A Place for Dying
Pairing: Reader x Cassian
Summary: A mission with Cassian goes terribly wrong.
Warnings: major angst, mentions and depiction of gore, injury, battle, death.
Word Count: 2.3k
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The rain lashed down in relentless torrents as the sounds of clashing steel filled the air.
You didn’t know where they came from or how they managed to sneak up on you and Cassian so swiftly— appearing as if conjured by the storm itself. Within seconds you were swarmed.
The male in front of you was unlike any you’ve faced before, eyes ablaze with an eerie light as he attacked. You parried his blows with all your skill, but the mud beneath your feet made your movements slow and predictable, and his skill was otherworldly— something far sinister than what you’d been trained to fight. From the corner of your eye, you could see Cassian locked in combat with two other males, hair matted and siphons glowing angrily as he moved.
And then a searing pain exploded in your abdomen.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you glanced down, watching in horror as a sword was drawn from your abdomen, coated in blood. You felt your own weapon slipping from your now lax grip as your hand found its way to your gaping wound. A faint scream echoed in your ears as you looked up, meeting the male's triumphant grin, his sword poised to deliver the final blow.
Within a seconds, there was a second figure before you as a flash of red glow and power surged.
But you weren’t paying attention as your legs gave way beneath you.
You felt yourself falling, the world spinning as a fuzzy darkness crawled into your eyesight. You blinked. Cassian was there, hands reaching out to catch you and pull you into him.
"Shit, shit," he cursed under his breath. "Shit."
"Cassian," you croaked. Your voice was barely a whisper against the roar of the storm, a painful groan that made his stomach clench. His gaze swept over the chaos around you, the soaked mud now scarcely decorated with the bodies of the fallen soldiers. He looked over briefly at the male that had stabbed you, now lying lifeless where Cassian had struck him.
"You're okay, you're good," Cassian said. He attempted to readjust himself, wrapping an arm around your torso as he pulled your other around his shoulders. His body groaned in response, searing pain igniting through his torn clothes.
"Cass, I can't—I can't.”
"Shhh," Cassian said. He took a deep breath as he began to walk forward, surveying his surroundings for the next possible move. "Don't speak. I got ya."
His shredded wings hung limp behind him, now sodden and stained with mud. You hung from him completely, unable to keep yourself up as your legs dragged behind you with every move. Cass clenched his teeth, his mind blurring out the pain of his own injuries to focus solely on you. Any wrong move could worsen your injuries. He needed to find a place to rest, to wait for Rhysand or Azriel.
Your grip tightened on your stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood as Cassian's hand now covered yours.
"Cass," you rasped.
He kept moving, his body protesting with every step forward.
"Rhys and Az will be here, okay?" Cassian replied, his voice strained with the effort of masking his own fear. "Let me just get you somewhere safe."
"We don't have time."
Cassian shook his head, his feet dragging through the mud as he continued. Everywhere in his body screamed with pain, his senses overwhelmed by the taste of blood in the air and the relentless pounding of the rain. He could feel the weight of you pulling on him getting worse as you weakened, the strain growing in the tension of his muscles as he struggled to keep moving.
Through the hand that covered yours, Cassian could feel the blood seeping through your fingers. He fought to distract himself from the sight and sensation, focusing instead on the rhythm of his own breath, the steady beat of his heart. He needed to think.
He whispered silent prayers to whatever gods may be listening, willing you to hold on just a little while longer. But the taste of blood lingered in his mouth and every scream in his mind was met with empty silence. A deep sense of foreboding settled in his gut, a primal instinct that warned him that you might be vulnerable to yet another ambush. He also knew, deep down, that Rhys and Az wouldn’t be coming anytime soon.
All he could do was wait, to get you settled somewhere so your body could begin to heal. That wouldn’t happen as long as he was dragging your body through mud and rain. With a determined mind, he steered you deeper into a grove of trees.
You reached a small clearing, the burden of the pouring rain now lessened by the canopy above you. Cassian leaned against a sturdy tree, carefully lowering you both down until you were cradled in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. You let out a choked sound of pain, eyes clenching as a wave of nausea ran through you.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
Cassian’s voice was a gentle caress. If you had the energy to pay attention, you would have noticed the fear that settled in it, the utter desperation.
Cassian let out a deep breath, his jaw set in determination as he lifted his hand to help you raise your shaky one, guiding it to apply more pressure to your wound. He could feel it underneath his fingertips, see it even through your black leathers, the blood pouring from you still. A knot tightened in his stomach.
He felt your shallow breaths against his chest as your trembling form leaned back against him. You closed your eyes and let your head fall backwards onto his shoulder.
"It's bad, isn't it?" you whispered.
Cassian took another deep breath, his mind racing as he fought to keep his composure for your sake. "Nothing you haven't faced before."
A small laugh escaped your lips. For a moment, Cassian's gaze softened as the sound filled his ears, a sense of comfort rolling through his body in a slow wave.
"Just keep the pressure on it, alright?"
You gave a shaky nod. "Okay.”
Cassian took a moment to assess the situation. Without any materials to staunch the bleeding, all he could do was wait and try to keep you distracted from the pain. He looked down at you, taking in the sight of your matted hair, drenched in mud and blood, streaks of crimson mingling with the rainwater on your face. Despite it all, you were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Desperation clawed at him as he continued to plead with Rhys in his mind, willing his friend to come to your aid. But yet again, his cries were met with a deep, heavy silence. No response, no feeling of a message having been received. Cass wrapped himself around you even closer.
"It'll make a badass scar," he said.
Again, you managed a weak laugh, but it was cut short by a bubbling sound that sent a chill down Cassian's spine. He felt his stomach drop as he realized the source— blood gurgling from your throat, staining your perfect smile crimson.
With a trembling hand, Cassian cradled your head, pulling you closer to him, his own face hovering inches from yours in a desperate attempt to offer what little comfort he could. There was a painful pang in his chest as he felt your breaths becoming shallower. He gave you a gentle nudge.
"Hey, stay with me," he implored, voice laced with desperation. "Look at me.”
"I can't… I'm so tired," you replied weakly.
"Yes, you can," Cassian said. "I know it's hard, but you gotta keep those pretty eyes open, okay?"
"Cassian."
His name was a desperate plea, a sound of pure agony that fell from your lips.
"I know, I know," he murmured, his own voice choking. He cleared his throat. "But you gotta keep fighting, alright? Can you do that for me?"
You nodded faintly, your voice barely above a whisper as you replied, "Okay."
"Good, good," Cassian said, his heart aching as he watched you struggle. "Let me see."
With great effort, you managed to tilt your head, your teary eyes meeting his. Cassian swallowed back his own tears, his voice trembling slightly as he whispered, "There they are."
Your brow furrowed in determination as you gathered the strength to speak, and you began, "Cass, I want you to know…"
But Cassian started shaking his head vehemently, his voice firm as he interrupted, "No, no."
"I should've told you sooner-”
Cassian's head continued to shake, his eyes pleading with you to stop. "Y/n, please.”
But you pressed on, the words tumbling from your lips despite his protests. "You need to know that I-"
"No," Cassian interrupted again, his voice desperate. "You can tell me when we get back. Don't say that."
"Cassian, please, let me-"
"No. You can tell me when we get back home," Cassian insisted once again, his eyes wide and desperate. "And then I can tell you I feel the same way. That I’ve felt the same way for centuries. And I can take you out on a real date. Do it all properly. Okay?"
You paused. After a moment, you quietly replied, "Okay."
Cassian leaned his head down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head before resting his own against it. "Just a little longer," he whispered softly, “I promise.”
He knew it was wrong, that he shouldn’t be promising anything in your condition, that he should have let you speak. But Cassian refused. He refused because your words were those of a dying female, words of a confession that you’d release upon death. And you weren’t dying, not today. He refused.
So he focused on your body against him, playing another chaste kiss atop your head. He felt you shift slightly beneath him.
"Isn't that beautiful?"
Cassian frowned, pulling his eyes away from you to look at the view in front. Over the small clearing the setting sun shone through gaps within the trees. Cassian nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon for a moment before he looked down at you, gaze tender and unwavering. "Breathtaking," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Those words were only for you.
