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Soul Shanked 4/4
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Chapter Title: A Man Worth Hitting (and Maybe Loving) Length: 10 K+
FINISHED
Previous
(Looking for a Beckman epilogue ;)
Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo + For all the baddies who helped protest this weekend.
The scent of salt and canvas was the first thing to pull you from sleep.
It didn’t belong.
Neither did the creaking of wood beneath your back, nor the low murmur of male voices drifting from beyond the wall. You stirred slowly, awareness returning like the tide. Thick, uncertain, then all at once.
The hammock was too firm. The sheets smelled like sun and steel. There was sea movement.
This room wasn’t yours.
You sat up abruptly.
It was a ship’s cabin, small but clean and well-kept. Morning light spilled through a single porthole, casting a soft glow over the tangled blankets.
Someone had left a folded nightgown on the chair beside the hammock. It was yours, freshly washed.
There was also a tray with a cup of tea, still faintly warm and scented with lemon. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful.
You moved to the window.
Outside, a red flag flapped in the wind, bearing a familiar Jolly Roger.
And not a speck of land in sight.
Your stomach dropped.
Shanks.
You were on his ship.
Shanks had kidnapped you.
He stolen you.
You were now a heist item.
You swung your legs over the hammock's edge, breath shallow, fury waking faster than your balance. You cussed him out in at least three languages, two of them fluently, one of them mostly just creative growling.
Shanks had taken you from Amazon Lily without so much as a little goodbye, while you were sleeping.
Like some overconfident pirate raccoon with a romantic streak and no impulse control.
You stood, wobbling slightly, and scanned the room again, and yep, still kidnapped on a ship. And very few places to hide the murder weapon that you were going to need in about five minutes.
The throb of your soulmark indicated the distance of the victim.
You stormed up the stairs barefoot, hair wild, heart racing, slamming open the hatch. Sunlight crashed against you like a wave, making you wince. It takes a minute to adjust. Dozens of eyes turned to you, men of every size and color, pausing mid-task. A few adjusted their grips on swords, but most just stared at the sight.
A woman. You. On the Red Force.
Barefoot. Disheveled. Murder in your gaze.
And then, him.
Shanks was leaning against a barrel by the door, a wine bottle in one hand and his shirt half-unbuttoned, flapping dramatically in the sea breeze. He was laughing at something one of his crewmates had said.
Until he saw your face.
He stopped cold.
Then, without a word, he turned and casually walked to the other side of the deck, like that would help.
He was absolutely in deep shit, and he knew it.
“Thought I felt a tug,” he called, flashing that grin that filled the entire damn sky. “Morning, sweetheart.”
You growled.
Shanks looked like a man who hadn’t slept, hadn’t regretted it, and wasn’t planning to. That only made it worse.
He was using his crew as a human shield.
It didn’t work.
You crossed the deck in six thunderous strides and slapped the bottle clean out of his hand. It hit the railing and somersaulted overboard with a perfectly timed, mocking plunk.
Dozens of pirates paused.
Some froze mid-coil, rope in hand. Others looked up from polishing blades or shifting barrels. A tall, dark-haired man with a pipe between his teeth raised an eyebrow. Another, younger, let out a low whistle.
You stood there barefoot, in a rumpled linen nightshirt, radiating fury.
“…Oh,” said the man with the pipe behind you. “She’s awake.”
“I can explain,” Shanks said, wearing a smile that was far too sorry and far too late.
“Can you?” You snapped. “Because I’m forming a pretty solid theory. It involves sleeping powder, a pirate abduction, and you losing your damn mind!”
Behind you, someone coughed. Another voice murmured, “Dibs on his sword if she kills him.”
“Crew not helping, thanks,” Shanks muttered, not taking his eyes off you.
You took one dangerous step forward.
He flinched.
You pointed at him, trembling with barely-contained fury.
“You said you wouldn’t take me unless I chose to go!”
“I did,” Shanks said, hands up in mock surrender. “But I’m a pirate. And no illegal substances were involved. And, you didn’t complain—”
“You knocked me out!” you shouted. “That implies a very clear lack of consent!”
“I resettled you.”
“You—!” You gestured wildly at the whole crew. “Pirates!”
He had the audacity to grin. “I’ve said that before, sweetheart.”
“Another lie– because you also said you cared!” Your voice cracked. Tears blurred your vision, hot and frustrated.
Immediately, the crew began backing away. Even the bold ones.
Shanks looked like he’d just been told his favorite bar burned down, and he’d lit the match himself.
He stepped in, slow and careful, voice dipping low enough to curl around your breath.
“I did listen,” he said gently. “You said you weren’t ready.” He paused. “I was just… preventing any potential Love Sickness complications—”
You reeled back, eyes scanning for something that could be turned into a weapon. Your furious retreat ended with your foot smacking into a wooden pole. A pole that had been oh-so-helpfully nudged directly into your path by the pipe smoker. The only man on deck bold enough not to retreat.
He remained exactly where he was, calmly puffing like this was his favorite tavern drama.
“Really, Benn?” Shanks snapped, eyes narrowing. “This is Mutiny.”
“You earned it, Captain,” Benn replied without blinking. “Frankly, I held back.”
“Pay attention.” You growled at him. “I’ll acquaint you with the meaning of mutiny.”
Shanks started circling. Lazy steps. Loose hips. That infuriating grin playing at the corners of his mouth like this was all foreplay.
“I made an executive romantic decision.” Shanks smiled, cocky as hell. “You’ll thank me by month three.”
You kept your weapon raised, turning with him. The tension between you wound tighter, like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.
“Sure you want to do this?” he murmured, flicking his hair out of his face with infuriating ease. “We’ve been getting along so well—”
“Until you kidnapped me.”
“We can talk this through—”
“You can shut up and die.”
Behind you, Benn exhaled a long drag of smoke, already stepping out of the way as steel met steel with a clean, ringing clash. Sparks kissed the deck.
Shanks parried without effort, the impact sliding down his blade. His stance was solid. Shockingly so for a man who’d been flirting seconds earlier. His grin didn’t vanish, but it changed. Sharpened.
Less teasing now. More… intent.
“You always this dramatic when someone offers you breakfast?” he asked, deflecting another strike like it was nothing.
You didn’t answer. You weren’t trying to kill him. Not really. But he needed to feel it. The fury. The betrayal. The heartbreak wrapped in a nightshirt.
He twisted mid-parry, spun low, and when your foot slipped—just barely—he stepped in. Fast. Clean. Close enough to catch your wrist. He didn’t hurt you, didn’t disarm you. Just stopped you. Gently.
The grin was gone now.
“One year.”
His voice had changed, and it was anchored now, steady in a way that made the fight feel foolish in hindsight.
“That’s all I’m asking. One year to show you what it means to be wanted, not owned. To be chosen. Every day. No pressure. No tricks.” A pause. “You can keep the pole.”
You didn’t pull away. Not yet. The weapon hung between you like a held breath. His grip was warm. Solid. Unflinching.
“And after that?” you asked, voice low. Eyes narrowing.
Shanks met your gaze without flinching.
“If you still want to run, I’ll give you the map.”
