Look, you didn't ask for a best friend whose dad is the god of the sea. You just wanted someone to share blue Jolly Ranchers with during Algebra II.
But here you are.
Being friends with Percy Jackson comes with a lot of hazards. Exploding toilets? Check. Gym teachers turning into monsters you cannot see? Standard Tuesday. But the biggest hazard, the one nobody warned you, is the summer.
Specifically, the part where he vanishes to Camp Half-Blood, and you stay in the mortal world.
For Percy, camp is supposed to be a safe haven. But this summer, the monsters aren't outside the borders; they’re in his head. Every time he tries to sleep in Cabin Three, listening to the fountain drip, his ADHD brain doesn't focus on quests or prophecies.
It hyper-fixates on you.
And more specifically, on the guys who get to sit next to you in the cafeteria while he’s off fighting harpies.
He tries to Iris Message you, but the connection is always misty. Once, he saw a guy’s arm draped over the back of your chair. Just a friendly gesture, right? Not to Percy.
To Percy, that arm looked like a hydra head that needed lopping off. He spent the rest of the summer slicing training dummies in half with a little too much enthusiasm, imagining they were wearing varsity jackets.
By the time August rolls around and he comes back to the city, the jealousy has crusted over his heart like barnacles on a hull.
The reunion is supposed to be sweet. You guys plan a trip to the beach, Montauk, obviously. It's his turf.
He wants to show off a little, maybe walk on water, maybe just hold your hand without worrying about a hellhound jumping him.
Then you invite Kyle.
Kyle is perfectly nice. He’s in your biology class. He has floppy hair and a laugh that sounds like a seal barking, and he brought a Frisbee. He is entirely, tragically mortal.
"I didn't know we were bringing guests," Percy says when he sees him.
His voice is casual, that easy-going tone he uses when he’s bluffing a god, but his eyes are stormy. Sea-green, darkening to a violent, deep-ocean gray.
"Kyle just wanted to tag along," you say, smiling, oblivious to the fact that the air pressure around you just dropped ten degrees. "Is that cool?"
Percy forces a crooked grin. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. Totally cool."
The drive is excruciating. Kyle talks about lacrosse. Kyle talks about his dad’s boat. Percy grips the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks, listening to the way you laugh at Kyle’s terrible jokes. In Percy's mind, he's connecting dots that don't exist.
She likes him. She forgot about me. I saved Olympus, and I'm losing her to a guy who wears Axe body spray.
When you get to the beach, the ocean greets Percy like an old friend. The waves get choppy, slamming against the sand with a rhythm that matches his heartbeat.
"Let's get in!" Kyle yells, peeling off his shirt and sprinting for the surf.
You follow him, wading in up to your waist.
The water is cold, waking you up, salty and sharp. Percy stands back for a second, watching. He watches Kyle splash you. As he watches you shriek and splash back. He watches Kyle’s hand linger on your shoulder to steady himself against a wave.
That's the line.
Percy walks into the water. He doesn't shiver. The ocean doesn't make him cold; it energizes him. He feels the currents tugging at his ankles, waiting for a command. Being the Son of Poseidon isn't just about talking to horses or breathing underwater.
It's about control.
And right now, he feels like he’s losing control of everything, except the sea.
"Hey, Jackson!" Kyle calls out, treading water out past the break. "Bet you can't swim out this far!"
Percy smirks. It’s a dark, sad little look. "You would be surprised what I can do."
He dives.
Under the surface, it’s silent. Percy opens his eyes. The salt doesn't sting. He looks at Kyle’s legs kicking aimlessly above him. He feels a pang of guilt a small, mortal part of him that says this is wrong.
But then he remembers the way Kyle looked at you, and remembers the long, lonely nights at camp wondering if you were moving on.
The jealousy roars louder than his conscience.
Percy clenches his fist.
The water obeys instantly. It doesn't look like magic from the surface. It just looks like a freak current. A riptide.
Around Kyle, the water hardens. It shifts from fluid to a vice. You’re only ten feet away, laughing as you wipe water from your eyes, waiting for Percy to pop up. You don't see the way Kyle's expression shifts from joy to confusion, then to sheer panic.
He tries to swim up, but the ocean grabs his ankles. It’s not a wave crashing down; it’s the depths reaching up.
The water fills Kyle's mouth before he can scream. It drags him down, heavy and relentless.
Percy stays under, watching. He ensures the current pushes Kyle deep, tumbling him along the sandy bottom, far away from you.
Far away from anyone. The ocean is vast, and it keeps secrets better than anyone.
When Percy finally breaks the surface, he’s right next to you. His hair is wet and messy, his eyes bright and innocent.
"Where's Kyle?" you ask, looking around. The water is calm now. Suspiciously calm. "He was just here."
Percy looks around, feigning confusion perfectly. "I don't know. Maybe he went back to shore? Or maybe he swam out further?"
"Kyle!" you yell, spinning in the water. Panic starts to set in. "Kyle!"
Percy puts a hand on your arm. His grip is firm, grounding. "Hey, hey. Don't worry. I'm here."
He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you to keep you steady against the gentle bob of the waves.
You're trembling, scanning the horizon for a friend who is already miles deep and miles away, carried off by a current that answered to one master.
"I’m sure he’s fine," Percy lies, his voice smooth like velvet. He rests his chin on top of your head, looking out at the endless blue.
The sea feels satisfied.
He feels satisfied.
The competition is gone. The doubt is drowned.
"It's just you and me," he whispers into your hair, holding you tight as the tide rolls in. "Just you and me."
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Hours later, the moon is high and the house is quiet.
You are asleep inside the rented beach house, exhausted from hours of crying and talking to the Coast Guard.
While Percy is sitting on the porch railing, his legs dangling over the edge, staring at the dark horizon. He’s drinking a blue cherry Gatorade, looking for all the world like a guy who’s just bummed out about a tragic accident, not a guy who just orchestrated one.
The air smells like rain and ozone. Suddenly, the scent shifts. It smells like a sea breeze mixed with Old Spice and suntan lotion.
Percy doesn't even look up. "Hey, Dad."
Poseidon leans against the porch support beam. He’s dressed in his usual vacationing in Florida attire, khaki cargo shorts, leather sandals, and a Tommy Bahama shirt with parrots on it that seem to be actually moving. He looks relaxed, but his eyes, those same green eyes Percy has, are narrowed.
"Rough day at the beach," Poseidon says. His voice is deep, like the rumble of a wave hitting a cliff.
Percy swirls the Gatorade in the bottle. "Yeah. Current was strong. You know how it is."
"I do," Poseidon says. "I also know the difference between a natural riptide and a hydro-kinetic execution."
Percy finally looks at him. There’s no fear in his face. Usually, Percy gets nervous around the gods, worried about smiting or turning into a dolphin. But tonight, he looks hollowed out and hardened.
"He was touching her, Dad," Percy says. It’s not a whine; it’s a statement of fact. "He was loud, annoying, and he thought he had a chance."
"So you drowned him," Poseidon muses, stroking his beard. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds like he's reviewing a batting average.
"I removed an obstacle," Percy corrects. He sets the bottle down.
"I spend all year fighting giants and Titans. I hold up the sky. I save the world. I come back, and some mortal with a Frisbee thinks he can just take my place?" Percy shakes his head. "I didn't survive Tartarus to lose her to Kyle."
Percy waits for the lecture, waits for Poseidon to tell him that heroes don't kill mortals, that he's crossed a line, and that Zeus is going to have a field day with this.
Instead, Poseidon chuckles. It's a dry, salty sound.
"You really are my son," the god says, a strange sort of pride in his voice. He walks over and puts a heavy hand on Percy’s shoulder. "I was worried you were taking too much after your mother. Too soft. Too forgiving."
Percy blinks, surprised. "You're... not mad?"
"Mad?" Poseidon looks out at the ocean, watching the moonlight dance on the black water. "Percy, look at me. Do you know how many sailors I have dragged to the bottom just because they didn't pour enough wine overboard? Do you know what I did to Odysseus just because he blinded my son? I made him wander for ten years."
Poseidon looks back at Percy, his eyes twinkling with ancient, chaotic energy.
"We are the sea, Percy," he says softly. "The sea is beautiful, yes. But it is also jealous. It is possessive. It takes what it wants, and it does not give it back."
He squeezes Percy’s shoulder. "You saw something that belonged to you, and you made sure it stayed yours. I can’t exactly fault you for acting according to your nature."
Percy breathes out, a tension he didn't know he was holding releasing from his chest. "So, I'm good?"
"You're fine," Poseidon assures him. "The mortals will call it a tragedy, the police will find nothing and the ocean keeps its secrets." He pauses, fading slightly into mist, ready to return to Atlantis.