"So beautiful.”
But as Cassian continued to hold you close, a sense of unease began to gnaw at him. Where were Rhysand and Azriel? Who else was hurt? What could he do to help you?
His thoughts ran through his mind, clumping into large knots he couldn’t read. But then, Cassian’s heart stopped, a surge of panic flowing through his body as he tightened his grip on your hand.
You weren’t moving beneath him. No shallow breaths, no coughing.
"Y/n?" he whispered, his hand moving to cradle your face, angling it towards him. “No, no, no.”
His hand trembled as he brushed your cheek, searching desperately for any sign of life. But there was no response, no flutter of eyelids or rise and fall of breath. And then he saw it—your eyes closed, your features peaceful in repose, the ghost of a weak smile.
His eyesight began to grow blurry as tears filled his eyes once more, now freely falling as he took you in. Cassian let his forehead fall to rest against yours as he began to sob, the weight of grief crushing him in its wake.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The sun was gone by time Rhys and Azriel appeared, desperately running forward with bruised and bloodied faces. Rhys was the first to speak, his words tumbling out before he could fully take in the scene. "We came as fast as we could, there was an att—"
But his voice faltered the same second Az took a sharp inhale next to him.
Cassian sat before them, hair matted and wings limp around him, cradling your body in his hands. He brushed his thumb against your cheek, tears glistening in his eyes as he remained lost in his grief, not sparing his brothers a glance.
Without hesitation, Azriel's shadows swarmed around you, a protective cocoon enfolding your form. One shadow returned to him, and within seconds his expression dropped. He turned to Rhys with a shake of his head.
"I told her to stop," Cassian's voice trembled as he finally looked up, meeting their gazes. His face was still painted in blood and dirt, streaked by the rain and tears. There were bags under his eyes and a sense of despair they'd never seen before, not in the centuries he had existed. "I told her to wait until we got home to tell me."
He glanced down at you again, running a hand over your hair as he continued, "I didn't let her tell me she loved me." Each word hung heavy in the air, a tangible ache in his voice as he spoke.
Rhys stepped forward, clearing his throat as a deep sadness weighed in his stomach. "Cass—"
But Cassian shook his head, cutting him off. "I didn't get to tell her I love her."
Loved her, his mind reminded him. Loved her.
Rhys knelt down in front of him, exchanging a solemn glance with Azriel. He gave a nod with his head towards Cassian’s wings. It only took Azriel seconds to take in the state of them, torn and bloody, more of the membrane missing than what remained.
"We need to go home," Rhys said quietly, his hand resting on Cassian's shoulder. “You need Madja.”
But Cassian only shook his head as he pulled you closer.
"Just five more minutes," he pleaded, pressing his face to your head. He took a deep breath, his senses filled with the smell of dirt, sweat, and blood. But beneath it all, he caught a hint of you, of the smell he’d grown to love. A scent that felt like home.
He inhaled it deeply, savoring it and storing it away in his mind. He would never smell it again.
“Just five more minutes.”
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
me saying i need to get in the headspace of writing angst for one of my series parts and writing this teehee
also… isn’t it so sad when u realize they never ever kissed 😭(😋😋)
permanent tag list 🫶🏻: @rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites
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If you really love me, let me go PI
Parings: Red Haired Shanks x Vice Admiral! Reader
Prompt:
Hey Mami! Soo I've been thinking about our beloved Shanks x Vice admiral!Reader. Cuz why not? He's so carefree, so it would be nice to see him with someone who is the opposite of him.
Warning: Angst.
For, @orange-milky who gave me the prompt for this story. Always making me flustered with their nicknames for me.
ON WITH THE SHOW!!~~
You were peacefully sleeping, the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that came after an exhausting day of paperwork and drills. The cool breeze from the open window gently rustled the curtains, and all was silent in your little abode atop the plateau that overlooked the town.
Everything was still, quiet—until a sudden, sharp crash from downstairs jolted you awake.
Your eyes snapped open, heart still calm and steady despite the noise. You groaned softly, already reaching for the duel pistols you kept under your pillow, a natural reaction born from years of training as a Vice Admiral in the Navy. The best-case scenario flashed in your mind: Luffy and his friends, showing up unannounced again for some reckless, impromptu visit.
You wouldn’t put it past the kid, not after the last time they used your backyard as a training ground for their latest techniques.
But you weren’t one to take chances. Slipping out of bed as quietly as possible, you padded across the room in your fuzzy bunny slippers, your anchor-shaped earrings gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
A quick glance in the mirror showed your reflection: hair in rollers, a green mud mask you’d forgotten to wash off, and your pajamas—a set featuring Uta's face plastered all over, a playful gift from her before she went to sail with Luffy.
The robe you wrapped around yourself was adorned with Luffy’s jolly roger, a ridiculous but endearing gift from the cutie himself. You sighed, raising your dual pistols to your side, wondering what kind of chaos you’d be walking into this time.
The hall was silent as you made your way down the stairs, moving like a shadow, every step measured, controlled. You clutched the pistols tightly, ready for anything. As you neared the kitchen, the faint sound of muffled whispers reached your ears—low voices, trying (and failing) to be quiet. You rolled your eyes, already guessing the culprits.
There were too many deep voices to be Luffy’s crew.
When you flicked on the light, the kitchen was suddenly bathed in a warm glow, and the scene before you could only be described as utter madness. Every available surface was covered in food, bottles of rum, and—most tellingly—members of the Red Hair Pirates. The twelve of them were scattered across your kitchen as if they owned the place.
Shanks’ crew, all of them: Benn Beckman, Lucky Roux, Yasopp, Hongo, Limejuice, Bonk Punch, Monster, Building Snake, Gab, Rockstar, and—by some cruel twist of fate—Uta wasn’t there this time. She was still off with her brother.
Yasopp was the first to notice you, though his reaction wasn’t what you expected. The second his gaze fell on you, still standing in the doorway with your pistols in hand and a full-on “I-will-kill-you” expression on your face, he burst into laughter.
It started as a quiet chuckle but quickly grew louder, causing a ripple effect across the room. One by one, the rest of the crew joined in, their laughter filling the space until it felt like the walls themselves were vibrating with the sound.
Your eye twitched in annoyance. Standing there in your bunny slippers, hair in rollers, Uta PJ’s, green mud mask still smeared across your face, you probably looked more ridiculous than intimidating.
Like a pop princess wicked witch of the west. But you were still a Vice Admiral, and your patience had limits.
“Oh, this is rich,” Yasopp wheezed, doubling over as tears streamed from his eyes. “We’re gonna die—” He cut off with another fit of laughter, but before you could decide whether to shoot him or not, the back door swung open, revealing a familiar mop of red hair.
Shanks strode in, his entrance casual as ever. His trademark grin stretched across his face, a bottle of rum in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other. His eyes lit up when he saw you, seemingly oblivious to the chaos he had caused.
“Hello my love!” he said brightly, as though this were a perfectly normal scene to walk into at what had to be three in the morning.
Your response was instinctive. You raised both pistols and fired—ten rapid shots that would’ve made any rookie in the Navy tremble. Shanks, to his credit, dodged every single one of them with that infuriating grace he always seemed to have, weaving between the bullets like it was all just a game.
“Now, now, let’s not start with violence!” Shanks laughed, clearly unfazed by the near-death experience. He took a step forward and offered the flowers toward you. “For you, my little sea monster.”
You huffed, your glare softening just a fraction as you lowered your pistols. Behind him, Benn Beckman gave you an apologetic smile, his hand already reaching into his coat. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. I wrote you a letter ahead of time,” he explained, holding out the envelope,
“and we tried to be quiet…”
You sighed, arms crossing as you stared at the lot of them, still lounging around your kitchen as though they lived here. “Clearly, you failed.”
They all muttered their apologies, though none of them seemed particularly guilty. Lucky Roux stuffed his mouth with another pastry, while Bonk Punch and Monster shared a conspiratorial glance. Yasopp was still grinning like a fool, clearly amused by your appearance, though he was at least trying to stifle his laughter now.
