#akagami no shanks

[kaivenom]

Hii, can you do op dilfs with a blind reader if ur not busy? Feel free to reject

OP Dilfs with a blind!reader

Characters: Doflamingo, Mihawk, Crocodile, Smoker, Shanks

Warnings: one mention to Doflamingo's pennies.

A/N: i believe that a blind reader that gets to meet these men, would surely have some type of haki like Fujitora.

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

He says he doesn't care about you being blind.

But you hear how he closes gabinets with his legs before you even get there. You plan on closing it, but he goes faster.

Sometimes you feel a little like a baby that has everything done but he always denies it.

"I heard you, i even felt your knee."

"It was the wind."

Once he saw you in battle or a dangerous situation, he starts trying to be less overprotective.

He still does some things for you, but he warns you or at least admites doing them and kisses you after.

That is the sweetest thing someone has ever done to you, and that's one of the things why you love Mihawk.

Donquixote Doflamingo

He takes it as the best joke ever.

He can do things on you pressence and you don't see it? the best for him.

Trying to kill someone one, making you go thru bloody halls or slipery corridors.

But you let it be cause you can take care of yourself.

And still, there are situations and situations, some more surreal than others, like making you touch weird things and a particular one:

"Put your d*ck back on your jeans."

"How...

"I heard the zipper, idiot."

Dating him is like the biggest sensory experiment/stimulation ever.

Sr. Crocodile

Wants to know everything about the subject.

Once he decides that wants to be with you for a long time, he also got the goal of knowing everything he could to make your life easier or better.

Asking you what type of blindness, notifying you about the newest treatments (even though you don't want them), instaling sound systems or ordering especial braille labels so you can tags things.

He is somehow the most supportive men you could have ever dreamed about in this subject, in his own dramatic way.

"Why did you buy this tags for the cereals?"

"Cause that way you could differentiate them."

"I do that by the shape of the package, how do you think i buy them from the store." he coughs in surprise, he didn't thought about that.

"I don't know, i just wanted to make it easier... "

You laugh and hug him, sometimes he buys useless things, you don't need everything that comes out for blind people but he tries every time.

Smoker

He is surprised about your skills.

Until now, the only blind person he knows is Fujitora and he is really powerfull.

So, seeing that you are as amazing and noble as Fujitora made him take an interest on you.

The real funny thing about dating him is that you always predict him on battle and anticipate his orders... and he has a heart attack, every single time.

He tends to overprotect you some times but then you kick him on the knee with you cane and he has to shut his mouth about

"You don't know how to protect yourself"

At the end, is really funny to date him while being blind.

Akagami Shanks

He didn't notice it at first.

Sounds impossible but is Shanks who we are talking about.

The first times you both met, you seem so agile and prepare that he didn't thought about it.

He discovered it when he asked you out to take dinner, when you asked him to read you the menu.

"But you have one too."

"But i can't read it, i am fucking blind."

He even has the nerve to pretend hitting you just to see if you flinch, which you didn't, obviously.

He felt really bad about not noticing it first and tried to be more attentive.

In fact, the best thing about dating Shanks is the attention he gives you, everytime.

[xislyns]

DO AGE GAPS BOTHER THEM?

Marco , Shanks , Rayleigh , Mihawk

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ asks are open!

op masterlist : 𐙚🧸ྀི

how i think the One piece DADDIES would react to having a spouse who has a big age gap with them ? would they be insecure or secure about it? (Reader is from water 7 but honestly it doesnt rlly matter )

a/n : i am obsessed with the dilfs of one piece , istg im going to make a whole series just on hcs for these men 😩😩

AKAGAMI NO SHANKS

it bothers them at first.

Shanks usually is carefree, and during all of his trips across the grandline ofc he would often have flings, it might also be possible he has flings on every island his crew has landed on. but the moment he realized he had serious feelings for you , he grew unusually uncomfortable . It wasn’t like him to overthink, but he found himself wondering if he’d be holding you back.

“you know ____ I’m not exactly the most stable guy, im a wanted pirate,” he said one evening, swirling his drink in his hand as you can hear the crew celebrating their victory in the background . “And I’m older. You could do better ____. you would definitely be better off settling down with a shipwright in the city."

You rolled your eyes, “Stop underestimating me, Shanks. You wont scare me off with those type of words. im here with you, and im here to stay.”you said to him with utmost confidence

His grin returned, sheepish but genuine. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

From then on, Shanks embraced the relationship fully. He’d grown comfortable about the age gap, capable of saying things like, “See ____ would still pick me even if im an old man” this whole thing will and has become one of the key points that makes him love your relationship more.

When anyone dared to comment on the difference, he’d laugh and throw an arm around you. “Jealousy’s not a good look for you, mate!” he’d sneer, brushing it off .

To Shanks, life was short, and love with you? it was worth any risk.

...⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻...

DRACULE MIHAWK

Not Bothered.

Dating Dracule Mihawk is not an easy task, age gap or not. He is known to be the best swordsman alive and not only that but he is a man of few words.

his piercing gaze often leaves you guessing his thoughts. When the topic of the age difference came up, it was you who bought it up.

“Does it bother you that I’m younger?” you asked one night, standing in the library of his castle.

He regarded you with his usual flat voice, setting down his glass of wine. “Do you really believe me to be someone who concerns myself with unimportant things like age?”

You blinked, unsure if that was an awnser you wanted to hear

Mihawk sighed, walking to approach you. “Age means nothing to me, nor will it ever matter in my life. What matters to me is compatibility, trust, and respect. Do you doubt that we share these things?”

“No,” you murmured, your cheeks warming under his intense stare.

“Then stop questioning it, Love ” he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “You’re my spouse, no matter what the world says.”

And that was that. Mihawk was a man who lived his life on his terms, and he could care less about how people perceive him. whats matters is he had you in arms reach.

...⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻...

MARCO THE PHEONIX

Somewhere in between.

Marco had always lived on the Moby Dick, his priorities are split between his crew and his duty as Whitebeard’s right-hand man. But when he met you a lively spirit a decade younger , he found himself intrigued.

At first, Marco hesitated. The age gap wasn’t an issue to him personally, but he was wary of the gossip and judgment it might bring to you. He was scared it would make you insecure and uncomfortable in your relationship. He spoke to you carefully, like he was testing the waters between you two.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked one evening as you sat on the docks together, the sun setting behind you.

“im sure marc,” you replied, placing your hands over his. “Age is just a number to me, Marco. What matters is how we feel. and i feel amazing when im with you"

His lips twitched into a smile, a rare but genuine expression. “You’re too wise for your years, yoi.”

From then on, Marco grew more comfortable with your relationship. He is protective in his own way, always making sure you felt supported. When anyone questioned the relationship, he’d brush them off with his usual calm demeanor, saying,“As long as we’re happy, nothing else matters, yoi.”

