscles. Shanks, however, didn't seem to get the message. He followed you, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.
"You're clingy," you said, a small, genuine smile playing on your lips. The words felt foreign, but they were true. This man, this Yonko, was acting like a giant, affectionate puppy.
"Only for you," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck. He nuzzled your cheek, and you could feel the beginnings of his beard scratching against your skin. "I'm making up for lost time."
You leaned back into his embrace, a feeling of contentment settling over you that was as unfamiliar as it was welcome. For a moment, you just sat there, wrapped in his arms, watching the sun rise fully over the sea. The past was still there, a ghost on the horizon, but for the first time, it didn't feel like it was chasing you. It felt like you were finally running toward something, not away from it.
After you both got dressed—a process that involved Shanks trying to steal a few more hugs—he led you by the hand out of his cabin and onto the main deck. The morning air was fresh and salty, a welcome contrast to the warmth of his room.
As the two of you stepped out, a loud wolf whistle sliced through the air. You flinched, your hand instinctively tightening in Shanks’s. Your eyes immediately went to the source—Lucky Roux, with a drumstick in one hand and a wide, knowing grin on his face.
"Captain finally got himself a keeper!" he boomed, and the rest of the crew erupted into cheers and laughter.
You felt your cheeks burn, your head ducking down as a wave of heat flushed through you. Shanks, however, just laughed, his chest rumbling against your back as he pulled you even closer. "Leave her alone, you guys," he called out, though his grin made it clear he wasn't serious.
He guided you to a spot at the large table where the crew was already eating breakfast. The spread was a feast of meat, fresh bread, and various fruits. As he pulled out a chair for you, he kept a hand on your lower back, a constant, grounding presence that made your skin tingle. You tried to focus on your plate, but the weight of their collective gaze was almost suffocating.
You looked up from your plate and found Benn Beckmann watching you. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, a flicker of a smile on his face. You felt a wave of gratitude for his help last night, the weight of his words still heavy in your heart. You gave him a shy smile in return before glancing down at your plate again.
Before you could take a bite, Shanks’s hand was on your arm, then his chin was resting on your shoulder as he peered at your plate. "You're gonna eat all that? Don't tell me you're a heavy eater, Y/N."
You blushed, swatting at him lightly. "I'm not. I haven't even touched it yet!"
The crew laughed again, a sound that was starting to feel less intimidating and more like the easy-going camaraderie you had witnessed the night before. Shanks just grinned, stealing a piece of bacon from your plate before you could get to it. You pouted, and he laughed again, a hearty, genuine sound that made the rest of the crew cheer.
As he continued to tease and touch you, you couldn't help but notice the way the rest of the crew watched. They were all smiling, a mix of amusement and something else, something warm and genuine. It was a look of approval, a silent welcoming into their fold. It was a look of hope, of seeing their captain, their friend, finally finding something that made him want to stay. And for the first time, you didn't feel like a ghost passing through. You felt like you belonged.
The afternoon bled into evening, and a wild party erupted on the deck. The crew was celebrating something trivial—a successful haul, a good-weather streak, you weren't quite sure. But the noise, the laughter, and the sheer vibrancy of it all were a stark contrast to the quiet spaces you had built for yourself. You felt the familiar ache to be alone, a deep-seated need for silence and shadows. So, you slipped away, making your way toward the ship's edge, your bag already in hand.
You were halfway to the gangplank when a figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking your path. It was Yasopp, his long coat swaying in the sea breeze, a knowing look on his face. He didn't speak at first, just watched you, his gaze as sharp and steady as Benn's had been the night before.
"Where are you going, Y/N?" he asked, his voice low and calm. "Party's just getting started."
You clutched your bag tighter, your knuckles turning white. "I... I'm not good at parties."
Yasopp chuckled softly, a sound that held no malice, only understanding. "No one is, at first. But you get used to it. The captain, though... he's not going to get used to you leaving."
He gestured back toward the party with a tilt of his head. "Look at him. He's already three sheets to the wind, looking for you. He’s going to be a mess if you're not there when he finally notices you're gone."
The thought of Shanks, drunk and searching for you, twisted something in your chest. You hadn’t wanted to hurt him, hadn't wanted to cause him any pain. You just wanted to run, as you always had.
"Come back," Yasopp said, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper. "Just for tonight. See what it's like to have a home that's not just a memory. See what it's like to have people who care about you, even when you try to push them away."
He held out a hand, a silent invitation, and you stared at it, caught between the instinct to flee and the terrifying pull of staying. After a long moment, you finally let go of your bag and took his hand.
When you returned to the party, the first person to spot you was Shanks. His face, flushed with drink, lit up like a lighthouse. He stumbled toward you, wrapping you in a bear hug so tight it stole the air from your lungs.
"There you are!" he slurred happily, his words thick with affection and alcohol. "I was looking for you. Don't ever run away from me."
He kept a possessive arm around your waist for the rest of the night, nuzzling your hair and whispering nonsense into your ear. The crew laughed, but you could see the warmth in their eyes. They had seen you try to leave, and they had seen you come back. They were all in on the secret now—the secret that you were finally, truly, letting yourself stay.
That night, you didn't sleep. Shanks was a warm, heavy weight beside you, his arm slung over your waist even in slumber. You sat up, the dim glow of the ship's lanterns casting long shadows across the walls. Your mind, usually a fortress of guarded silence, was a tumultuous sea of thought.
The word home echoed in your mind. A bitter, foreign word. You had never had a place to associate with it. Your life had been a series of temporary shelters, cold floors, and hurried goodbyes. Home was a concept for other people, a luxury you were not afforded. It was a word that tasted of ash and regret, a ghost that haunted your every step.
And yet, here, in this boisterous, chaotic place, surrounded by people who were loud and unapologetically alive, you felt something dangerously close to it. The easy camaraderie of the crew, the rough but genuine affection of Shanks, the quiet understanding of Benn and Yasopp. This place, this ship, felt like it was beginning to etch itself into the very fabric of your being.
You hated it. You hated how the fear that had been your constant companion for so long was slowly being replaced by a fragile, terrifying hope. You hated how the thought of leaving, of returning to your solitary existence, now felt like a greater pain than staying. You hated how this place, this man, was making you want something you had sworn you would never allow yourself to have.
You couldn't stay.
The certainty of it settled over you like a shroud. You'd leave tomorrow, and this time, you wouldn't hesitate. You wouldn't be caught by Benn's watchful eye or Yasopp's gentle prodding. No one could convince you otherwise. The peace you had tasted was a dangerous illusion, a cruel trick that had already cost you too much. It was a luxury you couldn't afford. You would return to the familiar comfort of solitude, to the life of a ghost, where there was no one to lose, no one to mourn.
The decision made, a hollow peace settled in your heart. You lay back down, letting yourself be enveloped in the warmth of Shanks's embrace. He shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you closer. You turned in his arms, careful not to wake him, and looked at his face in the dim light. The peaceful look on his face, the soft curve of his lips, the way his red hair fell across his brow—it was all a kind of torture.
You lifted a hand, your fingers tracing the faint scar over his eye. Then, leaning in, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw, a silent, final goodbye. The touch was achingly tender, a bittersweet moment of a love you had no right to feel.
He mumbled something in his sleep, a low, contented sound, and his arm tightened its hold. You closed your eyes, letting yourself be held, letting yourself be loved—just for this one last night.
You woke up with the first pale hint of dawn, a few hours of uneasy sleep leaving you feeling more exhausted than rested. Shanks was still fast asleep, his grip on you loose but still there, a warm weight you were loath to leave. But you had to. This was the last morning.
You slipped from his bed and dressed in the dim light, the familiar ache of your impending departure already settling in your heart. You had planned to leave quietly, to be gone before anyone else woke up. But the memory of your mother, a faint, bittersweet ghost, flitted through your mind. You remembered the quiet mornings when she would be the first one up, the scent of her cooking a beacon of warmth in the cold world you had known.
And so, for some reason, you found yourself in the galley. The kitchen was massive and well-stocked, a testament to the crew's hearty appetites. You moved with a purpose you hadn't felt in years, your hands working on instinct. You started with a large pot of fluffy, golden rice, perfectly steamed and seasoned. Then, a sizzling sound filled the air as you fried thin slices of spiced pork, the savory aroma filling the galley. You whipped up a batch of creamy miso soup, the steam rising in delicate curls as you stirred in fresh scallions and soft tofu. The final touch was a delicate tamagoyaki—a rolled omelet, its layers a beautiful, soft yellow, slightly sweet and impossibly light.
The entire galley was filled with the mouth-watering scent of the feast you had created. You had cooked for a small army, a final act of silent gratitude for the home you had almost let yourself have. It was a silent goodbye, a final memory to leave behind for the men who had shown you a glimpse of what it meant to belong. You took one last look at the feast, a bittersweet pang in your heart, and turned to leave.
A few minutes later, the first of the crew stumbled into the galley, drawn by the irresistible smells. It was Lucky Roux, his usual broad smile widening even further as he took in the sight. "Yasopp, you mad genius!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. "Since when can you cook like this?"
But Yasopp, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, was already shaking his head. "That ain't me, you idiot. I can barely boil water without burning it."
Then came Benn Beckmann, his stoic face a mask of surprise as he took in the massive feast. He glanced around the galley, his sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on you, standing by the counter, a faint hint of a blush on your cheeks. The rest of the crew poured in, their sleepy murmurs turning to exclamations of delight and confusion.
The confusion turned to awe as they saw you. You had already arranged several plates, each a perfect miniature of the larger feast, a gesture of silent gratitude. You kept a cool distance, a small, impenetrable island in the sea of their boisterous excitement, as if you were still a ghost haunting their ship.
"Whoa," a younger crewmate whispered, "she can cook!"
Then, the last person to enter the galley was Shanks. He was still in his sleeping clothes, his hair disheveled, a sleepy, goofy smile on his face. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your hair. "There you are," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "I was getting cold."
He took in the sight of the elaborate breakfast, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Y/N, did you… did you make all this?"
You simply nodded, refusing to meet his eyes.
Shanks didn't let go. He kept his arms wrapped around you as he sat at the table, forcing you to sit on his lap. He nuzzled your neck, his lips pressing soft kisses against your skin as he ate from your plate. The crew watched the scene, their initial surprise turning into warm, knowing smiles.
"She's a keeper, Captain," one of them said, and a chorus of agreement followed.
You wanted to push him away. You wanted to get up and run. But with his arms so tightly around you, with the warmth of his body and the silent, unspoken affection of the crew, you found you couldn’t. And as he stole another piece of tamagoyaki from your plate and kissed your cheek, you finally let yourself melt into his embrace. The chill you had carried for so long was finally beginning to thaw.