Benn stepped forward with a steaming cup of tea, which he handed to you with a practiced air of calm. “In case you woke up,” he said gently, and before you could take a sip, Shanks handed you the bottle of rum with a wink.
“Don’t forget the important part.”
You rolled your eyes but accepted both. “You’re all lucky I like you,” you muttered before taking a seat in the barely-used dining room. Pistols stashed into your pockets, the crew, now more relaxed, went back to their conversations, though they kept their volume lower, out of some remaining respect for your sleep.
Shanks slid into the chair beside you, his arm resting lazily on the back of your seat. He didn’t say anything for a while, content to watch you as you stirred a bit of rum into your tea, the warmth from the cup seeping into your hands.
After a few quiet moments, he leaned in, his voice dropping into that soft, almost tender tone he used only with you.
“Come with me for a second?”
You arched a brow but didn’t protest. Shanks stood, grabbing the rum bottle as you followed him out of the room. He led you outside, through the back door and up a hidden staircase to the roof. The air was cool, the stars glittering above you like a sea of diamonds, and from this height, you could see the town below, quiet and peaceful in the night.
Shanks leaned against the railing, his gaze wandering across the horizon. You joined him, your eyes following the lines of the ships docked in the harbor and the soft glow of lanterns lining the streets.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the sound of distant waves crashing against the shore filling the silence. Then, Shanks let out a low chuckle.
“You’re still mad, huh?”
You snorted softly, taking a sip of your rum-laced tea. “You and your crew have a terrible sense of timing.”
His grin was mischievous, but there was something softer behind his eyes as he looked at you. “Well, I’ve always had a bad habit of showing up unannounced.” He reached over, brushing a thumb against your cheek, his touch light but affectionate. “But you’ve always taken care of us anyway.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips.
“Someone has to.”
The stars above stretched endlessly across the night sky, their brightness cutting through the dark canopy like diamonds spilled across velvet. It was your favorite part of living here—how open and vast the heavens always seemed. You found comfort in how steady they remained, unmoved by the chaos of life below.
Sometimes, as you looked up at the twinkling lights, you wondered what it would be like to sail in the sky itself, drifting from planet to planet like the sea of stars was just another ocean. Luffy, ever the dreamer, always promised to make your wildest fantasies come true, and knowing him, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
But what about you? What about your responsibilities?
Shanks' voice pulled you from your thoughts, though you hadn’t caught his words.
"Hey, are you alright lass?" he asked softly, his tone laced with a gentle concern.
You blinked, turning your attention back to him, meeting those familiar, warm eyes that seemed to hold a world of their own.
"Sorry, no. What did you say?"
He smiled, that easy, carefree grin that never quite matched the weight of his words. "I was asking if you’d join me at sea again."
The idea hung between you like the scent of saltwater that always seemed to cling to him. You opened your mouth, glancing toward the town below, gesturing to the village that stretched out in the distance, its peaceful quietness versus the unpredictability of a pirate’s life. The flicker of lanterns from the homes and streets was like the heartbeat of the place you’d sworn to protect.
But Shanks shook his head, his expression unbothered by your hesitation. "Not for long," he clarified. "Just two weeks. I know you couldn’t stay forever."
His words were calm, non-pressuring, but the temptation lingered like a beckoning wave. You mulled it over, your mind swimming with the responsibilities that weighed you down. You weren’t young anymore, at least not in the way that counted. The youthful impulsiveness of picking up and leaving whenever you felt like it had long passed.
Now, you had cadets who looked up to you, a village that relied on your protection, and a life you couldn’t simply walk away from. The thought of leaving—even just for a few weeks—and returning to disaster haunted you.
Yet, here stood Shanks, the man who could never be caught, the one who had always captured your heart. He wasn’t crowding you, wasn’t demanding an answer. He was just… there, waiting, like always. He reached into his pocket and passed you a handkerchief. You hadn’t realized you still had remnants of your green face mask smeared across your cheek.
You took the handkerchief with a small, grateful nod, wiping away the last smudge of your mask. Shanks’ grin widened as he watched you, a mischievous glint lighting up his features.
"Lovely as ever," he said with that familiar charm.
You raised an eyebrow, disbelief clear on your face. "Really now?"
"Yes," he said, his tone softening into something more genuine. "Like the first day I saw you. You just keep getting better and better."
His words, while honest and genuine, cut deep. They were too real, too heartfelt for the situation you were both in. It hurt—knowing he meant every word. You let out a heavy sigh, your chest tightening as you voiced what was already understood.
"That’s what makes this so painful, Shanks. We’ve been dancing around each other for years. How long can we keep playing this game?"
You both fell silent, a weight settling between you like the fog rolling off the sea. The unspoken truth was something everyone knew—from the Celestial Dragons to the mermaids deep in the ocean. Even the sea beasts you used to ride in your younger days knew: You and Shanks were in love. But there were laws to nature that even love couldn’t break.
A bird and a fish could admire each other, even come to each other’s aid when needed, but they could never be together. One couldn’t fly, and the other couldn’t swim—not where it mattered.
"What a cruel twist of fate this is," you whispered, your voice barely carried by the wind.
Shanks nodded solemnly, his gaze never leaving yours. "Indeed."
The night carried on in its quiet way, the hum of distant waves filling the silence between you. You both sat there, not speaking, just watching each other, as if memorizing the lines of each other’s face.
His presence was like the sea—calm, vast, and eternal. You felt it deep in your bones, the pull toward him that was as strong as the tide, and yet you remained anchored here, to this place, this life.
Eventually, your eyes drifted back up to the sky, the stars glittering down on you like an endless sea of possibilities. The two of you were suspended between worlds, the stars and the ocean, the past and the future, and all you had was this fragile, fleeting moment.
Shanks followed your gaze, his hand brushing against yours in a light, almost accidental touch, as if he too was trying to capture something too precious to hold onto.
For now, that was enough.
There was no real use crying over it. You had both spent countless nights easing the sorrow of your situation in your own ways—Shanks drowning his thoughts at the bottom of another bottle, while you buried yourself in the work that defined you. The understanding he’d given you when you first saw this village in ruins so many years ago, when you decided to stay and rebuild it, still lingered between you.
It had been a quiet acknowledgment, a silent support. He didn’t fight your decision, didn’t call it betrayal. Instead, he—and the rest of his crew—had simply accepted it, open arms waiting if you ever wanted to come back.
The night you became Vice Admiral was one you still laughed about, remembering their terrible disguises as they snuck into your ceremony. There was Benn Beckman in a comically oversized face mask, (you were all thankful that he wasn’t immediately recognized) Lucky Roux sporting a pair of ridiculous sunglasses, and Yasopp trying to hide his distinct dreads under a crooked wig.
You’d all spent the evening in a local pub, singing sea shanties and dancing like no one was watching. The memories were a balm to the ache of what you couldn't have—the laughter, the carefree joy.
You smiled faintly now, the sea breeze playing with your hair as the memories came flooding back. Shanks had always been at the heart of it. You teased him mercilessly when you heard he’d taken in a daughter.
"Shanks, raising a kid? Who’s the poor soul responsible for keeping the both of you in line?" you had joked.
It was Benn, obviously. His face had lit up with pride as he spoke of Uta, and before, when he told you about a scrappy young boy named Luffy—the boy he believed would change the world.
And Luffy had.
You’d come to know him well, hiding him and his crew whenever they came to pass. They always treated you like family, laughing and eating meals around your dining table, as if this was their home away from the seas. You adored Luffy’s brothers too��Ace, with his fiery spirit, and Sabo, with his quiet determination.
They’d both been reckless and had nearly gotten themselves killed more than once, leading to your stern lectures. But they always grinned sheepishly, knowing your scolding came from a place of deep affection.
Even Buggy—oh, Buggy. You picked fights with him like it was second nature, always at each other’s throats with bickering and insults. But despite the chaos, you were one of his oldest friends. The bond between you two ran deeper than either of you cared to admit.