To him , as long as you are okay with it, then it wasnt a big deal for him. He just wants you to have the upmost comfort.

...⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻...

SILVERS RAYLEIGH

Not Bothered.

Rayleigh had seen and done it all. In his golden years, he thought his days of love and romance were behind him. Then you came along, a ball of youthful energy and charisma that reignited a spark he thought was long extinguished in his old life.

“Age gap, hm?” he chuckled one night as you teased him about his silver hair. “I’ve been living long enough to know that love doesn’t follow rules,and neither do i.”

Rayleigh adored your youthfulness and the fresh perspective you brought into his dull life. He wasn’t insecure about the gap though , if anything he found it amusing. When others raised eyebrows, he’d wave them off with a laugh.

“Let ‘em talk what they want” he’d say, pulling you closer. “We’re happy, and that’s all that matters.”

He values your presence and he was always there to share a story or give advice when you needed it. To him, the age gap was just another adventure for him.

[haerenven]

Can you do something with Shanks being super flirty with a reader a little older than him and he thinks that he's got her in the bag, in love with him, because she smiles and looks happy when he's near; even blushing with glee when he brings her something. Then he like overhears her talking about him and it turns out she just thinks of him as really cute. Like she thinks of him as a puppy running to her excitedly, doing tricks to impress, or bringing things for her and thats the actual reason why she's always happy to see him and reacts that way.

        ㅤ٬ ⚠︎̸̸̸̸ ⠀⠀⠀ Red White ⠀ ᵎᵎ ⠀⸺⠀ .໑⠀⠀٫

Pairings. Red-haired shanks x fem!reader

summary. Oh say it Ditto

— (a/n): I wrote this based on the idea that Shanks is a rookie pirate in my imagination. I felt that he would be like a love-sick puppy when he was in his twenties.

⠀⠀ㅤㅤ٬ ⊹ ⠀『 ⠀ ��が作った ⠀』 ⠀⠀𝐈𝐈  ˓  ୭ ⠀⠀⠀

Shanks, young and brimming with charm, believes he has a certain effect on women. He’s not just confident—he’s reckless with it. His smile, boyish yet devil-may-care, is a weapon he wields shamelessly, and when it comes to her—his crewmate who’s a little older, a little sharper, a little more refined—oh, he’s convinced she’s falling, hard. She always seems happy when he’s around. That alone is proof, isn’t it?

He buys things just for her. Trinkets from islands they stop at, exotic fabrics, jewelry that glints like stolen sunlight. He presses them into her hands, watching with barely concealed satisfaction as her eyes brighten, as her lips part in a delighted smile, as—ah, there it is—a blush dusts her cheeks. He brings gifts with the confidence of a man who knows he’s winning, a rare fruit, a delicately carved comb, a perfectly smooth shell. She takes them gently, fingers brushing his in a way that must mean something. It has to.

He teases, endlessly. “You’re too beautiful to be a pirate. Someone’s going to steal you away if you’re not careful, you know?” And she laughs, always laughs, shaking her head, never once telling him to stop. He’s always near, leaning against the mast beside her, close enough that his shoulder barely brushes hers, sliding into the seat across from her with a grin, wine in hand, ready to be the only thing she pays attention to. And when he’s away? He rushes back like an eager dog, gifts in tow, stories on his lips, expecting her to melt like she always does.

One evening, he lingers near the galley, out of sight but within earshot. A few of the crew are there, and she’s with them. He doesn’t mean to listen. Not really. But then—

“Shanks is adorable.”

His grin widens instinctively. Ah, finally—

“Like a puppy.”

…Wait.

“You know when a dog runs up to you with a big, happy grin, tail wagging, practically vibrating with excitement? And they bring you things? He’s just like that.”

There’s laughter. Friendly, affectionate. Someone, probably Yasopp, asks, amused, “So you’re not interested?”

“Oh, no, no,” she says, laughing again. “He’s sweet. He’s nice. He makes me happy, but not in that way. It’s just… cute. Like when he comes back from an island with something shiny and holds it out like it’s the best thing in the world? How could I not smile at that?”

Silence. Or at least, his silence.

Shanks steps back, heart sinking to the pit of his stomach. A puppy? A dog? He was seducing her, wasn’t he? He had her on the edge, about to fall—right? But no. The truth is a slap, one that stings worse than any punch he’s ever taken. She wasn’t blushing because she was lovestruck. She wasn’t laughing because she was flustered. She wasn’t melting because he was irresistible. She just thought he was cute.

…Like a damn excited dog.

Denial, at first. “She’s messing with them,” he mutters to himself later that night, arms crossed as he leans against the ship’s railing, staring at the dark horizon. “She’s just embarrassed to admit she likes me.” But the more he thinks about it, the clearer it becomes—no, she really meant it. Sulking. Not obvious sulking—he has pride—but enough that Yasopp eventually nudges him and goes, “You look like you lost a bet. Or a bone.”

Testing the waters. The next time he brings her something, he watches closely. And sure enough—there it is. That same delighted smile. That soft chuckle. That affectionate, amused gaze.

Acceptance. He groans, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I’ve been playing fetch this whole time.”

Does he stop? Hell no. He still brings her things. Still teases. Still leans in too close, still acts like a reckless flirt. But now, when she smiles at him like that, when she laughs and shakes her head like he’s an overgrown child—he swears under his breath and mutters, “I should’ve been more mysterious.”

Shanks struts across the deck with the same unwavering self-assurance he always has, his latest “offering” clutched in one hand—a delicate silver pendant he picked up from their latest raid. He’s already picturing the way she’ll blush, the way her lips will part in soft surprise, the way her fingers will brush his just a second too long when she takes it. He knows the effect he has.

“Couldn’t help but think of you when I saw this,” he drawls, holding it out with that signature smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Figured something this beautiful should belong to someone just as breathtaking, yeah?” A perfectly crafted line. He’s gotten good at those.

She doesn’t giggle like the barmaids at port. She doesn’t blush furiously like a flustered girl swept off her feet. No, she does something far more dangerous.

She smiles. Slow, knowing, something deep and unreadable flickering behind her eyes. She doesn’t take the pendant right away—oh no, she lets him hold it there, savoring the moment, her gaze dragging up to his with a heat that’s nothing like infatuation. It’s something deeper, something effortless, something experienced. And then—gods, then—her fingers brush against his wrist, the touch featherlight, but enough to send an electric jolt through him.

“You’re such a sweet thing,” she murmurs, tilting her head just slightly, just enough for a few strands of her hair to slip over her shoulder. She takes the pendant with slow, deliberate ease, her fingertips skimming his palm as she does. Then—before he can even process the way she’s looking at him—she lifts her free hand and ruffles his hair, a touch too familiar, too teasing, like she’s indulging a particularly charming boy rather than entertaining a flirtation.