The galley, which moments before had been a cacophony of cheerful chaos, fell into a collective, contented silence as the crew dug into the breakfast you had prepared. The rich, savory aroma of the spiced pork filled the air, mingling with the delicate sweetness of the tamagoyaki. Lucky Roux, his mouth full, was practically humming with delight.
"This is amazing!" he finally managed to say, his voice muffled by a mouthful of food. "Seriously, I've never had anything this good."
"That rice is perfect," Yasopp added, his eyes wide with surprise. "How'd you get it so fluffy?"
Shanks, still clinging to you, stole a piece of tamagoyaki from your plate and ate it, his eyes closing in pure bliss. "You're a genius, Y/N," he mumbled against your hair, his voice full of genuine awe.
As they all ate, a younger crewmate, his face flushed with admiration, finally worked up the courage to ask a question. "Y/N, where did you learn to cook like this? This is the best meal I've ever had!"
The question, so innocent and simple, made you flinch. The laughter and chatter of the crew faded into a distant hum as a familiar emptiness settled in your heart. You looked at your plate, the food suddenly tasteless in your mouth.
"My mother," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "She taught me."
Shanks, who had been laughing a moment before, fell silent. He felt the subtle shift in your mood, the way your body had gone rigid in his arms. He lifted his head, his gaze searching your face, and saw it—that hollow, haunted look you wore when the ghosts of your past came knocking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a look of profound understanding and sorrow. He didn't ask any more questions. He didn't press for details. He simply squeezed you gently, his presence a silent comfort, a steady anchor against the storm of your memories. The rest of the crew, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, went back to their food, a quiet respect settling over the galley. They didn't need to know the story behind the food. The look on Shanks's face said it all.
The day passed in a quiet blur. You helped clean up breakfast, the routine of it a familiar comfort, but the silence that had followed your admission about your mother was a heavy blanket. Shanks remained a constant, gentle presence, his hand on your back, his gaze on you as if he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away for a second. The crew, too, seemed to give you more space, their boisterous energy muted by an unspoken understanding.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and violet, the ache in your heart intensified. This was the time. The shadows were long and deep, perfect for a ghost to slip away unnoticed.
You packed your small bag, a knot of dread and sorrow tightening in your chest. You couldn't do this again. You couldn't run again. But you had to. It was a choice between a life of crippling fear or a life of inevitable heartbreak.
You crept out of the cabin, your footsteps silent on the worn wood of the deck. The ship was quiet, the rest of the crew asleep or on watch. You made your way to the gangplank, the familiar feeling of freedom a hollow promise. You were just about to step onto the dock when a hand, warm and firm, closed around your wrist.
You froze, the world shrinking to that single point of contact. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The scent of salt and sake, the warmth of his hand, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing—it was all Shanks.
"Please don't," he said, his voice low and raw, a sound that tore through the quiet night. He wasn't demanding, he was pleading, and it broke your heart into a million tiny pieces.
Tears, hot and silent, streamed down your face. "I have to," you whispered, the words a confession of your deepest fear. "I can't stay. I'm... I'm a ghost, Shanks. I don't belong here."
He turned you around, his hand moving from your wrist to cup your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear. His eyes, usually so full of light and laughter, were filled with a bottomless sorrow. "Then let me be your anchor," he said, his voice barely audible. "Let me hold on to you until you're no longer afraid of staying. Let me be your home."
You shook your head, the gesture a desperate attempt to push away the hope his words offered. "You don't understand. Everyone I've ever cared about... they get hurt. They get taken away. I can't let that happen to you. I can't."
He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. "Then let them try," he said, his voice a low growl of defiance. "Let them come. Because I'm not going to let you go. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're not a ghost, Y/N. You're real. And you're here. With me."
You buried your face in his chest, your body wracked with silent sobs. The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, the fierce, protective love in his words—it was all too much. It was a home you had never known you wanted, a love you had sworn you would never allow yourself to feel. And for the first time in your life, you didn't want to run.
You collapsed against his chest, the tears you had held back for so long finally breaking free in a torrent of silent sobs. Shanks held you, his arms a fortress against the world and the ghosts that haunted you. He didn't speak, didn't try to offer empty platitudes. He just held you, his steady presence a solid, unshakeable anchor in the storm of your grief. You cried until there were no more tears left, until the tension that had been a constant companion for years finally began to loosen its grip.
When your sobs finally subsided, he gently pulled back, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. He saw the raw, exposed pain, but he also saw something else—a quiet resolve, a new kind of strength. He took your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and led you back inside.
As you walked down the corridor, you saw them. Benn Beckmann and Yasopp were standing in the shadows, their faces unreadable. They had been waiting, watching, giving you the space to make your own choice. You didn't need to say a word. The sight of you, holding Shanks's hand, was all the answer they needed. Benn gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of a smile on his face. Yasopp simply winked, a silent acknowledgement of your courage.
Shanks led you back to his room, but this time, you didn't feel like you were walking into a temporary shelter. You felt like you were walking home. He pulled you into his arms, and you finally let yourself be held. This time, you didn't have to leave. You had chosen to stay.
—
A few years slipped by, each one a testament to the fact that you hadn't run. The Red-Haired Pirates' ship, once a temporary refuge, had become your home. The galley, in particular, was your domain. It was where you stood now, a gentle warmth emanating from the stew simmering on the stove.
A familiar warmth pressed against your back as Shanks's arms wrapped around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder. The solid weight of him was a comfort you had come to crave, a constant presence that had chased away the last of your ghosts. He kissed your neck, a soft, content sigh escaping his lips. You didn't flinch or pull away. Instead, you leaned back into his embrace, your hands moving confidently as you stirred the pot.
Your attention was divided between the meal and the crew. You were half-listening to Yasopp and Lucky Roux bickering good-naturedly over a game of cards, and you were fully focused on a younger crewmate who had just stumbled in, a bandage wrapped clumsily around his hand.
"Here," you said, your voice soft but firm as you took his hand. "Let me see that." You began to rewrap the bandage with practiced ease, your fingers steady and gentle.
Shanks, ever the affectionate nuisance, tightened his grip on your waist. He trailed a line of soft kisses from your shoulder up to your ear, his breath a warm whisper against your skin. "You're a mom now, Y/N," he murmured playfully, a hint of pride in his voice.
You just rolled your eyes, a small smile on your lips. "Someone has to be," you quipped, still focused on the task at hand.
As you finished rewrapping the young pirate's hand, your gaze fell on your own. There, on your left ring finger, was a simple, silver band. It was a perfect match to the one you had noticed on Shanks's hand, the one his fingers absently toyed with as he held you close. They were silent promises, a symbol of the life you had chosen, of the home you had found.
The young pirate thanked you and scampered off. Shanks, left with your undivided attention, nuzzled your neck again. "Just so you know," he whispered, his voice low and teasing, "you're all I ever need."
You laughed, a sound that was finally full and genuine, and turned in his arms to face him, your own hand coming up to cup his cheek. The years of running, the pain, the loss—it hadn't disappeared, but it was no longer a shadow that haunted you. It was a part of you, a part of the person who had found a home, a love, and a family in the most unexpected of places.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Warnings: mature themes, violence, trauma, alcohol use, fem reader.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ A/N: this mayyy not have been what you wanted but i really liked it:)
For as long as you can remember, your life has been a relentless series of goodbyes. Staying was a luxury you were never afforded, a concept as foreign as a permanent address. Your existence was measured not in years or milestones, but in the frantic cadence of departures—the slamming of a car door, the hiss of a bus, the lonely whistle of a train pulling away from a station. Home wasn’t a place with four walls and a soft bed; it was the space between here and there, the blur of a landscape rushing past a window.
Your earliest memories are a collage of panicked whispers and the constant, low hum of fear. Your mother’s hands, always trembling, fumbled with your coat, a silent, frantic preparation for another escape. Your father’s voice was a shifting thing—sometimes a low, dangerous rumble, sometimes a desperate plea—but it was always the signal to go. You learned to read the signs long before you understood the words. A sudden silence in the next room, a new car parked across the street, a knock at the door that sounded too loud. These were the catalysts, the grim harbingers of another flight into the unknown.
You learned to leave pieces of yourself behind. Roots were for other people, for those who had the luxury of permanence. While other children were learning to ride bikes and carve their initials into trees, you were learning to pack a bag in under five minutes, to memorize a map of a city you'd be gone from by morning, and to read the unspoken language of your parents’ fear. You stopped asking why you couldn't stay. You stopped hoping for a place to truly belong.
Sometimes, in the brief lulls between departures, you’d taste the fleeting sweetness of a normal life. A kind librarian who remembered your name, a teacher who praised your quick mind, the brief, uncomplicated friendship with a kid who lived just down the street. For a moment, you'd let yourself believe, let a fragile hope unfurl in your chest. But that feeling was always shattered—by a hushed argument in the dead of night, by a strange face glimpsed in a passing car, by the ever-present feeling of being watched. Every departure felt like a part of you was being ripped away, but you told yourself it was a necessary cruelty. Better to tear yourself away than wait for the world to do it for you.
Even now, a part of you remains in perpetual motion. Your bags are always half-packed, your senses are always heightened, ready to pivot and run at a moment's notice. You've built your walls high, keeping people at a comfortable distance, a safe remove from the inevitable goodbye. You tell yourself this is strength, a testament to your survival. But in the quiet moments, a different truth surfaces. The endless running has left you without a foundation, without a true anchor. You've never learned to stay, and in the deepest, most guarded part of your heart, you're terrified you never will.
It was the sound that came first, an abrupt rupture of the quiet that had always been your most crucial defense. The high, keening wail of your baby sister, a sound of pure terror that sliced through the thin walls of your home and echoed in the small space where you huddled. Then came your mother’s voice, a broken litany of pleas and bargains, a desperate, final prayer that was cut short, choked into a terrible silence. The heavy sound of her breathing slowing, then stopping. Your father's rage followed, a guttural roar that twisted into a wet, choking gurgle before it, too, fell silent. The people your parents had been running from had finally caught up.
You had been told to stay hidden, to be as still and silent as the grave. But your body, a traitor to the command, trembled violently, making the floorboards beneath you groan with a sound that felt as loud as thunder. And then the closet door was wrenched open, revealing a man who smelled of smoke and cold iron.
He gripped your arm like a vice, his fingers digging into your skin as he dragged you out into the terrible light. The room was a scene you wished you could unsee: your parents, still and silent, their lifeblood a darkening stain on the floor, your sister’s small, lifeless body cradled in your mother’s arms. You fought with the ferocity of a trapped animal, clawing and kicking and biting at his hand until his other hand went for the gun at his belt.
The crack of the shot was deafening, a brutal punctuation mark on the silence. For a second, you felt nothing but the shock of the sound, and then came the fire. A white-hot, searing pain in your neck, as if a branding iron had been pressed against your skin. The bullet had missed your throat, but only just, tearing a ragged, gaping wound in the side of your neck.