When you’d heard about what he’d done to other villages, you punched him square in the nose. "Get it together, you ass hat," you growled, and he’d just sulked before eventually grumbling an apology.
And then there was Shanks' trust. His absolute faith in you, especially when it came to Uta. Whenever he had dangerous missions, he left her in your care, knowing no harm would come to her under your watch. The girl had become like a daughter to you, and even now, she sailed alongside Luffy, her spirit as free as the wind.
You entertained Mihawk whenever he happened to sail by, sharing quiet conversations and sparring matches under the moonlight. Perona would pop in with her gloomy charm, and you welcomed her with the same warmth you gave all of Luffy’s friends.
You had become a mother of sorts—a matriarch to all these misfit pirates who called the sea home. You were the unofficial wife of the Sea King, Shanks himself. Everyone saw it. The way he looked at you, the way you moved through his world without ever truly leaving yours.
And yet, despite it all, you didn’t rule by each other’s side.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed, and Shanks exhaled slowly beside you. His eyes were distant now, focused on the horizon, but there was a heaviness in his posture that wasn’t there moments ago. The weight of your shared history pressed down on him as much as it did on you. His hand rested loosely on his bottle of rum, fingers tracing the glass absentmindedly. He’d had countless battles, faced impossible odds, but nothing stung quite like this—the unspoken truth that neither of you could deny.
His voice was quieter when he spoke again, almost as if the words were too much to bear. "It does kill me, you know," he said, still staring out at the sea. "Not being able to hold you, not waking up with you by my side."
The confession hung between you, thick and painful. Your heart twisted, but you kept your eyes trained on the stars, refusing to let the emotion slip into your voice. "We have our duties," you replied softly.
"Responsibilities of the same weight, just in different forms."
Your words were practical, almost cold in their truth. But beneath them lay the same yearning, the same ache that Shanks felt. He was right—it killed him. And it killed you too. But you both knew the rules of the game.
A fish couldn’t live in the sky, and a bird couldn’t swim in the depths.
You had your village, your cadets, your rank as Vice Admiral. He had the seas, his crew, the freedom to roam wherever the wind took him.
Your lives ran parallel but never quite intersected.
He shifted beside you, finally looking your way. There was a sadness in his eyes, one he never let anyone else see. "I never wanted to cage you," he murmured.
"But I never wanted to let you go either."
You turned to him then, meeting his gaze head-on. The raw vulnerability in his expression was too much. You reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, a small gesture of comfort in the midst of all this uncertainty.
"I know," you whispered, your voice gentle but firm.
"I know."
For a long moment, you simply held his gaze, letting the sea breeze carry away the tension between you. There was no easy answer, no solution to the impossible situation you found yourselves in.
The stars twinkled overhead, casting their gentle light over the quiet village. The night was cool, and the sea breeze carried the scent of salt, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the nearby forest. You sat beside Shanks on a grassy knoll, the two of you a striking contrast to the stillness around you. The village, your home, rested in peaceful slumber behind you, its rooftops barely visible in the low light.
You could hear the distant crash of waves against the shore, and for a brief moment, it was as though the world belonged to just the two of you.
There was a time where you both had talked about marriage. Shanks had brought it up many times over the years, his playful grin turning serious when the conversation lingered too long. You could still feel the warmth of his words, the weight of his unspoken promises, and the quiet desperation behind his eyes each time he spoke about wanting to make you his.
And yet, here you were. Still not married. Still bound by the same chains that had kept you apart for so long. You glanced over at him now, taking in the sight of the man who held your heart so tightly. His red hair, wild as ever, blew in the breeze, and the familiar scar over his eye seemed to catch the light just so.
His eyes, those deep, piercing eyes, held a softness reserved only for you, but there was something darker there too—an unspoken sorrow.
“We could’ve been married by now,” Shanks said, his voice low, cutting through the stillness. His gaze was fixed on the stars, but you knew his thoughts were off somewhere far deeper. “But I couldn’t do that to you. Not when it would ruin your life, your career.”
The words stung, but they were true. Marriage to a pirate, especially one like Shanks, would be a death sentence for your career. You’d lose everything—your rank as Vice Admiral, your home, your people.
You’d be hunted down, imprisoned, forced to leave the people you loved, the people you swore to protect. Your entire life would be torn apart.
Worst of all, they’d use you to lure out Shanks and have him killed.
And Shanks knew it. He always did.
“I love you too much to put you through that kind of pain,” he continued, his voice soft but resolute. His fingers fidgeted with the bottle of rum beside him, but there was a tension in his posture, a heaviness in his shoulders. He hated this as much as you did—this cruel twist of fate that kept you apart.
You sighed, turning your gaze back to the stars. They twinkled innocently above, indifferent to the turmoil below. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I hate the thought of us being this… couple that can never truly be together. Not for more than a night.”
The thought weighed on you constantly—the idea that you could never have a life together. That you would always be bound by your respective worlds, able to steal moments but never truly share them. You had responsibilities. You had a village to protect, cadets who relied on you, a duty that couldn’t be abandoned. And Shanks had his crew, his mission, his endless journey across the seas.
But there was more to it. You knew Shanks. He was a man of action, a man who followed his heart. And in his heart, he refused to leave this world without being joined with you before God, as he had said countless times. The idea of dying without you as his wife was a torment he didn’t express often, but you knew it haunted him.
“What if something happened to me?” he asked suddenly, his voice thick with the weight of unspoken fears. He looked at you now, his eyes full of emotion.
“What if I died? You wouldn’t have any legal right to me. You’d be left with nothing. Unless…” His voice trailed off, and a bitter smile crossed his lips. “Unless the crew managed to pull off some ‘common law marriage’ scheme."
"But we’re more than that.”
You bit your lip, feeling the tightness in your chest. The thought of losing him, of having no claim to him, no right to mourn him as his wife, was unbearable. You were worth more than that. Your love was worth more than that. You weren’t some fleeting romance or a temporary connection.
You were each other’s heart and soul, two people who had shared years of laughter, hardship, and devotion.
And Shanks wanted to make it official. He wanted to make you his woman, his wife, and let the world know that you were his in every sense of the word.
He reached out then, his hand resting gently on yours. His touch was warm, familiar, and it steadied the storm brewing inside you. “I want to make you an honest woman,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I want to stand before God and make you mine, for real. No more games, no more pretending we’re something we’re not.”
You looked down at your hands, his fingers intertwining with yours, and the warmth of his palm grounded you. He had always been your anchor, the one person who could make everything feel right, even when the world seemed against you. But this—this was bigger than anything you could’ve imagined.
“Shanks,” you began, your voice wavering.
His grip tightened ever so slightly, his gaze intense as he leaned in closer. “I know. And that’s why I’ve never pushed it. But if there’s a way—if we could find a way—"
"I’d give up anything to have you by my side.”
The raw emotion in his voice, the sheer vulnerability, tore at your heart. This man, this legendary pirate who commanded the seas, who had fought wars and won impossible battles, was here, willing to risk it all for you. And you… you were stuck between two worlds, two impossible choices.
The stars seemed to dim in that moment, as if even they felt the weight of your decision. The village behind you, quiet and peaceful, stood as a reminder of all that you had built, all that you would lose. But beside you sat the man who had claimed your heart long ago, the man who wanted nothing more than to make you his forever.
“What do we do?” you whispered, your voice barely audible against the sound of the waves.
Shanks smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and shook his head. “We figure it out, like we always do.”
And with that, he pulled you close, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You leaned into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the strength in his embrace. You could lose yourself in the warmth of his presence, in the silent promise of the future you both wanted but could never fully grasp.
You pull away from Shanks' embrace slowly, feeling the warmth of his arm linger on your skin as you give him a small squeeze of reassurance. His presence, solid and comforting, is something you’ve known for so long, yet each time you step out of his hold, it feels like a tug on your heart.
With a soft sigh, you turn to face the open sky again, the stars above you glittering like a sea of diamonds.
“I could never ask you to abandon the sea,” you say quietly, breaking the stillness between you, “the same way you never asked me to abandon these people.”