"Just...maybe keep the body count low, son. It makes the paperwork annoying."
"Thanks, Dad," Percy says.
"Don't mention it," Poseidon says, his form dissolving into sea spray. "And Percy? She's a catch. Don’t let anyone else cast a line."
"I won't," Percy whispers to the empty porch. He looks back toward the window where you’re sleeping. "Never again."
mike’s humming something low and distorted, a song from some band he’s been obsessed with lately, and he doesn’t stop even when he leans in. he presses his lips to your forehead first, then your temple, the vibration of the hum buzzing against your skin. his eyes a little tired, hair a complete disaster, but he’s focused entirely on you.
he kisses your cheek. then the corner of your mouth. then your chin. it’s constant and a little overwhelming in the best way, just mike being kind of a loser about you. you start to break, a laugh bubbling up in your throat because the humming is making your face itch. you’re giggling now, hands coming up to his chest to push him back, but you’re not trying that hard.
“mike, move,” you’re saying through your teeth, still laughing. “enough!”
his hands just slide down, gripping your hips to keep you right where you are. he’s grinning, looking way too proud of himself for making you lose it. he tilts his head, messy curls falling over his forehead, and gives you this look that’s half teasing, half serious.
“what?” he says, pulling you a little closer. “can’t i kiss my baby?”
you roll your eyes, but your hands are already tangled in the mess of hair at the back of his neck because you’re a hypocrite. he doesn’t wait for an answer, just huffs a laugh and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his nose cold against your skin.
he starts that humming thing again. he’s heavy, leaning his weight into you until you’re backed up against the edge of your desk, and he just stays there. he’s like a giant, clingy dog that doesn't realize how big he is.
"you're annoying," you mutter, but you're pulling him closer anyway.
"yeah, whatever," he mumbles against your pulse, his breath hot. his grip on your hips tightens just a little, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you aren't going anywhere. "you're the one who let me in."
he pulls back just enough to look at you. he reaches up, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, dragging it down just a bit. he looks like he’s trying to memorize your face or something equally stupid and personal.
"one more," he says, sounding way too smug. "just one."
but it’s never just one with him. he kisses you again, slow and deep this time, tasting like the coffee he’s been drinking all day. and when he pulls away, he’s got a dumb, lopsided grin that makes him look like a total jerk, and you know you’re definitely not getting any work done now.
hi! I saw your stories and I really liked them! May I request a oneshot with Shanks and Reader as his wife? Any plot is fine!
Free As The Sea ( VIGNETTE )
SUMMARY: Shanks is a pirate unlike any other, free-spirited, loyal, and fiercely protective of the woman who chooses to sail with him. ( His everyday life with his wife. )
Genre: Romance. Fluff.
Author's Note: I tried to capture Shank's persona.. It's hard. It's short. (Just to be clear, he isn't a Yonko yet.)
Pairing: Shanks x AFAB!Wife Reader
A pirate takes what they want, whether it’s legal or not.
It wouldn’t matter. Laws were chains to most men of the sea. Rules were a joke, whispered warnings, and the taste of freedom was far too sweet to surrender. Most pirates were selfish, self-serving, greedy, chasing power, wealth, or notoriety.
Shanks was not most pirates.
Selfish, perhaps. Self-serving, maybe. Greedy? Never. He was a different breed entirely. He was adventurous. Free. Freedom was the treasure he lived for and the same freedom he offered to those he cared about. His crew, his friends, his allies and even you.
You had been nothing special at first. A girl stuck in a small East Blue village, a life of predictable routines and unfulfilled dreams. But Shanks saw something others never did. A spark hidden behind your quiet demeanor, a fire in your eyes when they met the horizon. You stared at the sea as if it were a challenge, a promise, and perhaps a question: Would anyone dare follow?
Shanks did.
He approached you one evening as the sun dipped below the waves, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson. Your hair caught the wind, your eyes shimmering with the reflection of the open sea. “ Ever thought of sailing? ” he asked, casually, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Not as a command, not as an obligation but as a possibility.
You laughed, thinking he was joking. “ Me? Sail? I- ”
He smiled, the kind of smile that made the world pause for a heartbeat. “ I’m serious. You can choose. Stay here, live as you’ve always lived…or come with me. See the world, and meet its wonders. ”
The fire in your heart answered before your lips could. That was the moment you became a part of his story, and he a part of yours.
Life aboard his ship was nothing like you imagined. It was messy, chaotic, and beautiful. You learned to climb the rigging, navigate by the stars, and laugh, because Shanks would laugh louder than anyone else, proving that nothing could ever be taken too seriously. He celebrated life in its purest form, and he made sure you did too.
Yet, amid all the adventures, he never lost sight of you. Not in the way that suffocates or confines, but in the way that sees and cherishes. He respected your freedom as fiercely as he did his own. Every choice was yours to make, every path your own to take. But he was always there steady, unwavering, a touchstone amid the storm of life at sea.
Months turned into years, and the bond between you deepened like the sea itself, vast, unpredictable, and enduring. You laughed at the same jokes, braved storms together, and shared quiet moments beneath the stars. And slowly, unspoken but inevitable, a promise took root.. a love not bound by land, not confined by chains, but forged in trust, and freedom.
It had been unexpected. Neither of you planned it. You thought yourselves too wild, too unmoored to settle. But here you were: two hearts intertwined, two souls daring to carve a life from adventure, laughter, and loyalty.
You had each other, and that, Shanks believed, was the greatest freedom of all.
The sea had a rhythm of its own, a pulse that seemed to sync with your heartbeat over time. Days blurred into nights and nights into days, but the ocean never felt the same twice. Waves whispered secrets against the hull, gulls cried overhead, and the wind carried the scent of salt and freedom. And through it all, Shanks was there.
He wasn’t the type to hover or fuss. That wasn’t him. But if danger ever crept close, his presence was immediate, sharp, and unyielding, like a sudden gust cutting across the deck. You could feel it even before your eyes met his, an instinct, honed over years of life on the edge of lawlessness.
One morning, the sun had barely begun to warm the horizon, and you were leaning against the rail, the chill biting your cheeks. A smaller ship appeared in the distance, sails taut, approaching fast. Your first instinct was excitement; the thought of a potential raid or trade made your pulse race. Shanks, however, moved differently.
“ Stay close, ” he said, his voice low but carrying over the wind. He didn’t sound alarmed, just alert. Protective. His eyes scanned the approaching vessel like a hawk watching prey, calculating, measuring. And in that moment, you realized it wasn’t ownership you felt from him, not control but a fierce, almost instinctual care that made your heart swell.
The crew scrambled as the ship drew nearer, weapons readied, orders barked, but you noticed something odd. Shanks didn’t shout. He simply moved among his men, guiding, redirecting, subtly positioning everyone, and yet always aware of you. One of the crew caught your sleeve, worried about the approaching pirates, and you felt Shanks’ hand brush your back, a small touch, grounding, saying silently, I’ve got you.
The enemy ship’s flag was raised, black with a red emblem. Shanks squinted, tilted his head, then laughed, a rich, unrestrained sound that cut through the tension. “ Well, well…looks like they’re in a hurry for trouble. ” He drew his sword slowly, spinning it in a way that seemed more casual than threatening. But you saw the precision in his movements, the promise that no harm would come near you if he could prevent it.
The skirmish that followed was chaos, but also beauty in its rawest form. Shouts, the clash of metal, the spray of sea, all of it interwoven with moments of quiet. Amid it, Shanks’ attention flicked to you more than once. He wanted you safe, free, and unscathed, even as he thrived in the danger around you.
After the fight, when the other ship fled, you found yourself leaning against the mast, heart racing, hands trembling. Shanks approached, brushing water and sweat from his hair, eyes glinting with both amusement and concern.
“ You’re shaking, ” he said softly. Not a reprimand, not a question that demanded explanation, just a statement of fact. His hand hovered near yours for a moment, almost like a shield, and when you didn’t move, he gave a small shrug and smiled. “ Good. That means you’re alive. And alive is better than…well, anything else. ”
You laughed weakly, trying to steady your breathing. “ You make it sound so simple. ”
He crouched slightly, tilting his head as he studied you. “ It is simple. Life’s simple. Survive, laugh, and don’t get yourself killed. ” Then, leaning closer, he whispered, almost conspiratorially, “ Though I won’t forgive you if you try. ” His grin widened, teeth flashing in the morning light.
And yet, even as he teased, you sensed the edge beneath his words, the same edge that kept you safe. That edge, sharp as a blade, was tempered with care, and it thrilled and comforted you all at once.