You hissed through your teeth.
“Captain,” a calm, drawling voice cut in. “Should I assume she’s staying, then?”
You turned to find the broad-shouldered man with the weathered face, pipe in hand, and the patient expression of someone who had survived hundreds of truly idiotic plans… and fully intended to survive this one too.
“Right!” Shanks said, instantly chipper again, clapping his hands. “Crew introductions. Love, meet the maniacs.”
“You call me love again and I’ll gut you,” you muttered.
“Noted,” Shanks said brightly. “Affection pending formal approval.”
“Shut up.”
“See?” He turned to the crew, beaming. “She’s fitting in already.”
Laughter rippled across the deck. They clearly knew their captain well.
“This,” Shanks said, gesturing to the pipe-smoking man, “is Benn Beckman. My first mate. He keeps me alive.”
Benn gave you a nod, deadpan. “Nice aim with the wine bottle.”
Before you could respond, Shanks pointed upward. “And that one in the crow’s nest is Lucky Roux.”
A plump man waved cheerfully from above, chewing on a drumstick the size of your forearm.
“Don’t race him to a meal,” Shanks added. “You’ll lose. Possibly a hand.”
You stared at the man in the crow’s nest, still mid-chew and grinning like a happy menace. You distinctly remembered him being referred to as “the big one with meat.” A potential ally, you decided grimly. Possibly even a good one. Everyone underestimated the food-motivated.
“Yasopp’s the sniper.” A wiry man with sharp eyes and a cocky grin winked at you from near the rigging. “He’s also convinced he’s the best looking on board.”
“Because I am,” Yasopp called. “Got proof if you want it!”
“You’re married,” Shanks reminded him.
“Exactly.”
Shanks rolled his eyes and kept going. “Then there’s Limejuice, Bonk Punch, and Monster—he’s the monkey. Don’t challenge him. You will lose.”
You blinked. The monkey bared its teeth in a smile. Or a threat.
“And that’s Hongo,” Shanks added, nodding toward a serious-looking man with glasses. “Our ship’s doctor.”
Hongo gave you a polite nod. “I hope you won’t need my services. But knowing the captain, you probably will.”
“And that’s the core crew,” Shanks said breezily. “The rest come and go.”
He turned back to you, eyes steady.
“Except you. You’re staying.”
Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “You can’t keep me here.”
“I can,” Shanks said softly. “Because if you really wanted to leave, you’d already be threatening to jump overboard.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
You clasped your arms, letting the pipe smack the floor. Your eyes promised that you would find a way to swim home once you weren’t leashed to this degenerate.
“You’re angry, very understandable,” He grinned, “But you are also a woman of science. Aren’t you curious about us? Or even the world?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Words piled up in your throat but refused to cooperate. Shanks didn’t press. Didn’t smirk. Just watched you, something achingly gentle in his gaze.
“Give me a year,” he said softly. “You don’t have to love me. You don’t have to kiss me. But let me try.”
Behind you, Benn muttered under his breath, “Should’ve just courted her like a normal lunatic.”
Yasopp leaned against a beam with all the smug energy of a man watching a play he didn’t pay for. “This is so much better than shore leave.”
Lucky Roux let out a delighted laugh. “Can we call her First Lady of the Red Force? Do we bow? Should we bow?”
Shanks held up a hand without looking away from you. “No one lays a finger on her. No jokes. No bets. No dumb hazing rituals. Got it?”
A dramatic chorus of groans and exaggerated sighs rose from around the ship.
“You’re ruining morale, Captain,” Yasopp called.
“You’re ruining my chances of not getting stabbed,” Shanks shot back, still not looking away.
“What about respectfully basking in her wrath?” Limejuice called out from somewhere near the ropes.
Shanks glanced sideways. “Up to her.”
Benn Beckman, Shanks’ long-suffering first mate, sauntered forward with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who routinely explained catastrophes before his morning coffee.
You already respected him.
Not because he looked dangerous, though he did. Not because he carried himself like a man who knew exactly how many seconds it would take to end a fight. But because he radiated the quiet patience of someone who had spent years cleaning up after Shanks and had not once committed murder.
That took strength. Possibly sainthood.
You weren’t sure if he was brave, tired, or both. Either way, you respected it.
“Captain’s made his bed,” Benn said. “He’s volunteered for the stabbing. We’re just here for the fallout.”
You stared at him. “And you’re all just… calm about this? I could slit your throats in your sleep.”
From the rigging, the man with goggles and a lopsided grin cheerfully piped up, “It’s free entertainment.”
“Not helping, Lucky,” Shanks muttered.
“You brought her here,” Benn reminded him. “You’re lucky the bottle was all she threw.”
Lucky Roux raised his drumstick like a toast. “To survival!”
You crossed your arms, chin tilted just enough to be defiant.
Shanks hesitated, just for a heartbeat. His smile shifted, softening into something real, something almost reverent.
“Think of it as an extended vacation,” he said, voice low. “With the most competent crew on the Grand Line.”
You raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“And, if after a year you still hate me,” he went on, more serious now, “I’ll sail you straight back to Amazon Lily. No tricks. No bargaining. I’ll drop anchor offshore and row you there myself.”
He paused.
“I’ll even let Hancock hit me. Straight in the family jewels.”
That got a collective oof from the crew.
You studied him. Really looked at him.
This was the man who’d stolen you away in the middle of the night. Who flirted like breathing, fought like dancing, and apparently had no survival instincts when it came to women with weapons.
His crew, usually rowdy and irreverent, stood deathly still. No muttering, no comments. Just a wall of eyes, waiting to see if their captain lived or died.
Your fingers twitched once at your side.
The wind stirred your nightshirt like a flag before battle.
“Well,” you said coolly. “I hope your arm is strong. Because if I hate you by the end of this, I’m making you swim back.”
The crew erupted.
Cheers, laughter, someone blew a damn horn.
Shanks just grinned like a man who’d won everything, even though you’d just threatened to kill him again.
“And,” you added coolly, “I want my space. And weapons. Preferably sharpened. And alphabetized.”
A ripple of approval moved through the crew like gossip at a tavern.
One pirate muttered, “She’s got standards. I like her.”
You turned on your heel and stomped toward the stairs, the nightshirt billowing behind you like the robes of a vengeful sea goddess recently inconvenienced by love.
But not before muttering, just loud enough for the entire deck to hear.
“One year. Then I’m leaving. And I’m taking the alcohol.”
A stunned silence.
Then a single gasp.
“Not the rum,” someone whispered, truly horrified.
Shanks watched you go, looking mildly lovesick and extremely doomed.
“She’s gonna make me earn every minute, isn’t she?” he whispered, more in awe than fear.
Benn took a long drag of his pipe, exhaled slowly, and gave the faintest smirk, like he’d seen this coming from ten nautical miles away.
“Oh, you poor bastard,” he said. “You’ve never been happier.”
Shanks just grinned like a man watching his own ship sail toward a storm he couldn’t wait to drown in.
The Den Den Mushi rang once.
Twice.
Shanks answered it, whistling a jaunty tune as he flipped the receiver open.