The weight of those words sinks in as you reach up to take the curlers out of your hair. It’s a familiar routine, one you’ve done countless times. Yet tonight, with Shanks by your side, it feels different. There’s a certain tenderness in the air, a shared silence that speaks louder than any words ever could.
His rough, calloused fingers soon join yours, gently separating the pins and pulling each curler free. You let him help, allowing yourself to relish in the intimacy of this quiet moment.
One by one, the curlers come out, leaving your hair feeling lighter, bouncier, freer. Shanks hums softly, an old sea shanty you both know, as he carefully runs his fingers through your strands, styling it the way you like. The way he likes. His touch is surprisingly gentle for someone who’s lived such a rugged life, and you close your eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth of his hands in your hair.
There’s a stillness between you, but the energy that passes through his fingertips speaks volumes. You feel it in the way his fingers brush lightly against your scalp, in the unspoken affection he shows through every careful motion.
And all the while, there’s that look in his eyes again—the one you hate. That mix of longing and resignation, as if he’s silently saying goodbye to something he knows he can never truly keep.
Finally, when he’s satisfied with your hair, he drops his hand, letting it fall to his side, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped.
The stars, the village, the sea—all of it fades into the background, leaving just the two of you suspended in this fragile, bittersweet moment.
You can see the question in his eyes, the same one that’s been lingering between you for years: How much time do we have left? How many more moments like this can we steal before the world inevitably pulls us apart again?
It’s a question neither of you can answer, but it’s always there, lurking beneath every shared glance, every touch, every word left unsaid.
Below, you can hear the sounds of the crew bustling in your kitchen. Their laughter and chatter filter through the open window, grounding you in the present. Plates clink together as they wash the dishes, their voices teasing and jovial as they talk about what they’ll bring you from the market tomorrow.
You can almost picture them in your mind—scrubbing your pans with exaggerated care, making a mess of your kitchen, and scribbling down a list of things to restock your pantry. It brings a small smile to your lips, knowing they’re looking out for you in their own way.
The crew’s presence is a comfort, a reminder that you had a family on the seas. A family you’ve built with Shanks and his men. They’d never judged you for staying behind, for choosing a life of responsibility and duty over adventure. They understood you, accepted you, celebrated you, and always welcomed you back with open arms whenever you needed them.
They were your family too, in a way that was different from the villagers you protected.
Shanks, watching your expression soften, finally breaks the silence. “You know they’ll be back tomorrow, right?” he says, his voice low and teasing. “Probably with more supplies than you’ll know what to do with.”
You chuckle softly, breaking the tension as you shake your head. “I can already see it—half the market will be in my kitchen by morning.”
He laughs, a rich sound that rumbles deep in his chest, and it eases some of the ache in your heart.
Shanks’ laughter fades into a quiet hum, the sound trailing off as the two of you sit in the comforting stillness. Together, you glance over your garden, your gaze sweeping over the large pumpkins resting snugly in their beds of soil, their vibrant orange hue a testament to the months of careful tending.
The last of your harvest is waiting to be gathered—a few stubborn tomatoes clinging to their vines, and some squash ready to be plucked before the first frost. Despite the season's end, your wildflowers still bloom with surprising vitality, their colorful petals swaying gently in the cool evening breeze, defying the inevitable chill creeping in.
Shanks shifts beside you, looking down at your small patch of land as though he’s taking mental notes. He’s never been much of a gardener, but he appreciates the life you've built here. He tilts his head thoughtfully before turning to you with a familiar grin.
“I’ll clean your gutters tomorrow,” he offers with a hint of amusement in his voice, knowing full well you’d never ask him outright.
You smile softly in return, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you," that lingers between you like a secret. But then, silence falls again. The two of you begin to search for excuses to prolong the moment, your eyes wandering over the garden and the stars, avoiding the looming reality of parting.
You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin atop them, making yourself smaller as the cool night air gently settles around your shoulders.
Shanks moves beside you, his hand lifting slightly as though to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, but he hesitates. Instead, his fingers shift course, and he cups your cheek with the softest touch. His thumb moves in slow circles over the apple of your cheek, the roughness of his skin a contrast to the tender way he holds you.
It’s such a simple gesture, yet it carries with it a thousand unspoken words, memories, and years of shared longing.
His touch lingers, pulling your gaze upward, and you meet his eyes. For a moment, the world seems to fade away. The years flash before you like a slideshow—quick scenes of laughter, of whispered promises, of stolen moments that felt too fleeting.
You can see it in his eyes too, the weight of time, the shared joy and heartache, all caught in that brief exchange. It overwhelms you, the thought of how much time has passed, how much you’ve both given and lost to the lives you’ve chosen.
Before you can stop yourself, you crawl into his arms, your body moving on instinct as you bury your face against his chest. His arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you close, holding you as though you might disappear at any moment. Shanks doesn’t say a word, and for that, you’re grateful. He understands.
He always does.
You feel the tightness in your throat, and as your tears begin to gather, you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to keep them at bay. But it’s no use. The warmth of Shanks’ embrace, the quiet hum of the night, the distant sounds of the crew still lingering in the kitchen—it all presses down on you, and a tear slips free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. You know he feels it, but he doesn’t comment. He just holds you tighter.
Shanks rests his chin atop your head, his breath slow and steady, but you can feel the slight tremble in his arms. He’s fighting his own tears, just like you. The weight of all the years, all the distance, all the longing—it’s too much for either of you to bear alone, but together, in this small stolen moment, it’s almost manageable.
A breeze rustles through the trees, sending a few stray leaves fluttering down into the garden below. The wildflowers sway again, their petals catching the moonlight in a delicate dance. Above, the stars continue to shine, as if oblivious to the heavy silence that hangs between you.
The world continues on, indifferent to your pain, but in Shanks’ arms, it feels like, just for a moment, the two of you are the only ones in it.
Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. The tears you shed, the way you cling to him, the way he holds you close—all of it says more than words ever could. Neither of you wants to break the fragile moment, both knowing that the weight of your responsibilities keeps you from being together in the way your hearts long for.
Suddenly, with a shift of movement, Shanks stands, taking you with him in a single fluid motion. His arm slides under your bottom, steadying you as he bounces you up to secure your position.
You yelp in surprise, wrapping your arms around his neck and instinctively hooking your legs around his waist. A laugh bubbles from your lips, despite the lingering sadness, as he effortlessly carries you down from the roof.
The soft crunch of grass beneath his boots fills the quiet air, mingling with the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore.
Shanks walks for what feels like forever, carrying you down the steep path toward the beach. You keep your eyes closed, resting your head against his shoulder, listening to the rhythm of his steps and the gentle lull of the ocean.
When you finally open your eyes, you see Shanks has a small dinghy set up near the water, a modest lantern flickering at its side. He sets you down gently, taking a step back before bowing dramatically, a roguish smile playing at his lips.
“My lady, would you do me the honor,” he says in mock formality, “of joining me on the water tonight?”
Your heart flutters, a mix of excitement and hesitation swelling in your chest. The responsible part of you screams that you have work tomorrow, that you could be seen. But your heart—oh, your heart aches to say yes. After all, so little happens here, and no one’s likely keeping watch. You gaze at the man you’ve loved for more than half your life, his eyes shimmering with the moonlight and something deeper.
“How could I refuse such a gracious offer from a fine gentleman like yourself?” you respond playfully, your lips curving into a smile.
Shanks grins and takes your hand, helping you step into the small boat before he pushes off from the shore. The dinghy rocks gently as the ocean cradles it, the sound of water lapping against the hull blending with the night’s peaceful rhythm. Soon, the lantern’s glow is the only thing illuminating the quiet waters as the two of you drift farther from the beach.
The moonlight glistens on the surface of the ocean, catching the peaks of the waves like scattered diamonds. The soft, silvery light bathes the world around you in a dreamlike glow, and for a moment, it feels as though time has slowed, leaving just you, Shanks, and the sea.
You dip your fingers into the cool water, feeling its gentle caress against your skin. Shanks chuckles softly beside you, warning, “Mind your hands.”