Days later, under the vast night sky, you found yourself atop the crow’s nest, gazing at constellations while Shanks worked the sails below. The wind tugged at your hair, the stars reflected in your eyes, and the sea stretched endlessly before you. Then, a shout from below: “ Captain! Someone’s approaching! ”
You felt a familiar stir of anticipation, and somewhere in the pit of your stomach, a flicker of unease. But before panic could set in, a hand, warm, confident, steady rested on your shoulder.
“ I see it, ” Shanks said, calm, controlled. “ And it’s nothing we can’t handle. ”
You turned to him, meeting his gaze. In the darkness, his eyes shone like polished amber, fierce and untouchable. “ You always know, ” you murmured.
“ I’ve learned a thing or two from the sea, ” he replied, voice low, almost secretive. “ And one of them is: you never let someone you care about walk into danger alone. Not unless they choose to. And even then… ” He let the sentence hang, unspoken but heavy with meaning.
As the ship sailed under the moon’s silver glow, you realized the truth of what life with Shanks meant. Freedom wasn’t just running wild, laughing at the law, or chasing treasure. Freedom was knowing that someone would stand beside you, sword in hand, heart tethered to yours, not to possess, but to protect.
The days at sea were usually predictable in their unpredictability, storms, squalls, or the occasional merchant ship but today, a different tension hovered over the ship, subtle but undeniable.
You noticed it first when one of the newer crewmates, a wiry man named Mammon, lingered too long near the deck where you were repairing sails. His glances were sharp, assessing, like he was measuring something he wasn’t supposed to care about. Shanks noticed too, of course but not in the way you might think.
He didn’t scowl. He didn’t confront Mammon immediately. He simply watched. From across the deck, leaning casually against the rigging, his eyes followed every movement, subtle but unwavering. The weight of his gaze was enough to make Mammon shift uncomfortably under it, though he didn’t leave.
“ You’re staring again, ” you whispered, brushing your hands on your trousers as if to hide your unease.
Shanks didn’t smile, not yet. “ I’m watching, ” he said simply, and the calmness in his tone carried a quiet authority that needed no explanation. “ He’s testing boundaries. I don’t like it. ”
You felt a pang of worry. Is it jealousy? you wondered, a small twinge twisting in your chest. But the way Shanks stood there, quiet, controlled wasn’t jealousy. It was something sharper, more refined: protectiveness. He wasn’t trying to claim you; he was making sure no one else could take advantage of your trust or safety.
By evening, the tension came to a head. Mammon approached the railing where you were standing, pretending to inspect the horizon, but his words were careless.
“ Ever think about leaving the captain behind? ” he asked, leaning just a little too close. “ Life’s bigger than this ship. ”
You bristled. “ I think my life is exactly where I want it, ” you said firmly, your voice stronger than you felt.
Before Mammon could reply, Shanks’ shadow fell over him. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked casually in his coat pocket, but the presence was enough.
“ Life’s bigger than this ship? ” Shanks repeated, tilting his head with that easy smile of his, but there was ice under the charm. “ And yet you seem to forget that freedom isn’t just about leaving, it’s about choosing. And she chose this life. ”
Mammon’s eyes flicked to yours, and then back to Shanks, understanding in a flash that the pirate before him was not to be trifled with. He muttered something about fresh air and moved away, finally leaving you alone.
Shanks turned to you then, his hand brushing yours lightly. Not a possessive gesture, just a touch that said, I'm with you.
“ You okay? ” he asked.
You nodded, but your chest still felt tight. “ I am…thanks to you. ”
“ Good, ” he said, voice softening. “ Because you don’t need anyone else to fight your battles. But I’ll always be here if someone tries to make it harder. ”
The subtle difference between what he felt and what Mammon had mistaken for jealousy struck you. Shanks’ concern wasn’t about ownership; it was about care, about safety, about ensuring your freedom stayed intact. The line between love and possession had never been clearer.
The two of you sat atop the mast, legs dangling over the edge, the stars spread out like scattered diamonds across the ink-black sky. Shanks hummed quietly, the tune almost lost to the sound of the waves, and his arm rested lightly against your shoulder.
“ You know, ” he said after a moment, “ I could’ve handled that differently. Made him fear me, or said things he’d never forget. ”
You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “ But you didn’t? ”
“ No, ” he said, smiling faintly. “ Because he wasn’t the threat. The threat would have been someone thinking they could decide your life for you. And that…that I can’t allow. ”
You leaned against him, breathing in the salty night air. “ I like how you do it. Quiet. Not angry. Just…watching. ”
“ Because that’s how you stay free, ” he murmured. “ And I like knowing you’re free. More than anything else. ”
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The ship rocked gently and the ocean whispering against the hull.
With Shanks, you could fly anywhere, face anything, and still feel safe, loved, and utterly unbound. In that knowledge, your heart was at ease. For the first time in your life, the vastness of the sea didn’t feel daunting. It felt like home.
The moon hung low over the Red-Haired Pirates’ ship, its silver glow bouncing off the waves. Below deck, the ship was quiet, mostly. You were curled up under a blanket, fast asleep, completely unaware of the disaster brewing above.
Above, the deck was anything but calm. Shanks, bottle in hand and flushed from both rum and emotion, teetered like a majestic, unsteady king on the edge of the railing. His hair was a mess, a few strands plastered to his sweaty forehead, and tears glimmered like tiny lanterns in his eyes.
“ SHE’S….SHE’S THE BEST! ” he bellowed, voice echoing across the deck and probably scaring the nearby fish. “ THE ENTIRE SEA…THE SKY…THE STARS….THEY DON’T HOLD A CANDLE TO HER! ”
Benn Beckman groaned, rubbing his temples. “ Oh gods above…here we go again. ”
“ Yeah, I think I’m gonna be sick from the love, ” Yassop muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Hongo leaned lazily on the mast, shaking his head. “ Or from the rum. Or both. ”
Building Snake didn’t bother hiding the small smirk tugging at his lips. “ This is….something.”
Shanks stumbled forward, nearly tipping into the ocean, and flung his arms wide like he was giving the world a very heartfelt, very drunk TED Talk. “ AND SHE-..SHE LETS ME SAIL WITH HER! ME! OF ALL PEOPLE! SHE... SHE TRUSTS ME! I—I.. ”
He hiccupped violently, wiping at his tears, which did nothing but smear across his cheeks. “ HELL, I’LL MARRY HER!”
Benn froze, blinking. “ …Shanks. You already married her. ”
Shanks’ head snapped up, eyes wide and shimmering like twin lanterns. “ I DID?! I… I—oh gods—even better! I—hic!—I would marry her again! A thousand times! I would—hic!—fight the sea itself, wrestle every storm, and then propose with cannonballs if I had to! ”
Lucky Roo snorted, barely keeping it in. “ Wrestle storms and propose with cannonballs…classic Boss. ”
Shanks waved his arms dramatically, nearly toppling again. “ AND HER LAUGH! OH GODS, HER LAUGH! IT’S.. IT’S—like cannon fire… but in the best possible way! I… I… I CAN’T EVEN! SHE MAKES ME WANT TO SING LIKE A DRUNK SEAGULL, AND I… I- ”
He fell face-first onto the deck, hiccupping and rolling slightly, bottle sliding away. “ SHE’S SLEEPING RIGHT NOW! ASLEEP! SAFE! AND I… I.. I LOVE HER SO MUCH! ”
Benn muttered under his breath, exasperated, “ Someone…someone tie him to the mast before he starts declaring war on the ocean itself. ”
“ Or before he starts crying in all of our ears, ” Yassop added, shaking his head.
Hongo shrugged. “ I’m done. Let him be a disaster. ”
Building Snake smirked. “ I mean… it’s entertaining. A legendary pirate reduced to puddle-level simping.”
Lucky Roo leaned against the railing, chuckling so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “ Look at him! He’s actually trying to out-love the ocean. I can’t even. ”
Shanks rolled dramatically onto his back, gazing at the stars with one hand clutching his chest. “ EVERY STAR… EVERY WAVE… EVERY PIRATE—hic!—EVERYTHING… IT’S… NOTHING.. COMPARED TO HER! ”
“ And yet, ” Benn muttered dryly, “ he thinks shouting at the sky will convince her of that. ”
“ SHUT UP, BENN! ” Shanks roared, sitting upright, eyes sparkling with drunken determination. “ I… I LOVE HER! I LOVE HER! I LOVE HER! ”
He flopped onto his stomach again, sobbing softly, hiccupping between every tearful declaration. “ AND SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE HER! SHE DOESN’T KNOW… SHE DESERVES… SHE DESERVES THE ENTIRE WORLD! ”
Lucky Roo, barely containing his laughter, nudged one of the younger deckhands. “ I’ve never seen a pirate this melodramatic before. It’s…beautiful. ”
Benn, Yassop, Hongo, and Snake all groaned in various degrees of exasperation, but even they had to admit, it was kind of adorable.