The snail immediately contorted into the furious visage of Boa Hancock, her hair flaring like divine judgment incarnate.
“RETURN HER THIS INSTANT OR I WILL FLAY YOU WITH MY EYES.”
“Morning, Hancock,” Shanks said pleasantly, like she hadn’t just threatened ocular murder.
The Den Den Mushi trembled with her fury.
Behind him, Benn Beckman sighed and started counting silently, probably how long until Shanks got another bounty.
Or turned into stone.
Or both.
“You abducted an Amazon Warrioress,” Hancock seethed through gritted teeth. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Offered her breakfast?” Shanks offered, still infuriatingly calm.
“She is not a collectible!”
“Agreed,” he said easily. “She’s more of a limited-edition, one-of-a-kind treasure.”
Benn paused his count, rubbed his face, and muttered, “And there it is. The sound of warships mobilizing.”
“Do not speak of her that way!” Hancock snarled, voice rising like a divine curse. “I swear on every stone statue in my garden—I will crush your bones into sand!”
Shanks, sipping his coffee like this was a brunch chat, added cheerfully, “By the way, she’s fine. I brought fruit.” Behind him, the crew waved like idiots. One held up a basket of mangoes with both hands, grinning proudly.
“Supporting local business and stuff—”
“YOU STOLE HER!” The Den Den Mushi screamed in Hancock’s voice.
“Borrowed,” Shanks said, calm as sea glass.
“I WILL BURN YOU!”
Unbothered, Shanks held the receiver toward you. “Want to say hi?”
You took it with shaking hands, staring at the snail like it might explode.
Your voice cracked out, high and appalled, “I was peacefully dreaming, and he Haki-napped me! I was ASLEEP, Boa!”
There was a beat of silence.
“HE WHAT?!” Hancock shrieked. The Den Den Mushi’s little body lifted off the table from the sheer force of her rage.
Shanks winced slightly and took a small step behind Benn, who did not move. Benn simply took a longer, steadier drag of his pipe and exhaled like a man watching a very slow avalanche hit a town he warned six times.
“Hancock, listen—” You started.
“No! I knew it. I knew he was trouble! I said he looked like a man who would kidnap someone and call it ‘romance’!”
Shanks muttered under his breath, “It is romantic. There’s fruit.”
“He Haki-napped you!” Hancock hissed. “That’s not even a word!”
“I know!” you cried, still holding the Den Den Mushi. “I had plans! I was going to wake up, have tea, and not be on a pirate ship!”
“Did you tell him no?”
“I didn’t tell him yes!”
“That counts!” Hancock bellowed. “We are launching the warships.”
“Oh god,” Benn sighed.
“Wait, wait—” Shanks stepped forward, hands raised like he was surrendering to a very stylish firing squad. “Look, I get it. In hindsight, there may have been some mild miscommunication.”
“You drugged her!”
“Haki,” he said quickly. “Just haki! Very… localized. Gentle. Nap-like!”
“You Haki-napped an Amazon Warrioress!” Hancock shouted again. “The audacity! The daring!” The Den Den Mushi turned briefly purple with fury. “You’re lucky I don’t turn your entire crew into a decorative stone garden and auction off their limbs!”
Someone behind you whispered, “She’d probably get a good price, too.”
You elbowed them in the gut without looking.
The Den Den Mushi didn’t speak right away. Hancock’s silence was somehow louder than her screaming had been.
“…Are you hurt?” she asked at last, voice low and tight.
“No.”
A beat. Then, softer—dangerous.
“Has he touched you?”
You paused.
“…Define ‘touched,’” you said carefully.
Behind you, Shanks—who had been smugly sipping his coffee—choked mid-sip. Benn slowly lowered his pipe like a man preparing to witness a public execution.
The Den Den Mushi twitched. Hancock’s eye narrowed into a slit of volcanic murder.
“Red-Hair.” Hancock’s voice was flat enough to shatter stone.
He coughed. “To clarify—I caught her wrist. In a moment of extreme tension. Respectfully. With consent-ish. It was very gentle.”
Benn closed his eyes like he was updating Shanks’ last will and testament in his head.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“Temporarily,” Hancock muttered. “I consider that a diplomatic courtesy on your end.”
Behind you, Shanks whispered, “Honestly? That’s progress.”
You hissed, dragging a hand down your face. “Stop talking.”
Another added, “Do we send thank-you fruit or—?”
Benn didn’t look back. He just mouthed, “Not. Helping.”
“I hate men,” Hancock snapped.
“Get in line,” you muttered. “However, you can’t chase an Emperor of the Sea to the New World for one woman. The optics would be terrible.”
The Den Den Mushi twitched, Hancock silent on the other end.
“…Then I’ll say it’s for diplomatic retribution.” Her voice was calm now. Too calm. “I’ll sink his ship, retrieve you, and leave a formal apology carved into his bones. That’s balanced.”
“Very balanced,” you deadpanned.
Behind you, someone whispered, “I think I love her.”
“Not helping,” Benn growled over your shoulder.
Shanks cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re negotiating, can I request it be a non-lethal carving?”
“Silence, pirate,” Hancock snapped. “Your voice irritates the heavens.”
The snail snapped back into focus, Hancock seething.
“Put her back on.”
You hesitated.
“Now.”
You raised it slowly. “Yes?”
Hancock leaned in so close that the Den Den Mushi’s eye twitched.
“If you want out, say the word. We will come for you.”
You glanced at Shanks.
Messy. Barefoot. Coffee in hand. Hair mussed. Trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly.
Then, at the basket of fruit, proudly held aloft like an apology you hadn’t asked for.
Then at Benn, already pouring rum into his morning tea with the practiced ease of a man who’d seen too much and planned to see it drunk.
Then back at Shanks.
Still barefoot. Still sleep-rumpled. Still smiling like he hadn’t just committed high-seas romantic piracy and called it a love letter.
You sighed like someone accepting an unfortunate cruise.
“…give me one year. Against my better judgment. Against your better judgment. Against several international laws. If I don’t strangle him with a rigging rope by then, we’ll reevaluate.”
Shanks smirked.
Unapologetically.
Boa let wind escape from behind her teeth.
“Smile again, and I will test the structural integrity of this ship with your skull.”
Shanks raised his coffee like a toast. “Noted, Commander.”
You brought the Den Den Mushi closer, eyes narrowing with the fury of a woman two seconds away from turning that snail into a long-distance missile.
“I’ll check in once a week. I’ll keep my weapons sharp. He knows the rules. He doesn’t have another arm to spare. He will behave.”
Behind you, Shanks gave a jaunty little salute with his one remaining arm, still beaming like a man personally blessed by the Sea Devil and thrilled about it.
The Den Den Mushi squinted in disgust.
“…He’s smiling again,” Hancock growled.
You didn’t even look. “He does that. I’m working on it.”
“Doing amazing, sweetheart.”
Benn muttered behind him, “There’s still time to dive overboard.”
“One year, Red-Haired.” Hancock’s last words crackled through the line, low and lethal.
Click.
The Den Den Mushi slumped in your hand, traumatized.
Shanks looked at you with a grin that was far too soft for someone who had just been threatened with dismemberment by a war goddess.