You splash him lightly in response, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. The two of you share a quiet laugh, the tension easing as you lose yourselves in the serenity of the ocean.
'This,' you think, is what you’ve always loved most about sailing—the way the world transforms under the night sky, how the ocean becomes a tranquil mirror reflecting the stars above. It’s a reminder of how vast and beautiful the world is, even in its quiet moments.
Leaning over the side of the boat, you gaze down into the water, marveling at the world below. The fish and sea creatures seem to be sleeping, floating peacefully just beneath the surface. Everything feels so calm, so different from the chaos of the day. The ocean’s gentle lull, the stars twinkling above—it’s all mesmerizing.
But for Shanks, the real beauty isn’t the ocean or the stars—it’s you. He watches as you lose yourself in the wonder of the world around you, your eyes alight with curiosity and joy, your smile so radiant it could rival the sun.
You don’t even realize it, but to him, you’ve always been the most ethereal sight, the one thing that makes this vast, untamable world feel like home.
The boat drifts gently on the quiet waters, the two of you nestled against each other as the lantern’s soft glow casts a warm circle of light. The ocean hums in the background, the sound of the waves gently slapping against the sides of the dinghy, while overhead, the stars twinkle like tiny beacons of light in the vast night sky.
It feels as though the world beyond the sea doesn’t exist, and for a while, you both simply enjoy the tranquility.
But soon, conversation naturally flows between you and Shanks, the easy back-and-forth of two souls who have shared a lifetime of stories and adventures. Luffy comes up first, his boundless energy and unshakable optimism always making you smile. Then there’s Ace, Uta, Sabo—each memory shared with fondness and a tinge of sadness as you recall the times spent with them, wondering where life will lead them next.
Shanks talks about Buggy, and you can’t help but chuckle at his long-time friend’s antics. “Buggy’s going to find the One Piece before any of us,” you tease, leaning back into Shanks' warmth. “Can’t wait to see the look on your face when he does.”
Shanks grins, shaking his head. “If that clown gets there first, I might just retire early,” he jokes, the humor in his voice laced with the familiarity of an old friendship.
Then, as conversations between you often do, the topic shifts to the grand mystery that’s captivated the world—the One Piece. You tilt your head, watching the moonlight dance over the water, your thoughts racing with ridiculous theories.
“You know,” you begin, your tone half-serious, “I think the real reason Benn’s wanted dead is because of his past in the Marines.”
Shanks raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on…”
You lean in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I think Benn knows what the One Piece really is.”
Shanks smirks, amused by your sudden shift into wild theorizing. “Oh? And what’s that?”
You can’t help but grin, the ridiculousness of your idea bubbling up. “It’s a wax strip.”
He blinks, staring at you like you’ve lost your mind. “A… wax strip?”
“Yep,” you say, trying to keep a straight face. “You see, back in the day, there was this legendary sleepover with Monkey D. Dragon, Gold Roger, and Whitebeard. They tried this beauty regiment, you know, to keep their rugged looks under control. But something went horribly wrong, and now Dragon’s been walking around without eyebrows ever since.”
Shanks stares at you, and you can see the moment the absurdity of your theory sinks in. His eyes widen in disbelief before a bark of laughter escapes him. “Wait— so Dragon lost his eyebrows during a sleepover with Roger?!”
You nod solemnly. “Exactly. And the One Piece is the last remaining proof of that night—a wax strip containing Dragon’s eyebrows. That’s why they had to execute Roger, to keep the secret from getting out!”
Shanks doubles over, his laughter coming in great, booming waves. His whole body shakes with it, and he grips the edge of the boat, trying to steady himself.
“I— I can’t—” he chokes out between gasps for breath. His face is flushed, tears of laughter threatening to spill from his eyes.
You can’t help but join him, your own giggles bubbling up as you watch him lose it completely. You let go of the oars to clutch your stomach, trying not to tip the boat over as the two of you howl with laughter.
“I’m serious!” you manage to get out, though the ridiculousness of your own theory makes it hard to keep your voice steady.
Shanks wheezes, wiping a hand across his face. “Eyebrows… eyebrows… with a wax strip!”
He shakes his head, barely able to breathe as he leans back against the side of the boat, still snickering.
“I swear, only you could come up with something like that.”
The boat sways gently beneath you as you both try to regain control, and you grab the oars, taking over steering the dinghy while Shanks continues to laugh. You glance back at him, shaking your head in mock frustration.
“Well, someone’s gotta steer while you recover from my genius theory.”
Shanks sits up, trying to catch his breath. His eyes are still sparkling with mirth, the solemnity that had clouded them earlier completely wiped away by your absurdity. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks at you with a grin that’s both affectionate and teasing. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
You shrug, still chuckling. “Maybe. But I’ve kept you entertained all these years, haven’t I?”
He nods, his laughter finally dying down, but his smile remains. “That you have.” His voice softens, and the mood between you shifts slightly, the laughter giving way to something quieter, more intimate.
Moonlight reflects off the water, the gentle rocking of the boat creating a sense of calm that wraps around you both. As you dip your fingers into the cool water again, feeling the sea’s steady pulse, you can’t help but smile to yourself.
The beauty of the night, the ridiculousness of your conversation, and the way Shanks looks at you—everything feels perfect, like the ocean has swallowed up all the heaviness of the world and left you with just this moment.
And though Shanks has stopped laughing, he’s still watching you, his gaze filled with that familiar warmth. The sight of you leaning over the boat, eyes full of wonder as you take in the night sky and the calm waters, never fails to amaze him.
To him, you’re the real treasure in this world, your joy and curiosity shining brighter than any moon or stars.
Soon, it becomes even later, and you both return to your house. The house is still as you and Shanks quietly slip through the front door, the faint scent of saltwater and sea clinging to your clothes.
The soft sound of your slippers barely echoes as you both tiptoe through the rooms, careful not to wake the sleeping crew scattered across your kitchen and dining room.
Blankets and pillows have been pulled from the guest closet, and you can make out the tangled mess of limbs, chests rising and falling in peaceful slumber. Someone’s snoring lightly, and the soft murmur of sleep-talking drifts through the air as you navigate past them.
You exchange a glance with Shanks, and a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. It feels like sneaking in after a long adventure, the comforting sense of home mingling with the reminder of the fleeting time you have together. His hand brushes yours, a fleeting touch that anchors you in the moment as you both climb the stairs with careful steps, finally making your way to your bedroom.
Once inside, you close the door gently behind you. The familiar scent of your sheets, the worn, cozy blankets, and the soft light filtering through the curtains create an intimate cocoon. Shanks shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the bedpost, and you can’t help but grin at the casual ease of it all.
For a moment, it feels like he’s never left.
“Have you taken any lovers since I last saw you?” you tease, your voice low and playful as you sit on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots.
“I keep telling you that it wasn’t like that with Mihawk!” Shanks replied, his voice hushed but carrying a laugh.
“So you say,” you quip, eyes twinkling with mischief. But there’s no jealousy in your words, only the shared understanding that the bond between you both could never be betrayed.
You both giggle, the sound soft and intimate, knowing full well that neither of you would ever stray. Shanks stands, stepping over to your dresser where your anchor earrings sit. He plucks them up and then reaches into his pocket, retrieving a new set of earrings shaped like a ship's helm. Without a word, he places them next to your old ones, the subtle gesture saying more than words ever could.
A piece of him, left with you.
You crawl back under the covers, the weight of the day catches up with you, the sea breeze still lingering on your skin. Shanks settles beside you, watching you with that ever-present glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
You watch him, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. He turns back to you, and before he can slip under the covers, you reach out, cupping his face with your hands. Your fingers poke and prod at him, squishing his cheeks in playful teasing.
His skin is warm under your touch, rough from years at sea, but familiar. You even pick at his scruff a bit. He squints at you in mock offense, his lips curling into a smirk.
“Go ahead, bite me,” you challenge with a grin, your voice barely above a whisper but playful nonetheless.
Shanks chuckles through his nose, his teeth flashing in the low light as he leans in and gently snaps his jaws at you, catching your finger between his teeth in the softest, most careful bite. He holds it there for a second before kissing it gently, the warmth of his lips sending a shiver down your spine.