Blood, hot and thick, gushed from the wound, pouring in a steady stream down your collarbone and soaking the front of your shirt. With each beat of your heart, more of it pulsed out, a tide of warmth that chilled almost instantly. You pressed your palm against the wound, fingers slick with the coppery-smelling liquid, trying to staunch the flow. You couldn’t stop it, but you slowed it, the blood still pulsing stubbornly through the gaps between your fingers.
And when he let go, a cruel certainty in his eyes that you would simply drop, you ran. You ran without looking back, without knowing where you were going. You ran until the pain in your neck was a distant throb, a faint echo of the terror, and the frantic pounding of your heart was the only sound left in the night.
You sprinted through the unfamiliar streets, a ghost in the night. The town you had just begun to map in your mind became a distorted blur—the shops, the crooked lampposts, the faces glimpsed through windows—all rushing past as your body pushed itself to its absolute limit. The blood on your neck was a searing, constant reminder of your recent past. Each frantic step sent a fresh jolt of pain through the wound, the sticky warmth of your own life force seeping into your collar. But you couldn't stop. You were a phantom, weaving through the shadows, desperate to become invisible.
When you finally reached the edge of town, your lungs burned and your vision swam with exhaustion. The silence you craved was an illusion, replaced by the distant barking of dogs and the muffled sounds of a town settling for the night. You pushed forward, ignoring the dizzying spin in your head and the trembling in your legs. You had to keep going.
Then, you saw her.
An old woman stood in her doorway, her gaze sharp and unwavering beneath a crown of silver hair. She didn't flinch or look away when her eyes fell on you. Instead, she stepped forward with a cautious urgency, her eyes locking onto the crimson trail staining your neck. The shock that crossed her face was quickly veiled by a deep concern.
"Child," she said, her voice a soft, steady tremble, "come inside. You're hurt."
Your instinct screamed at you to run, to keep moving, to not trust this fragile offer of safety. But your body betrayed you once more. Your legs faltered, and a cold weakness seeped deep into your bones. The weight of her gaze, somehow, was the only thing holding you up. You could only nod, your voice caught in your throat, and let her guide you across the threshold, into the dim, warm light of her home. It was a fragile, uncertain safety, but for the first time in your life, you stopped running.
Inside the small, cluttered cottage, the old woman guided you to a worn wooden chair by the hearth. The flickering flames of a low-burning fire cast dancing, warm shadows across the room, illuminating shelves crowded with dried herbs, dusty books, and faded photographs. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something sweet, like old flowers.
Without a word, she retrieved a basin of cool water and a clean, faded cloth. She gently pressed the cool compress to your neck. A sharp, but soothing, sting cut through the burning heat of the wound, and you flinched. The old woman only hummed softly, a low, melodic sound that seemed to chase the pain away.
Her hands, though lined with age, were steady and sure. She worked slowly, cleaning the wound, blotting away the dark, sticky blood. When she finally pulled down the collar of your shirt, revealing the raw, torn skin, her eyes softened with a mix of sorrow and fierce resolve.
"You're lucky, child," she murmured, her voice low but firm. "This could've been so much worse."
You remained silent, unable to trust your voice. The raw ache in your neck made every breath shallow. The old woman then went to a wooden shelf, returning with a small, amber jar. She carefully applied a thick, sweet-smelling salve to the wound, her fingers cool and gentle against your skin.
As she wrapped a faded scarf around your neck, her eyes met yours. They were steady and unyielding. "You're safe here. For now."
The words settled deep into your bones, a weight you had long forgotten the feel of. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the constant, frantic urge to run quieted. It was enough to allow a flicker of something you thought was long gone to stir within you: a fragile, uncertain hope.
You stayed in the small cottage for a week, each day a fragile, quiet sanctuary. The old woman's care was a gentle but firm presence, a steady flame in the darkness that had haunted you for so long. She spoke little, but her words, when they came, were like a soft blanket, wrapping around you and grounding you in a way that felt almost dangerous. You began to trust the quiet between her words and the confident rhythm of her hands as she tended to your wound. The constant knot of fear in your chest began to loosen, replaced by a fragile thread of peace.
But peace, you learned, was a lie.
It was in the dead of night, long after the fire had burned down to embers, that they came. The same men who had shattered your family and chased you into exile had finally tracked you down. You pressed yourself against the cold floor in the back room, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, terrified it would betray your hiding place. Through the thin walls, you heard their low, cruel voices, a guttural sound laced with the satisfaction of hunters who had finally cornered their prey.
Then came the screams.
The old woman’s voice, sharp and desperate, cut through the suffocating darkness like a blade. You pressed your hands to your ears, but you couldn't block out the sound of her final breaths seeping through the walls. They had found her. They had taken her life to get to you.
But they didn't find you.
When the silence returned, thick and heavy, you waited, frozen in place until their footsteps faded, retreating into the night. You didn’t move for hours, afraid that any sound might summon them back.
As the first sliver of dawn bled through the cracks in the walls, you slipped from your hiding place. Your eyes were hollow, and your heart was heavier than it had ever been. The cottage, once a fragile refuge, was now a tomb of memories and loss. With a cold and terrible certainty, you knew then that this was the world you belonged to—a world where staying meant dying, and running was the only choice you had left.
For years after that night, you ran. You moved from town to town, a relentless chase toward the horizon, always just a few steps ahead of the shadows that pursued you. Every time you dared to imagine a place to rest, to build something fragile and real, it shattered—broken by loss, by fear, by the relentless weight of a world that didn't want you to stay.
Sometimes you found people, brief flashes of warmth in a cold existence. A kind stranger who offered shelter, a face that smiled with a genuine welcome. For a moment, you’d let yourself believe you might belong. But inevitably, they were ripped from your life, stolen by the same fate that had claimed your family and the old woman who had tried to save you.
Each loss carved a deeper hollow inside you. You learned not to hold on too tightly, not to trust too easily. You stopped searching for "home." Opportunities for a stable life came and went, but you declined them all. A small village offered you work; you smiled politely and walked away. A quiet family tried to pull you into their fold; you vanished before they could learn your name. You refused every invitation to stay, to build, to rest.
Because every time you got close, the weight of what you had lost pressed down heavier, a suffocating reminder of the pain you couldn't bear to feel again.
So you kept moving, your eyes fixed only on the road ahead. No glances back. No lingering. No roots. You became a ghost once more—an echo of a girl who longed for belonging but learned that sometimes, survival meant letting go of everything you ever wanted.
Here you were, years later, but the past still burned fresh in your memory like an unhealed wound. The dim glow of the bar's lanterns flickered over the worn wood of the counter, and the murmur of voices swirled around you like a distant storm. You sat alone, a half-empty glass pressed to your lips, the burn of the alcohol sharp as it slid down your throat, numbing the edges of memories that never quite faded.
You caught the gaze of a few patrons—some curious, some hopeful for conversation—but you declined every invitation with a shake of your head or a tight smile that didn't reach your eyes. Small talk felt like a trap, a thin thread that could unravel the fragile control you'd managed to hold onto.
No names. No questions. No attachments. You weren't here to make friends. You were just passing through, as always, waiting for the moment to slip away unnoticed into the night where the ghosts of your past couldn’t follow.
The door slammed open with a sharp clang, a sound that cut through the low hum of the bar like a blade. You glanced up from your glass, your eyes narrowing just enough to take a quick, careful measure of the new arrivals.
A loud group had entered, their presence shifting the very air of the room. Red hair like fire, laughter like thunder—the Red-Haired Pirates. The Yonko’s crew. Their voices bounced off the walls, a chaotic mix of boisterous jokes and easy camaraderie.
“Oi, Shanks, you really think that plan’s going to work?” one of them asked, smirking as he tossed a mug onto a nearby table.
Shanks, leaning casually against the bar with his signature laid-back grin, simply shrugged with an effortless charm that made it clear he didn't care much for worries. “If it doesn’t, we improvise. We always do.”
Another crewmate laughed, slapping the back of a companion. “That’s our captain—always winging it and somehow coming out on top.”
They argued good-naturedly over something trivial, a bet on a game or a disagreement over who owed a drink, their easy friendship undeniable. You stayed where you were, watching quietly from the corner. The noise didn't reach you. You weren’t part of their world—not yet, and maybe never. The glass in your hand caught the low light, the burn of the alcohol a dull echo beneath the growing storm of memories you carried.
You took a slow breath and turned your gaze back to the shadows, letting them keep your secrets—for now.
As the boisterous laughter and chatter filled the room, Shanks’s eyes suddenly flicked toward you—a quiet, solitary presence tucked away in the shadows, untouched by the noise.
For a moment, everything else in the bar blurred around him. It was as if time slowed, the air thickening with something unspoken, an inexplicable pull that drew his attention entirely to you. He didn't speak, but his gaze held yours with an intensity that made the world shrink to just the two of you.
Then, with a small smile that held both challenge and curiosity, he tapped the edge of the table, a silent signal to his crew that he was slipping away.
Benn Beckmann, standing nearby with his usual calm and skeptical air, caught Shanks’s movement. He scoffed quietly, his eyes drifting back to his drink. "You really think she's going to talk to you?" Benn murmured. "Doesn’t look like the type to let anyone close. Not even you."
Shanks chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That's the point. I'm going to find out anyway."
With that, he rose from the bar, moving toward you with a confidence that left no room for hesitation.
Shanks slid onto the stool beside you, the worn leather creaking softly under his weight. Without waiting for permission, he signaled the bartender and ordered a drink—something simple, strong. Then, he turned to you with that easy, disarming smile.
“Name’s Shanks,” he said quietly, his voice low enough not to draw attention. “And you?”
You didn't answer. You just lifted your glass, finishing the bitter liquid in one slow swallow. The warmth spread through you, but your lips stayed sealed. The moment the glass hit the counter, you pushed yourself up, ready to disappear into the shadows once more.
But before you could move, his right hand—steady and sure—reached out and caught your wrist.
You froze.
It wasn’t a casual touch or a careless brush. It was deliberate, grounding, and utterly foreign. No one had touched you like this in a very long time—not since the old woman's gentle hands, not since the chaos that tore your family apart.
The sudden contact sent a shock through you, tightening every muscle in your body. You stared at his hand holding yours, caught between the instinct to pull away and something deep inside that ached for a connection you had long forgotten. For a long moment, silence hung between you, heavier than any words could be.
His grip was firm yet gentle, careful not to startle you further, though he could feel the tension coiling beneath your skin. You wanted to pull away—oh, how badly you wanted to—but something in his steady presence kept your hand from slipping free. The noise of the bar faded into a distant hum, as if the world had narrowed to just this moment.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your voice broke the silence—soft, hesitant, almost swallowed by the shadows.
“Y/N,” you whispered, the name foreign yet familiar on your tongue.
Shanks’ eyes softened, as if hearing your name was like discovering a secret he’d been searching for. There was no rush in his expression, no expectation—just a genuine warmth that seeped into the cold spaces you’d built around yourself.