“…She likes me.”
You didn't know what to say when Shanks offered you the captain’s quarters.
You’d expected a spare hammock. Maybe a curtain. Something tucked behind crates or below deck, out of the way. Functional. Temporary.
Instead, you stepped into a room that felt nothing like a pirate ship and everything like a quiet, stolen promise.
Polished wood floors gleamed beneath your bare feet. A thick rug softened your steps, hand-woven and dyed in warm reds and golds that reminded you, uncomfortably, of home.
A basin sat in the corner, steam still curling up from the surface. The water was warm. Fragrant oils floated on top, the scent barely clinging to the air: Jasmine, sandalwood, and something that smelled like the temple gardens at dusk. Someone had prepared it carefully.
There were books. Dozens, maybe more, stacked haphazardly on the desk and in crates beneath it; maps, journals, and worn adventure novels with cracked spines. A saber hung on the wall, sheathed but sharp, the kind meant for both show and threat.
And then your eyes landed on the chair.
His coat was there.
Black, worn, and unmistakably his. The lining caught the light, deep red, almost blood-colored. It looked like it had been casually tossed over the back of the chair, but you could tell he had placed it there deliberately.
You turned to the doorway, eyes narrowing.
Shanks stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with the lazy amusement of a man who had just set something on fire and was waiting to see if anyone noticed.
He grinned.
“This is our—” he started.
Your glare cut him off.
He cleared his throat, trying again with exaggerated innocence. “Your room.”
Your eyes didn’t budge.
He scratched the back of his neck, ruffling his already wild hair, clearly pleased with himself anyway.
“You’re my soulmate,” he said, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world. “You get the bed.”
He nodded toward it. The bed was large, neatly made, and looked entirely too inviting. It had soft linens, a heavy quilt, and extra pillows; not a pirate-standard bedspread.
Your brow arched. “…But it’s your bed.”
He shrugged, casual as ever. “Ours. Pending approval.”
There was that grin again. The one that made you want to throw something and maybe kiss him later, in that exact order.
You stared at him.
At the way he leaned in the doorway like he hadn’t just abducted you in your sleep. The way he smiled like this was some kind of romantic gesture instead of full-blown high-seas emotional hostage-taking.
You stepped closer to the bed. Pressed your hand into the mattress.
It was disgustingly soft.
You hated how nice it felt. How clean the linens were. How it smelled faintly, not like sweat or seawater, but like citrus and something warm and familiar you refused to identify as him.
You turned back to him slowly, arms crossed.
“Do all your kidnapped guests get luxury accommodations?” you said, voice like a blade, “Or am I just lucky?”
Shanks lifted a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. “You’re the first. And I’m very motivated not to disappoint you.”
Behind you, the tea on the side table was still faintly steaming. Mocking you. You picked up the cup and took a long, scalding sip, never breaking eye contact.
He leaned a little farther into the doorway, arm resting on his lip.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
“You’re sleeping on the floor, aren’t you?” You muttered.
“Technically,” He said, pointing to the wall just outside the door, “I’m sleeping outside, down the hall.”
“The soulmark won’t stretch.”
“It will if your willing to adjust the bed. I measured.”
He flashed a grin. “Nine feet, eleven inches. Give or take a smile.”
You sighed.
“If you keep getting tugged, and would rather take your chances,” he said lightly, “I can have one of the crew set up a cot, or I’ll sleep in the chair. Won’t even snore.”
You raised your eyebrows.
“Okay. I’ll try not to snore.”
You stared at him for another long moment.
Then you walked over, picked up his coat, and shoved it into his chest. Hard.
He caught it with a startled laugh. You pointed at the door.
“One year,” you said coldly. “You’re not sharing anything but your guilt.”
He clutched the coat dramatically over his heart like a war widow.
“Understood.”
Then shut the door in his face.
And locked it.
The click was satisfying. Final. Necessary.
You stood there for a moment, hand still on the knob, listening for footsteps. He didn’t move. You could feel him smiling on the other side of the door like an idiot dog who thought that counted as progress.
Eventually, you heard him walk away.
You tried to sleep that night.
Tried to ignore the steady creak of the ship’s hull as it rocked through the water, the muffled shuffle of boots on the deck above, the occasional low murmur of voices as the crew kept their watch.
You tried not to listen for his voice among them. Or wonder if he was still awake.
The bed was too soft.
Too warm.
And no matter how many times you flipped the pillow, his scent lingered. Smoke and citrus. Salt and something sweet that made your throat tighten and your heart furious.
You buried your face in the cool side and growled into it.
This wasn’t comfort. This was tactical psychological warfare because even the damn sheets smelled smug.
Most of all, you tried to ignore the sound of his voice.
Soft.
Quiet.
Humming.
You froze.
Then—words. Low and familiar.
A lullaby.
Not a sea shanty. Not a pirate’s tune meant for long nights and loud drinks.
No, this was something else.
A song from your childhood. The one the temple matriarch used to hum when the storms were bad and the walls shook with wind. The one sung in quiet corners and safe arms. A song no outsider should know.
Your breath caught.
It wasn’t perfect. The words faltered at the edges, pronounced just wrong enough to sting, but it was unmistakable.
You sat up slowly, sheets forgotten, heart thudding in your chest.
You crossed the room before you realized you were moving. Slid to the floor. Pressed your ear close.
And lay flat against the floorboards.
Through the narrow gap beneath the door, you saw Shanks.
Sitting with his back to the wall, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up, elbow resting on his knee. His head was tilted toward the stars, eyes half-closed, humming like it was just for himself.
He wasn’t performing.
He wasn’t waiting for you to react, likely thinking you were asleep. He was just… bringing you home in the only way he knew how. And for the first time since waking on this ship, something in your chest ached that you couldn’t pretend was just anger.
You blinked hard, jaw tight.
Swallowed once. Then again.
Without a word, you crawled back into bed. Pulled the blanket up to your chin like it could shield you from whatever this was.
You didn’t open the door. You didn’t speak. You didn’t hum back. But your soulmark burned warm against your skin all night.
The two weeks ended quietly. No flash of light. No sudden ache. Just… stillness. You felt it the moment it lifted. Like someone had loosened a cord around your chest, letting air return to your lungs in full for the first time.
You looked at him.
Shanks was sitting across from you on the deck, one leg drawn up, lazily carving something into the edge of a crate with a small blade. Focused. Calm. The sun caught in his hair.
The mark on his chest still glowed faintly.
You tested it, took a step away. No burn. No tug. No warning.
You were free.
You could leave. Now. Walk off this ship, never look back, never feel his presence like a flame under your skin again. Dive into the water and just sink, if it seemed the best way to avoid a conversation.
Shanks didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t indicate if he’d known this moment would come. As if he were willing to let you go before asking you to stay.
Your chest tightened.
Freedom wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.
You didn’t jump into the sea, to your own disappointment.
Over the next hour, you kept waiting for him to shift. To drift.
To finally start reclaiming his space, his ship, and his crew, and act like an Emperor of the Seas. The version of him that probably existed before the soulmark. Loud, loose, insufferably magnetic. The man who stole you like a pirate and smiled like it was a gift.