Shanks rolled to his back again, arms wide like a victorious general, hiccupping, tears streaming down his face. “ AND I’LL MARRY HER AGAIN! YES! A THOUSAND TIMES! I WOULD—hic!—I WOULD FIGHT EVERY—EVERYTHING FOR HER! ”
Lucky Roo collapsed into laughter. “ I can’t… I just can’t… ”
And there he stayed, the Red-Haired Pirate of legend, sprawled across the deck, loudly, dramatically, and hilariously simping for his asleep wife, while the crew alternated between exasperation and amusement, the moonlight catching the glint of tears on his flushed face.
Below deck, you slept peacefully, unaware that the loudest, goofiest, and most hopelessly in-love pirate in the world was proclaiming his undying devotion in a very, very public and very, very drunk-way.
The ship was quiet, but not perfectly so. The remnants of last night’s revelry lingered in every corner. Empty bottles rolled lazily across the deck, the smell of spilled rum mixed with sea salt, and the creak of the wooden ship sounded unusually loud in the stillness.
The crew were scattered across the deck, passed out in improbable positions. Benn’s hat had fallen over his face. Yassop was draped over a barrel like a human hammock. Hongo snored softly on a coil of rope. Even Snake was snoring, head resting on Lucky Roo’s shoulder. It was a scene of total chaos, the aftermath of too much celebration, and yet it was peaceful.
Shanks stirred first. His eyes cracked open, still bleary and red from sleep or maybe from last night’s emotions and he yawned loudly, hiccupping mid-yawn. The bottle in his hand had rolled away, but he didn’t care. His mind was already elsewhere.
He stumbled, barely upright then steadied himself against the railing. The sun was just beginning to stretch its fingers across the horizon, painting the sea in soft gold and pink. He took a shaky breath, still feeling the lingering warmth of rum in his chest, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
His gaze shifted below deck, where he had left you sleeping.
There you were, curled up in a blanket, hair spread over the pillow, breathing soft and steady. Even half-asleep, your presence seemed to fill the entire room with warmth. Shanks’ chest tightened in a way only you could do to him, and he let out a hiccupping chuckle.
Careful not to wake the crew or you, if he could help it, he stumbled down the steps, each step a wobbly negotiation with gravity.
When he finally reached you, his smile softened into something entirely different: gentle, reverent, full of adoration. He paused for a moment, just watching you breathe, memorizing the curve of your face, the rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair caught the faint morning light.
Without thinking too much, he crawled slowly, deliberately, over to you, careful not to jostle you awake.
“ Morning… my love… ” he murmured softly, hiccupping. His voice was low, intimate, uncharacteristically quiet for the Red-Haired Pirate, who had spent most of the night shouting at the stars about how wonderful you were.
He reached out, draping an arm over you, tugging you close. You stirred slightly, shifting in your sleep, but didn’t wake. Shanks’ cheek rested against your hair, warm, rum-scented, and entirely devoted.
“ You…you’re safe and I’m here…Always… always here, ” he whispered, closing his eyes against your hair. “ No storm, no pirate, no ocean..nothing could touch you while I’m around. Not today. Not ever. ”
A quiet breath, a hiccup, then a soft sigh. He hugged you closer, just holding you, the way someone holds something precious they never want to let go of. He could feel your warmth against him, the rhythm of your breathing, and it settled him more than any sea or adventure ever could.
For a while, the world outside, the sleeping, snoring crew, the gentle sway of the ship, the faint pink of morning sunlight didn’t matter. There was only this: you, him, and the soft, quiet sanctuary of a hug that said more than words ever could.
Even drunk, even loud, even chaotic Shanks had never felt more at peace.
And in that moment, wrapped around you, he knew exactly what freedom meant: not the open sea, not adventure, not treasure but this. You.
The world could wait.
The warmth of Shanks’ embrace pulled you gently from sleep. At first, your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light that filtered below deck. The ship swayed lightly, a gentle rhythm that usually made you feel at peace. Today, though it was interrupted by the faint, unmistakable scent of alcohol lingering in the air.
“ Shanks… ” you murmured softly, trying not to startle him. His face was nuzzled into your hair, still flushed from sleep or last night’s rum and he gave a contented, sleepy sigh.
“ Mmm… morning, my love, ” he mumbled, voice rough and thick with sleep. His arm tightened around you instinctively, as if even in slumber he feared letting go.
You wrinkled your nose. “ Shanks….you smell like a tavern, ” you said, half-amused, half-exasperated. “ I told you not to drink so much… ”
He was mumbling incoherently, then buried his face deeper in your hair. You sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “ One of these days, I’m going to have to give you a proper scolding for this, ” you teased, gently adjusting your body so you were more comfortable.
Shanks shifted slightly in his sleep, letting you take the lead. Your arms curled around him, guiding him into a more snug, protective position. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, slow breaths syncing together. You chuckled softly at how utterly unbothered he seemed by last night’s antics.
“ Better? ” you whispered, resting your cheek against his shoulder.
He groaned softly, hugging you closer without even opening his eyes. “ Mm… better… you’re…… perfect… ” he mumbled, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he could somehow hold onto the feeling forever.
Your heart swelled. You stroked his hair gently, careful not to wake him too abruptly. “ I love you, ” you murmured, voice barely louder than a sigh.
“ Love…you too, ” he muttered in response, sleepy, his voice muffled against your hair. His hold tightened just slightly, and you could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart relax.
You let yourself settle into the quiet comfort of him, the sway of the ship, and the lingering warmth of his embrace. The scent of rum and the faint traces of last night’s chaos faded against the safety of this moment.
Shanks, still half-drunk, half-asleep, fully content, let out a satisfied sigh and melted further into your arms. You felt him drift back into sleep, murmuring incoherent but unmistakably affectionate words in the quiet of the morning.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and let him rest. For now, there was nothing else in the world that mattered but the two of you, tangled in warmth, love, and the slow, comforting rhythm of the sea.
Shanks slept satisfied, and you stayed there, holding him close, knowing that this.. this simple, quiet moment was more precious than any treasure in the world.
The first rays of sun spilled across the deck, lighting up the aftermath of the previous night’s chaos. Empty bottles, spilled rum, and snoring crew members were scattered in every direction, creating what could only be described as organized chaos.
Shanks, blissfully unaware of the world outside, was still curled around you below deck. His arm was draped over your waist, and his face was buried in your hair. You stirred slightly, savoring the warmth and security of his hold, but let him sleep, still half-drunk, half-sleeping, and completely smitten.
Above deck, the groans of the waking crew began.
“ Ugh… my head… ” Yassop muttered, rubbing his temple as he rolled off a barrel.
“ Never. Again, ” Hongo added, collapsing onto the deck with a dramatic groan.
Lucky Roo peeked around a stack of crates, snickering. “ I think Boss went full melt last night. ”
“ Full what? ” Benn asked, lifting his hat from his face to reveal a very unimpressed expression.
Snake, standing nearby and barely able to contain his laughter, muttered, “ He’s gonna get in trouble if he wakes her up like that. ”
Curiosity or perhaps mischief got the better of Benn, Yassop, and Hongo. They crept down the stairs, trying to see what their captain had been babbling about all night.
And then they saw it.
Shanks sleeping like a content, drunken teddy bear with his arm around his wife, who was now fully awake and adjusting herself to curl closer to him. His face was flushed, lips slightly parted, murmuring soft, incoherent words. His hand occasionally twitched as if emphasizing a point, probably about how amazing you were.
Benn snorted, shaking his head. “ Of course he does this. Who else would melt like a puddle over his wife while half-drunk? ”
Yassop groaned loudly. “ I’m going to regret living on this ship. ”
Hongo simply shook his head, muttering, “ I give up. ”
Lucky Roo, however, doubled over in laughter, pointing a finger. “ Look at him! Boss’ a disaster. And a cute disaster! ”
“ Disaster is one word for it, ” Benn muttered dryly, “ melted puddle of goo is another. ”
Shanks stirred slightly, mumbling in his sleep, “ Don’t.. leave her…” His voice was muffled against your hair, completely oblivious to the audience.
You giggled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “ Shhh… he’s asleep. Let him be. ”
Yassop shook his head, chuckling. “ You really are the only one who can handle this. Anyone else would have run screaming. ”
Benn sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “ I think I’m going to need another drink just to recover from watching this. ”
As the crew slowly dispersed, some snickering, some grumbling, you adjusted yourself closer to Shanks, wrapping your arms around him. He pulled you in tighter instinctively, murmuring in his sleep, “ Love you… ”
“ I love you too, ” you whispered softly, pressing your cheek to his.