“Y/N,” he repeated, savoring the sound, the way it fit you. “It’s a good name.”
You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that someone could see beyond the scars and the silence. His hand still held yours, fingers curling lightly around your wrist, not to trap, but to anchor.
He took a breath, and with that easy charm that disarmed even the most guarded souls, he said, “You don’t have to say anything else. I’m not here to ask for your story, or your pain. Just… to sit with you, if you’ll let me.”
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding louder than it had in years. The weight of your past pressed against your ribs, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like it would crush you. It felt like a bridge—tentative, fragile, but real.
For a moment, the world shifted. The years of running, hiding, and loss seemed to blur at the edges. In Shanks’ calm gaze, you glimpsed something you hadn’t dared hope for—acceptance.
And in that quiet bar, beneath flickering lanterns and the hum of distant voices, something new began to take root. A beginning. And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself stay.
Shanks tightened his grip just a fraction, a subtle sign that he wasn't going anywhere. He glanced at you sideways, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So, Y/N," he said, his voice easy and casual, like he was chatting with an old friend. But his eyes held a spark that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn't felt in years. "What brings you to a place like this?"
You hesitated, the words thick in your throat. You weren't used to talking, not really. But something about Shanks made the silence feel less suffocating.
"Just... passing through," you finally murmured, barely meeting his gaze.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. "That's what everyone says," he teased gently, "but something tells me there's more to it."
Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected teasing. You shifted on the stool, trying to play it cool, but your heart betrayed you—racing, hammering against your ribs like it wanted out. He caught the flush and smiled wider, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something softer, something like hope.
"I'm not usually this forward," Shanks said after a moment, his gaze flicking down to your hand, still resting in his. "But there's something about you, Y/N. You've got a strength that doesn't need to shout to be heard."
You bit your lip, the words catching you off guard. You looked away for a second, the heat creeping higher on your cheeks. "Maybe," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "or maybe I'm just good at pretending."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Pretending is hard work. You don't seem like the type to waste energy."
The conversation flowed easier after that—small stories traded, shy smiles exchanged, the occasional glance lingering a little too long. You found yourself laughing quietly at something Shanks said, the sound foreign but not unwelcome. When his fingers brushed yours, it wasn’t by accident. Your breath caught, and you looked up, meeting his eyes—bright, steady, full of unspoken promises.
For the first time in a long time, your walls started to crack. And Shanks? He was already falling, caught in the gravity of you—this mysterious, guarded soul who had finally let someone in.
Shanks leaned just a little closer, the warmth of his body a quiet comfort against the chill you had carried for so long. His grin deepened, that playful spark lighting up his eyes as if they held a secret you hadn’t yet discovered.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “I don’t usually make a habit of chasing ghosts… but you might be the exception.”
Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing hotter than before. You tried to mask the way your heart sped up, but Shanks caught it all—every flicker of hesitation and hope.
“Oh? And what makes you think I’m a ghost worth chasing?” you shot back, trying to sound more confident than you felt.
He laughed softly, the sound rich and inviting. “Because you’re the only one here who doesn’t seem afraid of disappearing.”
You bit your lip, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I’m just good at hiding.”
“Or maybe,” he teased, his fingers brushing lightly against the back of your hand, “you just haven’t met the right person to make you want to stay.”
Your eyes locked with his, a challenge wrapped in warmth. For a moment, everything else—the pain, the past, the endless running—felt like it could wait.
“So, Shanks,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper, “what makes you want to stay here with me?”
His grin was slow and certain, his gaze never wavering. “Because something tells me this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
The air between you crackled with unspoken promises as the night deepened around the two of you—two souls on the edge of something new, something dangerous and beautiful.
And for once, neither of you wanted to run.
You woke up tangled in Shanks's sheets, the pre-dawn light barely a whisper through the curtains. The warmth of his body was a living thing beside you, a quiet anchor that had kept the frantic rhythm of your heart at bay all night. You thought about staying—you really did. The thought was a soft, dangerous whisper in your mind, a temptation you hadn't known you were capable of feeling.
But his touch was too warm, his presence too grounding. It was a kind of peace you knew you couldn't afford. It was a debt you would have to repay with your life, just like all the others.
So, before the sun could even begin its ascent, you slipped from the bed, the soreness in your muscles a dull echo of the night's intimacy. You moved with a practiced, silent grace, grabbing your bag and pulling on your clothes. As you reached the door and turned the handle, a cold draft hit you, a stark reminder of the world outside.
You stepped into the hallway, a shadow in the silent ship, and were about to turn toward the exit when you came face-to-face with Benn Beckmann.
He stood there, a cigarette hanging from his lips, the faint glow of its cherry a single, burning eye in the darkness. He didn't seem surprised to see you, only curious. He took a slow drag, his gaze sweeping over your dressed form and the bag clutched in your hand.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that didn't betray a hint of judgment, only a keen, watchful intelligence.
Benn Beckmann leaned against the bulkhead, his long frame relaxed but his eyes never leaving yours. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing brighter in the dim light.
You kept your gaze steady, gripping the strap of your bag tight. "I'm just passing through," you said, the words a well-worn shield.
A hint of a smirk touched Benn's lips. "That's what Shanks said you'd say." He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with unspoken meaning. "He’s not the type to get hung up on a ghost. But that’s what you are, isn’t it? A ghost trying to run from herself."
The words hit their mark, stinging more than you'd have expected. "You don't know anything about me," you shot back, your voice a low hiss.
"Maybe not," he conceded, the sound of his low voice resonating in the quiet corridor, "but I know Shanks. I've been with him longer than anyone. I've seen him laugh off a hell of a lot of things. But I haven't seen him look at someone the way he looked at you last night. Not ever."
He took another step, his presence a quiet but undeniable force. "He likes you, Y/N. Genuinely. He saw something in you, something worth stopping for. It's not normal for him. He's always on the move, always looking for the next adventure. But last night...he was looking for you."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the truth of his words. Benn's gaze was steady, unwavering, and entirely too perceptive. He wasn't trying to guilt you. He was simply stating a fact, one that you were desperately trying to outrun.
"The old woman...I heard about what happened," he said softly, and you flinched, the name a raw ache in your memory. "It wasn't your fault. You can't live your life running from a past you didn't create."
His words pierced through the walls you had so carefully constructed. For a moment, the impulse to run was overwhelming, a frantic, desperate need to flee. But then you looked at Benn, at the quiet certainty in his eyes, and the desperation faded, replaced by a fragile, terrifying thought: What if he was right? What if staying was a choice you could finally make?
Benn took a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the sea below. "The captain's a fool, and he's probably already up looking for you," he said, turning and walking away. "But he's a good fool. And maybe, for once, he's found something worth being foolish for."
You stood there, alone in the silent hallway, the weight of his words settling over you. You had a choice to make, a choice you had never been given before. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a dead end.
It was the first time you had ever tried to run and failed. Benn Beckmann's words had been a quiet hook in your heart, an anchor you desperately wanted to cut free. For a long, long minute, you stood frozen in the hallway, the cool sea air a stark contrast to the warmth you had just left. The impulse to flee was a physical ache, a habit of a lifetime. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to disappear.
But for the first time, another voice, small and unfamiliar, whispered back. It was the memory of Shanks’s smile, the gentle pressure of his hand on your wrist, the genuine warmth in his eyes. It was a new, terrifying, and exhilarating kind of fear—the fear of staying versus the old, familiar terror of being caught.
With a shaky breath, you finally turned away from the exit. You didn’t run back to Shanks’s room; you walked. Each step was a conscious choice, a silent battle against years of ingrained instinct. The floorboards didn't creak, but your heart hammered a loud, defiant rhythm in your ears.
You pushed open the door to his cabin and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed, his boots on the floor but his hands resting on his knees. He hadn’t been looking for you; he had been waiting. His face, usually so full of laughter and light, was quiet, contemplative. When he saw you, a slow, gentle smile spread across his face, a look of profound relief and understanding.
He didn't ask where you had been. He didn't ask if you had been trying to leave. He simply reached out a hand, his palm open in an unspoken invitation. It was a silent question: Are you going to stay?
And you, for the first time in your life, found yourself answering yes.
The next time you woke up, it was to the gentle rocking of the ship and the warm, golden light of the morning sun streaming through the porthole. Shanks was still there, but he was no longer sleeping soundly beside you. Instead, he was half-awake, his arms wrapped around you so tightly that you were pressed flush against his chest.
You tried to shift, but he only tightened his grip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. "Don't go yet," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
"It's morning," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "The sun's up."
"So?" he said, burying his face in your hair. "The sun's been up before. It can wait." He kissed the top of your head, a soft, warm press of lips that made your heart do a strange little flutter.
You finally managed to squirm out of his hold, sitting up and stretching your sore muscles. Shanks, however, didn't seem to get the message. He followed you, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.
"You're clingy," you said, a small, genuine smile playing on your lips. The words felt foreign, but they were true. This man, this Yonko, was acting like a giant, affectionate puppy.
"Only for you," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck. He nuzzled your cheek, and you could feel the beginnings of his beard scratching against your skin. "I'm making up for lost time."
You leaned back into his embrace, a feeling of contentment settling over you that was as unfamiliar as it was welcome. For a moment, you just sat there, wrapped in his arms, watching the sun rise fully over the sea. The past was still there, a ghost on the horizon, but for the first time, it didn't feel like it was chasing you. It felt like you were finally running toward something, not away from it.
After you both got dressed—a process that involved Shanks trying to steal a few more hugs—he led you by the hand out of his cabin and onto the main deck. The morning air was fresh and salty, a welcome contrast to the warmth of his room.
As the two of you stepped out, a loud wolf whistle sliced through the air. You flinched, your hand instinctively tightening in Shanks’s. Your eyes immediately went to the source—Lucky Roux, with a drumstick in one hand and a wide, knowing grin on his face.
"Captain finally got himself a keeper!" he boomed, and the rest of the crew erupted into cheers and laughter.
You felt your cheeks burn, your head ducking down as a wave of heat flushed through you. Shanks, however, just laughed, his chest rumbling against your back as he pulled you even closer. "Leave her alone, you guys," he called out, though his grin made it clear he wasn't serious.
He guided you to a spot at the large table where the crew was already eating breakfast. The spread was a feast of meat, fresh bread, and various fruits. As he pulled out a chair for you, he kept a hand on your lower back, a constant, grounding presence that made your skin tingle. You tried to focus on your plate, but the weight of their collective gaze was almost suffocating.
You looked up from your plate and found Benn Beckmann watching you. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, a flicker of a smile on his face. You felt a wave of gratitude for his help last night, the weight of his words still heavy in your heart. You gave him a shy smile in return before glancing down at your plate again.