“I appreciate it, Shanks.” Her voice is honey-dipped, laced with something warm, something teasing, something that makes his stomach tighten. She turns the pendant over between her fingers, her lips curling in subtle amusement. “You always bring me such lovely things… such a thoughtful boy.”

Boy.

Shanks freezes. His brain stops working.

She’s still standing too close. Still looking at him like she’s in control of this little game, like she’s the one toying with him. The way her fingers had just slid through his hair, the way she called him sweet—Oh, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

He was supposed to be the smooth one. The one who had her flustered. But instead—instead—she’s looking at him like he’s the young one, like he’s some eager pup trying to impress.

The worst part? His face is burning.

He coughs, straightening, trying to summon his usual cocky grin—failing miserably. “Hah—well—uh—course! Someone’s gotta take care of ya, yeah?” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, only to realize she already did that.

She hums in response, clearly entertained, before turning away with that same effortless grace. And just as he exhales—thinking she’s leaving, thinking he can salvage what little pride he has left—she pauses. Turns back, eyes lidded with something unreadable, something slow, something deliberate. The air around her shifts, heavy with an allure so natural, so effortless, that it knocks the breath straight from his lungs.

Then—gods help him—she leans in.

It’s nothing dramatic, nothing exaggerated, nothing overtly intimate, yet somehow it’s everything. The warmth of her breath skims his cheek first, sending every nerve in his body into alert. Then, soft as a whisper, the press of her lips. Slow. Unhurried. Lingered just long enough to make his pulse stutter. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s an execution, a well-placed strike, a calculated move by someone who knows exactly the power she holds.

And then—just as he thinks he might actually forget how to breathe—she leans back, tilts her head with a smirk that drips with the kind of confidence he only dreams of having, and lets her fingertips trail lightly along his jaw as she finally steps away.

“Such a good boy,” she purrs, amusement curling in her tone like smoke, before turning on her heel and sauntering away, hips swaying, utterly, devastatingly in control.

Shanks doesn’t move. Can’t move. He stands there, completely and utterly wrecked, his heart hammering so hard he’s sure the entire ship can hear it. His fingers twitch at his sides, his face hotter than the damn sun, and when he finally—finally—blinks himself back to reality, the only thing that leaves his lips is a barely comprehensible, “…What the hell just happened?”

From a few feet away, Yasopp—who had witnessed the whole thing—bursts out laughing so hard he nearly doubles over. “Oh man, you are so out of your league.”

Shanks groans, dragging a hand down his face, mind still reeling. This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be over. He’d just… he’d just have to step up his game.

Right?

Right.

He was not a damn puppy.

…Right?

[thebunnednun]

MIJA I'M HERE!!!!!

Also totally did not get the feels at all reading this,

(Lying)

Give my baby a read y'all

somewhere in the past pt.3

summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.

c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot-centric, mentions of death,

Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"

Part 1 | Part 2

Flour dusted the countertop in a soft cloud, and bowls of ingredients sat neatly on the counter, waiting to be mixed. Gab was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a bemused smile on his face as he watched the two of them. Saram, barely five years old, perched on the counter with her legs dangling, her bare feet kicking the cabinets beneath her. Her eyes were wide, gleaming with excitement, watching Lucky carefully as he worked.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Saram asked, her voice high-pitched and full of innocence, like she was seeking reassurance.

Lucky chuckled, turning the bowl in his hands and gently stirring the butter and sugar together. "Of course it will. You trust me, don’t you?" His voice was warm, comforting, and there was something soft about his grin that made Saram giggle, even though she had no real reason to doubt him.

Saram nodded eagerly, her small hands gripping the edge of the counter as she leaned forward. "I do! I do! But... how do you know it’s gonna taste like the cookies we always get at the market?" She tilted her head, scrunching her face up with the kind of curiosity that only children have—open, unfiltered, unafraid to ask the same question a hundred times over.

Lucky grinned, his eyes sparkling with a quiet confidence. "Well, kiddo," he said, "there's a secret ingredient. You see, it’s not just the chocolate chips... It’s the love you put into it. And that’s something you can’t find at any market." He winked at her, as if revealing some great mystery.

Saram’s eyes widened, the weight of those words sinking in slowly. Love? She repeated the word to herself, almost tasting it on her tongue. Love. It made her smile without even knowing why, like she had just learned a very important secret.

"And... and we’ll eat them right after they’re baked?" Saram asked, her voice breathless, full of anticipation. She could already feel the warmth of the cookies in her hands, the soft gooey chocolate chips melting against her tongue.

"Of course." Lucky added a bit more flour to the mixture, his hands deftly working. "Warm cookies straight out of the oven, just like we used to."

Gab chuckled softly from the doorway, watching the two of them with a fondness that softened his usually stoic expression. "You know, she’s gonna eat all of them, right?"

Lucky shot a playful glance at Gab. "No problem. We can make more tomorrow."

Saram gasped, her small face lighting up. "Tomorrow? We can make cookies every day?"

Lucky shrugged, an exaggerated shrug that made his shoulders roll up comically. "If you help me, we can make cookies every day."

Saram's laughter rang out like a bell, sweet and clear. "I’ll help! I’ll help!"

Gab shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m pretty sure you’re gonna end up eating more than you help, kid."

Saram stuck her tongue out at Gab, but her eyes shone with pure joy. She could barely contain herself as she watched Lucky scoop the dough onto the baking tray, her fingers twitching with excitement. "Can I try? Can I do it?" Her voice was full of eagerness, her little body practically vibrating with energy.

Lucky laughed and handed her a spoonful of dough. "Alright, kiddo. But just one. We don’t want to spoil dinner."

Saram took the spoonful and popped the dough straight into her mouth. The sweetness of the raw dough melted instantly on her tongue, rich and buttery, with just the right amount of chocolatey goodness. She closed her eyes and let out a small sigh, savoring the moment. "This tastes so good, Lucky! I’m gonna be the best cookie maker ever!"

Gab raised an eyebrow, his voice teasing as he said, "Well, then you’ll have to teach us your secret recipe, right?"

Saram blinked at him, her small face scrunching up in deep thought. "My secret recipe... is chocolate chips and sugar and love!" She giggled at her own simplicity, her joy contagious.

Lucky placed the tray in the oven, the soft click of the door closing signaling the start of the wait. He turned back to Saram, his eyes warm. "Now we wait. And when they’re ready, we get to eat every last one of them. Deal?"

"Deal!" Saram said, her voice loud and clear, her excitement radiating out of her like a little sunbeam. She hopped down from the counter, her tiny feet padding across the kitchen floor as she wandered over to the window, peeking outside at the moonlit ocean. The salty air wafted in through the window, mixing with the smell of cookies and making her feel warm all over.

"Can you smell that?" she asked, her voice soft now, as she stared out at the ocean.

Gab stepped up beside her, glancing out at the waves. "Yeah. Smells like the sea."