You pull your hand back and snuggle down into the mattress, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Shanks joins you, his strong arms slipping around you as the two of you settle into the comfort of each other’s presence. His body is warm and familiar, his scent a mix of the ocean and the faint hint of rum.
The silence stretches out, peaceful but heavy with unspoken words. Shanks’ voice breaks it first, quiet and reflective.
“I’ll be gone in the morning.”
You swallow, your throat tightening at the inevitable. “I know,” you whisper, staring at the dark ceiling.
He shifts beside you, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“As will I,” you manage to say, though the words feel too small for the weight of what you feel.
A beat of silence passes before Shanks speaks again, this time his voice softer, more serious. “Can I tell you something?”
You turn your head to look at him, your eyes searching his face in the dim light. “Yes?”
He hesitates for just a moment, and when he speaks, his words are laced with raw emotion.
“I love you.”
The confession makes your heart clench, the quiet sincerity of it hitting you like a wave. You’ve known it, felt it in the way he’s always treated you, but hearing it spoken aloud—especially now, on the edge of another departure—makes part of you want to cry.
“I… I love you too,” you whisper, your voice trembling despite yourself.
Shanks’ hand moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes before you even realize it’s there. “In case I die tomorrow,” he says softly, his voice barely a breath, “I want you to hear it one more time.”
“I love you.”
The words hang in the air between you, and you can’t help but bury your face against his chest, trying to hold back the sob that threatens to escape. His arms tighten around you, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, grounding you in the present.
You close your eyes, willing the moment to last, even as the heaviness of his impending departure settles over both of you like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
The morning light pours through your window, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. You stir, reaching out to the empty space beside you, and, as expected, find it cold.
Shanks is gone, true to his word. You sigh softly, sitting up in bed, pulling the covers around you for just a moment longer. But then the smell of freshly baked bread wafts through the house, and your curiosity draws you downstairs.
In the kitchen, everything is pristine. The countertops gleam, your pantry is fully restocked, and a neat stack of notes sits on the stove. You pick one up, recognizing Benn’s precise, no-nonsense handwriting.
A brief note, polite as ever, informing you that everything was taken care of: your gutters cleaned, garden weeded, and the trash dutifully taken out.
You smile at the thoroughness of it all, imagining Shanks probably supervising the entire crew to ensure everything was done right. Your eyes drift to the corner of the room where your favorite scarf used to hang, only to notice it’s missing.
In its place, a vibrant red sash and a neatly wrapped box for your pistols now rest, a clear sign that Shanks had left a part of himself behind once more.
You pick up the red sash and hold it for a moment, feeling the soft fabric between your fingers. Then, with a sigh, you begin to get dressed, opting for something simple at first—a starch white blouse that feels cool against your skin, paired with a navy blue pencil skirt.
But as time ticks away, the pressure of duty calls, and you finally surrender to the full uniform. You button up the military jacket with its crisp white fabric, pull on your cap, and lace up your combat boots.
The final touch is the red sash, which you tie snugly around your waist for comfort, a small piece of Shanks’ world blending with your own.
Stepping outside, the morning air feels crisp, the breeze carrying the faint scent of the sea. You make the familiar walk down the hill, your boots crunching over the dirt path, your thoughts scattered between Shanks’ departure and the day ahead. As you near the village, however, you’re met with an unusual commotion. There’s a buzz of excitement in the marketplace, people whispering and pointing toward the docks.
You pick up your pace, weaving through the crowded market, dodging vendors and children playing in the streets. The sound of hurried feet matches the beat of your heart as you make your way to the docks. And then you see it: the unmistakable sight of Admiral Garp’s great ship, its massive sails billowing as it rolls into the harbor.
The towering figure of Garp stands at the helm, his broad shoulders and unmistakable grin visible even from this distance.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, relief washing over you. With a quick salute to the other marines at the docks, you leap onto the ship, barely giving the cadets time to register your presence. They jump aside as you dart past them, your eyes fixed on the familiar figure ahead.
Before you can even greet him properly, Garp’s arms are around you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. His laugh is loud and booming, the kind that shakes your entire frame. His massive hand slaps your back with affection, the force almost sending you stumbling.
“There you are!” Garp beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was starting to think I’d have to drag you down from that hill of yours.”
You chuckle breathlessly, your ribs aching wonderfully from the sheer force of his hug.
“You know I wouldn’t miss you coming into town, old man.”
Before you can say more, you feel a small weight cling to your hip. Looking down, you see a pair of tiny arms wrapped around your waist. A bright pair of curious eyes look up at you, and a grin splits your face as you recognize the small boy holding onto you.
Your heart swells as you see the familiar bright eyes of your seven-year-old son, his small arms wrapping tightly around your waist. His fiery red hair, unmistakably like his father’s, catches the sunlight, creating a soft halo around his cherubic face. His smile mirrors yours, full of joy and innocence.
Not far behind him is your oldest daughter, walking with that confident stride you’ve seen in yourself for years. She’s fifteen now, her auburn hair rich and vibrant, carefully styled the half braided way you taught her, cascading down her shoulders in waves.
Her face is your mirror image, except for her eyes—either wide, deep pools like the night sky reflected in the ocean or sharp and cunning, with a twinkle of mischievous intent that’s all her own.
Or maybe a repressed part of you.
“Mom!” your son exclaims, his small hand reaching for yours. You scoop him up in one swift motion, hugging him close to your heart. Your daughter sidles up next to you, her arms crossing playfully as she surveys the scene with that knowing smirk.
“Miss me?” you ask, ruffling your son’s hair and pressing a quick kiss to his temple. He giggles, nodding vigorously before trying to wriggle free.
“Of course, they missed you,” Garp chimes in, a grin on his face as he watches the reunion. “Though I think they enjoy ‘grandpa’ time more than they let on.”
You give Garp a grateful nod. “Thanks again for keeping them busy. I know how much they love running around with you.”
Your daughter laughs, her voice ringing with a mix of sarcasm and sincerity. “Oh yeah, grandpa has the best stories, especially the ones about how he used to throw cannonballs at people.”
You shoot her a look that says behave, but she just winks at you, flipping her auburn hair over her shoulder. Her brother, ever eager to help, adjusts the strap of her large bag that he’s somehow decided to carry for her. She, in turn, holds his much smaller backpack, their roles hilariously reversed as they shuffle beside you.
You three start the walk back home, their small hands in yours, swinging gently as they chatter about their adventures with "grandpa."
Your son’s voice is filled with awe as he recounts how Garp taught him to dodge imaginary cannonballs, while your daughter’s tone is more measured, full of wit as she talks about navigating the ship’s rigging like a pro.
“I could totally be a pirate, you know,” your daughter muses, casting a sidelong glance at you, her auburn hair gleaming in the sun.
“Not like a bad one, just… you know, one of those good ones, like Uncle Luffy.”
You smile knowingly, squeezing her hand. “A pirate, huh? You know your dad wouldn’t be too happy to hear that.”
She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “He’s not here to say no, is he?”
Your son giggles at that, tugging on your arm as he jumps over a small rock.
"But I’m gonna be a marine! Just like you, Mama. And fight bad guys!"
His enthusiasm is contagious, and you can't help but laugh, thinking how they’ve inherited the best and most chaotic traits from both you and Shanks.
As you reach the house, the familiar creak of the door welcomes you home. Your son immediately kicks off his shoes, darting into the living room while your daughter takes a more measured approach, carefully setting down her bag and tidying up the space as if it’s her own personal domain.
“I’ll get changed,” your daughter calls out, already halfway up the stairs with your son at her heels.
“Don’t take too long,” you respond, your voice trailing after them. You take a moment to breathe, the house suddenly quiet save for the faint sounds of your children settling into their routine.
Your gaze falls on the kitchen counter, where the notes from Shanks' crew are stacked neatly. You pick them up, glancing at the distinct handwriting. These notes are a secret you’ve kept close to your heart, carefully hidden from prying eyes.