Shanks sighed contentedly, finally letting the chaos of the world fade completely. The Red-Haired Pirate, drunk, dramatic, and completely hopeless in love, slept satisfied in your arms, while the crew outside shook their heads, muttered complaints, and secretly smiled at the ridiculous, beautiful mess that was their captain.
And in that quiet, chaotic, sunlit moment below deck, there was nothing else in the world but the two of you, perfect, happy, and utterly in love.
>Warnings: Yandere themes, dark elements, phycological manipulation, twisted logic, unhealthy relationship dynamics, brief mention of blood, maybe some editing and grammar mistakes, y'all know the drill by now, it's Alastor.
>Word Count: 2k+
There exists a widespread misconception that Alastor is incapable of being caught off guard.
This conclusion generally originates from individuals who have misinterpreted composure for immunity.
This distinction is significant.
One merely requires the proper subject.
The trouble with this, Alastor had long ago concluded, was that it possessed an unfortunate tendency to mistake confidence for insight.
Every few decades, some individual discovers a concept humanity had been discussing for centuries, assigned it an unnecessarily optimistic title, and proceeded to explain it at considerable length as if they invented it.
The results were rarely heartening, this conviction had served him well for the better part of a century.
It was therefore mildly irksome to discover a volume that provoked his curiosity before it provoked his contempt.
It all began, with the rain.
Nothing so miraculous.
The streets remained crowded with sinners whose moral shortcomings had long since ceased to surprise one another.
Crimson neon bled across the slick cobblestones in wavering reflections, while gutters carried away equal measures of rainwater and whatever unfortunate substance happened to have occupied the street beforehand.
Rain encouraged people indoors, and discouraged unnecessary conversation.
Most importantly, it persuaded the chronically impatient to hurry along without stopping to occupy his attention.
Alastor preferred it this way.
He walked without a particular destination, the route itself mattered very little.
Hell rewarded aimlessness surprisingly often, provided one possessed the patience to notice what others overlooked.
The bookshop appeared almost by accident.
In retrospect, Alastor would later identify several opportunities during which the entire affair might have been prevented.
He would have ignored the weather altogether, continuing toward home rather than taking the longer route through Cannibal Town.
He might have entered any number of establishments offering shelter from the downpour.
The establishment occupied the narrow corner between an aging tailor and a florist whose display had already lost an ongoing battle against the weather.
Several potted plants leaned precariously beneath, their leaves dripping steadily into buckets that had long since surrendered any hope of remaining empty.
Alastor stepped beneath the striped awning just as another wave of rain swept across the street.
The bookshop itself possessed a quiet sort of dignity, its sign had faded enough to suggest longevity rather than neglect.
Golden lettering, worn thin around the edges still announced,
Blackwood & Sons.
Despite the rather obvious absence of any sons.
The display window held no bestsellers, no colorful advertisements, nor any handwritten promises of limited-time discounts.
A proper bookstore, the sort rapidly disappearing from the modern world.
Alastor approved of this.
The bell above the entrance protested his arrival with a tired metallic chime before settling once more into silence.
The interior had the familiar scent of leather bindings, yellowed paper, polished wood, and a trace of cedar lingering stubbornly beneath decades of dust.
Leather-bound volumes rested comfortably beside cracked atlases, forgotten hymnals, and enough neglected poetry to convince even the most cynical observer that the proprietor valued affection over profit.
An elderly gentleman whose spectacles appeared engaged in a prolonged disagreement with gravity, offered a courteous nod before returning to the newspaper spread across the counter.
Any bookseller who understood that silence constituted excellent customer service deserved, at the very least, the opportunity to continue existing.
He wandered without purpose.
History.
Theatre.
Cookery.
Poetry.
A regrettably sentimental collection of memoirs, he believes.
His fingertips drifted idly across cracked leather bindings until something entirely out of place interrupted the rhythm.
The cover was rather repulsively bright, it possessed neither dignity nor subtlety.
A smiling couple occupied the center with the unmistakable countenance of people who had never encountered genuine hardship in their lives.
Above them, in cheerful lettering that bordered upon aggressive optimism, appeared the title.
How To Be a Green Flag And Build A Healthy Relationship!
…
At first, he simply stared at the cover.
There existed remarkably few subjects upon which Alastor considered himself unqualified to speak.
Human behavior certainly wasn't among them.
Millenniums of observing mankind had left him with what he regarded as a comfortably complete understanding of its habits, contradictions, and recurring disappointments.
Consequently, the notion that someone might attempt to teach him the mechanics of courtship struck him as faintly insulting.
The matter had always appeared refreshingly straightforward.
One conducted oneself with dignity.
One dressed appropriately.
One spoke well.
One demonstrated consistency of character.
One refrained from behaving like an imbecile.
Should the arrangement prove mutually agreeable, splendid.
Should it fail…
One accepted the disappointment with whatever grace one possessed and continued living.
Simple as that.
He lifted the book between two fingers with the careful restraint generally afforded to objects of questionable sanitation.
The paper felt new, the binding had not yet been properly broken.
Someone, somewhere, had purchased this recently.
This realization proved considerably more fascinating than the book itself, he opened to a random page.
Remember details that matter to them.
Their favorite flower.
How they take their tea.
The story they've only told you once.
The things that frighten them.
The dreams they rarely speak aloud.
An odd recommendation, surely one ought to remember details regardless.
“...Ridiculous.”
He already knows everything worth knowing.
He turns to another page,
Listen because you wish to understand. Not because you're waiting to speak.
"Surely no one requires written instructions for this.”
The author appears convinced these observations require deliberate effort.
One might as well advise breathing.
He has never understood how people forget such things.
Kindness unacknowledged serves no practical purpose. Genuinely complement one another.
What an unnecessarily dramatic choice of vocabulary.
He compliments people constantly.
Usually, after they've earned it.
Love cannot survive where choice has been removed.
Control may create obedience.
It cannot create devotion.
If you must convince someone to stay, you've already received your answer.
His brows lifted ever so slightly,
Well.
That was certainly an opinion.
The remainder of the book would almost undoubtedly consist of similarly flawed conclusions assembled atop similarly fragile premises.
He ought to put it back, he knew this.
The sensible course of action would be to return the volume to its shelf, locate something written by a considerably more intelligent individual, and continue enjoying what remained of the afternoon.
Instead—
He turned the page, more from idle curiosity than expectation.
Purely, he assured himself, to determine how much worse it became.
Love is measured less by what you are willing to do for someone than by what you are willing to let them choose.
Patience is not waiting until they agree with you.
Patience is accepting that they may never do so.
To care unconditionally is not to love without expectation.
It is to continue wishing for their happiness, even when it no longer includes you.
...
An unusual emphasis.
This one appeared preoccupied with what one ought to surrender.
The previous chapters had proven disappointingly ordinary.
A great deal of earnest optimism wrapped in modern terminology, each argument resting upon the generous assumption that people generally possessed both good intentions and sound judgment.
How impractical.
His attention drifted lower, the next chapter bore a single heading.
Rejection.
Do not attempt to persuade someone into loving you.
Genuine affection flourishes only where freedom remains untouched.
Love offered freely is precious.
Love obtained through persistence, guilt, fear, obligation, manipulation, or exhaustion is not love at all.
It is merely compliance wearing affection's clothing.
The page did not turn.
His eyes remained upon the parchment, rain whispered steadily against the windows.
The corners of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
Without invitation, another thought attempted to intrude.
A pair of eyes regarding him with that peculiar mixture of caution and quiet defiance they had never quite abandoned.
He dismissed it almost immediately, entirely irrelevant.
The discussion concerned philosophy.
He found himself considering the question with greater seriousness than the author had likely intended.
The bookseller reached for his mug, the silence stretched between each small sound.
Somewhere near the back of the shop, old timbers settled with a quiet groan.
His gaze settled upon the final sentence.
Compliance.
Such an unusually specific choice.
The author had not written obedience, nor submission.
Certainly not devotion.
Compliance.
Temporary.
Performative.
Hollow.
A convincing imitation, perhaps—but an imitation nonetheless.
He found himself wondering whether the distinction truly existed, because it implied a discrepancy he had never considered necessary.
If only for a passing moment, where precisely that had been drawn out.
Obedience could certainly resemble devotion.
Habit resembled comfort.
Routine resembled contentment.
Long enough, at least.
People had mistaken considerably stranger things for love.
...
Hadn't they?
Of course they had.
One might imitate affection convincingly enough to deceive everyone present.
...