"No," Saram said, shaking her head. "It smells like... something nice." Her small voice was so sincere, so full of that childlike certainty, that it made Lucky and Gab both pause and look at her. "The sea, and the cookies, and all the things we get to do together..." She twirled around, her arms outstretched as if the entire world could fit inside that simple, perfect moment.

Lucky smiled, his heart swelling with something soft and tender, something he rarely let himself feel. "You’re right," he said quietly. "It smells nice."

"You're a good kid, Saram," Lucky said, his voice gentle but sincere. "You remind me that it’s the little things that make the world feel good." He fixed his goggles, leaning back and glancing at Gab with a small, almost shy smile. "I don’t think we tell you enough."

Gab raised an eyebrow, his arms still crossed. He stood taller, leaning against the doorframe, but there was a softness in his gaze that matched the light in the kitchen. "Takes a lot to remind us, doesn’t it?" His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. "The way things get crazy out there, it's easy to forget."

Saram stopped spinning for a moment and looked up at them, her face serious and curious all at once. "What do you mean?" Her voice was small, but she still had a way of making the question feel big.

Gab’s expression softened. He stepped closer to the window, staring out at the night for a moment before answering, his tone a little distant. "I mean... sometimes, we forget that moments like these—quiet, peaceful ones—are important. We get caught up in other things. Things that make us forget why we care about what we’re doing, who we’re with."

Lucky nodded, running his hands through the flour-dusted countertop. "Life gets noisy, kiddo. But it’s the quiet moments that let us reset. That let us remember what we’re really working for. And it’s not just for survival, or for fighting the next battle." He gave her a playful wink. "Sometimes, it’s for cookies."

Saram’s eyes brightened. "Cookies are important," she agreed, a tone of seriousness in her voice that only a five-year-old could muster. She turned back to the window, her fingers trailing across the cool glass. She could still taste the sweetness of the dough on her tongue, warm and rich. It made her smile.

The sound of the oven timer suddenly rang through the kitchen, sharp and sudden, breaking the stillness. Saram’s whole body tensed with excitement. "It’s time!" She scrambled over to the oven, jumping up and down as she tried to peer over the counter.

Gab chuckled softly, his hands slipping into his pockets as he watched her. "I think someone’s ready to eat."

Lucky moved past Saram, his large hands reaching for the oven mitts. "Alright, alright, kid, step back. Let me do it so you don’t burn yourself." He slid the tray out, the warm, golden brown cookies now fully formed, each one with a perfect, slightly crinkled top, the chocolate chips melted just enough to glisten.

The smell hit them immediately—chocolate, butter, and a touch of vanilla, mingling with the salty sea breeze. It was the smell of comfort, of home, of simplicity. Lucky placed the tray down on the counter, and Saram bounced up and down, barely able to contain herself.

"They’re perfect!" she squealed, her voice a high pitch of joy as she grabbed a cookie, biting into it before it had even fully cooled.

"Hey, don’t burn your mouth," Lucky said with a laugh, but Saram only shrugged, the warm cookie in her hand already half gone.

"They taste like the best thing ever," she declared, her face lighting up with pure delight.

Gab watched her for a moment, his gaze a little distant, but his lips curled into a faint smile. There was something about the way Saram’s joy filled up the space around them, how she had this ability to make everything feel lighter, even in the quiet of the night. He couldn’t help but feel a quiet ache in his chest, a yearning for these moments to last, for the world outside to just... stay still for a little longer.

Lucky slid a couple more cookies onto the counter, a teasing glint in his eye. "Alright, kid. Now that we’ve got our cookies, what do we do with them?"

Saram, already on her third cookie, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "We eat them all!" she declared, as if there could be no other answer. Her mouth was full, but she spoke with absolute certainty.

Lucky and Gab exchanged a glance, both shaking their heads in amused disbelief. "Guess we’re in for a cookie feast, then," Lucky said, laughing.

The three of them settled down around the kitchen table, the warm glow from the oven lighting their faces, the sound of the waves outside soothing the quiet of the night. Gab finally uncrossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his eyes softening as he reached for another cookie.

"Guess we should start making plans for tomorrow’s batch," Lucky said with a grin, as he wiped a little chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

Saram’s eyes sparkled. "And we can eat them right away too?"

"You bet," Lucky said, throwing her a wink. "And this time, we can eat even more."

Saram giggled, the sound filling the kitchen like music. For that brief moment, with the smell of cookies in the air and the sea softly calling them from beyond the windows, everything felt perfect. The worries of the world seemed so far away, lost in the warmth of the kitchen and the love they shared.

For Saram, this—this was what happiness tasted like.

Saram wondered if this is what silence tasted like.

The silence between them felt like a living thing, breathing and shifting with every quiet motion.

Saram tilted her head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips—a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, the kind that was just a shadow of something long gone. Something lost.

"You tell me, Beckman. You’re the vice, right?" she asked, her voice soft, even. Too even. Too calm. Her hands were tucked into her pockets now, her fingers clenched around the vial there, as if it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. The only thing that kept her from slipping into the storm that churned inside her chest.

Beckman’s eyes never left her. He’d seen that look before. He’d seen that cold calm, the way she moved with an eerie quiet precision, like everything was a calculation and nothing was out of her control. The same way the crew moved when things were serious. When the stakes were high.

Saram was no stranger to battle. She carried the weight of it in her stance, in her eyes. And it was too much like them.

"Vice," Beckman echoed, the word hanging between them. He didn’t need to answer her directly. He already knew what she was asking. But Shanks—Shanks was watching her differently. The weight of his one hand shifting as he shifted his posture, the subtle pull of his body where once there had been two hands. The soft sound of his breath moving in and out, like a man caught between two worlds: the one where he was father and the one where he had abandoned a part of himself.

Shanks swallowed thickly. His eyes burned, not with anger, but with the weariness of twelve long years.

"You think you’ve got me figured out, Saram?" he asked, voice rough, like something scraped raw.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. The smile stayed there, small and bitter, like a piece of old fruit left too long in the sun.

"I think," she said slowly, her voice sliding between them like oil on water, smooth but heavy, "you have more in common with me than you’re willing to admit."

Beckman shifted ever so slightly, catching the faintest glint in Shanks' eyes. He was walking on a tightrope now, balancing between the past and the present. Between the crew he had built and the daughter he had left behind. The wind outside shifted in rhythm with their breaths, the scent of salt and old wood mixing with the faint burning of Beckman’s cigarette. The smoke curling lazily around them like a veil, just thick enough to blur the sharp edges of everything they were saying but not thick enough to hide the truth that lingered in the room.

Shanks opened his mouth to speak again, but Saram interrupted, her tone cutting, sharp as glass.