Before you could take a bite, Shanks’s hand was on your arm, then his chin was resting on your shoulder as he peered at your plate. "You're gonna eat all that? Don't tell me you're a heavy eater, Y/N."
You blushed, swatting at him lightly. "I'm not. I haven't even touched it yet!"
The crew laughed again, a sound that was starting to feel less intimidating and more like the easy-going camaraderie you had witnessed the night before. Shanks just grinned, stealing a piece of bacon from your plate before you could get to it. You pouted, and he laughed again, a hearty, genuine sound that made the rest of the crew cheer.
As he continued to tease and touch you, you couldn't help but notice the way the rest of the crew watched. They were all smiling, a mix of amusement and something else, something warm and genuine. It was a look of approval, a silent welcoming into their fold. It was a look of hope, of seeing their captain, their friend, finally finding something that made him want to stay. And for the first time, you didn't feel like a ghost passing through. You felt like you belonged.
The afternoon bled into evening, and a wild party erupted on the deck. The crew was celebrating something trivial—a successful haul, a good-weather streak, you weren't quite sure. But the noise, the laughter, and the sheer vibrancy of it all were a stark contrast to the quiet spaces you had built for yourself. You felt the familiar ache to be alone, a deep-seated need for silence and shadows. So, you slipped away, making your way toward the ship's edge, your bag already in hand.
You were halfway to the gangplank when a figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking your path. It was Yasopp, his long coat swaying in the sea breeze, a knowing look on his face. He didn't speak at first, just watched you, his gaze as sharp and steady as Benn's had been the night before.
"Where are you going, Y/N?" he asked, his voice low and calm. "Party's just getting started."
You clutched your bag tighter, your knuckles turning white. "I... I'm not good at parties."
Yasopp chuckled softly, a sound that held no malice, only understanding. "No one is, at first. But you get used to it. The captain, though... he's not going to get used to you leaving."
He gestured back toward the party with a tilt of his head. "Look at him. He's already three sheets to the wind, looking for you. He’s going to be a mess if you're not there when he finally notices you're gone."
The thought of Shanks, drunk and searching for you, twisted something in your chest. You hadn’t wanted to hurt him, hadn't wanted to cause him any pain. You just wanted to run, as you always had.
"Come back," Yasopp said, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper. "Just for tonight. See what it's like to have a home that's not just a memory. See what it's like to have people who care about you, even when you try to push them away."
He held out a hand, a silent invitation, and you stared at it, caught between the instinct to flee and the terrifying pull of staying. After a long moment, you finally let go of your bag and took his hand.
When you returned to the party, the first person to spot you was Shanks. His face, flushed with drink, lit up like a lighthouse. He stumbled toward you, wrapping you in a bear hug so tight it stole the air from your lungs.
"There you are!" he slurred happily, his words thick with affection and alcohol. "I was looking for you. Don't ever run away from me."
He kept a possessive arm around your waist for the rest of the night, nuzzling your hair and whispering nonsense into your ear. The crew laughed, but you could see the warmth in their eyes. They had seen you try to leave, and they had seen you come back. They were all in on the secret now—the secret that you were finally, truly, letting yourself stay.
That night, you didn't sleep. Shanks was a warm, heavy weight beside you, his arm slung over your waist even in slumber. You sat up, the dim glow of the ship's lanterns casting long shadows across the walls. Your mind, usually a fortress of guarded silence, was a tumultuous sea of thought.
The word home echoed in your mind. A bitter, foreign word. You had never had a place to associate with it. Your life had been a series of temporary shelters, cold floors, and hurried goodbyes. Home was a concept for other people, a luxury you were not afforded. It was a word that tasted of ash and regret, a ghost that haunted your every step.
And yet, here, in this boisterous, chaotic place, surrounded by people who were loud and unapologetically alive, you felt something dangerously close to it. The easy camaraderie of the crew, the rough but genuine affection of Shanks, the quiet understanding of Benn and Yasopp. This place, this ship, felt like it was beginning to etch itself into the very fabric of your being.
You hated it. You hated how the fear that had been your constant companion for so long was slowly being replaced by a fragile, terrifying hope. You hated how the thought of leaving, of returning to your solitary existence, now felt like a greater pain than staying. You hated how this place, this man, was making you want something you had sworn you would never allow yourself to have.
You couldn't stay.
The certainty of it settled over you like a shroud. You'd leave tomorrow, and this time, you wouldn't hesitate. You wouldn't be caught by Benn's watchful eye or Yasopp's gentle prodding. No one could convince you otherwise. The peace you had tasted was a dangerous illusion, a cruel trick that had already cost you too much. It was a luxury you couldn't afford. You would return to the familiar comfort of solitude, to the life of a ghost, where there was no one to lose, no one to mourn.
The decision made, a hollow peace settled in your heart. You lay back down, letting yourself be enveloped in the warmth of Shanks's embrace. He shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you closer. You turned in his arms, careful not to wake him, and looked at his face in the dim light. The peaceful look on his face, the soft curve of his lips, the way his red hair fell across his brow—it was all a kind of torture.
You lifted a hand, your fingers tracing the faint scar over his eye. Then, leaning in, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw, a silent, final goodbye. The touch was achingly tender, a bittersweet moment of a love you had no right to feel.
He mumbled something in his sleep, a low, contented sound, and his arm tightened its hold. You closed your eyes, letting yourself be held, letting yourself be loved—just for this one last night.
You woke up with the first pale hint of dawn, a few hours of uneasy sleep leaving you feeling more exhausted than rested. Shanks was still fast asleep, his grip on you loose but still there, a warm weight you were loath to leave. But you had to. This was the last morning.
You slipped from his bed and dressed in the dim light, the familiar ache of your impending departure already settling in your heart. You had planned to leave quietly, to be gone before anyone else woke up. But the memory of your mother, a faint, bittersweet ghost, flitted through your mind. You remembered the quiet mornings when she would be the first one up, the scent of her cooking a beacon of warmth in the cold world you had known.
And so, for some reason, you found yourself in the galley. The kitchen was massive and well-stocked, a testament to the crew's hearty appetites. You moved with a purpose you hadn't felt in years, your hands working on instinct. You started with a large pot of fluffy, golden rice, perfectly steamed and seasoned. Then, a sizzling sound filled the air as you fried thin slices of spiced pork, the savory aroma filling the galley. You whipped up a batch of creamy miso soup, the steam rising in delicate curls as you stirred in fresh scallions and soft tofu. The final touch was a delicate tamagoyaki—a rolled omelet, its layers a beautiful, soft yellow, slightly sweet and impossibly light.
The entire galley was filled with the mouth-watering scent of the feast you had created. You had cooked for a small army, a final act of silent gratitude for the home you had almost let yourself have. It was a silent goodbye, a final memory to leave behind for the men who had shown you a glimpse of what it meant to belong. You took one last look at the feast, a bittersweet pang in your heart, and turned to leave.
A few minutes later, the first of the crew stumbled into the galley, drawn by the irresistible smells. It was Lucky Roux, his usual broad smile widening even further as he took in the sight. "Yasopp, you mad genius!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. "Since when can you cook like this?"
But Yasopp, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, was already shaking his head. "That ain't me, you idiot. I can barely boil water without burning it."
Then came Benn Beckmann, his stoic face a mask of surprise as he took in the massive feast. He glanced around the galley, his sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on you, standing by the counter, a faint hint of a blush on your cheeks. The rest of the crew poured in, their sleepy murmurs turning to exclamations of delight and confusion.
The confusion turned to awe as they saw you. You had already arranged several plates, each a perfect miniature of the larger feast, a gesture of silent gratitude. You kept a cool distance, a small, impenetrable island in the sea of their boisterous excitement, as if you were still a ghost haunting their ship.
"Whoa," a younger crewmate whispered, "she can cook!"
Then, the last person to enter the galley was Shanks. He was still in his sleeping clothes, his hair disheveled, a sleepy, goofy smile on his face. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your hair. "There you are," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "I was getting cold."
He took in the sight of the elaborate breakfast, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Y/N, did you… did you make all this?"
You simply nodded, refusing to meet his eyes.
Shanks didn't let go. He kept his arms wrapped around you as he sat at the table, forcing you to sit on his lap. He nuzzled your neck, his lips pressing soft kisses against your skin as he ate from your plate. The crew watched the scene, their initial surprise turning into warm, knowing smiles.
"She's a keeper, Captain," one of them said, and a chorus of agreement followed.
You wanted to push him away. You wanted to get up and run. But with his arms so tightly around you, with the warmth of his body and the silent, unspoken affection of the crew, you found you couldn’t. And as he stole another piece of tamagoyaki from your plate and kissed your cheek, you finally let yourself melt into his embrace. The chill you had carried for so long was finally beginning to thaw.
The galley, which moments before had been a cacophony of cheerful chaos, fell into a collective, contented silence as the crew dug into the breakfast you had prepared. The rich, savory aroma of the spiced pork filled the air, mingling with the delicate sweetness of the tamagoyaki. Lucky Roux, his mouth full, was practically humming with delight.
"This is amazing!" he finally managed to say, his voice muffled by a mouthful of food. "Seriously, I've never had anything this good."
"That rice is perfect," Yasopp added, his eyes wide with surprise. "How'd you get it so fluffy?"
Shanks, still clinging to you, stole a piece of tamagoyaki from your plate and ate it, his eyes closing in pure bliss. "You're a genius, Y/N," he mumbled against your hair, his voice full of genuine awe.
As they all ate, a younger crewmate, his face flushed with admiration, finally worked up the courage to ask a question. "Y/N, where did you learn to cook like this? This is the best meal I've ever had!"
The question, so innocent and simple, made you flinch. The laughter and chatter of the crew faded into a distant hum as a familiar emptiness settled in your heart. You looked at your plate, the food suddenly tasteless in your mouth.
"My mother," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "She taught me."
Shanks, who had been laughing a moment before, fell silent. He felt the subtle shift in your mood, the way your body had gone rigid in his arms. He lifted his head, his gaze searching your face, and saw it—that hollow, haunted look you wore when the ghosts of your past came knocking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a look of profound understanding and sorrow. He didn't ask any more questions. He didn't press for details. He simply squeezed you gently, his presence a silent comfort, a steady anchor against the storm of your memories. The rest of the crew, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, went back to their food, a quiet respect settling over the galley. They didn't need to know the story behind the food. The look on Shanks's face said it all.
The day passed in a quiet blur. You helped clean up breakfast, the routine of it a familiar comfort, but the silence that had followed your admission about your mother was a heavy blanket. Shanks remained a constant, gentle presence, his hand on your back, his gaze on you as if he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away for a second. The crew, too, seemed to give you more space, their boisterous energy muted by an unspoken understanding.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and violet, the ache in your heart intensified. This was the time. The shadows were long and deep, perfect for a ghost to slip away unnoticed.