He still brought you tea. Still leaned against the same post while you read. Still handed you your sword each morning with that maddening tenderness, like you were something sacred and breakable, not a girl who’d nearly stabbed him on arrival.
He stayed close.
Quietly. Without comment. Without expectation.
And it was worse than anything else he could’ve done.
So, later, as the sea stretched black and endless around you, as the stars blinked faintly overhead and the air turned cool against your skin, you sat at the edge of the deck and finally asked it.
Softly. Carefully. Like the words might break apart in your mouth.
“You know you don’t have to stay this close anymore… right?”
He looked up from where he sat just a few feet away, one arm resting over his bent knee, a half-finished carving still in his hands.
He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t tease. Shanks turned to face you fully. The wood forgotten. The sea wind lifted his hair just slightly as it passed between you.
“I know.”
The words settled between you like an anchor.
You looked down at your hands, picking at a hangnail you hadn’t noticed until now.
A beat passed. Then another.
The waves rocked against the hull, steady and slow.
He was quiet for a moment. Not the kind of silence that meant he didn’t know the answer, but the kind where he was weighing whether you were ready to hear it.
Then he set the carving down beside him. The motion was quiet and deliberate, like laying something fragile to rest.
He sat a little straighter, eyes steady, voice low.
“I don’t stay close because of the bond.”
You looked up.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t asking for anything. He just watched you with the open calm of someone laying down their sword. Not surrendering, just offering it.
“I stay because I love you.”
The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.
They fell between you with no drama. No hesitation. No pressure.
Just the truth.
Raw and unguarded. Offered like a blade held flat between two hands. Sharp if you chose to take it, but never forced.
You blinked once, then again. Something behind your ribs twisted painfully, like a rope pulling taut. You hated how warm your face felt. Hated how your throat closed up. How much worse this was than any flirtation, grin, or stolen moment of kindness.
Because this wasn’t a line, this wasn’t a game.
This was real.
You dropped your gaze back to the ocean, its dark surface rippling beneath the stars. Somewhere far off, a gull called. The waves lapped quietly at the hull.
You drew in a breath.
And then, softer than you meant it, barely above a whisper, “…I like it better when your annoying.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the barest flicker of a smile tug at his lips. He didn’t speak. He didn’t laugh. He just stayed beside you. Not touching. Not pushing. Just there.
You said nothing. You couldn’t.
The bond might have faded.
But something else had grown in its place. You could still feel it, pressing behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. No title. No claim. No magic.
Just a man, admitting a truth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Close enough to feel safe.Far enough to let you breathe.
You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, not bound anymore. But still not drifting apart.
And life continued.
Life aboard Red Force was unlike anything you had ever experienced.
Men.
Everywhere.
Loud, laughing, brawny, bearded men. Some sharpening blades, some hauling ropes, one balancing an entire keg on one shoulder like a sack of flour. You braced for barking, chest-beating, or a surprise duel to assert dominance.
Instead, one of them handed you a peach.
You blinked.
“You… speak?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The man nodded.
You narrowed your eyes. “Coherently.”
“Y-yes?” He looked slightly alarmed. “Most days?”
“With manners?”
Another nervous nod.
Behind you, Shanks strolled up like he was on a morning walk, hands in his pockets, grinning. “They’re trained.”
You turned, eyes wide. “They don’t throw things? Or grunt? Or compare—”
You gestured vaguely around your hips. “—spear sizes?”
From behind a crate, Yasopp shouted helpfully, “Only on Sundays!”
Shanks waved him off. “Don’t listen to Yasopp. He was raised by birds.”
You turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in.
“They’re… capable. And… clean-ish?”
Shanks looked delighted. “You sound dissatisfied.”
“I just assumed the average man’s brain was like… a moist sponge. Held together by aggression and meat.”
Someone dropped a barrel in the background, and another muttered, “Fair.”
You were still reeling as you passed through the middeck later. Rows of hammocks, spare boots tucked neatly to the side, a small shrine made entirely of snacks (Lucky Roo’s, apparently), and not a single visible injury caused by stupidity.
Curiosity got the better of you.
You pulled aside one of the younger crewmates, a sharp-eyed gunner named Lee, and whispered, “Okay. Tell me the truth. Is it actually true men have a vulnerable spot—”
A hand settled gently on your shoulder.
You froze.
Shanks, smiling like he’d just caught you cheating at cards. “I love that you’re curious.”
The man-child fled at the speed of dignity.
You folded your arms, looking put-out. “He was revealing man-secrets to me—”
Shanks stepped closer, voice warm and entirely too amused. “Sure. But maybe… don’t ask the crew about their bits.”
“I wasn’t—!”
“They’re sensitive. Private. Possibly haunted.”
You gave him a look. “I wasn’t asking for a tour.”
He leaned in slightly, the absolute nerve of the man. “Still. If you do want to discuss any parts that twitch, rise, or have ceremonial value—”
He paused, watching your jaw drop.
“—please let me be your guide.”
You gawked. “That is not cultural diplomacy.”
He winked. “It is if I use respectful language. And a chart.”
You stormed off in a flurry of indignation and stolen laundry, determined never to speak to him again. Later that day, a peach appeared beside your lunch tray. Tucked under it: a folded sketch labeled
“FOR STUDY – Figure 1: The Twitching Sword and Other Male Myths”
You stared at it. You stared at him.
Shanks had stolen the Karma Kuju scroll.
And then you threw the peach—and the chart—overboard.
Shanks caught your eye across the deck, looked scandalized, and called out:
“That was educational!”
You didn’t answer.
But that night, when you passed Lucky Roux and he offered you another peach, you muttered:
“…I’ll take it. But if it has a diagram, I swear to god I will set something on fire.”
The Red Force was many things: a warship, a sanctuary, a floating tavern when necessary. But above all, it was loud.
You learned this within days of being reluctantly relocated.
It was not the kind of ship that barked orders and marched in lockstep. No, this was a vessel crewed by grown men with terrifying weapon skills and the social decorum of overgrown children who had collectively decided chaos was a lifestyle choice. This also translated into their fashion.
They applauded your tantrums.
They cheered loudest when you insulted Shanks. You weren’t sure if they actually liked him.
They bet on how long you’d last without punching someone.
And somehow, you stayed.
And you fell into a routine.
You became used to the crew of the Red Force.
Mostly.
One morning, you tied your shirt to a line strung between two masts because someone had to clean your laundry, and it wasn’t going to be Shanks. You did it peacefully, rationally, with the air of a woman who just wanted dry clothes and some semblance of dignity.
Then Limejuice wandered by, squinted at it.
“Think it’d make a good sail patch if it catches wind.”
Before you could stop him, he yeeted it skyward.
It fluttered like a surrender flag and smacked Shanks directly in the face as he emerged from below deck.
He peeled it off with a blink, looked at the shirt, then at you, and said with infuriating calm, “If you wanted me to wear something of yours, sweetheart, you could’ve just said so.”
You vowed to drown him in his sleep.
He winked.
Shanks offered to cook to make amends.