"You don’t need to say it," she said, almost lazily, as if she were bored with the conversation. "You think you’re so different. You and the crew. You all think you’re so different, but in the end, you're just the same. You run, you hide, you leave your problems behind, until one day—" She paused, her gaze flickering between them, a cold flame that didn’t burn but froze instead. "One day, you come back, and expect everything to be... fixed. To be easy. You want to pick up where you left off, like you never vanished."

The words cut through the air. Beckman could see the flicker in Shanks’ eye, the way it softened despite himself, how he felt it. How they both felt it.

"We’re not the same," Shanks muttered, but the words felt hollow, even to him.

Saram’s smile widened, bitter and soft, like something both broken and sharp. She was a blade hidden in the skin of someone else’s memory, a shadow of what could have been.

"You’re right," she agreed with a mocking tilt of her head. "You’re not the same. You’re worse."

Beckman exhaled sharply, flicking the ash from his cigarette. He could feel the tension building in the room, the pressure of the unspoken things piling up, heavier and heavier with each passing second.

But he stayed silent. He knew how this played out. He had seen it before—in her eyes. The same eyes he had seen on the crew when things had gotten real, when they had been backed into corners, when they were forced to face themselves. The crew had learned to live with that tension, the constant dance between their hearts and the things they had to leave behind. He saw it in her—saw the echo of the same fire in the crew that had once been lit by the same flame.

"Tell me, Shanks," Saram continued, her voice smooth but laced with something darker now. "Do you even know who I am anymore? Or are you just looking for the little girl who used to follow you around, pretending that everything was okay?"

Shanks’ breath hitched. Her words were so sharp, so true, that he almost couldn’t breathe.

"Saram," he whispered, voice raw. "I never—"

She cut him off with a sharp laugh. The sound was empty, like something snapping.

"I don't need your guilt."

Her hands were clenched tightly around the fabric of her coat. Her fingers, pale and tight with restraint, were the only thing holding her together now. The tightness of her grip was the only thing that kept her from falling apart into a thousand pieces.

Shanks took a step forward. His eyes locked with hers, and for the first time in twelve years, Saram let herself feel something.

Something more than the coldness she had worn like armor.

She didn’t back down.

"I didn’t leave you because I thought I was done with you," Shanks said, his voice strained, heavy with the weight of everything he had buried.

Beckman’s eyes softened as he watched Saram, the way she stood there, unwavering, the same way the crew stood when they were serious. When they were facing something they could no longer outrun. He exhaled a long breath, the smoke curling around him like a cloak.

"You still haven’t told me," she said, her voice low now, calm, though there was a quiet rage beneath it. "What now, Beckman? You’re the vice. You lead this ship with Shanks. What now?"

The question hung in the air, but Beckman didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to Shanks, the weight of the past between them, like two ghosts standing side by side.

Shanks looked back at him, his expression a mixture of regret and something deeper. His hand flexed at his side, as though he was still adjusting to its absence. But he didn’t show it. Not to her. Not now.

The room felt too small. Too thick with the smell of the ocean, the smoke, the salt in the air that carried a thousand things neither of them wanted to face.

Finally, Beckman spoke, his voice low, almost tired.

"It’s not about what’s easy. It’s about what you can live with," he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette, watching the tiny specks float away into the silence.

Saram stared at him for a moment, her eyes flickering with something too complex to name. And then, quietly, her lips curled again.

"You’re all the same."

"You’ve all remained the same," Saram murmured, her voice soft but sharp like a blade concealed beneath velvet. "Older, stronger... but the same." Her gaze flickered between them, cool and detached, yet there was something beneath her calm demeanor—something brittle, hidden deep.

The little girl inside her cried, and for a split second, the warmth of that childhood memory, the innocence of days that should have been, clawed at her heart. It was fleeting, a flicker of light too brief to hold. She could feel it in the space behind her ribs, echoing with her thoughts. Words she had buried long ago: Why didn’t you come back for me?

She could hear it, the cry of that abandoned girl—fragile and lost, begging for someone to pick her up and tell her it would be okay. But Saram smothered it. She had learned to smother things long ago.

Her fingers tightened around the vial in her pocket, a small movement that gave her something to hold onto. Something to anchor herself. The vial was cold, the glass biting against her skin. Her thumb traced its edges absently as she stood there, still as stone, not trusting herself to move too much. Not trusting herself to feel anything too deeply.

Shanks and Beckman exchanged a glance. There was something in their eyes—something unspoken, something they had both recognized in her. Something dangerous.

"You think we’re the same?" Shanks asked, his voice quiet, the weight of his words settling between them. "We’ve changed, Saram. We’ve all changed."

Her lips curled up into something faintly reminiscent of a smile—though it was hollow, nothing but an empty curve.

"Changed," she echoed. "You think I haven’t?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but there was weight in every syllable. "You think I haven’t changed? You think I haven’t learned how to survive without you?"

Beckman stepped forward, his presence filling the room with a quiet intensity. He was older, sharper than he had been when they last met, and he had seen far too much of the world to let Saram slip past him unnoticed. He watched her closely, his gaze steady but not unkind.

"Survival doesn’t make you stronger," Beckman said, his voice steady but lined with something close to sadness. "It makes you... harder."

She let out a small, derisive laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her heart remained a frozen thing, too encased in bitterness to thaw. "Harder," she repeated, like it was a word that didn’t quite fit. "I’m fine with that."

Shanks stepped closer, but this time, his approach wasn’t threatening. His eyes softened, like he was searching for something behind the wall Saram had built around herself. "You’ve always been good at hiding what you feel, haven’t you?" he said quietly. His voice was low, but it carried something deeper—an unspoken understanding, one forged from years of seeing others hide their truths behind masks.

Saram’s expression flickered, just for a moment. A fleeting break in the wall she had so carefully constructed around herself. But it was gone before either of them could reach it. She was calm again, just as cold, just as collected. "It’s not hiding if no one’s looking," she said, her voice a razor.

Shanks’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t push further. Not yet. He could see the walls, the way Saram had built them so high, so thick that no one could break through. She didn’t want anyone to reach her. She didn’t want their pity, their regret, their apologies.

She just wanted... something else. Something she couldn’t put into words.

"And you’re still here," Beckman said, his voice breaking through the quiet tension, an almost imperceptible shift in his stance. "Still aboard this ship. After all this time."

Saram’s fingers curled tighter around the vial, the glass pressing harshly against her palm. She didn’t loosen her grip. Didn’t let go. The cold bite of it was grounding, something tangible amidst the swirl of emotions she refused to acknowledge.

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “And?”

Beckman’s gaze didn’t waver. “That means something.”

Saram huffed softly, amused in that distant, empty way she always was. “Does it?”

Shanks took another step forward, slow and careful, like he was approaching something fragile. Something breakable.

“You didn’t have to come back,” he said, his voice quiet. “You didn’t have to step onto this ship again.”

Saram lifted her chin, her eyes sharp. “And you think that means I want to be here?”