Everyone, that is, except the people involved.
His expression remained unchanged.
Then, almost irritably, he turned the question over in his thoughts.
What, precisely, separated devotion from compliance?
Duration?
Willingness?
Enthusiasm?
The author neglected to explain, an unfortunate oversight.
Alastor read the passage again, not because he had misunderstood it.
Because surely—
Surely, the author had omitted a qualification somewhere.
There wasn't one.
The author appeared completely sincere, there was no indication of satire, nor any signs of exaggerated language, and no attempts at humor.
No acknowledgment that people were, by their very nature, profoundly unreliable creatures.
They declined opportunities they later regretted.
They fled from happiness because it arrived wearing unfamiliar clothing, confused fear with instinct often enough that the two had become nearly inseparable.
Left entirely to their own devices, people displayed a remarkable talent for choosing immediate comfort over lasting satisfaction.
They mistook fear for wisdom, comfort for happiness, habit for contentment.
One hardly entrusted important decisions to first instincts.
Why, then, should matters of affection prove uniquely exempt?
Curious.
The author seemed entirely convinced that the first answer deserved to remain the final one.
What an astonishingly passive philosophy.
It seemed the author and he had not merely disagreed upon conduct, they disagreed upon the meaning of love itself.
He had encountered foolish people before, many of them.
Most possessed the decency to disguise it, this one had chosen to publish it.
He closed the book.
His fingers lingered against the cover, the rain continued.
He found himself, rather against his better judgment, considering the argument.
Not the sentiment.
Sentiment rarely interested him.
The premise.
If every refusal was to be accepted immediately…
If every hesitation was to remain unquestioned...
If every frightened instinct was to be treated as immutable truth...
Then persuasion itself became an act of cruelty, an revolutionary conclusion.
Civilizations had been built upon persuasion, wars concluded through it, fortunes amassed because of it, and entire lives redirected by a sufficiently compelling argument.
People persuaded one another every hour of every day.
And yet none of those examples involved love.
To suggest that affection alone existed beyond influence struck him as—
He paused.
Romantic.
The word settled unpleasantly in his thoughts.
Hopelessly, almost offensively, romantic.
What extraordinary people they must have been, to possess such effortless confidence in another person's judgment.
To encounter someone they loved standing upon the edge of a terrible mistake.
And simply walk away.
His gaze drifted once more to the paragraph, the certainty of it irritated him far more than the sentiment itself.
The author had offered no evidence, only verdict.
And verdict, in Alastor's experience, deserved examination before it deserved respect.
It had become increasingly apparent that the author had committed a remarkably common mistake.
They had confused freedom with wisdom.
If someone walked willingly into a burning house, no decent person would admire their autonomy.
Why, then, should love demand less courage than fire?
One did not cease caring for someone simply because they failed to recognize what would bring them happiness.
Quite the opposite.
Love, if it deserved the name at all, demanded perseverance precisely when the other person proved incapable of seeing clearly.
To surrender them to their own fear was not compassion.
It was negligence.
Children refused medicine.
Patients resisted treatment.
The frightened mistook safety for imprisonment often enough that history had learned not to indulge every fearful instinct.
According to the author, one ought to abandon the person they loved at the first sincere refusal.
Leave them to whatever fear, confusion, or misunderstanding had inspired it.
Dress that abandonment in the language of respect.
Call it virtue.
No.
If one's affection could be defeated by a single refusal—
It had never been particularly profound to begin with.
He found that considerably crueler than persistence.
He slid the book neatly back into its place upon the shelf.
It remained there.
He regarded the spine thoughtfully, with the faint expression of a man who had discovered a chess opponent after several disappointingly easy matches.
The old bookseller remained behind the counter, rain continued against the windows.
Nothing whatsoever had changed.
It had become strangely important that the author be wrong.
Nothing urged him to reach for it again.
Nothing, save the increasingly disagreeable suspicion that someone had written an argument deserving a proper rebuttal.
One could hardly reject an argument before understanding it completely.
That, more than anything else, simply would not do.
The thought settled with quiet satisfaction, not because the book had convinced him.
Quite the opposite.
It had finally presented him with a question worth answering.
Hello Yuyu (if you are uncomfortable with this nickname, I'm sorry :(( I also don't know if you still take requests, if not please ignore this message) I'm curious about Cale's reaction when rd is jealous. I feel like he always shows an aura that attracts others. So what if rd sees him chatting with a noble, and he can see the heart in that person's eyes when they looked at Cale. At first rd tried to restrain herself :(( but she couldn't. She ended up holding Cale's hand and pouting the whole time
Jealousy, Jealousy
𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1011
Authors Note: The fact that this was from last year is insane to me… Anyway— Reader jealous, yes? I can work with that! PS. I like the nickname. It’s pretty cute :)
[Warning]: Please forgive me for any misinformation or mischaracterization, I haven’t read TCF in a whiiiiiile. I have to get back to reading. I heard that the gold dragon finally makes an appearance in the Manhwa!
»»► Reader is not just jealous of the noblewomen who come near Cale–no no–she’s also plotting their funerals with a glare that could slice their heads off. For obvious reasons, she wouldn't. But a girl can dream.
»»► As for why she’s in this mood…? Oh you’ll find out soon enough.
It was dusk, the moon was just beginning to wake up from her slumber to adorn the sky with her starry pearls and natural glow, when the ball began. A dance in honor of the Crown Prince of the Roan Kingdom, future king of this land. It has been hosted each year ever since the prince was crowned.
In other words, it was a show of power and wealth; a political move from the imperial family.
One that Cale wished not to be part of.
With a big sigh, he drank the remaining red liquid from the glass he had in his hand. The taste of alcohol made interacting with the crowds tolerable.
“Master Cale?” A sickeningly sweet voice called to him.
Cale turned and greeted a young noblewoman that was approaching him. “Good evening,” he slightly vowed.
“So it is you!” She got closer to him, practically in front of his face. “It’s such an honor to meet the infamous Cale of the Henituse Territory!” Her eyes sparkled. He leaned back out of instinct, feeling the uncomfortableness of the situation.
“Haha…the honor is all mine,” he said back with his diplomatic smile.
“Master Cale, I was hoping to discuss something with you,” she began.
“Business related? If so, we can go have a seat in of those tables over there—”
“That won’t be necessary!” She laughed nervously. Her eyes wandered to the side, her cheeks turning rosy by the second. Oh Cale could smell the trouble brewing trouble. “I was wondering…might you perhaps be seeing someone?” There it is.
“I’m sorry, but…why the sudden question?” He asked–though he didn’t really care what she had to say, it was to stall for a good response to come to his mind.
“Oh I was just curious, that's all!”
As if he’d believe that. He knew why the topic of his relationship status had been garnering attention. Ever since his grand heroic act, saving the royal family and the other territory’s leaders during the banquet a few months ago, his father had been receiving marriage offerings from all sorts of people; given how low his reputation was, they thought his father would have accepted to marry off his useless son, and in the process they would have gained his reputation. More political nonsense.
Unfortunately for them, he is already seeing someone.
Should he tell her? His relationship with you wasn’t known to the public. And although he would not want to involve you in politics for now, he did not want to lie about you either. Why do the gods like to shove him into annoying situations like this?
“Human…” His eyes glanced up discreetly to his right. A small-sized dragon floated close to his shoulder. “[Name] is giving you the sticky eyes again,” he pointed to the other side of the room, unamused by this.
Oh-uh.
His eyes slowly follow the trajectory of Raun’s long nail. There, in all the magnificent glory, was you.
The red fabric was adorning your frame nicely, not too tight to show the world whatever your body had to offer, and not too loose to look baggy. Your expensive heels clacked loudly as you tapped your left feet against the palace floors like a rabbit. You were glaring at his direction. Your attention wasn’t on him in particular. It was rather at the noblewoman that was with him at the moment. If looks could kill, he’d probably be witness to a bloody murder.
He better go to you while you are still in control of that demon. He shuddered at the thought of you snapping.
“Master Cale?” the noblewomen called to him, concerned from his silence.
“Please excuse my manners, but I have to go. I have other business to attend to,” he smiled apologetically. He vowed slightly, “It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to meet again someday,” that hope would only happen if the gods wished for her death by the hands of his lovely lady. He left before she could dig a greater grave.
He walked up to you, who was still glaring daggers at the confused noblewomen. “[Name]?” he called out. No response was given. “[Name]...” he called again. “[Name] please…” You gave him no mind and moved your face to the side, your brows still furrowed in annoyance. Cale could only frow.
Did that woman truly get under your skin, love? His eyes widened at an idea that crossed his mind.