“Romantic gesture,” he declared. “Very domestic. Very husband-coded.”
“Man-creature coded.” You hissed.
You didn’t trust it.
You were right not to.
Twenty minutes later, the galley was an apocalyptic battlefield. Spices had been weaponized. Smoke curled out from under the door. Yasopp was weeping. A single seagull lay unconscious on the windowsill.
Shanks emerged, eyebrows singed.
“So, uh. Turns out I can’t cook.”
You sat beside him on the upper deck, covered in flour, watching the smoke plume skyward.
“I noticed.”
“Still,” he said, nudging your knee. “We technically made dinner together. That’s relationship stuff.”
You didn’t respond. But you didn't push him off when he rested his head against your shoulder and muttered something about needing a fireproof cookbook.
Later that week, Benn Beckman dragged Shanks aside with the slow, weary patience of someone who’d seen this exact situation unravel dozens of times.
You paused near the mast and listened.
“She is not one of the tavern girls, Captain.”
“I know that.”
“She has a brain. And knives. And principles. Stop flirting like a drunk raccoon.”
“I like drunk raccoons.”
“You are one.”
A silence.
“Benn,” Shanks said, solemnly. “I think I’m in real trouble.”
“We all are,” Benn muttered, lighting his pipe. “But mostly you.”
There were other moments, quieter ones. Rare things, like pearls in sand.
Like when you woke up from a dream, unfamiliar stars above, the sea humming soft beneath the board, and found him sitting nearby, eyes fixed on the horizon, his hand resting next to yours.
He didn’t know you were awake.
He just watched the sea, wind in his hair, hand outstretched like he was reaching for something sacred.
“She’s not mine,” he murmured. “Not yet. But gods, I want her to stay.”
Your breath caught.
You closed your eyes and pretended to still be asleep. The next morning, there was a peach beside your breakfast plate. No note. Just a single, perfect fruit.
You didn’t throw it overboard this time.
You ate it quietly, cheeks warm, and didn’t speak of it.
Life on the Red Force wasn’t simple.
But it was full.
Of noise. Of absurdity. Of terrible singing and better wine. Of men who made room for your presence without hesitation.
And of one red-haired pirate who was trying to become the kind of man worth choosing.
You didn’t miss home.
That’s what you told yourself.
You didn’t miss the palace baths, the temple bells at dawn, the scent of wildflowers braided into your hair by hands you trusted.
You didn’t miss your sisters.
You certainly didn’t miss their habit of fussing over your appearance, brushing your hair while gossiping about trade envoys and cursed scrolls.
You were fine. Absolutely fine. A big girl in all respects.
Right up until the third morning on the Red Force, when you couldn’t untangle the braid you slept in and snapped:
“Do all men shed like lions?!”
Shanks leaned against the doorframe of your quarters, arms crossed, head tilted.
“Want help?”
“You are one-handed.” You blinked. “And you want to do my hair?”
He shrugged, wiggling his fingers. “I’ve got one very good hand for it. Used to braid my fellow cabin boy’s hair during long voyages. Therapeutic.”
You squinted. “That’s a lie.”
He stepped closer, gently plucked the comb from your hand, and said,
“You trust me to sail through storms with you, but not brush your hair?”
“I don’t trust you with anything soft,” you muttered. “You’d probably flirt with the brush.”
But you sat anyway. Grumbling. Like a martyr.
“Only if it has good bristles.”
You laughed and conceded. It became… a thing.
A quiet thing, one you didn’t ask for. He never announced it. No grand declarations. No smug commentary.
Just routine.
Each morning, after you washed your face and settled into your corner of the cabin, he’d appear, comb in hand. That stupid, serene expression on his face like this was regular. Like he was normal, like he hadn’t abducted you, charmed half your fury into submission, and now somehow declared himself your personal hairstylist by divine pirate law.
He never said anything cutting. Depending on the day, just knelt or stood behind you and then he’d start combing with slow, careful strokes like you were made of spun glass and threats.
At first, it was infuriating, unnerving, and intimate in a way that battle and banter could never be.
His breath on your neck, the way he’d bring your hair to his mouth if he needed to hold it a certain way. You’ve told him to stop. Twice. He pretends he can’t hear without both arms.
He just hums.
Softly. Casually. Whatever song was stuck in his head or stolen from your past. Sometimes he hummed low, thoughtful melodies that blended with the creak of the ship and the soft splash of waves against the hull. Sometimes he tapped lightly on your shoulder when he needed an extra hand, like he trusted you to help him with your own hair.
And eventually, you stopped telling him to leave.
Mostly because you knew he wouldn’t.
But also because he was careful. Always.
Not a single pull. Not a single wince. Just the rhythmic sound of the comb through your hair and the quiet steadiness of his presence.
It was the kind of attention that didn’t ask for anything back.
Which made it worse.
So you sat there each morning, pretending it didn’t mean anything. And he stood behind you, pretending he didn’t already know it did.
He was careful with the tangles. Gentle with the knots. He never tugged, never rushed. He moved with the quiet focus you’d only ever seen in people handling something sacred.
He never looked at you through the mirror unless you met his eyes first.
And when he tied the final ribbon, or looped a braid through your crown, he’d step back, tilt his head slightly, and say with maddening warmth,
“There. Ready to conquer something?”
At first, you told yourself it was practical.
You had no sisters here. No one tends to the small things. No one to fuss or remind you of the rituals that tethered you to who you were.
This was just convenience.
It was efficient.
But then he started leaving small things by your basin.
A carved wooden pin you’d admired once while walking through a port town, tucked beside your brush without a word. A softer comb, better suited for your hair. A ribbon in Kuja clan colors, dyed just right, wrapped in cloth like an offering.
And once, a sprig of your favorite flower. Not from this region. Not from this ship. Something you’d mentioned in passing, only once, on a sleepless night beneath the stars. You found it lying gently on your towel the next morning. Still dewy. Still fragrant.
You turned on him then, suspicious, unmoored.
“What is this?” you asked, voice sharper than you meant.
He looked up from his journal, relaxed, unaffected.
His answer came simply.
“Because you deserve to feel as lovely as you are.”
You hated how your heart stuttered.
How your fingers clenched uselessly around the flower.
How part of you wanted to throw it at him, and the other part wanted to press it between the pages of a book and carry it for the rest of your life.
One evening, you sat with your hair loose, brushing it absently.
The air was soft and salty, heavy with the warmth of late light. Lanterns glowed gold across the wooden walls, and the hum of the crew had long faded into quiet. Only the sea remained, and the sound of bristles moving slowly through your hair.
Shanks passed behind you, his footsteps easy, his presence unmistakable. He stopped.
You did not turn, but you felt him watching. Something unreadable lingered in his silence.
“Want help?”
You kept your eyes forward. “You did it this morning.”
There was a pause. Then the sound of him stepping closer, the creak of old wood beneath his feet, and his voice, lower now.
“That was for you,” he said, the words brushing close. “This one is just because I like touching you.”
You went still. The kind of still that lived deep in your chest. Then, without a word, you held the brush out to him. He took it gently, with a care that said he understood exactly what you were giving him.