Shanks studied her. “I think if you really didn’t, you wouldn’t be.”

Her jaw tightened.

Beckman crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose. “Twelve years, and you still can’t be honest with yourself, huh?”

Saram’s lips curled, her teeth flashing in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Honest? About what?”

Shanks watched her closely. “That you’re angry.”

She went still.

A beat of silence passed, thick and suffocating.

Then she laughed—low, quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “Angry?” She shook her head, her fingers flexing at her sides. “Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. It was steady, sharp, honed like a blade.

“I spent years waiting,” she said, each word deliberate, measured, like she was carefully unraveling a truth she had long since buried. “Years wondering if I had just imagined it all. If I had imagined you. If I had made up every memory, every promise, every stupid, childish hope that one day—one day—you’d come back.”

She took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm in her voice wavered. Cracked.

“But you didn’t.”

Shanks’ throat bobbed, but he didn’t interrupt. He let her speak.

Saram let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “So no, I’m not angry.” Her voice dropped lower, quieter. “I was angry. A long time ago.”

Her fingers curled again, her nails digging into her palm. “Now I just don’t care.”

She saw the way Shanks’ expression shifted, saw the way Beckman inhaled sharply, but she didn’t let it affect her.

Because it was true. Wasn’t it?

She had spent years learning how not to care. How to be untouchable. Unreachable.

Shanks studied her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t believe that.”

Saram met his gaze, unwavering. “That’s not my problem.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the lanterns flickering with the movement.

Then Shanks sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I can’t change the past,” he said, and his voice was quieter now, heavier. “I can’t take back what happened. I can’t fix what’s already broken.”

Saram watched him, her expression still carefully composed.

“But,” he continued, looking at her fully now, “that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Saram’s breath hitched.

For just a second—just a second—her grip on the vial faltered.

She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to keep her mask in place.

Shanks took a step closer. “And it doesn’t mean I won’t try to be better now.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re twelve years too late.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“…But I’m still here.”

The room felt smaller than it should have, the scent of aged wood and salt thick in the air. The lanterns swayed gently with the ship’s motion, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Saram stood in the middle of it, her frame steady, her expression unreadable save for the slight curve of her lips—a blank, hollow thing that did not reach her eyes.

Shanks was watching her, his gaze dark, searching. Beckman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his grip was tight, fingers pressing into his sleeves. The weight of her words sat heavy between them, like an anchor sinking into the depths.

“I need you to understand,” Saram said, voice even, quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the thick silence, “that I can't keep chasing after you and the crew.” Her fingers flexed at her sides, her thumb brushing over the edge of the vial again, grounding herself in its cold bite. “I will die your daughter, dad. I will die as the daughter of the Red-Haired Pirates—but I can't live as her. Not anymore.”

Shanks inhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, but he didn’t speak. Not yet. Beckman’s eyes flickered between them, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Saram tilted her head, watching Shanks with something unreadable. “I was nine when you told me you wished I was easier, dad.” The words left her lips like a knife unsheathed, smooth and gleaming, waiting to strike.

Shanks flinched, and it was the first real reaction she had seen from him.

“I was twelve when you left me to burn away in that country,” she continued, her voice calm, measured, but every syllable carried the weight of years lost. “You couldn’t accept me as yours, but you wouldn’t let me go either.”

Shanks’ breath hitched. His fists curled at his sides, and he took a step closer, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor, but she didn’t move. Didn’t give him an inch.

“Saram,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, like he had been trying to find the right words for years and still came up empty.

She smiled then. A small, brittle thing, like a crack running through glass. “Do you understand how cruel you have been?” Her head tilted slightly, her gaze piercing. “How cruel you all have been?”

Beckman’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t look away.

Saram’s fingers twitched. “You all found me a chore and Uta a melody.”

The words settled like a storm rolling in, thick with static, humming with something inevitable.

Shanks inhaled sharply, his entire frame going rigid. “That’s not true.”

Saram let out a soft breath of laughter, but it wasn’t amused. “Isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened. “I never—”

“You never what?” she cut in smoothly, arching a brow. “Never compared us? Never found me difficult? Never left me behind?”

Shanks’ silence was louder than words.

Beckman exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “Saram—”

She turned to him then, eyes sharp. “You, too, Beck.”

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his gaze.

“You told me I was stubborn, that I needed to be more like Uta.” Her voice was quieter now, but no less cutting. “That I needed to stop questioning everything. That I needed to listen more.” She shook her head slightly. “You never realized I was listening.”

Beckman exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He had no excuses to offer. None that would change anything.

Shanks stepped forward again, close enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the regret in his gaze. “Saram,” he said, softer this time. “I never wanted to leave you.”

She smiled again, empty and cold. “But you did.”

His breath caught.

Beckman’s voice was quieter now. “You have every right to hate us.”

Saram huffed, her fingers twitching. “I don’t hate you.”

She saw the brief flicker of relief cross Shanks’ face before she spoke again.

“I did.”

His relief shattered.

“But hate takes too much,” she murmured, voice quieter now, more distant. “It burns you from the inside out.” She tilted her head, the lantern light catching the faint scars along her collar, disappearing beneath the fabric of her hood. “I already burned once. I’m not doing it again.”

Shanks swallowed thickly, his shoulders sinking.

Silence settled again, the kind that stretched and cracked at the seams.

Saram inhaled slowly, steadying herself. “I don’t need your guilt,” she said finally, turning away. “And I don’t need your apologies.”

The creak of the ship beneath them felt distant, like a sound from another world—one Saram no longer belonged to. The scent of aged wood filled her lungs, but it was the weight in the room, the unspoken tension pressing against her ribs, that nearly stole her breath.

She could hear Shanks inhale behind her, the way he shifted his weight, uncertain, like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know how. Like he thought if he touched her, she might disappear.

“Saram,” his voice was quieter now, cautious, hesitant. He had never spoken to her like that before. Not even when she was a child. “Then what do you need?”

She could feel his gaze on her back, burning, waiting. Beckman hadn’t moved from his place against the wall, but she could sense the way his arms had tightened, the way his breath had slowed, preparing for whatever she might say.

Saram turned back to them then, slowly, her face shadowed by the hood, her expression as unreadable as ever. But when she spoke, her voice was clear. Steady.

“I need you to understand,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her blank smile still in place, “that your daughter—that—that twelve-year-old you left in those ruins—is dead.”

Shanks stiffened, his eyes widening slightly, his breath catching in his throat.

“She is gone, Dad,” Saram continued, voice calm, as if she were stating an irrefutable fact. “She is dead, okay?”

Shanks’ lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Beckman shifted, his expression darkening just slightly.

Saram exhaled softly through her nose, tilting her head. “Did you know the look you all had whenever you looked at me?” She let the words settle between them for a moment, her gaze flickering between them, watching. Waiting. “Do you know, Beckman?”