You packed your small bag, a knot of dread and sorrow tightening in your chest. You couldn't do this again. You couldn't run again. But you had to. It was a choice between a life of crippling fear or a life of inevitable heartbreak.
You crept out of the cabin, your footsteps silent on the worn wood of the deck. The ship was quiet, the rest of the crew asleep or on watch. You made your way to the gangplank, the familiar feeling of freedom a hollow promise. You were just about to step onto the dock when a hand, warm and firm, closed around your wrist.
You froze, the world shrinking to that single point of contact. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The scent of salt and sake, the warmth of his hand, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing—it was all Shanks.
"Please don't," he said, his voice low and raw, a sound that tore through the quiet night. He wasn't demanding, he was pleading, and it broke your heart into a million tiny pieces.
Tears, hot and silent, streamed down your face. "I have to," you whispered, the words a confession of your deepest fear. "I can't stay. I'm... I'm a ghost, Shanks. I don't belong here."
He turned you around, his hand moving from your wrist to cup your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear. His eyes, usually so full of light and laughter, were filled with a bottomless sorrow. "Then let me be your anchor," he said, his voice barely audible. "Let me hold on to you until you're no longer afraid of staying. Let me be your home."
You shook your head, the gesture a desperate attempt to push away the hope his words offered. "You don't understand. Everyone I've ever cared about... they get hurt. They get taken away. I can't let that happen to you. I can't."
He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. "Then let them try," he said, his voice a low growl of defiance. "Let them come. Because I'm not going to let you go. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're not a ghost, Y/N. You're real. And you're here. With me."
You buried your face in his chest, your body wracked with silent sobs. The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, the fierce, protective love in his words—it was all too much. It was a home you had never known you wanted, a love you had sworn you would never allow yourself to feel. And for the first time in your life, you didn't want to run.
You collapsed against his chest, the tears you had held back for so long finally breaking free in a torrent of silent sobs. Shanks held you, his arms a fortress against the world and the ghosts that haunted you. He didn't speak, didn't try to offer empty platitudes. He just held you, his steady presence a solid, unshakeable anchor in the storm of your grief. You cried until there were no more tears left, until the tension that had been a constant companion for years finally began to loosen its grip.
When your sobs finally subsided, he gently pulled back, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. He saw the raw, exposed pain, but he also saw something else—a quiet resolve, a new kind of strength. He took your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and led you back inside.
As you walked down the corridor, you saw them. Benn Beckmann and Yasopp were standing in the shadows, their faces unreadable. They had been waiting, watching, giving you the space to make your own choice. You didn't need to say a word. The sight of you, holding Shanks's hand, was all the answer they needed. Benn gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of a smile on his face. Yasopp simply winked, a silent acknowledgement of your courage.
Shanks led you back to his room, but this time, you didn't feel like you were walking into a temporary shelter. You felt like you were walking home. He pulled you into his arms, and you finally let yourself be held. This time, you didn't have to leave. You had chosen to stay.
—
A few years slipped by, each one a testament to the fact that you hadn't run. The Red-Haired Pirates' ship, once a temporary refuge, had become your home. The galley, in particular, was your domain. It was where you stood now, a gentle warmth emanating from the stew simmering on the stove.
A familiar warmth pressed against your back as Shanks's arms wrapped around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder. The solid weight of him was a comfort you had come to crave, a constant presence that had chased away the last of your ghosts. He kissed your neck, a soft, content sigh escaping his lips. You didn't flinch or pull away. Instead, you leaned back into his embrace, your hands moving confidently as you stirred the pot.
Your attention was divided between the meal and the crew. You were half-listening to Yasopp and Lucky Roux bickering good-naturedly over a game of cards, and you were fully focused on a younger crewmate who had just stumbled in, a bandage wrapped clumsily around his hand.
"Here," you said, your voice soft but firm as you took his hand. "Let me see that." You began to rewrap the bandage with practiced ease, your fingers steady and gentle.
Shanks, ever the affectionate nuisance, tightened his grip on your waist. He trailed a line of soft kisses from your shoulder up to your ear, his breath a warm whisper against your skin. "You're a mom now, Y/N," he murmured playfully, a hint of pride in his voice.
You just rolled your eyes, a small smile on your lips. "Someone has to be," you quipped, still focused on the task at hand.
As you finished rewrapping the young pirate's hand, your gaze fell on your own. There, on your left ring finger, was a simple, silver band. It was a perfect match to the one you had noticed on Shanks's hand, the one his fingers absently toyed with as he held you close. They were silent promises, a symbol of the life you had chosen, of the home you had found.
The young pirate thanked you and scampered off. Shanks, left with your undivided attention, nuzzled your neck again. "Just so you know," he whispered, his voice low and teasing, "you're all I ever need."
You laughed, a sound that was finally full and genuine, and turned in his arms to face him, your own hand coming up to cup his cheek. The years of running, the pain, the loss—it hadn't disappeared, but it was no longer a shadow that haunted you. It was a part of you, a part of the person who had found a home, a love, and a family in the most unexpected of places.
Sea folk loved nothing so much as a good story. Tales worth beaching themselves to hear. Yarns worth growing legs to chase. Shanks fought for his territory, and as he transitions into a new standing among his own kind, he finds something worth pausing for in Foosha Village.
Chapter warnings: undiagnosed mental health conditions, dysfunctional creative tendencies, dissociating
“The pirates are back!”
Luffy’s voice ricochetted through the kitchen. It pinged off every pot, pan, and potato on its way to your face, and you accepted the blow with all the grace you could muster before breakfast. The coffeemaker burbled, tired and apologetic that it couldn’t brew any faster, and you sighed across the counter to Makino. She tittered, smiling like the angel she was, equipped with a well of patience deeper than the ocean. You smiled back wryly, lazily whisking an enormous bowl of eggs as she chopped scallions.
Who needed roosters or alarm clocks with small children in the house?
The sun had barely clawed an inch above the horizon, and you were neither conscious nor kind enough to suffer such ungodly volume before at least two cups of caffeine.
As he slammed through the screen door, Luffy hollered again, “The pirates are here!”
“Are they in the market for little kids born without indoor voices?”
Makino shook her head, sighing at you, but Luffy put his hands on the enormous island worktop to pull himself as high as possible, so focused on the subject he didn’t even cheer and beg over the food. You kept working, but you met his eyes, eyebrows up as you waited for one of Luffy’s little Lessons On Life.
“Shanks won’t take me,” he said, face sternly disappointed, like you ought to understand the gravity of the situation. “He says I’m a baby, and an anchor, and –”
The rice cooker beeped, and Makino interrupted.
“Luffy,” she called, “could you wake up your brothers? Breakfast is almost ready.”
The reminder of a meal shattered his concentration, and he zipped off, howling a confirmation over his shoulder.
You blinked. And blinked. And looked up to Makino’s laughing face. Between half-raising the boy and handling a bar, she was accustomed to hurricanes, but you weren’t quite used to the sheer chaos of seaside life. You chose to make it a joke instead of a chip on your shoulder, and you tried to pay Makino back for her tolerance with some humor at your expense.
The quiet wouldn’t last – you could still hear Luffy’s feet pounding overhead – and the sound would triple. Best to ask the important questions while you could.
“Pirates?”
You poured the eggs into a pan, poking them with a spatula as Makino assembled quick pickled vegetables and rice on the boys’ plates.
“More or less,” she said. “They’re one of the… interesting parts of Foosha Village. They come and go, but they’ve never caused problems, and...”
She trailed off, and her gaze turned to the window, where you could just see the water through the mess of fishermen’s storage sheds and scraggly palms. “Last year, their boss pulled Luffy back from a riptide. I liked them well enough before, but, well,” she shrugged, “now I feel like we owe them, you know? They’re part of the town, maybe even an important one. Oh! And we’ll need to restock. Everything. They live on their ship, and they spend most of their time in the bar.”
The oil popped, and you turned off the heat. Eggs ready, you brought the pan to the plates and doled out the protein for your growing monsters as you considered.
“What do you need today?”
A chorus of childish voices and thundering feet exploded overhead, and you braced for the invasion.
“Things will get even louder,” Makino warned. Brightly. Smiling.
She treated everything like it was part of a prescribed therapy to scuff off the thick, hermit shell you’d grown in the city. Before the boys took mainstage, she added, with a bit of mercy, “If you could run errands, I’d appreciate it. I’ll make a list. You’ll have a few quiet hours that way, right?”
You managed half a nod before Ace and Sabo tumbled through the door to the stairs. Ace’s knee crossed the threshold first, but Sabo seized the back of his comrade’s shirt and heaved himself over via an unannounced game of leap-frog.
“Good morning!” he said, broken smile bright as the sun.
“I was gonna say that!” Ace grumbled, somehow still in motion despite having his face to the floor half a second earlier.
Really, these children thought they were made of rubber. Had they had so many bumps and bruises when they went to bed? No. Surely not. A midnight scuffle, then? They could’ve snuck out. They usually did. So long as they didn’t get in the water, Makino wasn’t very concerned about their wild roving. City instincts made you think differently, but Foosha sat at the edge of the world, for all intents and purposes. Maybe you should give the wild boys more credit…
Both tweens launched elbows at the other’s ribs.
For fuck’s sake.
Luffy rushed in on their heels, demanding they “Save some for me!” like it wasn’t pre-portioned on individual plates and guarded by your spatula.
Breakfast felt like a carnival ride, spinning in a disorienting blur of giggles, screams, and flying colors. Not how you were used to starting your day, but you’d paid the ticket and pulled down the lap bar because you needed to escape gravity and common sense for a few minutes. So it was fine if Ace left with a shred of pickled carrot in his hair, Sabo kept a fucking lead pipe in his lap as he ate, and Luffy didn’t stop to breathe between ‘bites.’
“I’m gonna go see the pirates!” Luffy cried.
And then the troop left as they came – a heaving mass of gangly limbs and an unholy racket.
You poured the coffeemaker’s overdue blessing into a travel mug as Makino made her list, and a minute later, you were out and on with the day.
You didn’t think of the pirates again until you carried in the first load of bulk groceries and alcohol from the car.
The ocean hugged the town close, and Makino’s place stood at the world’s edge, closest to the breeze and farthest from high ground. Crabs found their way into the kitchen more often than mice. The only structures beyond were docks and piers where local fishermen tied up their boats and stored nets and traps in need of repair.
Makino’s apartment, accessible by an exterior and an interior stairwell, sat on the second floor. Partys Bar took the first. The front door welcomed guests, and the back led to the kitchen. You parked behind the building on the lone patch of gravel still visible between swaths of scrubby grass and sand, comfortable in a live oak’s shadow.
The screen door yowled as you stepped through, but it didn’t catch your heel or smack you on the ass, which was a particular relief with your arms full. As it clapped shut, a wave of deep, manly laughter filtered through from the front of Makino’s business.
Someone was telling a story at a volume Luffy would use, and lots of heckling jeers interrupted between the tides of cackling. You couldn’t make out a word.