“*sigh*... And here I was thinking of fetching some food my lady...” Your attention perked from the mention of food. Yet you still refuse to acknowledge him. “...I guess I’ll go with my lonesome since you don’t want anything…tis a shame, ” Cale said with a very sad voice and over dramatized expression. He turned to go to the food station.
3…2… Cale counted down. aaaand… he dragged as you stepped in front of him, 1. He smirked. Predictable as always. Your face still possessed the frown from before but with less bitterness and more pouty into it.
“...”
“...”
“...Can I come get food with you?” you asked, not bothering to look at him. You knew him. Well enough to know he had a smug expression splashed all over his eyes and mouth.
“Of course,” he extended his arm he knew you would take. As you made your way to the delicious temptations he leaned down and hovered right above your ear. “You know, you look cute when you're jealous.”
“Say another word and you're sleeping outside the manor.” He straightened, giving you a cheeky smile, and motioned his hand across his mouth like a zip to gesture you won’t hear anymore teasing from him for the rest of the night.
The ball faded into music, food, and a pouty lover.
The End
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So anyway, have been reading too much self-insert making me think the weirdest idea ever. It have been strangle me for a while not to mention reading some of the inspiration for this fic.
And that is what-if someone or reader isekai as our saint, the no1 believer of CAELISM!
Thinking why the heck no?
This didn't change and at the same time change so much.
Let's Start! Wait—Wrong person!
TCF x Clopeh Sekka! Reader
.・゜-: ✧ :- .・゜-: ✧ :- .・゜-: ✧ :-
[ a few years ago in another world...... ]
It's just like another day of you usual daily life.
Cleaning your own apartment, working yourself to the bone to earn some money, having time to yourself watching anime or reading some novels.
But today is different.
Kanjeonv Haneul, a coworker friend ask you if you have some time to spend together today after work. Haneul and you are close friend, when the first time you get the job here he was the first person to welcome and help you adjust working here.
After working both of you have a small talk, from there you found out having a lot in common with him. He likes novels and you like manga and manhwas, Haneul and you exchange a lots of things about this and because of that you quick to befriend him.
And after that talk Haneul and you have been close to each other since then.
Back to the present of course you quick to agree with him, since it's been a while for both of you talking outside work. Not to mention Haneul turn out is not social person and that you are an introvert too didn't help it.
Sometimes you can't help feels a bit lonely if you're not busy reading or fantasies a scenery in your mind about the recen novels or comic that your read.
So you glad to have someone to talk or share a hobby with once for a while.
.
.
.
“Listen— LISTEN—” you insisted, gripping Haneul sleeve with the intensity of a fangirl that you are. “The moment Alver appears? I ascended. That man is perfection. Peak royalty. Peak handsome. Peak everything—”
Haneul dramatically gasped. “okay-okay! Hear me out. RON! Yes, hear me out about him! The way that old man smiles while serving Cale the lemontea? Iconic. Inspirational. Ten out of ten. He is hot old man code. ”
“And his son Beacrox!” you added, pointing a finger at him. “Professionally offended, domestically deadly, torture expert—”
“—but still makes perfect foods” Haneul finished proudly.
You both nodded sagely.
Then you continued, because stopping wasn’t an option.
“And Cale,” you exhaled, hand over your chest. “The red-haired menace, the king of oblivious, the mastermind of chaos, the—”
“—the walking magnet for disasters like stray cats despite saying that he wanted a slacker life” Haneul supplied.
“Yes! EXACTLY!” You threw both hands up.
“He says he wants a peaceful life but that man walking into the hero path. That man is my religion—”
Haneul snorted. “Then what am I? A casual believer?”
“You’re a cultist,” you said immediately. “A hardcore one.”
“True.” Haneul didn’t even deny it. “If I ever get isekai’d into LCF, I’m marrying Clopeh.”
You choked. “What— why— HANEUL—”
“I’d help him build his Caelism empire!” he continued, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Together, we shall construct temples, engrave Cale quotes in marble, and collect relics—”
“Stop,” you wheezed between laughs. “Stop, people are looking—”
But you both ended up laughing anyway, doubled over, drawing stares from the passing crowd.
You didn’t know when the noise changed—
when laughter blended into screaming.
When you looked up, a wave of people was suddenly surging toward you, shoving you both backward.
“Woah— hey—!” You tried to brace yourself, but the crowd was too strong. Haneul was pushed straight into the middle of the road.
“Haneul—!”
He looked stunned. “Why is everyone—”
And then you heard it.
He barely got his footing before the sound hit you both—
A truck engine.
Loud.
Fast.
Much too close.
Your stomach dropped.
'Oh no. Oh no no no—'
You read too many webnovels and comics not to recognize this setup.
…Except the truck wasn’t heading for Haneul.
It swerved. Hard.
Straight toward you instead.
“Eh?” you blurted.
“Eh? WAI—?!” Haneul yelled back, scared and horrified on what's going to happen to you.
That was the last thing you heard—
Haneul voice cracking, the world then gone white.
and your final, dying thought?
Why am I the one getting trucked?! Haneul the one who wants to join Clopeh cult—
And then everything went dark.
.
.
.
.
.
You expected white space, Or maybe a mysterious void.
Or some glittery cosmic being greeting you with:
“Congratulations, you’ve been reincarnated.”
What you did not expect was—
“—NO. NO NO NO. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT SOUL!”
You jolted.
In front of you stood a man with long icy-white hair cascading down like silk, green snake-like eyes blazing with holy conviction, and a white robe that fluttered dramatically despite the fact there was no wind.
He was pacing.
Pacing and arguing.
With the air.
And someone talk back at him in the air, albeit the voice sounds a bit meekly like someone has been scolded.
“I asked for the one who WANTS to marry me! The cultist! The believer!” he ranted, stabbing his finger upward like he was threatening god itself. “Not— NOT some random—”
He stopped.
Slowly.
His head turning toward you like an owl spotting prey.
You stared.
He stared.
You whispered, breathless, “Clopeh Sekka…”
Ah.
So death came with hallucinations of pretty men.
Up close, he was well ....gorgeous didn't cover it— white eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, hair like fresh snow, and eyes like glowing emeralds.
He was exactly as described in the novel.
Maybe even worse.
(Or better. Depending on your taste.)
“Are you done gawking?” Clopeh asked, voice impatient but smug.
You snapped back to reality so hard your soul rattled. “S-Sorry— I mean— yes—I— you’re real—”
“Of course I’m real.” He flicked his hair. “I am Clopeh Sekka.”
You were ninety percent sure his hair sparkled.
He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly. “Now. Tell me your opinion of Cale-nim.”
In instant straight spine, Instant clarity.
This was a test.
You can feel it to the bond that this is a test, and if answer it wrong something bad going to happen to you.
But You know the answer clearly with how much you have been obsessed with Trash Count Family and inhaled deeply.
And delivered it with ease from the heart.
“Cale is… incredible. He is so handsome that is a crime that he is only a human, with that beautyful crimson hair, sharp mysterious eyes, and cold stone face. He is a genius. A legend in the making. He’s practically one step away from becoming a god.—” you ranted about everything you feel about Cale, just like how you ranted about any favorite character toward Haneul.
Until you can't breath and need to stop.
Silence.
Then—
Clopeh eyes widened like a child hearing their favorite praise.
“YES!” he burst out, clapping his hands together. “FINALLY! your world sure full of people believe for the legend! But not enough for me, but you are great and with a functioning brain! Someone who sees his greatness!”
You had never seen a grown man sparkle with pride before.
He sighed dramatically. “It seems I accidentally fetched the wrong person. I meant to bring your believer friend—what was his name? Halal? Hannul?—the one who wished to marry me and join Caelism.”
“Haneul,” you corrected weakly.
“Yes, that one.” Clopeh scowled at the sky.
“But SOMEONE up there clearly doesn’t double-check orders.”
You swore you heard someone whimper up there.
Wow....
A lot of TCF characters sure hate and even boss around with their chosen gods, but then again you can't fault them when the said gods seems like to mess up one way or another.
He muttered a very rude sentence at the heavens before shaking it off with a smile that was too bright, too eager, too… Clopeh.
“But it’s fine,” he declared, placing a hand on your shoulder like a prophet choosing their disciple. “You will do.”
“…Do what exactly?”
His grip tightened.
“Help Cale-nim,” he said gravely.
“Support his legend. Guide it. Spread it. Protect it. Nurture it.”
Your mouth opened. “Whoa, whoa there! Wait— what—”
“In ANY way possible,” he continued. “Your knowledge, your devotion, your understanding of his greatness—”
He leaned in. “It shall be your mission.”
You blinked.
“You want me to help… Cale?”