His jaw clenched, and for the first time that night, Beckman looked away.

“You made one mistake in your youth, and you all punished me a lifetime for it.”

Her words sank into the space between them, reverberating in the quiet air. The salty tang of the sea seemed to thicken, like it, too, absorbing the gravity of her statement. She could feel the faint sting of the wind against her skin, the coldness of the ship's wood beneath her boots, but none of it reached her. She was numb—beyond the reach of any sensation, beyond the reach of them.

Shanks let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. His fingers trembled slightly as they dragged through the red strands. “That’s not—” His voice faltered. “That’s not how it was, Saram.”

She let out a quiet laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “No?”

Shanks’ hands curled into fists at his sides. “You were never a mistake.”

Saram’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind her eyes dimmed. “I wasn’t?”

Shanks exhaled sharply. “I loved you.”

She stared at him for a long moment. And then, finally, she spoke.

“You left me.”

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t angry. They weren’t even accusatory. They were just... there. Sitting between them like an open wound.

Beckman swallowed, his throat tight.

Shanks took a step forward, but Saram didn’t move, didn’t waver.

“Saram—”

“I was twelve when you left me to burn.”

Shanks shook his head, stepping closer, his movements stiff. “I thought you were—”

“Dead?” she finished for him, and for the first time, the smile dropped from her lips. Her face was blank now, colder than it had been before. “Yes. You did.”

Beckman’s grip on his sleeve tightened. The tension in the room was suffocating now, pressing against all of them.

Shanks’ hands trembled. “Saram, I—”

She took a slow step forward, closing the space between them just slightly, tilting her head. “If I had died,” she murmured, “would you have ever known?”

Shanks’ breath caught.

Beckman inhaled sharply, but he said nothing.

Saram’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Would you have even looked?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Shanks swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, but no words came. None that would make a difference. None that would make any of this right.

Saram exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Saram's gaze held Shanks’ for a moment longer, the weight of her words settling in the space between them, thick and suffocating. The room seemed to press in on all sides, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the ship’s hull, the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet.

She took a step back, her eyes flickering between Shanks and Beckman. Her fingers loosened, the fists at her sides unclenching slowly, but the tension in her body remained. Her smile—blank, empty, distant—never quite reached her eyes.

“I’m gonna go check on Uta,” she said, her voice soft but final.

Shanks opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to say something—anything—that would make this moment easier, something to erase the years of silence, of hurt—but no words came. There was nothing he could say.

Saram turned without another word, the soft rustle of her boots against the floor the only sound as she moved toward the door. Her hand brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob, the faint metallic taste of it lingering on her fingers as she grasped it.

Behind her, Beckman shifted slightly, but remained silent. His gaze never wavered from Saram’s retreating figure, his thoughts a swirling mess of regret and understanding.

Saram paused at the door, her back still turned to them. For a moment, it seemed like she might say something more—some final declaration, some last word—but instead, she simply exhaled, the sound low and barely audible.

She opened the door, the soft creak of it sounding like the final exhale of a long-held breath. She stepped through, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

The room was left in silence, the space between Shanks and Beckman as heavy as the words they had not spoken. Shanks stood still, his hand still reaching out as if trying to pull her back, but knowing—knowing that she was gone. Not physically, but emotionally.

Beckman remained where he was, arms crossed, watching Shanks with a heavy, unreadable expression. The silence lingered, thick and unyielding, until Shanks finally exhaled, the sound full of defeat.

“I didn’t…” His voice faltered, and he stopped, unable to finish. What was there left to say? How could he undo the years that had passed? How could he fix what he had broken?

Beckman glanced at him, his expression softened by years of knowing how this felt. He didn’t speak, but there was understanding in his gaze. He didn’t need to say it—Shanks already knew. 

Saram felt like her feet were lead, they felt almost stuck to the wooden floors of the ship’s inner hallways as she walked, mind still reeling from the conversations of a while ago with Shanks and Beckman. Everyone else, she could handle, everyone else she could ward off but not them.

Never them.

They had always been different. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much she hardened herself, no matter how much she told herself that it no longer mattered, they could still shake her. Not because they deserved to—not because she wanted them to—but because there was a part of her, buried deep beneath everything, that had once loved them.

“Well, if you sit here all quiet like that, the sea’s gonna think you’re lonely and try to steal you away.”

“Maybe it should.”

“Nah, we’d steal you right back.”

Shanks was a liar and Saram was the fool who believed him every time. Who believed every sweet lie Shanks said, who believed every bitter condolence that Beckman gave her. A foolish, naive child who had looked up at them with wide, hopeful eyes and had believed—truly believed—that they would always be there.

She had clung to the edges of their world, small hands gripping the fabric of their cloaks, trailing behind them like a shadow, had memorized their voices, the cadence of their laughter, the way their footsteps sounded on deck. She had thought—had known—that she was safe with them.

They were hers. And she was theirs.

Until they were neither.

At times like these she wonders if things were different, could they have been a family? What if she wasn’t Saram? What if she had been someone else—someone easier to love, someone they didn’t have to leave behind? Could they have been a proper father and daughter? She hated that. Hated that even now, a small part of her still wondered—

— if things were different, if she wasn’t Saram, if Shanks wasn’t Shanks, could they have been a family?

Her younger self would have wanted that.

She could see it if she closed her eyes—see that little girl with wild hair and wide eyes, always chasing after Shanks with bare feet against the deck, laughing. A girl who still believed in things like warmth, in things like home. A girl who hadn’t yet learned that love could be conditional.

Could Shanks have loved her? Truly?

She didn’t know.

The twenty-four year slowly, quietly slipped into the infirmary and walked over to the lone figure lying on the second last bed, half covered by the curtains around on top of it. Her boots barely made any sound as she walked over to the bed, pushing the curtain away and standing by the side of the bed, staring down at the young girl lying there, tubes supplying her with medication.

Saram knelt down on the ground, beside the bed, her hands holding onto the hand of Uta which had no tubes or needles. She leaned her cheek against her skin and stared at the younger girl, Saram would never say it verbally but Uta was her sister, her younger sister, despite what Shanks did, despite what the crew did, despite what the world didn't do for her, Uta has and always would be her sister. Not of blood, it's fine, blood meant nothing, Saram had first handed experienced it, blood was nothing, if you loved someone, you would love them.

Saram’s body seemed to fold in on itself as she sat beside Uta’s bed, the quiet hum of the ship’s engines lulling her into an exhausted daze. The weight of the day, of the conversations she had been forced to endure, slowly crushed her, and she let her body lean against the bed. The warmth of Uta’s hand in her grip was a small comfort in the midst of everything else.

“I talked to him.” Saram said quietly, “Beckman was there, too. I couldn't be angry, you know? You'd probably be angry.” She chuckled, “You always did say that you'd give them a piece of your mind if they tried to confront me. How funny, how small you are and how reckless you are.”