Ah, well.
The groceries landed with a satisfying thump.
You’d meet them eventually. But you weren’t in a rush.
There were coolers to unpack and bottles to sort and it felt like you were moving underwater.
Your head floated in its happy, hazy place, dissociating from the mundane.
The next town was an hour away, and a full restock demanded supplies shops in Foosha Village simply couldn’t stock. So, you’d been alone, windows down, wind in your hair as your fantasies spun a thick cocoon over the entire morning, and you couldn’t bother cutting yourself free so soon.
Later, you’d lance it, let the stories and visions spill out in watercolor and ink until your eyes cleared and you settled back into your skin. Stories, and images, and fragments of dreams in paintings and prose you bled to translate adventures you’d never had and ease the pressure that grew in your soul. Until then, you’d stay away from introductions and other things that demanded cognizance, wit, and attention. You just weren’t in tandem with the rest of the world at the moment.
As if summoned by your drifting, Makino stepped through the swinging door to the front of house.
“You’re back! And you didn’t even get lost this time.”
A private smile melted in your mouth. Lost? That rather depended on the definition.
Your friend knew you well enough to read your expression, though, to notice how your eyes refused to fix on any one point, even when your hands kept busy. Her head tilted, catching a bit of midday sun that wove gold through her green hair, like kelp in clear water. She tracked your wavering focus and softened her voice.
“Luffy mentioned you. I think he –”
The door slammed against the wall, and the hellion flew to your side like a cannonball. He squeezed your waist hard and grinned up at you with all his teeth.
“Come meet Shanks and his crew!” He released the hug just to seize your hand. He tugged with all his strength, but he simply didn’t have enough mass to push around a full-ass adult. “C’mon! I want you to meet the pirates!”
Your free hand settled on his hair, ruffling it as you tread water to stay in the moment. “Not today.”
“Why?”
“She said she doesn’t want to right now, Luffy,” Makino said. “Everyone can wait until she’s ready. That way we’ll have more fun, right?”
“Yeah, but,” Luffy still looked at you, wanting a clear answer. More than two words. “What should I tell Shanks?”
Your tongue was heavy. Your social battery was never astonishing, but when you went into a fog, conversation was an uphill battle.
“Say I’ll meet him tomorrow.”
That felt right. Enough, but not too much. Once you indicated someone had the right to details, they started expecting them. You were sure the men in the bar weren’t really pirates, but you grew up reading fairy tales, and you treated strangers accordingly.
“That’s alright, isn’t it, Luffy?”
He groaned and gave your arm one final jerk, but he let go once he’d made his point. “Fine.”
Back through the door. Back to his pirates.
Makino settled a hand on your shoulder once he was out of earshot.
“Go get those ideas out so you’ll feel better tomorrow, okay? Only half the crew came in tonight, and I have plenty of rum and sake for this shift.”
Guilt prickled under the fog. You scratched your scalp and tried to thank her with a moment of your full attention. “Yeah. Sorry. Thanks. You sure you’re good?”
Makino laughed and bumped your shoulder as she moved deeper into the kitchen. “I ran this place for years before you came to stay. What do you think?”
It was good enough, and you knew you’d be no help anyway, so you meandered up the stairs to the small room you shared. Your tools waited on the windowsill, dappled sunlight moving over the paper.
You travelled through the afternoon, filling half a notebook with words as the bar thrummed beneath your feet.
The sunbeams ran warm hands from the crown of your head, down your shoulders, over your belly, to your toes, a slow, slow caress that took hours to complete. When it finished, the light had faded to a weak blue, and you jolted awake when the front door banged shut for the night.
The voices that had rumbled below carried out to the street, and you watched a handful of men stroll away with a chorus of goodbyes for Makino. You settled the pen between pages, closed the notebook on a scene’s bones, and leaned forward for a better view.
Makino’s home was very old, and the glass in the windows sported warps and waves from the days before modern glassmaking. It made all the details hazy. Usually, that suited your frame of mind. But it didn’t help you spy any faces or sharp differences besides height, gait, and color.
They looked like an interesting troop through the window’s imperfections, and you wondered how much was true. If they were really so tall and broad. If the one gesturing in the front really had hair so red, or if it was just a sunset illusion.
Like he could feel your eyes on him, the redhead turned, and although you couldn’t make out his face, it definitely felt like it was angled up to yours.
He paused there.
You refused to be the first to look away.
Eventually, one of the other circus-glass figures said something to him, and the stranger broke the staring contest with a laugh. He spun on his heel and swaggered into the gathering dusk.
You set aside your notebook once he vanished. You looked down at your hands. Stretched your fingers. Curled them into fists. Dug into the dozens of little sensations that reminded you these were the hands that assembled your dreams. The real ones. The ones that filed taxes and handled the steering wheel on errands for Makino.
They were there.
They were yours.
The fog faded with the light, and while inspiration still clattered like loose seeds in the back of your head, it didn’t choke you.
You’d lanced the swelling and returned from abroad. So why did the stranger with the red hair feel more like an ember than a man?
What if (Reader) was from our world and loved music like any and all music.
What if when (Reader) was sent to the One Piece world she was sent to a deserted island, there were buildings still in place she could live in, so she felt no need to leave.
She found the snail around day 3 of scavenging around the buildings. He was a little banged up but he was alive. (Reader) nursed him back to health and ever since he has stuck to her like glue.
The first ship to hear her voice was the Red force. Shanks was about to call someone when the snail started broadcasting this beautiful voice.
Tend to a plant with poison and expect a flower are you Crazy.
Ben who had been nearby perked up curiously liking the song quickly.
Your weak and your helpless to stop me destroying you
Beckman asked around to see if anyone had called someone and forgot to hang up, but the last time someone called was well over a day ago so someone would have noticed.
Shanks wondered aloud about how someone could have such a lovely voice for once not being flirtatious. Shanks stated to leave the transponder snail alone and let it keep playing the lovely voice.
Later into the night the Moby Dick around 9pm or so a lone cock had just gotten back from a rough assignment and was making something to eat before going to bed as he was cooking someone was coming up behind him with a knife raised just before the knife went down the Snail Thatch brought with him went off with more music.
Thatch remembering this morning when the first song started playing was excited and turned around to the knife and was able to shoot from striking.
This isn't what I wanted, This isn't what I wanted, This isn't what I wanted, This isn't-
Thatch yelled for help seeing it was Teach before someone came running grabbing Teach and hauling him off of Thatch, It was Marco. Knocking him out cold Marco threw Teach to some other crewmates that gathered. Marco checked Thatch over and asked him what happened he said the snail saved me. Thinking he was joking Izou hit him in the shoulder. Thatch clarified that the snail started playing out of nowhere no ring no nothing and a beautiful voice came out and as Thatch turned he saw the blade and stopped it.
Marco wondered why the snail started playing Thatch shrugged saying he didn't know all he knew is it played a lovely ladies voice. Izou asked if he knew where the snail went because it's not on the counter anymore and if anyone could find out if any of the other snails did the same thing just to find out if it was only that snail.
Up in the holy lands Shamrock and his father Garling just returned from a meeting when the transponder snail started playing. Stopping for a moment to find out that someone called or not when a lovely voice came out.
Does no one know who they're dealing with think?I'll let it go? forgot and forgive? The rage in me is terminal there's no remedy but to burn'em all.
Shamrock listened in silence for a moment before looking at his father, before he could say anything Garling got a call from another part of the holy lands. Hanging up Garling looks at his son and states that he was to find who is currently singing and bring them to Mary Geoise for Imu.
At another part of Mary Geoise Imu and the 5 elders were listening in silence.
I still got a job to do, my mission's incomplete only a traitor could consider making peace the princess has to pay for what she did that day for what she took away.
This will be a headcannon because I was high and tired when I wrote it. Don't @ me. Also,
So Shanks is an Incubus because he's Mr. Horny-jail-lifetime-member, and he's got charisma and big dick energy for days. And I headcanon he has "fuck me eyes", no I will not explain.
Benn as an orc, Yassop as a harpy, and Lime Juice as a Dullahan. Uta would be a siren, of course.
Monster is a Wuzhiqi (a Chinese monkey demon,) the reason why is pretty self-explanatory. Bonk Punch would be a Cyclops.
Gab would be some sort of manticore, because he's described as having "lion-like" features. Lucky Roux would be a troll, not sure why, it just feels like it fits. Building Snake would be a medusa, or should I say, "me'dude'sa," because he's got really nice hair.
I struggled with Hongo, but I think he'd be some sort of sorcerer. It seems like it's the best fit for Hongo's role as a ship doctor.
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Kid reader/dokucha stealing coats/capes, like shanks cape, doflamingos, corazons, or kids fluffy ass jackets, laws coat that he had during wano etc.
woah id thought there would be more characters with capes bit i can only think of shanks- everyone else has just giant coats that none of them wear correctly except for the fluffy coats that doffy, cora and kid has (tho he had the other one before he lost his arm-) how do they not fall of the shoulder?! now in just ranting whoops
Coat Stealer
with Red haired pirates and Kidd Pirates
A/N ps I forgot my annotations in my laptop :p. Anywhoww that’s where you are wring nonnie! In the red haired pirates alone Benn, limejuice, yassop and Lucky have been seen wearing capes! There’s Luffy too and Rayleigh! And Boa…Jinbei…er well you see my point! 😂 Regardless i was just going to give my take for this but figured a drabble would take my point across better was hating on this but is it actually passable?? What do you guys think? Ya like?
Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for reader in japanese for the enjoyment of reader and oc characters readers alike!
Dividers by @/firefly-graphics
Red Haired Pirates (Shanks Cloak)
“Ha! Ha! I am the Captain now!” Dokucha cheered as they climbed their way to the table, a familiar cloak engulfing them as they did.
“Hmm, Captain, you seem to have shrunk; what’s up with that?” Beck drawled, nursing the drink of his hand as he looked up at the child
“Shut up!” They yelled, shrinking slightly at the pointed glare the first mate sent them
“S-sorry, I meant quiet?
“…”
“Quiet, please?”
“Better,” he nodded, taking a sip from the sakazuki
“I’m Captain Shanks! Bow before me, peasants!” They called arms raised in victory
“I think that was the wrong Impression, Dokucha,” Lucky snickered, taking a bite from his meat
“Why don’t you try something the Boss always does?” Beck suggested
“Oh! Okay!” They nodded, clearing their throat
“I am Captain Shanks! I love women and alcohol and, and and breaking kids hearts!” They roared at the top of their lungs
“Huh? Did I get it wrong?” they asked, tilting their heads confused seeing as Yassop and Lucky doubled over laughing, Beck doing a spit take upon hearing the kid's’ words.
Kidd Pirates ( Kidd’s Coat)
Heat jumped from his bed as his door shot open, and a red ball of hair was thrown in. Curious, he approached the familiar coat, quirking his head as a small face popped up from it.