“Yes, because turn out something big happened after we won from White Star, and that I and everyone died because the other and me are not enough, not enough for our legend. there for I need someone more informant and of course the most important thing is that very much loyal to Cale-nim.”
Clopeh serpent eyes gleamed with divine madness.
“You are hereby appointed as an Apostle of the Legend.”
You had several questions.
Approximately two hundred — or maybe two Thousand.
But none of that left your mouth because—
Clopeh lifted a hand, palm glowing with blue light.
“You will receive power. Enough to assist Cale-nim—though not enough to outshine him, of course.”
“WAIT— POWER?? I—WHAT KIND OF—”
“And do not worry,” he added casually. “I will send your friend later, The cultist belongs with me. I like him already.”
You choked.
“What— Clopeh, hold on— let’s talk about this—”
“No need.”
He smiled.
Too gently,Too beautifully (damn it! you are weak to this)
Too ominously.
“Go forth. And witness Cale-nim legend up close.”
He snapped his fingers.
The world shattered into darkness.
Your last thought before consciousness dissolved.
'What do you mean ‘Apostle of the Legend’? WAIT— I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR A RELIGION—'
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
You expected to wake up on a grassy field…
or a fancy medieval bedroom….
or at least somewhere quiet.
Just anything safe to start over and not somewhere dangerous like Forest of Darkness, You are not fightee like Choi-han and know won't even last a day there.
But instead you woke up to—
Screaming.
Actual screaming.
Loud voices arguing.
People running.
Something clattering to the floor.
You tried to open your eyes, but everything was blurry, too bright, too overwhelming.
It's not just that, your body feels so weak like a jelly that it seems can't even work properly. Even it's so hard to just move your own head a little.
'Why does everything sound so close? Why can’t I move? Why—'
“Madam! Hold on—!”
“Someone bring water!”
“NO— NOT BOILING WATER—!”
There was chaos.
All of this only make you remember those films with something birth-related chaos.
'…Wait.
Birth.
BIRTH???'
Before your brain could refuse that possibility, you felt yourself lifted—small, weak, weightless.
Then, suddenly—
Warmth.
Someone pressed you to their chest, soft and trembling.
A gentle hand stroked your back.
And through the haze, you heard a faint, exhausted laugh.
“…Congratulations…”
Another voice—soft, weak, but filled with emotion.
“…my child…”
Your breath caught.
Or it would have, if newborn lungs worked properly.
You still couldn’t see clearly, but you felt the warmth, the heartbeat, the trembling joy.
Then the woman voice whispered, hoarse from exhaustion “…my little… Clopeh.”
Your blood froze.
Your tiny baby fingers curled instinctively.
'Did she—
Did she just say—
Clopeh?
CLOPEH.
CLOPEH —— SEKKA?!'
You with your new weak baby lung somehow can scream loud like a banshee.
The woman—your mother—held you closer.
“There, there, Clopeh… don’t cry… Mommy’s here…”
“Thank goodness… the Sekka heir is healthy…”
'CLOPEH YOU CRAZY BASTARD!!! YOU DID NOT WARN ME I WOULD HAVE TO GROW UP INTO MYSELF FIRST—'
.
.
.
And that's how you are now reincarnated as Clopeh Sekka from Trash Count Of Family.
The streets of Brooklyn had an edge tonight. The autumn air was crisp, the bite of the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks as you quickened your pace down the dimly lit sidewalk. The sound of distant laughter and blaring car horns echoed around you, but it was the footsteps behind you that held your attention.
They had been following you for a few blocks now, growing bolder with each step. You could hear the low murmurs, the crude comments thrown in your direction, and despite your best efforts to ignore them, your heart raced with every word.
"Hey, sweetheart, where you off to in such a hurry?" one of the men called out, his voice dripping with mockery.
You kept walking, tightening your grip on your bag, praying that they would lose interest. But they didn’t.
The group of them — four, maybe five — started closing in, surrounding you with their leering grins and foul remarks. You could feel their eyes on you, like vultures circling prey. Your stomach twisted in fear as one of them stepped directly into your path, forcing you to stop.
“C’mon, don’t be shy, darlin’,” he said, his grin spreading wider. He reached out as if to touch you, but before his hand could make contact, a voice rang out.
“I’m sorry I’m late, sweetheart. I was looking everywhere for you; got caught up in the shops.”
The voice was deep, smooth, with a commanding presence that seemed to stop the world around you. You blinked, your body stiff with tension as you turned towards the source.
Bucky Barnes.
You’d heard whispers about him — about the mobster who controlled most of the city’s underworld with an iron grip. He was feared by everyone, respected by those who knew better, and completely untouchable. His name alone sent shivers down most people’s spines, but the way he approached now, so casually, so effortlessly, it was like the situation was already under his control before he even spoke.
Bucky’s steely blue eyes met yours, and there was a flicker of something softer behind them as he played along with the act. He reached for your hand, gently tugging you toward him as though you’d been waiting for him all along.
The men around you hesitated, confusion flickering across their faces as they sized him up. They might not have known who he was yet, but something about him — the way he carried himself, the dangerous glint in his eyes — put them on edge.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the men sneered, stepping forward as if challenging Bucky.
Bucky didn’t even blink, his arm sliding around your shoulders protectively. He didn’t need to answer. The way he looked at the man, with an amused smirk tugging at his lips, said everything.
From across the street, Bucky’s most trusted men — Sam and Steve — lingered in the shadows, watching the scene unfold. Sam, always quick to react, saw the way the situation was escalating. Without hesitation, he stalked over, his hand slipping inside his coat to grip the gun hidden within.
Sam approached one of the men from behind, pressing the cold steel of the gun to his back, careful to keep it hidden beneath his sleeve so as not to alarm you. His face was hard, his eyes locked on Bucky, waiting for the signal.
He raised an eyebrow, the unspoken question clear. Do we take them out?
Bucky glanced down at you, still holding you close to his side. His fingers brushed lightly over your arm, a silent reassurance that you were safe with him. Then, with a barely perceptible nod, he gave Sam the permission he needed.
“Let’s go,” Bucky said softly to you, guiding you a few meters away from the group, towards the safety of your car parked just down the street.
You followed him, your mind still racing, trying to process what had just happened. Who was this man? Why was he helping you? Your heart was still pounding, but something about his calm demeanor, the way he seemed completely unfazed by the danger, made you trust him, even if you didn’t fully understand why.
Bucky’s voice was low and soothing as he opened the car door for you, his hand lingering on your back for just a moment before he pulled away.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his eyes scanning the street behind him. He wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
As you slid into the driver's seat, the sound of a gunshot cracked through the night air. You gasped, your hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as your pulse skyrocketed.
Bucky was already moving, his expression hardening as he turned back toward the scene. He didn’t need to look to know what had happened — Sam had done exactly what was necessary.
When Bucky returned to where Sam stood, the man who had dared to challenge him was sprawled out on the ground, blood pooling around him as he gasped for breath. The others — the rest of the gang — were already gone, running in fear for their lives, disappearing into the shadows.
Sam stood over the dying man, his gun still drawn, though it was tucked discreetly into his coat sleeve. He didn’t need to say anything; the message had been sent loud and clear.
“I have her safe,” Bucky said, his voice cold now, all traces of the charm he’d shown you earlier gone. He nodded toward Steve, who had come up to stand beside Sam. “You and Steve find them. They looked like new recruits from Zemo’s gang of misfits.”
Steve’s jaw tightened at the mention of Zemo. It wasn’t the first time they’d crossed paths with his gang, and it wouldn’t be the last. With a sharp nod, Steve and Sam set off in pursuit of the remaining thugs, their figures disappearing into the night like shadows.
Bucky remained where he was for a moment, his eyes locked on the body at his feet. The man coughed, choking on his own blood as he tried to speak, but Bucky didn’t care to listen. He was already done with him.
Turning on his heel, Bucky headed back to your car. You were still inside, wide-eyed and shaken, but otherwise unharmed. He opened the door once again, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze.
“Go home,” he said softly, though the steel in his voice was unmistakable. “You won’t have to worry about them anymore.”
You swallowed hard, your mind still reeling, but you nodded. Something about the way he spoke — the authority in his tone, the way he seemed so sure of himself — made you believe him.
Bucky stepped back, watching as you started the engine and pulled away, the taillights disappearing into the distance. He stood there for a while, his hands slipping into his coat pockets as he gazed down the empty street.
It was just another night in Brooklyn. Just another problem handled.
But something about the way you had looked at him, the way you had clung to his side without knowing who he was, had stirred something in him. Something unfamiliar.
With a low sigh, Bucky turned and headed into the darkness, his mind already back on the job at hand.
Tomorrow, the streets would belong to him once again.