Not even Shanks knows about the of half of life you’ve built here. The villagers think you’re married to a man who works overseas. Only a few, like Mihawk and Luffy’s crew, have come close to uncovering the truth.
With the notes safely tucked into your purse, you can’t help but glance around the house—a place where every corner holds a memory of you and the kids. It’s a life filled with quiet joys, secrets woven into the fabric of your everyday life, a delicate balance between worlds.
The thought of Shanks lingers in the back of your mind, but for now, it's pushed aside as you focus on your children. They’re your best-kept secret, a legacy of love and strength that connects you to both the sea and the land, as you’ve always been torn between the two.
You watch as your daughter, Mariana, comes bounding down the stairs, her curly auburn hair bouncing with every step. She looks like a flash of sunlight, her bright eyes scanning the room as she carries her silver sandals in hand. You can’t help but smile—she’s always been so full of life, a perfect mix of your stubbornness and her father’s boundless energy. Her bare feet pad softly against the wooden floor, and she glances at you with a mischievous grin.
“Mom, are there any snacks?” she asks, already half-knowing the answer.
You tilt your head toward the back door, giving her a playful look.
"There’s still fruit from the yard."
“Score!” she exclaims, her excitement bubbling over as she practically skips toward the back door, already dreaming of the sweet taste of ripe peaches.
You watch as she swings the screen door open with a flick of her wrist, the sunlight filtering through and casting a golden glow over her figure. Her silhouette looks so much like you at that age, yet there’s something else—something wild and untamed about her that reminds you of the sea.
It reminds you of him.
You sigh, feeling that familiar weight pressing on your chest. Shanks doesn’t know. He’s never known. And every day, as Mariana grows more curious and your son becomes more aware, the burden of that secret becomes heavier. You’ve managed to avoid the question time and time again, especially with Mariana.
She’s smart—too smart for her own good—and every so often, her sharp, inquisitive nature leads her to ask about her father. You’ve always found a way to deflect, to change the subject, but with each passing year, it feels like you’re running out of excuses.
Your son, on the other hand, barely asks. He’s content in his little world, more attached to you and the village than Mariana ever has been. But that doesn’t lessen the guilt you feel. The worst part of it all?
You’ve never told Shanks. Not one word.
He doesn’t know that he has a daughter who shares his vibrant spirit, or a son with his piercing red hair.
He doesn’t know that the two children running through your home, laughing, playing, and growing up in the safety of this small village, are his.
And how could he?
How could you shatter his world with the truth? He’s worked his whole life to protect the seas, to maintain the balance of power, to keep the chaos at bay. You know what kind of man Shanks is—if he knew, he’d give it all up in a heartbeat to be here. To be with you. To raise them.
And who would be there to keep peace in the seas then?
You loved the village, the safety it provided. It was your sanctuary, a place where you didn’t have to worry about your children being held for ransom or hunted like some sick prize because of who their father is.
But every time you think of that last visit with Shanks, when he stood in your kitchen, laughing with you and stealing glances like he always had, it took everything in you not to crumble. To not bow and confess everything—the sins, the secrets, the life you’ve hidden from him for so long.
A part of you wanted to. You wanted to fall at his feet and tell him the truth, to take his hand and show him the family he didn’t know he had. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
"Mom, I'm staying outside!" Mariana’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You look up, seeing her standing by the back door, already slipping her sandals on.
"Don’t go too far!" you call after her, though you know she’s probably already halfway back to the peach tree, her favorite spot in the yard. You smile despite the ache in your heart.
Mariana, so full of life, is your pride and joy. She’s quick-witted and cunning, always one step ahead of everyone, including you. It’s the same kind of cleverness you’ve seen in Shanks a thousand times, the way he always seemed to anticipate what was coming before anyone else did.
You wonder how long it’ll be before she pieces it all together—the resemblance, the stories, the red hair her brother shares with the infamous pirate.
As she disappears into the garden, you run a hand over the kitchen counter, absently picking at the sash left by Shanks. Your eyes scan the outside, but your mind is elsewhere. Shanks is out there, somewhere, unaware of the legacy he’s left behind.
The truth lingers in the air, unspoken, but ever-present. And one day, you know, you won’t be able to keep it hidden any longer.
Mariana, your star of the sea, was already off in the yard, likely sitting high in the branches of the peach tree with her sandals discarded in the grass. Her laughter echoed faintly through the open window, blending with the soft rustle of the breeze.
Inside, Luca, your moon, was making his usual descent—sliding down the banister of the stairs, too lazy to take them step by step. His red hair caught the light from the window as he landed with a thud, standing proudly before you with a mischievous grin plastered across his face.
“Oh, Luca,” you murmur, shaking your head with affection as he strides over to you, his chest puffed out. “What am I going to do with you?”
Luca, your greatest helper when it came to finding the “best” rocks on the beach. Who was very bit as in awe of the world around you. Who was skittish of thunder but always ready and willing to fight for his sister. His little arms always holding some wild creature that he’s found while exploring. Picking twigs out of his sister's hair while he himself was covered in sand.
The little one who had once dyed his hair blue using paint because he was curious about how it would look.
If you had to pick him from a line up of other children with a resemblance to Shanks you’d choose this cool little dude that has a heart as big as his father.
Luca doesn’t answer, only beams up at you with those bright eyes—your eyes—and you scoop him up into your arms despite his whines.
His legs kick in mock protest, but you kiss his round cheeks anyway, peppering his face with affection. His giggles fill the room, that sweet, innocent laughter that tugs at your heart.
“Stop! I’m a man!” he squeals between fits of laughter, trying to wriggle out of your embrace.
“Oh, a man, are you?” you tease, holding him tighter and pressing another kiss to his forehead. “Well, this man is still my baby boy.”
You hold him close, feeling the warmth of his small body against yours, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.
Just you and your children in the safety of your home, far away from the dangers of the sea. You smooth a hand over Luca’s red hair, wondering—if Shanks could see this, if he could see how much Luca looks like him—would he even need you to say the words?
Raising them without him had been the hardest thing you’d ever done. It felt wrong, every lie, every evasion of the truth, every time you had to cover up why you couldn’t tell him.
You’d sent aid when you couldn’t be there for a fight, feigned illness or some convenient excuse when he’d visited on nights the children were staying in your room.
On those nights, you’d stayed downstairs, telling Shanks it was for old times’ sake, a ‘slumber party’ for the two of you, when in reality, you were protecting the secret that grew harder to contain with each passing day.
You’d felt Benn’s eyes on you, too. How many times had he nearly stumbled upon the bottles, pacifiers, and toys you’d hastily hidden? Maybe he already knew and was keeping your secret, but you’d never asked. The fewer people who knew, the safer your children would be.
Luca’s laughter dies down, and he nuzzles into you, resting his head on your shoulder. The weight of his small form in your arms feels like the weight of the world at times, the burden of secrets and lies pressing down on you. But here, now, in this moment, it’s just you and your son.
You don’t hear the footsteps outside. You don’t hear the soft creak of your front door opening or the steady sound of boots on the wooden floor. You're too wrapped up in Luca, kissing his cheeks again, earning another round of giggles. It’s only when you hear your name being called—familiar, yet unexpected—that your heart skips a beat.
“My love?”
The voice is unmistakable, and your breath catches in your throat as you turn, still holding Luca in your arms. There, standing in the entryway, is Shanks.
The room seems to shrink, and time feels like it slows to a crawl. Shanks stands in the doorway, sunlight framing his figure, his usual carefree smile faltering slightly as his eyes land on you and Luca.
There’s a moment of silence, thick with unspoken words and heavy with the weight of what you’ve hidden for so long. Luca, oblivious to the tension, wriggles in your arms, his small voice breaking through the quiet.
“Mama, who’s that?”
Your heart pounds in your chest as Shanks’ gaze shifts to Luca, his eyes widening slightly. For a moment, he looks at Luca—really looks at him—and you can see the realization starting to dawn on his face. The same red hair, your sweet grin, the spark of life in his eyes.
“y/n…”
End of part 1, second half to be posted 09/09/24
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