“Dokucha?”
“Uncle Heat! Help me!”
“W- What’s wrong?
“Hide me, please!” They begged as they threw themselves on the floor in front of him
“Oh. I’m guessing it has to do with his coat?” He asked, frowning as they nodded their head
“What do I get out of it?”
“Are you serious, uncle?!” They shouted, an incredulous look on their face as they shot up
“Sorry, kid. When it comes to the Boss, I’m not doing it for free. You better choose quick, though,” he teased. Before Dokucha could ask about his words, the sound of doors slamming, curses ringing, and stomping feet sounded behind them, causing Dokucha to blanch out.
“Anything! Please just hide me! I was just so cold, and he was in the shower. I forgot to put it back, please!”
“Eh, not worth, sorry.”
“Uncle?”
“Boss, they’re over here!” They gaped at the man, horrified at the betrayal, until the door behind them shot open, and something grabbed hold of them. They let out a cry as Kidd threw them over his shoulders, saying no words as he left the room.
“You better sleep with one eye open, Uncle!” They hollered as Heat simply waved them off, a teasing smile on his face as they continued trying to fight their way off the Captain’s hold
Imagine Shanks learning your hometown is dangerous
Sailing up a river
Hongo: this weed is great, where'd you get it?
You: my nan sent it in her last care package.
Shanks: your grandmother sent you weed?
You: of course
Benn: I thought that your island had a rather excessive police force.
You: oh, it does, it's just that the police are usually in on it. Like one of my cousins' plug was the literal chief of police, Doug. That fat old man wasn't great at enforcing the law, but he grew some of the best bud on the island, it literally glittered in the sunlight.
Hongo: really?
You: yeah, apparently Doug retired from the police force, but started his own illegal grow operation up on the mountain and has created a ton of jobs. Or at least that's some of the stuff my friend has written about in the letters she sends.
Benn: Oh, that's nice.
You: Well, it's a bit of a mixed bag. My mom's letters say that the police force has been helping Doug deal with rival gangs, so there's been a drop in crime. But they've also been cracking down on other illegal grows, including my uncle's. And unfortunately, the police have killed six of my cousins.
Benn: [trying to change the topic, points] Look giant river otters!
Shanks: Otters, where!
The crew: [gathers against the railing]
The Otter: [eating an armored carp]
Lucky Roux: Those eyes, yeesh, are fucking awful.
You: Reminds me of the stink eye I, once, got off of a crackhead.
Shanks What?
Benn: How did you know it was a crackhead?
You: Because I literally made eye contact with him, during the lunch rush in the business district of my hometown, mid hit off a crack pipe.
The crew: [side eyes you]
Shanks: Does your hometown have an issue with drugs?
You: yeah, but it's only a side effect of all the organized crime and gang activity.
Shanks: I know you love your family and all that, but you're never going back to that hellhole you call an island. Also, I'm sending money to get your family and friends off that island.
You: [shrug]
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Mantra of your god damn life. You glared at the bird flapping too close. If that thing had the nerve to make a shitty situation shittier with its shit, you would strangle the thing. The world regained sound as you willed the bitch bird to flap faster.
Voices. So many voices, but they’d become hushed. The yelling and screaming and noises of injury had vanished from the air. You couldn’t remember if that had happened slowly or just a few seconds ago. Your head hurt. You raised it and let it smack against the beach. A thunk gave a late warning of the very much not-sand beneath you. Fucking ow.
You didn’t even know which ship you were on. Might not be on one at all, actually. You only had confirmation that it was wood that had met the back of your, apparently sticky, head. You groaned. Head injuries were the fucking worst. If only it had been bad enough to knock you out, instead you just had a hangover headache without any of the fun of earning one.
Maybe if you just napped you’d sleep through whatever bullshit was still going on. Still, you didn’t bother closing your eyes. The world spun a bit whenever you blinked. You’d probably puke if you shut them for too long. You could lie and pretend that was the only reason, but your head hurt and lying meant thinking and thinking meant your head had an extra throb of pain. No, the reason you kept your eyes open was the same thing that got you into this fucking disaster. You were curious.
Maybe they’d been right. Maybe that compulsive curiosity would be the thing that got you killed. Huh…you never really considered you’d die under a bright blue sky. Obviously not everyone gets to die on the day of a hurricane. Although dark clouds and raindrops, that you could imagine were tears, seemed like a much more reasonable last day. But, yea, it just made sense for some people to die under the sun, with waves bubbling over sand, and a breeze that should be carrying salt and sea.
The air was not filled with that now. The wind carried gunpowder and blood and sweat. A lot of sweat. Pirates should really jump into the sea more often if they weren’t going to use soap. The ashy smoke of bullets and metal of blood was so much better than the fucking body odor. Hmm. Some pirates had eaten devil fruit. They’d have to be tied up or put in a barrel before sinking them in the sea…like living tea bags. You snorted. Blackbeard definitely looked like he could use a dunk or seven. Maybe the world would get lucky and something would think he was bait worth biting. You giggled at that until your head punished you for it.
Then a new sound. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been laughing, so maybe it wasn’t all that new. It didn’t really matter. It was definitely the crunch of sand and it was definitely getting louder. The steps weren’t rushed. Couldn’t be one of the losers then. The sound was too confident, too sure. It was a bit calming. It was hard to be that worried when each step was followed by another. Just as slow. Just as steady. After this bullshit day, it was a small pleasure to be sure of what would happen in the next moment. The crunch of sand would be followed by the crunch of sand would be followed by the crunch of sand would be—thunk.
Ah. So you were on the beach. There was no familiar rocking of a ship. The world only swayed because your head had told it to. The steps had less crunch with every new thunked step. Sand making its way off of the boots coming towards you. Oh well. It didn’t really matter who it was. The steps were too light and too patient to be Blackbeard. You’d really hate for that fucking atrocity of a laugh to be the last thing you heard.
You groaned when you tried to sit up. Thank god you had a lifetime of being stubborn as hell. There was no way you’d let your stomach decide that vomit would be the last thing you tasted. You smiled and hummed when you finally settled upright. Good. You really weren’t interested in your final view being up someone’s fucking nose. There’s no way you’d rest in peace if you died with a forest of nose hairs staring you down.
Black boots. How original. Jeans. Too hot. They had spots that reminded you of a cat from a much colder climate. Yellow. Too bright. Well, at least it wasn’t a marine. You’d hate dealing with the whole prisoner situation. A toothy grin. You blinked at it. The black eyes did not blink back. The face rippled with the next breeze. Faces shouldn’t move like that, right? Actually the head was too small too. And it being in the middle of a shirt was also strange.
Thunk. A much heavier thunk. More of a thump. Actually a lot of thumps. Your eyes moved too slow. Ugh, then too fast. A bag. It looked full. The top sagged down, revealing several cubes. Was it all cubes?
Someone was saying something. Shit. You should probably listen. What if they were telling you what was in the cubes. You wanted to know. It kind of looked like something was moving. You squinted trying to trace the sound through the thumps and throbs and thunks.
Fluffy. Spotted and white and cute. Hats didn’t usually talk though, so you squinted harder and willed your eyes to travel several inches lower. Oh. Much better than Blackbeard and marines and anyone else here probably.
“Pretty.”
Someone laughed but it wasn’t Trafalgar D. Law. He was frowning. That added up since he hadn’t eaten the laughs-while-frowning fruit. You giggled. That would be a terrible fruit to drown over.
“Oi.”
“No. Oi, you.”
Another laugh. Was it yours? You brought your hand to your mouth to check. Clearly using a bit too much force, since you heard a slap. A few laughs sounded. Couldn’t be you. You still had your hand pressed to your lips. Case closed. You should’ve been a detective instead of professionally too-curious.
Your eyes traced the sigh back to the pirate still frowning at you. Why was he the one frowning? His head probably didn’t even hurt. Well…Maybe it did. Headaches were usually invisible, right? Yours just happened to have leaked into your hair and the wood you kinda wished you were still laying on.
Trafalgar D. Law. What a mouthful. Maybe you’d be frowning too if your name was Trafalgar. His skin looked smooth and soft. He smelled clean. Thank god. If you had to smell one more sweaty pirate…His nose was sharper than yours. He looked like he was determined to wrinkle his own forehead as soon as possible with that scowl he wore. He looked like one of those feral kittens you were never allowed to bring in the house.
“Cute.”
Definitely more than one laugh. And definitely not from the tall angry kitty glaring at you. Even his eyes were like a cat. They were a pretty yellow. If you had a type, he might be it. It would be fun to get him to laugh. He looked difficult. What kind of crew did a cranky cat captain have? Did they make him laugh enough? Did he always frown or did he just dislike you? You really didn’t want the feral kitten to hate you.
“Are you listening?”
“Nope.”
Your eyes watered a bit when he didn’t smile at your answer. Oh no. He probably hated you. He was all handsome and mad and your head hurt and he hated you. Everything else was so unimportant now that you were being frowned at in your final moments. The least he could do is give you a good view before you died. He was being a dumb rude jerk.
Then it was blue and then it wasn’t. You blinked slow at the cube he held. Oh. He was solving the cubes-in-the-bag mystery. He didn’t hate you. He was helping you be less curious. That was nice. Case closed. You giggled again. He was pretty and he was kind. What a bad cat pirate.
When your hand slid from your face, it caught on something. Huh. That was new. You palmed at the sharp edges of a wound you didn’t recognize. There was no blood. There was no heart. Well you definitely probably couldn’t live long without a heart. Maybe you had time to sate one more curiosity.
You looked up. Oh. He stole it. Damn pirates always snatching things. Finders keepers was a thing, right? That sounded like a law or something. It wasn’t fair to steal things when your head hurt.
“Can’t believe you stole it twice.”
You didn’t know you were pouting until you heard it. You’d always been a sore loser though, so it wasn’t that surprising. Oh well. You could die being a brat. That was fine.
“How could I steal it twi—“
More laughter that wasn’t his laughter. He was too busy frowning. You weren’t going to find out now. You’d have to go back to napping without seeing what he looked like without being a mean angry kitty.
Then he made you smile. His skin caught an instant sunburn. Those pretty yellow eyes went wide. His frown dropped open. It wasn’t a smile, but he didn’t look mad anymore. Thump.
You frowned at the gross oversized dice. It rolled over to you. It didn’t look like it had gotten dirty from the tumble, but it was resting in sand and blood and who knew what else. Gross. Were you supposed to put that back in? No thank you. That did not seem sanitary. You frowned at him.
“Who said you could give it back?”
The laughter was too loud and too close, but it still wasn’t his. That was fine though. He was all red and cute and not-as-angry. You could probably make him even less mad if your head didn’t hurt so fucking much, but it was getting dark and you were tired. You could try again after you finished dying or whatever.
If I write more parts, they’ll be on my a03
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