He settled behind you, quiet as dusk. One leg folded, the other stretched lazily beside him, familiar and close.
His fingers moved with steady purpose. The brush passed through your hair in long, patient strokes. He touched you like he was listening, like your silence told him everything he needed to know.
The tension in your shoulders eased before you realized it had. The rhythm of his hands made the air feel softer and safer.
Your soulmark began to glow. Faint, warm, steady. A slow burn just beneath your skin.
You noticed his love in the little things.
The way he didn’t speak when you lit incense by the railing that first morning. He just stood nearby, quiet, eyes on the horizon as the smoke curled skyward, as if the act belonged to a world he wasn’t part of, but one he was willing to protect.
The way he offered your cup during meals with a quiet hand. Not casually, not thoughtlessly. He set it in front of you with a softness that suggested he knew it mattered, even if he never asked why.
The way he never stepped too close when you were angry. He hovered at the edge of your reach, waiting, watching, giving you space to burn. But he was there when sadness settled into your shoulders and silence stretched too long. Just close enough. Not touching. Just there.
And when he braided your hair, he didn’t ask if he was doing it right. He didn’t fumble, joke, or make it performative.
He just did it.
One-handed, slow and steady, with the same rhythm your sisters used. Fingers threading through strands like memory. He looped, twisted, and tucked with a reverence you had not expected from anyone outside the island. Let alone him.
At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence.
A fluke.
But then came the bow. Not the kind of bow pirates used, careless and exaggerated.
No, this was different. Controlled. Intentional. The kind your elders taught you to return before crossing into sacred ground. The kind reserved for gods, shrines, and quiet places where your voice did not belong.
He did it without hesitation, without needing to be told.
You stared at him.
“…Where did you learn that?”
He glanced up from the satchel he had been packing, then straightened with a shrug.
“This place is sacred now you’re in it.”
Simple. Like it was obvious.
He never touched your shoulder when guiding you, even in chaos or haste. His fingers always found your wrist instead; the touchpoint of trust in your culture. The place a warrior offers freely to those they deem safe.
You never told him that.
But he knew.
You didn’t say anything at first.
You let it sit there, unspoken. Let it build, day by day, in the rituals he never named but honored all the same. In the small choices. In the way he had stopped trying to belong to your world and started making space for it on his ship. He was so much more than the man who stole you from your home. He had learned you. Without demand. Without claiming. He had listened. And somewhere along the way, you had stopped trying not to be heard.
One night, long after the others had gone below deck, you sat together in silence.
The stars spread wide above you, sharp and cold in the black sky. The sea was calm for once, rolling in slow, deep breaths. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed somewhere far ahead.
You watched him for a long moment, the breeze brushing your cheek like a question.
Then you whispered it.
“You learned all this on purpose… didn’t you? While you were at the Amazon Lily.”
He didn’t look at you.
Didn’t blink. Just smiled.
Soft. Quiet. Eyes on the sea.
“I wanted to learn you.”
Not your title.
Not your power.
You.
And somehow, that quiet confession undid something in you that nothing else had.
Because he hadn’t said it like a prize. Or a strategy. Or a clever line.
He had said it like a vow.
The Red Force cut through the sea like it belonged to it. Like the water had parted just to let it pass.
You stood on the deck, arms crossed, wrapped tightly in one of the crew’s coats. You had refused the blanket Shanks offered, on principle. The coat was scratchy and a little too big, but it didn’t smell like him. That was the essential element.
The wind tugged your hair into knots. Your soul mark pulsed gently beneath your glove. It was warm, steady, and insufferable.
And you were livid.
Not just because he’d taken you while you were asleep, like a romantic idiot with no concept of boundaries. Not because he had done anything that typically provoked your ire.
But because he left.
“Where is he?” you muttered, eyes scanning the horizon like he might be foolish enough to stroll back mid-storm.
Benn Beckman looked up from his map table with the ease of a man who had heard every tone of fury known to mankind. He barely glanced over.
“Meeting with a rival crew. They crossed into our territory.”
You blinked. “So he just leaves us here?!”
Benn didn’t even look up.
“You mean he left you here?”
Your jaw locked. He went back to his charts.
“He left you where you’d be safe.”
“That’s not the same,” you snapped. “He didn’t even ask—”
Benn raised a brow, eyes still on the map. “You care that much?”
The question hit like a slap.
Not cruel. Not loud. Just… true.
You froze.
Then scowled. Harder. Sharper. As if you could hide behind it. As if fury could keep you from unraveling under something as quiet as truth.
Your silence was enough.
Benn sighed. The kind of sigh that came from knowing too much and saying too little. He reached for his mug and took a slow sip, like he was rationing his patience one swallow at a time.
“He’s not trying to trick you,” he said. “He’s not off charming some tavern girl or vanishing to avoid you.” His tone stayed even. Measured. Not pleading. Just honest.
“He’s giving you space. That’s all.” He said calmly, “Which, for him, is progress.”
You didn’t reply.
You turned away instead, fists balled in the sleeves of the borrowed coat, the fabric coarse and unfamiliar against your skin.
The wind pulled at your hair like it had something to say, but it said nothing useful; Just the salt and cold and quiet.
It didn’t take your anger with it.
It only left you with the weight of your own breathing. And the maddening, persistent heat of your soulmark, pulsing steadily under your glove like it knew something you refused to admit.
Later, in the privacy of your cabin, you stood for a long moment in front of the coat rack.
The borrowed coat hung heavy on your shoulders.
You didn’t sigh. Didn’t groan, roll your eyes, or make a dramatic scene removing it.
You just reached for his.
It was warmer.
Softer.
It smelled like salt and citrus and something that made your throat tighten.
You put it on without a word.
And Benn, who had seen the whole thing from where he leaned outside the door, mercifully kept his mouth shut.
Because he knew a surrender when he saw one.
Even if it came in the form of a stolen coat.
You stormed to the bow of the ship, muttering under your breath in three languages and inventing a fourth out of spite. The wind snapped at the sleeves. His sleeves. The damn coat fit too well.
Too warm. Too steady. Too his.
Hours passed.
You didn’t move much.
Just sat on a crate near the railing, hunched like a stormcloud, soulmark faintly warm under your glove. Not burning. Just there.
Persistent. Irritating. Smug.
You glared at the moon like it owed you a personal apology.
And then, you heard him.
Before you saw him.
Boots on wood. Familiar. Steady.
Laughter. Easy and low, like a man returning from a brawl he enjoyed.
The clink of a sake jug.
And his voice. Low. Casual. Amazed.
“Sweetheart, is that my coat?”
You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.
He was close enough now to lean against the railing beside you, and of course, he did.
You didn’t look at him. You stared out at the water like it had better answers than he ever would. He waited. Patient. Annoyingly quiet.
His hand brushed your shoulder, and you couldn’t help the way you stood straighter, back tingling.
“Looks good on you,” he said, gently, like he wasn’t trying to win anything. Just… telling the truth.
You shifted, not enough to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
“Don’t read into it,” you muttered.
“I never do,” he lied, eyes dancing.
Your soulmark flared a little warmer. You adjusted the collar to hide your face from the moonlight. He grinned into the night air like he’d just been handed treasure.