Saram had spent years in silence.

Not the kind that came with peace, but the kind that settled like dust in the corners of an empty home, like the one that settled in one's bones and rotted away the structure. Rot, right. Saram had rotted away way before she even burned those flames, her childish dreams trampled in slowness.

Her mind was a wasteland, long stripped of warmth. She barely remembered the last time she had truly felt something—something beyond exhaustion, beyond this dull, quiet emptiness that gnawed at her.

Saram chuckled softly, the sound barely above a whisper. “You always said you’d scream at them for me.” Her voice was distant, as if she were speaking to a ghost. “You always had more fire in you than me, Uta. More rage, more belief that the world could be fair if we just fought hard enough.”

She didn’t have that. Not anymore. Because the fire around her had burned away more than skin, more than her flesh and blood, it had taken her fears, her anger, her pain - it had ruined her. Saram had been ruined for eternity.

Maybe, that was her price to pay for existing; for even being alive, for being born. A child no one wanted in a world that no one reached out for her hand, no one standing as her wall, no one hiding her from hot sunny days, no one there as assurance to save her if she drowned, no one there to willingly love her, and not out of obligation,

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, into the hollow space where memories lay buried, where her soul lay buried.

The sound of burning wood snapping, the heat searing her skin.

The suffocating weight of smoke in her lungs.

The overwhelming silence that followed.

She had cried once after the fall. A long time ago. Alone in Elegia, curled up in an empty room where no one could hear, no one could see. She had cried so hard that her chest ached for days after, silent sobs wracking through her small, fragile frame. But then the tears had dried, and after that—nothing.

No more crying.

No more longing.

No more hoping.

She had built herself up from those ashes, forged herself into something that could not be broken. But sitting here now, beside Uta, she felt the weight of it all pressing down again. Like phantom hands around her throat, like the ghost of a past she thought she had buried beneath steel and silence.

Shanks' voice echoed in her head. “You were never a mistake.”

Wasn't she?

Then why had she spent her life trying to change?

Or had she just hollowed herself out so thoroughly that there was nothing left to change?

Her grip tightened, barely perceptible, around Uta’s hand.

“…I can’t be angry,” she repeated, softer now. The words felt foreign in her mouth, as if she were trying to convince herself more than anything else. “Maybe because I don’t have it in me anymore.”

She blinked for a moment, eyes going over the younger’s face and her eyes closed, too, hand shifting, holding it to her forehead now with both hands, praying, of sorts. She had always been like this with Uta—protective, almost motherly, though neither of them ever said it.

No words needed to be spoken when Uta’s soft breath was the only thing that filled the silence between them. She could hear the quiet beeping of the machines keeping Uta alive, the soft shuffle of footsteps down the hallway outside the infirmary, but it all felt distant. Her heart, heavy with so many things—things she had said and things she had kept silent—felt lighter in this room. 

Here, with Uta, there was no pretending. There were no walls to hide behind. No need to put up the mask.

“Wake up already, you troublesome kid.”

Her eyelids felt heavy, the exhaustion of everything from the past days creeping up on her. Saram fell asleep there, hand holding onto Uta’s, head beside her hand as she sat on the ground, eyes closing slowly but surely. She had no idea when her body finally gave in to the need for rest, but by the time the first soft rays of dawn peeked through the small window in the infirmary, Saram was asleep, off to sleep beside Uta—her head resting gently on Uta’s hand, their fingers still intertwined.

Every time I plan to finish this series, the storyline gets longer. I listened to die your daughter on repeat which led to even more angsty dialogues. A one-shot turned into parts, next part in works, lemme know what you think! mwah!

taglist: @thebunnednun @acesdiary @chizu001 @nagislemontea @v1ennie @74zix47 @meerpea @nayshel @whore-of-many-hot-men

[anmechokola]

In light of recent developments, Shanks' attack name when he's going after Kid makes a lot more sense

(chapter 1079)

In Japanese, it's 神避 (kamusari) with the first kanji meaning god(s) and the second is the kanji of the verb 避ける (sakeru) which means to avoid (situation); to evade (question, subject); to shirk (one's responsibilities)​; to ward off; to avert​

So like "escaping from the god(s)"

(I like to think of it as "avoiding my fucking family")

PS: I'm not exactly sure if the "from" is necessarily the right interpretation, could be that he calls it "god's evasion" in the sense that the god is the one escaping/evading (is he the god that's escaping or are the gods evading him?)

[sunnyferr]

NEW ONE PICE EVENT 🔞

Yes! You read that right! My first One Piece event!

MASTERLIST! PEDIDOS!

Bear in mind!

I'm only writing fics with scenarios implying prior consent (like kidnapping or intoxication prompts).

I'm most comfortable writing for AFAB readers in this event, so the default will be she/her pronouns. Let me know if you'd prefer different pronouns!

I can't guarantee I'll fulfill every request, as it depends on how inspired I am. I'll keep writing until I get burnt out. :P

Please, one request per person! Also, please make sure your request is believable for the character (consider if they would realistically do that).

I write any character (Male or Female)

Following me would be greatly appreciated before requesting

Send your requests as asks so I can reply to them.

Choose a letter!

This will help make your order more specific (if you don't find something you like, you can add it in your message!)

A - alpha/omega dynamics

B - breeding

C - cumplay

D - desk

E - exhibitionism

F - first time

G - deGradation

H- Hot fire (wax play)

I - intoxication

J - just 'friends' (friends to lovers)

K - kidnapped

L - lovemaking

M - masturbation

N - no protection (risky sex)

O - oral fixation

P - sex Pollen

Q - quiet (public sex)

R - roleplay

S - rude Sex

T - thighjob

U - unbearable (enemies to lovers)

V - vampire au

W - body Worship

X -XXX (porn actors)

Y - 'yours' (possessive behavior)

Z - ZZZ (somnophilia)

[redhairedpookie]

Just fucking look at him!

[evichuart]

i love the idea of luffy not wanting to let go of shanks after the arm incident and being by his side during his recovery

[majubengel]

One Piece final battle

poorly drawn extra:

[theseventhstar]

Mihawk trying not to laugh at Shanks' "with a hand tied behind my back" joke

[reineydraws]

saw this quote off a v cute ushiten comic first haha check it out

i just drew them over a screenshot of hitsugibune from the back 'cuz i was lazy lol soz

[xislyns]

its finally done wait till tomorrow guys 🤭🤭

[sisterzargoni]

[petrawood]

WHY ARE THIS TWO GIVING SO MUCH DIVORCED ENERGY WHAT IS GOING ON HERE

LIKE, THEY ARE SO PETTY FOR NO REASON?

IM A FIGHT RIGHT??

[betaminshitto]

nothing much just bugger setting his grudge aside for a sec

[wwapich]

mishanksss