You didn’t turn around.
“I considered throwing myself overboard.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I like boats.”
“You like me.”
You turned then, slow and lethal, eyes blazing.
“Don’t start.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but stepped closer anyway. The soft kind of close. Careful. Intentional.
“I had to check the borders,” he said, voice lower now. “Someone crossed into my waters.”
“And you couldn’t just tell me?” You turned him before you could stop. The coat swayed around your legs, heavy with warmth you refused to acknowledge.
Your faces were the closest you’d ever dared.
“I woke up and you were gone. I thought—” You stopped short. Swallowed it. “I thought—.”
His expression shifted. Just a little.
He gave you that soft, infuriating look. The one that made your soulmark glow and your fury spike all at once.
“I thought if I explained,” he said carefully, “you’d try to talk me out of it.”
You stared at him. Furious. Hurt.
Silent.
“Would you have?” he asked, quieter.
You clenched your jaw. Looked away.
“I don’t ask for your permission,” you snapped. “But I deserve your trust.”
“You have it,” he said. “All of it.”
The words hung in the air like they might fall apart if you breathed too loudly.
You said nothing. You just crossed your arms, the coat sleeves slipping past your wrists.
He smiled, smaller now. Real.
“I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “I just wanted to keep you safe.”
Your soulmark pulsed warm under your glove. Unhelpful. Unwelcome. Steady.
“I wouldn’t have tried to stop you,” you said tightly.
“You would,” he replied, voice soft. “Because you care.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. And it scares you.”
You stood, fists clenched at your sides, breath quickening.
“It doesn’t scare me.”
“Yes, it does,” he whispered. “Because if it didn’t… You wouldn’t understand why I had to go.”
And that was the part that hurt the most.
You did understand.
You understood perfectly. Every reason. Every instinct. Every shadow of duty behind his decision.
And that made you angrier than anything else.
Because understanding him meant forgiving him, which meant this was already more than it should be.
You looked away.
He stepped forward, crossing the invisible line you’d both silently honored for days. Close enough for the mark to hum gently between you. Close enough to feel the heat where your souls still reached.
“I always come back.”
Your voice cracked before you could stop it.
“Stop being like this.”
“Like what?”
You grit your teeth. “Like someone I could fall in love with.”
He didn’t smile.
Not this time.
His expression softened slightly, and he reached up, fingers brushing his chest where your name still glowed.
“It’s only fair we match.”
You did not notice how close he had gotten.
Not at first.
You had been talking about nothing, really. The stars. The wind. Something one of the crew shouted earlier that made you laugh harder than you meant to.
He smiled when you laughed.
Not a flirtatious smile.
Not smug.
Just warm.
Like someone who had been waiting a long time to see you happy.
When you turned back to him, you were already closer than before.
There was no soulmark burning.
No fate tugging.
No divine push.
Just you. Just him. Still close.
His hand shifted slightly between you. Not reaching. Not coaxing. Just there. Still. Waiting.
You looked at it. Then at him.
He did not ask.
He did not move.
And when you leaned forward, heart hammering, you were unsure if you would brush his cheek or shove him into the sea.
But your lips met his.
And the world held its breath.
It was not urgent or desperate. It was soft. Intentional.
You kissed him like a question.
And he answered it gently, like it had always been his to answer.
His hand rose, careful and reverent, cupping your cheek like he could not believe you were real. Like he would have to earn this moment all over again if he blinked.
When you pulled back, you did not go far.
Your breath mingled as your foreheads touched.
Neither of you spoke.
There was no smirking. No teasing. No clever lines.
Just him. Steady like the tide.
“Not because I am weak,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “Because I’d choose you, even without fate.”
.
.
.
When you were nine, you ‘learned’ what a man was. Years later, you finally met a real one.
Red-haired Shanks.
Charming.
Clean.
Beautiful red hair.
Nice hands.
Didn’t scream. Didn’t grunt. Didn’t conquer anyone that day.
Smiled at you like you were something sacred.
You can forgive yourself for adopting this man-creature.
guys, this is literally me
my husbands are so fine bro 🥹🥹
in theory i love the concept of shane and ilya wearing each other's jerseys but in practice i think they both would rather saw off their own arm
y’all don’t understand how bad i need to see phm from stratt’s perspective uughghggggh
Nitin Sawhney remembers working on a remix for The Fireman in 1998:
I was commissioned to do it and I was sitting at home just staring at the computer thinking, ‘How do I approach this?’ [Later on...] I get this call from McCartney’s manager or whoever, who suddenly says, ‘Paul would like to come by this evening and see how you’re doing.’ I was living in Tooting in this tiny little bedsit and sharing with four other people. I came down the stairs and I said, ‘Listen guys, Paul McCartney’s coming round at seven o’clock this evening!’ They’re looking at me like ‘Yeah, right,’ and I said, ‘No, Paul McCartney is coming here at seven o’clock this evening.’ Everyone started running round tidying the place up, getting rid of beer stains on sofas that had been there for a long time.
He came round and came upstairs and it was such a weird moment. At first I kind of looked at him and thought ‘That’s Paul McCartney!’ I suddenly realised that, although I’d never met him, I knew a lot about him. I’ve never been a major Beatles fan or anything like that, though I think they wrote some beautiful songs, so I’ve never really focused on The Beatles or on Paul McCartney. So it was a weird thing, but then at the same time I realised that this is somebody that I know. I know that his wife died, and when he picked up my guitar to play about I thought, of course, he’s left-handed. And then he started talking about clubs and I thought he might be talking about The Cavern...
As I was talking to him, I thought how he’s really down-to-earth and not an arsehole. In a way I kind of half expected him to be an arsehole. You think if someone’s worth half a billion pounds they’ve got to be an arsehole, but I thought he was very easy to talk to, I thought, ‘I could go for a drink with this bloke.’ He was just kind of chatty, and he was talking a lot. The thing that freaked me out, though, was when he goes ‘Maybe I could put down a bit of guitar on this mix that you’ve done now.’ I went ‘All right.’
OK, I’ve got to now record Paul McCartney in my room in my piddly little studio that doesn’t really work that well. It was kind of set up for me, and that was about it. I thought, ‘Shit, I’ve got my guitar here, I’ve got to set up all the mics’, and I was shaking like a fucking leaf. But it was great. What was nice was that he played me a bit of ‘Yesterday’ on my guitar and he was going ‘I wrote that in a little bedsit a bit like this’, and I think he called it ‘Scrambled Eggs’ or something. He was talking about the whole vibe of how he did it and he showed me all the original chord structures and I was sitting there thinking ‘Fucking hell!’ It was a bit of a mindblowing thing as he’s like part of world history.
Ian Peel, The Unknown Paul McCartney and the Avant Garde, 2013
I am so ready for the day that Ghost manages to get full access to Daisy. 😵💫 just picturing him making her out on the dress she wore to their wedding so he can “properly consummate it, like they should have done that day”
(I love them, your honor)
Ugh yes. Daisy incredibly pent up and panting in his mouth "I need, I need-" and Simon just being like "I know what you need baby, I've known all along."